Page 8 of Saxon Lady

M athieu could not explain what happened to his rational mind when Aelia was near. He responded to her with his body—a hard, feral reaction that coursed through his blood and demanded satisfaction. And she was not indifferent to him.

’Twas an incendiary combination.

He jumped into the pool to extinguish the fire.

Aelia had already mounted her horse and started to ride off, but she encountered Raoul and the rest of their escort before she could get away from the waterfall. Signaling to Raoul de Moreton to ride on without him, Mathieu let her go.

He needed to put some space between himself and Aelia.

Even bedraggled as she was, she could make him lose all sense of purpose. He’d had one idea when they’d ridden out from Ingelwald: to assess his new holding. Aelia was the most knowledgeable person to show him the land, having lived here all her life. But she had managed to distract him once again.

Mathieu took a breath of air and dunked his head, diving deep into the cooling water. Would he ever be able to visit this place without seeing Aelia’s face, without recalling that he had been merely seconds from laying her upon the damp stone and satisfying his lust?

’Twas only a matter of time before he purged her from his mind. There were much more weighty matters vying for his attention, not the least of which were the questions of how to secure Ingelwald before leaving for London, and how many knights would need to stay and defend the holding as well as the livestock.

He’d planned on returning with at least half the men who’d come to Ingelwald with him. Now it seemed his traveling party would have to be reduced to a mere escort. Could he go with so few men?

Mayhap a smaller company would be safer. A smaller group would be much more suited to maneuvering off the beaten trail, and they would be able to carry fewer supplies, attracting less attention, though remaining more vulnerable.

His plan had been to leave Auvrai d’Evreux in charge of Ingelwald. Auvrai was an old friend, and as competent a knight as any Mathieu had ever known. However, it might be better to have another strong warrior in their party, rather than leaving Auvrai at Ingelwald.

Taking leisurely strokes that propelled him across the pool, Mathieu considered all the possibilities. By nightfall, he would have to make a decision as to who would go and who would stay, for he planned to leave early in the morn. There was no time for this imprudent pastime, and ’twas even possible his swim had done some damage to the wound in his side.

He swam to the edge and climbed out. Quickly appraising the damage to the gash, he decided no serious harm had been done. If anything, the wound looked better now than when he’d started out this morn.

Pulling on his clothes, Mathieu looked ’round the cavern. He would never have noticed this niche behind the waterfall had he not caught sight of Aelia in the pool. ’Twas a perfect location for a tryst, and when he returned from London with Clarise, he would bring her here for just that purpose.

There would be no better way to expel Lady Aelia from his mind.

Her shoes lay at the edge of the pool, and Mathieu pictured her bare feet, so small and delicate for such a fierce warrior. She had bared no other part of her body, yet his imagination wandered over the soft curves that lay hidden beneath her tattered clothes.

He shook his head to rid it of such provocative images; they served no purpose beyond raising his frustration to a maddening level. Mayhap ’twas time to find a willing maid in the village and slake his lust before he was blinded by it. Naught was special about Lady Aelia; any woman would do.

His men were far ahead of him when Mathieu finally took to the trail. He followed it as it wound around the hillside, and had an excellent vantage point from the high ground at the brink of the waterfall. He took a moment to survey all the land before him.

His land.

’Twas no mean conquest for the bastard son of a scullery maid. The king had been confident of Mathieu’s victory here, where others before him had failed. The winning of Ingelwald would not only please William and gain more honors for Mathieu, it would secure his betrothal to Simon de Vilot’s daughter. Now there was no question that Lady Clarise would be his wife.

The betrothal would take place as soon as Mathieu arrived in London, and the marriage would soon follow. When he returned to Ingelwald, his bride would travel with him.

Mathieu had yet to meet Lady Clarise. He’d seen her once in Rouen, and only from a distance. At the time, he’d been merely a bastard warrior in William’s army, certainly no likely suitor for the well-born daughter of Simon de Vilot. But now that Mathieu had been promised this rich holding, the dark-eyed, raven-haired Lady Clarise would be his wife. He was honored to have been chosen by her father and the king to be her husband, when any number of Norman noblemen might have made a more prestigious match. This marriage was a great deal more than a bastard son could ever have expected. The king had raised Mathieu’s stature even higher than that of his half brothers, who each had nobly born wives and fair estates in Normandy.

Mathieu had a clear view of his men riding in double file with Aelia in their midst, her blond head uncovered in contrast to the soldiers’ helm-covered pates glinting brightly in the sunshine. She rode well, with a regal posture that belied her status as his prisoner.

He was anxious to be rid of her. Once they reached London, he would turn her over to the king’s guards, and have no more to do with her. ’Twould be a relief.

Wooded hills surrounded his men as they traversed a deep, barren vale. Mathieu caught sight of movement in the trees east of his troops, and narrowed his eyes to see if he could discern whether it was anything more than the sunlight reflecting off the river.

Mathieu could not tell from such a distance what caused it, but when the light flashed again, far from the riverbed, he knew it was trouble.

Someone, mayhap Scots marauders, lay hidden among the trees. If they attacked by surprise, his men would be at a distinct disadvantage.

Mathieu had to take action. But shouting to them, even if his voice could be heard at this distance, would alert the warriors in hiding. Riding after them would do the same. ’Twould precipitate a battle, and Aelia would be in the midst of it.

Mathieu could not think of her now. He took another moment to observe the area in question and became even more certain that outlaws of one kind or another lurked there. Whether ’twas Scots, displaced Saxons or marauding Danes made no difference. He had to act.

He dug in his heels and spurred the gelding down the hill, leaning forward and keeping his body low. Stealth and diversion were his best strategy.

Veering east into the wooded area where the rogue warriors were hidden, Mathieu was distracted by thoughts of what would happen to Aelia if he did not warn his men of the danger beside them. He’d never before given much thought to the bystanders of war, and how their lives were changed by it. He’d always known there were victims all ’round.

But Aelia was different. Mathieu had never known or even heard of such valor in a woman. Yet she rode without armor or weapon now. If they were attacked, she could do naught to protect herself.

Mathieu continued riding northeast, deep into the cool, damp woods. His pace was slower, for there was no established track, and the underbrush was thick in places. He rode carefully, listening for sounds that would orient him to the location of the hidden army, certain they’d seen his men’s approach and were preparing to attack.

When Mathieu heard the jangle of metal hitting metal, he knew he was closing in on them. He dismounted and tied his horse, then continued on foot, following the sounds of stealthy preparation. He stayed out of sight, crouching low and keeping to the trees, but managed to advance far enough to see who was cloaked within the forest, and how serious a threat they posed.

They were Saxons. Dressed in skins and ragged wool, some wore cuir-bouilli, some had helmets. They strapped on their daggers and tested the edges of their axes in preparation for battle.

There were many of them, at least two to every one of his men. If these Saxons planned an ambush, they would be able to encircle the Normans and crush them.

Mathieu slipped back to the place where he’d left his horse, and mounted again. He climbed a small hillock that bordered the Saxons’ east side. There were fewer trees, which meant less cover, but he did not doubt that the Saxons were entirely focused upon the Norman soldiers who rode in the vale, not on the hilly terrain behind them.

When he was well hidden and a good distance away, Mathieu rolled several small boulders down the hill, then put his horn to his lips and blew. The reaction was exactly what he had hoped for. There was immediate confusion in the Saxon ranks. ’Twould take some time before they understood they were not under attack from behind, and in those few moments, Raoul de Moreton would be well warned and prepared for battle.

Aelia sat stiffly in the saddle. She did not know where Fitz Autier was, nor would she turn to see whether he’d joined them.

She hoped he had put his clothes back on. The man was unnerving enough while fully dressed, but when she saw the physical power that lay beneath his warrior’s garb, she nearly lost her sense of proper restraint. Why had her father not wed her to a warrior of such prowess as Fitz Autier? Mayhap if Aelia had such a husband, she would not be quite so susceptible to the physical power the Norman displayed with such arrogance. He seemed to think naught of flaunting his naked body before her repeatedly—as if she were some simpleton slave, and anxious for his favors.

The Normans rode silently north, through a deep valley surrounded by thick woods and tall cliffs. Aelia had never been permitted to venture so far beyond the waterfall. According to her father and Godwin, the path through the vale was too vulnerable, with Scottish lands a mere day’s ride from here. Wallis had always been loath to invite trouble.

The hair on the back of Aelia’s neck prickled and she knew something was amiss. “Sir Raoul…”

She did not wish to appear the frightened maiden among these Normans, yet something was not right. Whether ’twas her father’s misgivings about this place or the possibility that there was truly danger here, Aelia did not know. She looked to the east, then west, trying to see into the dense woods. Naught was visible, but the undeniable sense of peril raised gooseflesh upon her arms.

“I think we should turn back.”

To his credit, Raoul did not ignore her. “What is it, demoiselle? ” He cast his eyes about him, as if evaluating the risk of continuing on. “My orders are to—”

The full, resonant cry of a battle horn sounded in the distance. All the horses reacted, and Aelia’s mare reared, throwing her and galloping up the path. The Normans paid no attention to her plight as they drew their swords. Battle cries burst from the trees east of them. Bruised and barefoot, Aelia ran behind the line of warriors as they arranged themselves to face the attack.

She reached for her knife and remembered that Fitz Autier had it. She had no bow, no weapon to use when they were attacked by whatever enemy dwelled within the woods.

But something strange happened. The voices in the forest scattered, some moving north and others to the south, accompanied by the unmistakable sounds of horses, swords and clanging armor. The horn sounded again, but it seemed even farther away.

“’Tis the baron!” Raoul called to the men. “He’s leading them away!”

The Normans left Aelia behind as they charged into the woods. She tensed, but her only fear was for Fitz Autier. What kind of fool would attempt to draw off an army alone?

And why did she care?

In truth, she did not care. Her concern was for her own safety, how she would escape from whatever danger lurked in the woods and get herself back to Ingelwald—to Osric. Fitz Autier’s fate did not concern her beyond his ability to escort her home.

Yet she found herself searching for some sign of him.

The clash of swords rang in Aelia’s ears. She wondered if she should turn and flee, retrace her path through the vale and beyond the waterfall. She knew the eastern road well, and could get herself back to Ingelwald without her Norman escort. But if she turned west, she could go to Thrydburgh…to safety. Surely C?lin would allow her to stay.

Her horse had run off and Aelia could see no sign of it. She could not walk the distance to Thrydburgh without shoes, and if she left the Normans here, ’twas doubtful she would ever see Osric again. Fitz Autier held him hostage against her cooperation.

Would he kill her brother if she disappeared? Fitz Autier was a ruthless warrior, but Aelia had never seen him hurt any women or children. After last night, however, Aelia doubted anyone would consider Osric an innocent child.

She had no choice but to stay and wait out the battle.

Her position was much too exposed, so she walked cautiously forward, using the trees and low shrub as cover. She felt naked without her dagger, and knew her best protection was to get into a position where she could watch the skirmish. She advanced, staying under cover and keeping some distance from the battle. The fighting was disorganized, but the Normans were clearly outnumbered by a ragged band of Saxon warriors.

An unbearable sadness filled Aelia’s heart. As numerous as they were, the Saxons stood no chance against these Normans. Her vision blurred with tears when Fitz Autier suddenly came into sight, riding into the thick of battle, wielding his sword like a coldhearted executioner.

She could not tear her eyes from his powerful form. He moved like a proud stag of the forest, swift and dangerous, yet light and agile. Aelia experienced the same wrenching heat she felt whenever she watched him from afar. ’Twas difficult to catch her breath when she saw him like this, in full mastery over his enemy—her own people.

Fitz Autier shouted orders to his men, and they started to hem the Saxons in a wide circle, with no room to maneuver. Aelia could not bear to watch.

She backed away, shaking her head to clear it. Her mother had to have been mistaken about the odd feelings engendered by the sight of him. Fitz Autier could not possibly be her one true mate—not even if his touch made her heart flutter and her bones turn to ash.

With overwhelming sadness, Aelia turned away. She started to run, but someone came at her from behind and shoved her down. She landed hard, and before she could make a sound, her Saxon attacker drew his ax and swung.

Aelia screamed and rolled to the side to escape the blow, then quickly pushed herself up to her feet and ran. ’Twas not her fate to be hewn this way—by a man who was likely once an ally of her father.

“Now you die, Norman whore!”

The words cut her to the bone and she stumbled, with the Saxon right behind her. This was not the time for tears. She had to keep her wits about her or she surely would die. In a desperate attempt to keep her balance, Aelia scrambled up and ran ahead, but the Saxon fell upon her and shoved her to the ground. Dropping his ax, he grabbed her hair, yanked her head back, placed the cold steel of a knife blade against her throat.

Aelia held her breath and stayed perfectly still, even when he muttered another insulting remark about her. Telling him that she was also Saxon would do no good. The man would only see her as a traitor.

She felt the burn of the sharp edge and the trickle of blood down her neck. But before she could react, the Saxon let go, dropping her to the ground.

“Aelia!”

On hands and knees, she scurried away, but Fitz Autier’s enraged voice, and the clash of swords, caused her to turn. Too shaken to do more than press one hand against the cut on her neck, she drew her legs up to her chest and wrapped one arm ’round them. She took a shuddering breath when the Norman baron finished off the man who would have killed her.

Fitz Autier gave her no time to recover, but took her hand and pulled her to her feet. With one finger under her chin, he tipped her head back and looked at the wound. “’Tis not deep.”

Aelia could not speak, and it galled her to stand trembling before the Norman.

“Hold still,” he said, gripping her torn sleeve and ripping it the rest of the way off her tunic. He slid it down her arm and folded the cloth, then pressed it against the wound in her neck.

Aelia wished he would not be so kind. She wanted her hatred for him to be a clear, pure thing, uncomplicated by any demonstration of compassion or benevolence.

At the same time, she wished he would hold her until the trembling stopped.

“Let’s go.” A moment later, she found herself being lifted and tossed upon his horse, with Fitz Autier mounting behind her.

“I can ride,” she said, though her voice sounded thick and unsteady to her own ears.

“Not this time.”

“I have seen battle, seignior. I have never…”

“I know, demoiselle. I will forever bear the scar of your arrow upon my face.” He shifted in the saddle, then draped something warm about her shoulders. ’Twas the mantle she’d worn earlier, and she was grateful for its heat.

“You…saved my life,” she said. She would have to thank him for that, at least.

“Think naught of it. ’Twas no more than what I’d have done for anyone under my protection.”

“You drew the Saxons away from your men,” she said. “You warned them with your horn.”

“’Tis a useful weapon.”

“Your horn? ’Tis not a weapon at all.”

He pulled her close. Aelia did not understand his reason for making such a comforting gesture, but since his hauberk was surprisingly warm, and Aelia felt chilled to the bone, she did not complain. “You do not believe the horn was an effective weapon? It drew the Saxons away from my men, did it not?”

“But swords are weapons. Axes, knives… Aye. Your horn diverted the Saxons from their prey. I concede.”

The voices of Normans and Saxons fell behind them as Fitz Autier guided the gelding out of the forest and onto the valley path. “You’re leaving the battle?” she asked.

“I’ve seen enough of killing. Raoul will prevail and take prisoner any Saxon who yields.”

Aelia felt her throat thicken. More of her people would be enslaved, and she could do naught to help them. “What will you do with them?”

“There is room at Ingelwald, is there not?”

“For more Saxons who hate you?” Aelia could have bitten her tongue for those cutting words to the man who had just saved her life, but they were out, and their truth could not be denied.

But Fitz Autier just gave a laugh that sounded more bitter than mirthful, and rode on.

The woman needed some clothes. What she wore was torn and stained, and misshapen after her swim be hind the waterfall. Not that Mathieu did not appreciate that she’d kept her clothes on. In hindsight, ’twas best that one obstacle had remained between them.

Men and women were at work inside Ingelwald’s walls when he and Aelia arrived. The rubble of the burned storehouse was gone, and the stable roof had been repaired. Normans and Saxons collected debris and swept it away from the paths while the scarred knight spoke with a Saxon shopkeeper. When he saw Mathieu, he turned and approached.

“Speaking the Saxon tongue now, Auvrai?”

The knight shrugged. “What happened to you?”

Mathieu told him about the attack as he dismounted and assisted Aelia from his saddle. He should send her away with one of the guards to the enclosure where the rest of the Saxon prisoners were held.

But he was not ready to part with her.

“The lady could use some of your salve, Auvrai.” He reached for her shoes and his mantle, and took them from the saddle.

“And what of you? I’ve yet to see that wound in your side.”

“It looked clean this afternoon.”

Auvrai shrugged again. “You’ll find the salve in my pack, with Gilbert in the hall.” He’d never been one for questions beyond the essential, but he was as loyal as any man could be, and had matters well in hand here.

Aelia did not wait for Mathieu, but walked toward the hall, as though she were still daughter of the lord, even though she was dressed like the most pitiful pauper in the realm.

Mathieu followed her. She did not look back but went to the stairs and climbed. He picked up the leather bag that held Auvrai’s salves and bandages, and went up after her. He climbed all the way to the master’s chamber, but Aelia was not there.

Mathieu should have known she would not retreat to the room he’d taken as his own. The place she would seek refuge would be her own chamber—the one that had belonged to her before he’d had it stripped. The room was barren of all her belongings, of all comforts other than a plain, straw mattress. Yet she’d gone to the place where she’d likely spent many a carefree hour, he discovered when he went there.

She stood at the window, looking out. Her arms rested at her sides, one of them bare, the other covered by a puckered woolen sleeve. Her hair had come loose from the thick plait that bound it, yet Mathieu could easily imagine how she would look dressed in her Saxon finery, with her hair shining and flowing loose to her hips.

Was she remembering the better times when she was the lady of Ingelwald?

“I want to see my brother,” she said without turning.

Mathieu dropped her shoes to the floor. “No.”

She turned then. Though she tried to keep her expression neutral, she could not hide the fury in her eyes. “My cooperation ensures Osric’s well-being, does it not?”

He ran one hand across his face. “To some extent, demoiselle. But his own behavior also helps to determine how he is treated.”

She came to him in two steps, placing her hand upon his arm. “He is just a child! He cannot be held responsible—”

“He is without discipline.”

“But he’s a good lad.”

Mathieu found Auvrai’s salve in a small pouch within the satchel. He untied the string that held a thin hide over its top, and uncovered it. Taking Aelia’s chin between his thumb and finger, he raised it to gain access to the cut in her neck.

She would not look at him, but kept her eyes downcast. Mathieu could not help but notice the thick crescent of russet lashes that shadowed her cheeks. The pulse in her throat raced, and he could imagine how it would feel against his lips.

He cleared his throat and ignored the delicate curve of her neck. He would not think of how close she’d come to losing her life. “Turn toward the light.”

She did, and he smeared the musty-smelling ointment on the wound. When he stopped, she backed away.

He caught her hand. “I’m not finished.”

She took an unsteady breath and waited for him to wrap a length of white linen ’round her throat, then remained still as he examined the scrape on her shoulder.

“The salve will do some good, but it will rub off on your clothes.”

“That does not seem to be a problem, seignior,” she said with a pointed glance at the tear in her tunic that left her shoulder and arm bare.

“I’ll have someone find you some clothes.”

“Do not trouble yourself,” she said, and this time, walked away from him. She bent down to pick up her shoes. “What would a slave need with decent clothing?”

“You are not a slave.”

“A prisoner, then. Tell me, Fitz Autier, what will you do with us—with Osric and me?”

If she’d intended to neutralize the intimate moment between them, she succeeded.

“I have orders to take you to the king in London.”