Page 14 of The Conqueror’s Lady (The Knights of Brittany #2)

F ayth finished the last part of her inventory in the weaver’s hut and wrote down the information on her parchment scroll before she forgot. Brice appeared at the door.

‘Lady, sundown is approaching. How much longer will you need before you are ready to return to the keep?’ he asked.

Looking around the hut, she noticed one more pile of bolts of material that she’d missed. They were lucky this cottage did not burn during the attack, for they would have lost a fortune in a goodly amount of woven fabrics her father had purchased at market just this past summer.

‘Not much longer, sir. A short while?’ she asked.

‘Then heed my call this time and do not make me come searching for you,’ he said, brusquely. He paused and gave her an apologetic glance. ‘My lady.’ He bowed before leaving the cottage.

She’d been the bane of his existence these last days and he served as an example to her of why a man-of-war needed to be a man-at-war. She had no idea why his duke delayed in granting Brice the lands promised, but he did not handle the waiting well. Fayth smiled to herself over the many examples of his impatience she’d seen since Giles had left the keep, and she would not be surprised if there was a fight when he returned.

Would it be today? He was at least a day late, but he had sent word back late yesterday that he needed another day. Yet, sundown approached with no sign of him on the roads leading through the village or to the manor. A tightness in the pit of her stomach grew at the thought of his return. An unnatural, she was certain, anticipation of completing the marital act with him left her breathless at times, and she imagined—or tried to—what wondrous things he would show her and do to her now that she could prove her honour was intact.

She forced herself to breathe slowly and to push such thoughts of lust and passion from her mind, especially when she had work to complete. Her body fought her efforts, tingling and throbbing in those private places where he had pleasured her with his hands and his mouth. What would it feel like when he finally joined to her with that part of him that she’d caressed so intimately? Would the thickness and length of him hurt as he took her maidenhead and made her his wife in reality?

Her mouth grew dry, but that place between her legs where he would thrust and complete the marriage act grew wetter and wetter with each wicked thought. Dabbing at her heated face with the edge of her sleeve, she turned her attentions back to the work before her.

Fayth had divided the final pile of fabrics by type and was measuring and counting as fast as she could when the cottage door opened once more.

‘Your pardon, Sir Brice. I did not hear your call,’ she began, turning to face his bluster. But it was not Brice who stood before her.

Edmund Haroldson, the man who should be Earl of Wessex and heir to the throne of England, ducked into the cottage and quickly pulled the door closed behind him. So shocked was she that Fayth could only blink and gape at him.

‘Fayth!’ he whispered to her. ‘Are you well?’

He held his arms open to her and she ran into his embrace. His arms, strong and tight around her, comforted her as none others had since her father’s departure to the north. She clutched him just as fiercely as the memories of her life before the duke’s arrival on their shores passed through her mind. Only when he leaned away did she loosen her hold on him.

‘Edmund! You should not be here,’ she warned. ‘Lord Giles’s men are positioned throughout the village. You cannot let them capture you.’

She ran to the small shuttered window and opened it only enough to permit herself a view down the main path of the village. She could see Brice off in the distance. Turning back to her father’s liege lord, she shook her head and ran to his side. Claiming another embrace, she waited for him to speak.

‘They will not capture me, Fayth. Fear not. I still have many who aid me, both here and in the keep.’

‘Spies?’ she asked, even as her stomach churned at the thought. He nodded in answer. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I am here for you, Fayth. You did not think I would abandon you to these Norman pigs after you risked your life for me?’ He drew her to him and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Your words and actions saved many lives that day and I only pray you have not been mistreated because of it. King Edgar was impressed when I told him of your courage.’

Fayth began to answer, but Edmund waved her off. ‘I have only a few moments but want to tell you I understand that he has forced you into marriage.’ The bile rose in her stomach now as he spoke of her husband. ‘You do what you must to survive, Fayth. Submit to him until I can free you from this unholy joining. Our good Saxon lords and their men are rising up—’

‘Edmund, you must listen to me,’ she interrupted. ‘This lord is not unkind to me. He has forced nothing on me to which I did not give consent. You should leave this area, leave Wessex, before it is too late.’

He stared at her as though a stranger now. Holding her by the shoulders and searching her face, he shook his head.

‘Tell me you have not fallen for his kind words and lies, Fayth? Swear to me that you will avenge your father’s death at his hands.’

She stumbled then, not accepting his words. ‘It was a battle with thousands of men, Edmund. The chances that he was the one are…’ Cool logic had led her to that conclusion in the dark of the night as she considered Lord Giles’s explanation.

‘There were witnesses, Fayth,’ he said solemnly. ‘Some of your father’s men survived and now fight at my side.’

She heard the words, but she’d convinced herself that Giles had played no part in killing her father. Now, she feared that she had been lulled for his own purposes and hers.

‘This lord who treats you well is no different from the one who took the rest of Leofwyne’s lands. That one has branded the people, like the lowest of cattle, and cuts off a foot or hand if they are caught trying to escape.’

She gasped at the horror, shaking her head in denial.

‘These Normans follow their master well, Fayth. They yet practise the atrocities they brought with them, learned from the ruthlessness of William the Bastard.’ He shook her shoulders and forced her to meet his gaze. ‘How long until this lord begins to show his true nature? When there is not enough grain to get through the winter do you think it will be his Norman and Breton knights who starve or your people? Our people?’

A whistling caught his attention and he released her. ‘His man comes now. You must go to him, but hold strong, Fayth. I am putting my plans in place and will send for you when I can. Watch for a message.’

Shaking and confused by his claims, she accepted his quick kiss and watched as he hid in one of the alcoves of the cottage. Just as she was about to open the door, he whispered yet again.

‘I will bring you proof of your father’s death at his hands so that you can rest easy when we dispatch the bastard who thinks himself high enough to claim Taerford, and you.’

Fayth lifted the latch on the door and opened it, leaving the cottage and walking onto the path so that Brice would see her and stop his approach. Edmund would probably wait until dark to make his way out of the hut and back to wherever he hid. When Brice went straight for the door, and stood searching around the hut with his sharp gaze, Fayth knew he was suspicious.

‘Is aught wrong, my lady?’ he looked back at her and asked.

Sickened by Edmund’s words, she took a deep breath, but found it worsened the roiling of her stomach. Worse, her legs trembled and her head began to spin with dizziness.

‘I am not well…’

He caught her just as her legs buckled and held her as her stomach rebelled against all she’d heard. She remembered little else until she woke in her bed in the keep with Emma at her side.

Giles entered the keep and found it as silent as a church. His men sat at table, Brice in his chair, but no one spoke or argued as usually happened. Tired, hungry and angry, he wanted a good meal, a cup of wine and his bed.

He wanted his wife, too, but that did not seem to change and she was not present in the hall. He’d been hard for days now and every memory of her skin, her touch on him, her taste, made it worse. Now, he needed to speak to Brice and his commanders before he could seek her out. The grave expressions on the faces of his men spoke of other matters. Brice stood at his approach and drew him off to the side for a private word.

‘The lady fell ill,’ Brice began. ‘It started while we were in the village today and she is abed now.’

Giles started in the direction of the stairs even before he decided to go to her. ‘Is it the fever?’

He moved quickly, taking the steps two at a time to reach their chambers faster, not waiting for an answer. The old woman Emma sat before their door and she stood as he came closer. Truly he caught but a few words of her explanation—bleeding, courses, stomach, posset, sleeping—but he did gather that she did not seem in danger.

With a word to Emma to stay, he opened the door and walked to the bed. He had to search in the low light of the few lit candles to find her, so swallowed up amongst the coverings and the pillows was she. Not knowing why the thought of her ill bothered him so, he reached out and touched her cheek. He offered up a brief prayer of thanks that it felt cool to his touch.

Before he could wake her, he stepped away from the bed and left the chamber. With Emma remaining to oversee the lady’s care, and Brice trailing his steps, he went back to the hall where he found the meal and wine he’d wanted. But as he shared the news of the surrounding area with his men he found his appetite had deserted him.

William had given the lands adjoining his to Huard de Vassey, one of the duke’s most ruthless men, but one who had supported William from the start in his campaign to control England. Giles had seen the man in battle, and as lord of his lands, and knew that no one enjoyed the suffering and misery of others more. Pray God, Lord Huard would return to Normandy and his seneschal would be more tolerant of the Saxons under his rule.

Pray God!

From what Giles had heard, Huard was beginning as he meant to go on and had already undertaken the complete subjugation of anyone or anything Saxon on his property. Giles suspected that his lands would be the first place anyone running from Huard’s harsh rule would come.

And they must be prepared, for under law a lord had the right to seek and gain back runaway serfs. He could punish them as he saw fit, though leaving them alive enough to work was always a consideration. Since many of those granted lands already held land and titles on the continent, they could call for more labourers and knights from home to help them in England.

Until England was settled and William’s rule uncontested, the Norman lords would be best advised to tread carefully, as William’s man had informed him when he had received his grant. Take the lands, secure the lands, control the people, get heirs and keep the lands. Simple, clear instructions on William’s wishes for his new English subjects, but each lord would decide his manner and methods themselves, leading to many variations, hence the difference between Giles’s way and Huard’s.

Giles emptied two cups of wine before he felt ready to discuss this subject with Brice, for his friend would no doubt face similar challenges. After completing the report to his commanders and hearing theirs, he dismissed them and continued talking to Brice late into the night about his plans to aid any of those who escaped Huard’s cruelty.

Though it was a dangerous endeavor, neither he nor Brice could allow such brutality to go unanswered and unopposed. If his opposition and actions must be done quietly and with little or no notice, so be it. Lord Gautier’s lessons sank deep into his soul and he would keep his honour by carrying out clandestine rescues of those unfortunates trapped in Huard’s power.

It was not until later, as he climbed the stairs to his chambers, that Emma’s words finally struck him—the lady’s courses were upon her. The realisation froze him there as he thought on all that meant to him, to her and to their future.

Fayth did not carry Edmund’s child.

Their link was severed and their paths went in different directions. Anything that had happened between them in the past was simply that—past.

Giles was her future and she would, God willing, bear his children to carry his name. As he waved Emma off to her own pallet and lifted the latch on the door he almost laughed. He knew it would not be as easy as that, but he suspected that once she was with child he could claim her fierce loyalties. Pushing the door open, he moved quietly as he took off his clothing, placed his sword down and climbed into the bed. Or tried to, for the lady now lay sleeping in the very centre.

Easing her onto her side, he slid down next to her. She stirred, but he whispered to her, urging her back to sleep, for Emma had revealed how much work she’d accomplished before taking ill. Her gentle breathing told him she had succumbed, but in her sleep she leaned back against his body and rested there.

After four days on the road, riding and sleeping in the torrential rains, with the cold seeping into his bones, nothing could have felt better than this. Her soft bottom against his groin did not inflame him this once; instead he held her close and breathed in her scent, finding comfort there. The horrors he’d seen and learned of, and his worries for their future, faded away as he lay there with her. Although he thought he would not gain sleep this night, he felt it tugging him down.

In that moment, nothing could feel more right to him.

When he woke and saw the fear back in her eyes, he wondered when things had gone awry.