Page 18 of Saxon Lady

T he rain continued for another full day. Unfortunately, Mathieu could not blame his headache or sour mood upon it. He had only a vague recollection of the previous night’s debauchery. Without a doubt, he’d consumed too much ale. That was the only reason he had imagined Aelia in the common room with him…sitting in his lap as he kissed and fondled her.

He narrowed his eyes against the faint light coming in through his chamber window. He’d always tolerated his drink well. It must be his preoccupation with Aelia that had addled his brain.

He’d told his men to plan on staying another day if the rain continued. By the sound of it pattering against his window, it had not let up in the least. But one day’s delay in the warm comfort of the inn would not be amiss, especially since they journeyed with Aelia and the boy. The two were unaccustomed to the harsh conditions of travel.

A knock at the chamber door drew Mathieu from his bed. He opened it to Osric, who stepped past him into the room. “’Tis late, baron! Will you take me to the stable and practice with swords today?”

The lad’s voice stabbed through Mathieu’s head and he winced. “Later, boy. Mayhap later.”

Then he saw Aelia and had to grab hold of the door-jamb to steady himself. She looked different today.

“Hush, Osric. The baron does not feel well and your chattering only makes it worse.” She looked up at him. “I brought you this…the same potion Wilda used on Osbern’s headache.”

He took the mug she offered and raised it to his lips as he tried to determine what had changed. Her clothes were the same as she’d worn the day before, but they were clean now, as was her face and her hair.

’Twas her eyes that were different.

“Drink it all at once, seignior,” she said when he hesitated. “’Twill do no harm, I promise.”

He had a most disturbing thought—was it a memory?—of Aelia with her head tilted back as he kissed his way down her throat. Her eyes had been soft then, too.

Mathieu tipped his head back and downed the draught, wincing at its bitter taste. How could he have such a strong memory of Aelia’s hands slipping ’round to the back of his neck to caress him, when he knew he’d left her alone in her chamber?

He did not wish to examine too closely the anger that had sent him away from her, but he knew that was the reason he’d overindulged in drink. ’Twas not his habit to drown his frustrations in ale, but last night had been an exception.

“Will you let me practice with Guatier, baron?” Osric asked. “Sir Raoul will surely allow me to use his sword!”

“Go away, Osric, and let the baron rest.”

“But I—”

“Now.”

Osric started to protest, but Aelia turned him around and took him outside, while Mathieu sat down in a chair and lowered his head into his hands, grateful to be left alone in his misery. It had been years since the last time he’d felt so low.

“Lean back.”

Mathieu looked up so suddenly his ears rang.

“Sorry. I did not mean to startle you,” said Aelia, who had obviously not left with her brother. She stood behind him and placed her hands upon his shoulders.

“’Twould be best if you left me to suffer in peace.”

“The decoction should work soon, but this will help.”

“No, I…”

A sorceress could have worked no more potent magic. She kneaded his shoulders and neck, then slid her fingers through his hair to press on the parts of his skull that pounded from the inside out, and the pain eased.

“My father sometimes overindulged,” she said softly, “and I helped him this way.”

Her touch was too good to be true. Mathieu could have let her continue indefinitely, but reason prevailed, and he stood up and went to the door. “This is a very bad idea,” he said, more to himself than to Aelia. ’Twas strange that she was suddenly willing to act as his personal slave.

But his brain wasn’t working well enough to figure it out.

Within the hour, however, his head had improved, and he spent much of the day away from the inn—away from Aelia. Most of the men stayed in the common room, playing at dice or chess. Mathieu took his saddle pack to the stable and found a comfortable place to sit and carve. ’Twould settle the restlessness that had plagued him for days.

“Will we be off tomorrow, baron?” asked Osric, who sat beside him, carving his own small statue.

“Aye.”

“What if it’s still raining?”

“I’ve never known a warrior deterred by a rain shower.”

“Then why are we stopped here?”

Mathieu’s knife slipped. “’Twas time for a rest.”

“Do your men tire of travel, then?” the boy asked.

“You insult my men. Of course they don’t,” he said, aware that he was contradicting himself.

“Well, I don’t understand—”

Mathieu stood abruptly and went to the open door of the stable. “There are many things you will not understand until you are grown, boy.” In spite of the cool autumn air and the constant rain, ’twas warm inside with the heat of all their horses.

Mathieu stood under the lintel and looked across the yard at the inn, a stone-and-timber building with narrow windows in the walls of the upper and lower floors, and wondered if Aelia had joined his men in the common room. Mayhap she craved the company of her fellow Saxons and had joined the innkeeper’s family.

“You stopped for my sister,” Osric said with a hint of taunting in his tone.

Mathieu gritted his teeth. “We travel at the pace I choose,” he said angrily. “If we stop it is with good reason.” It galled him that the boy was right and that his motivation was so transparent. Never in his life had Mathieu altered his plans for a woman, and ’twas time he took his duty into account. “We will leave upon the morrow. Regardless of the weather.”

The rain stopped sometime during the night, for which Aelia was grateful, though there was not much else to lift her spirits.

Fitz Autier had stayed away all the previous day. When he’d turned up for supper with Osric in tow, he’d eaten and retired to his chamber, barely sparing her a glance.

Aelia wondered if she’d been mistaken about what she’d heard when he’d rambled in his drunken state. Mayhap all he’d experienced was a surge of anger when he’d first seen her. Or annoyance when he realized he’d been wounded by a woman in battle.

The horses were saddled and ready for the road when Aelia went outside, only to find that the baron had ridden ahead, leaving orders for the rest of their party to follow. He stayed far ahead of them for the next two days, barely stopping with them for meals and to sleep.

’Twas clear to everyone that he was avoiding her.

On the third day, they reached a large holding, an estate called Rushton, which had been wrested from its Saxon lord the previous year.

“’Tis a massive place,” Guatier said. “Mayhap as large as Ingelwald.”

“We stayed here one night when we came north,” said Henri.

’Twas now under the command of Baron Roger de Saye, and when they rode up the path that led to the gate, Aelia could see that a vast number of Norman soldiers were garrisoned there.

She quaked at the sight of so many of William’s men, many of whom turned to gawk at her as they rode past. Though her escort treated her well, there was no doubt she was merely a prisoner, a captive on her way to her fate at the hand of their king. And all of these Normans knew it.

“What will we do here?” she asked.

“Baron Fitz Autier awaits us,” Guatier replied. “’Tis likely we’ll spend the night and be on our way again tomorrow.”

“Aye,” added Henri. “Roger de Saye is an old friend of the baron.”

Aelia felt uneasy as they entered through the gate. Soldiers and workmen seemed to be everywhere, and several of the buildings within the walls had only recently been built. The largest of these was a long, low structure that seemed to be the soldiers’ quarters.

Accommodations for hundreds.

Near the center of the property was the lord’s hall. ’Twas at least three stories high, with a tower that extended even higher. The building was grand, made mostly of stone, and had banners hanging from the highest points.

“There’s the baron,” Guatier said.

Fitz Autier stepped out of one of the buildings with another man. The two were dressed similarly, in hauberks with their swords at their sides. But there was no comparison beyond that. Mathieu towered over the other man, his shoulders broad, his features starkly handsome. A familiar shudder of attraction flared through Aelia at the sight of him.

He was her captor and she should feel naught but hatred for him. But she could not.

Sir Guatier and the rest of the company dismounted in front of the great hall. As Aelia placed her hands upon Guatier’s shoulders to be helped down, she caught sight of Fitz Autier, who glanced at her at the same instant.

Then he looked away, as if she were not of the slightest interest to him.

Aelia’s balance faltered and she slipped, but Guatier prevented her from falling, and took her arm. “Is aught amiss, Lady Aelia?”

She shook her head, not trusting her voice, but she had no chance to dwell upon the baron’s slight when a matron in a dark brown kirtle and light headgear appeared at the top of the wide wooden staircase that led into the hall and shouted to them.

“This way! This way!” she called impatiently. Flanked by two guards, the woman beckoned Aelia and her escort to enter the hall, then she disappeared inside, expecting them to follow.

Aelia looked in Fitz Autier’s direction, but he seemed deeply absorbed in conversation with his companion, and did not glance at her again.

“Who’s that?” asked Osric, as wary as Aelia. She half expected him to dig in his heels and demand to speak to the lord here, but Fitz Autier’s tutelage had had some effect. Osric was not the same rash child as the boy who’d left Ingelwald.

“I know as much as you.” She braced herself and started up the steps, unprepared for whatever awaited her within. Certainly the situation could not be too bad if they were being taken to a chamber within the hall. And ’twas only for one night.

“Why is Fitz Autier not here to see us situated satisfactorily?” Osric asked.

Aelia did not answer, but stepped through the doorway into Rushton’s great hall. She had always taken great pride in the grandeur of her father’s hall, but Rushton’s main room was massive, with furnishings that took her breath away.

A large table with at least sixteen chairs dominated the space, and two maids worked at dusting and polish ing them. Two more women swept the floor, while another two spread fresh rushes. There were men setting up trestle tables adjacent to the main table, while others carried in firewood and set it on the hearth.

Aelia was so absorbed by the activity in the hall, she was startled to see the woman in brown standing imperiously, with her hands upon her hips, waiting for them with obvious annoyance.

Aelia put her palm upon Osric’s shoulder and followed her to the far end of the hall, to the massive fireplace where a young woman awaited them.

Her age was close to Aelia’s, but her bearing was that of one much older, and Aelia realized she must be the lady of Rushton. Garbed in a richly embroidered gown of deep blue, she had beautiful dark hair that was partially covered by the sheerest of veils. Thick chains of gold encircled her neck and waist, and colorful jewels adorned several of her fingers. Though her features were comely, her dark brown eyes were cold and assessing. Aelia knew she would need to tread carefully with this one.

“Lady Hélène, these are the Saxons.”

The lady tipped her head back slightly and narrowed her eyes. “A ragged pair, are they not?” she said to the matron as her gaze flickered over Aelia’s travel-worn clothes.

Aelia blushed at Lady Hélène’s rudeness. Clearly, she did not realize she and Osric understood her words.

Osric started to speak, but Aelia gave his shoulder a squeeze, hoping he would understand the need to keep silent. They had an advantage in their knowledge of the Norman tongue, and Aelia did not want Lady Hélène to be aware of it. At least, not until Aelia knew what was in store for them here.

“I will have her serve as my lady’s maid, before tonight’s festivities.”

“Oh, but my lady—”

“I would enjoy having a Saxon slave,” said Hélène. “A high-born woman who should be able to anticipate my needs. Not like these ignorant peasants Sir Bernard keeps sending to me.”

The older woman bowed in acquiescence, then called to one of the men. “Beauvais, take this urchin to the stables.” Then she made a gesture indicating Aelia was to follow her.

“Go with him, Osric,” Aelia said. “’Tis likely you will see Raoul there with the other men.”

“But what about you?”

Aelia looked into the eyes of the haughty Lady Hélène as she spoke to her brother. “I’ll survive.”

“What’s got you so restless, Mathieu?” asked Roger de Saye. “Planning to go to battle again?”

Mathieu shook his head. “I hope to be finished with warring.”

“Aye. Now that you’ve got Ingelwald. And Lady Clarise. Have you had any word from the lady since you left London?”

“No.”

They left the overheated armorer’s shop with its fires raging and the clang of hammers upon steel, and stepped into the fading light of the cool afternoon.

“Well, I suppose that should be no surprise. We’ve had no travelers stopping at Rushton since you were here last, much to my wife’s lament.”

De Saye had done much with Rushton in the year since he’d taken possession of the Saxon holding. He’d enlarged the hall, expanded the walls and added space to house the large number of knights who protected these lands. Many of the improvements were changes Mathieu would have to implement at Ingelwald to accommodate all his knights and to make the holding secure.

Mathieu walked across the grounds with Roger, inspecting the new buildings and discussing his plans for administering the estate. He concentrated fully upon Roger’s words, aware that he would learn much from his friend’s experience.

But when his own knights entered through Rushton’s gates, Mathieu could not keep from searching their number for Lady Aelia.

“Your men, no?” asked Roger.

He nodded as his friend spoke of the accommodations for his men. Aelia rode in the midst of them, cloaked in Mathieu’s black mantle. Seated upon Sir Guatier’s battle horse, she looked small and weary. Guatier leaned forward and spoke into her ear.

Roger glanced at Mathieu’s expression when it became clear he wasn’t listening to him. “Is aught amiss?”

Mathieu braced himself against the torrent of sensations brought on by the sight of her. “No…you were saying?”

Roger frowned. “You looked as if you just swallowed a bad herring, Mathieu. Are you sure—”

“Certain.” He cleared his throat and turned away from Aelia and the men surrounding her. “What were you saying about the knights’ quarters?”

“You’re sure you want to keep the Saxon boy with your men, Mathieu?”

“Aye.”

“And Wallis’s daughter?” Roger asked. “She’ll be secure in a guest chamber?”

“She is resigned to go to London. We’ll have no trouble from her.”

Mathieu glanced in her direction once again and caught sight of her as she stumbled, but he knew better than to go to her, or watch as she ascended the stairs to the great hall.

“I’ve worked up a good thirst,” said Roger. “I say we stop in the wine shop before going back to the hall.”

Mathieu ducked under the lintel of the tavern and followed Roger. They took seats near the fire and soon a bushy-bearded Saxon brought a couple of mugs to them. He was followed by a young serving maid, who set a plate of bread and cheese upon their table.

“She’s a beauty, is she not?”

Mathieu looked up at the girl, who smiled and posed before him with her hands upon her hips and her breasts thrust forward. She ran her tongue over her lips in a blatant invitation. “Saxon?” Mathieu asked.

“Aye. The old man will not stand in your way if you’d care to take her upstairs.”

She was comely enough to tempt any man, but Mathieu was unmoved by her beauty, or her willingness to assuage his lust. He lifted his cup, but the memory of his last bout with too much ale made his stomach quake.

“’Twould take the edge off your journey, Mathieu. Do you some good,” Roger said as he took a long swallow of his own ale.

“I’ll decline for tonight,” he said, setting his cup aside. “’Tis nearly time to rejoin your lady wife in the hall.”

Roger laughed aloud. “I’m sure I misheard you, old friend.”

Mathieu muttered under his breath. There was no good explanation for his lack of interest in the Saxon woman. “It’s been a long day.” It had to be fatigue.

Roger clapped his mug onto the table and wiped his mouth. “Then mayhap I’ll do the honors myself,” he said as he stood, taking the girl by the hand and heading for the stairs. “Don’t wait for me.”

“Aye,” Mathieu said with a shrug. “If the maid is willing…”

Roger paused and laughed ruefully. “I forget myself,” he said, releasing the lass. “There is much more to show you, and then we shall return to the hall together.”

They walked to the gates as Roger explained what additional fortifications he’d made to them and the walls. “I don’t really expect trouble from the east,” he said, “but Hélène is still apprehensive here, so far from…well, from Rouen, to be honest. She did not care for London, and this land is remote….”

“Your wife is not content at Rushton?” asked Mathieu. He did not understand how the woman could be dissatisfied with her husband’s holding. ’Twas a much richer estate than the meager property Roger had held in Normandy. And here in England, he had no overlord but the king himself.

King William had made him a baron. ’Twas not unlike Mathieu’s own reward—plentiful lands and a beautiful, noble wife. He and Mathieu were the new lords of the realm and would build their houses in unison.

“Women,” said Roger, shaking his head. “They like their comforts, their entertainments. Hélène is far from her mother and her friends. And—” he shrugged “—she prefers them to me. To Rushton.”

“No doubt she’ll soon become accustomed to England. And you.” Mathieu hoped for no less with Clarise.

“Well, she’s happy now, overseeing preparations for a fete in your honor. As I said, ’tis not often we have guests here.”

Mathieu scowled. He was in no mood for a celebration, but when they returned to the hall after dark, he discovered that Roger’s wife had indeed organized a grand feast.

The lady greeted him warmly, taking his arm to lead him to a table where bowls of fresh water had been set out for hand-washing. Roger followed them, and beckoned a footman to come and take their hauberks. When that task was completed, Roger urged Mathieu to take Lady Hélène’s hand and join the throng in the great hall.

The lady was beautiful, dressed in a rich gown of some fabric that flowed seductively about her legs as she walked. Her hair was dressed simply, and partially covered by a veil with small, sparkling beads sewn into it. She was as elegant as he remembered Lady Clarise to be, yet Roger had considered swiving the serving maid at the tavern. By the wench’s reaction ’twas clear Roger frequented the place often.

Mathieu did not dwell on his puzzlement over it as they entered the great hall and Roger’s highest-ranking retainers and a few women greeted them. Servants were busy lighting the candles upon the dais, and some served ale or wine to all who were present. Minstrels stood near the hearth tuning their instruments, but there was no sign of Mathieu’s men.

Or his Saxon captives.

’Twas no wonder Hélène had not adjusted to Rushton. There were very few ladies about, and every one of Roger’s soldiers seemed the raw and randy sort. Their warriors’ skills had not been in use for too long, and they were raucous and undisciplined, drinking too much and behaving like louts in the great hall.

“Come, have some wine,” said Lady Hélène, turning her back to them.

Mathieu took a goblet from her. “Where are my men?”

“I’m sure they’ll be here presently,” the lady replied.

“And my prisoners?”

Lady Hélène turned a brilliant smile upon him. “They’ve been dealt with, so you needn’t trouble yourself with them tonight, baron.”

Her words should have put him at ease, but they did not. “You found a secure chamber for Lady Aelia?”

“Of course. She will stay in my chamber tonight. ’Tis not often a high-born woman comes to Rushton.”

Her words made Mathieu inexplicably uneasy.

“What will happen to your prisoners when you arrive in London?” Hélène asked.

“I do not—”

“Likely the same as what the king did with the Wessex Saxons,” said Sir Bernard, Roger’s chief retainer. “He’ll have them stripped naked and driven through town.”

“As I recall, they were pelted with cabbages and the like,” added Roger with a laugh. “’Twas amusing to watch.”

“The meal is about to be served,” said Hélène, placing her hand upon Roger’s. “If you will escort me to the dais, husband.”

The lady sat between Roger and Mathieu, and Mathieu’s men arrived shortly. Each one made his bow to their hosts, then found a seat at one of the tables near the dais, as the musicians played a lively melody. Platters of food were set before them, and Mathieu could not help but wonder how Aelia fared, locked away.

Yet he did not ask.

“How do you find Ingelwald, baron?” Hélène asked. “Will you need to make many improvements, as my husband has done here?”

“Aye,” he replied. “The gates and walls sustained damage in battle. And the hall is primitive. It needs to be enlarged and improved, but beyond that, I’ll leave it to my wife to decide.”

“Ah, yes…Clarise de Vilot—she is my cousin, you know.”

Mathieu nearly choked on his wine, and he did not know whether ’twas due to Lady Hélène’s words, or the sight of Aelia, wearing an apron like the commonest of maids, serving platters of food to Roger’s men.