# The Saxon Outlaw's Revenge

Elisabeth Hobbes

At the mercy of her enemy!Abducted by Saxon outlaws, Constance Arnaud comes face to face with Aelric, a Saxon boy she once loved. He’s now her enemy, but Constance must reach out to this rebel and persuade him to save her life as she once saved his…Aelric is determined to seek vengeance on the Normans who destroyed his family. Believing Constance deserted him, he can never trust her again. Yet, as they are thrown together and their longing for each other reignites, will Aelric discover that love is stronger than revenge?

At the mercy of her enemy!

Abducted by Saxon outlaws, Constance Arnaud comes face-to-face with Aelric, a Saxon boy she once loved. He’s now her enemy, but Constance must reach out to this rebel and persuade him to save her life as she once saved his...

Aelric is determined to seek vengeance on the Normans who destroyed his family. Believing Constance deserted him, he can never trust her again. Yet, as they are thrown together and their longing for each other reignites, will Aelric discover that love is stronger than revenge?

‘We loved each other once, didn’t we?’ she asked in a whisper.

‘Did we? What did we know about love?’ The corner of his mouth twitched. ‘We were barely more than children, just waking up to what our bodies sought.’

It had been love to her, and to hear him dismiss it as nothing more than the lust all men felt cracked her heart. She swallowed down her grief and continued with her plan.

‘What does your heart want now?’ Constance whispered. ‘What does your body want?’

She reached a hand to his chest, spreading her fingers wide. She felt his intake of breath, saw the pulse at his throat quicken. His hand sought her waist, tugging her closer until they were face to face. He bared his teeth in a grimace that might have been passion or hatred.

‘I want you,’ he growled. ‘But this will not end well. It can’t.’

His voice had an edge to it she had not heard before, but which spoke of danger. She knew then that she had him.

Author Note

After the Norman Conquest of England in 1066 there was a period of rebellion that lasted until 1069. This resulted in William’s retribution, known as the Harrying of the North. Men escaped across the borders into Scotland or Wales, returning to fight their oppressors and carry out raids. Additionally, many of the barons appointed by William saw the uncertain times as an opportunity to increase their own land and status.

Dispossessed Saxons who refused to submit to their oppressors took refuge in the forests of England. They became known as ‘silvatici’ or ‘wildmen’. Among the most well-known were Hereward the Wake and Eadric the Wild, both of whom eventually reached peace with their new rulers and were pardoned. It is these men and others like them who are my basis for Aelric.

This story takes place in Cheshire. Hamestan is the name given in the Domesday Book to the Hundred that covers the area where I now live. Readers wishing to investigate the locations that inspired me should search for Alderley Edge, Mow Cop, Lud’s Church and The Roaches. Thanks go to my husband and children for accompanying me on frequent muddy walks.

As always, each of my books has a song. This time it was ‘It’s All Coming Back to Me Now’. The best version, in my opinion, is by Pandora’s Box.

The Saxon Outlaw’s Revenge

Elisabeth Hobbes


www.millsandboon.co.uk

ELISABETH HOBBES grew up in York, where she spent most of her teenage years wandering around the city looking for a handsome Roman or Viking to sweep her off her feet. Elisabeth’s hobbies include skiing, Arabic dance and fencing—none of which has made it into a story yet. When she isn’t writing she spends her time reading, and is a pro at cooking while holding a book! Elisabeth lives in Cheshire with her husband, two children and three cats with ridiculous names.

Books by Elisabeth Hobbes

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

Falling for Her Captor

A Wager for the Widow

The Blacksmith’s Wife

The Saxon Outlaw’s Revenge

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk.

To Laura and Tim,

for endless speculation about what was in the box.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Cheshire—1068

They hanged the rebels in the market square. Rain hung in the air. Heavy drizzle that characterised this part of England: thicker than mist and turning the world grey and damp.

A cheerless day for a brutal act.

Constance Arnaud wished she could leave this cold, unwelcoming country and return to Normandy where the sun was visible some days even in October. She wiggled her twisted foot to rid herself of the dull ache that ran from her toes to knee and pulled her fur-trimmed cloak tighter. She tipped the hood forward. The folds of heavy wool would not block out the sounds, but she would not have to watch the men die.

The old thegn stood between two guards, his fine tunic torn and filthy with blood and grime. He wore fetters but was bowed down by more than the weight of the chains that held him.

‘Brunwulf, formerly Thegn of Hamestan, for conspiring to incite revolt, your remaining land and title is forfeit. As tenant-in-chief for my liege and King, it is my duty and right to pass this sentence on you.’

From the dais Baron Robert de Coudray’s voice rang clear across the square. A muttering of anger rippled around the crowd, dying away quickly as the soldiers raised their weapons.

Constance wondered how many of the serfs and villeins that huddled behind makeshift railings understood what her brother-in-law had said. She had lived in England for eighteen months, but a year after moving from Winchester to Cheshire the accent still seemed thick and impenetrable to her ears.

‘Your life and the lives of those who raised swords against your King are also forfeit,’ Robert continued.

Brunwulf raised his head at this and stared at Robert. His eyes were bruised and almost forced shut with the swelling, but the hatred in them was clear. He spat a reply, the name and sentiment familiar to Constance.

‘The Bastard of Normandy is no King of mine.’

Another murmur, this time of approval, sped round the gathered people and a few cries of agreement rose up. Constance shifted nervously. People must have come from half of Cheshire to witness today’s executions and, though these were farmers and craftsmen, serfs and women, there were a lot more of them than there were soldiers in the baron’s retinue.

Robert’s cheeks reddened as he bellowed his reply. ‘The crown has been William’s for two years. We rule England now. If you had submitted you could have retained control of your lands as our vassals, but you refused to see sense. Now you will pay the penalty.’

A cruel light shone in the baron’s eyes. ‘You will be the last to die. You will watch the deaths of your countrymen and sons first though, so you understand how utterly you have failed. Let this be a warning to any who think to oppose us.’

Robert jerked a thumb and a dozen bound men were brought forward from the heavily guarded cart and pushed to their knees alongside the thegn. They bore the same signs of rough treatment as Brunwulf and like him wore clothes that once spoke of quality. These were not serfs or slaves, but thegns and housecarls themselves.

Three at a time the condemned men were dragged up the steps to the scaffold in the centre of the square and nooses tightened around their necks. As the first three executions were carried out wails of sorrow broke out among the crowd. The voices of wives and mothers, sisters or lovers. The soldiers standing in front of the huddled, grieving women crossed their pikes to hold them back in case the women rushed forward in attack. Constance could not help the sigh that escaped her.

Sitting between Constance and the baron, Robert’s wife turned pale.

‘Don’t pity them,’ Jeanne de Coudray whispered harshly. ‘What compassion would they have spared us? Would they have cared if we had starved?’

Constance reached for her sister’s hand and squeezed tightly. The answering flutter was so slight it tore at Constance’s heart. Jeanne was six years older than Constance, but would have passed for double that. Fifteen months of marriage to Lord de Coudray had destroyed any softness Jeanne had once possessed and beaten the bloom from her cheeks. Seeing her sister change into this wraith reminded Constance how fortunate it was that though she was prettier than Jeanne, her twisted foot had prevented Robert choosing her as his bride when the sisters were offered.

Constance stared back at the faces that blurred into a mass of pale eyes and shades of blond hair, so different to her own dark eyes and hair. She knew they hated her and all her countrymen. The women would have doubtless rejoiced at their grief and spat on her pity, but Constance remembered the sorrow that had numbed her following the death of her father at the Battle of Senlac. Her heart still broke for them. She wiped a hand across her eyes and looked at the ground, pulling the hood further forward so she did not have to think about the bodies twisting in the biting wind.

‘Open your eyes and watch how those who would threaten your King die, girl,’ Robert commanded in an undertone. ‘Don’t shame me before these Saxon savages or I’ll whip the skin from your back.’

Constance raised her head obediently and forced herself to watch as man after man was lifted high alive and cut down a corpse. Some resisted as the knots were pulled tight, one or two looked on the verge of weeping; others walked with dignity to their deaths. Without exception all spat towards the dais where Robert’s household sat, fixing any Norman who met their eye with a loathing that made Constance shiver with fear.

Their deaths were not quick or easy, but if the uprising had not been prevented and they had joined with those in other counties, how slow and degrading would her death at their hands have been? She’d heard the tales of what had happened elsewhere, of children speared in their beds and women shared between the rebels until they begged for death. Even a twist-footed cripple like Constance would not be spared the degradation. Jeanne was right, it was relief she should feel, not pity.

Finally only three men remained alive. Their ages spanned a decade at least, but the reddish tint in their straw-blond hair and beards marked them as Brunwulf’s sons. The youngest, a man in his middle twenties, could barely walk. His leg was bound to a splint and he clenched his teeth with pain as he was half-carried up the steps. As they were pushed forward to the waiting nooses Brunwulf finally groaned aloud with despair and to Constance it seemed he shrank in stature before her eyes. The eldest called something to his father, his words rapid and in a dialect so thick Constance could not make out a single word. Brunwulf’s lips twisted into a grimace. He nodded and his sons raised their heads to stare at the baron defiantly. As one man they leapt off the ladders, causing their necks to break with the violence of their swing.

Without warning a roar of rage erupted from the back of the crowd. Robert leapt to his feet. People began muttering and jostling as a figure pushed through them. Someone screamed in alarm. Brunwulf swore.

Robert barked orders rapidly and soldiers plunged in among the gathered watchers to find the source, roughly knocking people aside. Cries of indignation and alarm filled the air until eventually two soldiers returned dragging a struggling figure dressed in a dark blue cloak. The soldiers marched to the dais and threw their captive to the ground in front of Robert. One dropped a short sword alongside him. The other ripped the cloak from him and threw it aside, revealing a scrawny figure dressed in a worn tunic and hose with leg bindings where a sheathed dagger was stuffed. He pulled the dagger loose and threw it alongside the sword.

As the prisoner raised his face to glare at his captors Constance got her first clear look at his face. The sight caused her stomach to knot and vomit to rise in her throat. She gave an involuntary start forward in her seat.

Jeanne touched her arm gently and looked at her questioningly.

‘Are you in pain?’

Constance shook her head and gave a half-smile, hoping her sister could not read the shock in her expression. She sat back, her mind whirling and filled with memories of occasions she had put behind her. Unconsciously she raised a hand to her lips, then realised what she had done, lowered it quickly and looked at the boy on the ground.

Aelric. Brunwulf’s youngest son.

To call him a boy was unjust. He was young and couldn’t yet be described as a full-grown man, but he was older than Constance by a year or two. He did not resemble his father at all. His tangled hair was reddish-blond and flopped across angular cheeks that were barely graced with a downy beard. Whereas Brunwulf was burly, Aelric had long limbs that he had not grown to fit completely.

As long as she had lived in Hamestan he had been there as Lord De Coudray’s ward, though everyone knew ward was another word for prisoner, lodged within the manor grounds as a guarantee of his father’s obedience. And now his father had broken that peace in the worst way possible and the boy would suffer. He had vanished from Hamestan after the uprising had been quashed and Constance had hoped he would have been long gone.

One of the soldiers twisted an arm up behind the boy’s back to what looked like breaking point. He seized hold of him by the hair and wrenched his head back, causing the boy to let out a string of expletives, only some of which Constance knew.

‘Why are you here?’ Robert demanded. ‘I thought you had fled to save your neck.’

‘I came to save my father,’ the boy shouted. He winced and gave a gasp of pain through gritted teeth as the soldier twisted his arm higher.

‘You’re too late for that,’ Robert said coldly.

‘Then I will avenge his death and those of my brothers,’ Aelric snarled.

Constance glanced at the men swinging from the ropes and their father waiting in chains. Brunwulf stood, shoulders tense and expression stricken. Robert left the dais and walked to where the boy knelt in the mud. When he reached Aelric he leaned over, putting his face close to the boy’s.

‘And how do you propose to do that, Aelric, son of Brunwulf?’ Robert asked. His voice had taken on the cold, mocking tone that Constance had come to dread.

Aelric’s blue eyes bored into Robert, staring down the man twenty years his senior.

‘By killing you.’

Robert was silent. The crowd hushed in frozen expectation. Constance gripped Jeanne’s hand, waiting for Robert’s response. For him to strike the boy or run him through. Instead he did something unexpected, yet far crueller.

He laughed.

Aelric’s face reddened.

Robert waved a dismissive hand and turned away.

‘Hang him with his father.’

The soldiers seized hold of Aelric, who cried out and struggled as they dragged him towards his father. Constance’s stomach twisted as if someone had taken a stick and wound it through her guts, coiling it tight.

‘Please don’t!’

The words left her mouth before she could stop herself. She realised she had pushed herself to her feet.

‘What do you think you’re doing, girl?’ Robert rounded on Constance, his face knotted with fury far greater than he had shown to the condemned men or the boy. The blood in her veins turned to ice, but she could feel her face flushing. The eyes of everyone in the square were on her.

‘Set him free,’ Constance said.

‘Why should I do that?’ Robert demanded incredulously.

‘He’s so young,’ she said softly.

‘Should I wait until he’s older? I’m sure we can find a gaol for him until he’s managed to grow hair on his chest,’ Robert scoffed.

Aelric looked up and his eyes met Constance’s. The sick feeling returned.

‘He helped me once,’ Constance said, aware of the heat rising to her cheeks. ‘When my horse lost a shoe last winter.’

It had been a cold January day. Her horse slipped in the mud as she rode along the gritstone ridge. The half-familiar boy working in the fields under guard had left his position to take hold of the bridle. Speaking calm, unfamiliar words—to the animal or her she wasn’t sure—he’d held the animal still while she remounted. She’d thanked him, nervously trying out the Saxon tongue. He’d grinned at her attempt, but kindly, before returning to his companions. They had looked at her with the contempt she’d come to expect, but he glanced back and nodded before walking away.

She told her brother-in-law only part of that. Not that they had met again. Times met and deeds done that she must not think of for fear Robert would read the emotions on her face.

‘And because of that I should pardon his attempt to murder me today?’ Robert asked.

Vomit rose again in Constance’s throat. She had been nauseous for days with the anxiety of what today would bring. What attempt had it been really? Aelric could never have succeeded. Robert had been in no danger and he knew it.

‘Not my boy,’ Brunwulf begged.

‘Your boy was safe while you obeyed me,’ Robert mused. ‘Why should he live now?’

‘He took no part in the uprising. I saw to it he knew nothing of what we planned.’

Murmurs of agreement fluttered across the square. Brunwulf dropped to his knees in supplication.

‘If you spare him, I will swear loyalty to your King here and now. You can tell William you secured my allegiance before my death.’

Robert was going to refuse. Constance could tell from the set of his jaw. The thought of Aelric’s death was unbearable to her. Shaking Jeanne’s hand from her arm, she dropped to her knees, ignoring the stiffness in her ankle.

‘You’ve shown them you can be fierce. Now show them you can be merciful,’ she pleaded. ‘There has been so much death today.’

The murmurs grew louder and angrier. Robert’s face was scarlet with fury.

‘Very well,’ he snapped. ‘He lives.’

Aelric was hauled to the foot of the gallows. The bodies were cut down and Brunwulf was dragged forward. Though his chains weighed him down he climbed the ladder unaided and stared straight ahead as the noose was passed over his head. He gave his oath of loyalty as he had promised. He cast a look at his son that spoke of so much affection that tears welled in Constance’s eyes. Then he went, face serene, to his death.

Many watching wept, Constance among them. Aelric remained dry eyed.

‘And now to deal with you. I said you’d live. I made no other promises,’ Robert said to Aelric. He turned to the guards. ‘Secure him to the scaffold. Ten lashes.’

Aelric was bound, hands high, to the frame where his father’s body hung. Constance turned to Jeanne in horror, but her sister’s eyes were blank.

‘Be silent,’ Jeanne hissed, ‘unless you want Robert to suspect the boy means more than you claim.’

The tunic was cut away, leaving Aelric’s back exposed. As the first blow struck his scream of pain tore through the marketplace. He was ready for the second and made no sound, but by the sixth his cries with each blow came as weak, throaty sobs. Constance bunched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. Only later would she notice the half-moons of blood she had raised to the surface. When the tenth stroke was done Robert strolled to where his captive sagged.

‘I have no need to keep you here any longer. Tomorrow you’ll be sent to Chester where Earl Gerbod can find a use for you in the fields or salt works.’

Robert drew a dagger, grabbed hold of Aelric’s left ear, twisting his head back.

‘I’ll leave you something to remember me by.’

He drew the tip from Aelric’s collar to below the ear then turned the blade and smoothly sliced the lobe away. The boy gave a shriek and, as this last cruelty finally broke him, slumped against the scaffold frame in a faint.

* * *

‘You shamed me in public! For that alone I should beat you until you scream!’

Robert’s rage was incandescent. Constance looked to her sister but Jeanne sat, head bowed over her embroidery, and said nothing. She would get no support there.

‘The boy did not deserve death.’

‘Never mind that. What were you doing befriending Saxon filth?’ Robert turned to his wife. ‘Madam, is your sister a wanton?’

‘No, my lord,’ Jeanne answered meekly. ‘Her behaviour is as shocking to me as it is to you.’

Constance’s scalp prickled. If Robert knew the truth about what had passed between her and Aelric his wrath would be too great to withstand. Robert seized hold of Constance by the arm and dragged her roughly to her bed, flinging her on to the straw mattress.

‘You are almost seventeen. It’s time you were married. In the morning I’m sending you to a convent until I can find a husband who can tame you.’

He stormed out, leaving Constance holding her face and trembling with anger.

* * *

She lay on the truckle until it was dark, waiting until the voices in the Great Hall were at their most raucous. She gathered what she needed and wrapped cloth around the end of her walking stick, though it was unlikely to make any noise on the rush floor. She crept from the room and passed through the Great Hall. Robert and his retinue were around the fire pit, listening to the bard singing, and did not notice her leave.

She made her way to the marketplace. There was no light other than from the sliver of moon and the square was empty, everyone having returned home before the curfew. Although a soldier patrolled the boundary of the square, no one stood guard over the figure still bound by the wrists to the gallows. Presumably Robert believed no one would dare approach him after the afternoon’s display of authority.

The iron scent of blood hit her as she neared Aelric, turning her stomach. He was leaning the full weight of his body against the frame. He groaned and turned his head at the sound of Constance’s stick tapping.

‘Constance!’

His voice was a hoarse whisper of surprise. His hair flopped across his face. Constance smoothed it back, unable to tear her eyes from the bloody scab that was his mutilated ear.

She held a flask of wine to his lips and he drank greedily.

‘You’ll get into trouble,’ Aelric said.

‘I won’t be missed.’ Constance hoped it would be true.

She tipped water on to the cloths she’d brought and began to clean the crusted blood from his back. He stiffened his shoulders and gave a sharp intake of breath. She blushed as her fingers traced the contours of his shoulder blades and muscles. She was glad of the darkness.

‘Does it hurt a lot?’ she asked.

‘I can endure the pain,’ Aelric said bitterly. ‘You should have let them hang me.’

‘You don’t mean that!’

He twisted his head and gazed at her, his brow knotted. ‘At least I’d have died with honour. You’ve condemned me to live and die a slave knowing I failed to avenge my family.’

She’d come hoping to ease his suffering, but his tone was harsher than she’d ever heard. His words cut into her deeper than the rope that had split his back open. She couldn’t have watched him die, but how could she let him live the life he described?

‘You don’t have to,’ she whispered. She looked around cautiously and drew out her dagger, one of a pair that had been the legacy from her father. The blue stone in the hilt caught the light. Aelric’s eyes fell on it.

‘Make it swift,’ he said, his lips twisting downwards.

‘I’m not going to kill you!’ she exclaimed in shock. ‘I’m not a savage! What do you take me for?’

‘A Norman,’ he said bitterly, ignoring the implied insult.

‘Your friend,’ Constance said, biting back the hurt his words caused. ‘I came to free you. You can run away.’

Aelric’s eyes flickered. ‘It’s revenge I want. Where is the honour in running?’

Constance stepped back and threw her cloth to the ground in irritation. ‘Nowhere, probably. But why throw away your freedom for the sake of pride?’

‘Pride is all I have left,’ Aelric growled. ‘And vengeance.’

Constance picked up her stick and turned to walk away.

‘Wait!’ Aelric’s voice was urgent.

‘Why? I would free you because you aren’t a killer, not so you could become one. I’m not risking myself for that!’

‘You would put yourself in danger to help me? Why? Because I brought back your horse?’ Aelric asked. ‘Is that the only thing you will remember me for?’

‘You know it isn’t,’ Constance said quietly. She refused to let the memories out.

‘I don’t want you to come to harm,’ Aelric said, holding her gaze.

Constance felt again the sharp pain from Robert’s slaps, thought of Jeanne crying in the night and dead-eyed by day. If someone were to kill Robert she would not grieve, but Aelric would never succeed.

‘I’m being sent to a convent tomorrow, I’ll be safe. If I cut you down you have to swear to leave tonight and not to try to harm Robert.’

Aelric tugged at the bonds on his wrists. ‘If it will make you happy I won’t attempt to kill him.’

‘Swear,’ Constance said. ‘On something that matters.’

He looked furious, but she held his gaze until he sighed.

‘I swear by my honour, and on the name and soul of my father, Brunwulf, that I will not raise arms against Robert.’

She nodded, satisfied. Keeping her eyes from Aelric’s, she quickly cut the ropes binding him. Aelric sagged to the ground, massaging his wrists. Constance helped him to stand, warmth spreading along her fingers from his hands that were so cold.

‘Now I am in your debt,’ he said. He lifted her hand to his lips, then put his hand to her cheek, drew her close and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. Constance raised her head and brushed her lips against the edge of his mouth. She felt his lips twist into a smile.

‘I won’t forget what you’ve done for me,’ Aelric whispered.

The enormity of what she had done crashed over Constance. She did not want to think what Robert might do when he discovered the boy had disappeared in the night.

‘Take me with you,’ she asked impulsively.

‘You don’t mean that,’ Aelric said. ‘I don’t know where I’ll go, but it won’t be suitable for a girl used to the life you lead.’

‘I don’t care how hard it might be,’ Constance whispered.

‘I do,’ Aelric said firmly.

‘Please,’ she begged. ‘I have nothing to keep me here. We could be together.’

Her eyes filled with tears. She gazed into Aelric’s eyes and put a hand on his arm. He closed his hand over it.

‘I’ll wait by the old cowshed at the fork in the Bollin until dawn,’ he said. He gave a slight smile. ‘You know where I mean.’

Constance blushed and looked away, knowing very well where Aelric meant.

‘Take this,’ she said. She handed him the dagger. His hand tightened over hers then he slipped away.

She watched until he became a shadow and disappeared from view, then picked up her stick and returned to the house. She wouldn’t need much. She didn’t have much to take anyway.

She made it back as far as the bedchamber and had pulled the dagger’s twin and her spare kirtle from the chest when a hand seized her hair roughly from behind. Robert hauled her to her feet.

‘Where have you been?’

‘Nowhere,’ Constance whimpered.

‘Liar! You were seen leaving the house,’ Robert bellowed. ‘Tell me the truth or I’ll beat it out of you.’

Robert slapped her without warning, the palm of his hand setting her cheek ablaze.

‘Nowhere,’ she repeated. If she told him now then Aelric would never escape.

Another slap. This time backhanded and with force that left her reeling. Robert unbuckled his belt.

‘I’ve tolerated your waywardness for too long,’ he said.

Constance tried to duck past him, but he pulled at the neck of her gown and swung her around. She landed heavily across the table face first, the stab of pain in her belly making her retch. Robert brought the leather strap down upon her, buckle end swinging free. Lights burst in Constance’s head as it caught her the bare flesh of her shoulder and she screamed.

She knew then she would never meet Aelric.

* * *

Aelric watched the dawn rise.

Constance wouldn’t come, but there was a spark of hope within him that refused to die. He caressed the dagger that she had given him. It was well made and the stone set into the end would fetch a good price alone: enough to see his belly full for a month or two at least.

When the sun was a half-circle behind the hills he pushed himself to his feet. He wrapped the sacking around his shoulders, biting down the pain in his back where the rough cloth grazed every cut. He stared back towards Hamestan, hoping to see the familiar dark-haired, slender figure making her way towards him, but the road was deserted.

Reluctantly he turned away, trying not to care. While they lived under the same roof he had entertained daydreams of marrying her, Norman or not, but what well-bred noblewoman would really swap a life of comfort for one of uncertainty and exile. It was for the best. He could move faster alone.

Casting a final look over his shoulder he walked away, knowing it would be a long time before he saw these hills again.

Chapter Two

Worcestershire—1075

Constance folded the parchment over and ran her finger across the two halves of the thick seal. She dug her thumbnail into the wax until the edges chipped.

‘Do you know what this letter says?’ she asked her guest.

Hugh D’Avranches, Palatine Earl of Chester, reached across to the low table and refilled their goblets. The jug nestled among the remains of the late meal they had shared. It had been pleasant before Hugh had produced the parchment.

‘I can hazard a guess,’ he replied, handing Constance her wine. ‘When your brother-in-law asked me to carry this message I asked if he would like me to bring your reply back to Cheshire. He said there would be none as he was certain you would obey his instructions and begin your travel preparations immediately.’

Constance suppressed a shudder.

‘He would have me travel in December! He expects me to return to live in Hamestan.’

She flung the hateful letter to the floor beside her and began pacing around the chamber, her stick striking loudly on the stone floor. When she had left Hamestan seven years ago she had intended never to go back.

‘Who is he to command me to do anything!’ she exclaimed. ‘And why now? You should have refused to bring this to me.’

Hugh folded his arms; a calm, thickset, tawny-haired man who was more jowly every time Constance saw him, despite not yet being thirty. He regarded Constance with an expression of mild reproach, then beckoned her to sit down. It was impossible to stay angry with him for long so she returned to the settle by the hearth and eased herself on to the cushions, stretching her leg on to a low stool.

‘Robert de Coudray is one of my tenants-in-chief. It would have been churlish for me to refuse to bear his letter as I was travelling past Bredon on my way to Gloucester. Besides—’ Hugh smiled and took Constance’s hand ‘—I would not pass up the opportunity to visit you. I have seen you so rarely this past three years. My new responsibilities keep me busy.’

Such familiarity was unbecoming, even if she was a widow. If anyone were to find them in such a position she was risking scandal, but Constance was beyond caring. One way or another she would be gone before long.

‘I’m glad to see you, Hugh. I have so few friends. I don’t want to quarrel with you when you’re here for such a short time.’

Hugh placed the letter on the table alongside the wine jug.

‘You could intervene and make Robert change his mind,’ Constance suggested hopefully.

Hugh pursed his lips. ‘Not without causing bad blood and I need the loyalty of all my vassals at this time. As much as you hate it, now you are a widow, your brother-in-law is your legal guardian. If Robert commands you to live within the protection of his household that is his right.’

The notion of Robert de Coudray offering any sort of protection would be laughable. Except it wasn’t funny. Not when she wondered who would offer protection from Robert himself. She rubbed her ear, feeling a faint scar beneath her fingertips left by Robert’s belt buckle.

‘I don’t want any man’s protection,’ she said. She stared into the fire, watching the flames rising from the logs and entwining sinuously, like lovers dancing.

‘You cannot stay in Bredon,’ Hugh said.

‘My late husband’s nephew has inherited the land and title. He has agreed that I may live here until twelve months have passed. After that I intend to return to take holy orders at the convent at Brockley.’

‘Constance, you’re far too young to shut yourself off from the world in such a way,’ Hugh exclaimed.

Constance took a long drink of wine. She didn’t feel young. Dark shadows under her eyes and a permanent worry crease on her forehead was evidence enough of that. The ever-present stiffness in her leg merely accentuated it.

‘I am twenty-three. Many women commit themselves to life in the cloisters from a much younger age and, as you say, I have to live somewhere.’

‘Why Brockley?’ Hugh asked. ‘Why not somewhere closer to here?’

Constance clasped her hands around her arms and shivered.

‘The sisters cared for me when I arrived there from Hamestan. I would have stayed then if I’d been permitted, but once Robert brokered my marriage I was brought here.’

‘You never speak of that time,’ Hugh mused.

Constance lifted her chin and fixed him with a fierce glare, her stomach lurching violently. None but the nuns knew what she had learned about herself when she had arrived there and she intended to keep it that way.

‘No,’ she said curtly. ‘I don’t.’

After an unusually tactful length of time Hugh broke the silence by throwing another log on to the fire.

‘Tell me...why did you question the timing of this letter?’ he asked.

‘Piteur—’ Constance winced slightly as she always did when mentioning her deceased husband ‘—has been dead for nine months. Lord de Coudray has made no attempt to communicate with me until now.’

‘Perhaps he has finally realised the necessity of deciding your future,’ Hugh pointed out. ‘If you had borne an heir matters would have been different.’

That was the problem. Five years of marriage had produced no child who had lived. Hugh, like all men, would think only of the lineage that must be carried on and her failure to provide the required child. The grief for her daughter, dead after only four days in the world, was still raw after three years. It seemed unlikely ever to diminish. The pain, helplessness and indignity that had accompanied her other failed pregnancies, before and afterwards, still clawed at her in nightmares.

She thought back to the first baby. The one she had not even suspected she was carrying and tears burned her eyes. Tears of sorrow, and hatred for the man who had unknowingly caused its death.

Hugh took her hand gently.

‘King William dislikes widows living alone. You know you will have to marry again,’ he said. ‘I know your husband granted you a legacy when he died.’

Piteur’s legacy had been earned many times over in ways Constance did not wish to contemplate ever again. She would crush every jewel and melt every ring if she could.

‘I’m sure I could find a dozen husbands who would look past my deformity—’ she indicated her crooked foot ‘—and spend it for me, but I have had enough of marriage,’ Constance said bitterly. ‘I’m done with men using me for their own ends.’

‘If I had been in England when your brother-in-law was searching for a husband, I would have put myself forward.’

Constance’s eyes widened in surprise. She was fond of Hugh, but it had never crossed her mind his feelings ran that deep.

‘I’m flattered,’ Constance said sincerely, ‘but you are married now so that is not a possibility.’

Hugh stretched out his stocky legs towards the fire. ‘That is true, but I would gladly become your patron and protector if you would become my mistress.’

She should be shocked. She should dismiss him immediately from the room, but she didn’t.

‘You don’t mean that,’ she said gravely.

‘Sometimes I do,’ he answered. ‘Especially when the night is cold and the wine is sweet and I think how soft your lips are.’

Hugh’s eyes slid to the corner of the room where Constance’s bed stood and a suggestive smile played around his lips.

‘It’s late and my horse is tired. It would be cruel to make him travel further tonight,’ he said roguishly. He reached for Constance’s hand again and began to run his fingers up and down her arm. ‘Come to bed with me. If you’re determined to cloister yourself away you should have some memories to look back on fondly. Perhaps you will change your mind.’

She was almost tempted, just to see what it would be like. Hugh was kind and reputed to treat his mistresses well. Not all men could be as brutal and demeaning as Piteur and his companions had been. She’d loved a boy once before, in her youth, and that had been sweet and exciting. It was the memory of Aelric that tipped the scales against Hugh.

‘I don’t think that would be wise,’ Constance said, withdrawing her hand. ‘I’m done with men and men are done with me. You are welcome to my hospitality in every other respect though. Speak to my steward and he will find you a bed. Come and say farewell before you leave in the morning,’ she instructed.

Hugh accepted her refusal with a good-natured bow. Constance stood and held out her arm and together they walked to the door.

Hugh stopped in the doorframe.

‘I know you don’t like to speak of your time in Hamestan, or the circumstances under which you left, but I am asking you to consider returning to Cheshire. It might be to both our advantages.’

Constance looked at him suspiciously.

‘I haven’t been entirely honest. The timing of Lord de Coudray’s letter troubles me, too,’ Hugh admitted. ‘Rumours are beginning to emerge that in certain parts of the country there is talk of dissent.’

‘From the Saxons?’

Images Constance had buried for years flashed through her mind. Bodies swinging from the gallows on a foggy day. A pair of blue eyes still defiant despite unendurable pain. Her heart throbbed unexpectedly, surprising her. She had believed it had petrified beyond beating with such intensity.

Hugh’s lips tightened. ‘Not only them. None have dared to rebel since William’s harrying. The earls in Mercia are becoming restless and William fears Cheshire may follow.’

‘Why should this involve me?’ Constance asked.

‘Your brother-in-law’s name has been mentioned indirectly and it would be helpful for me to have a connection close to his household. So much of my time is taken up dealing with the Welsh borderlands.’

‘I don’t want to return there,’ Constance said quietly. ‘I can’t forget what he did, or forgive him. What advantage is there for me?’

‘Do this for me and I will make sure you are safe,’ Hugh said. ‘If you will not become my mistress I cannot prevent you being required to marry, but if Robert were disgraced, or condemned for treason, he would have no influence in the matter.’

‘What will happen to Robert if I find any indication he is involved in conspiracy?’ Constance asked.

Hugh’s eyes were steely.

‘If he is involved in any treachery, he will be brought to justice.’

Constance turned her head so Hugh could not see the emotions assailing her. He was her friend, but first and foremost he would protect his lands and King. His protection might be the only hope she had. Moreover, aiding him would be a fitting revenge on Robert.

For the first year since leaving Hamestan her hatred for Robert had seared her from within. When she was given to Piteur, her husband replaced him as the object of her loathing, as a black shadow obliterates the grey rock. Now the emotions that had diminished came back in a rush.

‘I’ll think on it,’ she promised.

Hugh’s face broke into a smile. He kissed her briefly on the cheek and left. Constance summoned her serving girl and sat before the fire as the maid combed and plaited her chestnut hair until it shone. She re-read the letter until she could recite it word for word. It was curt to the point of rudeness, but she expected nothing less from Robert. There was no word either of or from her sister, but as Jeanne was not a skilled writer this was to be expected as well.

Constance climbed into bed and drew the furs up high. In the fading firelight she stared around the small chamber that had been her sanctuary since her wedding. Piteur had seldom entered it. He had kept his quarters in the adjoining room, summoning Constance when he required her presence. She shivered with instinctive revulsion. When he died she had burned his mattress and coverlet, ignoring the protestations and gossip of his servants and tenants who excused her behaviour as the actions of a grieving young widow.

This house was not hers and despite her words to Hugh, she had no real inclination to stay here. She fell asleep, wondering about the previous owners before Piteur had been rewarded the land. Perhaps they had been hanged like the old thegn of Hamestan. She realised she couldn’t remember his name. She would never forget that of his son, however. How could she after what they had done together? He was probably long dead, believing she had chosen to stay behind. It made her unaccountably sad.

Blue eyes and a wide grin flitted through her dreams that night, for the first time in years. Blood and screaming followed. She woke before dawn drenched with sweat and trembling and sat wrapped in blankets, hugging her knees until light.

* * *

When the morning came her decision was made. She joined Hugh in the snowy courtyard as his horse was saddled and he prepared to depart.

‘I’ll do what you ask, but it isn’t enough that you will stop Robert deciding my marriage. I want you to swear that if I find the proof you need to convict him you will help me reach the convent.’

Hugh put his hand over his heart. ‘You have my word. I’d found an order myself if it would keep you happy.’

Constance nodded in satisfaction. ‘When you return to Cheshire tell Lord de Coudray I will come when my year here is up. I will stay with him for a year. No longer.’

Hugh’s forehead creased. ‘That will be early March. That’s no time for travelling.’

Constance shrugged. ‘I doubt he’d wait longer and this country is miserable whatever the time of year.’

‘Then let me send an escort to you,’ Hugh said. ‘The countryside is swarming with wild men.’

‘If my brother-in-law wishes me to return, he can stretch to the expense of an escort himself,’ Constance said. ‘Besides, I can travel inconspicuously.’

Hugh smiled. ‘I look forward to hearing of any information you discover. Remember, I want him to be dealt with openly as a warning. I need proof.’

He swung his large frame into the saddle and galloped away. Constance watched him go, wondering what secrets Robert was keeping. She owed him no loyalty and if she could uncover anything that could do him ill she would not weep over that!

Cheshire

The man who called himself Caddoc crouched in the undergrowth. His thighs and back ached from holding the stance so long, but when his target came within his sight it would be worth the discomfort. Sleet dripped down his neck and he pulled his leather hood closer to his cloak.

A flash of brown between the trees caught his attention. She was closer now. Another few paces and he would have clear aim. He drew a silent breath and pulled back his bowstring. There was a crack behind him as a foot stepped on a twig and the bushes moved. The doe stiffened, and then was gone.

Caddoc swore and turned to see a redheaded man, twenty years or so his senior. He eased his bowstring back.

‘Thank you, Ulf. I didn’t want to eat tonight.’

Ulf grinned, showing a collection of broken teeth. ‘Lucky it was me and not one of the Earl’s men or you’d have lost your eyes as well as your ear.’

Caddoc scowled. He scratched his thick tangle of beard.

‘It’s unlikely they’d come so deep into the forest this late in the day. Let’s hope someone else had better luck.’

He stood, twisting life back into his aching limbs. He stowed his bow and arrows and checked for the dagger he always wore at his waist, then the two men made their way through the dense forest to the camp they shared with a handful of other men.

Anyone watching would think their path was haphazard unless they happened to notice the small notches and marks cut into certain trees. A single slab of moss-covered rock concealed a narrow gap through which they could pass single file. A boy of fourteen stood guard at the furthest end, brandishing a scythe.

‘It’s us, Wulf.’

The boy lowered his weapon as Caddoc and Ulf pushed back their hoods and raised their hands in greeting as they passed. They scrambled over rocks upwards until they reached a flat ridge overlooking the edge of the forest. Beyond that the ground fell away giving a view over the plain and the hills beyond.

Home was the remains of a derelict watchtower built then abandoned by some bygone people Caddoc neither knew nor cared the name of. Wood had been added to an upper level and it had been covered with skins and bracken, creating a structure that was sufficiently weatherproof and well concealed. A scattering of small shelters huddled alongside. This camp would do for another month or two, until spring came, but after that they would have to move on. To stay anywhere too long risked someone revealing the location, accidentally or otherwise.

Caddoc went inside, called a general greeting, removed his wet cloak and settled himself cross-legged on a pallet by the fire. Old Gerrod sitting to his left passed him a wineskin and he tossed the ale down his throat.

‘No luck hunting. I almost had a doe, but Ulf surprised her.’

‘Osgood and Wulf brought back a couple of bucks. They’re almost ready for the pot,’ Gerrod said. He jerked his thumb to the corner where his wife, a thin woman named Elga, was hacking a rabbit into pieces.

As they ate the men talked. Caddoc closed his eyes as he lay back on his straw-filled mattress and let the voices wash over him. The pottage was good and his feet were nearly dry. He was almost approaching contentment.

‘Do we get a song tonight?’ Ulf asked him.

Caddoc shook his head, tempting though it was to unwrap his crwth and lose himself in the song. ‘My fingers are still too cold to play tonight.’

‘I heard in Acton this morning that Fat Hugh of Chester has sired another bastard on one of his mistresses,’ Ulf said.

‘Another mouth to steal the bread from ours!’ Gerrod spat a rabbit bone into the fire. He waited for the murmured agreement to die away. ‘That’s no news. I have better. The Pig of Hamestan is awaiting the arrival of something important...and valuable.’

Caddoc’s jaw tensed at the name. He kept his eyes closed, but listened closely.

‘De Coudray? That isn’t news,’ Ulf said. ‘Rollo, his reeve, has been bragging for weeks in every alehouse he enters that he’s being sent to bring something.’

‘What do you think it might be, Father?’ Wulf asked greedily, coming to sit by Gerrod. ‘Gold?’

‘Doubt it. Isn’t he rich enough already?’ Gerrod growled.

‘He has to spend it on something, though,’ Ulf pointed out.

‘I heard he plans to buy a new bride,’ Osgood said.

‘I heard in the market it’s a bride he’s having brought,’ cackled Wulf.

‘That can’t be right,’ Ulf scoffed. ‘His wife has only been in the ground three weeks.’

‘It’s what I heard,’ Wulf said belligerently. ‘It’s what I’d do if I had money.’

There was a roar of laughter, led by Gerrod. At fourteen Wulf’s every concern was of filling his belly or wetting his staff. Caddoc didn’t laugh. At that age iced fire had filled his veins, flooring him in the presence of any girl. One in particular had turned his insides into something resembling a squashed beetle with a single smile.

‘Perhaps his wife’s death wasn’t as natural as they say,’ Osgood suggested. ‘Perhaps he helped her on her way.’

‘Why would he do that?’ Ulf asked.

‘Why wouldn’t he?’ Caddoc muttered under his breath. The whey-faced woman who had sat beside de Coudray on the dais had seemed half a corpse even seven years ago. He stared into the fire, not seeing flames but bodies twisting in nooses. He’d played no part in the discussion so far and a hush descended on the room.

‘You sound like you know of him?’ Gerrod asked.

He pointed to the missing lobe of his left ear and the scar leading beneath his collar. ‘De Coudray did this.’

‘You said you were from over the border,’ Osgood said accusingly.

Caddoc grimaced, annoyed at his slip. He’d journeyed far in the years since his exile, but his feet had always brought him back to Cheshire, before the anger and pain led him off again once more. Like most of the wild men he had been intentionally vague about his origins, but the mention of the hated name had caused his blood to run hot through his veins.

‘I ran to Wales when I was exiled,’ he said.

He looked around, wondering who they had all been. Carls? Serfs? He knew Osgood could write a few of his letters and Gerrod’s fingers had been taken for poaching when he was younger than Caddoc was now. Ulf had served Brunwulf; he was the only man who had known the boy Aelric before he became the man Caddoc, but loyalty to his former thegn kept him silent.

It no longer mattered when they all had reason to hate their persecutors.

‘Of all the Normans I’ve encountered he’s the cruellest.’ Caddoc spat. He felt again the lash against his back. ‘He executed my family and he’d have hanged me, too.’

‘Why didn’t he?’ Gerrod asked.

Caddoc broke off and stared into the flames, seeing a pale face, angular in a manner that made him think of a vixen. He drew his eyes back from the past.

‘He didn’t need to. He’d already destroyed me when he took everyone and everything I loved. I’d kill him if I could, but he’s beyond my reach.’

And he had sworn not to. He remembered the vow he had made years before. That had been easy to keep, at least, with no opportunity to get close to de Coudray.

‘Gerrod, are you sure what you’ve said is true?’

‘Yes. I heard from one of the monks at Malpas he’s having something important sent from down south in a week or two. He needs lodging for the escort for a night.’

‘If your rumours are right it’s important and valuable,’ Caddoc said, ‘I want it.’

He felt all eyes turn on him. The blood pounded in his veins. For years the dream of vengeance had consumed him and it was too much to hope the means were finally within his grasp. De Coudray could be having anything brought to him. Caddoc sat forward abruptly and gestured around the bare room.

‘For seven years I’ve lived like this and I’ve had enough. We live in this hovel while the men who stole our homes get richer by the year.’

‘Rich, were you? Before you ran?’ Osgood asked, crossing his arms. ‘Some of us have always lived like this.’

Another slip. Careful, he warned himself.

‘Whatever we were, this is no way I want to live. The Normans took our lands and our lives. We steal a pitiful amount from their tenants and woods, but it’s time we took more. Who cares what the Pig has got himself? I don’t want him to have it.’

‘And if it is a bride?’ Wulf asked, determined not to let go of his idea.

Caddoc grinned. He fingered the dagger at his waist.

‘Then we’ll steal her, too.’

Chapter Three

Constance hated travelling. The weather made matters worse. Despite having no eagerness to be in Robert’s company she would wish away the journey to Hamestan in exchange for a soft mattress and no more early rising to be on the road in fog that dampened every layer of clothing. The long hours in the saddle made her leg ache and the company that had been inflicted on her made each day seem twice as long. She would have preferred to ride faster but Rollo, the escort Robert de Coudray had sent, had insisted on travelling at a stately pace since they had entered the Cheshire forest.

She let her mind wander; counting the shafts of sunlight that peeked through the trees, casting shadows across the narrow road. Her companions were equally silent. After almost two weeks in each other’s company they had reached the stage where light conversation was neither necessary nor welcome. Constance wondered which of them would be reporting her conduct back to Robert. Rollo, probably, though it could equally be the guards in black who rode with Constance’s strongbox and possessions strapped to their panniers, or the grey-cowled monk who never strayed far from her side.

‘Can we rest for a while?’ she asked.

‘Not until we’re through the forest. This country is crawling with rogues who would slit your throat as soon as fart,’ Rollo grunted. His eyes roved up and down Constance’s body, lingering on her knee-length tunic that revealed hose-clad calves. ‘Or more if they see through your disguise.’

Constance scowled, not prepared to have the same argument again. Her choice of clothing had already raised eyebrows, but she insisted nevertheless. Skirts were too cumbersome for long rides and her thick winter cloak and hood would attract much less attention from any thieves waiting in the woods than the finery of a well-dressed lady. With her hair tightly coiled at her neck and concealed under a woollen cowl she looked more like an unassuming page than a woman.

‘If you’re right we should move faster, especially if we want to reach the inn before sunset,’ she said. Rollo hacked up spittle and slapped his horse’s rear, increasing from a walk to a trot. Constance resisted the urge to break into a gallop and leave him behind, knowing it would lead to even more disapproval.

‘Are there really men living wild here?’ she asked the monk.

He nodded solemnly. ‘Everywhere.’

‘Murderers, thieves and exiles. They had to crawl somewhere when our lords took their lands,’ Rollo added. ‘We’ll be at the bridge soon, then we can breathe easier.’

Constance eyed the deep forest nervously, half-expecting to see a figure lying in wait behind every tree. She fingered the dagger at her waist for reassurance and increased the pace a little.

The rough road followed the path of a stream that widened until the river was in full flow with snow melt. She searched for signs of familiarity in the rising hills, but there were none. Of course she had been in no condition to observe the scenery last time she had travelled this path. Insensible with pain in her back and head, bleeding and bruised, she had been borne on a litter to the convent in Brockley. Vomit rose in her throat at the memory and she almost turned the mare’s head to flee until she remembered her promise to Hugh. Continuing to Hamestan was the only way to secure her future and serve retribution on Robert.

As they neared the crossing Rollo swore. A cart had lost a wheel, spilling its load of logs across the bridge while the ragged hooded driver tried unsuccessfully to right it using a thick log as a lever. Rollo dismounted and began to bellow at the old man, presumably believing that would clear the obstruction.

‘We should help him clear the path,’ Constance said. ‘That will be quicker.’ And kinder, she did not say aloud.

She climbed down, pulling her stick from the pannier at her saddle, and began to walk forward. The monk dismounted and walked towards the bridge, leaving only the two guards mounted.

It was then the ambush occurred.

The cart driver swung upright with the log he was holding, catching Rollo under the chin. He went down like a felled tree. As Rollo hit the ground another man clambered from beneath the bridge, short sword in one hand and a heavy cudgel in the other. He was long limbed and lean, dressed in a rough brown tunic with a leather jerkin on top of that. A hood was pulled low, casting a shadow over his face.

‘Now!’ he cried.

The monk dropped to his knees in front of Constance.

‘Run, child,’ he said urgently, before he began to pray loudly.

Knowing she would get no true aid from him, Constance turned around in time to see a further three men also armed with swords and wooden staffs bursting from amid the trees. They hurled themselves at the mounted guards who kicked out, trying to beat their attackers off while they struggled to draw their swords. The cart driver who had felled Rollo had turned his attention to the monk. He was not as old or frail as Constance had first imagined. The monk offered no resistance when the man began roping his hands behind his back and only increased the volume of his prayers.

The air filled with cries of anger and exertion. The guards were pulled from their mounts, but had succeeded in drawing their weapons and began to return the blows they were dealt.

Stomach knotting, Constance staggered back against her horse. Running was futile. She was too slow and where would she go anyway? She crouched on the ground, trying to make herself as unobtrusive as possible against the mare’s legs.

The man from beneath the bridge had been kneeling beside Rollo. Seemingly satisfied that the bodyguard was no threat, he cleared the ground in a handful of strides. The guards would be no match when the odds were four against two.

But four against three...

As the hooded man passed her, Constance hurled her stick at his legs. It caught him a blow on the ankles and he tripped forward. He threw his arms out, recovering his footing almost instantly, and whipped his head round to see who had obstructed him. His hood slipped back and Constance caught a glimpse of his face, or at least the hair that flopped down to his neck and the wild, shaggy beard that covered his jaw. His blue eyes were strikingly bright amid the blond tangle and now they narrowed with fury as they regarded Constance.

‘There’s another over here!’ he shouted.

Cursing her own stupidity Constance pushed herself to her feet. The assailants had been so intent on capturing the guards they had overlooked her presence so to draw attention to it had been the height of foolishness. Now she was most probably going to die alongside the guards. She lurched sideways as her weaker leg sent her off balance, but threw herself in the direction of the woods. She aimed herself blindly at the thick undergrowth, her only hope being to find somewhere to hide. Before she had gone five paces a pair of hands seized her from behind.

‘No, you don’t, lad!’

The man she had tripped wrapped his arms tight around Constance’s waist, pinning her arms to her side. She threw her head back, trying to wrestle free, but his grip was unbreakable. His arms locked around her with a strength she had never before encountered and she felt herself lifted off the ground as easily as a child. She kicked and bucked wildly, but her resistance made no difference and she was carried back to the road.

Her captor threw her to her knees and cuffed her round the ear with the back of his hand. The blow wasn’t very hard, clearly intended as a warning rather than to cause injury, but nevertheless it set her head spinning. Once she had been hardened against such treatment, but now the violence came as a shock. She bit back tears. No man would weep at such a blow.

‘Stay still and you might live, boy,’ he growled, his accent curling oddly in Constance’s ears. Whoever he was his accent did not sound like the men of Cheshire.

The man trained his sword on Constance’s breast, hardly casting a glance at her face. Despite her terror Constance let out a long breath of relief. Her disguise had not been discovered. She tilted her head to try to see what was happening behind her. Her blood chilled. One guard lay dead, the other bravely stood his ground against three men, but even as she watched he was knocked to the ground and pinned on his belly by a foot in the back. The cart driver hauled the monk to kneel beside Constance as the nearest brigand began to hack at the straps holding the pannier containing Constance’s strongbox to the saddle.

‘Get the box quickly, Ulf,’ Constance’s captor said, speaking with an authority that confirmed what she had suspected—he was the leader. ‘I want to be gone before anyone else appears.’

He reached down and seized hold of her by the neck of her cloak, leaning his face into hers. Constance braced herself for discovery of her deception, but a roar of rage made them both start. At the river’s edge Rollo had clambered to his feet and was staggering towards Constance, blood smearing his lips and chin. She sobbed with relief, her terror abating slightly, but her optimism was short lived as her supposed saviour lumbered past them, knocking Constance aside as though she had not existed. He aimed instead for the two men who were freeing the small, iron-hinged box from its leather bindings.

Constance’s mouth fell open in shock and disbelief. The bodyguard was supposed to protect her above all else. Rollo drew his weapon as he ran. Constance’s captor let go of her cloak, closing the distance between himself and Rollo with a bellow of warning, but he was too late. With a cry Rollo thrust his sword straight between the shoulder blades of the nearest man, who buckled at the knees, falling forward. With a speed that stopped the breath in Constance’s throat the hooded man twisted round. He had his weapon raised by the time he completed the turn but before he could reach Rollo the cart driver had pushed the monk aside and planted his own weapon deep in Rollo’s back, twisting viciously.

With a grunt Rollo fell forward, landing almost on top of his victim. The cart driver fell to his knees beside the bodies and gave a keening sob of anguish.

‘Wulf! My son!’

He pushed Rollo’s corpse to the side and rolled the limp body on to its back and cradled it protectively. The hooded man dropped to his knees alongside and put his arm around the older man’s shoulders. He gently pushed the dead man’s hood back and the victim’s head lolled to one side.

He was only a boy. Constance sagged back on to her heels, a burst of compassion punching her in the stomach at the sight of the father’s grief. Her head felt far too light and she feared she might faint, but through her terror it struck her that she was unobserved once more. The two deaths had granted her a reprieve that she would surely not get again. She began slowly to edge towards her horse, never expecting to make it, and surreptitiously releasing her dagger from its sheath as a precaution.

There was a cry, then hands on her shoulder. She twisted around and swiped sideways with the dagger at whoever was behind her. It barely penetrated the leather jerkin of the hooded man and didn’t strike flesh. He seized her wrist, tightening his fingers and digging the nails in until the pain forced her to let go of the weapon with a shrill cry. He kicked it away and pushed her to the ground.

‘I told you not to move. It wouldn’t take much for Gerrod to spear you like a pig ready for the spit and right now I wouldn’t stop him.’

‘Why not let him?’ Constance said. Her throat tightened with terror. Somehow she had had the presence of mind to deepen her voice. ‘You’re going to kill us anyway, aren’t you?’

Did she mean it? Every sense screamed no, she wanted to live, whatever it took.

‘You don’t have to die if you’re sensible,’ the man said. ‘We want what’s in here, not your lives.’ He gestured to Constance’s strongbox.

‘That’s mine!’ she exclaimed angrily.

The man laughed without humour.

‘Is it worth more than your life, lad?’

Constance sat back on her knees, her leg burning with pain. She bowed her head.

‘You’ve got ballock stones to keep trying, I’ll give you that,’ the hooded man said, a touch of admiration creeping into his voice. He snapped his fingers and pointed to Constance. ‘Osgood, search him.’

A short, broad man stalked towards her.

‘Put your hands up,’ he instructed.

She lifted them a little.

‘No. Behind your head.’

Constance did as she was instructed, aware of how the action caused her breasts to lift and jut forward. Osgood’s hands fumbled at her waist.

‘Nothing else, Caddoc.’

He began moving higher up her body. She recoiled in horror as he brushed against the swell of her breasts, then closed his hands over them. He gave a cry of shock and let go as though he had been stung.

‘He’s a woman!’

Constance brought her fist round and smacked Osgood hard across the nose. He cried in pain. As his hands came up protectively she spun away, rising to her feet only to be seized by the neck from behind. She glared up into the blue eyes of the hooded man, Caddoc. He pulled her close to him so their faces were almost touching and examined her intently.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded. He lowered his hood, tilting his head to one side and narrowing his eyes.

Constance’s heart missed a beat as the gesture sent her spinning back through time.

‘I know you!’

‘I don’t think so,’ he said curtly. His gaze moved to Constance’s dagger that was frustratingly just out of her reach. His jaw set. He pulled Constance’s cowl off to reveal the coil of hair she had concealed so carefully.

‘Tell me who you are,’ he repeated. He looked back at her and brushed a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. A deep white scar ran the length of his neck and his left ear was missing the lobe, coming to an abrupt stop at the cartilage.

Constance’s heart stopped and she blurted out the name without thinking.

‘Aelric!’

His face twisted with shock.

A searing hot flush raced across Constance’s throat and chest, turning to a chill that left her trembling violently from head to foot. Nausea overwhelmed her, tightening her throat and twisting her belly.

‘Help me, Aelric.’

Her voice sounded distant and dreamlike in her ears and her legs began to shake. She felt herself slipping away from the world, floating to the ground. Felt his arms seize her before she hit the track. The last sight she saw was his eyes; wide, disbelieving and filling her vision, before blackness consumed her.

* * *

The man who called himself Caddoc looked down into the ashen face of the woman he held in his arms. He had caught her instinctively when she began to fall, though after the many attempts she had made to run or fight he could not discount that this was yet another escape attempt.

He blew on her cheeks. She gave no indication she felt his breath. Her head lolled to the side like a recently slaughtered lamb and when Caddoc pulled back one eyelid with a fingertip he saw her pupil had rolled back. This was a true faint and the comparison he had drawn turned his stomach. He lowered her gently to the ground, stepping back carefully.

‘She called you Aelric,’ Osgood said, his voice thick and muffled from clutching his swollen nose. ‘Why did she call you that?’

Caddoc felt his stomach clench. The name was not one he had heard spoken aloud for over seven years. One he had buried deep inside himself. There was no one other than Ulf from his present that would know it and few people from his past were alive to identify him.

‘I asked who she was,’ he said indifferently. ‘Perhaps the name is hers.’

He didn’t expect the men to believe his feeble excuse and sure enough Osgood grimaced. Ulf looked up scornfully from where he knelt binding the hands of the remaining guard.

‘Aelric?’ Osgood scoffed. ‘That’s not a woman’s name. It’s not even a Norman name for that matter and she’s definitely that.’

Caddoc bent to pick up the dagger he had wrested from her hand.

A woman.

Guilt coursed through him as he recalled how he had twisted her arm until she yelped. Worse, he had dragged her from the woods and given her a blow to the head. He hadn’t known she was a woman, though, and she’d fought back fiercely enough. She’d even begun the assault on him by throwing the stick under his feet.

A woman who knew his name.

He stared at the unconscious woman, hoping to see some sign of familiarity, but her face was smeared with dirt and her brown hair was dishevelled. Her lips were full and enticingly pink and long lashes framed each closed eye. He crouched on his heels beside her, wondering how he could possibly have mistaken the high cheekbones and delicate features for those of a boy.

Her dagger lay in the grass. Caddoc reached for it and turned it over in his hands. For the second time a blow struck him between the shoulder blades, knocking the breath from him. His hand twitched to his belt and closed around the familiar handle of the dagger that Constance Arnaud had given him on the night she had set him free. The dagger he held bore the same design and engraved initials. The stone in the hilt was the twin of his, only red instead of blue.

The forest and clearing vanished and he was lost in the past, staring at the woman before him. It could be her. The hair was the right colour and years had passed for her as much as for him. For months he had gone to sleep and woken with that face in his mind and name on his lips until he had forced himself to forget the girl from Hamestan.

His mind began travelling down a long untrodden path, waking senses that had slept for years. He caught himself, ashamed that he should be thinking of such things at a time like this.

She had begged him to help her. He bunched his fists. Once he would have protected Constance Arnaud unthinkingly, but she had made her choice when she did not follow him.

‘Wulf was right,’ Ulf muttered, breaking his reverie. ‘It was a bride the Pig was bringing.’

Caddoc flinched and looked at Gerrod who was still cradling his son’s body, oblivious to everything that was happening around him. Wulf’s name was too raw to be spoken without grief drowning him.

The boy had been wrong, though. If this truly was Constance Arnaud she could not possibly be a bride for de Coudray. He couldn’t tell the men that without revealing he knew her identity. He’d worked hard to be accepted in the group and if he revealed himself as a friend to Normans he’d put that in jeopardy.

‘Do you think the baron’s bride would travel in such a manner? This could be anyone,’ he said. ‘Probably the knight’s whore.’

Constance—until it was confirmed otherwise he could not help thinking of her as that—was beginning to stir. A hint of pink was returning to her cheeks, giving them an alluring blush. Caddoc pushed himself to his feet.

‘This changes things,’ Osgood said. ‘She changes things.’

‘It changes nothing,’ Caddoc answered. He frowned at the enormity of the lie. The plan had been simple. They had come for the contents of the box, yet here he stood with two dead bodies, his companion beside himself with grief, and a woman he had never imagined seeing again. The cur that now lay dead had ignored the lady’s plight in preference for saving the strongbox. Whatever it contained must be important to de Coudray if the bodyguard was willing to risk the life of his charge to protect it.

‘We take the box and anything else with us as we planned. Tie the prisoners together. Hurry, there’s no guarantee the road will be empty for long.’

‘Let’s just kill them and be done with it,’ Gerrod snarled.

‘No!’ Caddoc said sharply. ‘I wanted no killing in the first place and I don’t want any more now.’

‘What about her?’ Osgood asked. ‘What do we do with this Norman bitch?’ He glared at Constance, still cradling his nose between his hands in a manner that promised trouble.

Caddoc pursed his lips. He was happy to leave the men to take their chances, but leaving a woman undefended in the forest to whatever might befall her was wrong. Besides, a sister could be as useful an instrument to use against de Coudray as a bride.

‘She might be useful. We’ll take her, too.’

Chapter Four

Caddoc.

That was his name now. He had worn it so long that his old one sounded false in his ears and he laid claim to no other. When Constance awoke he would impress that on her. By whatever means it took. He placed Constance’s dagger in his belt alongside the sheath containing his own.

As he expected, his declaration they would be taking her was met with mixed reactions. Ulf began protesting about the dangers of letting an enemy into the camp, Gerrod tore himself from his son’s body and began growling for revenge. Only Osgood showed any approval. He finally let go of his swollen nose and moved his hands to their more usual position between his legs.

‘If that was her man he has no more use for her.’ He grinned, glancing at the corpse of the bodyguard. ‘She can warm our beds instead. Do you think Norman dugs taste as sweet as English when you suckle them? They feel similar enough beneath the fingers.’

Caddoc moved to stand in front of Constance, blocking Osgood’s view.

‘She’ll not be used for that,’ he said sharply.

‘Not by us, you mean.’ Osgood’s expression darkened. ‘I saw the way you looked at her. You want her yourself.’

Caddoc looked behind him to where Constance lay, his eyes roving from her feet to head. The tunic she wore was a man’s, cut to the knee and revealing legs that were shapely inside hose that were bound at the calves with cords. The foot sticking out at an awkward ankle was the final confirmation he needed that this was Constance Arnaud. Her cloak spread beneath her and the heavy tunic hinted at a figure that was obviously not male, cinching in by means of a belt at a narrow waist and rising over the swell of her breasts.

Caddoc’s guts twisted with desire. She’d grown from a slender girl into a full woman in the years since he’d last seen her. Or touched her.

Of course he wanted her. Who wouldn’t?

He tore his gaze away.

‘She’ll not be used by any of us. No one touches her.’ He mustered a crooked smirk that he bestowed on Osgood. ‘Though I’m sure the sight of her will give us all the means to sweeten our nights.’

He strode to the monk and guard who knelt by the horses, hands bound behind them.

‘Who knew you were travelling with a woman?’ he asked quietly. ‘Did either of you?’

Both men nodded.

Caddoc delivered a swift kick to the knee of the guard who cried out in pain.

‘And neither of you cared to protect her when we attacked?’

‘We were told to protect the contents of the box,’ the guard muttered.

‘By Lord de Coudray?’ Caddoc asked.

‘By the lady,’ the guard answered, ‘and she insisted on dressing like that despite Rollo telling her it was unfitting.’

Caddoc raised his eyebrows. So the box was important to Constance, too. She had said it was her property. Jewels probably in that case. Constance could try buying her freedom with a bangle or two. She gave a sigh that drew his attention back to her. Her eyes were closed, but she was moving her head from side to side. Her skin was slick with a sheen of sweat, causing tendrils of hair to stick to her cheeks.

‘Get some water from the river,’ he instructed.

Ulf pulled the leather cap from his head and filled it. He returned and poured it over Constance’s head. Before Caddoc could protest that wasn’t what he had meant Constance’s eyes opened and her body convulsed.

With a cry of shock she pushed herself to a seated position, scrabbling back on her heels. Her hand whipped to her waist, feeling the empty sheath where her dagger belonged. She stared frantically around her, then she paled at the sight of the four men standing over her.

Caddoc pushed forward and knelt astride her. She opened her mouth to speak and he clamped one hand across it, pressing down firmly, the other behind her head, buried deep into her thick coil of hair to stop her twisting away. Constance’s brown eyes widened and Caddoc watched as the emotion in them changed from confusion to terror.

‘My name is Caddoc,’ he said. He lowered his voice low so only she could hear. ‘You don’t know me. If you want your throat to stay unslit, you will give no indication that we have ever met, much less were friends. Do you understand?’

Her lips moved beneath his palm, her breath warm, and the movement making his skin tingle. It sent a shiver up the length of his arm. Constance gave a slight nod.

‘I’m going to let go of you now,’ Caddoc said, loud enough for the men to hear. ‘If you try to run as you did before, you won’t get three paces without a sword through your leg. Nod if you agree to be sensible.’

Another nod, but now her eyes blazed contempt. Caddoc removed his hands and stepped away. Constance climbed unsteadily to her feet. She brushed her hands down her body and legs to straighten her tunic, then froze. Her eyes travelled round her audience and she pulled her cloak around her body protectively, reaching up to lift her cowl over her head.

‘We know you’re a woman,’ Osgood reminded her. She dropped her hands to her sides.

‘Who are you?’ Gerrod growled, stalking across to tower over her.

Caddoc watched as the short, slender woman faced the giant bear of a man. He expected her to cower, but instead she straightened her back, raised her chin and looked him in the eye. In a voice that betrayed none of the fear he imagined she was feeling she answered, ‘I am Constance Arnaud. I am travelling to Hamestan to the house of Robert de Coudray. When he finds out what you have done he will have your heads.’

She included Caddoc in the look of hatred she flashed around. He doubted any of them heard her threat because at the name of de Coudray they began shouting over her. He cursed his lack of foresight. He had warned her not to speak his name, but had placed no injunction on her not to reveal her own.

Gerrod seized her by the arms and began dragging her across the path until he had backed her against the trunk of a tree.

‘Give me a sword,’ he roared. ‘I’ll send her back to the Pig a piece at a time.’

Constance’s face drained of colour.

The guard started to struggle to his feet, only to be kicked in the chest by Ulf. Osgood picked up his staff and advanced on the monk.

‘Enough!’ Caddoc roared.

Gerrod spat an oath. He pulled the rope from his waist and began to bind Constance to the tree, overpowering her struggles with ease as he passed the rope around her waist and chest, pinning her arms to her side.

‘I said get me a sword.’ Gerrod turned to Constance and snarled, ‘My son died today. Your blood can join his.’

‘Please, no,’ Constance begged. ‘I have harmed no one!’

Her lips trembled and Caddoc realised her self-possession was ice thin. She turned her wide brown eyes on her captor.

‘Please, have compassion.’

‘There is no place for compassion in the world you people have created,’ Gerrod snarled.

Constance winced.

Caddoc pressed his fingertips to his temples. He looked to where Wulf lay, his face serene in death. He was younger than Caddoc had been the year of the conquest. He would never reach the age when Caddoc had been whipped and mutilated by this woman’s brother-in-law. He brushed his finger over his lobeless ear. How could he deny Gerrod the revenge he sought when every day the same yearning for vengeance had consumed him for years?

‘Then you?’ Constance said. Her face was white and her eyes wide with terror. Caddoc’s heart thundered with an intensity that was painful. Perhaps she read it on his face because her expression changed, courage flowing into her face.

‘Will you intervene for me? Caddoc.’

A spear of lightning coursed through Caddoc at the inflection with which she spoke his name. Was she threatening him? It sent an unexpected thrill through him. He came closer, masking the admiration he felt. He put a hand on Gerrod’s shoulder.

‘Let me speak to her,’ he asked. ‘I want to know what she thinks she has to bargain with.’

Gerrod moved back to Wulf’s body like a sleepwalker and began cradling it once more. Caddoc crossed his arms, planted his legs apart and faced Constance a pace away from her. She looked away first and his lips twitched into a triumphant smile.

‘These are the men I live with. I owe them my loyalty. Why should I save you?’ he asked.

‘Because I saved your life,’ she reminded him quietly. She raised her head and met his gaze. ‘I won’t insult you by asking for compassion. I can see you don’t possess that, but you owe me a debt. A life for a life. Yours for mine.’

No compassion? It wounded him deeper than he expected, but what room did he have in a life such as his for a thing such as that?

Caddoc ground his teeth. She clearly did not intend to invoke the closeness they had once shared, though she could not have forgotten it. Perhaps it meant so little to her she did not think it worth recalling. He pictured Constance’s body swinging on the scaffold in Hamestan marketplace. Saw the look of anguish on de Coudray’s face as he beheld the corpse of his sister-in-law. The Pig’s cries rang like song in Caddoc’s imagination. Bile filled his throat. He swallowed it down, shutting his eyes in denial of what he had wanted to do. He opened his eyes to find Constance still staring at him.

‘Very well. If they will accept my intervention, my debt is repaid, but that is all I can do for you. Your courage is admirable, but if you insist in provoking trouble I will not protect you further.’

He turned his back on her so he did not have to read the expression on her face.

‘There’s no point in acting rashly. If she is a friend of de Coudray, she may be more use to us alive than dead,’ he said. ‘It’s getting dark and I want to be gone. If things change we can reconsider how we use her, but no one else is dying now.’

Gerrod raised his head. He peered through red-rimmed eyes at Caddoc, then past him at Constance.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she whispered.

Caddoc tensed, waiting for Gerrod to explode. Was the woman determined to die after all? He had always believed her intervention in his execution had been motivated by her feelings for him, but now he wondered if she was simply incapable of keeping quiet when she should know better.

Gerrod sagged like a sack losing its contents.

‘Take her alive if you will,’ he said to Caddoc, and sighed. ‘But anything that happens will be on your head. Let’s be gone from here.’

The men sorted matters quickly. The remaining guard was stripped of his boots, cloak and mail and left blindfold with his hands bound behind him to the bridge.

‘Tell whoever finds you that Caddoc the Fierce sends his regards,’ Caddoc growled.

The cart blocking the bridge was righted and Wulf’s body, wrapped in his father’s cloak, was gently placed in the back alongside the strongbox and panniers. The two other corpses were left beside the path. The monk pleaded and was allowed to speak his prayer over them. Gerrod did not protest when he glanced towards Wulf and allowed the monk to repeat his prayer before securing him alongside the guard.

Through it all Constance had said nothing, but when Caddoc loosened the rope binding her he noticed the tracks in the dirt on her cheeks. They could have been from the water Ulf had thrown on her, but she saw him looking and violently wiped a sleeve across her face.

‘You’ll travel in the cart at first, but soon we’ll be walking,’ he told her.

‘I’ll need my stick,’ she answered, pointing to the staff she had thrown in his path. He retrieved it quickly, noting that while he left her she stood motionless and did not try to run. Good. She was able to take advice when she chose which might be enough to keep her alive.

Ulf led Constance to the cart and lifted her into the back. He bound her wrists together, securing the end of the rope to the rail at the side of the cart, then pulled her cloak around her to hide her bonds from anyone who might pass by.

‘Blindfold her,’ Caddoc instructed.

Constance moaned softly.

‘We can’t let her see where we’re taking her,’ he explained, more for her benefit than Ulf’s. ‘I don’t want any chance of her leading de Coudray to us.’

‘How would she do that?’ Osgood asked. He ripped his dagger through the dead guard’s cloak, tearing off a long, wide strip that he wound tightly around Constance’s eyes. He pulled her hood down across her face and spoke close to her ear.

‘Once she’s there she won’t be leaving.’

Caddoc clenched his fists. He could not contradict Osgood’s words and had no idea what would transpire, but for good or ill the decision was made.

* * *

Constance jolted around in the darkness, feeling sicker with every lurch of the cart. She had lost her sense of direction almost as soon as the cart started moving and now it no longer felt like they were on the road, but she could not be sure. She had tried tallying each time the wheel creaked a full turn, but had lost count, and with it all track of time. It was getting darker, though. The colder air that caressed the lower half of her face told her that the sun must have set.

Bound together her hands could not fully grip hold of the wooden rail and she shifted with each movement.

She wished her hands were free and she could brace herself against the side of the cart.

She wished she had crept away to safety before she had been noticed rather than drawing attention to herself trying to help.

She wished she could not clearly picture the expression on Aelric’s face when she had appealed to him to save her from death.

He had considered letting the big man kill her. She had seen the temptation in his eyes before he had saved her. Aelric, the gentle boy who once had never wielded a sword. If she had not seen the scar Robert had given him she would never have believed the angry-eyed, bearded wild man could be the same person.

The cart stopped abruptly. Someone fumbled with the rope, untying it from the rail, but leaving Constance’s hands bound. He took tight hold of her by her upper arms and hauled her to her feet. She wondered whose hands they were. Not Aelric—or Caddoc, as she supposed she must now think of him—she suspected he would have been gentler. Perhaps not, though. Her first hope on recognising him was that he would prove an ally. Now she was far from sure he was a friend to her at all, but his good grace was all that had kept her alive.

She was lifted from the cart, placed on her feet and turned around. A bottle was put to into her hands. Her unseen captor helped her raise it to her lips and she drank thirstily, not caring what the contents were. It turned out to be beer. The weak, sour-tasting brew she remembered from when she had lived in Cheshire before. She pulled a face.

‘I supposed a fine Norman lady like you would prefer wine.’ The voice she recognised as belonging to Osgood spoke scathingly from somewhere off to her left.

So it had not been him who had dragged her from the cart. She breathed a sigh of relief. Despite his harsh words he had stared at her with open hunger he did not bother to conceal and it made her flesh crawl. She was glad he had not been the one to touch her.

She did not dignify his jibe with an answer, but the idea of a warm cup of wine had never been more appealing. She took another deep swig of beer out of pride before holding the bottle out for someone to take it.

‘Let’s keep going,’ Aelric said. ‘We’re leaving the cart with Osgood and going the rest of the way on foot.’

A hand took hold of her elbow and began to lead her. Constance stiffened instinctively at the unfamiliar touch of a man. Memories of Piteur leading her to his chamber reared up unpleasantly, causing her to gag. She stuck her feet out nervously, not knowing what was in front of her, and took a few shuffling steps. Her foot squelched into a puddle and she pulled it out with a cry of disgust, causing her to lose her balance. The grip on her elbow tightened and a hand rested on her lower back, guiding her onward firmly. She succeeded in taking a few more steps until her foot snagged on something in the undergrowth and she stopped again.

‘You’ll have to walk faster than this,’ Aelric muttered in her ear. ‘The others are already far ahead.’

So it was his hand at her waist. The knowledge sent disconcerting shivers down Constance’s spine.

‘I can’t. I need my stick,’ she said irritably.

‘I’m not giving you something you can use as a weapon,’ Aelric said with a laugh.

‘What do you think I could do blindfold and with my hands bound?’ Constance demanded.

‘I’ll help you,’ Aelric replied.

His arm came around her waist. He held her close to his side and began guiding her, muttering instructions where to place her feet to avoid tangles. For the first time since the ambush she felt oddly safe. Her body relaxed as she leaned against him, but her mind whirled at the contact, sending her back into the past.

The second time they met it had been spring, not many weeks later than it was today. A time after they had settled in Hamestan, but before the thegns rose against her people. A market day filled with rare laughter and music where Constance had believed they were becoming accepted, that they could live in peace alongside each other.

There had been dancing and she’d watched enviously as the girls spun about the circle with their skirts flying, trying to ignore the stares and whispers.

Aelric had been at the centre of the knot, a set of pipes to his lips and his red-blond hair falling into his eyes. He had paused his tune as he spotted her watching and threaded his way through the circle towards her and held out his hand. When she indicated the stick she leaned on his expression hadn’t been one of pity or ridicule like she was used to, but regret. Instead of turning immediately back to the dance he’d taken her hand and bowed, then walked with her through the marketplace, leaving his friends behind.

She’d fallen a little bit in love with him at that moment and now his touch was in danger of awakening something long dormant.

‘Constance! What are you doing?’ Aelric muttered angrily in her ear, bringing her sharply back to the present.

She realised she had stopped walking again. Disconcerted that she had been thinking of such things, she shook herself free of his hold only to find her hair tangling in a low branch. She reached her hands up, flailing around her head.

‘This is too hard,’ she complained. ‘I keep catching my feet and tripping. You’ll have to let me see where I’m going.’

He spoke rapidly in a language she did not understand, but from the tone of the throaty, lyrical words he was swearing.

‘When will you cease trying to push my tolerance? I’ve told you no and I’ve told you why.’

Constance stamped her good foot in frustration.

‘Unless we’re in the centre of Hamestan itself I doubt I’ll recognise where we are,’ she snapped, and then as an afterthought, added: ‘In fact, I probably wouldn’t recognise Hamestan either. I haven’t been there for seven years.’

There was silence, then the cloth was pushed back from her eyes by callused hands. Even dusk seemed bright after the blackness she had been subjected to. She stared around. Aelric need not have feared that she would be able to lead anyone to them. The trees were broad trunked and towered over them with no sign of a pathway and every direction looking identical. They could have been anywhere.

‘Thank you,’ Constance said. She risked a smile, but Aelric remained stern faced. His eyes flickered to the side and she followed his gaze. The two other men were watching them suspiciously. Her stomach clenched as she saw the large man was carrying the body of his son. Unbidden her lip trembled. She held her hands up in front of her and raised an eyebrow at Aelric questioningly.

‘I’ll give you your sight, but your hands will remain bound,’ Aelric said.

‘Why?’ Constance asked. ‘I’m not going to run. I can’t and even if I could your friends would cut me down quick enough.’

She raised her chin and looked at him disdainfully. ‘That would solve your dilemma, wouldn’t it? If I died and it was nothing of your doing, your conscience would be clear!’

Aelric bared his teeth. He reached for the dagger at his waist and she feared she had gone too far, but he cut her bonds. Blood rushed into her hands and she rubbed her wrists vigorously until they stopped stinging.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

Aelric ignored her. He whistled and the older man threw Constance’s stick to him. Aelric pushed it into her hands, nodding curtly. ‘No more delays.’

He held out a hand for her to pass by and she walked in front of him to where the other man beckoned her. Though she had to grit her teeth in determination not to show the discomfort she was in she could not prevent a wave of relief cresting inside her. Aelric had done as she asked. It was a small triumph, but it was a victory nevertheless and for the first time hope stirred inside her.

Chapter Five

‘When we stop I’m going to blindfold you.’

They had been walking in silence for at least an hour so when Aelric’s voice came, low in her ear, she jumped in surprise.

‘Have I done something to anger you?’ she asked. She tried to keep her voice steady, but the fear of being subjected once more to the helplessness of the dark caused hands of terror to grip her throat. She could think of no way in which she had disobeyed him. She had walked as fast as she was able and had given no indication she was hoping to escape. As they wound their way deeper into the forest she had given up all intention of that. Better to remain a captive than die lost in the woods.

Aelric gave her an appraising look. ‘No, you’ve behaved as I asked, but we’re closer to my camp now and there are landmarks I would rather you didn’t see.’

He walked ahead, leaving her in the charge of the older of his two companions while he joined the huge man who carried the body of his son. As they walked they conferred in low voices, occasionally pausing to look back towards Constance. Once or twice Aelric offered to take the body of the boy, but the father clutched his burden tighter to him.

She glanced surreptitiously from side to side as they walked, not wanting to draw attention to the fact she was doing so. The trees were still as dense, but they had been climbing gently uphill for a while. She did not think they could be close to Hamestan and wondered where they might be that Aelric was worried she could recognise. She had given up the slight hope that she might still have a chance for freedom, but perhaps the information would come in useful in the future.

When they reached a small clearing Aelric returned to her side.

‘Sit down and rest. We’re going to wait here for a while. Gerrod and Ulf are returning ahead of us to take Wulf’s body to his mother.’

‘His mother?’

Aelric frowned. ‘That surprises you?’

She nodded. She had imagined it to be just the five men who had attacked her party. She lowered herself to the ground, leaning back against a tree and stretching her legs out.

‘Rollo, my bodyguard, said the forests were full of wild men but I thought there would be just men,’ Constance said.

‘Your bodyguard was right. There are fugitives and outlaws living all over the country, but there are women and children, too. Families without anywhere else to live.’ He stared at her and his face flushed with anger. ‘Did you think your brother was the only one to take the homes from people? They had to go somewhere.’

‘My brother-in-law.’

Constance spat the correction instinctively, glaring at him. Aelric raised his eyebrow. It was possible that the only thing keeping her alive was Aelric’s belief that Lord de Coudray would care about her safety. She wondered what her brother-in-law would say when he discovered her abduction. What of Jeanne? Surely her sister would beg Robert to act to ensure Constance’s safe return?

‘You say you haven’t been to Hamestan for seven years?’ Aelric said suspiciously. ‘I think you’ll find it much changed.’

‘Have you been here all along?’ Constance asked.

‘No. I come and go. Staying in one place isn’t wise. I’ve been to Wales and Gloucester. Colchester, too. I even saw the coast of France one time.’

Constance felt light-headed. He must have travelled almost past her doorstep to reach Gloucester, not knowing that she lived close by, spending her friendless days in misery.

Homesickness for the land she had left so long ago filled her and she gave a sniff of sadness. Caddoc looked at her strangely, then pulled his hood over his face and sat down beside her in silence until Gerrod and Ulf had vanished among the trees. No birds called in this part of the wood and the wind had stilled.

‘Why aren’t we going with them?’ Constance asked.

‘I want to keep your presence hidden if I can, so I’ll take you into the camp while everyone is distracted,’ Aelric replied. ‘How long do you think you would live if they saw you after seeing his body?’

Constance bit her lip and looked at her hands. If she were in that position, she would want to harm anyone she could hold responsible. She rubbed her leg to try to ease the ache that gripped her bones.

‘Are you in pain?’ Aelric asked unexpectedly.

‘No more than I’m used to,’ Constance replied, indicating her ankle.

Exhaustion hit her like a fist. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the tree, thinking it would be all too easy to fall asleep here and not get up again. If she did, would Aelric leave her there to die or carry her to his camp? Images from the past flooded her mind, threatening to upset her composure as nothing else that day had done.

‘You can’t go to sleep here,’ Aelric said firmly.

He nudged her in the ribs and she opened her eyes with a scowl. He passed her a small bottle and Constance took a large swig before realising it wasn’t the weak beer she had drunk before but a deep, rich spirit. She coughed as the liquid hit the back of her throat and tears sprang to her eyes. She took a smaller sip that warmed her from the inside as the liquor travelled through her. She held the bottle out to Aelric who took it without a word, drank and stowed it beneath his cloak.

Constance caught flash of metal at his waist. She thought at first it was her dagger until she realised with a start it had a twin tucked into the belt beside it. He still had the dagger she had given him so long ago, and, more crucially, hers was not securely sheathed. If only she could reclaim it, she would not be in such a vulnerable position.

‘If you’re going to blindfold me, does that mean you plan to set me free at some point?’ she ventured.

Aelric said nothing for long enough that Constance began to fear the answer. She searched his half-hidden face for recognition of the gentle boy she had known, but his eyes were iron-hard and the shaggy beard hid the lips that had once eagerly sought hers.

‘I don’t know. I hope you will be useful to us, but in truth I cannot say what will happen,’ he said abruptly. ‘The choice may not be mine to make.’

His voice was cold. Fear surged through Constance, clutching at her stomach and twisting tightly. They already had her jewels, although they could not know that, and she felt sick imagining what other uses they could put her to.

‘But you’re their leader,’ she protested. ‘They listened to you before. They would do what you decided again.’

Aelric snorted in surprise. ‘Their leader? Not at all. These are free men. There are no leaders here and in any case I would not be that man.’

He pulled his hood back and fixed her with an intense expression that looked out of place on the face in Constance’s memory. The Aelric she had grown fond of had been a gentle boy, serious and scholarly. He would never have been a leader. She wondered if he still played the pipe and danced, but she doubted it.

‘I have not been with the men long enough to earn such a position,’ Aelric explained. ‘I have barely earned their trust and preventing Gerrod from killing you today may have put that in jeopardy. More so thanks to you naming me.’

‘Why do you call yourself Caddoc?’

Aelric grinned coldly. ‘A man must have a name and I gave up Aelric when I became a fugitive. Perhaps my new one will strike fear into Norman hearts in time.’

‘How do you hope to achieve that?’ Constance asked.

‘Taking what is theirs. Making their lives harder. Making them wish they had never come to my land.’

He took the strip of cloth that had covered Constance’s eyes and began wrapping it around his hand. He unwrapped it again, repeating the action over and over until Constance began to wonder whether or not he was aware of doing it at all. She imagined it tightening around her throat until she could no longer breathe and gave a shiver.