Page 1 of Saxon Blade Norman Blood
Eighteen months later
August, 086
South of England
William was bored.
All around him the men were laughing, drinking, and eating in a joyous cacophony, but he could not join in the revelry. Without knowing quite why, he felt oddly despondent. His sojourn at Old Sarum had been profitable. He had made the most of the fact that so many Norman barons had been assembled by the king to advance his own enterprise and managed to convert dozens of them to his way of thinking.
They had promised they would strive to make their presence more agreeable to the Saxon lords in the months to come. William could understand why the Saxons were bitter. A good number of their estates had been stolen by the king and bestowed as rewards upon his faithful warriors. It was little wonder these men should be rebellious, but William wanted to build bridges with the people they had conquered.
The lasting success of King William’s invasion lay in fruitful cooperation with the local population, not in brutal domination, he was convinced of it.
The fact they were officially the new masters of the country did not change the fact that they were in a minority and vulnerable to attack. The ruthlessness King William displayed in repressing every spark of rebellion, if very efficient in asserting his authority, had not endeared him to the Saxons, and there were many who conspired to rid themselves of him and his elite.
Cooperation would protect the Normans from violence more efficiently than intimidation ever would and ensure a safe future for their children. Over the course of the week, William had impressed this opinion onto a handful of the most influential barons in the land.
He should have been proud of his achievement, but instead, he was bored.
The music failed to rouse his interest, the food was not to his taste, and his neighbor’s conversation, centered around his memories of the battle of Hastings, was as dull as it was predictable. Twenty years of retelling had not made the story more compelling. William looked around him wearily. By now the men were a fair way into their cups. That, too, was predictable.
It was then that he noticed the girl.
Something about her caught his attention, but he was not sure what. Frowning, he let his gaze wander over her, trying to decide what was special about her.
She was a Saxon, that much was clear from her fair complexion and flaming red hair, but so were all the other servants at the banquet. That fact alone could not explain the sudden interest she stirred in him.
He watched her walk back to the kitchens with an empty tray. Beneath her woolen gown she swayed her hips in a most inviting way, but there was nothing extraordinary in that either. William had lost count of the number of women who had tried such ploys to entice him, and even if admittedly this one had curves that would tempt a monk, he knew it must be something else that had captured his attention.
Presently she came back with two pitchers of wine, and glanced at him. The deep blue in her eyes had an undercurrent of gray that made them appear almost frosty. He had seen such swirling pools in rapid rivers before but never in human eyes. The effect was captivating. Her oval face, with its milky white skin, was striking, but he was not convinced that her beauty was enough to explain why she might have piqued his interest in such a way.
“We are all going thirsty here,” Hugues de Malemort called from the other end of the table, causing the girl to lower her gaze like someone caught doing something reprehensible. “Will no one have mercy on us?”
She rushed to replace the empty wine pitchers with the ones she held, and William had his answer. The Saxon understood his language. The fact was unusual enough to be of note. The other servants around the table would have been hard pressed to understand simple instructions, never mind deduce from what Hugues had said that more wine was needed at his end of the table.
“Stop yelling, Hugues. As you see, someone has taken pity on you,” he said, gaze fastened on the girl. The look she threw him proved he was right in his assumption. She knew he was speaking about her.
“I say, this is a comely wench.” Hugues wrapped an arm around her waist and would have dragged her onto his lap had she not disentangled herself from his hold with a swift but subtle move.
It almost looked as if the man’s hand had slipped of its own accord, but William knew different. She had made sure he could not catch her.
“I’m thinking she could warm my bed tonight.”
Hugues laughed and made for her again. This time the hold around her was firmer. He pulled her closer and stroked her buttocks, before giving a small, proprietary tap. William saw the effort it cost the girl not to strike in retaliation, and he could not blame her.
His own blood boiled at such treatment.
“I fear the only bed she will warm tonight is mine,” he said, trying to hide his fury. “As she has the past few nights.” The girl’s head shot up at his declaration. So she did understand his language, in all its nuances. He kept his gaze on her to urge her to go along with the pretense. “I’m afraid you will have to find another way of warming your bed. Sleeping with one of your hounds, mayhap. At least the creature should enjoy being patted like a dog. In my experience, women rarely do.”
“My apologies,” Hugues said, releasing his hold at last. He was not drunk enough to miss the ice in his overlord’s voice. “Trust you to keep the choicest morsels for yourself, William.”
“Yes, well. Make sure it doesn’t happen again,” William growled, feeling murderous.
No woman deserved to be treated thus, and the little Saxon had stirred his protective instinct along with his interest. How could it be any different? She was delightful. Her hair sparked in candlelight every time she moved, and as for her figure…
His groin tightened when she bent to place a custard tart on the table. The girdle tied around her slender waist emphasized the swell of her hips, inviting a man’s caress, making it impossible to detach his eyes from her. He toyed with the idea of asking her to fill his tankard just to have her come to his side but decided against it.
Later.
He would make the most of her later, in the privacy of his bedchamber, with no one to interrupt them. He’d had no intention of actually bedding her when he had lied about having her, but now he was sure he would try to seduce her.
Her gaze was too bold by half, and he suspected she would not be adverse to the idea. She wouldn’t be looking at him the way she was if he did not provoke at least some sort of emotion within her.
One thing was for sure. He was not bored anymore.
He speared what was left of his pheasant breast and smiled to himself. Just like that, his appetite was back. Even the music seemed more cheerful.
*
As she walked back to the kitchens, all Rowena could hear was the blood roaring in her ears. It was a marvel she had managed to keep still when the man grabbed her. She had been about to slap his hand away in panic when, with a few chosen words, William de la Falaise had freed her from that boor’s clutches and, more to the point, made it a whole lot easier to achieve her purpose.
Later tonight she would be alone with William, in a position to do what she had been plotting to do all these months.
Kill him.
She retrieved the small dagger she had hidden in a sack of grain in readiness for that moment. It was the one with which her mother had ended her life. The horn hilt settled in Rowena’s hand, almost warm to the touch. She tightened her fist around it and felt her resolve stiffen.
William had no idea who she was or what she wanted from him, of this she was certain. He would not be on his guard.
A smile bloomed on her lips as she slipped the dagger into the ribbon holding her stocking at the knee. Tonight, she would go to him by his own invitation. There would never be a better opportunity to strike. In helping her he had signed his own death warrant.
The thought was not a pleasant one, but she forced herself not to dwell on it. The man had not sought to protect her from a drunken man’s assault, he had only meant to prove his supremacy over a vassal and take her for himself.
This ill-advised impulse would prove to be his demise. Before dawn, her revenge would be exacted.
As soon as she entered the banqueting hall with a tray of sweetmeats, William’s gaze fastened onto her. Why was he looking at her thus? Had he seen the dagger hidden under her clothes? Guilt made her squirm but she reasoned it was impossible for him to have guessed what her intentions were. Then why was he looking at her so?
His lips twisted, and suddenly Rowena understood the reason for his scrutiny. He was not suspicious at all, only eager to take her to bed. Her heartbeat increased at the prospect. She told herself it was because she was about to kill him, and not because he appealed to her.
Doing her best to be discreet, she surveyed him more attentively.
In her mind, William de la Falaise had assumed an evil dimension, so much so that she was stunned to find out that he was, in fact, a handsome man, nothing like the monstrous enemy she had imagined for many months. He was also younger than she had thought, not yet thirty years old.
His features were those of a Norman, though. He was taller, blonder than Saxon men, and his short hair was cut in a different style. His jaw was clean-shaven, and his hazel eyes, the color of which was rarely seen around these parts, sparkled with vitality.
How had she not noticed his striking looks before? It was all she could think of at present.
Rowena could not deny a moment of alarm at finding him so much to her tastes. Why couldn’t he be a gnarled old man such as the one who had tried to grab her earlier? She sighed. William’s attractiveness was a complication she could have done without.
He brought a piece of meat to his mouth, and she remembered that, handsome as he was, he was also ruthless.
The elegant fingers she was admiring had closed around the sword that killed her stepfather. The mouth she found the height of sensuality had issued the order to rape her mother. William de la Falaise might look like an angel fallen from the heavens, but he was a devil created in the deepest pit of hell.
And he wanted to bed her.
She gulped and brushed the hidden dagger for reassurance. She would have to be quick and determined, for the last thing she wanted was for him to touch her. As soon as he came close, she would take out the blade and plunge it into his heart, his stomach, wherever she could reach.
Rowena had never killed anyone before, and she suspected it was not as easy as it sounded, especially when the target was a strong, fit man like the Norman.
It mattered not.
Before long she would know what it felt like to stab a man. She would be a murderer, but her mother would be avenged at last.
She would be at peace.
Once the sweetmeats had been consumed, a male servant, obeying William’s silent nod, led her to a private chamber.
As she allowed her gaze to wander about the well-appointed room, Rowena decided on her best course of action. The most difficult part of her plan had been achieved, and she was right where she needed to be, in William’s chamber, about to be alone with him.
What should she do now?
In a bold move she elected to lie on the bed. It would not be long before he came to find her. The banquet would be drawing to a close by now. Most of the guests, too drunk to leave the great hall, had already fallen asleep amongst sodden trenchers and empty pewter cups. Would William be drunk as well?
She doubted it. He had not seemed anywhere near as intoxicated as the other men. Her hand closed on the dagger’s hilt. Drunk or not, he would be dead before the night was out. As soon as he lay on top of her, she would plunge the blade into his back—before he could take her in truth. With a shudder she thought back to her mother preferring death to letting the two brutes defile her.
Well, she wouldn’t die. Rowena would survive this, at least long enough to fulfil her oath.
The best place to hide the dagger was under the fur covers, right by her head. That way she would draw it out easily once he had joined her in the bed. The thought of sticking a knife into someone’s body made her flesh crawl, but she forced herself not to linger on the thought. There was no other way. It was fitting that the weapon which had claimed her mother would serve to avenge her.
Heart thumping hard against her chest, she lay on her back, stroking the fur under her fingers to steady her nerves. It would look very bold to be in his bed, but she could not see any alternative. If William thought her wanton, it mattered little, his good opinion was not one she sought.
She let out a shaky breath and waited. A moment later, the door opened.
When he saw her stretched out on the covers, ready for him, William arched a brow. It was clear he had not expected to find her already in bed, but he did not seem displeased, quite the contrary.
After closing the door, he walked in lazily, when Rowena had imagined he would stride in with the swagger of a victor and lunge at her like the brute he was. Instead, he rubbed at his chin, making her shiver with what she was shocked to identify as admiration. What was she doing? Admiration was the last thing she should feel for the man!
He unbuckled his sword belt, and she steeled herself for what would follow.
“So. You understand my language.”
Rowena stilled. A woman was lying in his bed, ready for the taking, and that was all William had to say? She was so stunned, she could do nothing but nod.
“Do you speak it too?”
“Yes,” she croaked.
“Why is that? A few noble Saxon lords have thought it profitable to learn, but it is quite rare for a commoner to speak it.”
Rowena blinked. Was he questioning her linguistic abilities? She had to steer the conversation back onto more predictable ground, and fast. She wasn’t here to talk, she had to get him in bed next to her—and the dagger—before she lost her nerve.
“I could tell you all about my motives,” she said in what she hoped was a seductive voice. “Or we could do what I came here to do.”
For good measure, she lifted the hem of her gown high enough to reveal a glimpse of her thigh. The shameless gesture lit a devastating fire in the hazel eyes.
“I hadn’t meant to actually bed you when I intervened,” William murmured. “But if you want me, I will not deny you.”
She didn’t want him, no, but for her plan to proceed further she needed him in the bed, so she had no choice but to pretend.
“Yes. I want you.”
The words caused a surge of heat to blaze through her. Rowena realized with a jolt that the throbbing in her body could only be attributed to desire. She hated herself for this shocking reaction, but it was beyond her control, and besides, it served her purpose. The more desperate he thought she was for his touch, the better. By now she was so confused and tense, she just wanted the whole thing to be over.
Steeling herself, she hitched the hem of her gown higher.
*
When he had lied about her warming his bed, William had not expected the girl to want him. He’d thought she would understand he only meant to spare her from Hugues’s crude advances and accept his help. Then he thought back to the way she had swayed her hips in the banquet hall, and how she had raked him with her bold gaze. She had been as aware of him as he had been of her.
And now she wanted more.
If this was the case, he would be a fool to deny himself the pleasure of bedding her. She was still clothed but with her fiery tresses spread on the mattress she was a picture of sensual provocation. His groin tightened. Her legs were bent at the knees, one hand was resting on her stomach, and the other caressed the fur underneath her in invitation.
She was not smiling though, which he found odd. Perhaps she was worried he would find it too presumptuous of a servant to dare lie on his bed. No need. Presumptuous it might be, but it had the merit of making her wishes clear and alleviate his scruples. He had been right all along. She did want him.
And he would take her.
“How much do you want me? Are you desperate enough to beg?” he drawled, watching the shapely leg she had just revealed.
This promised to be worthwhile, and he would make sure to enjoy it to the full. Dawn was still some time away; he was in no hurry.
But first, he would watch her.