A Heart Unconquered

Widowed Saxon Lady Ediva Dunmow will do anything to protect her people—even marry one of the invading Norman knights. The king sees it as a way to keep Ediva, her lands and her tenants subdued. But Ediva’s embittered heart, still healing from the abuse of her first husband, will not yield so easily.

Marriage never held any appeal for Adrien de Ries. Yet it is his king’s will, and perhaps his Lord’s, too—though he finds his faith tested daily by Ediva’s staunch refusal to trust him. As a knight, Adrien survived many battles, but the fight to win Ediva’s heart may be his most challenging—and rewarding.

“You’re crying.”

Blinking, Ediva lifted one small hand to her cheek.

Adrien sat down beside her. He took up her hand and held it quietly. “I have seen you on the parapet. You’d mentioned that you dreamed of running away.”

“I thought about escaping to the forest. I wondered how long I could survive there.”

“Why didn’t you try?”

She looked at him, her eyes softened by tears. “If I left, my husband would have turned his rage on my people.”

“Ganute is gone, Ediva.” Adrien squeezed her hand firmly. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“And you, Adrien? You’re a soldier, with violence in your blood.”

’Twas true. In the past, he’d justified his nature and work well enough and not given it another thought.

Until now, sitting beside Ediva with her questioning eyes and her pain so deep he feared no one could heal her.

At a loss, all he could do was lift her hand to his lips and kiss it.

BARBARA PHINNEY

was born in England and raised in Canada. She has traveled throughout her life, loving to explore the various countries and cultures of the world. After she retired from the Canadian Armed Forces, Barbara turned her hand to romance writing. The thrill of adventure and the love of happy endings, coupled with a too-active imagination, have merged to help her create this and other wonderful stories. Barbara spends her days writing, building her dream home with her husband and enjoying their fast-growing children.

Bound to the Warrior

Barbara Phinney

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Whoever does not love does not know God,

because God is love.

—1 John 4:8

To my writer friends, the Domino Divas, and all the Love Inspired authors. Thank you for your support and encouragement. This book is for you.

Contents

Prologue

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

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Excerpt

Prologue

November 1066 A.D.

Ediva Dunmow had been told she was blessed to have her husband’s body returned. For at Duke William’s order, the English who’d died at Hastings were to remain on Senlac Hill.

But the only reason she had sent Geoffrey, her steward, for the body was to prove the vile man had actually died.

Now, as she stood over her husband’s grave, the wind turned raw and rain threatened. The villagers and tenants had just paid their last respects to their fallen lord and then gathered to hear her speak. Anxious for security, they needed to know that Duke William’s army wouldn’t ride into Essex to kill them all, a punishment perhaps for Ediva retrieving Ganute’s body.

And perhaps they, too, needed to know that Ganute was truly dead and gone. He may have reserved a special brutality for Ediva, but he’d been cruel to all. And his cousin Olin, now standing beside her, showed hints of the same temper.

Enough was enough.

Stiff-shouldered, Ediva lifted her hand and the murmurings fell silent. Her veil and long, blond braids billowed in the strong breeze, as did her cloak. But she stood resolute, refusing the wind its due. “I will protect you. I will allow no one—not even Duke William himself—to plunder this land.”

Cold, chapped faces showed disbelief like the trees showed bare branches.

“I will!” She pulled in a breath, and then, finding her cloak cumbersome, threw it off. It sailed off like a crispy leaf, and with a cry, Margaret, her maid, rushed to retrieve it.

“How can you keep us safe?” a male voice from deep in the crowd called out.

“Have I not survived all these years?” She shot the chaplain a biting glance, but from where he stood within the keep’s shadow this short, raw day, his expression was hidden from view.

He’d often said ’twas her penance to endure a harsh husband, for she was a sinful woman. Well, that ability would prove to be her strength. She knew how to survive. She’d kept herself alive through all the abuses of her husband and had protected the maids from similar attacks in her stead. And now that Ganute was gone? She’d cower no longer.

Ediva faced her people. They dared not believe her yet. But that would change. “I promise that I will protect you. You won’t be hurt in any way, even if it costs me my life!”

Some of the more superstitious gasped, but Ediva ignored them. She may be tempting God, but frankly, what could He do to her that was more horrible than all she’d endured these past five years?

Nay, she refused to temper her words. She would protect her people. “Think of what I had done when your lord was alive!”

When several women began to cheer, her decision, like her newborn will, was mortared in place.

Aye, she would always protect her people.

Chapter One

March, 1067 A.D.

Adrien de Ries paced in front of the closed door that led to his liege’s Great Hall. He did not like waiting, even for the king, but if William was conferring with his advisors on matters of this new kingdom of England, then Adrien must wait. He was a soldier, not a statesman—there was naught he could do to aid the discussion or hurry it along.

“’Tis too fine a floor to wear a path through, Prado. Sit or you’ll be buying the king a new one.”

At the sound of his childhood name, Adrien spun to face his younger brother. Eudo, William’s personal steward, usually had the king’s ear, but not today. Yet having more of a talent for diplomacy than Adrien, the younger sibling wisely patted the low bench beside him and ignored his brother’s foul expression.

Adrien refused the offer of a seat. “Why should the king ask for me? Have I not served him well, here in London as well as in battle?”

Eudo shrugged. “Mayhap he wishes to reward you, brother. The king wants to secure this land. He has won it with bloodshed, but trust me, William wants peace. He might offer you a share of that peace in the form of lands or titles.”

“I need only to serve as a soldier. William understands such. He’s a warrior—”

Beyond the heavy door, they heard a woman’s muted cry, not one of fear, but something akin to mockery. Immediately, the king’s voice boomed, harsh and angry. Adrien glanced at his brother, who shrugged again.

“Is that a woman in there?” Adrien demanded, pointing to the door.

“Aye, but have no fear, Prado, she’ll not be harmed.”

Disgruntled, Adrien turned from his youngest sibling. Eudes, or Eudo as he preferred to be called, was not the guileless simpleton he was pretending to be. He’d deflected the king’s murderous punch once, holding the royal fist at bay and whispering in the royal ear long enough and well enough to save a man’s life and secure the post of steward for himself. And in that post, he was always certain to know everything occurring at court. Aye, Eudo would know who was receiving the king’s fury but obviously cared little for it.

The doors flew open and Adrien turned. Aubrey de Veres, one of the king’s most trusted advisors, motioned for Adrien to enter.

With a wary eye, he stepped forward to peer beyond the threshold. Within the richly decorated inner chamber, William sat in a large, comfortable chair, his embroidered surcoat draped over one side. His meaty fists gripped the ends of the chair’s arms. A dark expression burned on his face.

To Adrien’s right stood a young woman, face flaming, eyes burning a hole in the carpet below the king’s dais. Weak, winter light from the high windows washed her light-colored cyrtel in a pale gold. Her cloak was thrown back and he was surprised to see she had allowed her pale yellow wimple to fall away from her braided hair.

Thanks to fashion and good Norman propriety, Adrien rarely saw women’s hair and found himself staring hard at her golden locks. All of his family had dark brown hair, the color of walnuts after they’d been hit by frost. This woman’s blond tresses were truly her crowning glory. Several other men in the room stared also, yet she appeared to ignore her hair’s beauty and its effect on those around her.

“Adrien, my faithful servant,” William barked after allowing him to bow his respect at the open doorway. “Enter. You, too, Eudo. I want you both.”

Cautiously, Adrien stepped closer. William chuckled. “You have served me well, Adrien.”

“I’ve tried, my liege.”

“True. Especially at Hastings.” William waved Eudo closer. “Eudo, my steward, come to my side.”

Adrien watched his younger brother move to stand at William’s left, as was his place. Adrien noticed that his brother shot the woman in front of the king a curious, furtive look with more than idle interest in his eyes.

Immediately, Adrien’s suspicion swelled. His younger brother did know the reason for this audience. He was sure of it.

“England is a good land, Adrien. Don’t you agree?”

“’Tis pleasant here, sire.” But ’twould be more pleasant to leave the place behind. Since Hastings, Adrien had spent the winter in London, continuing his service in Westminster out of loyalty to the king, but little affection had blossomed in his heart for the conquered land. He had no desire to enjoy the green countryside and certainly not another raw winter like they’d just endured. His life was to protect the king. Rumor had it that William planned to return to Normandy, and Adrien hoped that he’d be chosen to accompany him and leave this land for good.

“And whilst England is pleasant to look upon, there is little peace,” William continued.

Adrien straightened. “Nay, sire.” Surely the king did not ask him here for idle talk? As everyone knew, there was little peace indeed, except in London, where the troops forced it upon the locals.

“The land is rife with those foolish enough to oppose me.”

Beside him, Adrien watched the young woman stiffen. From the corner of his eye, he saw her shoulders pull back, her chin jut out. The torch above the king glowed upon her flushed cheeks.

“Peace will be had, Adrien,” William carried on with a fast glance to her. “But I would prefer it not by further bloodshed. I’ve proved my right to the crown and will subdue this lawless land through direct measures with every lord and lady. I will raze the holdings of those who oppose me and leave the land of those who don’t. But to kill everyone would be a fruitless endeavor.”

Adrien silently agreed. Though a soldier and loyal to the king, Adrien knew their Lord and Savior wanted peace in all lands. Respecting the lands of those willing to pledge loyalty to the king would do much to smooth the path to peace. Saxons who would battle against pillagers might give way to a king who honored their holdings.

For himself, Adrien had no taste for pillage. The spoils of war belonged to the king, and the men under Adrien’s command knew they’d have to face him first if they decided to steal from the conquered.

William was a God-fearing man, but feared only God, many whispered. “So, I must secure my hold with my most loyal subjects in strategic places,” William continued, “with soldiers to keep the peace.”

Adrien beamed. He would go wherever his liege sent him, but William wanted him out on the front lines. Aye. ’Twas far better than the fate Eudo would probably receive. Many men were being ordered to marry Saxon noblewomen, whereas he, Adrien noted to himself, would be sent to where soldiers, not husbands, were needed.

Thanks be that that was not his fate. Nay, marriage made no sense to Adrien. The Good Lord had given him a fighting heart, not a family one and he did not mourn its absence. All a family heart was good for was to create loyal followers. A man should not be required to marry himself to some fool woman whose emotions were as scattered as the old king’s army when Harold had died...

William waved to him. “Come closer. I have a gift for you.”

Beside Adrien, the young woman’s head shot up, her shocked expression bouncing off the well-pleased king to hit Adrien. When he locked gazes with her, she tore her sky blue eyes free to look to the distant end of the Great Hall. Yet even with her face averted, he could see that fury billowed from her like smoke from a soggy campfire.

What did this mean? Was this woman some captured rebel? Many a widow or daughter of a dead soldier kept up the fool fight against William, and Adrien had heard they lost their lands and more as punishment.

“You are a loyal soldier, Adrien.”

He tore his attention away from the furious beauty. “Thank you, sire.”

A smug look grew on the king’s fleshy face. “My reward to you, then.” He held out his arm toward the woman.

“Are you giving me her lands?” He was a soldier, not some guardian to lord over her property because she refused to hand it over to her rightful king. What was he to do with it? He was no farmer.

The king laughed heartily, as did Eudo. Adrien shot a filthy look toward his brother. But the younger sibling grinned back with cheek.

“More than land, Adrien. Baron Adrien,” the king offered, his voice booming as his arm slashed across the cool air of the hall. To his left, one of the torches flickered with the breeze. “I’m giving her to you. Marry her, take her back to her keep and give me strong babes that look like you. All the whilst controlling her lands and servants.”

Horror drained Adrien’s being of all but shock. “Sire, I have no experience running a town or a keep.”

“But you have experience training soldiers. You can start training this woman, for she has defied me more than once in the short time she’s stood before me. I will see her, her lands and her men subdued. And you, my loyal servant, are the soldier to see them conquered.”

Adrien tossed a glare at the woman, who met it squarely with a glower of her own. With a spine made no doubt of fine steel, the woman warned him of one definite proclamation.

The battle forthcoming would not be an easy victory.

* * *

Ediva turned and shut her eyes. All was lost. When a young messenger had delivered the news of Ganute’s death, she’d thought nothing could spoil her happiness. The cruelty called a marriage was finally over. The daily insults, the nightly brutality so awful that she battled constantly with the temptation to flee, staying only out of concern for her maids and other innocents. How she praised the day when King Harold gathered his troops and Ganute’s duty drove him to fight against the Norman duke!

Ediva had cared little for the royal household. She barely survived her own. It was always a relief when her husband left for Westminster to serve his military duty. And his leaving for war did not take her to the keep’s chapel to pray for his safety, despite the chaplain’s strong suggestion that it should.

God hadn’t listened to her prayers for deliverance during her first year of marriage, and Ediva would certainly not offer them for her husband’s safety after that. Mayhap ’twas best, she thought wryly. Any prayers she might have offered in the keep’s small chapel would have been for the first arrow of the battle to pierce her husband’s vile heart.

How odd that now she’d been practically dragged here and ordered to serve her time, not as a soldier herself, but as a wife to yet another one. This one chosen for her by the new king himself.

This new king had terrified her the moment she’d first laid eyes on him. Big and strong, he looked like he could break her like a twig. Then he’d spouted off something about God expecting each woman to serve Him as a good wife and, despite her fear, she’d laughed in his face.

And incited his anger.

He then revealed his ultimatum.

Marry or lose your lands.

Never! she’d wanted to cry. Never did she want to marry again, and yet never would she give up the lands that were legally hers. With no issue from her marriage, thankfully, and no male heirs in either family, Ediva considered it her right to keep Dunmow. A fair trade for the cruel marriage she’d endured. But the king had ignored her protests.

Still, she shot a furtive look to the man beside her.

He was as tall as, if not taller than, the king. And whilst William had a paunch from too much fine food, this man was thick-shouldered and slim-waisted, his tunic a dark brown, with only the most basic embroidery at the neck and of good enough quality to hang well on his torso. His hose was wrapped so tightly with fresh thongs, she could see warrior-hewn muscles defining strong legs.

His thick leather belt kept his outer tunic snug to his torso, and Ediva knew enough that the empty scabbard indicated respect for his king. Somewhere beyond this chamber, his weapon waited for him.

The man, whose name appeared to be Adrien, was handsome enough to gaze upon. But Ediva was not a simple maid. She was nearly twenty years along, and had been married for the last five. She had learned early that a finely chiseled face meant nothing. Ganute had one when they’d first been wed. ’Twas the heart that defined a man, and none she’d met yet had a good one.

“Adrien, my chaplain is waiting,” the king snapped.

Adrien looked at her, his gaze drilling into her so fiercely she felt it press against her cheek. “Sire,” he said, moving to face his king. “I don’t even know this woman’s name. Where is her keep? Is she a maid or widow?”

William dismissed the questions with a wave. “She is Ediva Dunmow, widow of one of Harold’s unfortunate knights. You’ll learn the rest on your journey to her keep. Women can talk a hound off its quarry.” He flicked his hand at his steward. “Eudo, go witness your brother’s nuptials.”

That was it? Ediva fumed. She had no say? This foreign king was just dismissing her without discussion, without giving her a chance to make a different offer? If the king required a pledge from her that she would ensure the loyalty of her people toward the new reign, then she would willingly comply. Or was it restitution he required, after her husband’s allegiance to his enemy? She’d heard of some powerful families purchasing back their forfeited lands. She had the coinage to do that, but the king had not even offered the choice. How was she to protect her people now?

A firm hand caught her elbow and she looked up to find Adrien, her newly betrothed, prepared to direct her out to their nuptials. His grip was firm but not unkind. He masked all but the calmest expression, a look as bland as milk, with the exception of tightness in his jaw. At the moment, his expression showed no depravity, as she’d seen in Ganute’s on their wedding night. But who knew what expression he would show when they were alone and the masks fell away?

Nay! A carefully hooded evil was still evil. Ediva yanked back her arm and marched out as quickly as she could for her body still ached from the horrid ride into London. And with no deference to the king who’d ordered this marriage.

Expecting to be hauled back for her insolence, Ediva found herself stomping from the Great Hall to the sound of William’s hearty and satisfied laughter. He cared naught of her impudence. He had her lands.

She skidded to a stop when she spied a military chaplain holding a small prayer book. The nearby soldiers kept one hand on their weapons. She muffled a sarcastic snicker. Were they so afraid of one small woman that they needed weapons? She could scarcely lift a sword, let alone stab it into one of them. She was hardly a danger to them.

But then it hit her, fully, with the force of a terrible storm.

Her freedom was gone. She was facing another marriage, this time to a man as obscure to her as the sun on this late winter’s day.

Another example of how God had turned his back on her.

Chapter Two

“Are these guards necessary, Poitiers?” Adrien snapped at the chaplain as his squire returned his sword. He saw no need for soldiers.

“My men brought your betrothed down here. They needed to drag her here with great force.”

Adrien couldn’t help but laugh. “Obviously your men require more exercise if two are needed for such a weak task. Have them report to me, and I will train them properly.”

Behind them, Eudo snickered. The red-faced Poitiers growled, “I’ll handle my men. You’ll soon have your hands full with this Saxon wench. She’s lived a strong life in some castle in Essex not far from your brother’s holdings. Farm stock, no doubt. She’s no timid maid.”

Eudo slapped his brother’s back, his grin merry as he strolled past. “William wants me to build a keep in Colchester with the rubble left from some pagan temple. I won’t be far. You’ll be able to come next winter, Prado,” he said, using that annoying childhood name. “Mayhap we can celebrate Christmas together, with wives heavy with child?”

’Twould do no good for Adrien to rise to his brother’s goad, for the man had no wife yet and was simply mocking him. Adrien took his newly betrothed’s arm again.

She yanked herself free. “I can walk of my own accord, sir,” she answered in French.

Irritated by his brother, his king and this woman who apparently knew his mother tongue, Adrien swept his arm sarcastically toward the chapel. “As you wish, my lady. Let us get this unpleasantness over.”

She pulled up her wimple and followed the chaplain down the corridor. Adrien watched her take her leave, her soft sashay not enough to disguise a slight limp. Had Poitiers’s men caused that? His jaw tightened. For better or for worse, this woman would be his wife and was therefore under his protection.

At least she was pleasing to the eye. And he was more than a little surprised by her ability to speak French, albeit with a sharp, Saxon accent that seemed in contrast to the smooth, gentle features. But her accent was nowhere near as sharp as her obvious displeasure over their match.

Give me strong babes that look like you.

William’s words echoed in his head. But he doubted that this woman, Ediva Dunmow, would open her bedchamber to him, and Adrien refused to bend his pride and insist. He watched the woman walk stiffly behind the chaplain as if she was walking to her death.

To her death? Insult bristled through him. And despite the interest in her beauty, he had no desire to marry any more than she did. She needn’t act as if all the disadvantage lay on her side. But ’twas far better to obey than to incur the king’s wrath. So he hastened his own steps toward the chapel.

This would preserve her lands, at least. ’Twould be hard enough for England to accept a Norman king, but if this woman remained on her land, married and settled, there may be some measure of peace for her people. Surely even she would see the logic in that.

He followed Ediva into the chapel, all the time aware of the soldiers at his heels. But wisely, the armed men kept to the back, propping open the heavy oak door and allowing the wind from the river to dilute the potent odor of burning wax. The old chaplain stopped at the front, offering respect to the altar before turning. He cleared his throat as he opened his small leather-bound book.

The ceremony was short and in Latin, and Adrien was again surprised to find Ediva completely fluent in yet another language.

When Poitiers ordered them to seal the nuptials with a kiss, Adrien turned to face his new wife.

His wife! He’d never considered this day, always expecting to live out his lifespan as a bachelor and a soldier. Now he’d pledged to God that he would devote himself solely to this woman, a stranger not even of his own country.

And judging by her regal bearing, this woman was in a class far above his. Poitiers’s insult of farm stock was foolish. She was obviously higher in status. Aye, his family had influence with William, but Adrien was happy being only in the king’s service. Would his wife despise him more for his Norman heritage or for his low upbringing?

Ediva blinked up at him, her arrogance gone and now revealing smoldering, stubborn fear that was, oddly enough, tempered with a slow swallow.

’Twas just a kiss ordered by the king through Poitiers. Yet her pale eyes were awash with tears and her lips clenched so tightly together they must have hurt.

He pulled back his shoulders. He wasn’t in the habit of forcing himself on women.

“Seal this union, Adrien,” Poitiers growled. “It has the king’s license.”

Behind him he heard the chink of half-drawn swords hitting mail. Ediva tilted up her chin and that fine, steel backbone stiffened as if prepared for an accursed death.

He lowered his head and deftly leaned to one side. He would kiss this woman and quite possibly save both their lives. A brief kiss, barely a brushing of lips, a touch light enough to feel the breath of her gasp as she realized what he had also realized.

They were now husband and wife.

* * *

Ediva could no longer control the emotions roiling within her. There was hatred for her situation, yet no revulsion, certainly not like during her marriage to Ganute. When Adrien gave her the barest kiss, she’d shuddered with an expectancy of more.

But no more came and her nerves danced like the traveling acrobats who’d entertained last year.

“’Tis over, madam,” Adrien’s low voice whispered close to her parted lips. “You may open your eyes now.”

Heat scorched her cheeks, and her eyes flew open. “I was expecting more, ’tis all. My first wedding was a more extravagant affair.”

“Alas, we have no fanfare.”

“Not unless you consider the chink of weaponry in case I fussed. Much different than the sound of trumpets.”

Adrien lifted his eyebrows. “Trumpets?”

“A chorus of them from the battlement of Dunmow Keep. My mother wanted my wedding heard a league away. My ears ached for a week, but she was as deaf as a stone and cared little for me. Much like those here in London.”

She stepped back. She hadn’t thought of her mother in years. Like Ganute’s mother, her own mother hadn’t seen the end of that year due to an outbreak of fever. They had been peas of the same pod, and neither cared enough for Ediva to notice that Ganute abused his position of husband. They wanted only that the monies of the two families stay within the county.

Ediva tried to relax. ’Twould do no good to stew upon her selfish mother’s actions or on the memory of her kinder father, who had been the first to succumb to the fever weeks before the wedding. What a bitter year that had been.

Adrien lifted her hand to his lips, but paused before kissing it, to whisper, “’Tis unwise to complain here. The king has ears even in the chapel.” His gaze flickered to Poitiers as he brought her hand to his lips.

The warmth seeped into her cold skin. And his rough fingers brushed her palm, evoking a shiver deep within. She wanted to snatch away her hand, but Adrien kept his grip firm as he led her from the altar. He stalled by the door, turning to speak to the old chaplain. “My thanks to you, Poitiers, and you, dear brother, for being available for such a grand event. You both may report to the king his will has been done. May I depart for this woman’s keep to inspect my new acquisition?”

Ediva heard the steward—now her brother-in-law—laugh. Peeking over her own shoulder, she watched the chaplain scowl at her new husband’s impudence.

“Go, but be mindful of the king’s orders.” Poitiers then added, “May God bless your marriage.”

Ediva glanced at Adrien. His mockery turned to a scowl. Once out of earshot, he turned to her. “Have you a maid to prepare you for the journey home?”

“A maid! You jest, sir. I have no one with me. I have naught but the clothes I wear. When the guards arrived at the keep, they insisted that I travel immediately. They wanted only fresh horses, so I had just enough time to be given my cloak and throw my steward some duties over my shoulder before being dragged down here.” She glared at Adrien. “I spent this past night with other women who were as bewildered as I was, none of whom were any better supplied.”

Adrien frowned. “How did the king know of you?”

She shrugged. “My husband wanted to be well-known in King Edward’s court, and then in King Harold’s short time in court early last year. Mayhap he left a spy who saw fit to inform the new king of my status as widow.”

Aye, probably so, Ediva thought with disgust. And if that was the case, then she knew who it must have been. Olin, Ganute’s second cousin, had been in the thick of royal intrigue, sending many a missive on the machinations of the court back to the keep. Ediva had intercepted several. ’Twas simple enough to pry off Olin’s hasty seal and reset it again. But after she’d read a few, Ediva saw the messages as foolish gossip. Olin was wasting good parchment to earn a stipend from Ganute—and likely, he’d earned another stipend from the king for reporting back on Ganute’s replies.

Now there was a new king, but Olin was apt to swear allegiance to the new seat of power as quickly as a hawk turned toward its prey. Mayhap he’d thought that by courting the king’s pleasure with jots of information he would be given her keep and lands. But, she reminded herself, all that she owned now belonged to the tall, silent Norman beside her.

* * *

“How is it that you know French and Latin, milady?” Adrien asked, wanting to break the awkward silence. “What other tongues do you speak?”

“Just those. My mother wanted to secure my sisters and me good marriages, so she brought in a tutor who’d lived in Normandy.” She tossed him a hard look. “But do not believe that because I’ve learned your language, I support this invasion. Especially now that you have stolen what is rightfully mine.”

As much as he desired to keep their relationship cordial, he could not let her remark go unanswered. “The king decides what belongs to you, woman. He fought for that right.”

“The only good thing that happened at Hastings was not William’s victory!” she spat out.

Her words made no sense to him. Adrien looked curiously at her, but when she refused to expand on her cryptic explanation, he continued his walk outside.

She followed him until they reached the king’s stables. Adrien barked out a stream of orders to several young men. One immediately departed on a small horse, while another disappeared into the stable.

“Nay,” she whispered, as she drew her cloak tightly around her and shook her head as if she had trouble believing where they’d ended up.

Adrien turned. His long outer tunic swirled in the breeze from the Thames. “Milady?”

“My lord,” she answered with a horrified shake of her head. “I rode in yesterday from Essex with only one stop for the night. I was up before the sun that morning, back on a horse, and rode all day.”

“You had last night to soothe your muscles.”

She scoffed out a noise. “I spent the night with other women, sharing one inept maid who brought us only one pitcher of water to share. We slept on the floor and were given only cold broth to break our fast. I cannot ride again so soon.” She offered him a pleading look. “For I do not ride.”

“You cannot ride a horse? You just said you rode in here.”

She bit her lower lip. “On the horse’s bare rump behind one of the soldiers, clinging to his mail ’til my hands were too cramped to hang on. Once I slipped off!”

What had Poitiers claimed? That she’d been difficult? The chaplain had reddened at Adrien’s sharp reply. Had the man of God been duped by his own inept men? Ediva was sharp-tongued, but judging from her look, she was also very scared.

Adrien glanced at the horses being led from the stables. He’d ordered his stallion and a small mare. The stable boy had obeyed him with his mount, a courser as fine as a knight was allowed. But the mare the boy also walked out was the same size. A grand dam she was, fit for a queen.

But not for a young bride with no experience.

He looked back at her. “You cannot ride at all? How did you expect to return home?”

“Since coming here was not by my choice, I had no time to consider it.” She looked annoyed. “As for riding, I had no need to learn. I was taught only the duties of running a keep, managing its expenses and staff. I do not prance around the countryside with nary a worry in my head!”

“What do you do whenever you travel?”

“Before coming here, I had only left my home once to attend my nuptials at my husband’s keep. I was taken there in a covered cart.”

How was that so? She was a lady of rank and privilege. Surely she’d have traveled somewhere? Her nobleman husband must have taken her with him on his journeys. How could he not have? Adrien would have been as proud as his faith would allow to take a beautiful wife such as Ediva with him on his travels.

Perhaps there was no love in her first marriage. Nobility often married only to secure fortunes and alliances.

He shook off his thoughts. The past mattered little when there were the trials of here and now to face. Such as getting his new wife out of London. He would not spend his wedding night here where privacy only existed for the king. With her sore and aching body, Ediva deserved more than the crowded, uncomfortable accommodations he would be able to secure. The sooner they arrived at her keep, his keep now, the better.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to endure the saddle one more time, Ediva. We must leave for the keep at once.”

“But the day is almost over, Adrien.” His name on her Saxon lips sounded strong, yet it quivered like a leaf in autumn.

“There are several inns along the north of the river outside of London. I’ve sent a boy up to the first one to prepare a room for us.”

“Us?” she echoed softly.

“We are husband and wife now.”

With eyes widening, she wet her lips and swallowed. He took a step toward her but was rewarded by a fearful step back.

He frowned. “You heard the king’s orders.”

She looked away.

With a sigh, he grimaced. He didn’t have time for this. Daylight was dwindling, and he wanted to reach the inn before dark. If she was some fearful maid, he’d deal with it when they arrived at the keep.

“Don’t fret, Ediva. ’Tis not my intent to incite fear. If you like, I will give you your privacy. You may take the room at the inn for yourself. But we will need to discuss this when we arrive at our home. Now, allow me to help you mount the mare.”

The stable boy led the horse over and stilled the huge dam beside Ediva. She tilted her head up to look from the huge mare’s legs to the saddle. She gathered her cloak tight about her neck and dropped her jaw.

He shook his head. “We don’t have to take this mount if you don’t want to.” He turned to the boy holding the reins. “Get her something smaller.”

“Sir, she’s a gift from the king. This mare was meant for the new queen’s stables.”

And a good gift she was, too, but Adrien shook his head. “If my wife cannot ride her, I must decline.”

A small hand touched his arm and he looked down at Ediva. “Nay, my lord. William may be a brutal king with blood on his hands, but his gift is of good value. Though I fear I cannot ride her home, we should bring her with us all the same.”

Adrien turned to the boy, thankful for Ediva’s logic. “Tie her lead to my mount, then.” He swiftly mounted his own horse and leaned down to the unsure Ediva, extending his arm.

She took it, and after he’d secured a good grip on her, he swung her up onto his lap. When she’d settled as best she could atop him, he spoke to the stable boy, ordering him to tell his squire to deliver his mail to Dunmow Keep immediately.

Then he rode out of the stable. After they traveled along the street that lined the river and invited the cool wind on their faces, he spoke.

“My thanks, Ediva, for accepting the horse. The mare is too fine a gift to be ignored. It is a mark of favor from our king, and ’twould be considered ungracious to refuse.”

Her answer was as cold as the dying day. “I care nothing for that.”

“Then why accept his gift?”

“As you say, she’s a fine horse. And the king does have a claim on my gratitude, though it has nothing to do with the horse.”

Her sideways fealty to William made no sense, but he felt it related back to her other cryptic remark. “How has King William earned your gratitude?”

Ediva didn’t answer, and as Adrien held her tight about her waist and the horses trotted along through the ever-thinning sprawl of huts, he pondered her puzzling words but refused to ask the question again.

They said nothing more until they reached the inn at the edge of London town, barely seen in the dwindling light of day.

Chapter Three

They arrived at Dunmow Keep late in the afternoon. Two quiet days had passed since they’d left London. Although they’d ridden only a few hours each day and stopped for more than adequate rests, Ediva’s body throbbed with pain. She’d barely been able to stand at the last stop they’d made.

But at least Adrien had not forced her to keep the same punishing pace she’d endured to London. Nay, he had not shown himself to be cruel...yet.

She’d never considered the sight of Dunmow to be welcoming. Ganute had been proud of it, for the large, round tower was a rare stone keep. Imposing. A scar on the landscape, really, but today Ediva was glad to see it again after all she’d endured. Too much time on a horse...discovering she’d lost her land...forced into marriage. Aye, seeing Dunmow felt almost comforting.

The bailey below had been enclosed with a thick battlement just after she’d married, and as they rode toward it, she caught sight of the rising motte and its early spring garden.

“Your new property, my lord,” she said close to his face. Gone was all embarrassment. They’d spent too long on one horse.

“This is it?” Adrien asked with awe in his voice.

“Aye. ’Tis Dunmow Keep. The village is Little Dunmow. There used to be a timber wall surrounding the huts, but one winter was deep and many stole the posts for firewood. Ganute refused to rebuild it.”

Adrien’s gaze swept across the village, but soon it returned to the huge keep. “’Tis made of stone! When was it built?”

“Ganute’s father built it when King Edward was crowned.”

“In commemoration?”

She shrugged. “Most likely to curry favor.”

“But we passed no quarries. There are mostly fens and swamps here.”

“The stone came from the west.” She studied the keep with a critical eye. “They call it limestone and say ’tis easy to cut but hardens over time. I like the color. ’Twas the one thing I liked about it when I first arrived. Only when I was widowed did it begin to feel like home.”

Adrien shot her a questioning frown, but she refused to explain herself. Someone from the sheep-filled village ran toward the main gate and heaved it open, allowing Adrien to ride into the bailey with the big mare in tow. There, Ediva slipped free of his arms and dropped into a young squire’s grip. Oh, but she ached! And her legs could barely hold her. How was she ever going to climb the steps to her solar?

She looked around. Geoffrey, the steward, had ordered the yard cleaned. Mayhap that boy who Adrien had constantly sent ahead had warned the man that his new lord was on the way and her steward thought it wise to put forth a good first impression.

She mentally shook her head. Shortly after Hastings, Geoffrey had voiced his dislike of Norman rule, as had the chaplain. Tidying up wouldn’t have been done to impress a man who, in Geoffrey’s eyes, should not even be here at all.

“My lady! You’re home!” her steward called as he exited the keep and trotted down the stone steps. “We’ve just heard the news of your marri—”

He stopped as Adrien dismounted.

Her new husband had come without the fanfare of troops, yet didn’t appear to miss them, either. He’d ridden with great confidence, as if daring any thief to ambush them.

None had taken the offer.

Standing akimbo, he faced the young steward. “I am your new lord. You will address me, not Lady Ediva.”

A crowd had begun to gather. And with Geoffrey looking stubbornly at Adrien, Ediva sighed. “I will handle my staff, Adrien.” All she wanted was a bath and a rest, but she should nip in the bud any conflict that might arise with Adrien’s arrival.

He glared at her. “They are my staff now and are subjects of the new king.”

Should she allow him to prove his worth? He was hardly a nobleman—merely a knight lucky enough to fight on the winning side. He may be unfit to lead these people, despite the strength that flowed from him so easily. But how would Adrien respond if he received disrespect? He’d treated her far better than she’d expected thus far. These two nights since their wedding he had ordered her a private room and slept outside her door, a far cry from what Ganute would have done.

Yet he was still Norman, and his punishment might be as cruel as the rumors about them suggested. If that were so, her people would suffer.

She could not allow that. Now, as always, it was her place to stand between her husband and the people under her protection he might see fit to harm.

She set her hand against his hard chest only to remove it quickly, remembering with embarrassment its firmness on her cheek when she’d dozed late yesterday. “My lord, allow me. ’Tis all I have ever trained for. We both need rest and food and a change of clothes. Allow me to arrange that.”

He looked down at her coolly. “And you have clothes for me?”

She thought a moment. A big part of her was fighting the whole idea of being the dutiful wife. He was a Norman stealing her land, after all.

But she had no desire to incite his or the king’s anger. Who knew what would happen then? ’Twas rumored that ten Saxon men would be killed should one Norman be injured. Nay, ’twas best to keep the peace. “I have some clothes from Ganute’s younger days, when he was far slimmer. They are hardly your style, nor do they have your length, but with a few stitches they will do until yours arrive.”

Adrien handed the reins of his horse to the shy, young man, Rypan—who, Ediva noted, watched with huge eyes. “Treat these mounts well, or you’ll be treated as you’ve done to them,” he told him in heavily accented English. The boy nodded, most likely understanding only the fierce tone.

Adrien glanced suspiciously around, and his mere size caused several maids and men to step back. Geoffrey stood his ground.

Ediva leaned close to Adrien and spoke tightly in quiet French. “These people have lost family at Hastings. I doubt any have seen a Norman before, except the troops that marched through to inform us of our new king. Some of those men were very brutal. Be wise, lest you find yourself wondering if your next meal has been poisoned.”

She tempered her words with weariness. She’d already buried one husband and after this frightful trip, was reluctant to bury another. Even if she could escape the fury of the king should Adrien die, new widowhood would risk Ganute’s cousin, Olin, descending upon her with foolish airs of his wrongful claim on Dunmow Keep.

Adrien drilled her with a penetrating look. “Mayhap I will have you taste my food first. You don’t want me here any more than they do.”

She answered him with a heavily burdened sigh. Of course, he would show his control over the keep she’d vowed to protect. But at this moment, she couldn’t care less. “Such a delightful way to start a marriage,” she muttered. “I’m sure you will want to inspect your new holdings. Go ahead. I plan to have a bath and a meal and a sleep. And if you feel the need for me to taste your food, wake me. For I really do not care.” She lumbered stiff-kneed up the motte and into the keep.

Adrien confirmed to himself his horses were being cared for before ordering a young, brash-looking boy to take him to Ediva. He, too, wanted food and a bath and a good sleep before he inspected his new home, but those must wait. He would not have his wife ordering him around in front of his new staff and he planned to tell her so.

The boy took him up the stairs to the top floor, then down a corridor that was rounded like the tower’s outer wall. The door at the end led to Ediva’s solar, and when Adrien threw it open, he found Ediva sitting with her steward by her side while a maid dug through a nearby trunk of clothes. The curtains that usually closed off the bed were pulled back and a light breeze rolled through the room by way of two narrow windows. The private solar was bright. A whitewash lightened the curved walls, and pushed to one side was a large, round brazier with an ornate cover.

Ediva was tossing clothes into Geoffrey’s open arms. Another young woman sat at a table, sewing feverishly. His new wife didn’t look up from her task, even when his gaze finally lit on her. “I’ve found some things for you,” she said.

Geoffrey held a mix of fine linens and sturdy wools. As best as Adrien could tell, all items were old-fashioned and of Saxon design. The leather thongs looked stiff and useless, but he’d find replacements for them easily enough.

“Thank you.”

She said no more. The girl on her knees pulled out a piece of cloth, one that snagged Ediva’s attention enough for her to fall to her own knees and grab it. The girl started back in surprise. Immediately, Ediva stuffed the linen back deep into the trunk again. A burgeoning silence swelled in the room.

No one moved.

Curious, Adrien strode up to peer into the chest. A tail of the material stuck out a moment before she shoved it deeper in. The cloth was pale blue in color, as lovely as Ediva’s brilliant eyes. Her hand lay on the other clothes, shaking ever so slightly. Adrien crouched and looked into her face. Her eyes were closed.

“Ediva?”

She swiped her hand over her cheek and opened her eyes. Glaring at the brash boy who’d accompanied Adrien, she snapped, “Harry, why are you still here?”

Harry looked down at his feet. “I came in with my new lord.”

“Well, you can leave now.” She twisted to speak to the woman sewing. “Margaret, I don’t need half of Dunmow Keep traipsing through my solar.”

“Ediva?”

She turned her attention to Adrien, her expression cool as the late winter rain that had fallen that morning.

“Harry will be your squire,” she carried on in English, still on her knees. “If you need me, he will know where to find me.”

“I have my own squire.”

“Harry has some knowledge of French and a good ear for learning. Use him as much as possible.” Her voice was steady, but her hands still trembled and though she looked toward his face she would not meet his eye.

Irritated, he stood and folded his arms. “I will decide the staff, Ediva.”

“You know nothing of the staff here. This is my keep, Lord Adrien, and as its lady, I make such decisions.”

With that, she slammed the lid of the trunk down. All the servants jumped.

Enough, Adrien decided as he threw open the trunk lid. Whatever was in this thing had shaken Ediva more than anything he’d seen her encounter, including the king’s command to wed. Retrieving the blue garment she’d hidden, he discovered it was a woman’s shift.

Holding it up with both hands, he drew in a sharp breath. There were long, violent slashes in it, and splattered about them were brownish stains.

Blood. He’d been a soldier long enough to recognize the unwashed stains. ’Twas a sleeping shirt of good quality, and most likely hers. What had happened? “Is this yours, Ediva?”

She snatched it back and thrust it into the arms of the girl beside her. “Never mind. Turn this into rags, girl.” Immediately after, she ordered the servants to leave.

After the servants had filed out and the door shut firmly behind them, Adrien said, “That’s blood. What happened?”

Her chin had wrinkled. Just as he thought she wouldn’t answer, she said, “Ganute’s departure gift to himself.”

Adrien fought for words, but nothing decent surfaced. Her cheeks pink, Ediva returned to her seat. “He...surprised me, ’tis all.”

Was that all it was? Nay. From her expression, there was more. He paused, also hating how he couldn’t seem to form a sentence or even find the right words to say. “You...had been married for some time, surely. You are...old.”

Silence followed, with a sudden tension Adrien had felt only before battle. All he’d meant to say was she was old enough to know what some men want. Obviously, his English needed work.

Unless the departure gift was...

His blood ran cold.

Slowly standing, Ediva turned to him. “Old? Old!” The word bounced around the quiet room like an angry bee in a clay pot. “Am I a battered pan into which you slop bones and broth for your sup?”

She wiped her eyes furiously. “I am many things, my lord, but I can tell you with much certainty, that I am not old!”

Snatching up her hem, she limped past him and threw open the heavy oak door with the ease of a man twice her size. As it slammed against the wall, she did her best to stalk from her solar with as much dignity as her bruised and aching body would allow.

Standing there, Adrien felt a pair of eyes lingering on him. He found Harry, the young whelp Ediva had assigned as his squire, peeking into the solar. The boy barely reached his elbow and was as clumsy as a half-grown pup, but he lifted his brows and shook his head like a wise old man.

“What’s your problem, boy?”

The boy’s French was horrible, but he understood. “Milady don’t like to be called old. Even m’maw and my sisters don’t like being called old.”

Adrien scowled at him. The boy colored, appropriately so, in Adrien’s mind. Harry quickly turned away, but as he did, Adrien caught his arm. “What kind of man was her ladyship’s first husband?”

The boy looked around him, as if to confirm they were alone. “I didn’t know him well, sir. But I remember seeing her ladyship in the kitchen garden after he left, tending herbs. All covered up.”

“Of course she’d cover herself. She’s a modest woman. And what do you mean, tending herbs? The lady of the keep does not garden, boy.” Did this child think he could lie to his master?

“She likes to tend the herbs, she says. M’maw says she needs the peace.”

“She needs— Why?”

“M’maw said his lordship had his way before he left. She said that his lordship didn’t deserve her.”

Adrien’s stomach turned as his suspicions deepened. Why hadn’t he seen the signs before? She’d practically told him that the only good that came out of Hastings was her husband’s death. And the bloodstains told their own tale of a brutal man.

And here he had been, bullying her further.

Father in Heaven, I have sinned against You and against Ediva. My ways are of a soldier, not of a husband. Help her to understand me. And for me to understand her.

He strode out to find Ediva and confirm the truth from her. But, as he trotted down the curved stairwell, he reminded himself that she had her right to privacy.

Nay, he argued back, he needed to know the truth behind her first marriage. He could help her. He could—

Finding her in the herb garden that rolled down the short motte, Adrien paused at the open kitchen door. Behind him, water for her bath was being warmed over the hearth. Any words he’d formed in his mind dissolved instantly. She was seated at a wooden bench, staring at a patch of herbs barely out of the ground. The air still bore a crisp feel but promised spring. ’Twas the time of year that pledged new life, new growth—a new beginning. A new master for the keep who would not repeat the cruelties of the previous one.

Ediva needed to know that she was safe in her own home. He’d made a silent promise to God during his nuptials that he would honor his wife as God would want him to. Ediva deserved that much. And she should not have to leave her own solar just to find a moment’s peace.

She looked up at that moment, eyes hurt and hollow. He’d called her old, and he was wrong. She was broken, hurt by Ganute so much that Adrien actually regretted the man’s death. If Ganute was still alive, then Adrien would be able to teach him a lesson he would not soon forget.

With a stilling breath, Adrien forced out the violent thoughts. The Good Lord wanted him to show mercy and love. His new wife needed such. He walked toward her and wasn’t surprised when she turned her attention back to the garden. Sighing, he sat and took her hand.

“Ediva, I meant no insult when I called you old. ’Twas not a slight against your youth or beauty.”

She didn’t move. He pressed on. “I’m a soldier, Ediva, not a fine prince who knows the ways of courtship. And we both know you’re not a maid.”

She looked at him, blinking. “You don’t know that.”

He frowned. “I do. You were married to Ganute for five years.”

“I could still be a maid.”

Adrien shook his head gently. “We both know that’s not so. Were you ever with child?”

“Nay, I gave him no children.” Her gaze darted about. “Some said God made me barren to punish me.”

“For what?”

She bit her lip. “For not giving my all to Him. For not rejoicing in the marriage consecrated in His eyes. For turning my back on Him when I was—” She cleared her throat. “The chaplain would tell me to pray for Ganute’s safety in battle.” She glanced up at him and he saw a fierceness there as her voice dropped. “If I had prayed, ’twould have been for his death, not his life.”

Ahh. ’Twas the reason for the backward fealty to William. She owed the king because one of his soldiers had ended her misery.

His breath drew in sharply. He’d fought at Hastings, following the king who’d led the battle. Adrien had slashed his way through several Saxon knights that day.

Had Ganute been one of them?

Still, her words about God... Was she not a Christian woman? The tutor his family had employed had said once that some hearts were closed to the Lord.

Was she hard of heart?

Ediva blinked rapidly again, offering the real answer. She was as hard-hearted as a kitten. She was simply afraid to trust—in man or in God. Life had scarred her.

He lifted her hand, smooth and cold and shaking. He tightened his grip to warm it and prevent it from slipping free. “Ediva, God doesn’t punish those who are already hurting. He has mercy.”

“Mercy?” Her brows shot up. “There was no mercy for five years. Not even from my own family. I was told to endure my marriage because ’twas my duty to my family.”

Glancing around, his gaze fell on a bare vine clinging to the sunniest wall of the bailey. Buds were swelling on it. He dug through his memories for something to say. As third son, he’d been expected to serve the church and had studied with monks for much of his childhood. Surely there was some Bible story... “Ediva, God prunes the vine so it will produce good fruit. You must have produced good fruit, for God does not prune that which produces no fruit at all.”

She shook her head. “I told you I am barren.”

“Fruit isn’t babes only, Ediva. The respect you have here and the care you show for your staff that leads them to care for you are all good fruit. Even for the short time I have been here, I can see you all care for each other.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re a soldier. How do you know these things?”

“I’m not the firstborn son, so I was expected to serve God instead of lead the family.” He pulled her slightly closer but not so close as to scare her. “Enough of me. Ganute was cruel to you, wasn’t he?”

She nodded. Shaking his head, he leaned forward. Immediately, she drew back, too quickly for the cause to be anything but instinct.

His stomach tightened. “Don’t be frightened. Never will I force myself upon you. There is no honor in hurting a woman, Ediva.”

Her short, wobbly laugh brushed his cheeks. “We are married and the king has ordered children.”

“I will handle the king. He won’t expect babes overnight.” He shook his head. “We may be married, but until you find it in your heart to accept me as husband in every sense, I will demand nothing from you. Nor will you be bruised and beaten at my hand or anyone else’s. I promise you that.”

And along with his vow came the urge to press his lips against hers, to warm her very soul. He began to lower his head...

Abruptly, she pulled back her shoulders and steeled her spine. “Adrien, you say that God has been pruning me. But I fear He’s not done yet. Look around. All I own has been given away by a king as brutal as Ganute.”

“William is not brutal!”

“Ha! Did he not herd me to London like a sheep for slaughter, then not feed me so I would be weak and compliant? He has no care for me—no more than Ganute cared for me. No more than God cares for me. Don’t say that God allows me to suffer to make me a better person. I have no desire to hear anymore of how good God is.”

She pulled free her hand and held it up as she flew to her feet. “Nay! Keep your peace and your God because I don’t want either. But remember this. You promised me you’ll not touch me ’til I am ready. I will hold you to that.”

She spun and stomped up the stone steps into the kitchen, leaving him alone among the herbs only just budding from the cold, damp earth.

Chapter Four

Ediva sank into her chair, pretending to prepare for her bath, but she wanted only to ease her temper, lest she bark at her servants.

Her hand rose to her mouth, as if she could draw back in the harsh words she had spoken. Adrien had done nothing to warrant her anger, except injure her pride by calling her old.

Rubbing her pounding forehead with a shaky hand, she stood. She ached all over and needed to bathe away the smell of horseflesh and sweat of travel.

Mayhap you should first apologize to Adrien?

The nagging voice thumped between her temples, but grouchily, she ignored it. Husband or not, he had no right to know the details of her humiliating marriage to Ganute.

Her maid appeared in the doorway, spotted her and turned to depart immediately. “Margaret,” Ediva called. “Where is my bath water?”

“’Tis ready, milady. I will see that it’s brought up immediately.”

The girl hurried off. Discarding any soft thoughts of an apology, Ediva slowly removed her wimple. With the filth of travel on her and very little sleep these past few days, she needed to bathe and rest more than seek out her husband. How many times had she begged Ganute’s forgiveness for some imaginary folly only to keep the brittle peace that was as delicate as an eggshell? No, she would not apologize again.

Shortly, Margaret led in three servants with buckets of steaming water and the wooden tub. The young girl deftly prepared Ediva’s bath, helped her with it and then left her to her nap, with cloth-dried hair spread over the furs.

Sometime later, Ediva awoke. Immediately she turned to the window. Even through the vellum shutters, she saw the sun setting. The shutters were a marvel, for they blocked the wind yet filtered light into her solar. Ganute was proud of them, the vellum being the finest and thinnest, stretched upon dovetailed wood frames. He’d claimed it to be his invention, but Ediva secretly suspected he’d seen them in London.

Movement caught the corner of her eye and she flipped around. Adrien was sitting in her chair by the other window, reading the keep’s ledger whilst her maid was busy folding clothes into the trunk.

He looked up, and in the briefest of heartbeats, their eyes locked.

“Why are you here?”

He closed the book and locked the long hasp wrapped around it. Where had he acquired the key? From Geoffrey or from her belt whilst she slept? She would ask later. “I have spent the afternoon with your steward, inspecting the keep and the coffers. I wanted to check on you.”

She sat up, and then, realizing she wore only her inner tunic, she pulled up the fur bedclothes. The heavy pelts were suddenly a great comfort to her. She glared at Margaret, who didn’t seem concerned that Adrien was patiently waiting.

“You inspected the coffers? And the records, too, I see? Were they satisfactory?” She tugged the pelts closer, even though her maid had piled coals into the brazier and closed the shutters to keep the warmth inside. Still, Ediva felt need to cover herself further. “And you have sat by my brazier since, awaiting me?”

“I have only just sat down, milady. I fear I awoke you when I entered.”

“I must ask you to leave. Margaret will assist me now.”

Adrien lifted a finely curved brow, one as dark as her brows were pale.

“I will see to our supper, then. We shall dine in the hall.”

Ediva’s stomach growled. She’d missed the noon meal and was grateful that Adrien had delayed supper for her. Since Ganute died, she’d moved the castle routine away from two heavy meals. Their breakfasts were small and fresh, enough to keep them going ’til noon. Supper had become a reflection of breakfast, with broth that had simmered all day, something only to warm the belly. It suited her better than Ganute’s heavy meals, and with the change, Ediva had been able to cut spending, thus adding to the coins in her coffers.

Another cold thought washed over her. No doubt those coins will soon be off to London as taxes to the king. Ediva had not increased the rent, thus easing the burden on her tenants, and had instead practiced good, sensible thriftiness to allow her to save enough to keep the castle going all winter. She’d hate to see it all leave now.

But Adrien has already counted it. Geoffrey had opened the strongbox for him.

She would deal with Geoffrey later.

“I’d appreciate it greatly, sir, that you wait for me to escort you about the rest of the keep.”

Adrien had already reached the door. “’Tis all done, Ediva. I have seen all I need to see, counted the silver and secured the strongbox. I do, however, have some changes to make.”

She felt her ire rising and tamped it down, for she couldn’t exactly stomp away this time. “The king may own this keep, but the coffers are full because of my careful management. There will be no changes.”

Adrien smiled. The warm curling up of his mouth took her so completely aback, she wondered what foolish thing she’d said.

“You are quite right about your good management, milady, but know this, the coffers now belong to the king.”

She straightened her spine. “My lord, know this. My people have no one save me.” She tried to maintain her determination, but her current position offered little help.

Her husband tilted his head and she knew he was recalling how she’d flashed fear at him before. “Your words do not match your eyes, Ediva.”

She drew back in her bed but lifted her chin. “When I buried Ganute, I told my people I would do my best to keep them from harm. I’ll do so even if it costs me my life.”

He walked over, barely taking two strides to reach her. The ropes and wooden braces upon which the overstuffed pallet sat now strained as he pressed his knuckles onto them to lean close. His voice was soft, yet filled with warning. “Let us pray such a high price shall never be demanded.”

Straightening, he left her alone. Alone and wondering if her new husband would really extract the high price she’d inadvertently suggested.

* * *

Adrien strode into the kitchen and ordered some food for them. Several maids scurried in obedience, leaving him alone in the smoky room. The day was nearly gone, but the door out to the small garden where he and Ediva spoke earlier remained open. He watched the youth he’d handed his reins to dump kitchen scraps near where Ediva had been sitting. From the shadows bolted several cats that grabbed the refuse before darting away. One small dog, mange-filled and bone thin, chased them for their prizes.

Spying him, the youth jumped, turned tail and dashed away. Perturbed, Adrien jammed his fists into his hips and glowered. Aye, he was tall and well-muscled—he was a soldier, after all—but he was hardly an ogre.

“That’s Rypan, milord. He’s not good with folks,” a fresh voice called out. “He’s not too smart and often can’t speak.”

Adrien turned to find young Harry sitting by the hearth. A cook hurried past, snapping at him to move out of the way as she tended to the meal. Harry jumped up. The complete opposite of the boy who’d dashed away, Harry had bright, bold eyes and a saucy expression. His most annoying, yet beneficial, trait was his ability to speak French.

“Where did you learn French, boy?”

Harry grinned proudly. “I listened. M’maw worked for Lady Ediva’s family. Milady learned it, so I learned it, too.”

“Did Ediva bring you when she was married?”

He shrugged. “M’maw came with Lady Ediva, and I guess I was too young to leave her.”

“Who’s your mother?”

“One of the cooks. But not the cook.”

Adrien tossed a look over his shoulder to the cook bustling around behind him. The woman shot Harry a sharp glare.

“She’s Rypan’s aunt. He’s got no folks besides her.”

“Your French is horrible, boy. I’ll have to teach you proper grammar.”

An even bigger smile split the cheeky boy’s face. “I’d like that. Milady speaks to me in French, for her lord could not understand it.”

Adrien frowned. “Ha! I doubt very much you were her confidant.”

Harry shrugged. “I do not know what that means, sir. She’d just ask me to get her things.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Sweets, mint from the garden, herbs for teas. She don’t drink strong ales.”

Again, Adrien rolled his eyes at his substandard French. “That wouldn’t require subterfuge.”

“Nay, ’twas not subberfuge I got for her.”

Adrien sighed. The boy had no idea what the word meant. “I meant that it would hardly require secrecy. What kind of herbs?”

Harry shrugged again.

“Harry!” A voice rang out from the depths of the kitchen. An older woman appeared with a lantern. “Find your sister. She needs to take food to the hall.”

As Harry dashed out of the dim kitchen, the woman shot Adrien a fast glance before setting down the lamp and stoking the fire.

“What kind of herbs would Lady Ediva need, woman?” he barked at her, feeling unreasonably annoyed by Harry.

“Milady doesn’t drink any ales or wines, sir. Herbal teas, juices and broth are all she wants.” She bustled about the trays of food, doing her best to ignore him.

He refused to take the slight personally. She was none too happy to have a Norman lord, Adrien guessed. As a soldier, he was used to ill-tempered people, even many of the knights who were better educated than anyone here were surly and ill-spoken. ’Twas part and parcel of the work.

When the yelps and growls of that scruffy dog penetrated his thoughts, his attention snapped away from the cook.

When he looked back, she was gone. His thoughts returned to Ediva’s earlier words, how she’d subtly suggested Adrien could be in danger of being poisoned. And with that boy suggesting Ediva knew her herbs made him wonder...

Had she considered such an end for her first husband? An uneasiness wobbled through Adrien. He’d threatened to have her taste the food first. Had Ganute ever thought to do the same? Poisons were often effective. With a cruel lord of a manor lounging through the long winter nights, ’twould be easy to plan a murder. And yet that had not been Ganute’s death. ’Twas on the battlefield that he saw his end. Adrien pursed his lips in frustration. Would life at the keep prove too great a test for him?

For now, he had little fear of attack. The keep was subdued, watchful. Waiting to see what sort of lord he would prove to be. He pondered the same question himself as he climbed the stairs to Ediva’s solar to retrieve her for the evening meal.

Hours later, as he lay on a pallet in his private room off the great hall, listening to the servants settling for the night, he still found himself pondering the issue of herbs.

Wondering if he should force Ediva to taste his food first.

And hating that he’d even need to.

Chapter Five

Ediva awoke early. The eastern sky was barely tinged with morning when she freed the vellum from the window. A hint of spring eased into the room, and she heard her maid roll over on her pallet. Margaret hated to rise early, and because there was no reason to today, Ediva let her sleep. Quietly, she grabbed her cloak and slipped from her solar to walk the parapet above.

Outside, she drew in cool air. She much preferred the warmth of summer or the insect-free autumns, but early mornings were wonderful any time of the year.

Ganute often had slept in, and after the nights she had wanted to forget, Ediva would slip down to the kitchens for a small bite of bread and some broth. She’d order her bath water and return to the parapet to wait for a servant to announce its arrival, reveling in the brief span of time that she had to herself and dreading her husband’s awakening.

Nay! That part of her life was over, she told herself sternly. Ganute was gone and her new husband had vowed not to touch her, a promise she meant for him to keep.

She had to remain strong and detached. Her husband did not need her—her people did. Dunmow lost too many men at Hastings, and when she’d surveyed the mourners the day she’d buried Ganute, far too many widows stared back at her, all needing strong leadership. And there were worries anew, with the uprisings to the north and Norman soldiers gathering in the town of Colchester ten leagues to their south.

“Let us pray such a high price shall never be demanded.”

Adrien’s words from last night rang unbidden through her head. She’d seen a heat in his gentle smile, like a fire whose coals looked deceptively cold but whose inner warmth could burn skin.

A flush rose in her, and she determinedly turned her thoughts away from the memory. The sun peeked over the ridge beyond to paint the battlement pink. Ediva could hear several roosters crowing in competition and a shepherd calling his sheep from their night pen to search out the tender grasses of early spring.

Another set of noises caught her attention. She leaned forward to peer down into the bailey but the thickness of the walls refused her curiosity.

She heard Geoffrey’s complaining voice, followed by Adrien’s sharp retort. Both voices rose like the mist on the distant hills.

Adrien sounded fully awake, unlike Geoffrey, whose sleepy petulance echoed in his tone. Adrien spoke of stakes, ropes and something she couldn’t catch.

Her husband’s voice rippled over her and her breath stalled in her throat. The wind rising did nothing to cleanse her of the warmth. Foolish, it was, to have a Norman’s voice command such a reaction from her. She was far from a slave to her body’s whims, having learned long ago to control herself. Even a shudder of revulsion could bring about a beating.

She heard a maid on the stairs. Mayhap the morning ablutions will set her mind on more important matters. Let Adrien wander around the bailey. ’Twould teach him real life, not the one of a nomadic soldier whose only task was to sit upon a high horse and direct soldiers.

She spent much of the next few days slipping out to visit the new mothers. Her only contact was with Margaret or her steward. Of that morning, Geoffrey would only say that Adrien had ordered a cleaning of the bailey and a meeting with the villagers.

When she’d asked about the coffers, Geoffrey said that after counting the coins within, Adrien had studied the ledgers but had removed nothing nor sent word to London. The only other act that had stood out in her steward’s mind was the fact that Adrien attended chapel each morning, something Ediva had long given up.

She had eyed Geoffrey for any hint that he might have joined his new lord in prayer, but the man gave nothing away and she refused to outright ask. With Geoffrey loyal to Ganute, and then to her, and with his dislike of Norman rule, she doubted the steward would switch allegiances, but rather do the minimum to placate his new lord. It wasn’t Geoffrey’s habit to go to the morning services because Ganute barely tolerated the chaplain in his keep, and Geoffrey believed he was better off favoring Ganute. Or mayhap the steward didn’t like being told what to do by the old priest.

The next Sabbath dawned much the same as the days before. Up early, and this time with a stool to help her, Ediva peered out over the parapet at the bailey below. Her brows lifted sharply at the sight below.

The bailey nearly sparkled with cleanliness and Ediva noted the extra freshness in the air. Young Rypan was dumping kitchen refuse into an enclosed pen instead of into the garden. Ediva hoped the soil in the garden would not lose its strength this summer.

“Do you approve, milady?”

She spun, wobbling on the stool. Adrien stood several feet away, having climbed the stairs on silent feet. He walked closer and peered down at the handiwork. “Be careful when you lean forward. You may fall, though I suppose the landing would be soft in the garden waste. I ordered all kitchen scraps to be put in there and not scattered.”

She stiffened. “My bailey was not filthy.”

Even as she said that, she knew what a long winter could do to a keep. But still, her servants were hardly lazy on that matter.

“Nay, this place is well-kept. But I want the kitchen and garden to remain clean. ’Twould do us little good if we became sick from all matter of rot scattered about.”

True enough. Regardless, she frowned. “How do you know of such things?”

“I have lived in camps with men and seen what makes even a strong man sick. In hot weather, ’tis worse. Do you not check a brook for dead animals before pulling water from it?”

“Aye. The midwife said a carcass fouls the water and makes one sick.”

“’Tis the same with all waste.” He paused, then with a frown, he added, “Ediva, I did not come up here to discuss the work I’d ordered. ’Tis the Sabbath, and you will come with me to worship.”

Ediva wanted to decline, but his tone made it clear ’twas not a question. Her appearance at the chapel on the Sabbath had been erratic, and when she did participate in the services, it was by rote. Why worship a God who had turned against her?

But her husband thought otherwise and expected her to kneel by his side in the chapel. She looked up into Adrien’s face, with its subtle challenge. And in that moment, she remembered Geoffrey’s report about Adrien and the coffers.

Oh, aye, she’d be wise to go through the act of worship again. King William would be looking for monies and taxes, and Adrien would make the decision as to what went to him. He would also decide who needed taxing. She needed to have Adrien, who the king seemed to like, on her side.

So she dipped her head in agreement, albeit reluctantly. “Allow me to change my tunic, my lord.”

She slipped past him and down to her solar. A few minutes later she found Adrien outside her door. He offered his arm as they climbed down the narrow stairs that led to the main corridor.

Many of the tenants and villagers had already arrived and stepped back to allow Adrien to lead Ediva into the chapel.

“G’morning, milord.”

“Morning, sir.”

“’Tis a fine day to worship the Lord, sir!”

The salutations given to Adrien from various tenants filled the quiet morning. Adrien answered each person, a smile here and there, a ruffling of some small child’s hair occasionally.

“’Twould seem you have impressed the villagers, Adrien,” she murmured with a sniff, feeling piqued that he’d managed to win over so many of her people so quickly. “The king would be proud of you, I’m sure.”

“’Twas not done for his benefit, Ediva. These people deserved to meet their new lord. There are many changes afoot, and they need to know who I am, first.”

“Aren’t you the good overlord, then?” she noted, her tone seasoned with sarcasm. “But a fine manner before plunder is still plunder nonetheless and these people can ne’er afford it.”

“I have seen your coinage. There is no reason to show yourself righteous when you have collected so much.”

She bristled all the way into the chapel. More than half the benches were filled, though the chaplain was nowhere to be seen. Geoffrey was already seated closer to the front than the maids and cook, along with his mother, the midwife. Everyone rose when she and Adrien entered.

“I noticed your pews are not sold,” Adrien said quietly.

“I did away with it. I see no reason to add to the church’s wealth by selling the benches on which people sit,” she hissed back. “Our chaplain speaks of poverty and yet charges for all manner of blessings. The grain in the tithe barn in Cogshale rots because there’s too much of it whilst my people go hungry. I refuse to sell parts of the church, as well.”

Ediva threw a sharp glance at Geoffrey. He’d been charged with such sales before Ganute had died, and she could tell he was straining to hear her private words.

“’Tis an acceptable practice,” Adrien answered softly as they walked toward the front. They reached the front pew and Adrien stepped back to allow Ediva to enter first. “Still, I understand. After you, my guardian wife who watches over our people so diligently.”

She huffed at his humor before sitting down. Behind the pulpit, the mural glowed with rich colors. Men with long beards, gentle eyes and adoring expressions centered Jesus, and ornate calligraphy invited the weary to come for rest. She looked away. She remembered Ganute had seen murals in bigger churches and ordered this painting. It had more to do with his snobbery than any piety.

Candles flickered. On her wedding day, the chapel had been strewn with scented herbs, saved since the fall, and the finest beeswax candles offered heat and light.

Ediva shut her eyes to the horrid memory. Ganute’s generosity on that occasion had a high price.

The service droned on, and the only pleasure Ediva took from it was a chance to watch her new husband. His handsome, dark profile caught the candlelight. The last time she was here, weeks ago, they’d gone through the entire service in nearly complete darkness, no candles at all because she’d refused to donate any.

But today warmth glowed across her husband’s face, a gentle light, flickering when the chaplain moved.

Curious, Ediva watched Adrien bow his head. He closed his eyes, and she focused on his mouth during a silent prayer. She felt her own lips part and a quiet voice within her mouthed the words with him.

His very handsomeness seemed to draw her closer. She found herself wanting to reach up and lay her hand upon his cheek, then drag it down if only to prove such good looks were real.

When he opened his eyes again, Adrien turned immediately to her.

Heat flooded into her face and she snapped away her attention. How did he know she’d spent the entire final prayer gawking at him? Aye, he was fair of face, but it meant nothing, she told herself. The moment of quiet solemnity had stirred her female heart, ’twas all. She drew in a restorative breath, hoping it would return her good sense.

But Adrien’s scent rolled into her. Mint and orris root, heady over the odor of beeswax, an incongruous mix.

She was too close, she decided, but she would not retreat further along the length of bench. ’Twas her chapel, her keep, her spine that kept her so close to her new husband. The chaplain offered a benediction and filed past to bless the people. But still, neither she nor Adrien moved.

Indeed, after a few breaths, those still waiting for Adrien to stand and file out simply gave up and left, starting with Geoffrey.

Adrien did not move until finally Ediva leaned forward. “My lord, ’tis time to leave.”

He continued to watch her. “Why are you in such a hurry to leave God’s house?”

She folded her arms. “The service has ended. Our meal awaits.”

“Jesus said He is the Bread of life.”

She gaped at him, having not heard such words since her youth. She looked away. “I would prefer my cook’s bread today, Adrien. ’Twill be fresh and will fill my belly.”

Adrien lifted a hand and slipped his fingers into the loose part of her wimple to touch her jaw. The veil on top, secured with a simple diadem, brushed his arm.

“Sir, remember where you are!”

His attention stayed focused on her. “I’m in church with my wife. And from the quiet around us, I’d say we are alone.”

Blood surged into her neck and she was sure he could feel her skin warm. “Adrien, you promised you would not touch me.”

“I promised you I would not expect my rights as husband until you accept me.” He leaned closer. “I’m only holding your attention.”

“For what purpose?”

He leaned dangerously close. Despite her rigid spine, she could barely keep herself still. She found herself struggling between the urge to pull away to protect herself and wanting to ease closer.

A mere hint of space lingered between their lips, but she refused to lean toward him. “I am not like your first husband, Ediva.”

Holding her breath to crush the instinctive wash of fear, she found she could do nothing to escape. His eyes held hers and his lips had begun a slow descent onto hers, sending her emotions swirling like snow in a winter storm.

She couldn’t endure much more. She could either give in to the kiss and be done with it, or pull back. But if she allowed the kiss, she would be allowing him power over her, something that she had promised she would never allow again. If she backed away, she risked the dangers she’d faced the first and only time she’d stood up against Ganute and his harsh demands for her wifely duties.

Nay, Adrien had given her his word, and despite the churning indecision, she knew deep down he wouldn’t retract it. They may be married and she may be willing to show courtesy due to his new rank and give the king his taxes, but she wouldn’t give of herself as she’d been forced to do many times before.

Testing the air that weighed heavy with expectation, she eased slowly back and felt with relief Adrien lowering his hand. A flicker of disappointment danced in his gaze but he gave her no word of reproach.

“’Tis time for our meal, Adrien,” she whispered shakily. “’Twill only be hot for a short time, and the day is cool for me.”

“You are quite warm, Ediva. A lie in the house of God isn’t good for one’s soul,” he answered blandly.

“I have no hope for my soul.”

Unexpected tears stung her eyes and she shifted away to blink at the mural. The Biblical offer of rest reached her watery gaze.

Beside her, Adrien sighed. He gathered her hands in his and held them gently. “There is always hope, Ediva.”

A moment later, he drew her hand up to his warm lips. She fought the tears filling her eyes. She didn’t want this foolishness between them. She didn’t want him to be patient and kind and to love God.

Pulling free her hand, she stood. “Our meal awaits us.”

He moved away. Thankfully, the tightness in her chest eased. Oh, ’twould be far easier to deal with Adrien if he was difficult and demanding. She’d learned years ago how to tuck her heart away from all her body could endure.

But right now, it felt as though her heart was out on a battlefield, ready for the final death blow.

She hated it.

* * *

Adrien pulled on the reins, bringing his mount to a stop. He’d risen early this mid-week morning, several weeks since his first chapel service with Ediva. Since then, he’d spent much of his time dealing with minor disputes, overseeing the cataloguing of all Dunmow Keep owned and other items of minutiae. Today, he decided to forgo morning chapel in order to inspect the estate’s potential, especially at the perimeter of the keep’s control. The king expected a full report, not only on the coffers, but also the viability of the land.

Atop the rise west of Dunmow Keep, he could see the River Colne, and to the north, the fens of East Anglia. Adrien’s new home would surely be the point where the upstarts against William and the king’s forces would meet. The land here was rich and fertile, worth fighting for.

He itched to return to battle. To do anything but what he’d come to Dunmow to do. Like an aging mare put to pasture, he found himself staring ahead at endless days dawdling about the keep. Aye, he’d met the villagers, inspected the coffers and viewed the records. His ancient grand-mère could have managed those things.

Under him, his courser stirred, sensing his edginess. Or mayhap the horse was bored of simply loping around a field without the disciplines of battle that, like Adrien, had been bred into him.

Adrien leaned forward to pat the stallion’s massive neck. “Aye, ’twould be good to fight again.”

Better than the dance he was doing with Ediva. He’d kept his distance the whole full moon cycle he’d been here, but she still seemed uncertain and skittish in his presence, as if she expected a blow at any moment. Only those few moments in the chapel weeks ago was he given the opportunity to close that yawning gap between them. Reaching her heart seemed almost within his grasp then, but she pulled away. And since that time, there had been nothing but politeness and distance between them.

Of what good would anything he tried be? He’d practically ordered her to the Sabbath services and, even then, he knew her heart was leagues away. So much good would come if she let God into her heart. He wanted that more than earning her trust.

But it would be nice to have both. Very nice.

After he sighed, Adrien urged the stallion forward toward the keep. He’d seen enough this morning, and with nothing in his belly, he was anxious to return for the noon meal.

And to see Ediva. Though the distance she enforced between them was a trial, he could not deny himself the joy he took in spending time with her. Even in the chapel where they kept the politeness to a fault, he valued their time together. The only mark on such time was the tension he’d felt between her and the chaplain. Entering the bailey, he spied Ediva. His wife. And yet, not his wife, save on some record kept by Poitiers.

She turned then, and her cyrtel, a pale pink like the roses that climbed the wall near the door, swirled with the movement. Her hair had been coaxed free of her simple veil by a warm breeze. Her wimple was gone, and he was glad to see her long, flaxen braids dropping down below her veil to rest upon her cyrtel.

She met his gaze, and then turned from it far too quickly. Unexpectedly, his heart sank. She still did not trust him even with her own shy looks.

Adrien walked his horse up to her. Thankful that she had the good manners to wait upon him, he nodded to her. “Good day, milady.”

“Good day, sir. You chose an early ride this morning.”

He dismounted. He towered over her as it was and certainly didn’t need the horse to add to it. When Harry ran up, he handed the boy the reins. With cheek enough to last his lifetime, the young squire threw them both a bold grin before leading the horse away.

“I chose this morning to view the fields. They’re good for livestock.”

“Aye, our beef and mutton are the best in the county.”

He agreed. But such was not on his mind. “Ediva, I want to ask you something.”

A guarded look shot across her features. “I may not know the answer.”

“You do know the answer, for it concerns only you. You don’t talk much to our chaplain. May I ask why?”

Her spine stiffened. “He often told me to obey my husband. When I discovered the nightmare I’d married into, I went to him for help for I had no family save some sisters I do not wish to trouble, as they are married and busy with their own lives. But the chaplain said ’twas my duty to obey Ganute for I was a temptress needing to be leashed.”

The flatness in her voice didn’t match the fire in her eyes. Stunned, Adrien reeled. “Leashed? You are not an animal, Ediva.”

“You called me a guardian in the chapel, as if I were a sheep dog.”

He felt his neck heat. “’Twas just a jest because of your desire to protect your people. I meant nothing that the chaplain might have meant.”

She feigned indifference as she shrugged. “Why should I obey a man who felt I needed to be hurt each night?”

He led her to a narrow bench, chasing away a pair of children playing on it. When they sat down, he could see the sun sparkling in her tear-filled eyes. His story of pruning the vine now sounded cruel. Why had he even mentioned it?

And why would the God who had blessed him so much turn His back on Ediva? His heart denied such an accusation, but the pain she’d suffered was clear, and God certainly had not blessed her with Ganute.

Why would a loving God allow her to suffer so? He shifted away from Ediva, who stared into the distance beyond the open gate, lips parted slightly, her upturned nose something he found himself wanting to kiss.

Mayhap her chaplain was right. Mayhap she was a temptress and needed a short rein. With her watering eyes and soft, pained words, was she coaxing him from his God? Was that even possible? After all, ’twas not her fault she was so beautiful.

He grimaced. He had devoted his life to fighting, not wooing women. He knew nothing of them, and his inexperience mocked him.

She looked down at her hands, then up to him, again with those watery eyes. He felt as though he’d kicked the timid dog that chased the cats for scraps. He should say something, anything.

Her face aflame, she stood. “I see you agree with the good chaplain. Your words may have been in jest, Adrien, but from the heart does the mouth speak. I see I have no one, not even God to help me.” She lifted her cyrtel to step away.

Snapping from his selfishness, Adrien leapt to his feet and caught Ediva’s wrist. “I have sanctioned nothing of the sort. My thoughts were not of that.”

When she yanked her arm back, he let her go. “What were they of, then? You looked at me as if I were something horrible.”

He scrubbed his face, hating that her intuition had led her to such an assumption. He simply didn’t know women well enough, and aye, he was suddenly afraid that she could so easily tempt him from everything he held dear. “You are not horrible, Ediva.”

“Ahh, your honeyed words. They do my heart good.”

He groaned at her sarcasm. He was not made for court, with fancy words and charm enough to choke a person.

A commotion rose by the gate, and both of them turned. Ediva, though, spun in the other direction where high upon the battlement, a man pointed to the south, past the village of Little Dunmow. He shouted something Adrien couldn’t understand.

“Soldiers and a wagon are coming,” Ediva translated. “The guard can see the royal standard.” She hurried toward the wall and its narrow stairs to the vantage point. A few feet into her march, she stopped and spun. “Mayhap the foolish king is looking for one of those babes he demanded. An impatient man, indeed!”

Adrien set his jaw. Her sarcasm scraped on his nerves like a blade on a grindstone. He barked out to Harry to fetch his weapon.

Thankfully, his sword arrived long before the soldiers. ’Twas the royal standard, but not the king who bore it. Adrien soon recognized his brother, Eudo, trotting merrily up on a horse as black as Adrien’s mood.

“Prado! I’m happy to see you!”

Adrien groaned inwardly at the baby name. Eudo, whose name was a derivative of Eudes, had taken a liking to Adrien’s middle name of Prades, giving it a childish spin like his own name. Adrien hated it, but his mother had said it meant rich fields, so he’d tolerated it. Until now.

“’Tis Adrien, brother, not Prado. Not even Prades, in case you prefer that,” Adrien said, sheathing his sword and catching the horse’s foamy bridle as his younger brother pulled to a stop just inside the gate. Eudo had ridden ahead. The cart and soldiers were still lumbering through the village. “Why the king’s standard? Do you have him hidden in the cart?”

Eudo swung off his mount and dusted himself off. “Nay, stealing the king away is yours and our brothers’ work, not mine.” Eudo smiled brightly. “I’m just a steward on his majesty’s orders, having been loaned his standard to ease my travels.”

Remembering the day, years ago, that he and his brothers had saved William’s life, Adrien growled back, “I am proud to have saved the king’s life that day in Falaise. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” He patted the horse’s sweaty neck. “What brings you here in such haste? Surely the king’s standard would not ease your passage with rebels hiding in the woods?”

“When I learned your wardrobe was being dispatched, I decided your honeymoon was over and I wanted to visit you.” He glanced around. “Where is your lovely bride?”

Coming for just a visit? Adrien didn’t believe that for a moment. This was no social call. Eudo merely enjoyed the element of surprise too much to reveal his true purpose as yet. Adrien pointed to the battlement. “My sweet bride is up there, wondering if she needs to pierce your heart with an arrow to defend her keep. Or is it my heart she wishes to pierce? ’Tis more likely the case, so I suggest you move away from me. I don’t know how well she handles a bow.”

Eudo’s brows shot up. Ediva was leaning hard on the stone wall, which was lower than the parapet she frequented at the top of the keep. Her hands gripped the merlons, and she bore a harsh expression. Beside him, Adrien could hear Eudo’s indrawn breath. Ediva pivoted and hurried down the stairs and across the bailey to them.

“My lady, and now my sister,” Eudo bowed to her. “Forgive the unexpected visit. I’m here on the king’s order.”

Ediva shot Adrien a blackened glare.

Dread washed over him. All he could think of at that moment was his promise to her that he would decide what went to the king and when.

Eudo straightened. “Time to pay the taxes to the king.”

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