Page 15 of Saxon Blade Norman Blood

Realization dawned, making Rowena shiver in foreboding.

She would have to kill William today or she would never do it.

The nightmare had been awful. Her mother had been talking to her through the polished silver mirror, her face as stern as that of a statue, her voice as cold as shards of ice, reminding her of her mission.

Kill him. It was my dying wish.

Rowena sat at the table as was expected of her and she listened to William talk, but she didn’t hear a word of what he told her. Instead, her mother’s voice played in her mind—over and over again.

You have not avenged us. I asked you to kill him, and you have not done so. Worse, you have forgotten all about your resolve to do so.

And it was true, she had. Against all odds, she’d had two opportunities to dispose of him, and she hadn’t seized either of them.

“Are you not hungry today?” William asked when she made no move to help herself to anything.

She usually fell on the food like a starving child, but this morning she had not yet touched a single thing. “No.”

One word, no more. This listlessness was out of character, but he didn’t ask her what the matter was. Hopefully he would assume her nightmare was still preying on her mind, and it was, only not in the way he imagined.

Watching him partake of the food as if nothing was amiss, she felt herself growing sicker and sicker. Her mother’s accusations jostled in her mind, threatening to make her skull explode. If only William had carried on talking, she might have been able to block them out, but he had fallen silent himself. For the first time since she’d arrived at the castle, she felt transparent.

This indifference did what nothing else had managed to do. It stiffened her resolve. Why should she spare a man who ultimately did not care for her, for whom it made no difference if she was there or not? She was not in his castle to be taught licentious words or lie in the comfort of his arms every night.

It was high time she remembered what she had to do.

Rowena reached for the cup in front of her. She normally would not have drunk any wine whilst breaking her fast but today she was going to need all the help she could get. After a few sips she felt something harden inside her.

Still, despite her new resolve, she could not ignore that it would be a hundred times more difficult to kill William than it had been a week ago. He was prepared and vigilant, but that was not what she feared the most.

She had spent more than a week in his company and shared his bed, he had saved her life and protected her when men would have taken her for their pleasure. William was not just a stranger anymore, he was a man of flesh and bone, a man she knew.

A man she had learned to like—if not more.

Besides, even if she hadn’t changed her mind about him, there remained a huge obstacle in her way. She was unarmed. He had ensured she never had access to a blade in his presence. What was she supposed to do, how was she supposed to kill him in these conditions?

Had it been the other way around he would have had no difficulty in disposing of her without any weapons. It would not take him long to strangle her. He could have cracked her skull or broken her neck in a heartbeat. She had no such means at her disposal.

By now her throat was dry as parchment. Another sip of wine made little difference. His hands, his beautiful hands, frightened her. They were an instrument of death. Rowena shivered, knowing she would not be able to breathe normally until she had tried something. There was no point in prolonging the agony.

She stood up.

Her turmoil was so intense, she knocked an earthenware pitcher off the table. Without thinking, she bent to pick up the pieces and froze. The wine on the floor looked like blood. The pottery fragments appeared like the remains a smashed skull. It was a sign. She would do it now. And she knew how.

William arose to help her clear the mess. Their gazes met, blue against hazel. It happened in a heartbeat. Rowena tightened her grip on the shard in her hand and swung her arm in a wide arc, aiming at his throat. At the same moment, William, with the survival instinct of a trained soldier, twisted his chest and turned his head sideways. The sharp earthenware fragment never touched his neck, but sliced his cheek just below the eye.

Before she realized what she had done, she felt her wrist being taken in a grip so hard it made her drop her makeshift weapon.

William was staring at her with blazing fury. A trickle of blood ran all the way from the wound on his cheek to the collar of his tunic, staining the gold stitching a vivid scarlet.

“Oh my God,” she muttered in shock. “I’m—” She stopped when she realized she was about to apologize.

His mouth twisted in a snarl. “Were you really about to say sorry for almost killing me? If so, you can save your breath. I am not in the mood to hear it.”

The grip on her wrist tightened, and his other hand landed on her shoulder. She saw the effort it cost William not to shake her in anger. His jaw was clenched, his nostrils flared, his chest heaving.

She was amazed he should strive for control after what she’d attempted. Clumsy and unpremeditated as her strike had been, there was no denying it could have been lethal. Had she caught his throat as she’d intended, he would have bled to death in no time.

Yet he was, if not quite his usual self, at least composed enough to stop himself from hurting her. Rowena exhibited no such mastery over her emotions. Her body began to shake violently.

She had never been so close to killing anyone. It horrified her. Had William been less quick, his blood would be on the floor right now, as red as the wine. She would never have borne the shock of it. It was bad enough to see the blood trickling down from the wound on his cheek.

He still held her, ignoring her efforts to try to move away. “Oh no. You are not going anywhere.”

“Please, I need… Your cheek… I’m going to be sick.”

At that he let her go, and she doubled over the bowl of fragrant rosewater just in time. For a long moment she just coughed and retched. When she finally sat, her breathing was labored, her heart was hammering in her chest, and her head was spinning with the shock of it all.

*

Never could William have imagined a more unlikely scene than that of a woman trying to kill him one moment and all but fainting at the sight of his cut cheek the next. He watched her in bemused silence. Her first reaction after hitting him had been to apologize.

Incredulity made him shake his head as he took his cup from the table and took a swig of ale. What would he do with the Saxon now? He had been right not to underestimate her. Though she was clearly shaken by her action, she had seized upon the opportunity to strike like the most determined killer.

The cut on his cheek stung but he had been lucky. Had he not moved at the last moment she might very well have sliced his throat.

He remembered her odd despondency earlier, the way she had looked at her hands with a haunted expression he had never seen before. He’d thought she was reliving her nightmare and had not asked any questions, guessing he was the last person she would want to discuss it with. Now he knew different.

She was sitting on the stool, trembling, her eyes strangely vacant. He frowned. Her dress was soaked with blood. How was that possible? He hadn’t gone anywhere near her. Then he saw that her right hand was bleeding. The shard she’d used to strike him must have cut into her palm, but she had not even noticed.

With a curse he took a napkin from the table and tossed it to her.

“Here. Press this on your wound. You need to stem the blood.”

She stared at him, eyes wide with incomprehension. She clearly had no idea what he was talking about. He gave an irritated shake of his head and held the napkin against her palm himself, pressing hard on the fabric. As he stood over her with his head bent, drops of his own blood fell on her wrist.

“ Par le sang du Christ, quel massacre ,” he muttered to himself.

The girl didn’t say a word or move. She was frozen and pale as a corpse. Little wonder, given the loss of blood and the shock she had sustained.

“You need to lie down,” he instructed when her eyes fluttered. It would not help to have her faint now.

To his surprise she did not argue. But as soon as she stood, her legs folded under her. Without a word, William lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed, marveling that he should be the one to take care of her after what she’d done.

He laid her on the fur covers and waited until she stopped shivering before inspecting her hand. The cut was rather deep. She would be in pain for a few days. Good, he thought ruthlessly, that might make her think twice about attacking him again.

As he wrapped a piece of cloth around the wound, William realized he should be outraged at her gesture. He should be calling his men to have her taken away, not tending to her injuries, but the anger never came. Her face was a mask of incredulous bewilderment, and her haunted expression earlier made sense.

She had been steeling herself for a task she found repulsive.

He placed a cup of wine into the hand that wasn’t injured, but she discarded it with a shiver, as if she feared being sick again if she drank anything.

“What will they do to you?” he asked, replacing it on the table.

“What? W-who?”

“The people who asked you to kill me. What will they do to you if you do not succeed?”

“No one sent me, I told you.” Her voice was a deathly whisper.

“I don’t believe you,” he said flatly. “You do not want to kill me, not really. You must be afraid of whatever retribution you will get if you do not do it, otherwise you would never have tried to kill me just now.” It had been a desperate attempt, a way to appease her guilt rather than a determined action. She would never have the courage to do anything like that again. “Tell me who sent you and why. I could help you. I could protect you, you need not be afraid of what they would do to you.”

William spoke the truth. If he knew who had sent the girl, he would have identified his real enemy, which was the important thing. All along he had known she was only instrumental in this. He would protect her.

He would keep her with him.

“You would protect me after what I did?” She sounded stunned, as well she might.

“Yes.” The word darted out of his mouth—and he shook his head in disbelief.

Was he really offering his protection to the girl who had tried to kill him twice? Was he truly taking care of her injury when she’d only cut herself because she’d tried to slice his throat open? Yes. Apparently so. He’d neglected his own wound to tend to hers. He was reassuring her when he should be handing her over to his men. He was calm and reasonable when he should be outraged.

“I thank you, but I do not need your protection for I am not under any threat,” the girl said in a sob. “I am all alone.”

Never had these words sounded more poignant or anyone looked more wretched. The fact that she was trying her best not to cry only made her pain more vivid. In that moment, William understood that she spoke the painful truth. She truly was all alone. No one would be after her, but equally, no one would help her. No one was waiting for her. She had nowhere to go to, no one to love.

She turned her head to the side and closed her eyes, fighting to keep tears at bay.

He did not insist.

*

Behind her, Rowena heard William stand and walk to the door. No doubt he would call his men now. He had not been concerned for her, he had merely tried to make her talk, and coax her into a confession. His attempt having failed, he was about to hand her over to Norman justice, which would be no more than she deserved after what she had done. He had already spared her from punishment once, no one could blame him for doing what everyone else would have done days ago.

The next thing she knew, he had taken her hand back in his, and he was bathing the wound with a wet piece of cloth. The cold water on the cut stung but she did her best not to whimper in pain.

“I know,” William said in his deep voice. “It must hurt.”

There was a tearing sound, then he wrapped her hand in a piece of fabric, presumably taken from the tablecloth. A knot secured everything into place and he placed her hand back on the bed. She kept her head averted throughout the whole proceedings and swallowed hard when he let out a sigh.

“You will need a drink.”

Rowena was grateful for his matter-of-fact tone, which helped her to hold on to her fragile composure.

“Here.” He pressed a cup into her uninjured hand like he had done before. Instead of drinking, she dared a glance at him. He had still not attended to the cut on his cheek. It had stopped bleeding, but it looked bad enough for her to gulp in shame. The urge to take the wet piece of cloth and wipe the blood off his skin swept through her, telling her it was far too late for revenge.

She would never kill William de la Falaise now, fulfill her promise to her mother or avenge her stepfather’s death.

It was over. She had better learn to come to terms with the notion because she would no more be able to plunge a dagger into William’s chest than she would be able to kill herself.

He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for her to take a sip of the drink.

“Is this wine?” she croaked.

“Yes.”

The same wine she’d downed to stiffen her resolve earlier. The idea of tasting it now made her stomach heave. She would never be able to drink another drop of wine as long as she lived. It would always remind her she’d come perilously close to killing a man.

“I cannot. Please leave me,” she said, closing her eyes.

He took the cup without comment. “I will come back later.”

As soon as she heard the door close, the tears she had miraculously kept at bay began to flow down her cheeks. When he came back he would ask her to leave the castle.

Yes. It was all over now.