The Rose in the Mist

by Fiona Neal

© December 2000 Carolyn Rickenbaker
cover art by Eliza Black
ISBN 1-58608-204-3
New Concepts Publishing
http://www.newconceptspublishing.com

Chapter 1

Northumbria, England

1069

"God's bones!" Alain roared in disbelief.

Out of the swirling midnight mist, the woman appeared from nowhere. Now, awash in haze, she stood, as pale and ethereal as a white rose, directly in the path of his startled destrier.

"Out of the way, wench!" His voice echoed through the murky woods.

Incredibly, the girl never moved!

Desperate to avoid disaster, he stood in his stirrups and reined in with every ounce of strength he could muster. In response, his stallion reared up and flailed his forelegs savagely. Seconds later his hooves gouged the spongy earth just inches from the woman.

Heart slamming, every sinew taut with exertion, he managed to urge the animal around, sparing her from certain death beneath the brutal stomp of the frenzied horse—but not from mishap. In turning his mount, Alain’s leg clipped her shoulder.

Fair hair billowing, white garb aflutter, she crashed to the ground with a bone-crunching thud just off the narrow forest path.

"Sweet Jesu!" he rasped. He had vanquished many a foe in battle, but to kill or maim an innocent bystander sickened him. Why hadn't she moved from harm's way?

Jolted to a halt, the column of men behind him struggled to control their mettlesome steeds. "Merde," and "Sacre' bleu," they cursed as Alain vaulted from his saddle.

Rushing to the wraith-like woman, he knelt beside her, gasping for breath as sweat soaked into the padded jack beneath his hauberk.

By all the saints, she wore naught but her chainse!

Noticing the rise and fall of her breasts, he thanked God she was still alive. Nor could he fail to see her nipples, poking enticingly against the cloth of her scant attire. Beneath the smudges of dirt, her beautiful face appeared pale, smooth, like a lustrous pearl.

Alain suppressed an eruption of hot, potent lust.

Who was this temptress, and why had she been prowling these woods at this hour of the night?

One thing he knew: She was no Saxon serf. Though stained with soil and bracken, her garment was woven of fine linen, not the coarse russet worn by geburs. Wrought of gold, the chain and cross about her neck gleamed through the dismal light, and her unbound tresses spilled over the ground like spun sunbeams. Slim and white, her hands appeared soft, unroughened by the rigors of toil. Significantly, her left hand bore no wedding ring.

"Godwin," she murmured. Slowly, she opened her eyes. In the ghostly light, they appeared silver, unfocused, before her lids closed once more.

Who was Godwin? A family member? A lover? Perhaps she had been trysting.

Questions aside, the girl needed help. He must act now. As Alain reached out to assess the injuries to her limbs and skull, his gangly squire leapt forward, grabbing his arm.

"N-nay, Sir Alain! D-Do not touch her." The boy's dark eyes glimmered with terror, and his face appeared livid beneath its splatter of freckles.

"What the devil, Robert?"

The boy released Alain's arm. "S-She may be an evil spirit, come to lead us astray!"

A glance up at his troops convinced Alain the boy was not the only one who harbored apprehensions. The faces of his men seemed taut with fear, their postures rigid with vigilance—and with good reason.

Hemmed in on both sides by the dense growth of fog-shrouded oaks, the Normans stood vulnerable and ripe for ambush from the Saxon rebels they had come to subdue. To make matters worse, as the troops journeyed northward, the tales they had heard of fairies and goblins who stalked the night wreaking havoc on their hapless victims increased their apprehensions.

Alain shook his head in disbelief. The whole north of England reeled with chaos as the Saxon rebels allied with the Danes and Scots, yet his men feared this fragile, unconscious girl.

"Nonsense, lad. Our enemies spread such stories to unnerve us. Likely she is a decoy, placed here by the rebel leaders. In her panic she failed to run from the road quickly enough to elude us. While this woman distracts us, Saxon marauders may be stealing in to slay us." Alain gripped the hilt of his sword. "'Tis flesh and blood adversaries we must fear, lad, not ghosts and dragons.

"Aye," Robert replied, a dubious expression on his face.

"Furthermore," Alain continued, "'twould be criminal to leave her here to die. Now out of the way."

Quickly making the Sign of the Cross, the boy stepped aside.

Annoyed, Alain realized his words had little effect on the squire and the anxious soldiers. In strained silence, his troops gaped at him and the woman. Some crossed themselves; others gestured, warding off the evil eye as they stared at her with suspicion.

Meanwhile, the mist grew ever thicker. Not the hoot of an owl, nor whisper of the wind stirred the trees. Even from his own troops, only an occasional snort from a horse or nervous cough from a campaigner pierced the gloomy darkness.

Did the Saxons skulk nearby?

He had to put courage back into these men—now! With a demonstration of assurance, Alain examined her graceful arms, shapely legs, and lovely head. Satisfied her bones remained intact, he draped his mantle over her and scooped her into his arms, hoping she had no injuries inside.

"You see, Robert, I touched the woman, and I still live."

His tactic succeeded. The suspense abated, the men relaxed their rigid stances, but their drawn faces betrayed bone-aching fatigue. In his pursuit of the Saxons, Alain had pushed his troops beyond endurance.

"Ranulf," he called to his old friend.

Helm in the crook of his arm, the tall, brawny sergeant approached. "Aye, Alain."

"Order the men to bivouac in that clearing for what remains of the night." He nodded to a treeless area just visible through the fog. "If the Saxons attack, at least we shall have room enough to wield our broadswords."

"True, but what do we do with her?" Ranulf bobbed his eyebrows suggestively, a smile on his face.

"Stop jesting. You know we are honor-bound to keep her. 'Twould be wrong to leave her to fate."

"Judging from her looks, she appears to be a noblewoman, though a scantily clad one." Ranulf pushed back his mail coif, revealing his close-cropped pelt of thick, sandy hair. "We could hold her hostage and demand her kin swear fealty to William."

"A premature ambition, Ranulf. The poor girl may not survive." The thought made his soul roil with guilt, for he had caused her injury.

"Were she my wife or kinswoman, I would agree to any terms to ransom her."

Too pragmatic for superstition, Ranulf had an eye for the ladies, especially comely ones, and this girl's body would provoke a monk to lust. "Her people will be in a wrath when they discover she is hurt," Ranulf commented. "They will never believe we did not intentionally injure her."

Alain shrugged "Mayhap. On the other hand, they may not think she is worth the ransom."

"A possibility, but not every family is—"

"Beware, Ranulf!" Alain halted in his tracks, clenching his teeth against an agony so deep, so wide, it snatched his breath and shattered his heart. The sergeant's words raked the embers of searing memories he could not bear to recall but could never forget—no matter how desperately he tried.

"'Tis time to put the past behind you."

"Never!" Alain grated out. How could he allow his would-be murderers to elude heaven's justice?

"Your bitterness shadows your life, darkens your soul, and causes you to trust no one."

"I trust you. Now enough Ranulf!"

"But—"

"We were speaking about the woman," Alain retorted. "Besides, we are not the only raiding party in the vicinity.

Her kin may lie dead already."

"Perhaps that accounts for the reason she wandered alone," Ranulf affirmed gravely. "I have witnessed many poor folk, mazed and roaming aimlessly after their villages were destroyed and their kith and kin slaughtered."

"Mayhap, but I still think the girl may have been spying. We can inquire about her at the convent our maps show is nearby," Alain proposed. "The nuns may know her or her family, and they must reveal the truth."

"After all, 'tis a sin to lie." Ranulf chuckled, breaking the tension as they resumed their walk. "Until then, how shall we care for her? We have no provisions to accommodate a lady. You allow us no camp followers of washerwomen."

Alain looked down at her as he considered the question. Her breathing was even, unlabored—a good sign. Perhaps her fall had just knocked her unconscious, and she would recover. He hoped to God that was the case. "I shall make a place for her next to me."

"Is that seemly?" Mischief twinkled in Ranulf's hazel eyes. In the somber light they appeared the color of slate.

Alain could not suppress a grin. "I suppose not, but at least she will be safe."

"Will she? Who will protect her from you?"

Alain chucked. No matter what the circumstances, his huge sergeant always found some humor in it. "If you must ask, you do not know me as well as you think.

"'Tis because I know you that I ask." Ranulf guffawed.

"Nay. Your success with the fair sex out-distances mine by leagues." Alain stopped. "This spot will do," he announced, choosing a site near the edge of the forest.

Ranulf removed the cloak from the woman and spread it on the ground. Alain placed her on the garment, wiping the soil from her face with edge of the cape before she rolled to her side.

The sergeant moved toward her, A stab of possessiveness jabbing though him, Alain signaled the man to halt. "Nay. I will wrap her," he maintained, covering her with the thick woolen garment.

Ranulf raised his palms and stepped back, his lips curled in a canny smile. "She is all yours, mon ami. Besides, I must post the sentries." Yawning widely, he strode away.

Alain rose and motioned to Robert. The boy brought him a bedroll and spread it on the ground. Staring at the woman with caution, the squire tripped over his own feet, scampering away to take his place near Father Rollo, their sober chaplain. Obviously, the lad wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and the girl.

The boy's superstitious beliefs annoyed Alain. Such behavior affected morale. Moreover, by the time he had reached the squire's age, he had learned a bitter lesson: Human enemies pose a greater threat than spirits.

To the accompaniment of swords clinking, helms clanging, and saddles thwacking, his weary troops settled down for a well-deserved rest.

Alain sank to the thick wool, divesting himself of his weapons and helm, and pushed back his mail coif. He stretched his tired limbs. Slowly, he inhaled the bracing odor of the forest as it mingled with the delicate fragrance the woman's rose scent.

Alain's gaze strayed to the girl's tall, slim form reclining mere inches away from him. Her well-molded cheekbones and chin created a lovely symmetry within the pale oval of her face. Thick, sweeping lashes fringed her lids.

She sighed. Turning on her back, she threw off the cloak. The "v" neck of her chainse gaped open, revealing a substantial portion of her bounteous breasts.

Unsummoned, desire jolted through him like summer lightning. His manhood burgeoned as he fought the urge to caress those white, breasts, and lave her still-erect nipples. Against all logic, his gaze fell to the girl's hands to convince himself once again that her long, tapered fingers wore no rings.

A virgin? The idea caused him to want her even more. Balling his fists in frustration, he turned from the sight of her body, attempting to calm his fierce need.

If her family still lived, would they ransom her? Part of him loathed to relinquish custody. Another part hoped they loved her enough to do so.

His kin had not acted so kindly. The memory caused his heart to race as he relived the terror of helpless boy fleeing from a diabolical killer. His fury combusted, and Alain tore the tussock of wet grass growing near the edge of his blanket up by the roots.

The damsel stirred, and he turned his attention to her once more. Her heart-shaped lips parted. How would that lush mouth taste? Alain deeply regretted that the girl was his foe. Though his lust raged, he must never forget that reality. To do so assured his downfall, and he needed all his strength, wit, and energy to outmaneuver the enemy and stay alive.

Long denied, sleep induced Alain to close his eyes. A vision of the woman loomed before him. The distinctive scent of her perfume lingered in the air, conjuring the image of a dew-washed rose veiled with mist.

***

Gwyneth's shoulder ached miserably, and her bed, so cozy and soft when she had fallen asleep, felt hard and damp. Worsening matters, one of her legs had gone numb and felt as if a thousand needles were pricking it. She moved the limb, and the pins jabbed more vigorously.

She opened her lids. Thick mist clouded her vision. Was she still dreaming? Gwyneth shook her head to clear the cobwebs of confusion. Slowly, awareness dawned. This was not her bedchamber in the abbey's guesthouse. Where was she?

She struggled to sit up. Suddenly, her focus sharpened to full consciousness, and her breath caught in her throat.

By St. Cuthbert! Just inches away, a huge, dark-haired, Norman knight slept peacefully! Peering through the blanket of vapor, she discerned the shapes of other men, some of whom snored vigorously. Clothed in hauberks, they appeared fierce even in slumber with their helms and weapons close beside them.

Holy Mother of God, they held her prisoner!

Fear seized her as she surmised a whole contingent of warriors, obscured by the fog, lurked in the encampment. Sentinels, no doubt, kept a silent vigil, and she squinted through the haze, trying to locate their posts.

Why did this misfortune befall her? That is a stupid question, Gwyneth, for you know the answer too well. How many times since childhood had she retired for the night only to wake in an unfamiliar place with no notion of how she arrived there?

These nocturnal strolls occurred often and with dangerous consequences. One morning she woke to find herself covered with bruises at the bottom of a deep pit. The fall had not even roused her when it happened. On another occasion, Aelveva, her maid, once found her on the edge of a steep cliff.

Later, the distraught woman explained that she was able to urge Gwyneth away but had failed to awaken her from her deep, trance-like state.

Though those adventures had been dangerous, the result of her sleepwalking this night had resulted in total disaster. Rape and murder posed distinct possibilities. Or worse. The Normans had seen her sleepwalking! Surely they had concluded she was a witch and had captured her for trial and execution.

Gwyneth and her father, Thegn Leofric of Wykston, lived with that fear for years. Hadn't he and her aunt, the abbess, taken drastic steps to protect her? Now she had eluded Aelveva's watch, and destroyed all their careful plans.

Gwyneth clapped her hands to her mouth, stifling a sob. The ghastly image of a watery death by drowning, the penalty for witchcraft, flooded her thoughts. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them back.

She had no time for panic. Clear thought and decisive action must prevail if she wished to survive. She had to flee from this place—immediately.

Furthermore, these troops likely marched on a search and destroy mission, ordered to stamp out the last vestiges of revolt. They would pass by Wykston, her father's estate. She must warn him! Many lives depended on it, including her own.

Her body shook uncontrollably, and her heart beat like the wings of a startled bird. Frantically, she rubbed her prickling leg, attempting to restore normal sensation to it. All the while, her gaze remained riveted on the finely chiseled features of the knight, fearing to wake him.

She thanked heaven the damp forest floor would not betray her to the sentries by the crackle of dry leaves or the snap of a desiccated twig under her feet. Pausing, she squinted, straining unsuccessfully to locate the guards. She hardly dared to breathe as she hiked up the skirt of her chainse as best she could and crawled through the cloudy vapor, praying to elude detection.

Assured she had covered sufficient distance to avoid alerting the watch, Gwyneth stood and began to run. With any luck, she hoped to arrive back at the abbey, her new home, before the abbess and Aelveva discovered she had left. From there she'd ride a swift horse to Wykston.

Or would she? Panic seized her. Where was she? Hidden by fog, no familiar landmarks were visible. How far had she walked in her sleep? Perhaps the knight taken her to a place leagues away.

As she sprinted through the gloomy woods, Gwyneth could hardly see a foot ahead of her, for the farther she ventured, the denser the mist became. Her lungs burned and Gwyneth felt they would burst. To complicate matters, a sharp pain spiked her side, matching the one in her shoulder.

What was that sound she heard? Instinctively, she looked back over her shoulder. Suddenly, she crashed into an iron-hard mass.

"Oooohhh!" she squealed. Rebounding back, she fell flat on her bottom. Her ears buzzed. The dark trees spun round her, fading to gray as they diffused into the mist like ink in water.

"'Tis gratifying to see you've made such a miraculous recovery." The sound of a rich baritone voice drifted down from above her. Somehow his strange statement halted her spiraling descent into the sickening vertigo.

Recovery? Had she hurt herself? Her shoulder did ache terribly, and her back felt stiff.

"Where do you go in such haste, my lady?"

As her blurred vision cleared, her gaze focused on a large pair of leather shoes, and traveled up the long, crisscrossed leggings, to the hauberk, which covered the man from his knees to his thick neck. Stunned, Gwyneth stared up into the face of the Norman knight who had slept by her side but a short time before.

An icy shiver rippled through her. His peaceful expression gone, his eyes seemed cold, stormy—like the sea in winter. Feet apart, arms akimbo, he stood directly in front of her, his square jaw set with resolution, the nostrils of his fine, straight nose flared, his full, well-carved lips unsmiling.

He bent, his fingers closing around her wrist as he hauled her up. Trapped like a hare in the talons of a hawk, Gwyneth felt her unsteady knees wobble beneath her weight.

"I asked you a question, my lady."

"I-I am lost, sir," she stuttered, pretending innocence of the fact that she had been his prisoner.

His relentless gaze raked her from head to toe. "I shall accompany you back to our camp where you will be safe."

"Oh, nay, sir. If you allow me to pass, I shall try to find my way home," she replied, attempting to break free of him.

The knight held her fast and stared into her eyes. "I think not, my lady. Alone, here, you may fall into danger."

What greater peril could she encounter than a Norman who likely suspected her of witchcraft? With slight hope of eluding him again, her mind searched desperately for some excuse to liberate herself. "I-I need to relieve myself."

"Go behind that bush, lady. I advise you, though. Entertain no thoughts of running off." He nodded toward a bushy yew, darkly outlined in the lapping sea of white haze. "I would not want you to get lost again in this mist."

His hypocrisy sparked her ire. Despite her fear, Gwyneth bit back a retort and lowered her lids, lest he see the fury in her eyes. She struggled to rein in her emotions and keep a clear head. If she convinced the knight she was a docile, woman, he would drop his guard and present her with another chance to flee.

He released her, nudging her toward a nearby yew. Dare she dart off in the opposite direction or wait for a better opportunity? The forest loomed dark, hazy. Escape was still possible, but her captor impressed her as one who would pursue his quarry to the death—hers.

She had just attempted to run and failed. Still, a better occasion may not present itself, and Gwyneth refused to go to her death submissively. If she must die, she would go down battling to the end.

Inching away, Gwyneth heard the man admonish, "'Twould be well to hurry, lady."

"Your indulgence for a moment longer, sir, " she begged as she loped off through the enveloping fog.

Suddenly her chainse caught on a holly, and the thorns penetrated the linen, scratching the flesh her on her hip. Gwyneth gulped back a cry.

A moment later, his powerful arm seized her waist, and the Norman pulled her full length against his rock-hard body. A finger under her chin, he tilted her head back, obliging her to meet his burning gaze.

"Your treachery disappoints me, my lady, but 'twas not unexpected. I may not see you, but I detect your location from the sound of your movements, the swirl of the mist, and the scent of your perfume. Waste no more time with fruitless attempts at flight. You will return with me to camp."

His voice sounded neither gruff nor angry, but calm, tempered, controlled. Holding her close, he took care not to crush her body. Though he looked strong enough to snap her neck like rotten stick, he used just enough pressure to restrain her.

She pulled back, and he allowed her to break his hold. Then cupping her elbow, the towering knight marched her back toward the encampment.

Mother of heaven! Did a witch's death await her? Not quite yet. First, the knight must deliver her to the authorities and then hurl the accusation. Although Gwyneth had not formulated a specific plan yet, she fully intended to make those tasks impossible for him.

***

Chapter 2

"Alain," a resonant voice called through the fog.

"Aye, Ranulf. We are here."

Gwyneth watched the knight's hulking friend emerge from the floating mist.

"So you found her." The soldier stopped and stuck the tip of his sword into the ground, resting both hands on it.

"Our guest is disinclined to accept our hospitality." Sir Alain's tone oozed with sarcasm.

The man, Ranulf, grinned widely. "We must protect our little sparrow more carefully, else she will fall prey to a fierce falcon."

Hospitality? Protect? How dare these Normans jest so cruelly!

Flanked by the huge warriors, Gwyneth reached her former resting place. Back where she started, the possibility of torture and death confronted her.

Alain stepped in front of her. "Lady, I would know who ordered you here."

"No one, sir," she answered, every fiber of her body tense with anxiety.

"So you volunteered to come?"

"Volunteered?" Gwyneth nervously twisted the free end of her girdle. "For what, sir?"

"Come now, lady. Do not sham innocence with me." He stepped closer to her. "You came here to spy on us. No doubt you were on your way to report our position to the rebels when I apprehended you."

"A preposterous supposition!" Gwyneth snapped back.

Undeterred, Sir Alain continued, "Let me refresh your memory. You obviously heard our approach but miscalculated our distance because of the fog. When you did see us, 'twas too late. Fear paralyzed you, and you could not run for cover. Unfortunately, I accidentally knocked you unconscious."

So that was why she felt sore. More importantly, the Norman did not realize she had been sleepwalking. Her secret, so carefully guarded by her loved ones, remained safe. The ordeals of torture and death did not threaten imminently.

Relief flooding through her, Gwyneth closed her eyes and exhaled a pent-up breath.

Still, many problems confronted her. She must alert her father of the Norman advance. Moreover, she must hide her identity, or the knight would hold her hostage, forcing her father to surrender. Nor could she implicate the nuns at the abbey, for he may lay waste to it.

Furthermore, the knight could execute her for spying! Somehow she must convince him she neither pose a danger nor was of any value to him. Then perhaps he would free her.

"Nay, sir. I had no such intention." The belt slipped from her fingers, and Gwyneth took a step back from him.

"You lie." He delivered the accusation in a bland voice as if he had simply commented on the weather. Only his hand, suddenly clutching the hilt of his sword, betrayed his annoyance.

The man knew his strength; he need not prove it through displays of brutality. She surmised, though, that when his temper finally did fulminate, it would prove horrific to behold. She had no wish to witness it.

Antagonizing him would only worsen her situation so she swallowed back the riposte on the tip of her tongue.

"Nay. I do not, sir." She forced her tone to match his.

Alain rocked back on his heels, crossing his arms over his massive chest. "Show me one Saxon capable of speaking the truth, lady."

Again her anger flared, but the responsibility to her people, whose very lives she now held in her hands, plus the knowledge that he could hang her as a spy, tamped down her fury, and Gwyneth managed to keep a civil tongue in her head.

She shrugged her shoulders and turned her palms upward. "Then why interrogate me, my lord, if you already conclude I shall answer you falsely?"

He turned toward Ranulf. "Twould seem our guest has the keen logic of a philosopher."

The big sergeant smiled. "I know little of such subjects, but the lady's wit matches her beauty."

Alain glared at him then turned back to her. "You deny spying or acting as a decoy, yet you cavort about the woods alone, dressed in that manner...or should I say undressed?" His gaze raked her. "Perhaps you were trysting with a lover."

How she wished his last supposition were true. She would give anything to be a normal woman, but the sleepwalking condition had plagued her for many years, along with other terrible fears. Because of the malady, her father had forbid her to marry even though she was his only heir. Leofric feared that when Gwyneth's husband discovered her secret, the man would denounce her as a witch.

"Alain, now that you found her, I'll retire. My tired bones crave rest," Ranulf announced.

The knight nodded and dismissed the sergeant. Turning his attention to Gwyneth once more, he smiled sardonically, revealing his white, even teeth. "Are the Saxons so desperate they employ women to spy for them, or were you simply acting as a decoy?"

By St. Cuthbert and all the saints of the north, his goading infuriated her. Arms stiff by her sides, fists balled, she replied, "Nay, sir. My people command sufficient strength of arms and a surfeit of courage. They need no skullduggery to attain their goals."

Alain leaned in closer to her. "Doubtless, you are a member of Thegn Leofric's household. My patrols tell me his manor is nearby."

Gwyneth shrank back from him and damned her careless tongue. "I-I do not live with the thegn." She wiped her sweaty palms on the skirt of her chainse.

She spoke the truth. For months she had resided at the Benedictine abbey. The brilliant abbess, her maternal aunt, had often allowed her to stay there for periods of time since Gwyneth was a child and began sleepwalking.

Convinced that Gwyneth's problems were not the work of Satan, but the sign of a troubled heart, the powerful Mother Clotilde, Leofric, and dear Aelveva formulated a plan to protect her—a scheme to save her life but rob her of her heart's desire.

"So you do not reside with the thegn?" He arched a dark, quizzical eyebrow.

She shook her head. "Nay." she croaked out, her tongue sticking to the roof of her dry mouth.

"My reconnaissance informs me that the only other place of note in this vicinity is a Benedictine convent." He paced around her in a slow circle, his gaze perusing her body. "But you are certainly no nun."

The dim light accentuated the sharp planes and angles of his even features as his close inspection and the intense glow in his eyes caused her whole body to tremble. Feeling naked, she wished for an overtunic with which to cover her body.

"Why do you traipse about the forest in naught but your chainse when you should be asleep in your father's house, or is it your husband's bed you have quit? Mayhap he would give a fine price for your return." He casually picked up her hand and examined it. "But you wear no wedding ring."

She yanked her fingers away, and the words blurted forth before she could restrain herself. "I have no husband, sir."

"A virgin then?" He stroked his strong jaw. "So your hoydenish ways go unappreciated by your Saxon noblemen."

Gwyneth willed away her tears as the knight's jibe thrust deeply into its mark. Denied a husband and children by her malady, she dedicated her life to the people of Wykston. Her dream was to build a fine infirmary to heal the sick.

When her father died, she planned to administer Wykston from behind convent walls, living as a lay person. Upon her demise, the estate would escheat to the crown.

"That much is true, or you would not appear so flustered," he quipped, smiling.

Somewhere in the distance, a horse whinnied, and Gwyneth noticed some of the men had awakened. Slowly, they sat up and stared at her. Tears of humiliation glutted her throat, and Gwyneth gulped, swallowing them back. By God, they would not see her cry!

"What is your name, my lady?"

"I ask you the same question, sir knight." She boldly met his gaze.

"A careless omission on my part. After all, we've not been properly introduced. I am Sir Alain Fitz de Personne, bastard knight, sworn to my liege lord, King William." Arm outstretched, he bent into sweeping bow. The frank reference to his base birth shocked Gwyneth. And what a strange name! Sir Alain, Son of Anyone.

"Now, reciprocate the introduction, my lady." His gaze burned into hers.

Would a small concession cause him to cease his harassment?

"I-I am called Gwyneth." She bit her lip to keep it from trembling.

"From where? From whose house do you come?"

She peered up at him, resolved to remain silent.

"Maybe you do not come from home, but from a tryst. Who is Godwin?"

Throes of torment racked her heart. Swallowing hard, she quelled the torrent of tears stinging behind her eyes.

Sir Alain continued to stare at her, expecting an answer.

She expelled a shaky breath. "I will not speak of him," she answered, trying to hide the torture her that had made her life a living hell.

"So be it, Lady Gwyneth. "Your counsel is of no great import at present. Sooner or later, I shall have my answers...all of them." He swept out his arm, gesturing her to recline.

No other choice available to her for the moment, Gwyneth descended to the cloak. She lay on her side, expecting him to truss her up like a plucked partridge. Instead, the man audaciously reclined next to her, spoon fashion.

She jerked up to sitting position. "Audacious knave. How dare you!" Obviously, pretending to be docile was not working to her advantage.

He propped himself up on his forearms as amusement filled his eyes as a slow smile spread over his face. "My intent is merely to assure myself that you will not quit this place again."

"Then bind me and leave me to sleep alone." Gwyneth demanded, easing away from him.

He reached out and clasped her wrist, ending her withdrawal. "Nay. That plan is faulty. You will only escape the fetters and flee again. Then I shall be forced to recapture you."

His confidence irked her. She jerked her wrist from his grasp. "That is an arrogant assumption."

His gaze, deadly serious, met hers. "I usually achieve my goals, my lady, and you will discover I seldom commit the same tactical error twice."

"Then I hope you possess of a number of strategies as I intend to test them all." The fight instinct rallying hot in her, she tried to pull away, but he held her in his unyielding grasp. "Now release me at once."

"Do not worry, my lady. I do not ravish women. I never venture into that territory uninvited, for I much prefer a willing partner."

She closed her eyes to blot out the stares of the soldiers who watched her. Just being alone in the company of these men, she was compromised beyond redemption, even though she remained chaste.

Yet, with the fate of her people hanging in the balance, her reputation seemed unimportant. Sacrificing all propriety, for a small chance to put the Norman off his guard and permit her to escape, was well worth the price she must pay.

"You give me little choice but to obey your commands, sir."

"I warn you," the knight whispered, releasing her, "forget any design to slay me with my own sword as I sleep."

Stunned, Gwyneth stared into his face.

He raised his dark eyebrows. "Do you deny the thought occurred to you?"

"Emphatically! But you do not believe my words, sir knight. Moments ago, you asked me to show you a Saxon capable of speaking the truth. But, now that you mention it, the idea of disposing you does have some merit."

"So you would kill me!" His eyes burned with condemnation. "Since you refuse to credit my denial, I leave you to ponder my intentions." Leaving him with a slack jaw, Gwyneth jerked her wrist free, lay down, and rolled to her side.

Suddenly, like a bright star on the distant horizon, an idea glimmered in her mind. Anger flowered into hope. He held her captive, but she refused to be his victim.

***

Adrift between sleep and wakefulness, Alain felt a soft, warm bundle nestled in his arms. The fragrance of roses wafted to his nostrils. Blissfully afloat, he drifted into somnolence. Slowly, like yarn slipping from its needles, the dark, convoluted labyrinth of his mind unraveled, relinquishing its secrets.

The years slipped away, and he was eighteen again. His spurs newly won, Alain rode to Caen to offer his sword to William, duke of Normandy.

The radiance of the October sun filtered through the colorful foliage, and his breath caught in his throat when he spied the woman. Shepherding a flock of fat sheep, she stood, like a vision, by the crystal waters of a brook. As she looked up at him, her silver-gray eyes smoldered with seduction. An autumn breeze whirled a flutter of ruby and topaz leaves around the beauty, dislodging her headraile, and unfurling her locks of shimmering gold.

Enthralled, Alain dismounted. The woman took his hand, leading him deeper into the tall nave of the forest, and his randy body responded mightily to her ethereal beauty. Fascinated, he could not tear his gaze from the enchantress as she discarded her russet overtunic and snowy chainse. Quickly shedding his own garb, he urged her to join him on the soft patch of cool moss beneath the spreading branches of a copper beech.

The wild-strawberry taste of her mouth affected him like potent wine, and his senses reeled as her cream-white body twined about him like a luxuriant pelt of ermine. Alain needed the affection, craved it as a starved man hungers for food. His caresses became urgent, demanding, as he reached to fulfill the soul-deep yearning.

But something went awry! She pulled away from him. Without warning, a sharp pain stabbed his ribs. He bolted upright to full consciousness, reaching for his weapon.

Gwyneth's indignant face, nose-to-nose with his, confronted him. Her eyes were silver, and her flaxen tresses spilled over her shoulders, pooling like liquid sunlight in her lap as she sat before him. The fog dissipated, and bathed in the rosy light of dawn, she appeared even more beautiful than she had last night, enveloped in the gauzy, nocturnal mist.

"Why did you strike me?" he demanded, frustrated that she had interrupted his lovely reverie.

She crossed her arms over her breasts and leaned back from him. "If you must ask, you have little knowledge of what is proper between a knight and a lady, sir."

Alain realized that while asleep he had been embracing her. This Saxon had been the object of his desire. To lust after this woman invited disaster. Though lovely beyond compare, Gwyneth was still his enemy.

"So you admit you are a lady."

Still glaring at him, she did not reply.

He began to feel somewhat embarrassed by his behavior and his hand dropped from the hilt of his sword. "Pardon me, I must have been dreaming."

"A feeble excuse for taking advantage of a helpless maid." She drew his heavy cloak over herself.

Alain rubbed his side. "Helpless? From the blow you delivered, I sincerely doubt it, my lady. As to the state of your maidenhead, I take your word...until you invite me to do otherwise." Watching her cheeks stain deep pink, he lost the battle to the smile tugging at his lips.

"Sir, your preposterous conversation equals your outrageous behavior." Her chin lifted in rebellion.

"As does yours, my lady." He stood. "Did you not consider that half asleep I could have mistakenly slain you for your unwarranted attack?"

"'Twas not unwarranted but perfectly justified." She averted her gaze, raking back her disheveled hair from her face.

The golden mass prompted an unbidden vision of Gwyneth and him, naked and wrapped in the cocoon of those silken strands, to flash into his mind's eye. He needed to get away from her, to focus his mind on the business at hand.

"Ranulf!" he shouted, as he marched off a few paces.

The man bounded toward them. "Aye, Alain.

"Order the men to rise and break their fasts. We must resume our journey."

Ranulf's gaze traveled from his friend's face to Gwyneth's. A canny smile curved his lips.

Alain remained deadly serious. "I wish the order given before we reach our dotage, mon ami."

The huge bear of a man tossed back his head and laughed. "Immediately," he answered as he marched off.

Moments later, a horn blasted reveille, shattering the sylvan tranquillity of the camp. A chorus of groans, punctuated by the clang of weapons, erupted from the troops as the men rose and reached for their swords and helms.

Gwyneth stood. The cloak gaped open as she stretched her finely boned limbs. Alain's attention involuntarily fastened on the bodice of her chainse as it tightened over the curves of her breasts. Desire consumed him with the speed of a firestorm. He felt grateful his hauberk hid his powerful reaction.

Robert skittered to them. The lad set their basket of rations on the ground and avoided venturing closer to the female than necessary. Then he scurried off like a frightened mouse. The other men, with the exception of Ranulf, also afforded her a wide girth.

Alain shook his head in disbelief. Blinded by superstition, his troops still thought she was some unearthly spirit instead of a clever spy. Perhaps that was fortunate. She could not use her beauty to gull them into helping her escape.

Alain turned toward her and noticed the brownish-red splotch on the skirt of her chainse. He approached her, pointing to the stain. "What happened?"

"Last night I collided with a thorny bush." She pulled the cloak over the spot of blood. "'Tis but a scratch and warrants no concern, sir knight."

He drew away her hand. Beneath his fingers her skin felt like precious sendal from the Orient, and its smooth texture made him hunger to touch more of her. In languorous circles, his thumb caressed the pale flesh of her slim wrist. Delighted, he watched her pupils dilate and her breasts heave as she drew in a deep breath.

He released her hand and lifted the mantle, inspecting the blot. "Are you certain? I would not want the wound to fester."

"You can afford to let a prisoner die."

"You think me that monstrous?" he teased, smiling.

She raised her well-arched eyebrows. "Convince me otherwise, sir. Allow me go to yon stream and wash the cut."

"Let the water be brought here. Better still, I have a soothing ointment. Shall I summon Robert to retrieve it," he suggested, admiring the golden ringlets at her temples.

She stepped back, her large, silver-gray eyes widening. "Surely you cannot believe I would disrobe in front of all these men!"

"I've never been able to predict what a woman may do, my lady." He chuckled at the indignant expression covering her face. "If you wish, Ranulf and I will escort you into the woods and will shield your modesty with our mantles."

"And who would safeguard me from your peeping eyes?" She drew her cloak tighter.

"Our sworn oath to protect and defend ladies." He sat and crossed his legs.

"I prefer to tend the wound myself." She tossed her head, and her shiny mane, flipped behind her shoulders. "Permit me to go to the brook."

"I am afraid I cannot allow that." Alain took hold of her hand again, encouraging her gently to sit beside him. He lifted a small loaf from the pannier and broke it in half. "You run when I let my guard down," he replied, offering her a chunk of bread as he took a bit from his portion.

She took the food. "As a prisoner, 'tis my duty to flee should the opportunity arise."

Shocked by her candor, he choked on the bread. He grabbed up his wineskin and squirted a stream of liquid into his mouth. Unfortunately, the wine had gone sour. Still shuddering from the vinegary taste, he wiped his mouth on the large, linen napkin. He had to give the damsel credit; she had courage to spare.

The simple meal finished in silence, he quit her side and strode to Ranulf. "Give the order to decamp. We head for the abbey immediately. We must gather information."

"Doubtless, about the woman." The sergeant adjusted his mail coif up over his short-cropped, hair.

"Aye, and other things as well." Alain repeated Ranulf's gesture.

His sergeant stared toward the girl. Alain felt uneasy. Women loved Ranulf—all women, regardless of age. Moreover, the man loved them in return. Nevertheless, Alain hid the jealously that devoured him.

"We have no horse for her," Ranulf stated.

Feigning indifference, Alain folded his arms over his chest. "'Tis obvious she must ride with one of us since everyone else seems wary of her." Though he did not want the woman to ride with anyone but him, he knew he could not endure the sweet torture of her pliant body so close to his and still maintain the vigilance necessary to lead his men. "Do you offer to share your mount, Ranulf?"

"With pleasure." The sergeant smiled roguishly, bobbing his eyebrows.

Robert approached with Rampage on a tether. Alain accepted the reins from the boy, and the squire took his leave.

"Would you show such eagerness if the maid were less comely, Ranulf?" Unamused by his companion's enthusiasm, he stepped into the stirrup and mounted his horse.

Ranulf stroked the animal's muzzle and looked up at him. "Oh, so you have noticed."

"I am not blind yet, mon ami. The woman may ride with you, but the proprieties must be observed."

"Meaning that I am to keep my rod in my braies." The big, brawny man chuckled good-naturedly.

His mood as serious as a hanging judge, Alain leaned forward on his stallion's neck. "Precisely," he enunciated softly. "She is of no value to us without her honor."

"Then 'tis fortunate the girl repulsed your advances this morning, else we would have had to forfeit a large ransom," Ranulf teased wickedly.

Alain bolted up ramrod straight in the saddle. "I was dreaming."

Ranulf stepped back and nodded. "Oh, I agree. The lass is a dream, a lovely one."

Alain wheeled his horse around. "You know what I mean, man."

"Hmmm." Ranulf nodded and put a finger to his temple, in mock contemplation. "You are about to succumb to her feminine charms?"

"Never. I leave those amorous adventures to you."

Alain urged his steed to a trot. Half way down the column of men, he glanced over his shoulder and grudgingly watched as Gwyneth, now mounted behind Ranulf, leaned against his broad back.

Dispelling the memory of her soft curves molding to his body when he lay next to her, Alain led his troops toward the abbey.

***

"Are you comfortable, Lady Gwyneth?" Ranulf called back to her.

"Aye, sir," she responded, holding tightly to his muscular middle.

"Should you need rest, my lady, let me know. I shall rein in."

"Thank you, sergeant."

Would it be foolhardy to ask the man to stop so she could attempt another escape? She must warn Leofric, but chances to flee from the Normans now were nil. The concealing cloak of mist had dissipated. Even when the fog rolled in at its thickest, she had failed to evade her captors. Now, in broad daylight, surrounded by enemies who watched her every move, she may well lead her foes straight to her home as she knew this area so well.

Fortunately, she had not wandered far last night, and the abbey stood beyond the next hill. Once inside those walls, Gwyneth had her choice of hiding places until she found an opportunity to slip away. Failing that, Mother Clotilde could dispatch a lay servant to Wykston. The best strategy was to leave by herself so the knight could not use her as a hostage.

A hideous thought paralyzed her. Suppose she failed to warn her father in time. She shuddered, imagining Leofric dead or possibly branded a traitor and condemned to hang. The crown would seize Wykston; its few survivors would be turned out to starve, replaced by Normans.

The opportunity would prove ripe for the vile Wulfstan of Braeton Hall to step in. Pleading his loyalty, he would petition William to hold Wykston in the king's name. The perfidious thegn had always wanted her father's lands.

Although he hated the Normans, Wulfstan pretended neutrality and waited patiently until he was sure which side would win. Then he would ally with the victors.

Gwyneth fervently prayed he would not ask for her hand again. Because of her strange condition, her father rejected all her suitors, but she knew Leofric would never agree to the marriage under the best of circumstances since Wulfstan's honor remained questionable. Gwyneth trembled at the prospect of wedding the man.

"Lady, are you all right? I can feel you shaking," Ranulf called back to her.

"Aye," Gwyneth answered, as she bolstered her resolve to flee her captors. Otherwise, all was lost.

Suddenly, a sharp clang, like the sound of a stone striking metal, burst in her ears.

Ranulf toppled from his destrier, dragging her with him. Her scream rent the air. Dazed and helpless, she lay on the ground, her eyes squeezed tight as her breath whooshed from her lungs.

***

Chapter 3

"Quick," Alain shouted, "in the underbrush to the left."

The breath knocked from her lungs, she felt the earth shake beneath her as horses' hooves pounded the turf. She opened her eyes to see Ranulf sit up as the horses lunged away.

"My lady, are you hurt?" His hazel eyes held a worried look.

"I-I think not." She gulped in a big breath of air. "Just startled."

He braced her back with his strong arm and carefully lifted her to sitting position.

"What happened, sergeant?"

Ranulf rose and walked to where his dislodged helm lay. As he stooped to pick the metal headgear, Gwyneth saw a large dent in its side.

His finger probed the indentation in the iron. "I'd wager a year's wages that a stone from a sling hit me."

"I'd wager two," Alain agreed as he reined in his mount.

The words hardly uttered from his mouth, one of the Normans rode forth with a child slung face down across the front of his saddle like a sack of flour.

Holy Mother of God! Even from a distance, Gwyneth saw his brilliant, red hair and recognized him.

The rider held up the boy by the neck of his russet tunic, and Gwyneth almost fainted. The captor dropped Aelveva's eight year old son at Alain's feet. She winced, and tears sprang to her eyes as the lad cried out in pain.

"Cut the little bastard's hands off so he never again can raise a weapon against his betters," one of the men yelled.

A metal blade flashed in the sun. A short, swarthy man stepped toward the boy, his long sword poised, ready to strike. Jumping to her feet, she threw herself between the child and the vile Norman. "In the name of Christ's blood, have mercy." Her arms wrapped tightly around the whimpering child, her face wet with tears, she looked up at Alain. "I beg you, sir. Do not maim the boy for life!"

"Is the boy kin to you?" Alain peered at her.

"Nay, but he is just a child, sir. Can you not show him mercy?"

The knight remained mute, the look in his eyes unreadable. Torn asunder, Gwyneth deliberated whether or not to reveal her identity and promise payment to save little Garth. Oh, if she but had some silver coins! Nervously, she put her hand to her heart, feeling her treasured Celtic cross suspended there. She slipped the holy symbol from her neck.

"I give you this cross in exchange for the damages the boy caused." She extended her shaking hand, the beautifully wrought chain and cross dangling from her fingers. "It comes from Dublin. 'Tis a valuable piece, and will more than pay for the helm."

Sir Alain dismounted. "Keep your jewelry, Lady Gwyneth. Henri, put up your weapon. I do not wreak violence upon children." He turned, glaring at the men. "Nor do I allow anyone else to do so as you all know well.

"But the Saxon cub could have killed Ranulf," Henri protested.

"Enough," Alain roared.

The man resheathed his sword and remounted.

Alain trod to the boy. Dropping to his powerful haunches, he took a handkerchief from his hauberk and reached out to wipe the child's tears.

The child jumped back. "Let me go! Let me go!"

Alain released him as Garth turned to Gwyneth.

"Sir, I beseech you. He is frightened," she pleaded, enfolding her arms about the boy once again.

"I know. He should be. He committed a serious offense."

The knight's voice sounded grave, but his eyes held a soft expression now.

"What is your name, boy?"

Gwyneth held her breath, fearing Garth would reveal his mother, Aelveva, was her maid. His little, round chin trembled, his big, green eyes, so like his mother's, widened, but he said nothing. Still, she felt his sturdy, little body trembling with terror.

"Another silent Saxon, Ranulf." Sir Alain pulled a wry face.

Gwyneth closed her eyes and exhaled in relief as she heard the sergeant laugh.

"The puzzle will not be difficult to solve," Alain commented. "The little imp looks too clean and well fed to be an abandoned child. Since the abbey is the only place close by, he must belong there. Mayhap he is a servant's child or a foundling the nuns have taken in. In any case we'll be at the convent soon, and the nuns will answer our questions.

"Your face is dirty, lad. Hold still and show me how brave you can be." Alain dabbed the smudges from the boy's chubby, pink cheeks. "You must look presentable when you ask pardon of those you have put in danger."

Sir Alain looked up at Gwyneth. Suddenly, her heart warmed to the knight for the mercy he showed to the lad. Another Norman would have cut off the boy's hands and left him to bleed to death. At once, the man rose a hundredfold in her estimation. Alain's gaze held hers, and Gwyneth stood transfixed by the splendor of his violet-blue eyes. For a moment, she held her breath, affected by the undeniable maleness he exuded. Her surroundings seem to fade away as her pulse leapt. Every detail of his being branded itself into her brain. The sudden awareness of him as a man rather than her enemy kindled an intense longing. A hard spasm clenched in her abdomen, and she gasped for air.

Breaking the visual contact with her, he admonished the child. "How would you have felt had you killed this lady and the kind sergeant who rode with her?"

Garth's round eyes swam with tears.

"'Tis not a manly thing to attack in stealth." Alain stood. "Now you must seek their pardon."

"I-I am sorry, my lady. I beg your pardon, sergeant." He wiped away his tears, then blew his snubbed, freckled nose on the handkerchief Alain gave him.

Ranulf chuckled as he smiled down at the boy. "You've a good aim, lad. Next time, though, I'd be grateful if you choose another target."

"Well done." Alain patted Garth's head. 'Tis a brave person who can apologize. Nevertheless, you must make amends, for what you did was wrong, lad."

"W-What would you have me do?" The child's eyes renewed their look of fear.

"Since the sergeant and the lady were the ones injured, you must ask them when we arrive at the abbey. In the meantime you'll ride with me."

The child's wary gaze traveled from Sir Alain's face then to hers. Terrified the boy would reveal all, Gwyneth prayed he would hold his tongue.

***

Astride his stallion, the child straddled in front of him, Alain raised his hand, bringing the troops behind him to a halt. Below them, the abbey lay at the foot of the hill, nestled like a rich plum in the lush bowl of the valley. Unlike the typical Saxon, thatched, wooden-frame dwellings, the buildings within the enclave were constructed of red sandstone and shingled with slate. Outside the long, high walls, golden waves of ripe grain swayed in the gentle breeze as men with scythes reaped the harvest. A flock of fleecy sheep grazed leisurely on the hillside, which descended in soft, green undulations to a silver stream meandering lazily toward the ocean. A herd of cows peacefully chewed their cud in the sunny meadow.

"'Tis a rich community," Robert remarked.

Alain turned in his saddle toward the squire. "Aye, lad. 'Twas likely established hundreds of years ago. Mayhap since Saint Augustine came to Britain."

"Shall I ride ahead and inform the sisters we wish hospitality?" Robert's dark eyes gleamed with anticipation.

Alain wanted to confront the rebels soon. Once he gathered his information, he intended to leave, but the brief respite in the damp field did not greatly benefit the men. Refreshed, his troops would fight with more vigor and ferocity.

"Would you like to go with him, little Saxon?" Alain asked the child.

The child did not turn in the saddle to look at him. He simply shook his head and patted Rampage's black neck.

Alain assumed the little boy was enjoying his ride. "Very well, stay. We shall arrive soon enough. Robert, you may tell Ranulf to pass the order down the line that we will accept the abbey's hospitality for the night."

A smile on his face, the boy rode off.

Turning his mount and riding down the line, Alain noticed the men wore cheerful expressions. Even Father Rollo's lined, serious face beamed with pleasure under the snowy nimbus of his tonsured hair.

The prospect of a warm bath, and the texture of clean, fragrant linen next to his skin lifted Alain's spirits as well. After weeks of sleeping on the cold, hard ground, the anticipation of a comfortable bed in the abbey guest house conjured up the delightful image of a warm, winsome wench with whom to share the accommodation—a female who possessed the face and form of the lovely, golden-hair Saxon.

Unfortunately, a convent was not the proper place to ease his manly needs, nor was Gwyneth the right woman.

He scanned the line of cavalry to the rear, seeking her out. Riding behind Ranulf, her eyes closed, she appeared untroubled by the close contact with his friend. Yet, she fought my caresses like a wildcat.

Determined to blot all thought of her from his mind, Alain spurred Rampage toward Father Rollo, urging his mount neck-and-neck with the chaplain's beast just as Gwyneth and Ranulf rode from behind into view.

As the elderly priest gazed at the lovely blond, a look of suspicion flickered over his dour face. "Have a care, my son." The old man crossed himself. "That woman seems strange. She could be dangerous, in league with the devil."

"Of course she is dangerous, father. The lady is a Saxon spy," Alain declared as he spurred his animal away from the priest to the head of the column. From there he led his men through the open gate of the abbey.

He reined in and dismounted on the cobble-stoned courtyard directly in front of the ancient Romansque church. He swung the boy from the saddle. "Bide a moment, lad." Alain took the child's hand and made a quick appraisal of the enclave.

The cloisters, abbess' quarters, and dining hall stood clustered around the church and the chapter house. To the left of those structures, the dormitory and the infirmary looked out onto the cemetery. Not a very encouraging view for the sick, Alain mused.

Located diagonally across the wide courtyard from the church, the stables, servants' quarters, and guesthouse were interspersed within a patchwork of gardens. Beyond those buildings, the brew house, bake house, kitchens, and the fish ponds bordered the orchard, laden with rosy apples ready for picking.

Lay servants and nuns milled about the courtyard, glowering at his men who led their mounts toward the mews. These Saxons resented the Norman presence here; obviously they maintained neutrality to avoid being pillaged.

As the clip clop of the horses' hooves struck the cobblestones, Alain looked for the abbess. Though many Benedictine sisters held the status of noblewomen, none present exuded the commanding air of a leader this woman reputedly possessed. He must seek out the elusive woman before the day ended.

His information about Lady Gwyneth and the boy received, he would leave at dawn tomorrow. Now, he needed rest and refreshment.

Awkward as a rangy puppy, Robert bounded forward on long, skinny legs, eager to attend him.

"Bring me a change of clothes, lad. I need a bath, and I want the jar of beebalm ointment as well."

"I anticipated your needs, and I have those items here," the squire answered proudly.

"How did you know I would want the beebalm?"

"I thought you may have some wore spots, Sir Alain. You ask for it often enough."

"Good work, Robert."

"Thank you, sir. Glowing with pride, the squire took hold of the reins and guided Rampage away.

Alain patted the small boy's carrot-colored locks as the child returned his gaze. "I must find your parents and have a stern word with them about keeping you out of trouble.

Watching Ranulf help Gwyneth dismount, Alain felt another twist of jealousy tighten in his gut. "Ever the polite courtier," he muttered through his teeth.

Clean garb and salve in hand, Alain caught sight of an old nun and a beautiful, young lay woman approach his captive. Dressed in bright yellow, the lovely female wore no headraile, and her red plaits, coiled in twin buns over her ears, glowed like burnished copper in the autumn sunlight. He surmised the beauty was the boy's mother.

His suspicions were confirmed as the lad jerked from Alain's hold and ran to the women. The lovely redhead knelt and embraced the child. She whispered something to him. Then standing again, she pointed to the guesthouse, and the little mischief-maker sped away.

As the two women hurried toward Gwyneth, he saw recognition spark in their eyes.

They know her! Immediately, their faces froze into guarded masks. Had Gwyneth signaled a warning to them? Her back was turned to him, though she faced the women. Had she raised a finger to her lips, admonishing them to silence?

So Lady Gwyneth knew the boy and his mother. No wonder she so fervently pleaded to spare him! Now Alain felt sure the nuns would withhold the information he needed as they would maintain loyalty to this lady. As Saxons, their sympathies lay with the rebels. Most certainly they would help her escape.

He must prevent that. Guarding Lady Gwyneth himself, he would not allow her out of his sight. He smiled as a pleasant means to begin his watch suddenly occurred to him.

The nun and lay woman began to lead Gwyneth away.

"One moment, if you please, my ladies," he called out, approaching them.

Startled, the three women abruptly halted, their eyes wide with surprise.

"I wish a word with Lady Gwyneth before she retires." He bowed. "Lady, I would ask a boon of you."

"What favor could I possibly grant you?" She put up a graceful hand, shielding her eyes from the bright glare of the sun.

"I should like you to assist me with my bath."

The nun and lay woman gasped, and Lady Gwyneth stepped back from him, alarm registering on her delicate features.

"Y-Your squire seems most eager to please you, sir. Will he not feel displaced?"

"Robert will be occupied for some time." He removed his helm and pushed back his mail coif. "He has my mount to tend as well as Father Rollo's and his own."

"Will not the grooms here do that?" She plucked nervously at the wide cuff of her chainse.

"No one but Robert attends Rampage," Alain explained.

"Oh," she responded feebly, dropping her gaze. "Will you help bathe me, my lady?" he asked softly. The warm September sun caused him to perspire, and he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Sir, this is a convent!"

"'Tis an acceptable practice for a lady to aid a knight with his ablutions, and well you know it." He rested a gentle hand on her shoulder, preventing her withdrawal.

"Ladies, you know 'tis proper," he nodded, addressing the black-clad nun and the pale redhead.

The old sister's faded amber eyes glared at him with suspicion. The strong sunlight and white coif accentuated the deeply etched wrinkles on her sagging skin. Her aquiline nose gave her the look of a hawk.

"I know not what customs the Normans observe," the nun answered tersely, her mouth pursed in a tight line of disapproval. "Here 'tis usually married women who perform such duties."

"Maidens do assist their mothers or older women in the task. But pray tell me, sister, how knows you this lady is unwed?" he asked, releasing Gwyneth's shoulder.

Was it fear or rage that made the nun's chin tremble and her slack jowls quiver?

"Of course, you noticed the lady wears no rings," Alain remarked casually, but he carefully had observed that neither the nun nor the lovely, flame-haired woman ever once glanced at Gwyneth's tapered fingers.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ranulf striding in their direction. As the man joined them, Alain asked, "Mon ami, does the thought of a bath lift your spirits?"

"To sublime heights." The sandy-haired man smiled. "I cannot wait to wash the grime of the road from my body."

"Lady Gwyneth can aid me. Perhaps this other fair lady would consent to do the same for you?"

The fiery beauty gasped and placed her hands over her heart. Gwyneth opened her mouth as if to speak. Expecting her protest, Alain placed a gentle finger on her rosy lips, stopping her words.

Ranulf's eyes glimmered with mischief. "Of course, all the proprieties will be observed."

"To the letter." Alain nodded.

A wagon loaded with hay, pulled by a chestnut draft horse, rattled by on its way to the stables, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

Ranulf turned to the flame-haired woman, holding her gaze. "But the lady has not agreed."

"Aelveva!" the nun exclaimed sharply, clutching the younger woman's arm with her gnarled hand.

"'Tis all right, Sister Emma," Aelveva commented as she reached for the cross suspended from her white, slender neck and fixed her gaze on Ranulf. "'Tis certain you will take retribution against the others here should I not comply."

The sergeant unsheathed his broadsword with a flourish, and the women jumped back. Jabbing the tip between the cobbles, he placed both hands on the cross-shaped hilt. "I swear on my sword that I want your help only if 'tis freely given, mistress."

Alain watched dumbstruck as a smile graced Aelveva's full lips. Just moments ago, her lovely face had registered dread, yet Ranulf had humored the woman by his display of gallantry. Before the day turned to twilight, his friend would, no doubt, charm the girl—right out of her pretty tunic and chainse and into his bed.

"Then so be it, sir," Aelveva answered, leading Ranulf off toward the guesthouse.

His friend gone, Alain became aware of Sister Emma's sullen glare darting through him. If looks killed, he would be as dead as last Friday's mackerel.

Ignoring her animosity, he bowed politely. "Thank you, sister, for your solicitude. Excuse us so the lady and I can find our way to the accommodations without your kind assistance." He took hold of Gwyneth's slim hand and smiled as he eagerly looked forward to the feel of those soft palms intimately caressing his flesh. The thought provoked a surge of desire to heat his loins.

***

Following Alain into the guesthouse chamber, Gwyneth's heart pounded like a smith's hammer against a hot anvil. Fear did not affect her feelings. Had he wished to harm her, he could have done so last night.

No. It was his touch that quickened her pulse and roused a longing so strong the sensation felt almost painful. Yet, her feelings induced guilt. The man was her enemy.

Struggling for composure, Gwyneth glanced about the room. The white-washed walls reflected the morning light, lending the small space an airy, cheerful ambiance. Through the window, the fresh odor of mint drifted on the breeze and mingled with the fragrance of lavender, wafting from the crisp, spotless sheets on the bed. A pitcher, wash basin, and a clean linen cloth lay on a scrubbed oak table placed against the wall. Sunbeams shafted through the small aperture, transforming the whirling dust motes to sparkling gold. Outside the song of a lark floated on the air.

The bright glare caused Gwyneth to blink, and she turned away to see Sir Alain placing his clean attire on a chair in the corner. As the knight looked up, his intense gaze held hers.

Enthralled, she stood fixed to the spot. The gleam of his violet-blue eyes took her breath away, a hot sensation washed over her again, leaving her dizzy. Despite her good intentions, Gwyneth continued to stare. By the rood, he was handsome and so distracting.

Chiding herself, she averted her eyes. She must keep her mind on her mission—getting away. Surely by this time, Sister Emma had informed the abbess of her plight. Perhaps at this very moment Mother Clotilde was planning a strategy for Gwyneth's escape. The clever, capable woman ruled her domain with the power of a queen.

A diffident rap on the door brought her speculations to an abrupt end.

"Enter," Sir Alain commanded as he removed his scabbard and sword, carefully resting them on the table.

Their faces pink from exertion under their white coifs, three novices, and two postulants, hefted a wooden tub, buckets of water, linens, and a cake of soap over the threshold and into the chamber.

"Excuse the intrusion, sir, and my lady, but Mistress Aelveva said you needed provisions for a bath," a tall, lanky novice explained through her large, protruding teeth.

"Thank you, sisters," the knight replied, as he closely scrutinized them. "Please be about it then."

The women obeyed. Their work quickly completed, they hurried off.

"Those women know you. I saw recognition in their eyes as I did when Aelveva and Sister Emma greeted you." He swaggered toward her, stopping just in front of her. "Admit it, lady. You are well known here."

Gwyneth's mouth went dry. "They know you hold me prisoner."

He paced in front of the door, blocking her escape. "If you are not a spy, why were you alone in the forest last night?"

Gwyneth remained riveted to the spot as cold sweat soaked into her chainse and the ominous threat of a witch's torture and death stilled her tongue.

"Eventually someone will betray your secret, my lady. You would be surprised at how loyalty can be forgotten and information bought for a few pieces of coin."

He spoke the truth. Thank God that her father, Aelveva, and the kind abbess were the only ones to share her secret. Gwyneth considered telling the knight she was on her way to tryst with a lover but quickly dismissed the idea. One falsehood led to another. Besides, in the past she had proven to be the most inept of liars.

His posture slumped, and he expelled a long breath. "Let us get on with the bath then, my stubborn lass," he answered, resignation in his voice.

He moved to the bed and sat. The straw mattress and the feather ticking above sagged and crunched under his sinewy body.

Gwyneth thoughts returned to escape, and she tallied the number of places she could hide in the cloister once he allowed her to retire. She would be gone for hours before they discovered her absence.

"Would you assist me with my hauberk?"

As Gwyneth helped him remove the knee-length mail tunic, her arms sagged beneath its weight. "Goodness, how heavy!"

"Aye. 'Tis close to three stone." He took the chain-link garment from her and stood, carefully placing it over the chair in the corner. He returned, and Gwyneth removed the padded jack from his broad torso and dropped it into a basket on the floor. She wrinkled her nose and held her breath as she peeled off his reeking linen shirt, placing it on top of the jack.

The sight of Alain's immense shoulders pleased her, though she modestly looked away. Still, her gaze strayed irresistibly to his wide, bulky chest and wandered downward as she scanned his flat, hard stomach, and lean hips.

Delighted by his brawny arms, she felt a powerful urge to trace her fingernail over the prominent blue vein that ran along the bulge of the huge biceps.

A pleasant sensation throbbed in her lower belly, and Gwyneth imagined herself irresistibly drawn to him by some invisible force, reminding her of the way the moon pulls the tide.

He glanced up. Discovered staring, she felt like a thief caught with her hand in the poor box. A wave of heat rose from the base of her throat to the roots of her hair. Even her ears burned.

To indulge such feelings courted madness. Compelled to remain a virgin, Gwyneth had committed her life to the people of Wykston. She could never be a wife to anyone, let alone a Norman knight.

She must cease this nonsense and carefully consider her plan for escape, for this man proved much too clever, preventing her flight twice before. Gwyneth turned away, but he swung out his powerful arm.

He clasped her wrist and smiled rakishly. "We are not finished, lady."

His callused palm rubbed against her flesh, intensifying the warm sensation already coursing through her. What was happening to her?

He released her, and Gwyneth moved back as Alain bent over to unlace the leather strips binding his trousers to the knees. Quietly, he removed the stockings and the soft leather shoes. Clad in naught but his breeks, he stood slowly and stretched. His lithe, springy muscles rippled with the power of a well-conditioned stallion.

Fascinated, her gaze swept over his splendid physique. He was so.... Magnificent was the only word she could conjure. Would his thighs, buttocks, and calves be perfect also?

The notion sent her heart tripping. Heaven help her! She wanted to see, to know. "Why do you hesitate, Lady Gwyneth? Surely, you have helped your mother bathe guests before?" He walked toward her.

"Nay. My mother died when I was a child."

Their gazes melded once more, and his enchanting eyes took on a soft look. Did she see sympathy reflecting in those blue depths?

He looked down at the tub and cleared his throat. "Then turn away, while I slip out of my braies so my nakedness does not offend your innocent eyes."

Gwyneth knew the sight would not offend her; yet, she faced the wall, hearing the splash as he immersed himself.

"I shall need your help to wash my back." Gwyneth peeped over her shoulder. The wooden tub looked absurdly small for his huge body. To fit, he had been forced to bend his long, sinewy legs so that his knees protruded above the water to just under his chin. Crammed in that wooden receptacle, he looked oddly vulnerable, and she couldn't suppress a smile.

"Better," he remarked, soaking a wash cloth.

"What is better?"

"Your smile. 'Tis the first time I have seen it."

She walked to him. "Forgive me if I do not see the humor in being your captive."

Gwyneth immediately regretted her terse words. If she was to escape, she must keep him off guard. Her father often said that a smile and a kind word went a long way.

He held out the bar of slippery soap and wet cloth. "Shall we get started?"

Gwyneth took up his offering and stood behind him, staring at the broad expanse of his back.

She had never touched a man's naked flesh before. The patients she had helped Sister Edith nurse were nuns. In the village, Winna, the healer, never permitted her to touch a sick male.

"'Twould be easier to perform the task if you remove my cloak. After all, I have already seen you in naught but your gauzy chainse." He grinned wickedly.

"I shall manage," she retorted, and ignoring his innuendo, she lathered the wash cloth with a thick froth of suds. Her hands shook as Gwyneth hesitantly reached out and touched his warm skin. The heat of his body reignited the dizzying sensation, and excitement pulsed through her with each beat of her heart. How could this man, her enemy, cause her to react this way? She must complete this task quickly and get away from him, or she would be lost.

Placing her hands on the knight's head, she washed his short, thick, sable hair. Next, she worked her way down his neck to his shoulders. Reaching over them, she burrowed her fingers under the mat of dark hair on his broad, hard chest. As she retreated again, Gwyneth gently massaged the tender spot at the base of his neck with her thumbs, feeling his knotted muscles relax beneath her ministrations.

The sound of Sir Alain's low groan sent another pulse of excitement through her.

Stroking every inch of his strong back, her quest glided downward, finally submerging the water to reach the base of his spine. He leaned forward, and entranced, she felt his sinews bunch and flex beneath her quivering palms. She yearned to discover more.

"God's teeth!" he growled

Startled, Gwyneth dropped the soap into the tub, causing a flotilla of bubbles to ascend from the suds and sail through the air before popping in the bright morning light.

"Surely, I did not hurt you?" She stepped around the washtub to face him.

"Nay," he answered, his eyes glazed.

Was he angry? No. Something else caused his square, masculine jaw to clench, and his wide chest to rise and fall with deep, quick breaths.

Their gazes locked. A primal longing throbbed deep within her, holding her in its thrall—but it was wrong! Flustered, she broke the visual contact and walked to the window.

"Please, Sir Alain, let me go to Aelveva." She faced him.

"Oh, nay, my lady. You have a tendency to wander and fall into danger. Besides, if I know Ranulf, the lovely redhead probably has her hands quite full at very this moment." He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

Hands on hips, she took a step forward. "Who will assist me with my bath? I wish to wash. The odor of horse lingers on me." He grinned widely and stretched out his soapy arms. "I thought I would return your favor in kind."

"Sir! That's an, an—"

"Outrage? Aye." He smiled. "It flashes in your eyes like summer lightning."

Still annoyed, Gwyneth walked behind him and strained to lift the heavy pail of icy water, intended for mixing with the hot. With all the force she could rally, she doused him. Dropping the pail she scrambled for freedom.

Sir Alain sputtered and roared. She heard something crash to the floor, followed by the rush of spilling water. Before she could escape, his strong hands seized her and spun her to face him.

They struggled fiercely. Slipping on the soapy rushes, they lost their footing and toppled back.

Naked and stretched out full length atop her, the knight put his lips close to hers. In an ominous tone, he growled, "You should not have done that, Lady Gwyneth."

***

Chapter 4

Pinned beneath his massive weight, Gwyneth could scarcely breathe. Squeezing her eyes tight, she shoved the heels of her palms with all her strength against his shoulders. Unfortunately, he did not budge.

"Nay, my lady, you will stay," he ordered. Without moving from her, he reached for the large square of linen draped on a nearby chair.

Unable to move, Gwyneth watched him wipe the soap from his eyes and felt the water from his body soak through her mantle and chainse. With a will of its own, her whole being tingled with wanton pleasure as she battled to rein in her wild response.

"You have transgressed, my lady. What penance shall I extract from you?"

Speechless, she stared into his violet-blue gaze. Irritated from the suds, the whites of his eyes were bloodshot, lending him the fierce look of an avenging angel.

"I beg you to remember, Sir Alain, I am worthless should my honor be compromised."

"You need not remind me," he whispered hoarsely, "but, a kiss would not impugn your honor and would atone for your cruel act."

Gwyneth felt the steady thump of his heart against her bosoms while his sweet, warm breath fanned her burning face. Surely she could not want her enemy's kiss. But she did. She longed to feel those soft, full lips on hers. She must get away from him!

"Sir, I appeal to your mercy as a knight. Unhand me. The rushes are sticking into my back."

Alain draped the towel across his loins, protecting her from his nakedness as he freed her.

Gwyneth stared at him.

"Why do you look at me so strangely? I am not a beast, Lady Gwyneth. 'Twas never my intention to hurt you, though I doubt you can say the same."

"I did not wish to injure you. I merely wished to escape."

"Nay. You shall never get away from me...ever." His gaze burned into hers as lifted her onto his lap. "Now, is this more comfortable?"

He slipped his arm around her waist, and Gwyneth's dry tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. "'Twould b-be honorable if you allowed m-me to go."

"You must perform reparations first. That cold water shocked me. I thought my heart would stop." He placed her hand his chest. "Feel how it thumps."

The heat of his flesh warmed her palm as Gwyneth felt the steady meter of his heart. He continued his assault on her senses, stroking the length of her forearm in a slow, seductive rhythm that increased the tempo of her pulse.

"So will you repent with a kiss, my sweet rose?" His voice was as heady as mead.

"Rose?" Breathless, she could barely repeat the word.

"Aye. The fragrance you wear is the scent of the rose," he murmured, pressing lips to her inner wrist. "Does your kiss intoxicate as well as your perfume?"

His male body beckoned to her unfulfilled need, and her gaze drifted from his eyes to his lips. No man had ever kissed her. In truth Gwyneth never dared hope to know such tenderness. Was it so wrong to want a single moment of intimacy to cherish before the abbey walls confined her forever?

Disgraceful though it was, she yearned to feel the full, sensuous mouth of her enemy on hers. Just once. Then, at least, she would have the memory to hide away and retrieve at will, like a precious treasure to cheer her now and again, as she trod the lonely path of a loveless life.

The knight tightened his hold, molding her to his hard body. His skin, still glistening with water, smelled like the woods after a spring rain. Enthralled, she watched his head incline toward hers, and a frisson of anticipation quivered down her spine. Instinctively, her lids drifted shut, and with bated breath, she waited.

A sharp rap caused them to jerk apart. Though startled, Gwyneth felt sorely disappointed.

"Damnation!" Alain secured the towel around his lean middle and leapt to his feet. "Come in," he shouted.

Gwyneth jumped up just as the door swung open.

Upon entering, Aelveva's jaw dropped, and Ranulf smiled. Behind them two wide-eyed novices hauled water, more linen, and a change of clothes for Gwyneth.

"I, uh, assumed you wish a bath, my lady," Aelveva said, as she stared at Gwyneth.

"Aye." Her face scalding with shame, Gwyneth plucked at the drenched mantle and chainse stuck to her body.

Ranulf chuckled as he set the tub upright, his eyes shining with merriment. "'Twould seem you tried to drown the girl, mon ami."

"'Twas just the opposite, if you must know," the knight muttered, as he reached for another linen.

"Will you join us at chapel for Tierce?" Ranulf asked.

"Nay. We'll remain here while the lady takes her bath."

The women gasped in chorus. One of the novices dropped the bucket she was emptying into the tub. The wooden pail thudded on the floor, sending another large splash of water to seep through the rushes and deepen the puddles on the flagged floor.

"You cannot mean that," Gwyneth protested.

"No need for alarm, my lady." The knight smiled. "We shall not violate your privacy as we shall be outside. Ranulf will guard the window on one side of the building while I will watch the door. I cannot give you an opportunity to escape."

The tension gone from their postures, the novices left, and Gwyneth relaxed.

Mischief glittered in his eyes as Alain peered at the two women. "If you modest maidens will avert your gaze, I shall dress and leave. Of course, 'tis quite all right with me, if you prefer to observe."

Embarrassed, Gwyneth exchanged glances with a red-faced Aelveva, and both women promptly faced the wall. A few minutes later, Sir Alain announced, "You may turn around."

Swaggering to her, Alain pressed a small jar in her hands. "This salve will take the sting from the wound on your hip." Before she could express her thanks, he and the sergeant turned and made for the door. Just before he quit the room, he paused and faced her, his hot gaze sweeping over her. "I look forward to concluding our unfinished business, my sweet rose." "Dear God, my lady!" Aelveva exclaimed as soon as the men were gone. "We were shocked to see you and Garth rode in with the Normans. When I woke this morning, I thought you and he were breaking your fast in the orchard as you often do." The maid wrung her hands nervously. "I did not worry until I could not find you, and no one had seen you. I was beside myself with fright and was on my way to inform the abbess when you rode in."

"Oh, Aelveva, I did not lead the boy into danger." She explained the circumstances of her capture. Unable to meet the anxious look on the mother's face, she turned, setting the jar of ointment on the table. "Garth was hiding in the forest this morning. You know how he loves to sneak away beyond the abbey walls."

The maid's hands flew to her pale face. "By all that is holy! I know, my lady. The Norman, Ranulf, told me what happened. He saw the boy's resemblance to me and concluded the obvious. The sergeant said you pleaded for Garth's life." Tears brightening the woman's emerald eyes, Aelveva continued, "I cannot thank you enough, my lady. How did you convince them?"

Her heart warming at the memory, Gwyneth recounted how kind Sir Alain behaved toward Garth. The knight's gentleness meant all the more to her as she loved the boy dearly, lavishing all her affection on him, as she held no hope of having a babe of her own.

"Then Norman or not, I am grateful to the man, my lady." Aelveva nodded her bright head. "Another soldier would have killed the boy without a thought." She took Alain's sodden mantle from Gwyneth's shoulders and hung it by the window.

"True, but I would keep Garth away from the Normans. He may drop his guard and give them information."

"I shall, my lady." She helped Gwyneth out of her wet chainse then placed it in the basket atop Alain's discarded clothes.

"I am happy our little adventurer did not suffer dire consequences, but I am sorry for the trouble I have caused, Aelveva." She stepped into the tub. "I wandered again and have placed us all in danger."

"Nay, my lady. I should have slept in front of the door as I once did, and warned Garth not to travel beyond the walls. Then neither you nor my impish lad would have fallen into Norman hands."

She shook her bright head. "But truly I thought that your malady was gone forever. You have not wandered in some time." Aelveva approached the tub, the cake of soap in her white hand. "From now on, I shall resume my old post."

If only my sleepwalking would disappear, Gwyneth thought, accepting the soap.

Aelveva's chin trembled, and tears beaded on her fringe of lashes. "Lord Leofric will be furious with me and terrified the Normans will discover—"

"That I walk in my sleep and conclude I am a witch, " Gwyneth finished for the maid, as she began to lather her body. "Even now Sir Alain's men look at me strangely, but he is so convinced I am a spy, he cannot see what is in front of him."

Even if he was her foe, Gwyneth did not want the handsome knight to believe she was strange.

"I am thankful that the Normans captured you and Garth rather than Wulfstan.

Though immersed in warm water, Gwyneth shuddered, chilled to the heart at the prospect. "By St. Cuthbert, you are right, Aelveva. The lout would have no compunction about killing either one of us, if it suited his purpose. He probably disposed of his poor wives, although we have no proof of it. Each time he brought a new bride to Wykston, she bore nasty bruises."

"I have heard it whispered," Gwyneth continued, "that after each woman gave him an heir, he arranged for her demise. The child insured he could keep the dowry."

Gwyneth cringed. When she thought of Wulfstan as a husband, she rejoiced at the notion of remaining a virgin. "That is how he has gained so much land without so much as lifting his sword," Aelveva added.

She stood, thick suds sliding down her wet flesh as Aelveva poured rinse water over her.

"If anything ever happens to Lord Leofric, my lady, Wulfstan will likely try to abduct you. He wishes to add Wykston to his other properties, and he actually believes in the mad ravings of your father's steward, Ulfer." Aelveva set down the pail and handed Gwyneth a large linen.

"Mayhap, but if Wulfstan believes that a son of my body will drive the Normans from our land and bring much wealth to his family, 'tis because it suits his cause. The promise of wealth through marriage bedazzles Wulfstan as he cares nothing for battle."

"True, but without your father, you are defenseless, my lady."

"Oh, Aelveva, that is why I must escape to the safety of Wykston." With trembling hands she wrung the excess water from her hair and wrapped it in another linen the maid gave her. "Forewarned, my father can devote all his energies to the defense of the manor and the safety of our people. Otherwise, I fear we will see Wykston destroyed for William has burned all the villages and estates of the rebellious nobles thus far. His harrying of our land is far from over. He is ruthless and will not stop until the uprising is stamped out."

"Please, my lady, do not even say it." The maid shook her head as she handed Gwyneth the linen.

The notion chilled Gwyneth's heart, and she closed her eyes against the horror, but the nightmarish thoughts invaded her mind. She imagined her quiet manor deep in ashes...its fertile fields scorched black...its inhabitants burned beyond recognition. Worst of all, her only parent's lifeless body swaying from the oak at the entrance to the village.

"I fear for my father," she exclaimed, rubbing herself dry. "I could not bear to lose him."

"Please, my lady. I still blame myself for your mother's and brother's deaths."

Gwyneth shook her head. "'Twas not your fault."

"I should have insisted they come out of the water," Aelveva's voice broke, and she wiped her tears away with her fingers.

"You could not. My mother was mistress, and you were her servant."

Gwyneth cringed as she remembered the day her gentle mother, Enid, and her little brother, Godwin, died so tragically. She had been six years old when the three of them, along with Aelveva, had been drifting down the stream on the little, circular, hide-covered coracles. As often happened, the wind suddenly gusted, and dark clouds rolled in, blanketing the blue of the sky.

"My lady," Aelveva cried, "I am going ashore."

The maid had always harbored a little fear of the water, but Lady Enid was a strong swimmer and loved the stream.

"Very well. Take Gwyneth with you. I'll follow shortly," Gwyneth's mother called out.

Just three years old, Godwin sat on Enid's lap. Dipping his fingers into the water, he clapped his chubby hands with glee as his silvery blond hair shone brightly.

Aelveva and Gwyneth had just pulled their little boats to the cattail-fringed bank when lightning forked down from the sky, striking her mother's coracle. Aelveva screamed but Gwyneth watched in paralyzed terror, unable to utter a sound as the large, white flare charged through the air. Lady Enid and Godwin sank like stones as thunder crashed above them.

Days later their bodies, or what was left of them, were found leagues down stream.

From that time, Gwyneth was possessed of a morbid fear of drowning and a dread of thunderstorms. Now the last member of her family was in mortal danger along with all the people on the estate.

"I must get away. Many lives depend upon it, our own included, Aelveva. If the knight sees me walking in my sleep again, he may charge me with sorcery."

"Please, my lady. I cannot bear to think of that."

Swathed in linen, Gwyneth walked to the table. Unwrapping herself, she opened the jar of salve Sir Alain kindly had given her and smeared it on her scratched hip.

"But how, my lady?" Aelveva took one of the linens from her. "The Normans do not let us out of their sight."

"I must think, Aelveva."

Gwyneth slipped the fresh chainse over her head, and a sudden inspiration illuminated her mind. Picking up the clean tunic Aelveva had brought her, she tossed it into one of the puddles on the floor.

The maid looked at her with wide eyes. "My lady?"

"Tell the knight I dropped my garment into the water and need another one. Then go to my chamber and retrieve a fresh one and the large, ruby ring in the repository on the table."

"But Sir Alain will order the sergeant or someone else to escort me." Aelveva shrugged, holding her palms upward. "The Normans will ask why you have a room of your own here in the abbey."

"The knight already suspects I am known here. Reply that 'tis my habit to come here to pray and retreat from the world, and that the abbess keeps a chamber in readiness for me. That is the truth. You may also say that I shall not join them for the midday meal as I feel ill."

"I shall do what you ask, but beware, my lady. The Norman knight is no fool."

***

The sonorous tones of the horn floated through the air of the ancient dining hall, signaling the hungry guests to perform their pre-meal ablutions. Lay servants and novices held washbowls, ewers of water, and linen napkins for the diners as they scrubbed and wiped their hands before taking their seats according to rank.

The long, slanted rays of the setting sun beamed through the small, arched windows, turning the white cloths on the trestle tables to gold. The high ceiling vaulted up in groined arches. Two huge tapestries, depicting scenes from the Last Supper, the Nativity, graced the walls. Fresh herbs, strewn on the flagged floor, imparted their spicy scent to the delicious smell of food.

The cleansing ritual completed, Alain accompanied Gwyneth to her seat.

"The emerald hue of your tunic becomes you, my lady." He rubbed the fine linen of her wide sleeve between his thumb and forefinger. "I am surprised someone who was so ill earlier today could carry off wearing that particular shade of green so well." He grinned smugly.

She dared not meet his gaze for fear he would see the deception in her eyes. "Thank you, sir. Sister Edith, the infirmaress, prescribed a draught, and I feel much better."

She sank to the bench, and as he took his place beside her, Alain's scrutiny caused her heart to flutter anxiously. Should her strategy fail, the knight could kill her.

"This Sister Edith must be an excellent healer to have cured you so quickly."

"S-She is most clever," Gwyneth stuttered.

He peered at her hand and took hold of it. "'Tis a fine ruby, but we've already established you are a noblewoman."

Her mouth dry as sawdust, Gwyneth retrieved her clammy hand. The knight observed too much and too well. Gratitude filled her heart as Robert approached, momentarily distracting Sir Alain's attention.

Serving them a trencher, the squire cut the bread in half and hollowed out the center of both pieces, filling the crusts with poached fish and carrots. Gwyneth recognized fear in the boy's eyes as her gaze met his. His relief became apparent, and as he left Alain's side, the lad's tense posture relaxed.

"Aelveva told Ranulf you come here frequently to make your devotions. Why do you hide in an abbey?"

"Since you possess all the answers, you tell me." Avoiding his gaze, she poked a spoon into the vegetables in her trencher.

He leaned in close to her, assuring no one else at the table could hear his words. "Very well. I think you are Leofric's daughter. Everyone knows his only heir is a female. I suspect he placed you here for protection during the rebellion. You learned we were near and foolishly decided to spy. 'Tis a fact that Saxon maids are bolder than our sensible Norman women."

Though shaken he had guessed her identity, she rankled at his slur. Gwyneth glared at him. "That is outlandish."

"If you were not spying, explain your presence in the woods." A challenge in his eyes, he raised a tankard to his lips.

If she explained, she would find herself condemned to die a witch's death by drowning. Even now his men glared at her, suspicion burning in their eyes. By St. Cuthbert! This whole situation was as convoluted as a coiled serpent—and just as dangerous.

"I begin to tire of that old accusation, sir knight."

Father Rollo, who shared their table, frowned at her, displaying his censure openly. Gwyneth felt quite outnumbered by her enemies. In truth, besides Aelveva, and a few lay servants who helped with the meal, the room was totally populated by Normans. The nuns had taken their meal earlier in their private dining hall, listening to holy writings as they ate.

The repast tasted savory, but Gwyneth's stomach knotted, making it difficult to partake of the meal. She popped a small chunk of fish into her mouth, in hopes the nourishment would sustain her, but she could hardly swallow. After forcing the morsel down, she gave up the effort while Sir Alain consumed his food with gusto.

Alarmed, Gwyneth realized supper was almost over. She must make her move quickly, if she was to save herself and her village. Somehow, she must divert his attention so she could carry out her plan.

Discreetly, she placed her hands in her lap, then slipped them under the wide sleeves of her tunic. Obscuring her deed, she turned her ring around so the ruby, with its secret chamber beneath, rested under her palm.

Almost finished now, Alain looked at her intently, as he set down his knife. Gwyneth's heart thundered fiercely against her ribs, and her blood pounded in her ears.

"You are trembling, my lady. Shall I warm you?" He raised his eyebrows and smiled. "After all, we've some unfinished business to conclude."

Seduction glowed in his eyes like blue flames, igniting a need in her that, despite her fear, was impossible to ignore. She inhaled a deep breath and fought to resist his powerful attraction.

He arched a dark eyebrow and leaned closer to her.

Now! I must do it now. Gwyneth took up her napkin and turned toward him on the bench. Dabbing her lips, she feigned dropping the linen to the flagged floor between, trying to let the accident appear as natural as possible.

"Allow me." He leaned over the bench and reached down.

Gwyneth placed her hand over the rim of his tankard, springing the top of the ring to release the substance hidden in it into his ale. To her horror, he bolted upright, slapping his palm slap over the back her hand, holding it over the mouth of his drinking vessel.

She stared into his narrowed eyes. A vertical line creased between his dark brows. Fear dragged her down like a powerful undertow, sucking the breath from her lungs.

He rubbed the smooth skin of her white knuckles with the pads of his long fingers. Lifting her hand, he turned it over and inspected the powdery residue, still clinging to the gold in the empty chamber of the ring. Slowly, he returned his riveting gaze to hers. Fury flashed in the depths of his eyes.

What revenge would he wreak?

"I told you once, I abide no treachery, Lady Gwyneth."

Unable to endure his stare, she bowed her head.

"Tell me, my lady, was it Sister Edith, or Aelveva who gave you the poison to kill me?" he whispered ominously.

Her head jerked up. "'Twas not poison."

A sardonic smile spread over his handsome features. "Nay?"

"Of course not," She yanked her hand from his grasp.

"What was it?" The tone of his voice dripped with skepticism.

"Sister Edith gave me poppy seed powder to help me to sleep."

"So you feigned illness to obtain the drug." His accusing gaze never left her face. "Then you hoped to dose my ale and escape."

"Aye." Gwyneth felt her cheeks flame.

"I am not a fool, Lady Gwyneth." He ran his knuckles along the tender underside of her jaw and down her neck as his long fingers circled her throat. His thumb flickered across her Adam's apple.

Gwyneth swallowed convulsively. Would he strangle her here in front of everyone?

"Why do you wish me dead, my lady?" He placed his other palm on her shoulder.

Though terrified, Gwyneth met his gaze without flinching. His eyes reminded her of violets after a late spring sleet. Encased in a thin layer of ice, the blooms appeared so beautiful, but so cold.

"I may be many things, Sir Alain, but a murderess is not one of them. Why do you think I would commit such a vile deed?"

His lush mouth compressed into a hard line. "'Twould not be the first time a woman tried to be rid of me."

Eye-to-eye with him, Gwyneth did not blink. "Then I suggest you seek better company, sir."

"Assuming you did not lace my ale with hemlock, you should be willing to drink it."

"Indubitably," she replied, lifting her chin.

Silence reigned supreme and the room's atmosphere became stifling. Everyone stopped eating, and Gwyneth realized that she and Alain held the center of attention. A scowl on his face, Father Rollo set down his napkin. Her pale face strained with trepidation, Aelveva's hands covered her heart. Robert's mouth gaped open. Only Ranulf's mischievous smile lent comic relieve in that sea of grim visages.

"Please! Everyone is staring at us," she murmured, shrugging off his hold.

He looked away from her and observed the other diners. "Continue your repast. Lady Gwyneth and I are enjoying a private jest."

Reassured, all the diners, except Aelveva, resumed their conversations. Gwyneth noticed the maid's huge eyes brimmed with apprehension.

Alain turned his attention back to her. "Now where were we? Ah, you were going to prove your innocence by drinking my ale."

Without blinking, she took up the tankard and managed to take a large swallow before he grabbed the vessel from her hand, causing the rest of the liquid to slosh from the cup to her lap.

Nay," he roared.

"You are too late. I've drunk it, sir knight. She pressed a napkin to her overtunic, sopping up the ale.

Aelveva jumped to her feet, panic stamped on her face. "My lady," she cried out then clasped her hands over her mouth.

A surprised Ranulf looked up at the redhead, a query in his kind eyes as the maid sank to the bench in abject misery.

Once more the room became silent as Gwyneth again became the focus of attention.

"Convinced, Sir Alain?"

His face pale with shock, he leaned toward her. "Your act does not prove your innocence. It merely demonstrates you prefer death to captivity."

Outraged, Gwyneth squared her shoulders. "But you inferred a moment ago 'twould prove my innocence."

He shook his head. "I never guessed you would be daft enough to drink it. I thought you would pretend to spill the ale by accident, else I'd have prevented you from swallowing it."

So he had called her bluff and lost. Suddenly, Gwyneth felt that the power in their relationship had shifted in her favor.

"How unfortunate for you, Sir Alain." She smiled with satisfaction. "I suppose you shall just have to wait and see if I have swallowed death."

***

Chapter 5.

Ranulf stood by a cluster of hawthorns while Alain paced impatiently outside the door of Sister Edith's herbarium.

Little better than a byre, the small structure was fashioned, Saxon style, of hewn oak timbers with a thatched roof and used drying medicinal herbs, unlike the other stone buildings of the abbey.

Alain took the unconscious Gwyneth there, rather than the infirmary because that is where Aelveva said the healer was working.

Damnation, why did the girl try to kill herself? Did she despise him that much?

No. She did not hate him. Her eyes had grown dark with passion, and her nipples budded beneath his touch as he was about to kiss her. Those were certainly not indications of revulsion.

Ranulf left the shelter of the hawthorns and walked toward his old friend. "You are wearing a path in the turf, Alain."

"God's bones, Ranulf!" Alain punched his fist against the palm of his other hand. "If she dies, 'twill mean she intended to murder me."

"Why does that surprise you?" Ranulf leaned against the wall of the shed and folded his arms over his broad chest.

Alain halted and shot his sergeant an incredulous look. "What? Am I supposed to be flattered the woman tried to kill me?"

"Nay. Furthermore, the girl does not strike me as being a killer but...." Ranulf smiled mischievously. Mimicking deep contemplation, he stroked his jaw.

"But what? Out with it, man," Alain demanded, stopping in his tracks.

"Aren't you unduly upset? You're convinced she is your enemy, and you are a soldier. Adversaries try to kill you on a regular basis."

And the attempts on his life had begun earlier than most. Jaw clenched, hands balled into fists, Alain steeled himself against the anguish in his heart, dredged up by the painful memory.

Ranulf crossed his long legs at the ankles. "My point is you are perturbed because you are reluctant to lose the girl, and it has naught to do with the ransom she will bring."

"That is ridiculous!" Arms akimbo, Alain squared off with his confidant.

"Is it?" Ranulf arched a sandy eyebrow, skepticism in his voice.

Before Alain thought of a worthy riposte, the door of the shed swung open and Sister Edith emerged. Short and stocky, the nun held a lantern against the dusky twilight. The beacon spilled its golden light onto her black garb, forming a mellow pool at her feet on the ground.

Alain rushed toward the round, little nun. "Will she live?" "Aye, sir knight." The woman answered in a mellifluous voice as the lamp cast a soft glow on her smooth, fair skin, turning her large eyes the color of amber. "Lady Gwyneth is merely asleep and will remain so for some time. Aelveva reported that the girl mixed the sleeping powder with ale and drank it."

Alain wiped away the sweat moistening his upper lip with the back of his hand. "Then 'twas not poison, sister?"

"Nay!" Sister Edith shrank back from him. "I have devoted my life to preventing death, Sir Alain, not hastening it. I gave the Lady Gwyneth a dose of poppy seed powder earlier today. She complained of poor sleep for several nights. 'Twas a small dose. Not enough to kill."

"She lied when she told you that tale, sister. I believe Lady Gwyneth intended to drug me and then escape, but I discovered her treachery. The lady is Leofric's of Wykston's daughter, isn't she?" He stepped closer to the nun. "'Tis the obvious conclusion as the thegn's lands lie less than a day's ride from here."

The nun's large eyes widened. She stepped back farther from him, tripping on the hem of her habit.

Ranulf came up behind Alain, placing a huge hand on his companion's shoulder. "'Tis of no consequence now, mon ami, and I doubt Sister Edith is interested in naught but the welfare of her patient."

"S-She, uh, will wake no worse for wear," the nun declared. "Now I must be off to Compline. I am already late. Aelveva tends the lady so she is in good hands."

"When you see the abbess, inform her I am still anxious for an audience with her," Alain called after the nun.

The holy woman hurried away, carrying the metal lamp to guide her through the darkness of the autumn night.

"Why did you interrupt my interrogation?" Alain turned on his heel and glared at Ranulf.

"Since when has anyone ever succeeded in that endeavor?" the sergeant replied, unperturbed.

"You are right, Ranulf." He shrugged. "I am bullheaded at times."

"I'm glad you confessed to that else I should never have guessed it." Ranulf poked his elbow in Alain's ribs. "Let us be off to Compline."

"You and Aelveva go. I will sit with the girl." Alain smiled. "Unless the company of the lovely redhead is repugnant to you."

"Never. That woman's company is a rare pleasure." Ranulf laughed. "But beware. Your concern for the Lady Gwyneth is obvious."

"Nay," Alain denied vehemently. "'Tis not wise to leave the two women unattended."

"Of course not." Ranulf shook his head. "Aelveva will lift her unconscious mistress off the cot, slip through our guards, and abscond with her into the forest."

"That is absurd." Alain stared at his friend.

"I know. So is your mistrust of everyone."

"I trust you." Alain shot his friend a sharp glance, signaling that he wanted to drop the subject.

They entered the dim shed and dodged bunches of dried betony, comfrey, calendula, and mint dangling from the low beams. Their odor mixed and permeated the small space. Aelveva sat on a stool by the makeshift bed where Gwyneth lay asleep.

Ranulf sauntered toward her. Bowing gallantly, he lifted her hand to his lips. "Sir Alain gives us leave to offer our final prayers of the day in church.

She looked up at him, her face a delicate, pale oval. In the low illumination, her eyes looked dark, vulnerable, like a startled doe. Her hand still in Ranulf's, she protested, "But, I must stay with my lady."

"'Tis quite all right, mistress," Alain reassured her. "Go to pray for her recovery. I shall keep vigil."

Judging from her expression, Alain knew that she did not want to leave, but he would give her no choice if she insisted upon remaining.

Gracefully, she rose. "I thank you, Sir Alain. I shall return as soon as services are over to relieve you."

"If you wish, but I intend to remain through the night." He stepped aside, affording her and Ranulf room to pass through the narrow space.

"Then we shall both attend her. I'll have one of the other lay servants see to Garth," Aelveva stated firmly, as she walked to the door, the tall, blond sergeant in her wake.

"So be it," Alain answered as the couple disappeared into the darkness of night.

He sat on the stool. Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on his knees, resting his head in his hands. To his relief, Gwyneth did not appear as if she were dying. Alain had seen that look after a fierce battle all too often. No, she looked beautiful, desirable, and as fragrant as a rose. Abstinent for a good while, Alain's need raged.

Gwyneth stirred and sighed.

Rising, Alain took up the single taper from the long, rough-hewn work table, and held it over her. He observed the gentle rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed slowly, deeply. The candlelight gave her flawless complexion the luminescent quality of a fresh spring blossom.

He trailed his fingertips along the curve of her jaw. Enchanted by her Cupid's bow mouth, he bent to kiss it, but stopped. When he possessed those lips, he wanted to feel her response, warm and eager, returning his passion. But would she return it?

He resumed his seat as suspicion slithered into his thoughts.

Suppose Gwyneth had been meeting a lover in those woods last night? The spot was perfect for a tryst. Had her Saxon lover run to warn the rebels while she had distracted him by stepping in front of his horse? If so she had the nerves of a trained warrior not to flinch when Rampage almost ran her down. The idea tortured him, but it was plausible. After all, if she was spying, wouldn't a lover make the ideal accomplice?

Still, the Saxons had not attacked. Perhaps they were waiting for a more opportune time.

***

"How dare you suggest such a thing." Incredulous, she glared up at Sir Alain. "I thought you concluded I was too hoydenish to attract a lover," Gwyneth whispered, seething with indignation. Though they were attending Vespers, she felt her palm itch to slapped his smug face in front of all the worshippers and the priest! This capricious knight was driving her to the edge of madness. He displayed kindness one moment, suspicion the next.

Aelveva and Sister Edith had confided that his concern for her health had been so deep, he had slept on a sheepskin by the foot of her bed throughout the whole night, waking at her slightest movement. Furthermore, he had delayed his departure!

Now he changed on her again. Leaning down and murmuring in her ear, he had the effrontery to suggest that she had rendezvoused with a paramour who supposedly abandoned her, and fled to inform the Saxon rebels of the Norman advance.

As if she would behave in such a manner! As soon as the holy service concluded, she would retire to her chamber and rid herself of the man's presence until supper.

Perhaps, Aelveva could slip her some news, for Gwyneth surmised something was afoot. A party of monks had visited the abbess earlier in the afternoon. The holy men stood close to the altar, their faces obscured by their deep cowls.

Why were they here?

The priest faced the people, raised his arms in blessing, and droned, "Virtus, honor, lauds, gloria Deo Patri cum Filio Sancto simul Paraclito, in Saeculorum saecula. Amen." Virtue honor, praise, glory be to God the Father with the Holy Son together with the Paraclete from generation unto generation.

Grateful the service was over, Gwyneth wended her way among the other members of the congregation and marched out of the sanctuary and into the long shadows cutting purple swaths on the ground of the courtyard. The autumn sunset blazed in a tumult of crimson, gold and mauve in the western sky as Gwyneth made her way toward the guest house.

Catching up with her, Alain placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

In no mood for his accusations, she stopped abruptly and faced him. "Unhand me, sir." He withdrew his touch, but determination gleamed in his eyes. "I will have an answer, my lady."

"Your demands tire me, but to satisfy your curiosity, I shall tell you. I was not trysting in the forest. I thought I made it clear that I have no man."

"You said you had no husband, my lady," he replied, arching an eyebrow.

"Must I swear on the holy relic to convince you?"

"Saxons have a habit of taking sacred oaths and later breaking them." He nodded.

"Harold Godwinson, your former king, set a prime example."

His baiting caused her patience to snap. "Did he knowingly swear that oath to William?" she spat out, hands on her hips, "or was he tricked by that lying bastard you call king?"

Sir Alain's nostrils flared, and the muscles in his jaw twitched furiously, but the raw pain in his eyes caused her to regret her base remark.

"Neither the king nor I had any control over the circumstances of our births. Judge us by our deeds, not by the sins of our parents."

Gwyneth turned and marched toward her lodgings. Alain doggedly trudged beside her, but she ignored him, remembering her aborted mission. She had been unable to flee.

Instead of the improvements she and Leofric had planned for the people, death and destruction would ravage her home. Certainly, her life's hope of an infirmary for Wykston would never see fruition.

I have failed.

Sorrow descended on her like a pall. Would she lose her father, her home, everyone she loved, and possibly her very life? A low moan escaped her throat. Unable to go on, she stopped and began to cry uncontrollably.

He turned to her. "Why is amiss?"

Incapable of speech, she remained silent, her shoulders heaving as she softly sobbed.

"Lady Gwyneth, why do you weep?"

She looked up at him. Through her tears, she saw his anger had fled. His face now wore an uncomfortable expression, as if he didn't know quite what to do.

"Is it so difficult to comprehend?" She pulled forth a handkerchief from the sleeve of her chainse and dabbed her tears away. "I am a prisoner." She sniffled. "You are here to crush us. In the inevitable battles, many innocent Saxons will die."

He shook his head. "Were there another way to restore the peace, I should take it. I hate needless bloodshed and death, but these nobles have revolted against the king after they had pledged their loyalty. This is William's land now. He won it in combat. Had Harold invaded Normandy and triumphed, we should have bent our knees to him as our liege lord. "'Tis the way of things, my lady, as you well know. I did not contrive them, nor can I change them."

He spoke the truth, but that circumstance did not make her plight any easier.

"Cannot King William negotiate a treaty of some sort?" she asked.

"The king will not be fooled a second time. William confiscated no lands from loyal Saxons. The nobles who rebelled, such as Edwin, Edgar, and Morcar, also broke their sacred oaths. They have risked the lives of their vassals and serfs for vainglory and greed."

Again his words rang true. Motivated by pride and avarice, many like Wulfstan and Ulfer cared nothing for their people. Sir Alain was her enemy, yet she shared his sentiments more fully than she ever had with most of her own compatriots.

They resumed their walk then stopped by the garden near the guesthouse. Ashamed of the reference she had made about his birth, Gwyneth cast a sidelong glance at the knight. "Sir Alain, I...." The apology stuck in her throat. Why did she find the words so difficult to say?

"Aye?" His gaze met hers, and his eyebrows lifted in question.

"I-I uh, very much regret my remarks earlier today."

"You made quite a few comments, my lady. Are you sorry for all of them?"

"I refer to the one, pertaining to the status of your birth. 'Twas unkind of me."

The knight shrugged. "You are not the first to remind me of my humble origin, Lady Gwyneth, nor will you be the last. Though nothing in Norman law prevents a bastard from inheriting, as William proves. Still the epithet stings."

Unable to bear the hurt expression in his eyes, she cast her gaze to the ground.

Alain claimed her hand, leading her through the open gate in the stone fence. His warm palm on hers caused her body to tremble. Her senses focused sharply. The very air seemed to sparkle with clarity. She met his gaze again, and his brilliant eyes brought to mind the dancing of sunlight on a summer sea.

"Do I have your pardon then?" she asked.

"Aye, my lady." He relinquished her hand. Braving its thorns, Alain plucked one of the late blooming roses rambling on the stone wall. "If you will receive my offering of peace."

Delighted, she smiled as she accepted the perfect flower. In the deep shadows of approaching dusk, its soft petals appeared the color of wine.

"Thank you, Sir Alain. I wish...." Filled with regret that the man was her foe, Gwyneth lowered her lashes and turned away; but at the firm touch of his hand on her shoulder, she abandoned her retreat and faced him once more.

"What do you wish, my lady?" Gwyneth battled wistfully with the yearning that plucked at her heartstrings. In spite of her best efforts, she succumbed to her emotions, and the words blurted forth. "I wish harmony could exist between us." Frowning, she shook her head hopelessly. "But 'tis impossible. You are Norman, and I am Saxon. We cannot stop being what we are."

"War is a vile business, but treaties are often made and peace restored."

"Thinks you that can happen?"

"Mayhap," he replied

The neckline of his simple tunic descended to a "v", revealing the mat of dark, wispy curls she had raked her fingers through when she had bathed him. She could still feel their crisp texture beneath her fingers. The memory stirred powerful sensations, holding her fast in its thrall. Instinctively, she stepped closer to him.

"If you do not love war, why do you fight for William?"

Pain stole across his handsome face, and Gwyneth cringed inwardly. Why did this knight's anguish distress her to the very depths of her soul?

"'Tis a long story involving a wo—"

"A woman," she finished for him.

"Aye. But I cannot blame just the woman."

"Who else, sir?"

"'Tis a woeful subject. I prefer not to dwell on it. I would rather turn my attention to the pleasant matter at hand."

Gwyneth's heart raced as Alain took her arm, leading her deeper into the garden. They paused behind a huge holly, and Gwyneth entertained the illusion that they were the only two people left on the earth.

The sun had dipped behind the distant hills, and the amethyst twilight enveloped the world in the tranquil aura of day's end. High above the evening star flared in a sky still shimmering with afterglow. Was that the ripple of a harp, or just the sigh of the wind through the trees?

He smiled down on her.

Acutely aware of his virile body close to hers, she stammered, "The m-matter at hand, sir?"

He cocked an eyebrow. "I believe we have a debt to reckon. Surely you could not have forgotten?"

Forgotten? Impossible! She trembled with anticipation.

Slowly, seductively, Alain raised her hand and pressed a kiss to the tender underside of her wrist. Gwyneth's heart leapt. With all her soul, she wanted to sway into his arms.

But this man could be her ruin! Retrieving her hand, she turned from him. Undeterred, Alain caught her arm, urging her to face him. Her hands shook, causing a thorn to pierce the pad of her index finger.

"Oh!" She dropped the rose to the turf.

Alain's gaze melded with hers. He lifted her fingertip to his lips, sucking it. The erotic pull of his mouth inflamed her senses. Weak and dizzy, her blood seemed to turn to mead.

Withdrawing her finger, he wrapped his handkerchief around it. "Feel better?"

She had never felt so superb in her life. "Aye," she whispered breathlessly, unable to tear her gaze from the unfathomable violet depths of his eyes.

The song of a thrush floated on the air as Alain drew her close, encircling her waist in his strong arms.

"Sweet, little rose," he whispered, and his breath felt like the lush caress of miniver against the sensitive whorls of her ear.

Gwyneth closed her eyes and inhaled the clean, male scent. She lay her head on his wide chest and listened to the wild drum of his heart. Twining her arms about his hard middle, she tilted her face upward, to receive the rain of kisses, falling with the softness of thistledown. Everywhere his lips made contact, her eager flesh seemed more alive.

Though she knew this man was forbidden to her, Gwyneth could not stop herself—did not want to stop herself.

Seized by an urgent desire to touch every inch of his magnificent body, she began a shy exploration. Caressing his cheek, she thrilled to the rough drag of his beard and the bob of his Adam's apple beneath her fingertips as they skimmed his face and throat.

His embrace tightened about her, and his gaze fastened on her mouth as his lips descended toward hers. Closing her eyes once more, Gwyneth held her breath, waiting.

Finally, his warm lips claimed hers. The taste of him was sweet, full, rich, like flavor of ripe plums, and she savored it leisurely as she would a fine wine. Her palms slid up his chest, and lacing her fingers together around Alain's neck, she pressed her body still closer to his.

His kiss became more insistent, though he remained deliciously gentle as the tip of his tongue inquired at the seam of her lips, asking rather than demanding permission to enter. Thrilled by his patient approach, Gwyneth allowed him ingress.

Who would have thought this fierce warrior could be so sensitive, so considerate of her inexperience? The very restraint of his manner inflamed an overpowering need in her. Strong spasms clenched in her belly. Pressed flat against his hard chest, her breasts tingled as Alain's expert hands stroked the length and breadth of her back in a tantalizing tempo.

Gwyneth wanted to melt into his bones and merge with him into one inseparable, exquisite creation of pleasure.

His lips and tongue continued their erotic plunder while his palm cupped her breast. As his fingers deftly flicked over her erect nipple, Gwyneth became lost in the riotous sensations Alain evoked from her body, remaining oblivious to all else. Only when he ceased his caresses did she hear Aelveva's voice filtering through to her consciousness, dispelling the enchantment.

"My lady, are you there?"

Agog, Gwyneth jerked out of the knight's embrace, her hands over her mouth.

"God's bones!" Alain muttered.

Nervously, Gwyneth smoothed her tunic and straightened her headraile. "I-I'm here Aelveva." She stepped out from behind the holly. "Sir Alain and I were admiring the lovely sunset."

Staring up at him, she marveled at his composure while her whole being still quivered with unsated desire. Had the intimacy meant nothing to him? "My lady," Aelveva called as she and Ranulf hurried toward Gwyneth and the knight. "The abbess is most anxious to see you in the chapter house."

Gwyneth's stomach knotted. Did the nun have a plan for her escape? She saw Alain and Ranulf exchange glances and despaired of seeing the abbess alone. Nevertheless, Mother Clotilde knew the knight and his sergeant would demand to be present as they had persistently asked for an audience with her.

Perhaps this meeting was part of a clever plan to deal with the constant Norman vigilance.

"Let us attend the abbess," Alain ordered. "Now the elusive nun must see me."

***

No tapestries graced the walls of the starkly furnished chapter house. The simple chairs, usually lined against the wall, stood in a semicircle in the middle of the room. Two braziers lent their warmth and light to the chilly space. The flagged floor of the spacious chamber was strewn with fresh rushes mixed with herbs. The no-nonsense atmosphere proclaimed the purpose of the place: The nuns of the abbey conducted their business here.

Gwyneth deduced from the dour expression on Mother Clotilde's aristocratic face that the matter at hand must be serious. The abbess sat ramrod straight in her seat, a guarded look in her large, dark eyes.

The light of the flames reflected off the nun's face, turning her fine features into a mask of sharp angles beneath her black veil. The sheer energy of her presence so dominated the atmosphere, she almost obscured the monks who, still cowled, lingered in the shadows behind her.

"I requested to see Lady Gwyneth," the abbess stated imperiously as Alain and Gwyneth, followed by Ranulf and Aelveva approached her. "I have no recollection of asking for anyone else. The rest of you may leave. The message is for none but the lady's ears."

"Since I asked for an interview yesterday, and the lady remains in my care, anything that concerns Lady Gwyneth becomes my affair. Mayhap I will have my questions answered as well."

Addressing the monks cloaked in the darkness of the corner, Alain asked politely, "What tidings do you bring, brothers? 'Tis certain you have news, else why would you visit a convent?"

Gwyneth nervously twisted the lose end of her girdle. The tallest of the three clerics emerged from the dimness. Even beneath his clerical robes, his body resembled that of a huge plowman rather than that of a holy man.

He threw back his cowl, and Gwyneth almost fainted. Sweet Jesu, 'tis Wulfstan! What evil design brought him here disguised as a monk? He had even tonsured his long, blond locks and shaved his golden beard, both of which free Saxon men wore with pride.

She suspected the other two hooded figures were his faithful housecarls, for the man never traveled without them. Gwyneth wanted to denounce them immediately but feared Wulfstan had left his men with orders to attack the abbey should he be captured. Knowing his troops might well be lurking near as well, she held her tongue, determined to avoid harm befalling the nuns.

Wulfstan's face wore an expression of solemnity as he tucked his hands in his wide sleeves, mocking the posture of a monk. "I fear I have sad news to bring to Lady Gwyneth."

Gwyneth's heart pounded, and her palms became wet. "I beg you, brother, share it."

"Your father, Thegn Leofric, lies dead at Wykston," Wulfstan announced.

"God's teeth! So you are Leofric's daughter!" Alain exclaimed.

Gwyneth gasped. "No!" The news struck her like a fierce blow to the stomach, forcing the air from her lungs. It mattered not that Wulfstan had verified the knight's suspicions and revealed her identity. Her father, her only kin, was gone. Her last ray of hope had been snuffed out like the flickering flame of a lone candle, leaving her to grope in the blackness of despair.

Gwyneth's knees went weak and she swayed, but the strong arms of the knight caught her.

Despite her grief, she wondered why Wulfstan came to deliver the news, and dressed as a monk at that? Where was her father's herald? He should have come to tell her. Something was amiss.

Perhaps the thegn and abbess plotted to deliver her. No. She was certain Mother Clotilde did not know the man. Braeton Hall stood near the Scottish border. He had no reason to visit this convent, patronizing the monastery near his own home. Even if the virtuous abbess knew Wulfstan, she would refuse to have any truck with the perfidious thegn.

Was her father truly dead, or was this a ruse designed by Wulfstan?

"There is more to my message." The masquerading monk stepped forward.

"More?" Mother Clotilde raised her hand, signaling Wulfstan to halt. "Surely not. The lady is bereft. She needs to retire with her sorrow."

"She will wish to see her father's last wish carried out. He has left instructions in this missive." He removed a scroll from the sleeve of his habit.

"Your insistence is discourteous," Alain stated. "Lady Gwyneth must recover from her shock."

"'Tis your interference that lacks manners." Wulfstan retorted. "Lord Leofric wished her to sign this document, sir knight."

Ranulf and Aelveva moved into view. The sergeant offered Gwyneth a chair. She gratefully accepted as her maid, face paler than ever, stepped behind her.

"This woman is now in my protection." Alain held out his hand for the document, his shadow ominously cast on the stone wall. "I must see what she signs."

Wulfstan's face flushed a deep crimson, the whites of his eyes becoming bloodshot. Gwyneth thought that he would convulse in an apoplectic fit.

"Look to your heart's content." His face suffused with fury, the thegn slapped the cylinder of parchment Alain's palm. "As a petty knight, 'tis certain you cannot read it."

Gwyneth admired Alain, for he remained calm, impervious to the man's rudeness.

"Thank you, brother. Anything I cannot understand, my priest, Father Rollo, will decipher for me. Alain unrolled the sheet of animal skin and turned it toward the light of the braziers.

Gwyneth's stomach lurched as the Norman scanned the missive. Could the knight read? Most men could not. Perhaps he was bluffing. Was the message truly from her father?

As he walked toward Ranulf, Alain began to recite the Latin aloud. He could read! Because Leofric had insisted she be educated so she could administrate her lands more effectively, Gwyneth was able to understand every word, and she could hardly believe her ears.

The knight ceased his recitation and looked up. "'Twould seem this is a betrothal contract. Lady Gwyneth is to plight her troth to Thegn Wulfstan of Braeton Hall. All that is required is your mark on this parchment, my lady." Alain glared at her, pointing his index finger to the spot on document that waited for her signature.

"Nay," Aelveva cried, as she clapped her hands over her mouth and swayed.

Ranulf caught the woman before she fell. "There, mistress," he said. "Calm yourself."

Striding back to Gwyneth, Alain showed her the document. Dumbstruck, she took it in her cold, trembling hands.

Now Gwyneth understood Wulfstan's foul purpose. It was common knowledge that she resided at the abbey, and his spies had likely informed him that the enemy bided there as well. Too cowardly to confront Sir Alain on the battlefield with honor, the greedy thegn had come to the convent disguised as a monk, and with a forged document, hoping to gull the Normans into allowing her to leave. Once he had her in his possession, he would force her into marrying him.

A cold sweat bathed her body, and she shuddered at the very thought of such a union. Sick with revulsion, she rerolled the parchment and returned it to the knight, certain that her father was dead, for the craven Wulfstan would never cross Leofric while he was alive.

"According to this document," Alain announced, holding up the scroll, "Lady Gwyneth is a wealthy heiress. As such, her marriage is of prime importance to the king. He alone will choose her husband. You may return to her suitor with those words."

Alain returned the missive to Wulfstan, who snatched it angrily and marched from the room, followed by his two henchmen.

Overcome with grief, Gwyneth sank to her knees and wept.

Sir Alain and Aelveva rushed to her. The knight helped her to her feet. "Come, my lady," he whispered.

She looked up at him, tearing streaming down her face. "Sir Alain, I beg you. Allow me to attend my father's funeral."

***

Chapter 6

Night had fallen as black and oppressive as soot. The darkness matched Alain's mood as he and Ranulf took up their vigil outside Gwyneth's chamber in the guesthouse.

Situated at the corner of the edifice, her rooms had but one entrance. Built as an extension, there was no interior access from her rooms to the rest of the building. Anyone wishing to enter her bower had to leave the main portion of the structure and enter her abode through a private door that faced a small private garden. Presently, no one could get to her without going past him and Ranulf.

If Wulfstan was determined to marry this woman, he might attempt to abduct her. Alain and his reliable friend were well prepared to deal with him.

Lying on the ground, he gazed up at the cloudy sky, recalling Gwyneth's reaction when he refused permission for her to sign her betrothal contract. Did her strong emotions betray the fact that Wulfstan was her lover, or had grief at the news of her father's death turned her face the color of ashes? Undoubtedly, both those events affected her, but which caused more pain?

Alain tossed on his blanket and envisioned the thegn to be a long-limbed, sinewy Saxon with flowing, flaxen locks and a bushy, golden beard. Consumed by jealousy, he was sure she had trysted with Wulfstan the night he found her.

Gwyneth fiercely denied that accusation, but Alain knew that she was protecting someone by her silence. Who else could it be but the thegn of Braeton Hall?

The idea infuriated him. Alain could not endure the thought of another man touching her. Closing his eyes, he could still feel her lips beneath his, trembling like a dew-drenched rose in the wind. His loins burgeoned with hot, potent need.

He must cease this line of thinking, feeling, behaving. Lady Gwyneth was his adversary, and she loved someone else. To gain her freedom, she may consent to lie with him, but she would betray him in an instant.

Still, the possibility of losing the girl shook Alain to his very foundations. Why? He was not in love with her. But you want her—more than you have ever wanted any woman.

This mad desire was dangerous. He must fight the attraction, resist it with all his might. After all, the world was full of women; beautiful, winsome females, who would be most willing to ease his male urges for the right price. He tried to banish her from his mind.

But like the ever-present mist of this island kingdom, Gwyneth stole gently, silently, persistently into his thoughts. He imagined her naked on his bed, her flawless skin aglow in the candlelight with the translucent whiteness of a rose. He envisioned her gleaming, golden mane spilling over his pillows as the pink crests of her firm, full breasts jutted provocatively toward him. How he wanted to lie between those creamy-smooth thighs and feel her woman's core hot, wet, and wantonly responsive to his embraces.

"Damnation!" He bashed his fist against the damp ground.

"Alain?" Ranulf called through the darkness.

"Aye."

"You cannot sleep?"

"Nay."

"Nor can I." Ranulf sighed audibly.

Alain propped himself up on an elbow. "What thinks you of Leofric's missive to his daughter?"

His eyes accustomed to the darkness, Alain watched Ranulf's moving silhouette as the man sat up in the gloom.

The sergeant rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and yawned. "There is much that does not tally. How is it the girl was not betrothed much before this? She is a beauty, an heiress, and has been of age for some years. Her father could have made a brilliant match. Why did he wait so long?"

Alain sat up as well. "She may have been betrothed, but the man died in battle, and her father sent her to the convent for safety."

"'Tis possible. Now that she is free to marry again, 'twould seem this Wulfstan wants the girl and convinced her father to give her to him." Ranulf stood and walked to him.

"The lady may have been trysting with Wulfstan and was on her way back to the abbey when we captured her."

"So you have reconsidered your theory that she is a spy," Ranulf stated.

"Not necessarily. She could be a spy who has a lover. Mayhap they are conspirators."

"Aye. All Wulfstan need do now is decide whether he will attack us or plan a discreet abduction before the girl's future is put before William. I am sure he will ask the monks about the strength of our forces, although Aelveva told me he has not declared himself with the rebels."

"He may petition William himself in that case." The prospect made Alain's gut knot with apprehension. The king could consent to the match since Wulfstan had not taken up arms against him.

"Sir Alain!" Robert called out as he ran toward Alain.

"What is it boy?"

"King William's herald would speak with you."

The messenger came forth, and Alain recognized Eudo of Caen.

"Sir, I bring grave tidings," the man reported urgently. "The Welsh prince, Edric the Wild, has revolted. The king moves west to restore the peace. He leaves the Counts Eu and Mortain to standby in the event more trouble breaks out in Lindsey. He bids you take whatever lands you can wrest from the rebels as he plans to come north as soon as the western situation is revolved."

"He does not wish us to join force with him?"

"Nay. He expects you to prevent more land being taken by the Danish allies who linger in the Humber.

"I thank you. Inform the king that we shall obey."

"Aye." Eudo turned and hurried away.

"Do we make ready to travel, Sir Alain?"

"Aye, lad."

"So I suppose we ride to Wykston," Ranulf speculated as he returned to his place of rest.

"We ride at dawn." Alain pulled his mantle against the big drops of rain, which began to fall. "I promised to allow the lady to attend her father's funeral. Since he is dead, we must hold Wykston before the rebels do."

"And should the inhabitants resist us?" Ranulf asked.

"Then we obey the king and take the estate in his name."

Alain smiled. This event could work in his favor. Busy campaigning, William would postpone any decision on the petition Wulfstan may send to him.

***

Gwyneth struggled to consciousness like an out-of-breath diver, straining to reach the surface of a lake. Gasping for air, she sat bolt upright in the bed and peered into the blackness. Rain slashed outside the shutters, and the wind moaned through the trees, adding to her confusion.

Panicky, she cried out, "Aelveva!"

"I am here, my lady," the maid sat up from the mat on the floor beside the bed and reached for the sole taper.

The flickering candle caused the shadows to shift ominously as Aelveva sat on the bed. Gwyneth brushed back her tangle of hair and leaned back against the pillows, pulling the thick comforter up to her chin. She quivered with a chill.

"Oh, Aelveva, I regret I woke you, but I am so afraid. With my father gone, I feel so vulnerable."

"Mayhap the Norman knight will aid. Ranulf said he is a good man."

Gwyneth bit her bottom lip. "Nay. Likely he will extract the ransom from Wulfstan in exchange for permission to marry me and the assurance that the thegn will pledge his loyalty to William. The king will approve since the arrangement will gain him allies. Surely the thegn will agree, and I shall be forced to marry him."

"Oh, my lady." The maid cringed. "Certainly Sir Alain will not do such a thing." She stood, walked to the table, and set the candle down. Her hand shook in the dim light as she poured some barley water from the flagon into a tankard.

"He will, for 'twill suit everyone's purpose but mine," Gwyneth replied, gripping the edge of the sheet. "Once I produce the prophetic heir, Wulfstan will try to dispose of me to keep my fortune, and take his next hapless spouse."

Aelveva approached, handing her the mug of barley water. Gwyneth drained it and returned the empty vessel to the maid.

"'Tis a chilling prospect, my lady. I pray God we can avoid it."

The woman returned to the table and helped herself to a drink. Finished, she set down her tankard, moved to her pallet, and lay down once more.

Dear God, why was the life of an heiress so precarious? She would renounce all her possessions in a moment if the act would restore her father to her. She closed her eyes, grateful he would never see her joined to a rapacious clod who lusted for her wealth.

Gwyneth felt certain Wulfstan had no scruples about forcing her into marriage—by rape or kidnapping—if need be. She shuddered in horror, remembering his cruelty. The man enjoyed inflicting pain and suffering.

Though her sleepwalking remained a secret, everyone knew she feared drowning. Once, when he visited Wykston, he stalked her until he found her alone. Carrying a bucket of water, Wulfstan pushed her face below the surface of the water, holding her there until she nearly fainted. When he finally released her, he informed Gwyneth he would kill her father, should she tell him. Gwyneth had run from him, staying in her rooms until the man departed from Wykston. Dear God, spare me the rigors of the marriage bed with Wulfstan.

But the union must be consummated to be a true one, and the knave would permit no grounds for annulment. Otherwise, he would be compelled to relinquish her dowry. Besides, he wanted the prophetic son of her body as the child was to bring wealth and glory to his family.

The thought of marriage brought one prospective groom to Gwyneth's mind—Sir Alain. Though he was the least likely candidate for that position, her heart fluttered at the hopeless fantasy.

Even now the memory of his soft kiss made her feverish with longing. Gwyneth wanted to repeat that experience again and again. The gentleness beneath his warrior-like facade aroused a deep hunger in her, a need that he alone could fulfill. Sadly, that desire could never be sated. Too many obstacles separated them.

"Aelveva," she called, desperately in need of communion with another soul.

Her bright hair glowing in the candlelight, the maid remained silent. Gwyneth heard woman's deep, even breaths and knew she was sleeping.

A draft blew out the candle. Feeling lost, abandoned, and so empty she could not cry, she listened to the beat of the rain and stared into the dark canopy above her bed.

Suddenly, a ray of hope beckoned. Sir Alain, Wulfstan, and William could scheme to their hearts' content. For a marriage to be legal, the church demanded she give her consent willingly.

And I will never give it.

***

Dawn made her rosy appearance as Alain paced anxiously in front of the stable, watching his troops prepare for the journey to Wykston. The red-gold beams of sun glaring off their metal helms, his men expertly tacked up their mounts. Was he leading them into ambush? No. Only the unprepared fell into that trap. Since he expected an attack, he would not be ensnared.

High in an oak tree, a robin chirped in alarm as a squirrel, its tail pluming behind, scurried on the leafy branch close to the bird's nest. His gaze wandered from the woodland creatures to rest on Gwyneth and Aelveva, already mounted, and Garth who sat behind his mother on a white palfrey.

Was the lady's lover waiting close by to attack his men and carry her off?

A nicker interrupted his thoughts as Robert led Rampage toward him. Flanks gleaming like polished obsidian, the usually spirited stallion remained calm under the squire's touch.

Ranulf approached, holding the reins of his own bay. His helm in the crook of his arm, the sergeant halted next to Alain. "'Tis dangerous to allow the women and child to accompany us. We could be attacked."

Alain took the reins from Robert who made a hasty retreat. "Their own people would not hurt them."

"They could be killed by a stray lance or arrow," Ranulf countered.

"True, but I promised the lady that she could attend her father's funeral, and her maid insisted on coming with her."

Ranulf held a piece of carrot in his open palm, offering the treat to his bay stallion. "Is that the only reason?"

"What other reason could there be, Ranulf?"

"The reason that shouts from your heart, I think." Ranulf grinned as he placed his helm over his mail coif.

Alain avoided his friend's gaze, pretending to check Rampage's girth as he looked at Gwyneth and Aelveva again. The women now waited, well protected, at the center of the column of men. Even if he had not pledged to allow her to go home, he would never have left her at the abbey where Wulfstan could abduct her.

"I believe you speak of your own sentiment. Confess you harbor tender feelings for the lovely redhead," Alain rejoined, swinging into his saddle.

"I never denied them, but my affections go unrequited," Ranulf answered, mounting as well.

"What? Not losing your charm are you, old man?"

Ranulf shrugged. "Mayhap she feels une tendresse for me, but something prevents her from responding."

Alain took up his reins. "Mayhap, she has a husband."

"Nay. She has been a widow these past five years."

"Too long time for a lovely woman to go without affection. I am sure you'll find a way to console the lusty, uh, I mean lonely widow." Alain smiled at his friend as they led the column of men through the gate of the abbey toward Wykston.

***

From the position of the sun, Alain concluded it was close to noon. His apprehension mounted as they approached a grassy embankment just in front of them. The troops had just left the shelter of the forest. As he and Ranulf led the troops across the flat plain, their position became more vulnerable by the second. He turned in his saddle and scanned his troops. Postures tense with vigilance, bodies primed for action, no one uttered a word. Even nature bode silent. Acutely alert, Alain noticed that not a leaf fluttered, nor bird chirped in the pleasant warmth of the early September day. The only sounds he heard were the rattle of weapons and rhythmic impact of hooves as they struck on the soft earth. Yet, like the calm before the storm, the very air seemed charged with energy.

Beside him Ranulf sat erect in the saddle. His wary gaze met Alain's.

Suddenly an ear-splitting roar erupted as the Saxons appeared on the ridge of the hill. A shield wall stretched inauspiciously from one end of the formation to the other. To its rear, Alain estimated the enemy stood eight men deep as it had at Hastings.

"Robert," Alain shouted. "Take the women and Father Rollo behind our line into the woods."

The squire obeyed as a hail of arrows and stones, hurled from slings, darkened the sky. Instantly closing ranks, the well-trained troops deflected most of the darts by raising their kite-shaped shields.

Alain's archers nocked their arrows and retaliated. Still, Norman casualties littered the ground, spit by the deadly missiles.

Alain blew his horn, and his cavalry bolted forward up the incline, calling for God's help. "Dex aid," they roared as they clashed head on.

Yelling, "God Almighty, and Holy Cross," the wild Saxons held the hill. Sword clanged on sword, stabbing, slashing, severing. Injured horses whinnied pitifully then crashed to the ground. Wounded men groaned. With sickening thuds, axes joined the cacophonous din of death and cleaved helms, opened skulls, spilled brains. Lances skewered their victims. Butchered like sides of beef, men fell. For hours the infantry left standing hacked away ankle-deep in sticky blood.

Still, neither army gained an inch of ground.

Sweat pouring, muscles aching, Alain wielded his sword again and again as he desperately tried to carve a breach in the steadfast enemy position.

Roaring, "Out, out," the Saxons fiercely repelled anyone who attempted to penetrate their line, and volleys of stones from slings further stymied the Norman advance.

Alain ordered his archers to aim high so that the Norman arrows would penetrate deeply into the Saxon line. Then he sounded a tactical retreat. His cavalry turned and withdrew. As he hoped, the steadfast Saxons broke ranks, hotly pursuing their adversaries down the slope of the hill.

The opportunity seized, the Normans divided into three groups. Two of the Norman groups circled back on the hounding Saxons, blocking any retreat while the third turned and charged. Now completely surrounded, the Saxons stood valiantly, but the mounted Normans cut them down like ripe wheat before a harvest scythe.

Close to exhaustion, Alain caught sight of a few survivors fleeing to the refuge of the woods.

Gwyneth! A new surge of energy invigorated every fiber of his body.

"Ranulf!" he shouted. "The women and boy!"

Wheeling their horses around, he and the sergeant spurred their mounts to full gallop into the thick forest of oaks.

With the women and Garth in tow, the Saxons sped away on the horses they had wrested from Father Rollo and Robert. Alain pursued Gwyneth's abductor while Ranulf followed Aelveva's.

White hot with fury, Alain bore down on his enemy, sword drawn. The foe lifted his weapon as well and resisted the punishing blows. Unaccustomed to combat on horseback, the Saxon dismounted in a wild jump. Leaping from his saddle also, Alain took the offensive and came face to face with the great, blond man.

Wulfstan?

Alain's rage boiled over, as their swords clashed and sparked on impact. The forest reverberated with the clang of metal as he took command of the contest, and forced the Saxon ever back, never relenting his assault. Pressing his advantage, he delivered the coupe de grace as he plunged his sword deep into the rebel's chest. Blood gushed from the man's mouth. Like a felled tree, he toppled back, death glazing the pale blue of his eyes.

Heart pounding, chest heaving, Alain whirled round ready to confront any foe daring to approach. None stepped forth as Ranulf stood over his enemy as well, his face flecked scarlet, his hauberk smeared crimson.

Suddenly, all went quiet. Thirst burned Alain's throat, and his dry tongue stuck to the roof of his parched mouth. His own hands sticky with gore, and the smell of blood in his nostrils, Alain's gaze met Ranulf's with silent understanding. Certain the danger had passed, they wiped their blades and resheathed their weapons.

Aelveva and Garth knelt by Robert who lay unconscious, his head in Gwyneth's lap. Father Rollo scrambled to his feet, brushing the forest bracken from his somber habit.

Alain went hollow inside and rushed to the boy's side. "Damnation!"

Ranulf knelt as well.

"He still lives," Gwyneth spoke softly, as her fingers deftly worked over his scalp.

"In spite of his fear, he tried to prevent the Saxons from taking the women because you had commended them to his care," Father Rollo remarked, his white tonsure glowing like a ghostly halo in the gloom of dusk.

"Aye, father, he is a dutiful lad."

In the dim light, the blood matting Robert's hair appeared black. Alain dropped to his haunches at the unconscious boy's side. Anguish tore his heart as he scooped the boy into his arms. He whistled softly, and Rampage followed him as he strode back to the edge of the battlefield, leaving the others.

"Sir Alain, I can tend his wounds."

From behind him, Gwyneth's voice sounded concerned. He turned. The gathering mist drifted around her. The black of her mourning clothes contrasted starkly with the paleness of her upturned face.

Stricken and afraid the squire would die, Alain lashed out like a wounded boar. "Why should you care? He is your enemy. We all are."

Undaunted, Gwyneth walked to him. "I have seen enough death this day. I wish to see no more. Robert is not my enemy. He is little more than a child."

Uncomfortable expressions on their faces, Ranulf and Aelveva slipped away with Garth to round up the horses while Father Rollo stared at Gwyneth with suspicion.

Robert stirred. His feeble moan caused Alain to wince inwardly. "You have healing skills?"

"Some. I have worked with Sister Edith, the infirmaress, and Winna, the wise woman of Wykston. I have my basket of herbs and instruments." Her fingers plucked the cuff of her tunic. "There are many who will need my care this night. Let me begin with the lad."

Alain's arms hurt from the weight of his burden, but his heart ached even more. "Why should I trust you?"

"I have examined your squire. He has a deep gash at his hairline, which requires cleansing else 'twill fester. Fortunately, the bones of his head remain intact so he can recover nicely, but we must hurry. Please, Sir Alain, while you hesitate, the lad suffers."

The squire groaned dolorously, causing Alain to wince inwardly as he shifted the boy's weight. "Very well, start with him. But don't waste your time on Wulfstan. I have killed him." He nodded toward the Saxon he had cut down moments before.

"That man was Aethelstane, one of my father's housecarls." She lowered her lids. "Wulfstan's men-at-arms never came. Those who met their creator this day were all my people. Gwyneth bowed her head and wiped a tear away. Then she bravely met his gaze again. "If you carry the boy to the spring behind those boulders. I shall tend wounds."

His sergeant and Aelveva approached with the horses. Father Rollo took the reins of his mount, along with those of Robert's animal. Ranulf urged, "Come, father. Many on the field require Extreme Unction. 'Twill be a busy night for you."

"Aye, my son, and those same poor souls will need a Christian burial," he remarked, shaking his head.

"My lady, shall I aid you here?" Aelveva spoke softly as she reached for the cross, suspended from her neck.

"Aye, Aelveva, after you attend Garth." She shook her head in dismay. "The poor child has viewed things this day not even an adult should see."

His stomach roiled from the stench of death, and Alain turned away to view the battlefield. Already, his men had begun to strip the mutilated corpses of their booty. The feeble cries of the dying made the misty dusk more eerie.

His heart close to bursting with pain, Alain gazed down at Robert, and his soul ached for another vulnerable boy of twelve, an unwanted bastard, who had been cast out and marked for murder.

Chapter 7

Morning poked through the tenebrous sky with swatches of pale light the color of hammered iron. Mist still hung over the plain like a diaphanous veil. After their night of heavy toil, Gwyneth and Aelveva sat beside a narrow stream. A fresh change of clothes, taken from the baggage cart, lay by their sides.

For all their efforts, few of the wounded survived, though young Robert would mend well. Lids closed, the maidservant leaned against the trunk of an oak, resting briefly before the tasks of the new day commenced.

Her eyes burning from lack of sleep and too many tears, Gwyneth ached from exertion and wondered about her uncertain fate. A now homeless, landless daughter of a deceased traitor, she lived without the protection of kith or kin. Her future, besides being a captive, remained unknown to her.

One thing she knew for certain. Sir Alain now held Wykston in the king's name.

Everything she tried so desperately to prevent had occurred despite her best efforts. She had failed miserably. Her way of life, as she had known it up until this point, lay as dead as the corpses that the Normans had just buried in the great mass grave, dug during the night.

No matter which way she turned, Gwyneth saw a dim future. Sir Alain might advise William to use her to negotiate a treaty or obtain a ransom from Wulfstan. The king could order him to sell her into slavery, if he so desired. Gwyneth trembled since she could not decide which fate was worse, but she would submit to neither.

If she begged for mercy, and asked to spend a period of mourning at the convent, perhaps the knight would prevail upon the king to grant her wish. Some of the jewelry and gold and silver coin she had hidden in her room there would pay for her escape if the king tried to press the issue of an alliance with Wulfstan. She'd leave the rest with Mother Clotilde to help her people.

Though the loss of her father and home weighed on her heart, the survivors of Wykston concerned her. Moreover, her responsibility shone clear.

The September breeze rustled through the leaves, causing the foliage to descend in a flutter of copper and gold. Doubtless, the harvest at Wyskton stood ungleaned in the fields.

In a better time, the valiant, young men, who died yesterday, would have been home, reaping the fruits of the earth rather than spilling their blood into it. Such a horrendous waste! Furthermore, now the women, children, and elderly would very likely perish.

After other battles, the Normans burned the fields of their Saxons, creating an unnatural famine to starve out the hapless geburs. The conquerors had even destroyed farm implements. Given the circumstances, Sir Alain gave no reason to believe he would not order the same at Wykston.

Unless she persuaded the knight to allow the harvest to be reaped!

How? All the able-bodied men lay dead. The women, children, and elderly could not manage the work alone. The task proved difficult even when every hand was turned to work.

Why should the Norman knight help them, especially since they had raised their swords against him?

Because he and his men must have somewhere to winter, she reasoned. Needing food and shelter for himself and his men, he would not be able to destroy the estate. A firm goal for which to work, Gwyneth felt better despite her grief.

Aelveva opened her eyes. Sighing and stretching, she interrupted Gwyneth's hopeful thoughts.

"We must wash, my lady."

"Aye. I found some soapwort by the spring." She held out the bruised leaves to her maid. "'Twill not lather as nicely as the soap you make, but 'twill remove the stench of blood and the grime from the road."

"Aye. 'Twas kind of Ranulf to heat these buckets of water. 'Twill make bathing outdoors less unpleasant as 'tis chilly." The maid shivered as she slipped off her tunic.

"I am surprised the knight allowed us to be alone."

"We are not alone. Look behind you." The maid pointed to the spring-fed pool in the woods.

Gwyneth turned and saw Alain bobbing in the cold, slate-colored water. Ranulf held Garth. She shivered just thinking about the temperature of the water.

"They know 'tis safe to leave us alone as long as they have him," Aelveva commented.

"Aye. They are certain we'd not leave without him. Of course, if we did, they would beg us to take him back."

Lifting the heavy pail, Gwyneth ducked behind a bush. "I am glad you thought to tell me we were in their sights before I stripped down to bare flesh."

"I'd not have neglected that detail, my lady." Aelveva cast off her chainse.

"They needn't worry. For the present I'll not consider escape." Gwyneth dropped her soiled garb to the ground. Dipping a square of cloth into the warm water, she began to scrub. "If our people are to survive, the Normans must help them." Aelveva's darkly circled eyes opened wide. "How are you going to convince Sir Alain of that? The Normans usually drive out our people and supplanted them with their own."

"By showing him 'twill be to his advantage to do so."

"Oh," Aelveva replied, a look of wonder on her wet face. Their bodies covered with a weak lather, they hefted the buckets, rinsing themselves. Teeth chattering, skin covered with goose flesh, both women quickly reached for the drying linens then dressed in fresh garments.

***

Aelveva and Garth at her side, Gwyneth rode with the triumphant Normans toward Wykston. The grief and horror of the past days had finally caught up with her. Devastated, she grabbed on to the high-rolled front of her saddle, struggling to salvage the last shreds of her battered dignity.

The wind gusted, flipping over the russet leaves on the ancient oaks. A sure sign rain was on the way. If they hurried, they could avoid the slashing downpour as Wykston lay before them, just beyond the verdant pasture.

"Please, God, no lightning," she murmured.

Wykston sat like a bull's eye in the center of a target, surrounded by two concentric fences with the common land protected between the stockades. Outside, the cultivated furlongs stretched ten times longer than they were wide, rich with a fruitful harvest. Would Sir Alain order those fields to be burned?

For every spring she could recall, teams of oxen pulled plows, tilling the rich soil. Would her people enjoy the bountiful fruits of their labors? Despite the grief gnawing at her, she must ensure that they did.

Somewhere a crow cawed irreverently as the army trooped through the first gate where some livestock grazed peacefully. Alain raised his horn to signal the inhabitants he had come to take possession.

They filed through the second stockade and into the center of village. The denizens, what remained of them, stared in wide-eyed vigilance. With exception of some men too old for battle, most were women and children. They stood, doffing their caps or bowing as she passed. Her heart broke anew. Shoulders slumped in submission, eyes full of fear, the geburs had the look of a vanquished people. The poor souls expected the worst of their Norman conquerors, and would likely get it; unless she convinced the knight otherwise.

She surveyed wood-framed, wattle and daub cottages, knowing where every family lived. Each boasted a garden replete with vegetables and herbs for cooking, medicines, or dyes. Curly wisps of smoke escaped from vents in the thatched roofs, evidence of the cooking fires in the communal rooms since it was nearly sunset and almost time for supper.

She bit her lip as her own abode came into view. Much larger than the ordinary villager's home, the building contained enough space to accommodate the frequent guests who visited her father on official business. The entire community could take refuge inside should an enemy attack. For that reason the manor house possessed its own stockade.

Doubtless, King William would order a keep, atop a motte and surrounded by a bailey, to be built by the new master of Wykston. Such structures now studded the landscape, although just three years had passed since the Normans invaded Britain. From his citadel, the king's vassal would command this area for his sovereign and overlord, enforcing peace over the shire.

But there may be no tranquility for her people—only eviction and starvation.

What would she do if Sir Alain refused to prevent these people from homelessness and death? What would happen to Aelveva and Garth? The problem tormented her as she paraded in silence beside Alain and ironically led the enemy through the defensive enclosure of the manor house.

A gaggle of geese rushed forth. Honking vigorously, their wings outspread, the fowl abruptly waddled off in another direction when confronted by the huge mounts meeting them square on.

Suddenly, her father's elderly steward emerged at the door of her home and hobbled forward. His long, gray hair and wispy beard straggled to his stooped shoulders and concave chest. The man's frail body shook as the wind caught his cloak, flapping the garment behind him. As if in pain, the man clutched an oak staff and slowly, tenaciously made his way toward Gwyneth.

"Ulfer!" she cried.

Though the steward was too old for battle, Gwyneth found it difficult to believe the fanatical man still remained in Wykston, for his hatred of the Normans bordered on madness. The man's lined, thin face remained as hostile as a shard of ice.

Since her father was now dead, Ulfer and Aethlestane undoubtedly had rallied the men to attack Sir Alain's forces. His faded eyes glared with contempt. "'Twould be better I died than lived to see Leofric's daughter become the whore of a Norman swine and a traitor to her Saxon blood."

Gwyneth recoiled as if bitten by a snake.

Dismounting, Alain's posture stiffened, and his eyes narrowed to slits. "Hold your tongue, old man. No Norman dishonored the lady. 'Tis you who besmirch her virtue and good name with your lies."

His large hands spanning her waist, the knight helped her from her horse.

Gwyneth decided to contend with the steward's insolence later. Summoning all her courage, she stepped toward the old servant. "I wish to view my father's remains."

Father Alfred, the old village priest came forward. His spare body appeared too thin for his simple habit. "Aye, my lady. He rests in the church. I will come with you."

"Nay, father. I wish to be alone with my parent this one last time."

Aelveva came up behind her, holding her son's chubby hand. "Would you have me go with you, my lady? I will send Garth to the manor house."

The maid and her son looked totally spent.

"Nay, Aelveva. You both need a rest. I shall join you in a while."

Vaguely aware the soldiers had dismounted and now led their horses toward the stables, Gwyneth set off immediately for the house of worship. Hurrying across the village to the holy place, she heard footsteps behind her. She turned. The knight followed at a discreet distance. Gwyneth offered a prayer of thanks that the Norman afforded her some privacy as she headed toward her destination.

All her life the tiny, stone church had been the hub of her existence, the center of her world. There she attended mass each morning, observed the offices of the day, and confessed her sins. When sad or troubled, she always found consolation in the refuge of the quiet, sacred place. Bereft, she had sat immobile with grief as the pallbearers carried her mother's and brother's coffins down the center aisle to their final resting places in the churchyard. Now she would attend another funeral within those four walls.

Her childhood hopes to celebrate her nuptials and the baptisms of her children here had long been dashed, scattered like cold cinders to the four winds.

The knight caught up with her but allowed her to enter the church alone. Walking through the portal, Gwyneth shivered. The interior of the small, old edifice trapped the chilled air. Swallowed in gloom, the tiny, high windows with their panes of greenish glass allowed scant light in the sanctuary even during the bright hours of the afternoon.

The tall, thick candles, standing like sentinels at each corner of her father's casket, provided but meager illumination. Flickering in the dank drafts, the tapers cast long, eerie shadows across the floor and walls, while scenting the air with the sweet smell of beeswax.

Her heart heavy, Gwyneth genuflected, rose, then plodded down the aisle and stood at the catafalque. She bent over the coffin, gazing in disbelief at the shrouded, pale corpse of her father.

His usually florid face appeared so pale. Even his blond hair and beard, so liberally streaked with silver, had lost its luster. She reached out to caress his face then jerked back her hand in horror.

So cold!

Her father was gone—forever. In his place lay an empty, lifeless husk, devoid of living spirit. An anguished sob tore from her throat. Blinded by tears, she stumbled to the altar rail and sank to her knees, her hands covering her wet face.

"Please, God, let him rest in peace," she whispered. Behind her the sound of scuffling feet approached. She turned. Ulfer limped down the aisle toward her. The knight had now entered the church but remained near the door, discreetly out of her way. Gwyneth stepped from the altar, joining the old man at the brier.

"Weep and grieve for the father you so shamefully disobeyed and dishonored," he scolded, disdain stamped on his withered visage.

His words struck her like a blow to the face.

"'Tis not so. I neither shamed nor disobeyed him."

Suddenly, Alain appeared at her side. His arm circled her shoulders protectively. "I knew I should have forbidden you entry, old man. Your lies are as ill timed as they are vile. Have the grace to allow this woman to mourn her father in peace."

Ulfer's pale eyes burned with hatred. "Lies?" His voice trembled. "If she is not your leman, why do you leap to her defense?"

Alain's hand closed on the hilt of his sword. "Because your accusations are false. No one has displayed more loyalty to her people than Lady Gwyneth."

"Then let her prove that fidelity by marrying Wulfstan. 'Twas Leofric's last wish," Ulfer bellowed pounding the end of his staff of the flagstone floor.

The men's angry voices reverberated off the stone walls, driving nails of pain through her head. Closing her eyes, she covered her ears, trying to shut out their words.

Alain's voice became quiet, but his soft tone did not minimize the danger of his threat. "Get you gone, old man, else you will rue your foolish jibes."

The two men glared at each other, both refusing to back down.

The tension unbearable, Gwyneth stepped between them. "We shall discuss this later, Ulfer. Now I wish to grieve the loss of my father."

The steward shot her a look of disgust, and she fairly withered with shame. Lips curled with contempt, Ulfer scuffled away.

Sir Alain by her side, she returned to the altar rail. Gwyneth knelt and prayed for the repose of her father's soul, but her thoughts wandered to the abject misery of her existence.

Except for Aelveva, whose fate was as precarious as her own, Gwyneth had no one—no parents, no husband, and no children. Her own people considered her a whore and a traitor. Ironically, the Norman knight believed she was a spy. Could no one see the truth?

Silently, her body racked with sobs.

Of a sudden, a warm hand rested on her shoulder. Bending down, Sir Alain whispered, "Lady Gwyneth, we must go. This damp will sicken you."

She sniffled, wiping her moist face with her handkerchief. "I fare well."

"Nay. You do not. You have suffered a great shock, and these last days have been arduous. Come, at least you must eat."

"I-I could not." She turned to him. "I—"

"I refuse to take nay for an answer. 'Twill gain you nothing to fall ill."

Commiseration shone in his eyes like a kind beacon, guiding her from the tempest-tossed sea of her emotions to the safety of a snug harbor. The knight spoke truly. She must save her strength. Though her grief weighed heavily, she had much to accomplish.

Even if her people no longer trusted her, she still had an obligation to see that they had food for the winter, since it had been her father's decision to lead them into rebellion.

Grasping the cold marble of the altar rail, Gwyneth pulled herself up. She could no longer procrastinate. She must ask the knight to help with the harvest before it rotted in the fields.

Suddenly, thunder rolled in the distance. She froze to the spot.

He took her arm. "We must hurry, lady, else we'll be soaked to the skin."

She shrank back. "Nay!"

Gwyneth felt safer inside the stone church, for its roof of slate would not burst into flame when struck by lightning like that of the thatch of the wooden manor house.

"I can see you shivering. We must leave," Sir Alain insisted, as he gently tugged her forward.

Gwyneth resisted. "Please! Allow me to bide. Just until the storm passes."

"Very well, since it frightens you," he murmured kindly. "Here, let me at least keep you warm."

Gwyneth did not oppose him when he placed his cloak over her shoulders and circled her waist with his brawny arm. Alain led her through the inky shadows up the nave to the dark entrance.

She started as lightning flashed through the small windows and chinks in the door, brightening the space with it ghostly bluish-white light. Seconds later she heard the boom of thunder, the howl of the wind, the splatter of rain against the slates of the roof. She closed her eyes as fear robbed her of breath. The sight of a bolt of white fire zigzagging down from the sky and killing her mother and brother flared in her mind's eye.

She did not protest as he urged her closer. Inhaling his clean, male scent, Gwyneth rested her cheek against his broad chest, listening to the steady beat of Alain's heart.

For the first time in a long while, she felt safe, protected, and mad as it seemed, cherished in the arms of her enemy.

Somehow in the darkness, she summoned her courage.

"Sir Alain the safety of my people concerns me. For good or ill, my father led them in the direction he thought best. Because of that decision, they paid a dear price. Most of the men are dead. The women lost their sons and husbands."

Gwyneth drew back slightly. Another flash of lightning startled her but still gave her the opportunity to search his face. She read nothing in his eyes. "If your men do not help them bring in the crops, they shall starve. I know that in other places, the Normans have displaced the Saxons and brought in their own people to work the land, but 'twill benefit you as well, for your men must spend the winter somewhere. I beg you, Sir Alain, will you help my people?"

Chapter 8

Despite the din of the rowdy alehouse, Alain remained deep in thought as he sat at a trestle table nestled into a corner at the far end of the room. In the center of the earthen floor, the crackling blaze of the open hearth kept the chill of the damp evening at bay. Soot streaked the whitewashed walls and blackened their supporting oak timbers, a testament to many such fires over the years.

Alain stared into the bottom of his empty mug. Again and again, Lady Gwyneth intruded on his thoughts like the strains of a haunting melody. When he closed his eyes, he saw her face, smelled her scent, tasted her kiss. The memory of her soft body in his arms never failed to make him hot with desire.

Exhaling a pent-up breath, Alain leaned against the rough wall.

He had to admit Gwyneth had pluck and spirit. From their first meeting, she remained undaunted. Even in the abyss of grief, she considered her people, asking him, her enemy, to help them! Her troubles would have crushed a lesser person, yet she bore all her misfortunes with dignity and courage.

Still, a mere thunderstorm frightened her! Then again, he supposed many people feared a tempest.

Alain peered through the blue-gray haze of woodsmoke and tallow candles and spied Ranulf entering the room. Navigating his tall form around several men sprawled out on the floor and insensible from too much drink, the sergeant took a seat on the bench facing Alain.

Close on his companion's heels, a serving wench sauntered toward them, swaying her hips provocatively. Ranulf turned and smiled at the saucy woman.

The girl's heart-shaped face held small, even features. She wore no veil, and her tawny braids hung, shiny and thick, to her narrow waist. The bodices of her russet tunic and chainse were cut in low, revealing her full cleavage.

Despite her beauty, Alain found the maid far too brazen for his taste.

A wide smile on her lips, a large pitcher in each hand, the female approached their table. "What will please me lords this round? More ale, mead, o' some other delight?"

"Ale," both men answered at once, not rising to her bait.

As she bent to fill their tankards, the wench displayed a generous portion of her voluptuous breasts. Her task finished, she ambled away with a sultry promise in her eyes.

"At least that lass is not hostile to us." Ranulf grinned.

Alain sat up straight on the bench, took a sip of his ale then set the tankard down. "Not overtly, but 'tis because she would ply her wares, and I do not refer to the drink she offers."

"Mayhap." Ranulf glanced toward her admiringly. "She is a bit too bold, but still 'tis pleasant to see a pretty smile for a change. The other villagers seethe in contempt."

"The old retainer, Ulfer, feeds the fire of their discontent." Alain took a long pull of the golden liquid then set the vessel down.

"Aye, Aelveva told me that he is a zealot and hates us.

"A raving lunatic is a more apt description." Leaning forward on the rough-hewn table, Alain told Ranulf how the steward had behaved toward Gwyneth in the church.

"Mangy cur! I'd have been hard pressed not to thrash him." Ranulf shook his hammy fist.

"If the truth be told, I almost did. 'Twould have taught the knave some manners, but the man is so old and frail, I feared I'd kill him."

Ranulf swallowed a gulp of ale.

"Another lady would have demanded his gizzard on a skewer."

"Aye, but Lady Gwyneth never lost her temper although she seemed crushed by the accusations the old man hurled. Still, she never thought of herself. Instead, she begged me to get in the harvest for the people." Alain shook his head in amazement. "Careful. You sound as if you admire her forbearance."

Annoyed he had revealed himself, Alain admitted grudgingly, "No one is all bad."

The sergeant's mouth gaped open. "Be fair, Alain. The lady tended our wounded with the same mercy she showed her own fallen men. Aelveva says she always ministers to the sick though they have a healer here in Wykston. She need not do that."

Alain traced around the rim of his tankard with his index finger and deliberately shifted the focus of the conversation to his sergeant. "So the lovely redhead confides in you."

Disappointment shadowed Ranulf's eyes. "I hardly call sharing common knowledge a confidence."

"But you would like to be, shall we say, closer to the woman." Alain nodded.

"What healthy man would not? She is a beautiful, sweet, desirable woman. But she will not allow me to get near her. Though I feel she bears an affection for me, she fears these people will scorn her." Ranulf shrugged.

"If Ulfer is an example of how these unruly Saxons comport themselves, mayhap Aelveva is wise to keep her distance from you. The addled cur insists Lady Gwyneth marry Wulfstan, and I am sure she probably agrees. I can never forget the look on her face when I would not let her sign the contract." Alain's grip tightened around his mug, turning his knuckles white. "He insists the union was her father's last wish."

"Nay, Alain. He lies. I overheard some of the villagers discussing Ulfer. They say he rants in vain. Leofric forbade his daughter from marrying anyone, insisting he had promised her to God."

"A strange fate for one's only heir," Alain remarked. "Still it proves the betrothal contract is a forgery."

Ranulf nodded. "Aelveva says Ulfer possesses a fool notion. He is convinced that a son born to Gwyneth and Wulfstan will become a great Saxon warrior who will force the Normans from Britain. This heir is destined to bring great riches to his family. That is why Wulfstan wants to marry the woman."

"I shall never allow it!" Alain bellowed, slamming his fist on the table. The force of his blow dislodged the candle from its holder, and it rolled to the edge of the table.

Catching the still burning taper, Ranulf replaced it. "Well, you decided that matter without the benefit of lengthy deliberation. Why so adamant?" He cocked an eyebrow, smiling.

Alain glared at him. How could he tell Ranulf that Gwyneth had gotten into his blood like a raging fever? As irrational as his sentiments seemed, he could not shake them. God he felt torn asunder.

"Uh, she is alone, without the protection of kin. I cannot abandon her," he replied, trying to excuse his outburst.

Ranulf stroked his chin. "What will you do with her?"

Alain knew what he wanted to do with her—needed to do with her. But she loved another man. Wulfstan!

Alain shrugged. "I have not considered it," he lied. He had thought of it too often and long into every night since he found her.

"You could return her to the convent," Ranulf offered. "The nuns seemed fond of her, and that was how Leofric had decided she should spend her life. Or...." Ranulf shot him an impish look.

"Or what?" Alain lifted his tankard to his lips. Ranulf paused for a moment as if measuring his words carefully. He looked up, rotating his mug between his palms. "You could marry her."

Alain sputtered on his ale. "Me? You must be drunk. The notion is preposterous!" Setting down his drink, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

"Is it?" Ranulf drew out his words, his hazel eyes sparkling with mischief.

Somewhere in the background, Alain heard the punchline of a ribald joke, and the tipsy men at a nearby table reacted with a chorus of hoots and guffaws.

Alain exhaled audibly. "Aye, 'tis, and well you know it."

"Do not deny you are attracted to her, old friend. I know you too well." Ranulf pointed at him in mock accusation.

Alain leaned across the table and whispered, "I do not deny it, but there is more to marriage than desire."

"Um-hum," Ranulf nodded, smirking. "Aye, like respect and admiration, which you have admitted you already feel for the woman. But since William will likely name you Lord of Wykston, you've decided you must wed some whey-faced, heiress on whom you'll beget your children. Once you have sired the suitable number of offspring, you will shun your wife's bed and take a comely mistress to yours."

God's bones! Ranulf had a talent for reducing a thing to its bare essence! Alain shifted uncomfortably in his seat and stared into his tankard, "You make it sound so damned despicable."

"'Tis despicable and do not justify the practice. Why not marry someone you love, someone with whom you can share all aspects of your life?"

"A radical concept, Ranulf." Alain shrugged and met his friend's gaze. "Even peasants consider a woman's dowry."

"I suppose, but I married as my heart dictated. My late wife proved a good woman. I found happiness in her arms. I mourned her death for a long time." Ranulf eyes grew wistful. "No amount of gold buys such happiness."

Alain leaned back on the bench, resting his shoulders against the smoke-streaked wall. "I need money. If I am given lands I must build a keep, increase the number of my men at arms and...there is the other matter."

"To return to Normandy and wreak revenge on your father and your stepmother, Eleanor," Ranulf spat out in disgust.

"Just so." Alain lifted his tankard and drained it.

"Forget the past. Your future lies in England now, not Normandy."

Alain banged his empty tankard down on the table. "I want justice. Those fiends turned out a child to be murdered. I'll not rest until they pay for their crime."

"Do you seek justice, mon ami, or revenge?"

"Both," Alain answered, controlling his anger.

Ranulf shook his head. The candlelight caught the few silver strands of hair threading through his sandy thatch. "That score must wait for reckoning. Right now you've your hands full. 'Twill be no easy task keeping the peace here."

"But we have made a start." Alain protested.

"Aye, but we have merely squelched a small part of the insurrection." The sergeant tightly clasped his tankard between his hands. "The foothold gained is temporary unless you win the loyalty of these people. Of course, you could turn them out to starve and populate this demesne with Normans or Normans, but that will only make the survivors more bitter and peace will not occur for many generations."

"Gwyneth asked me to allow the people to stay, and I promised I would help with the harvest." Alain answered.

"A good start, but remember, enemies surround us. To the north, the Scottish King and his Saxon wife harbor her brother, Edgar, the aethling. The Danes have united with them and plot to retake their former place in York. In Normandy, William must watch his back. An alliance by marriage would be a good strategic move."

Alain hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Now I know the ale has gone to your head. The Saxons would prefer to see Gwyneth dead rather than married to me. They consider her a whore for even associating with us though she had no choice in the matter. Furthermore, the lady would never exchange vows with a titled Norman let alone a Norman bastard."

"I believe she would wed you." Ranulf pushed away his empty tankard. "She looks at you with tenderness, and when you touch her, she does not shrink away.

Alain silently agreed. Gwyneth did not cringe from his embraces. She acquiesced—no, responded—to his kiss, and just remembering her soft lips made his loins burn.

"In time Wykston's people will see that her marriage to you does not disenfranchise them from their homes, customs, and all they hold dear. Gwyneth will still be their rightful lady." Ranulf leaned forward, his voice soft, he continued. "Your children will be part Saxon, and I am sure the folk of Wykston will much prefer her to a Norman woman.

"If you are fair, these folk will give you their loyalty. You'll not be troubled by treachery from within your own enclave."

Sage though his friend's advice may be, Ranulf did not take into account that Gwyneth cared for Wulfstan. For though she returned his kisses, Alain could not forget the image of her stricken face when he forbade her to sign the betrothal contract.

Did she know the document was a forgery? Likely. Did she feign the ardor she showed him? Perhaps she pretended to lull him into carelessness so she could slip away to Wulfstan.

No matter, he still unrelentingly, insanely desired her, and Ranulf's cajoling served to fan the flames of his longing. Agitated, Alain hunched over the table and stared again into his empty mug.

"However, another development could prevent you from marrying her, mon ami."

Alain's head jerked up. "What would stop me?"

"Have you forgotten Wulfstan could abduct the lady, marry her, or as you suggested, he could petition William for her hand. You saw the marriage contract. Did the thegn sign it?"

"Aye." Alain growled in disgust. The idea of another man bedding Gwyneth caused the ale to sour in his belly.

"He wants her," Ranulf insisted. "He believes the gibberish Ulfer spouts. Mayhap other Saxons do as well. With her on his side, he could incite another revolt, and he will cut quite a heroic figure fighting for his wife's lands."

"We defeated these people before, Ranulf, and we shall do it again."

Alain rose up from the bench. The haze and pungent odor of the tallow candles caused his eyes to smart. His head ached as if someone were pounding a hammer inside his skull.

Winking at him, the burly sergeant stood as well. "But an alliance would be an easier way to ensure the peace, and wedlock offers other benefits to which a man could definitely grow accustomed."

"Enough, mon ami!" Alain turned and strode to the door. Ranulf dogged him. "Where do you go in such a rush?"

The cool air felt refreshing on Alain's face. He stopped, meeting his friend's gaze. "To write the king."

Ranulf chuckled. "'Twould be wise to inform him of our victory here." He paused. "If I were you, I should apprise him about the lady before Wulfstan does."

Ranulf needn't worry. Alain would phrase the letter so the king would never permit her to wed Wulfstan.

***

The brooding sky threatened rain, and a stiff breeze tugged at Gwyneth's cloak, forcing her to tuck the rosary she fingered into her girdle and pull the flailing mantle tightly around her. Numb with grief, she watched as the burial detail of soldiers heaped the last shovelfull of earth onto Leofric's grave.

Father Alfred's Saxon tonsure, so different from the Norman style, blew in disarray as he lifted his arms in the final benediction. The wind caused his dark, wide sleeves to flap like the wings of a crow. The prayer completed, the mourners dispersed, quickly making their way home in hushed reverence.

His spindly body stiff with resentment, Ulfer did not move but withstood the blustery buffets tearing at his garments. Heads bowed, hands clasped and faces serious, Alain and Ranulf stood opposite Gwyneth and Aelveva.

Gwyneth glanced again at the fresh grave, grateful that neither the knight nor Ranulf had any part in her father's death.

Her face pale and her slim figure swathed in the black of her mourning clothes, Aelveva put a protective arm around Gwyneth. "Come, lady. Let us leave this doleful place."

Empty inside, Gwyneth assented to Aelveva's prompting and the women started toward the manor house, followed by the two warriors.

Gwyneth walked past Ulfer as he limped toward his home in the village. She flinched and lowered her gaze as he shot her a scalding glare of disapproval. Certain the old steward would employ any means to attain his ends, Gwyneth shivered. What trap would he spring to lure her into Wulfstan's snare? On shaky knees, Gwyneth trudged down the dirt path and into a terrifying future.

***

Alain sat on the dais in the center of the great hall and surveyed the scene. Scoured of its grime, the plaster had been freshly whitewashed. A fine tapestry, a gift from King William, splashed merry splotches of color against the pale walls. Fresh rushes replaced the old ones, vastly improving the odor of the place. Suspended from the dark, oaken rafters, a circular iron chandelier, ablaze with candles, hung from the center of the ceiling, supplementing the meager afternoon light that streamed through the small, high windows.

Today all would swear fealty to him as overlord of Wykston. Not a week ago, his herald had returned from William's camp with a charter confirming that Alain now held Wykston in the name of his monarch.

As Alain predicted, the king commanded him to forbid Lady Gwyneth to marry Wulfstan. William was concerned. As Ranulf had suggested, she and Wulfstan could easily become a rallying point for the rebels. Both hailed from ancient Saxon nobility. That fact plus Ulfer's nonsensical prediction could spark further insurrections to destabilize the Norman regime in England.

To prevent the match, William ordered Alain to marry Gwyneth as soon as possible.

Alain revealed the king's order to no one, not even Ranulf. He wished no rumor to reach Gwyneth first. He wanted to tell her the news himself. Alain was waiting for an opportune moment to give her the royal tidings, but first he must secure the loyalty of the people.

Dressed in their finest attire, all the inhabitants of Wykston, Saxon and Norman alike, waited in respectful silence to kneel before him, put their folded hands between his and swear their oath of fealty. The ancient tanner, Aldred, his body stooped and too old for combat, squinted at Alain through faded eyes. Gyrth, the white-haired swineherd, leaned on his staff, holding the hand of his little, blond granddaughter. The lovely wench from the tavern, who he had learned was the alewife's daughter, boldly smiled at him, a suggestive gleam in her eyes. Ignoring the girl's offer, Alain impatiently drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Instinctively, he knew the woman was experienced and capable of giving him pleasure and much needed release, yet he did not want her. He needed something more than the mere physical ease she could provide.

Still arrayed in her mourning garments, Gwyneth stood with quiet dignity next to the somberly clad Aelveva.

Arousal jolted through him. The woman affected him like a tankard full of mead.

Though he had remained busy since he seized this estate, taking stock and planning improvements, Gwyneth haunted his dreams. He often awoke from a deep sleep, groaning in frustration for want of her.

Suppose she refused to swear her oath of allegiance to him? The disgruntled Ulfer made a hasty, angry departure rather than swear his fidelity. Nevertheless, Alain believed Gwyneth would comply for fear he would renege on his promise to help her people. He never went back on his word, but it suited his purpose at the moment to keep that fact from her.

Suddenly, everyone's attention fixed on Gwyneth. Slowly, she approached Alain and knelt. Folding her hands, she raised them. Alain leaned forward, taking her cold, trembling fingers between his palms. Her nervous breaths fanned his face, yet, she kept her gaze downcast.

He leaned forward so their lips were close...so close that if he bent but a fraction of an inch closer, he would feel their petal softness. She drew back. Her voice shaking, Gwyneth began her pledge.

"By God, I pledge my faith and troth to Alain Fitz de Personne, my liege Lord and love—" She stopped abruptly as her gaze connected with his.

Love! Had anyone ever loved him? He searched the mysterious depths of her silver eyes. Surely, she loved Wulfstan.

Lowering her lids again, Gwyneth continued. "And love all that he holds dear, and abhor all that he hates, in compliance with God's sacred rights and secular responsibilities; and never, willingly and knowingly, in word or deed, do what is hateful to him; on condition that he sustain me as I shall deserve, and perform all that was in our agreement, when I swore my fealty to him and sought his favor."

The declaration finished, Gwyneth rose gracefully and retreated from his touch, leaving the scent of roses to linger about him as she returned to her place beside Aelveva.

After the oaths were pledged, Alain invited all to celebrate. The alewife served mead, and Alain broke out a butt of fine Burgundy William had shipped to him from France. The wine brought a flush of good cheer to Father Rollo's pale face as well as Father Alfred's. Ranulf entranced all the women, though he directed his attentions toward the lovely Aelveva. Even Robert, now fully recovered, forgot his anxieties for a while, joining wholeheartedly in the celebration as little Garth gorged himself on honeycakes.

Alain partook sparingly of the potent beverages and fine food. He had attained the reward he had fought for all his life, yet something seemed lacking. Instead of triumph, a strange emptiness lodged in his heart, especially when Gwyneth retired. Still in mourning, she requested to be excused from the festivities, and though reluctant, Alain allowed her to leave. The day's events whirling by him like a blur, he left his inebriated guests unconscious on the tables and floor of the great hall. Retiring to his chambers, he tumbled into bed too tired to undress.

***

"Why, my lady? Why did you swear that oath of fealty to him?" Garth asked. "Ulfer said that the Normans are mangy curs, and we should hate them with our dying breaths."

Securing the shutter in Gwyneth's bedchamber against the gathering mist, Aelveva spun around. "You know better than to be so impertinent, child!"

Gwyneth stopped pacing and stood in the middle of the floor. "He needs an explanation. Obviously, he has heard conflicting messages."

Gwyneth moved to the boy, kneeling down in front of him, smoothing his hair. "I had little choice, Garth. Lammas is gone. We need the Normans to harvest our crops so the folk left here will not starve. If I gainsay Lord Alain, he will refuse us the aid we so desperately need to survive."

Gwyneth rose. "I'll not give the Normans an excuse to lay waste to our lands."

Garth looked up at her. "Then 'tis all right for me to like the big Norman, Ranulf?"

Gwyneth smiled. "Aye. He is a good man." She exchanged a meaningful glance with Aelveva then looked down at the boy. "'Twill help heal the rift between our two peoples."

"Good. He laughs a lot, and I cannot help but like the man. Still, I did not want to be disloyal to my own people, my lady." The boy turned to Aelveva. "Mother, may I please go to the kitchen? Agatha says she saved an apple tart for me."

Aelveva shook her head. "By all the saints, love! You have already eaten too much."

"Ohhhh pleeeassse, mother." He pulled on the maidservant's hand.

The fond mother smiled, love shining in her eyes. "One tart. Come back to bid us goodnight as soon as you have finished. Then 'tis off to the sleeping shed with you." 'Tis late and we all need sleep." She covered her yawn.

"Oh, thank you, mother." The boy ran from her chamber as Gwyneth removed her black headraile.

Aelveva took the veil and placed it in the chest at the foot of the bed. "Has Sir Alain, I mean his lordship, discussed your future?"

Gwyneth slumped into her chair. "Nay," she answered, uncoiling her braids.

Picking up the brush, the maid began running the stiff boar bristles through Gwyneth's hair. "Think you he will arrange a match with Wulfstan?"

"'Tis a plausible option for him and the king. They wish to maintain the peace, and alliances are less expensive and destructive than wars."

"Wulfstan will leap at the chance, my lady. But you cannot marry him!" The maid stopped her grooming. Her hand trembling, she placed the brush on the table. "Mayhap you could persuade his lordship to send you to the convent."

"Lord Alain is a kind man, but the affairs of state come first." Gwyneth turned and looked up at the woman.

"What will you do, my lady?"

Gwyneth untied her girdle. "After the harvest is reaped, I'll ask to retire to the abbey to pray. Lord Alain cannot refuse me that request. He knows 'tis my custom to do so. Once there, I shall ask Mother Clotilde's advice."

Gwyneth dropped the girdle. "The abbess will help me allude my guards and escape to Ireland. The Irish believe in witches, but I have not heard that they wreak vengeance on them. I will use the gold coins and jewelry I have set aside at the abbey to start a new life."

"My lady, such a scheme is terribly dangerous." Aelveva's hands shook as she helped Gwyneth out of her tunic. Her voice choked with tears, she cried, "I cannot bear the thought." Gwyneth placed her hands on Aelveva's shoulders. "If I stay, they will try to force me marry to Wulfstan, though the church forbids a coerced marriage."

"I know." The maid eyes brimmed with tears. "They could hold you prisoner and deny you food till you sign the betrothal contract."

"So I must take my chances and go. You will remain here. Ranulf is a good man. 'Tis obvious he cares for you, and you return his affection. Bide here and marry him if you wish. He will make a good father for little Garth."

"I care for him, but I've attended you since I was a child of eight, and you were just a babe. I remember the day you came into the world, my lady."

"'Twill break my heart to part from you." Gwyneth dropped her hands from Aelveva's shoulders. "I shall be much happier knowing that you and Garth are loved and cared for. Mayhap you shall have Ranulf's babe. That child will be neither Saxon nor Norman but English. Only when the two peoples merge can there be peace and survival for us."

Gwyneth fought her grief. She refused to allow Aelveva to know how she suffered, else the woman would insist on accompanying her instead of finding her own happiness. "Please, Aelveva, do as I ask." She turned away and swallowed back a sob. Hiding her misery, Gwyneth bent and pulled off her chainse.

"If that is truly your wish, I'll stay, my lady."

"'Tis." Gwyneth blinked back her tears. The old bedstead creaked as she slipped between the lavender-scented sheets and rested her head on the swansdown pillows.

A rap sounded, and Aelveva walked to the entry and opened the door.

"Mistress, please come." Elspeth, the tiny, dark-haired kitchen girl entreated. "Garth has vomited in the kitchen house yard. I think he ate too many cakes and tarts."

"Oh, dear." Aelveva turned toward Gwyneth. "My lady, I do not wish to leave you. I am afraid you may...."

Walk in my sleep again. "I am not the least sleepy," she lied. "Shall I come with you?" Gwyneth sat up, ready to throw back the covers.

"Nay, my lady. If I find the boy has more than an upset stomach, I shall return for your help. After the way he stuffed himself, I am surprised his tummy did not protest sooner." Aelveva left the chamber, quietly closing the door behind her. Gwyneth lay back against the pillows and pulled the covers up against the night chill. Too tired to contend with her problems, she closed her eyes, and the image of the tall, dark-haired man loomed vividly in her mind's eye.

She and Lord Alain were adversaries, yet he had leapt to her defense against Ulfer as if she were his cherished kinswoman, offering her the safety of his arms, and the consolation of his virile body.

His body.

Gwyneth longed to feel the protection of his embrace, to rest her cheek against his massive chest, and to hear the steady beat of his heart again. Alain's words had given her solace when he had addressed her in those terms of endearment. He had called her his rose.

In the quiet darkness, Gwyneth could still feel the kiss they shared in the abbey garden. Sighing deeply, she touched her fingers to her lips, and again tasted the intoxicating flavor of his mouth.

Desire washed over her in hot waves. She was mad to harbor such illusions. He and the king would likely give her to Wulfstan.

The avaricious thegn pledged loyalty to neither Saxon nor Norman, but to his own gains. Where were his forces when the men of Wykston lost their lives battling the Normans?

Gwyneth had lost everything except her life. Would she lose that to Wulfstan?

No! She would never agree to wed him! Never!

***

What had wakened him? Perhaps a servant trod over a squeaky floor board, or a lone wolf howled plaintively in the nearby forest. Alain sat bolt upright and leapt from bed. Grateful he had fallen asleep fully clothed, he grabbed up his sword and sprang to the door, opening it.

He peered down the darkened gallery. Gwyneth, clad in nothing but her chainse, strolled by him and descended the dark staircase, silent as a ghost. Without a sound, his weapon poised for attack, he followed, keeping a discreet distance.

She crossed the great hall, made her way across the courtyard toward the kitchen house. To his surprise, she ignored Aelveva and Garth, who was vomiting in the corner, and traversed beyond the stockade. Alain shadowed her, determined not to lose her in the heavy blanket of fog.

Did she plan to rendezvous with Wulfstan?

"Damnation," he cursed under his breath, continuing his pursuit as Gwyneth shuffled through the thick accumulation of fallen leaves and strolled to the edge of a pond.

Vapor rose from its surface like steam from a caldron. In the misty darkness, Alain discerned the shapes of the tall cattails, silhouetted near the bank where the weeping willow bent its long, lamenting branches toward the murky water. A pair of swans, asleep under the tree, woke. Flapping their huge, white wings, the startled birds glided into the dark depths, disappearing in the thick haze.

Suddenly, Gwyneth reclined by the water's edge. Like Garth had she suddenly been stricken?

About to rush to her, Alain heard the rustle of leaves. Hiding behind a yew, he watched as Aelveva ran to kneel by Gwyneth's side. Alain was about to move toward them.

"Lady Gwyneth, Aelveva. You have come at last."

Hell and damnation!

Ulfer hobbled out from behind the willow. "I've waited here each night since your return to Wykston, knowing you must find your way here as you always do." Aelveva looked up. "Please, Ulfer, help me. We must take Lady Gwyneth back into the manor house."

"Nay, mistress. We must make haste to deliver her to Wulfstan." He fell to his knees as well, propping up the unconscious Gwyneth. "She and the noble thegn have a wondrous destiny to forge. Their child will drive the Normans from this land."

"Nay, Ulfer. The mead clouds your reason," Aelveva protested. "We must deliver her to the manor house."

Ulfer let Gwyneth drop back and raised his walking stick to strike the maid. Aelveva shrank back and threw up her hands to cover her head.

Bounding directly into their path, Alain pointed his broadsword at the old man's throat. "Lay down your staff, old man, or your head will roll."

***

Chapter 9

Gasping, the Saxon steward flinched back, his staff falling from his bony hand.

"Is there a reason why I should let you live, old man?" Alain asked, the point of his weapon now touching the man's Adam's apple.

"Take my life. I refuse to beg for mercy." His reedy voice full of hatred, Ulfer taunted, "I have few years left. I wish not to live them under the rule of Norman swine."

One clean, smooth stroke from Alain's blade and Ulfer's head would fly from the man's scrawny body. Yet, killing an old steward held little merit.

"Quit this place. Go to Wulfstan. Never come skulking here again!"

In the dim light, naked hatred burned in Ulfer's eyes. "I shall depart," he lashed back as he took up his staff and hobbled off. Suddenly, he halted and turned. Raising his arms, his wide sleeves fell back, revealing his stick-like limbs. He shook his staff and croaked, "You've not won yet, Norman pig. Our forces will drive you out, and your bones will turn to dust."

"Get ye gone, fool! Your empty threats do not intimidate me."

Ulfer's hollow laugh echoed eerily through the foggy woods as he slipped from view.

Suddenly, Alain heard a swishing noise in the bushes. Swinging around, he lunged behind the huge holly, pulling a gangly figure by the scruff of the neck. "Robert! Are you daft?" The squire's body shook violently, and his brown eyes opened saucer-wide. "Uh, I-I saw you leave and followed." The boy's voice quavered. "I thought you might need help, my lord."

Alain's heart softened. Robert was a dutiful squire, and someday he would make an honorable knight.

"I thank you, but as you can see I am well. You best get back to the sleeping shed with the rest of the men." Alain sheathed his sword.

"Come, lady, come." Aelveva pulled her wrist. Alain bent down, lifting Gwyneth in his arms.

Robert cast a suspicious glance at Gwyneth and made the sign of the cross. "My lord, the old man cursed us. Mayhap you should have let him take the woman."

"Ulfer lies to frighten us so we will reject the woman. He would have her marry Wulfstan and use them both as rallying points against us. Now she appears ill and I must aid her. Quit this place, Robert. I've business to finish."

"Have a care, my lord." The boy crossed himself once again before he slipped into the thick fog.

"My lord, we must return Lady Gwyneth to the manor house."

"Is she ill, Aelveva?"

"Aye, my lord. Garth is sick as well. I left him with Elspeth."

"But why did she leave the house if she felt unwell?" Alain asked suspiciously.

The maid's eyes grew wide and her hands shook. "Mayhap she was looking for me. S-sometimes she becomes a bit confused when she is ailing."

More likely she became indisposed and fainted in the act of escape. Or did Aelveva speak what she thought was the truth? Obviously, Gwyneth had not informed her of a plan to abscond, and the poor maid almost had her brains dashed out trying to get the girl away from Ulfer.

***

"Damnation," Alain cursed, feeling irritable and out of sorts after his uneasy night.

The gloomy morning did not help to sweeten his temper. The wind gusted hard as heavy, dark clouds merged overhead, forming a canopy of gray. Preoccupied with his thoughts of Gwyneth, he had paid little attention to the weather. He urged his horse toward the mews, the ride he so desperately needed to work off his frustrations, curtailed.

Alain could not dispel his fear of losing Gwyneth. Last night Ulfer had almost abducted the woman and delivered her to Wulfstan. Alain's fury still burned hot, and to protect her, he had kept her under close surveillance.

He must now post the banns and marry her as soon as possible. He had a royal command.

William cared not a jot if Gwyneth loved another man. He dismounted and led Rampage into the dim interior of the big stable just as the rain lashed down with the spite of a whip. The fragrance of hay mixed with the pungent odor of manure hung in the air.

Not waiting for a groom, he removed the mount's bridle, draping it over one of the stall doors. As he unbuckled the saddle and lifted it off, he came face to face with the grim truth. Gwyneth remained in danger of kidnapping as long as Wulfstan wanted her.

His anger raging, he wanted to throw the saddle against one of the heavy oaken beams supporting the thatched roof. Instead, he exercised constraint, not wanting to spook the mounts.

An old groom, his girth almost the same as his height, approached and carried the tack away.

His mind reeling with speculation, Alain reached for a blanket and began to walk the horse in the wide corridor between the stalls, cooling the beast down.

Why did Gwyneth respond to his kiss yet continue to attempt escape? Was she dissimulating, hoping he would drop his guard so she could flee to Wulfstan? Perhaps all her maidenly diffidence and inexperienced kiss were just part of the ruse as well.

Or did she really did fall ill and wander as Aelveva explained?

As an old retainer, Ulfer would now that Gwyneth became disoriented when sick. The old man probably just bided his time, waiting for the opportunity to kidnap her and bring her to Wulfstan.

Furious at the notion, Alain stopped in his tracks, staring at the murky pools of rain forming in the mud outside the barn door. He led Rampage into a stall stocked with plenty of straw, feed, and a bucket of water.

The animal well secured, he sloshed into the downpour and through the muddy puddles.

Once and for all, he had to know the truth about this woman. But while he had breath in his body, Wulfstan would never have her.

***

Gwyneth held out her fingers to the warmth of the fragrant apple wood fire. Dancing brightly in the middle of the great hall, the sinuous flames cast their orange glow on the whitewashed walls, causing the deep shadows to flicker on the pale, flat surfaces.

Across the hall, Aelveva sat in quiet conversation with Ranulf while Garth sat by Gwyneth's side, staring at the fire. Alain had retired to his chambers. Aelveva had apprised her about the incident at the pond. Apparently the maid's explanation convinced the knight that Gwyneth was ill for he made no accusation of sorcery. Perhaps he thought she had attempted another escape as he had forbidden her to venture beyond the stockade of the manor house.

He could not know that she refused to depart until they had reaped the harvest and stocked the winter supplies. She would never leave her folk to starve.

Gwyneth sighed and reached for her distaff. Drawing down a length of flax, she held the long fibers between her thumb and forefinger, twisting them together until they reached sufficient length. Tucking the tool beneath her left arm, she secured the coiled strands with a slipknot to the spindle. As she dropped the rotating wooden cone, the suspended weight pulled the rough spinning filaments through her fingers until they reached the floor. The strong thread formed, she twined it into a ball and repeated the process.

The quiet task relaxed her and hurdled the barriers to her innermost thoughts.

Once again her nocturnal wanderings had brought her to peril, though this time Aelveva's excuse had saved her—but for how long? Sooner or later Alain would discover her lethal secret...if you remain here, Gwyneth.

She must flee soon.

The sound of quick, determined footsteps on the flagged floors startled Gwyneth.

Alain charged toward her like an angry bull. Her stomach muscles clenched in fear as she set her work aside on the bench. Rising, she met his resolute gaze square on.

His stance stiff, Alain stood before her. "I have something of great import to discuss with you, and I prefer to do it in private, Lady Gwyneth."

The dreaded moment had finally arrived. He would soon inform her she must marry Wulfstan. He could not compel her to wed, though. Holy Mother Church protected her, and Gwyneth prepared for the fierce battle of wills.

She hugged herself, trying to control her trembling. "Shall we retire to the counting room. 'Tis always quiet there."

Walking to the candlestand, he picked up a lit taper. "Lead on," he ordered, gesturing toward the small alcove off the great hall.

Her knees shook, making her progress difficult. She opened the door. Alain headed for the simple table, set against the wall, and lit the brace of candles standing on its scarred surface. The illumination revealed numerous scrolls of parchment and tally sticks filling the shelves along the walls.

Here Leofric and Gwyneth had spent long hours recording their transactions. Somehow, it seemed strange not to see her father at the table, reckoning the accounts.

Still holding his candle, Alain beckoned her to sit in the chair near the small table. The flames reflected bright yellow-white tongues of fire in the pupils of his violet eyes.

Gwyneth wrung her hands together.

"You seem nervous. What is amiss?" He set the candle on the table.

"I-I am curious. What business do you have with me, my lord?"

His gaze bored into hers as he stood straight. "'Tis simple. The time has come for you to marry."

Her hands instinctively covered her heart. Hearing him utter those words was like anticipating the death of a terminally ill loved one. The expectation never buffered the pain of the final reality.

He frowned. "Surely you cannot be surprised. A woman of rank knows she must wed for political reasons."

"My father wished me to live at the abbey."

Putting his hands on the arms of her chair, he leaned over her. "The prospect of marriage displeases you?"

"Nay." She would pretend compliance and stall for time. That would give her the opportunity to devise a successful scheme! After they reaped the harvest, she would disappear.

He straightened and moved back slightly, giving her scant room so that she felt the chair at the back of her legs as she rose. She met his hard stare. "When do wish me to take my leave?"

He frowned. "For where?"

"Braeton Manor," she answered, feigning cooperation.

"Wulfstan's estate!" His words erupted in a snarl. Grabbing shoulders, he glared at her in fury. "He will never have you! Never! Do you understand?"

Alain's words sent a rush of relief flooding through her, and Gwyneth burst into tears.

"Stop that infernal weeping. Stop!" He released her so abruptly, she stumbled back and fell into the chair. Breathing heavily, he turned away from her.

Shaken by his gruffness, Gwyneth struggled for composure. Who did the Norman wish her to marry? Not that it mattered, for she could marry no one. Still, he aroused her curiosity. "T-Then whom do you wish me to wed?"

He faced her, and his gaze burned into hers. He spoke softly, "I am to be your groom."

Believing she misunderstood, she frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

He stepped in front of her and enunciated his words with precision. "I am to be your husband."

Stupefied, she felt her jaw go slack. "You?"

Alain pointed his finger accusingly. "Now that you know you will never marry Wulfstan, you refuse to give your consent. Before you were willing. You even asked me when I wanted you to leave."

"That was when—"

"You thought you'd be marrying your love, Wulfstan," he cut in. "Forget that dream, lady. I am the man you will take to husband and to bed now and forever." He reached for her. Jumping back, Gwyneth struck the table behind her and jarred a candle from its holder. The tallow tapers struck the floor. The dried rushes ignited into a burst of white, angry flames. Suddenly, she visualized the lightning bolt that killed her mother and brother.

Blind with panic Gwyneth stumbled to the farthest corner of the chamber. Backed against the wall, her hands clutched over her throat, she screamed in terror as the voracious flames flared upward.

***

Chapter 10

"God's bones." Alain grabbed up the water pitcher from the table and splashed its contents on the blaze, dousing the small fire completely. Acrid-smelling smoke ascended in wispy curls over the scorched spot on the floor—the last gasping remains of the combustion.

Gwyneth slumped to the rush covered flagstones. Though dazed, she heard a barrage of loud crashing. Was it thunder?

"My lady, my lady, are you all right?" Aelveva called frantically.

"Enter," Alain yelled.

She felt something near. Gwyneth's lids fluttered open. Alain knelt beside her. Deep concern shone in his eyes.

"You are safe now, my lady." He lifted her into his arms.

The door flung open, and Ranulf, Aelveva, and some the servants crowded hurriedly into the small room.

Aelveva's face appeared paler than usual in the faint light. "Forgive us, my lord, but we heard the lady's screams."

Ranulf's usually merry face took on a worried look as well.

Cradling Gwyneth, Alain turned toward the company. "Lady Gwyneth accidentally knocked over one of the candles and became frightened when the rushes took flame."

Aelveva stepped in front of Ranulf. "Shall we convey Lady Gwyneth to her room, my lord."

"Aye," Alain agreed. "She has suffered a nasty shock. The rest of you may withdraw."

Relieved, the startled retainers shuffled off.

Carrying her in the haven of his arms, Alain marched up the stairs to the gallery overlooking the great hall and into her bower. He entered and strode across the dark room to the bed where he gently placed her on the feather ticking. "Rest now, lady."

He exited with Ranulf, leaving her to Aelveva's care.

***

Alain cantered Rampage across the sunny meadow. Etched in silver, puffy, white clouds scudded leisurely across the azure sky. A fresh breeze cooled his face but did nothing to improve his understanding of the problem he had on his hands.

Gwyneth had declined his proposal of marriage, and her rejection made him furious. Undoubtedly, she loved Wulfstan. Would she have had the temerity to rebuff him had she known the king commanded the union? Knowing the woman, she probably would. Why hadn't he told her?

Hoping against hope, Alain desperately wanted Gwyneth to give her consent freely, and not solely because he needed her agreement to make the marriage legal.

Down deep, Alain longed for her to desire him with the same intensity, the same passion, he felt for her. Unfortunately, Lady Gwyneth loved another man.

His body tense with emotion, Alain rode his destrier to the edge of the woods. Dismounting, he tethered his mount to the branch of a scrub oak. As he sat on the spongy bracken, he leaned against the trunk of a tree, tucked his arms behind his head, and closed his eyes, imagining Gwyneth.

At the sound of hooves impacting on the turf, Alain's lids snapped open. His hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword, he sprang to his feet, ready for attack.

"Bonjour, mon ami," Ranulf called out from the meadow. A big grin split the man's face as he galloped his big bay forward to where Alain stood.

Alain released his weapon. "Ranulf, what brings you here? I thought you would be breaking your fast with a certain lovely redhead."

The brawny sergeant laughed as he reined in and dismounted. "I did, but you lose track of time. 'Tis well after Tierce."

"Since she left her mistress to share a meal with you, I assume the Lady Gwyneth is improved." Alain resumed his seat.

"Aye, but the lady took her bread and barley water alone in her room." Ranulf tethered his steed next to Rampage. "Aelveva related the lady was much shaken last night and needed more rest."

Alain felt guilt knot his gut. He'd caused her distress. "Even on the battlefield I've seldom seen such gut-deep terror. Yet 'tis hard to imagine why. 'Twas a small blaze and quickly extinguished. Such fires happen on a regular basis."

Ranulf sat beside Alain. "I suspect a powerful reason lies beneath her reaction."

Alain nodded. "No doubt, if her response last night gives any indication. I deduce Aelveva has not divulged it." Ranulf ran his fingers over a patch of moss growing near the base of the tree. "Nay, but I surmise that she would never break Lady Gwyneth's confidence for any reason. If you want to know, you must ask the lady yourself."

"I shall," Alain replied.

He gazed skyward, catching sight of a hawk riding the wind in large circles.

"I know you will." Ranulf smiled mischievously. "The woman preoccupies your thoughts. Why else would you be riding alone in these woods where a Saxon lance could pierce your liver?"

"If 'tis my fate to die in that manner, then so be it. I'll not hide, burrowed like a mole in the earth." Alain stood. Smiling, Ranulf rose also. "'Twould be easier to ask the woman, instead of making a target of yourself. Let us return to the manor house. I have a notion you will find Lady Gwyneth in the garden."

***

Gwyneth knelt beside a bed of betony at the far end of the herb garden. Curled by her side, a ginger kitten slept in a dapple of golden sun. The soft purr of the tiny animal soothed her jangled nerves. She stroked the cat's silky fur and closed her eyes, trying to blot out the embarrassment of her disgraceful behavior the night before.

After the way she reacted to an everyday occurrence, the Norman must have thought her a madwoman. Why hadn't she simply reached for the flagon of barley water, as he did, and drowned the flames? But her intense fear had frozen her to the spot. Nothing had gone right.

Grateful for Alain's protection from Wulfstan, she should have expressed her thanks. Furthermore, Gwyneth had been astounded when he asked, nay demanded, that she give herself to him in marriage.

How she wanted to accept! What a perfect opportunity to aid her people, to serve as a healing influence between the Normans and Saxons, to work as Alain's helpmate.

All altruism aside, Gwyneth desired the man with her whole heart, soul, body.

Tragically, she could never marry him. Tears welled in her eyes for the kisses, caresses, and children they would never share.

I am the man you will take to husband and to bed now and forever. His command echoed down the long, dark corridors of her memory.

Why had he been so insistent? What could the Norman gain? Noblemen married to consolidate their wealth and position. He already possessed her lands, and other heiresses possessed richer dowries. Still, he had been so adamant.

The idea of sharing the marriage bed with him caused her body to ache with desire. Oh, but the futility of that dream plunged her soul into mourning. How would he react if he found her walking in her sleep?

Not if, Gwyneth, when. After all, her night strolls were part of her. If they wed, his discovery of her secret was inevitable, and he would think her possessed by demons. The horror of a witch's death frightened her, but dread of his revulsion broke her heart. No. The Norman must never know the truth.

"Silly fool!" she chided herself.

But the reverie cost her nothing. True, he proved himself a hard man at times, as he had been in battle, but she had never seen him indulge in deliberate cruelty though he had been given every opportunity. Alain had always behaved justly in his dealings with her people as well as his own. Her heart glowing with the fond memory, she remembered how gently he treated Garth. And how could she forget his kindness when her father died? The handsome Norman had no obligation to show her any consideration.

"My lady." His rich baritone called from behind her.

Startled, Gwyneth quickly stood, and turned, self-consciously brushing the soil from her old tunic.

He stood in full sunlight at edge the of the herb garden, the strong rays of the sun gleaming off his dark hair. Tall and handsome in his blue garb, he emanated power, confidence, sensuality—the fierce warrior and ardent lover combined. His animal magnetism cried out to the unfulfilled need in her, taking her breath away.

But what shocks did he have in store for her this time?

"Forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to frighten you. He walked to her. "I see you fare better this day."

Dazzled by the violet-blue glory of his eyes, she answered, "Uh, thank you for your concern, my lord."

Alain stooped to scratch the kitten between its ears then stood again, allowing the creature to resumed its nap. The man's proximity caused Gwyneth's heart race even faster, but he looked away from her, giving her the impression he felt ill at ease for some reason. Uncomfortable as well, she looked at the ground.

"Lady, I, uh...."

Her gaze met his and held. "You have ill tidings for me, my lord?"

"Nay. At least I hope you will not be dismayed by my words." He took her hand. "Come, walk with me."

His touch sent a thrill of excitement coursing through her. They strolled in silence out of the garden to the edge of the pond. White, waxy, water lilies floated on the surface of the water as a flock of swans glided serenely between the pristine blooms.

Unable to endure the suspense, Gwyneth took a deep breath to steady her nerves as she gathered the courage to ask him what information he had for her.

"My lady, I want you to know that I regret any distress I may have caused you last night."

"'Twas not your fault, my lord, but mine," she declared.

They stopped and he faced her. "Nay. You can not blame yourself. We all have our fears."

She shook her head and lowered her gaze. "The fire reminded me of things I prefer to forget."

He cupped her chin in his big, warm palm, urging her to look at him. "You needn't speak of them, if to do so upsets you. Sometimes, though, a burden shared is half as heavy."

Alain's gentle companionship lifted her spirits. He released her and sat on the grassy bank, motioning to Gwyneth to do the same. As she took her seat beside him, he entwined her fingers with his.

"Will you not tell me, my lady?"

Her fears common knowledge among her people, Gwyneth decided to tell him. Besides, she could not bear to have him think she was strange.

She took a deep breath to calm herself. "I was six years old when the...incident happened. Had Aelveva not accompanied me, I should have perished."

Sir Alain gave her his complete attention as she related how her family members drowned.

"To this day, I can still see the sky darken and hear the wild rush of the wind moan through the trees. The water turned black, like boiling ink." Gwyneth shuddered as she relived the memory. "The charged air caused the fine hairs on my arms and legs to stand straight. Suddenly, lightning split the sky like a branch of white fire and struck the little coracle. In seconds the water dragged my mother and brother under.

"I screamed, but the fierce clap of thunder shook the earth and drowned out my cries. I ran into the water, thinking I could save them. Aelveva pulled me back and carried me home as I fought against her."

Gwyneth's throat ached with unshed tears as she struggled to get out her words. "T-That was the last time I saw m-my mother and l-little brother alive. I can never forget that terrible day."

Alain took her into his arms, and Gwyneth turned her face into his broad shoulder. Hard sobs wrenched her body until her muscles ached. After a time, she calmed herself, though her breaths still came in spasms.

Alain drew away from her, offering his handkerchief. "At least you had your father to comfort you, and he had you."

She accepted the linen and wiped her eyes. "Aye, but he became different. He lost the son and wife he so desperately loved, and he never stopped missing them. Something within him died. He became detached, as if he were afraid to feel again, to love again.

"When I was a child, I used to dream that if I looked hard enough, I would find my mother and brother. Then I would lead them back to my father, and everything would be as it was before the storm."

"I am truly sorry, Lady Gwyneth. I can understand why you harbor such fears."

She began to cry again and Alain held her. After a few moments, she regained her composure.

"Perhaps we should speak of something else," he suggested.

She hiccuped as he took the handkerchief from her and dried her eyes again. He used the same gentle touch when he had dabbed Garth's face. His compassion inspired her confidence. Dare she tell him that shortly after the death of her mother and brother her sleepwalking began?

Down through the years, her father's warning rang in her ears. Never speak of your secret to anyone, lest you suffer the horrors of a witch's death.

Gwyneth pictured herself before an ecclesiastical court comprised of severe monks. Their bodies racked by fasting, their eyes burned with righteous wrath. Head shaven, hands manacled, and legs shackled, she stood condemned.

Then transported on a cart through a jeering crowd, she rode toward the river. Gwyneth could almost feel the icy shock of the water and see its surface close over her head as the precious, life-giving air escaped her.

She shuddered violently and instinctively gasped.

"Lady Gwyneth. You are trembling. Let us return to the manor house before you become ill." Alain rose, helping her up.

"But wished to speak to me."

"Aye, but our talk can wait till later."

"In truth I beg that indulgence, my lord. I feel shaken."

***

That night Alain sat at the oak table in the counting room, perusing the parchments and tally sticks, listing the accounts of Wykston. Since Ulfer had left, Father Alfred had kept all the steward's records and gladly delivered them up to Alain.

Answering Alain's questions, the Saxon cleric also revealed information about the death of her mother and brother that so haunted Gwyneth. The priest's face became grave as he related how the pale, mutilated bodies had been found days later down stream.

Alain banished the macabre image from his mind. He felt tired. The candle in his chamber lent insufficient light, causing his eyes to burn, and the symbols on the parchment and tally sticks seemed to swim together. Besides, he could no longer concentrate.

Gwyneth had him befuddled.

Was she the noble lady she appeared to be or a devious female, using her frailty to gull him to destruction? Devil or angel, it did not matter. The king had commanded Alain to marry her.

Furthermore, whether she proved to be a saint or sinner, he wanted her, had to have her. But he also had to admit that her unselfish behavior, her courage, and her fortitude in the face of staggering adversity had swayed him. What he felt for her amounted to more than base lust.

His chair scraped against the floor as Alain pushed it back. Heaving himself up, he plodded to his room and sank down into the soft mattress, clothes and all. By the rood, he felt swamped by exhaustion, but sleep eluded him, his mind struggling to solve the mystery of a woman called Gwyneth.

Her sad disclosures afforded Alain a new insight into the woman. From what he had observed, she was anything but a pampered heiress. In reality, the maiden had been somewhat of a rejected child, much like he was.

"God's bones!" He sat up in the bed with a jolt.

Alain empathized with the little girl who, in her own way, had suffered as much as he had. True, Leofric had not stopped loving Gwyneth, but he had abandoned her by his withdrawal into grief.

The memory of his father's cold disregard drove nails of pain into Alain's heart. The man had stopped loving him and had discarded him like refuse on a midden. Outraged, he bunched the down quilt in his fists.

By God I'll show my children love and warmth!

Would he and Gwyneth be blessed with heirs? She had refused his proposal, saying that Leofric wished her to return to the convent. Still, from the moment he saw her, Alain knew she had no religious vocation. Instinctively, he felt the woman was created for loving.

Was he deluding himself? Perhaps Wulfstan constituted the real reason she had rejected the idea of wedding him? Perhaps.

Still, he and Gwyneth shared a common ground, a base from which to work to build a future. That thought in mind, he mustered the courage to reveal the king's command.

***

Gwyneth sat in her chamber and plucked her harp, easing a celestial ripple from the silvery strings. The soft glow of candlelight together with the haunting strains of the ballad she performed created a plaintive mood. The music finished, the last notes faded into the peaceful silence. She placed the instrument on the table then leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. "Your song betrays you, lady. You always play those melancholy tunes when your cares weigh heavily on your heart." Aelveva nodded her head sagely.

"I can never hide anything from you." Gwyneth reached into the basket beside her chair and picked up a thick tuft of unspun wool.

"'Twould not be the new Lord of Wykston who causes you concern?" Aelveva smiled cannily.

"That perplexing man has avoided me for the past several days, ever since I foolishly poured out my soul to him." Gwyneth carded the fibers with undue vigor.

Aelveva leaned forward, sympathy on her face. "You miss him."

Setting her work aside, Gwyneth confessed, " 'Tis difficult to explain. I should concentrate on my plan to escape, for he must not learn my secret...yet, I cannot."

Kindness gently glowed in Aelveva's emerald eyes. "Have you lost your heart to him? That would make leaving difficult."

Gwyneth's cheeks flushed. She peered down at the wool in her lap. "'Twould not matter, if I had. I can never marry him."

"You do care for him!" Gwyneth squirmed in her seat. "H-he has shown me kindness and delivered me from Wulfstan. I miss his understanding, his consideration, his...." Embrace. "Oh, Aelveva!"

A sharp rap interrupted her words. The maidservant rose and stepped to the door, swinging it open. "My lord!"

Alain swaggered over the threshold and bowed to Gwyneth. "Forgive the intrusion. I know the hour is late, but we have business to conclude, my lady."

Exchanging a meaningful glance with Gwyneth, Aelveva said, "I must check on Garth. He bides with Ranulf in the great hall." She exited, closing the door quietly behind her.

Gwyneth stood. "You have come to discuss my future."

"Our future." Grinning broadly, he walked toward her.

His smile set her heart racing. By St. Cuthbert! The man could charm the moon from the sky. "T-Then you still wish to marry me?"

"Aye." He took her hand in his. "I think you will agree that there are many reasons why 'twould be advantageous for both our peoples. They need each other. The women and children here need my men to harvest the crops and protect them from marauders. My men need wives. Together we can all build peaceful, prosperous lives. Mayhap we can set an example for others by showing that Normans and Saxons can live together in peace and happiness."

His words rang true. In the short time Alain had been the Lord of Wykston, he had proven himself a wiser administrator than Leofric. Generous and fair in all his dealings, he treated Saxons and Normans with equal justice—a rare thing in a conqueror. Moreover, instead of pawning her off to a petty noble for political gain or dismissing her to a convent, he offered her marriage.

"'Tis the logical thing to do, I suppose," she replied, trying to sound indifferent.

The pressure of his big, warm hand increased on hers. "You agree then?" he asked with the enthusiasm of a boy.

Her heart breaking, Gwyneth slipped from his touch and moved to the window. She opened the shutter to the view of the night sky jeweled with twinkling stars.

By seeking her compliance, was he merely ensuring no impediment threatened the legality of their alliance? Moreover, why was he so anxious to wed her? He already possessed all her lands though not quite all she owned.

She peered over her shoulder at him. "You are asking, not commanding?"

In two strides Alain closed the space between them. Lifting her hand to his lips, he placed a kiss in her palm.

A hot wave of rapture washed over Gwyneth, suffusing her body with desire. Slowly, languorously, Alain kissed the tip of each finger, provoking her desire to the heat of a conflagration.

Looking into her eyes, he asked, "Will you, my fragrant rose? Will you be my wife?"

Aye, her heart and soul shouted, but the chasm that separated them remained unbreachable. Tears filled her eyes. "'Tis impossible!"

He looked as if she had slapped him. Then his face hardened with anger. "Why? Are you already secretly wed to Wulfstan?" "Nay, my lord. I am destined for the convent." His jaw hardened and he drew back from her. "I am sorry to contradict you, lady, but we will marry."

Would he force her by refusing to gather the harvest and displacing her people? "You cannot coerce me. The Church protects me."

"I would never force you. I told you once that I prefer a willing partner. Nevertheless, I do not believe the Norman clergy would defy the king," he responded ominously. "The pope himself sanctioned his invasion of this island. 'Tis William who commands this union."

Gwyneth grabbed the windowsill for support as the room seemed to spin about her.

Alain pulled a parchment scroll from his tunic. "Examine this missive. It bears the royal seal."

As she perused the parchment, dread filled her heart. So the king's command was the true reason the Norman asked for her hand. He did not really care for her. That realization left her hollow.

"I bid you consider your decision carefully, my lady," he said softly. "Our monarch will brook no resistance to his plans and may regard your refusal as treason." He bowed. "I bid you good night."

The door swung shut with a soft thud. Alone in the darkness, Gwyneth felt as if the cold, murky waters of the river closed over her, snuffing the breath from her body.

***

Chapter 11

The bright autumn sun flooded the field. Its heat penetrated Gwyneth's tunic and chainse, soothing the tired muscles of her shoulders. Her palm on the small of her back, she straightened and scanned the ripe sea of gold.

Working by her side, the Norman also gleaned the crops. True to his promise, he ensured the survival of her people, assisting them by the toil of his own hands. He ruled here as the lord of this manor, yet he stooped to bundle sheaves of wheat and hefted them on the cart for storage.

Furthermore, Alain had not tried to coerce her into wedlock. Indeed, he had not mentioned the subject again. He proved himself a man of his word—a man with whom a woman could build a home and future. How Gwyneth wished she could marry him!

The sight of his muscled torso, naked and bronzed by the warmth of the sun, quickened her pulse. Alain looked up, and their gazes melded. They stood galvanized until Gwyneth heard a discreet cough.

Ranulf smiled as he ambled to them. "My lady, Aelveva bids me tell you that Mother Clotilde and her entourage have been seen approaching the manor."

"Many thanks, Ranulf," Gwyneth responded. "I shall go and make myself presentable."

For the first time in days, she felt hopeful. If anyone could help her with the problem of her mandated marriage, the abbess was that person.

Leaving the field, she hurried to the manor house, where all waited in readiness for the nun. Gwyneth sped to her chamber. She quickly washed and dressed in a fresh chainse and blue tunic. Adjusting her white headraile, she descended the steps from the gallery and waited for Mother Clotilde in the sunny counting room.

A basket of freshly harvested apples and a flagon of ale rested on the table. Chairs flanked each of the two windows, and bright afternoon light streamed into the chamber, bathing the space in the mellow, golden sunshine. Because of the strong illumination, she and Aelveva often sat with their embroidery when no one transacted business here.

Gwyneth moved to the window to assess Mother Clotilde's progress, but the nun had not yet entered through the stockade of the manor house. She began to pace nervously.

How would the nun react to the news that Gwyneth and Alain must marry by order of the king? A Saxon through and through, would the woman rail against the union?

The sound of horses and feminine chatter caused Gwyneth to return to the window. A procession of mounted sisters and servants entered the courtyard. She hurried to the entrance of the house to greet them.

From her place on the doorstep, she saw Mother Clotilde dismount, and give the reins of her beast to the groom who greeted her. The others in the entourage did the same.

Gwyneth wanted to run to the abbess but restrained herself as she walked forward to greet her.

"Welcome, reverend mother. I am so glad you have come." She turned toward the serving girl. "Elspeth, see that our guests are served refreshments and shown to their chambers."

The young, petite brunette curtsied, then led the others to the great hall, and Gwyneth and the abbess entered the counting room.

"May I offer you some ale or perhaps some apples, mother?"

"My lady, I did not leave my abbey at the busiest time of the year, when every hand is needed, and travel the whole day to gorge myself on sweetmeats and ale. Why did you bid me come here with such urgency?" The nun took a seat by the window. Smoothing the skirt of her habit, she said, "I am waiting, my dear."

Feeling like a child about to be disciplined, Gwyneth wrung her hands. "I am deeply troubled. I know that the bishop frowns upon the sisters breaking their rule of inclaustration, but when I reveal my problem—"

"Leave the bishop to me. I've always been able to handle them, Norman or Saxon. Now get to the point, girl." She crossed her arms, tucking her hands into her wide sleeves of her dark robe.

Gwyneth began to pace nervously. "The king commands me to wed the new Lord of Wykston. 'Tis no ruse. I saw the missive; it bore the royal seal."

The breeze blew in through the window, billowing the nun's black veil. Mother Clotilde smiled and nodded. "Splendid."

She frowned. "Mother Clotilde, how can you say that?" Gwyneth stopped pacing. "Should my husband discover my secret, the consequences will be dire."

"But your secret, as you call it, will not be discovered, for the problem will not exist."

Gwyneth stared at the woman in disbelief. The nun spoke with such assurance.

"How can you be so certain, reverend mother?"

"Because I know you almost as well as Aelveva does. She believes as I do. You never belonged in a convent."

"But you and my father agreed." Gwyneth shook her head, not believing her ears.

"Nay. I never agreed with Leofric and told him so. I merely acquiesced to his wishes as he was your father." The nun's hand touched the cross hanging from her neck. "You need a husband, children, a family to take the place of the one you lost and give you the security that was robbed from you." She leaned forward. "That is why you roam the night. You search for your mother and brother. You call their names and ask for help to find them. I have seen you do it on many occasions since Leofric first left you in my care."

Gwyneth remembered her father departing that first time. The memory stirred feelings of loss, abandonment. She stood and walked to her embroidery hoop. A tear fell on the stretched linen. "I may still walk in my sleep. Then he will denounce me."

"I think not, child." The abbess shook her head. "The man does not strike me as being overly superstitious. Besides, he is besotted with you."

Surprised, Gwyneth turned. "How do you deduce that?" Mother Clotilde smiled broadly. "Anyone with eyes would conclude as much. Why, the man never let you out of his sight when you stayed at the abbey. Had he wished to be rid of you, Gwyneth, he could have persuaded the king to marry you off to a petty thegn or concocted a story for our monarch that would have put you in the remotest convent in the kingdom." Her dark eyes glittered with merriment. "My sources at court informed me that he wrote a compelling letter about you to William."

Gwyneth walked toward the abbess. "Contacts? Who? What did the letter say?"

Mother Clothide laughed. "One question at a time, Lady Gwyneth. My cousin, Cedric of Dunningstead, is my informant. He swore his fealty to William last year when the king marched into York. My wise relative was one of the very few who remained loyal. He said the letter glowed with praise about how you ministered to all the wounded, that you were learned, and the daughter of an ancient Saxon house, etc."

"Oh." Gwyneth sat in the chair next to the nun. Alain had certainly displayed possessiveness and jealously. How many times had he accused her of trysting with a lover?

"The man wants you, child. 'Twould be safe to marry him. Mayhap after a time you could confide in him. Then the problem will disappear entirely, for Aelveva and I both agree that your night strolls occur less frequently these days."

The nun assessed the situation correctly. Gwyneth did not wander nearly as often as she once did. She wished with all her heart that Mother Clotilde's prediction proved right and her sleepwalking would disappear forever. She so wanted a husband, a home, and children. Still, old fears died hard.

"You do not think it would be better for me to flee to Ireland perhaps?" Gwyneth walked to the other chair and sank into it.

"You cannot run from your problems, child. They will follow you to Ireland, I'm afraid. You must face them, overcome them. I believe this marriage is not only the king's will but God's." She arched a finely shaped eyebrow. "Besides, I think you have feelings for the man."

Gwyneth cast her gaze into her lap and twisted the end of her girdle.

"Your silence does not fool me, my girl."

Gwyneth looked up.

The nun shook her finger. "Your eyes mirror what you feel in your heart."

Gwyneth stilled her hands and held Mother Clotilde's scrutiny. "Oh, mother, what am I to do?"

"What does your heart dictate?"

Putting her hand on her chest, Gwyneth leaned toward the nun. "It tells me I am weary of loneliness, mother.

"Then listen to it, Gwyneth."

"How is it you advise me to marry the enemy?"

"'Twould not be the first time enemies married for political reasons. This man seeks to build rather than destroy. You could do a great deal worse."

"But I am so afraid, mother. All these years my father told me I was defective, and if I had children, they would inherit my affliction.

"Oh, fie! You did not start sleepwalking until you lost your mother and little Godwin. A sad heart cannot be inherited by your children."

"Suppose your opinions prove wrong, mother?

"You shall see that I speak the truth." The nun shook her head. "You have simply lived with your fear too long. Now is the time to face your apprehensions and resolve them."

"Why is it you do not believe I am possessed?"

Mother Clotilde's eyes glimmered wistfully. "Before I took the veil, I saw a wealthy, young widow accused. 'Twas only after she had been drowned that the truth emerged. The thegn, who made the accusation, coveted her lands. When she refused him in marriage, he charged her and paid the oath takers to bear false witness. By then 'twas to late. She lay dead, and her mortal life could not be restored to her." The nun dabbed a tear away. "She had been a dear friend. I have never forgotten the injustice done to her.

"But enough of my sad memories. 'Tis your future we wish to arrange. Will you meet the challenge before you, Gwyneth?"

The abbess concluded rightly. Gwyneth must slay her dragons, for no one else could perform the task for her.

Suddenly, Alain appeared in the entryway. Had he heard any of their conversation? Gwyneth's heart tripped with anxiety.

"I've come to pay my respects to you, Mother Clotilde." He walked to the abbess and bowed from the waist. "Welcome to Wykston. I hope your visit will be pleasant."

The abbess acknowledged his greeting with an imperious nod of her head. "'Tis always pleasant to see Lady Gwyneth, but my stay will be brief. I must return to the abbey to oversee the gathering of the harvest."

"I understand. Perhaps you can visit at your leisure another time."

"I thank you for your hospitality, my lord, and I accept your offer." Stately as a queen, she rose from her seat. "For now, I seek my chamber, for my bones still ache from the long hours in the saddle. I shall see you both at Vespers. My Lord of Wykston, I believe the lady wishes to tell you something." Smiling, Mother Clotilde swept gracefully from the room.

"Why did you not tell me she planned to visit?" Alain peered at her.

"Must I seek your permission to see my friends?" She moved to the embroidery hoop and sat in front of it.

"That depends."

"On what?" She took up a needle, threading it.

"If they wish me well or ill." He walked to her.

"She wishes you well." She took a small stitch. "In fact she most thoroughly approves of you."

"Does she indeed?" He raised his eyebrows.

She gazed up at him, nodding. "Oh, aye."

"So you discussed me?"

Gwyneth felt her face become hot. Not able to meet his gaze, she began stitching.

He strode toward her and halted in front of the embroidery hoop. "Look at me, Lady Gwyneth."

Securing the needle in the stretched cloth, she forced herself to meet his riveting stare.

"Did you tell her of the king's command?"

The intense violet-blue of his eyes rendered her momentarily speechless.

"Well, did you?"

"Aye." Her answer was barely audible for thundering of her heart.

"What did she advise?"

"She bids me accept the king's will for she believes 'tis God's will as well."

"Will you accept her wise counsel?"

"Aye," she whispered through trembling lips.

He set aside the hoop and pulled her toward him.

Feeling as if she were in the thrall of a whirling vortex, Gwyneth surrendered to his embrace.

"Rose," he murmured, just before his lips claimed hers.

Again and again his hot, soft mouth slanted over hers, in a gentle assault of intoxicating kisses. His tongue probed the cleft of her swollen lips, pleading for entry. Her senses reeled as he penetrated her mouth.

Still pressing her to his hard, male body, Alain removed her veil, allowing it to flutter to the floor as her hair tumbled to her waist. One of his hands nestled her breast, while his thumb flicked over the hardened crest in slow, titillating circles. Repeating the exquisite process on her other mound, he continued to provoke a tumult of incredible sensations from her body. Her breath already short, she gasped as hard spasms deeply clenched low in her belly, and a gush of warm moisture sprang between her thighs.

Cupping her buttocks with his palms, Alain ground his pelvis against hers. Even through the layers of their clothing, Gwyneth felt his engorged manhood against her stomach, fueling her ardor to dizzying heights.

"I want you," he whispered hoarsely.

Gwyneth returned his fervor, but without warning, he broke the embrace. "Not like this, my sweet rose. I wish the Church to bless our marriage, and I will not take you before that time."

"Aye," she agreed as he turned and strode from the room, leaving her still trembling from unsated desire.

Suddenly alone, she debated the wisdom of her decision to ignore her father's wishes and marry. Gwyneth desperately hoped Mother Clotilde's assumptions that a home and family would cure the strange ailment proved correct. If not, disaster stalked her.

***

Alain walked through an abandoned area of the village and shoved against the battered door of the deserted forge. Sunshine streamed across the earthen floor, flooding the dim shop with brilliant light. The faint odor of charcoal lingered in the air although the furnace, with its squat clay and sandstone chimney, no longer glowed with the red heat of smelting iron. The massive anvil, too, remained mute without the rhythmic clang of the hammer. Unused, tongs hung from hooks deeply driven into the sooty walls.

The smith, killed in battle, left no one to fashion horseshoes or farm implements. God forefend a scythe should break before they gathered the harvest. Overwhelmed, Alain tramped to the low stool in the middle of the room. He sat, propping his elbows on his knees and holding his chin in his palms. He added the problem of finding another smithy to the growing list of troubles confronting him.

Across the pond, the mill stood inactive, the miller another casualty of the recent combat. Filling the position with an honest man presented Alain with a formidable task. Notorious cheats, millers often kept a larger portion of flour in payment than was their due. Of course, grain could be ground by hand, but the process consisted of pure drudgery and rendered but little flour at a time.

Alain rubbed his aching head. Everywhere he turned, problems needed solutions, and decisions begged conclusions—but he could not keep his mind focused. His last encounter with Gwyneth haunted him. What torture he experienced as he tore himself away from her pliant body. How he needed her warmth, softness, tenderness.

True, the Saxons observed the custom of handfasting. The ancient tradition permitted couples to consummate their unions; the mutual consent of the respective parties presented the only requirements. To him, the ritual seemed pagan. Alain wanted his union with Gwyneth blessed by the church and documented by contract.

He heard footsteps and looked up. Ranulf appeared in the doorway. The sergeant's massive form obscured the sun, casting a shadow on the floor.

"Alain, the hour grows late. Have you forgotten your meeting with the priests?" The sergeant ambled in.

"Damnation, Ranulf!" He hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. "The time has slipped away from me."

"'Tis understandable. You have much on your mind." The sandy-haired man smiled. "But why all the secrecy? You have not told us the reason you wish to meet."

"You will soon discover the reason, mon ami." Alain stood.

"Then lead on." Ranulf extended his arm in a wide arc, indicating the way out. "But I have a suspicion the reason be a royal command to wed a lovely blond?"

"How did you know?" Then Alain waved his hands, indicating that he needed no explanation. "Never mind. What Lady Gwyneth knows, Mistress Aelveva also kens, and I wager my sword you cajoled the information from her."

Ranulf laughed. "I did not have to try very hard."

Alain smiled and bobbed his eyebrows. "So the wooing goes better?"

"Much better!" Ranulf replied.

***

Robert tripped and almost dumped the tankards of sloshing ale from the tray he was carrying. "My lord, surely you cannot mean that!" His color livid beneath his freckles, the boy wobbled on long, skinny legs to the center of the great hall and approached the trestle table where Alain, Ranulf and the two clerics sat.

The men glared at the awkward boy. He had spoken out of turn. A wary look on his face, he set the tray down as the men reached for the refreshments he proffered.

"Nay, Robert," Alain contradicted. "I am as serious as a priest hearing confessions. Lady Gwyneth and I will wed."

Alain deliberately spoke in a booming voice so the other servants who loitered about, hoping to hear a snippet of gossip, stopped and stood, eyes agog, mouths open. "Felicitations," Ranulf declared. He stood, strode toward Alain and slapped him on the back. "To the new bride of Wykston, the Lady Gwyneth." He raised his drink.

The other men lifted their tankards as well. "The Lady Gwyneth," they chanted in unison, but no smile tugged at the lips of the Norman cleric. He averted his eyes as his companions quickly gulped down their ale. Exchanging a furtive glance with the squire, Father Rollo's thin, lined face lacked enthusiasm.

"M-My lord," Robert stammered, "the steward, Ulfer, said that she must marry Wulfstan. The old man predicted that the son of their union will drive us from England."

His patience at an end, Alain stood abruptly. "Robert! Stop your tomfoolery!" He struck the top of the table with his fist. "The king commands this marriage."

Startled, the boy jumped back as the other minions scurried off in all directions.

"How many times must I tell you, lad? Ulfer seeks to sow the seeds of superstition and fear in our midst. 'Tis the enemy we must fear."

"Of course," Ranulf agreed, and uncharacteristic look of annoyance on his face as he returned to his seat.

The boy's dark eyes grew wider, but Alain suspected his nervous squire had more to say. "I-I beg your pardon, my lord, but I am not the only one who fears Lady Gwyneth. Many of our men still remember her strange behavior the night we found her." Robert's knobby knees shook visibly.

"I am sure they do after you babbled all of Ulfer's mad ravings to them. You play right into his hands. Tell him, Father Rollo." Alain extended his hand toward the cleric.

The Norman priest shifted in his seat as if he felt uncomfortable, having to defend her. "If King William wishes this alliance, we must comply, lad."

"To be sure," Father Alfred interjected. "Lady Gwyneth is a devoted daughter of the Church. Your words can do great harm, Robert," the priest admonished as he lifted the tankard to his thin lips.

"Now be off with you, lad," Alain added. "We have business to discuss, and keep your yapping tongue silent."

The squire loped off like a rangy wolfhound.

"Let us get back to the matter of your nuptials, Alain," Ranulf suggested, leaning forward. Alain motioned to a serving wench to bring more ale. "I have written a simple marriage contract. I would like you all to peruse it."

***

Chapter 12

Plighting his troth, Alain's voice echoed with surety throughout the little church.

Her hand in his, Gwyneth trembled with anxiety, causing the garnet silk of her overtunic to glisten with silvery highlights. She was taking a dangerous chance and prayed the abbess' advice proved correct. If the Norman realized she walked in her sleep, she shuddered to think what punishment he might wreak on her.

Certainly the fragile trust, taking root between them, would be killed. Winning his confidence would take time, and, of course, she must prove herself.

Since the day Gwyneth agreed to wed him, she had seen little of Lord Alain. True, a multitude of problems confronted him, but of late he held himself aloof. Here she stood, pledging to spend her life with this man, yet she knew nothing about him, save what she had observed and he had revealed—which consisted of precious little.

Her mind reeled with questions. Though he grew up a bastard, had he known his father and mother? Where did he learn to read? Did he have brothers and sisters? How did he come to be a knight? Who fostered him? Why did he trust no one but Ranulf?

By telling him about the deaths of her mother and brother, Gwyneth had revealed some of the deepest personal details of her life. She had expected him to reciprocate in kind, thereby establishing a basis for intimacy; but concerning his thoughts and feelings, Lord Alain remained as remote as the distant heavens.

Nevertheless, in an unexpected gesture of kindness, the man had returned her dower lands! The memory of Alain's generosity caused her heart to swell with a resurgence of affection and hope.

Gazing up at him, she admired his perfect profile limned against the candle-lit walls of the sanctuary. Handsome in his blue garb, his clean, woodsy scent mingled with the sweet fragrance of the glowing beeswax tapers, intoxicating her. Lightheaded, she clasped his hand tighter as the lavender-pink blooms of heather, festooning the altar, blurred before her eyes.

Without warning, Alain peered down at her, a quizzical look on his face. Father Alfred, regal in his chasuble of sparkling white, cleared his throat and blinked. Father Rollo, similarly clad, glared at her with censure. Somewhere in the congregation, a guest coughed nervously.

Enchanted by her new husband's good looks, she had failed to speak her vows. Regaining her wits, she managed to stammer out her pledge. Alain lifted her hand and slipped the simple golden band on her finger. The ceremony completed, she flushed with pleasure as he tenderly placed an unexpected kiss on her lips before they retraced their steps up the aisle. Standing in front of the church portal, Alain bowed gallantly to her then lifted her hand and kissed it.

Delighted by his panache, she smiled at him, but her joy disappeared quickly as she surveyed the crowd. Both old Aldred, the tanner, and Gyrth, the swineherd, glowered at her as if she were a traitorous whore. The faces of the Normans also mirrored their mistrust though they cheered in deference to their lord. Even the Saxon women stared at her cautiously.

A coil of icy fear constricted her heart. His men still suspected her. The situation had been made worse by Robert's prattling, for she'd overheard the boy herself. Thanks to Ulfer, her own people held her in contempt as well.

Was Alain's grand design to unite their two peoples simply an impossible dream? How could she ever be a part of that noble plan if the people feared and mistrusted her? Her happiness snuffed out like a candle in a draft, Gwyneth accompanied Alain to the great hall.

***

The guests sat in order of rank at the long oaken tables. Pantlers scurried about, bearing fresh, crusty trenchers and creamy butter to be shared by each pair of celebrants. The butler and cupbearers served fine Burgundy as the alewife and her seductive daughter, Edith, sauntered about, proffering their ale and mead.

Other servants treated the guests to savory platters of fish in butter and dill sauce, haunches of venison, roasted geese, saddles of lamb, roasted boars, and stuffed swans. Carrots, peas, beans, and parsnips swam in butter and herb sauces. Desserts included a selections of cheeses, honeycakes, custards with raisin sauce, poached fruit, and nuts.

"You hardly ate anything." Alain took her hand in his. "Are you ill?"

"Nay, my lord." She lowered her lids as she struggled to keep her emotions in check.

He cupped her chin, tilting her face upward as he gazed into her eyes. "Already regretting your decision to marry?" Gwyneth forced a smile, trying to conceal the ache in her heart.

"The merriment of your smile does not reach your eyes, wife. What is amiss?"

His eyes reflected his concern, prompting her to tell him her fears. Still, this was not the moment. "Later, my lord."

Alain dropped his hands from her face. "But we will speak of it."

Although soft, the tone of his voice rang with determination, but Gwyneth was spared from further interrogation as the old piper and harper began their music.

She and Alain led the dancing then relinquished the floor to watch the others. A steady stream of guests filed by to give their best wishes, but Gwyneth perceived their words merely consisted of lip service.

Gwyneth and her new husband sat patiently. As the night dragged on, fatigue and doubt caught up with her, and the gold coronet, holding her garnet headraile, grew heavier by the moment.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Edith, flagon in hand, leaving the celebration. To where was she flitting off this time? Perhaps a tryst. Over the years, the girl had the habit of slipping away for days, leaving her mother to contend with the work, while she cavorted in neighboring villages. Her behavior remained the subject of gossip as most folk never strayed from their estates. The only child of a poor widow, the alewife's daughter had been spoiled since she was a babe.

A gentle tap on her shoulder interrupted Gwyneth's speculations. She turned. Aelveva, joyful as a sunbeam in her yellow tunic, smiled at her.

"'Tis time to retire, my lady."

Clad in green garb, Ranulf wove unsteadily behind Aelveva, grinning from ear to ear. "Relinquish your bride, Alain." He hiccuped loudly. "While she prepares herself for you, let us raise a tankard to your health, and shall we say...endurance."

Several ribald remarks erupted from the inebriated guests, followed by a burst of uproarious laughter. Cheeks flushing hotly, Gwyneth rose and followed Aelveva.

***

Tired and nervous, Gwyneth had dismissed Aelveva, hoping a few quiet moments would enable her to calm herself.

Clad in a fresh chainse, her bare feet chilled against the cold, oaken floor planks, she stood in front of the chest at the foot of Alain's bed and neatly placed her folded wedding dress inside it. As she closed the lid, she realized that the noise of the feasting had waned. Outside, a stiff breeze stirred the trees.

Suddenly, the faces of the men outside the church haunted her. The memory caused her knees to shake, and she grabbed the sturdy bedpost for support.

Had she made a horrible mistake by marrying the Norman? Suppose his troops deserted him because they mistrusted her. Alain would be powerless against his enemies if he did not have the loyalty of his men. The notion tortured her. She and the abbess never bargained for this development.

Still, the mistake could be rectified. If she and Alain failed to consummate their marriage, he would be free to petition for an annulment.

Perhaps her destiny lay in the convent after all. If so, she prayed the Norman would find some way to safeguard her from Wulfstan.

The idea of leaving Alain, of never feeling his arms around her or his lips touching hers again filled her with desolation. Contrary to all logic, the handsome Norman had awakened an undeniable need in her, causing her body to ache with an insatiable longing for him.

But she must resist. To yield could result in his destruction—and hers, for she still had her sleepwalking problem.

Her thoughts a battleground of conflict, Gwyneth walked to the table and blew out all but one of the candles. Tears brimmed and overflowed as she fought to stem the tumult of emotions flooding her heart.

Suddenly, the door swung open on creaking hinges, and she started. Without the customary fanfare of a wedding party to lead him to his bride, Alain entered alone. He walked toward her, taper in hand.

"Tears? So you do regret your decision to marry," he rebuked.

"'Tis you, my lord, who should regret it." Gwyneth wiped her moist cheeks on the cuff of her chainse.

"Why do you speak so strangely?" A muscle twitched in his jaw. "This is no way for a bride to welcome her husband." He set the candle down on the small table near the bedstead.

"Did you not see the faces of your men? Admit joy was absent from their eyes."

"They will become accustomed to our alliance when they begin to see the benefits of the union."

She shook her head. "I doubt they will ever come to accept our marriage, but 'tis not too late to correct the error. Our marriage can be annulled."

Even in the dim light, she saw his face darken, and his eyes blazed like the violet-blue center of a flame. "So you can be free to go to Wulfstan? Never!" He gripped her shoulders. "You are mine, and I keep what is mine."

Though Gwyneth retreated from him, her blood turned to racing fire, and her flesh tingled with excitement at his touch. Backing away from his advance, she found herself pinned against the wall.

He pressed her close as his palm slipped to her breast. Gwyneth felt her nipples draw up tightly beneath his caress. Instinctively, she clung to him.

"But you respond to me. Why is that if you want another man? Are you a wanton, desiring any male who is near?"

Horrified by his words, Gwyneth stared up into his eyes. Vehement denial would not convince him of the truth. Softly, matter-of-factly, she answered, "Nay, my lord. I never had feelings for any man until—"

"Until Wulfstan," he snarled.

She kept her gaze steady, her voice low. "Nay, my lord. I hate the revolting toad."

His scrutiny burned so intensely, Gwyneth felt her flesh would scorch under his gaze. He loosened his hold and stepped back, a look of bewilderment on his face. Was he debating with himself as to the truth of her words?

"Then why did you turn pale when I forbade you to sign the marriage contract?" His tone challenged her declaration.

"I swooned in blessed relief, my lord."

"Relief?" He raised his dark eyebrows questioningly.

"Aye. The boorish oaf has buried three wives. All died young and under questionable circumstances. Of course, each poor wretch left him richer. Those facts are easily verified if you wish to do so, my lord. Wulfstan wanted me for his next hapless victim. He has coveted Wykston for a long time."

"Then why do you speak of an annulment?"

She cast her gaze downward and bit her lower lip. With all her soul, Gwyneth wanted to confess everything about her bizarre secret, but her fear of being drowned as a witch seized her.

"I am waiting to hear your reasons, Lady Gwyneth." "My lord, what is most important now is your success here for both our peoples." She paused, groping for the right words then continued. "If your men cannot accept me, the merging we hope for cannot happen. I cannot harm you. I care too much," for you.

She clasped her hand over her mouth. Her emotions welling up like a spring from the earth, her words had poured forth before Gwyneth could stop them.

Alain's breath audibly caught in his throat, and his eyes glowed with warmth as if he had guessed her unspoken words.

"Gwyneth," he murmured. His arms tightened about her, and his heart thundered in rhythm against hers. His wine-flavored kisses were neither gentle nor tentative this time, but insistent, demanding, ravenous, making her breathless, dizzy, excited.

Her arms around his neck, Gwyneth returned his kisses with long pent-up ardor. Her tongue encountered his as it cajoled, teased and inflamed her senses to new heights of pleasure. She broke away from his mouth and rubbed her cheek against the coarse stubble of his beard then pressed gentle kisses all over his face.

Alain gasped as the tip of her tongue explored the swirls of his ears. She continued her feast, savoring the salty taste of his flesh and the clean, woodsy fragrance of his skin as her lips took their journey down the strong slope of his jaw, over his neck to the sturdy projection of his collar bone.

Gwyneth wished she could remain in his embrace forever, feeling protected, cherished, desired as Alain stroked his palms down her spine, kneading her derriere, intimately molding her to his body.

Suddenly, he broke away. "Remove my tunic, Gwyneth."

Her fingers fumbled at his cincture, but she managed to unfasten the knot and dropped the cord to the floor. He bent his strapping body to enable her to lift off his garb, and she eagerly accommodated him, letting the garments fall. Looking up again, Gwyneth paused. She had seen his naked torso before, but the splendor of his muscular upper body never failed to enthrall her. Unable to control her impulse, she swept her hands over his broad shoulders and raked her fingers through the crisp, dark mat of hair covering his massive chest.

Wanting to see more, Gwyneth knelt, removing his shoes and hose to reveal his powerful calves and well-made feet. Still, she hesitated about slipping her fingers into the waistband of his braies and tugging downward. Instead, she rose.

Alain completed the task, and his exultant male flesh popped free.

"Oh!" She quickly averted her gaze. Gwyneth knew what transpired between a husband and wife. Her duty had been carefully explained to her by Aelveva and Winna, the old midwife of Wykston, but she had never seen a man's sex before. His full erection startled her.

As if he read her thoughts, he chuckled. "'Twill be all right, my little rose. I promise."

Alain dropped to his powerful haunches and grasped the hem of her chainse. He stood, slipping the garment over her head then relinquished it to the pile of discarded clothes at their feet.

The heat of his gaze caused a hot flush to sweep over her entire body and she crossed her arms in front of herself in a vain attempt at modesty.

"Nay. Do not hide yourself from me. A husband wants to admire his wife." He took her hands in his.

"I know little of husbands," she whispered, lowering her lids.

"'Twill be my pleasure to instruct you."

He drew her into his embrace, his mouth slanting over hers in a renewed assault of fiery kisses. The floor tipped away, and the room spun as he lifted her into his brawny arms. Seconds later, Gwyneth heard the crunch of the straw mattress and felt the feather ticking above it at her back.

In all its male glory, Alain's hard body rested atop hers, shoulder to shoulder, heart to heart, breast to breast as his thick mat of chest hair tantalized her thrusting nipples beyond endurance.

Her body no longer seemed hers as now it responded to his commands, his kisses, his caresses. Gwyneth gladly abdicated ownership as Alain awoke a clamoring desire within her she never dreamed existed. A cry of protest escaped her lips as he disengaged from her again.

"Patience, my sweet Rose. We must go slowly your first time, and I would have us savor every delectable moment."

As he returned to her, Alain paid homage to her breasts, first with his tender touch, later with his mouth, as he suckled first one hard peak then the other. His gentle tugs intensified the primal beat thrumming low in her belly, causing her whole being to pulsate with desire.

Flesh to flesh with him, Gwyneth longed for a deeper union, a closer bond, an amalgam of body, mind, and soul. She wanted to fuse with him, forming something newer, stronger, better, like the fine alloy of two precious metals.

Alain slid his hands over her stomach and pressed the aching void consuming her there. Next, he proceeded languidly to the apex of her legs. Burrowing his fingers beneath her triangular patch of hair, he explored her dewy folds.

Gwyneth's knees parted, and her hips jolted up to meet his erotic touch.

"Flowing with hot nectar," he whispered, his warm breath teasing her ear. "You are ready for me, wife."

Alain found her sensitive nub and continued his relentless siege as he unerringly provoked her to exquisite desperation. Her back arched taut as a bowstring. Her body clamoring with unsated desire, Gwyneth grasped his shoulders.

"My lord, I need...." What did she need?

"I know, sweeting. The same yearning torments me," he whispered hoarsely as he stormed the walls of her senses. "Alain!" She shuddered with pleasure.

"Aye, sweeting. 'Tis time." Poised, Alain loomed over her. She drank in the warm, clean smell of his body. Taking the tip of his engorged member, he pressed against her swollen, eager flesh, entering slowly. With reckless abandon, Gwyneth lurched up to meet him in joyous welcome. Complete enchantment supplanted a twinge of pain as he sank deep within her, filling her hungry emptiness.

"So hot and so tight," he murmured.

Slowly, he withdrew a little then re-entered her slick sheath again and again in a provocative rhythm. Her rapture burgeoned with his every thrust until all awareness fled except the exquisite sensation of his body in hers. On and on, he urged her upward, onward, toward sublime bliss.

His eyes shut tight, his breath ragged, Alain increased his tempo, thrusting stronger, faster, deeper.

Suddenly, her entire body throbbed with ecstasy. She felt shattered yet whole as the powerful spasms gripped her body in their thrall, sending liquid sunshine tingling outward down her legs and up her arms to the tips of her fingers, toes, and breasts.

"Gwyneth," Alain cried, collapsing on her.

Moments later, he rolled from her, gathering her in his arms. "From the moment I saw you, I knew you were created for loving," he said softly.

"Am I?" Her index finger trailed along the bridge of his nose. "In truth, I did not expect this bedding business to be quite so pleasant, husband."

"Oh, it gets even better, my little rose."

In wonderment, Gwyneth propped herself on her elbows and stared at him. "How could it?" "With practice. A great deal of it," he answered as he pulled her to him once more.

***

Alain stood by the window, enjoying the sensation of the morning breeze on his naked body. He watched the sun float, like a burnished copper globe, above the horizon, blushing the pale mist to golden pink. He turned from the rosy celebration in the eastern sky, to rest his gaze on his slumbering wife.

His breath caught in his throat as the pink buds of her bare breasts peeped through the fall of blond tresses tumbling over her flawless skin. Desire coursed through him, and he wanted her again—fiercely.

Had he embarked on an uncharted journey of the heart? He had never expected to feel this way, but Gwyneth had given him something infinitely precious. The depth of her passion, the totality of her response thrilled him beyond his wildest dreams.

The woman had never flinched even as he felt her maidenhead yield to his thrust. She had given of herself generously, freely, allowing him to abandon himself to the sweet pleasures of her moist, warm body. Gwyneth make him feel whole, complete, alive as never before.

Treading softly, Alain crossed the chamber floor to stand beside her. Awestruck, his gaze fixed on her full, ripe lips. Parted in repose, they begged to be tasted. His mouth went dry, and his heart thudded with anticipation. Gwyneth was his lawful wife to take again, to savor to the fullest extent. He took up her white hand and pressed his lips to her soft palm.

She stirred, stretching lazily. Her long, silken locks fell away, exposing the rest of her slim body to him. She opened her silver eyes and smiled. "Good morrow, my lord."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he chuckled and took her in his arms. "Under the circumstances, 'twould be appropriate to call me Alain, and I shall call you Gwyneth." She raked her fingers through his hair, tousling it. "Alain," she repeated.

Her simple utterance sounded like music. He rocked her gently. "How do you fare?"

She looked up at him, and her fingers traced the underside of his jaw. "I feel, uh, 'tis difficult to describe." She blushed like a new rose.

"Pleasant?" he suggested, nipping her earlobe.

She sighed. "More than merely pleasant. Exhilarated and so, so...."

"Satisfied?" he offered as he tightened his embrace. "Precisely. Do you feel the same thing then?"

"I know not if 'tis exactly the same, but the sensation takes me beyond the realm of delightful."

She caressed his cheek, and Alain responded by kissing the juncture of her neck and shoulder, breathing in the perfume of her warm, luscious skin.

Suddenly, a sharp rap interrupted them. "My lord!" The voice belonged to Robert.

"Quick," Alain whispered. "Cover yourself while I see what Robert wants."

Gwyneth pulled on her chainse and overtunic as Alain stepped into his braies and rushed to the door.

The anxious squire stumbled into the chamber. On short breath, he stammered out, "M-My lord, Charles, the Strong Arm, and the other sentries, who guarded the mill, have been found dead with their brains spilt from their skulls."

"Oh," Gwyneth cried.

"Not only that, my lord, but the millstone has been dislodged and cracked in half."

"God's bones," Alain growled. "Sergeant Ranulf begs your pardon for this intrusion but asks that you please come, my lord."

Alain pounded his fist on the wall. "Damnation! When did this happen? Why wasn't I informed immediately?"

"I learned of it but a few moments ago, my lord." The squire's face glowed with a fine sheen of sweat.

Alain slipped on his undertunic, and Robert helped him put on his padded jacket and hauberk.

"Inform Ranulf I shall meet with him presently," he ordered, pulling up his mail coif.

"Aye, my lord." The squire turned on his heel and quit the chamber.

"As if we do not have enough problems as things stand. Our best men dead, and now we have no way to grind our grain. The craven curs waited until we least expected attack."

Pale and apparently shaken, Gwyneth sat on the bed. Even now their enemies could be waiting in the forest for another opportunity to strike and kidnap her. Little by little, their foes could severely deplete the ranks of men or set the entire village to the torch. The realization hit him like an ax.

For all he knew, Wulfstan's men could be hiding within the geburs' homes at this very moment. Under the guise of compliance, did the Saxon villagers still bear the animosity of a defeated people toward him and his men? Likely, they collaborated with the thegn.

Buckling on his sword, he looked at Gwyneth. "I am sorry to leave you so soon, but you understand I must go?"

She walked toward him. "Aye." Reaching up, she kissed his cheek. "Please be careful, Alain."

"I shall, little rose." He returned her kiss, put his helm on his head, and strode from the room.

Chapter 13

Alain stared down at the corpse still lying by the vandalized mill. The crown of Charles' skull had been hacked off right through his metal helm. Congealed blood mixed with chunks of brain had gushed onto the ground. No doubt the murderous wound had been inflicted by an ax.

The other men's injuries appeared just as fearsome. Poor bowlegged Henri bore a gaping chest wound. Obviously struck from the rear, the other three men lay face down, their backs gashed open.

With five men on guard, why hadn't one of them sounded the alarm horn? Furthermore, they had been killed at close range, not shot by arrows from afar. Why had the victims been so inattentive? Had they been sleeping on sentry duty?

The notion caused Alain's temper to boil over. If they had dozed off, their carelessness had resulted in the waste of their lives. Moreover, the enemy invaded without detection, perpetrated the heinous act, and escaped with the opportunity to return and inflict more damage in the future. Turning away from the gory sight, Alain noticed a group of soldiers standing nearby. Seasoned veterans all, they obviously had come with Ranulf to investigate the incident.

"What discoveries have you made, Ranulf?"

The man shook his sandy head. "Unfortunately, not a great many. No one seems to know anything."

"So the villagers noticed nothing awry?"

Ranulf looked at the bodies, grimacing. "We've not finished questioning everyone as yet. I believe quite a number of foes attacked since they dislodged the millstone and cracked it in half, mayhap with a great cudgel. They wrecked the inside of the mill as well. The sole reason they refrained from burning it is because we'd have seen the fire and pursued them."

"'Twas a quiet night with a breeze blowing across the pond toward the village," Baldwin, an old campaigner, commented. "The sound of an alarm would have carried, yet we saw and heard naught. I say 'twas the work of the devil."

The other soldiers muttered their affirmations, nodding in agreement.

Alain felt his face and neck flushed hot with anger. "I'll not abide that nonsense. How many times must I tell you we must fear our enemies and our own complaisance, not hobgoblins! Spirits need no axes and lances to kill. This was the work of clever foes. Now let us get to work and investigate this foul deed."

"To be sure," Ranulf agreed. "Baldwin, inform Father Rollo to prepare for the funerals. The rest of you get to your duties."

Grumbling their discontent, the men straggled back to work.

Ranulf walked toward Alain and continued his speculation. "The mill provides the rebels with an easy target as it stands surrounded by thick woods and unprotected by the village walls. The enemy could have come from any direction and disappeared under cover of night.

"Still, five well-armed men should have at least sounded an alarm or shouted. Charles died with his horn still around his neck."

Alain stood face to face with his old friend. "I know." He shook his head in disgust. "I believe they fell asleep."

"All of them?" Ranulf's eyes widened. "They knew the penalty for such an act. Charles served so conscientiously. I find it difficult to believe he would ever do that."

"Perhaps they were helped," Alain suggested, stroking his chin.

"You mean they were drunk?"

"Aye," Alain answered.

"By the saints, you may be right, Alain! Charles had been keeping company with the wench, Edith."

"The alewife's daughter?"

"The very one," Ranulf confirmed.

"The girl is a born seductress and has tried her wiles on most of the men here. Furthermore, she had every opportunity. She could have easily slipped away with mead or ale, and put something into it to ensure the men slept."

"Aye," Ranulf agreed. "The girl would prove hard to resist for a young, robust man like Charles who had a lusty appetite."

Alain and Ranulf began their walk around the pond toward the village.

"Well, we know where to start our questioning." Alain nodded toward the alehouse.

"If she is there," Ranulf added. "Aelveva says she has a habit of disappearing for days at a time."

"Why?"

"No one seems to know. If they do, they are unwilling to talk about it," Ranulf commented. "Of course, someone else might have brought the brew to the men. There are others in this village who resent us. Old Aldred and Gyrth are but two." And my wife could be another. Gwyneth could have paid someone to do the deed. No one would ever suspect her as she had been with me, consummating our marriage.

Sick to his soul, Alain's stomach lurched, but if his parents had no compunction about killing him, why should his spouse? Was the story she had told him about Wulfstan true, or did he simply want to believe it?

"Of course, forces outside of this village could want to harm us. Mayhap they bribed one of the geburs," Ranulf remarked.

"True," Alain answered grimly. "So in the meantime, I want the guard doubled, every home searched, and no villager is to be allowed outside his home after dark."

"Do you wish to be present during Edith's interrogation, Alain?"

"'Twould not hurt."

***

Dogged by worry, Alain paced the rush-strewn floor of his dim bedchamber. The flames from the guttering candles flickered vigorously in the drafts whistling through the room. The hour late, his problems had gnawed at him long into the night.

The woman, Edith, had shed considerable light on Charles' murder. Would his plan to apprehend the villains work? An elaborate and extremely dangerous scheme, months could elapse before it bore fruit.

Unfortunately, the investigation had not cleared all doubt from his mind about Gwyneth. True, Edith did not mention her, yet his wife could have played a part behind the scenes of which the alewife's pretty daughter had no notion.

Alain's gaze rested on his wife. Gwyneth had sat quietly for over an hour, never interrupting him with useless prattle. Instead, she passed the time carding wool and keeping her peace. She appeared to be all a man could want in a woman: intelligent, industrious, beautiful, generous, and so passionate in his bed. If he could just assure himself of her loyalty—but his unanswered questions cast dark doubts on his trust. Why, for instance, had Gwyneth been prowling the woods alone on the night he found her? He repeatedly asked her but she never answered to his satisfaction. When would she reveal the reason?

Perhaps he should take Ranulf's advice and forget his distrust? Still, his suspicions had served as a valuable survival tactic, alerting him to danger many times. He refused to hurl cautions aside.

Gwyneth put her hand to her mouth, covering a yawn, and stretched her long limbs. Setting her work aside, she stood and approached him, her long shadow preceding her. She took hold of his hands as she looked up at him, her silver eyes luminous.

"What troubles you, Alain. May I be of some help?"

The woman appeared as innocent as a dove, and the rose-scented perfume of her skin permeated the air around him, making him drunk with need for her. How he wished Gwyneth truly was as good and honest as she seemed to be.

Suddenly, a sharp rap on the door interrupted them.

"Enter," Alain ordered, turning from her toward the door.

A tall, blond man with a broken nose and a tanned face entered, accompanied by Robert. "Forgive the intrusion, my lord," the squire said, "but Theobald rides from the king with an urgent message.

The herald dropped to one knee. "My lord, William asks that you leave sufficient men here to defend Wykston from the rebels and join him immediately in Lincoln. From there he plans to impose his peace as he marches across the countryside."

"Oh, nay," Gwyneth exclaimed.

Alain stared at his wife then returned his attention back to the herald. "So William has restored order in the west."

"Aye, my lord. But many problems face him in the east before he can march north to York. He plans to take that city soon."

"Rise, Theobald," Alain ordered. "Tell King William we leave at first light."

The man departed, followed by Robert, leaving Alain annoyed. He must abandon a great deal of unfinished business here as well as some unsolved riddles, not the least of which was whether his wife was consorting with traitors. Much as he hated the idea, that notion rode his back like a hair shirt.

Furthermore, he still had no smith and no miller. He must now delegate the solution of those problems to Ranulf.

"I wish you did not have to go," she remarked softly.

Were the tears shimmering in her eyes sincere?

"I have no choice, Gwyneth"

"I know." She nodded. "But we have had so little time to become acquainted with each other." She walked to him, putting her arms around him.

Despite his doubts about her, his body responded to hers instantly. If he was not careful, he would end like Charles Strong Arm. He disengaged from her.

"I must arrange many things before I depart." He walked to the door, paused, and turned to her. "I shall leave Ranulf in charge of the defenses. Should you need anything, you can rely on him."

Exerting every ounce of self-control he possessed to resist her charms, Alain quickly quit the room.

***

Gwyneth inspected the dry herbs dangling from the ceiling beams of her small still room. Satisfied with her stock, she turned from the task and walked toward the table by the wall, lighting a candle against the gloom of the winter afternoon. Next she checked her supply of poppy seeds as the remedy had proven her best weapon against the pain of injury. She wished she had such an anodyne for the ache in her heart.

The lonely days had stretched into weeks for Gwyneth. Although she occupied her time with a myriad of tasks, neither her husband, nor the memory his abrupt, cold departure ever strayed far from her thoughts.

After the king's herald left, she had waited for Alain to return to her, but she kept a futile vigil, lying awake all night, staring up into the canopy of their big bed. She convinced herself that he busied himself with important matters.

At dawn, Gwyneth wished him farewell as he rode off, but his aloof farewell perplexed her, leaving her feeling rejected, angry, and even a little frightened. She feared she may never see him alive again. That anxiety haunted her every day and especially at night when she slept alone in their bed, which now seemed too large without him.

The harvest time drifted into the deep of winter. The tree limbs, gaunt and bare against the gray, dismal sky, reflected the desolation of her soul. Why had her husband changed toward her? Had she done something to cause him to become so distant?

On several occasions, she tried to approach the subject with Aelveva, but her maid was enjoying her courtship with Ranulf so much that Gwyneth could not bear to vex her. The faithful woman had done enough for her.

Fearful she would walk in her sleep again now that Alain was gone, Gwyneth asked Aelveva to take up her old post and again sleep in her chamber in front of the door. The loyal maidservant graciously complied.

But Gwyneth had not walked in her sleep since her marriage. That fact constituted the only glimmer of hope on a dark horizon. So far, Mother Clotilde's reasoning proved sound.

"Excuse me, my lady." Ranulf's bulk filled the doorway. "You sent for me?"

"Aye. Come in, sergeant." She set down the pouch of poppy seeds on the table. "I've good news. The abbess returned my missive. She will allow her miller to travel here to grind our grain." She sat on a stool and gestured to Ranulf to do the same on the other one near her.

"But the millstones were broken, my lady."

"I have purchased new ones. I shall need men to help install them and make the necessary repairs to the mill, but the miller will direct them."

"Wonderful, my lady! The women have been grinding the grain by hand. They complain bitterly. 'Tis a miserable chore. But, I do not...." Ranulf scratched the bridge of his straight nose.

"You have a concern, Ranulf?" She leaned forward on her stool, waiting for his reply.

"I do not wish to seem impertinent, my lady, but Lord Alain asked me to tend the estate, and I know we have little ready coin."

She smiled. The faithful sergeant could not know she had a cache of gold and silver coin in the care of Mother Clotilde at the abbey. Gwyneth also possessed a large chest of jewelry, which amounted to a king's ransom.

"I am neither without resources nor friends, Ranulf."

"Obviously, my lady." He shifted his big body on the low stool.

"In addition, the abbess has a journeyman smith at the abbey. He will travel with the miller and make his home with us. He is not an armorer, but he can draw wire and forge the links of chain mail until we engage a master armorer."

Ranulf stood and bowed. "Lord Alain will be pleased beyond measure when he returns."

If he returns, Gwyneth thought.

***

Alain fought the bone-chilling cold. The snow fell thickly, sticking to the mantles of his men like fluffy little feathers as they traveled home to Wykston at last. They had campaigned for two months and had re-established Norman rule in the north but with devastating consequences to the Saxons.

William reached York and retook the city, burning it to the ground a few days before Christmas. In fact, the Normans celebrated the holy day and heard mass there. Afterward, the king's forces had separated into small groups and harried the whole north of England, laying waste to the countryside with a terrible vengeance.

The area now subdued, William commanded Alain to return home and hold the peace in Northumbria, while the king and the rest of his army rode on to Chester.

In the meantime, Alain had heard no news from home. Had the rebels destroyed Wykston? Would charred buildings and blackened corpses lying stiff against the snow greet him?

If the village had been spared, winter surely had inflicted its own hardships. Without anyone to mill the grain to flour, the people would have precious little bread, and they still had no one to forge tools. Even if they survived the harsh conditions until spring, their plowshares and other tools needed to be in good repair for planting time. For that a smith was essential.

And what of Gwyneth? Would he find her there, or had she deserted and run off to Wulfstan? If she had spoken truly, she hated the thegn. That fact did not necessarily mean she remained loyal to the Norman cause. She could have escaped to Scotland. King Malcolm and Queen Margaret played host to many Saxon nobles who had fled.

And damn him to the lowest pit in hell! In spite of all his doubts and anxieties, Alain still wanted her, ached for her, had not lain with another woman since he had left her.

Through a thick curtain of snow, Alain saw his home. The stockade still stood intact. But what hid behind it? His scalp pricked with apprehension, for soon his questions would be answered.

Cautious anticipation seemed to settle over the men as well. Formerly quiet, their ranks now buzzed with conversation. Even Rampage strained to charge forward. Alain picked up the pace, allowing the feisty stallion to break into a canter.

As the troops approached the stockade, Alain spied Ranulf on horseback near the outer gate, galloping to meet him.

"Welcome home, mon ami!" The big man wore a wide grin as he turned his horse to ride by Alain's side.

"Many thanks, Ranulf. 'Tis good to see you again. I trust all goes well," Alain stated warily, not knowing what awaited him.

"More than just well. Superbly."

"Indeed?" Surprised, Alain stared at Ranulf. "How so?"

"Wait and see," Ranulf commented, his hazel eyes twinkling.

Encouragement surged through Alain as they rode through the second gate. Looking around the village, he saw that the people looked well fed, not at all as if they lacked bread. In fact, they appeared quite content as they went about their daily tasks. Despite snowfall, he discerned a plume of smoke ascending from the forge. The familiar clang of a smithy's hammer beat out a lively tempo. Moreover, the distinct fragrance of baking bread wafted on the frigid air.

Alain turned in his saddle. "Obviously you lured a smith here and managed to mill the grain."

"'Twas not I who managed the miracles."

"Who then?"

"Lady Gwyneth." Ranulf grinned.

So she had not deserted him! His wife had remained here and proved herself a loyal and able steward in his absence. Elation flooded through him. "But how, Ranulf? Where is she?"

"Here she comes now." Ranulf chuckled and pointed in her direction. "Let her enlighten you."

Her deep green mantle billowing behind her, Gwyneth picked up her skirts and ran toward him, blazing a trail in the new fallen snow. "My lord," she cried.

Casting all restraint aside, he dismounted and sprinted to meet her, lifting her into his arms.

"Welcome home, husband." She smiled, wrapping her arms about his neck.

"'Tis the happiest homecoming I have ever had, Gwyneth."

Alain left Rampage to Robert and carried her into the manor house, up the steps to the gallery and into their bedchamber.

As he opened the door, the warmth from the braziers made the room cozy, beckoning them. The table was set with plates, cutlery, a frothy flagon of ale, tankards, trenchers of bread, a haunch of venison, a wedge of cheese, and a basket of apples. Obviously, Gwyneth had ordered refreshments when the guards at the gate recognized him and informed her of his approach. He set her down, kissing her, his heart full of longing, his body hot with intense need.

She response was eager, fervent, enticing.

He drew away and held her at arms' length. "May I conclude from your reaction that you missed me?"

"Terribly, husband." Her silver eyes shone, and her complexion glowed rosy from the chill of the wind. "Have you missed me as well?"

"Aye." He embraced her again, hoping to restrain himself from behaving like a rutting stag. He had been abstinent for a long time and wanted her beyond all imagining.

"Ummm," she hummed, closing her eyes as she inhaled. "How is it you smell so clean?"

"I washed this morning before dawn. Robert heated some buckets of water for me. I still nearly froze to death, but I wished not to greet you with the stench of battle and death on me."

"Your garb seems fresh as well." Opening her eyes, she looked up at him.

"I took advantage of William's washer women. They followed us everywhere."

"Is that the only favor you sought from them?" She pierced him with a look of skepticism.

"Be assured. Most of the poor souls hobbled about old and bent."

Alain claimed her lips in another searing kiss, his need burgeoning by the second. He loosened her headraile, allowing her wealth of golden hair to cascade down her back. In one fluid movement, he reached down and grabbed hold of the hems of her chainse and tunic, pulling them over her head so she stood before him in all her womanly glory. He knelt again and removed her shoes and hose while covering her flat stomach, thighs, and knees with kisses before he stood once more.

She eagerly reciprocated his gestures, quickly relieving him of his mail and garments.

The divestiture complete, he pulled her to him, reveling in the feel of her body full length against his as his manhood strained between them. Alain's senses reeled as he succumbed to the intoxication of her scent, her taste, her touch. His pulse quickened as her long, tapered fingers trailed through the hair on his chest, sliding downward over his ribs and round to his back. A low moan escaped his throat as she cupped his buttocks with her warm palms.

Aflame with need, he led her to the bed. Urging her on her stomach, he brushed her shimmering lock aside as he began adoring her body with his lips, tongue and hands. He kissed the cream-smooth column of her neck, the snowy mantle of her shoulders, and the delicate ridge of her spine.

"I feel as if you are touching me everywhere," she whispered breathily. "I do not ever want you to stop."

Savoring his delightful exploration, Alain continued, trailing kisses down the length of her legs to the sole of her feet.

"I love your sighs, my little rose. They tell me I please you."

Rolling over, Gwyneth sat up and took his face between her hands. "I would return the favor."

"Anything to accommodate a lady," he remarked with a chuckle and stretched out on his stomach.

Gwyneth kissed every inch of his back until he could not bear the titillation of her lips and tongue for another second.

She moved aside. He turned, rising to his knees, taking her up with him. Nudging her in front of him, so her back pressed against his chest and abdomen, he instructed her how to support herself on her knees and elbows. Wrapping his arms around her slim waist, he took full possession, invading her slippery woman's cleft from behind.

"Oh," she cried. "You fill me so full." "That is because you are so tight."

He kissed the back of her neck. His hands slid up to settle over her breasts, and he delighted in the sensation of her erect nipples against his palms and the slick moisture of her sheath gloving his arousal as he plunged deep into her sweet enchantment. Each silken stroke fanned the flames of his desire, propelling him ever nearer to fulfillment.

She quivered, and her throbbing spasms incited his own tumultuous release. Still joined, they rolled to their sides, basking in the radiant afterglow.

After a few moments she whispered, "Alain?"

"Aye, sweeting," he answered, still imbedded in her warmth.

"Do you think I will conceive soon?"

"I don't know."

They had never spoken about children. He simply assumed they would lie together, and his seed would take root. He knew she loved little ones. She doted on Garth and always displayed kindness and affection to the other children in the village.

Knowing only too well how it felt to be an unwanted child, he admired her gentleness with them. He disengaged from her and sat up. "Do you want children, Gwyneth?"

"With all my heart." Turning to face him, her gaze met his. "I never hoped to be fortunate enough to marry a good man who would give them to me. I thought to end my days in a convent."

"That would have been a shameful waste, my sweet rose," he remarked, his heart overflowing with joy.

Gwyneth wanted his children! Alain lay down again, urging her next to him as he pillowed her head in the hollow of his shoulder and pulled the covers over them.

All at once the responsibility of parenthood descended on him.

"Gwyneth, I hope we will provide more safety, more security for our children than we have had."

"Why shouldn't we?"

"We've precious little cash, sweetheart. We must wait to sell the wool we shear in June before we can build the stone keep William wants here, and those funds will only finance a start."

"I expected he would want one here. He has built quite a few of them."

"Aye. William has good reason if these insurrections are any indication. We also need a stone wall to surround us and our outbuildings, especially the stable. Horses are vital to the success of our military operations."

He sighed. "'Twill take years. We can afford to spend just a small amount per annum to pay for supplies and masons because I do not want to construct the keep of wood as some lords have done. Timbers burn, and 'twill take but one arrow to start a blaze. Hopefully, we will make a profit on our wool and make a beginning this summer."

"Oh, sooner than that!" She sat up.

"Gwyneth, I just explained. I have little cash."

She giggled. "But I've plenty."

"You do?"

"Aye." Her eyes sparkled as if she were privy to a great, joyous secret.

Suddenly, he remembered. Ranulf informed him she had procured the smith and the miller. He had been so besotted upon seeing her again, all the pressing matters of the estate had fled his thoughts.

"Would you explain how you came by this fortune?"

"'Twas given to me by my father for my sustenance when I went to live at the abbey. I also own a good bit a jewelry. The coronet I wore at our wedding will pay for the keep."

Alain remembered the piece. Wrought of gold, it held five rubies the size of pigeons eggs.

"I also have rings, bracelets, earrings and some fine Viking brooches my mother bought on a trip she took to York. There is more than plenty to barter for what we need. With enough masons, the work will go quickly, and the keep will be finished in a year. The other buildings will take longer."

He stared into her beautiful eyes. She had just offered him her precious possessions. Her heart was proving as warm and lovely as her seductive body.

"Is that how you repaired the mill and hired the smith?"

"Aye. Until we find a miller, the abbess has promised to share hers with us. The smith was a journeyman at the abbey."

He shook his head. I will not take your ornaments, Gwyneth. I must find another way."

"What good will all the finery in the world do me if I am killed by an enemy arrow?

His gaze fused into her. "An enemy arrow?" he asked. "Aye." She nodded, eyes wide.

"You are a Saxon, yet you would give your support against your own kind?"

"I'm not unlike other Saxons. The thegns around Bristol swore their loyalty to William. But I pledged my oath of fealty to you. I take that vow seriously. I also plighted my troth to you as your wife." Her fingers caressed his cheek. "Your foes are mine, be they Saxon, Norman, Scot or Dane."

Her declaration rendered him speechless, filling him with regret that he could not better provide for her.

"Gwyneth, I did not even have the coin to present you with a morning gift after our wedding night." "I need no morgenifu." She cuddled down next to him. "You returned my dower lands to me."

"The land is rightfully yours, my sweet rose."

"And 'tis only right you accept the gold and jewels. I give them freely. "'Tis an investment in our home."

"Our home?" His arms cradled her reverently.

"Aye. We are husband and wife, partners in all things. 'Twould make me happy if you accept my offering, Alain."

"Then I accept with gratitude," he answered, wanting her again.

"You are most welcome. Now, would you like a bite to eat?"

"Food is not what I need at the moment," he murmured, just before he kissed her again.

***

The wind sculpted the surface of the snow, whirling the silvery particles into the air like glittering smoke. Gwyneth pulled her heavy, green cloak about her against the blustery gusts as she took pity on the flock of sparrows chirping noisily near an ice-glazed puddle.

Withdrawing a stale trencher from beneath the folds of her cape, she crumbled the bread between her fingers until she had a handful of crumbs. Sprinkling the bits of bread onto the white powdery surface, she retreated to the corner of the garden wall. Sheltered there, Gwyneth watched the shy birds approach the food to eat their fill.

Agatha, the cook, believed that the doves should be the benefactors of her generosity as they could be eaten later, but Gwyneth felt sorry for the poor sparrows. Since childhood, she had fed them every winter. Beside, they had been blessed with an especially bounteous harvest this year, and she wished to share her blessing.

The plentiful grain afforded a generous supply of bread. Apples and vegetable filled the root cellars. In November, at Martinmas-in-Winter, the animals had been slaughtered, salted and packed in barrels. The same had been done with fish. Nuts had been gathered and stored.

Her home snug against the rigors of winter, Gwyneth and Alain now spent more time together. Some evenings after Compline, they walked through the starlit snow, making plans for the future. An attentive lover, Alain eagerly shared her bed each night, showing her diverse means to express their passion.

Yet, he remained silent about the days before they met. He refused to speak of them or his feelings. Perhaps she was mistaken to want so much emotion in her marriage. After all, no matter how she felt, theirs was a political union, commanded by the king.

She should concern herself with the real cloud on the horizon: They had never discovered who helped the assailants penetrate Wykston and kill their men.

Gwyneth still had her doubts about Edith. No doubt the girl cast her charms on poor Strong Arm. She remembered the alewife's daughter had left the marriage feast early with a flagon of mead.

When Gwyneth informed Alain about the incident, he refused to take the news seriously. He seemed blind to the girl's wiles. Why? Had he fallen under Edith's spell like most of the men in the village?

Feet numb with cold, fingers freezing, Gwyneth decided to head toward the church as the time for Vespers rapidly approached. Suddenly, the crunch of footsteps on the ice-crusted snow and the sound of Ranulf's voice stilled her.

"I love you, Aelveva. I have wanted you from the moment I saw you."

Full of tenderness, the brawny sergeant's declaration traveled on the raw winter wind. The wall of thick yews hid Gwyneth from the lovers. She felt a twinge of guilt for eavesdropping, but thrilled for Aelveva, she remained fixed to the spot.

"Say you love me," Ranulf pleaded.

Gwyneth imagined the big bear of a man with his arms around her flame-haired maidservant as he looked lovingly into her eyes. The image gladdened her soul.

"I love you, Ranulf, with all my heart and well you know it." Profoundly moved by their exchange, Gwyneth hoped to hear such a declaration from Alain. The couple became quiet, and she guessed they were kissing.

After the pause, he urged, "Marry me."

"I want to, but I must think of Garth."

"I love the boy as my own, and he is fond of me," Ranulf insisted. "I promise you; I will make him a good father."

Gwyneth discreetly slipped away, strolling toward the church. Suddenly, she halted. On the church steps, Alain and Edith were engaged in a conversation. Gwyneth ducked behind a beech tree, hoping her husband and the girl had not seen her. Peeping around the big trunk, she saw Edith gaze up at him. The alewife's daughter stood too close to him. Was the smile on his face a flirtatious one?

Alain moved closer to Edith. His hand closed over hers and lingered a bit too long as he seemed to give her something. Unfortunately, Gwyneth stood too far away to identify the object.

The seductive woman cast her gaze downward. Gwyneth imagined that the alewife's daughter was feigning innocence.

"He swallows her pretense as a fish does bait," Gwyneth murmured as her whole body shook with anger. She stepped from behind the tree into the open and started toward the pair.

"My lady!"

Hearing Aelveva's voice behind her, Gwyneth turned. Hand in hand, Aelveva and Ranulf hurried toward her, smiling.

Radiant, the happy woman announced. "We have some news to give you." She looked up at Ranulf. "Will you tell my lady, or shall I?"

The sergeant lifted Aelveva's hand and kissed it. "I believe Lady Gwyneth would prefer to hear the tidings from you, my love."

Her eyes sparkling, Aelveva declared, "We are to be married."

Gwyneth reached out to embrace her dear companion. "Oh, Aelveva, I am so happy for you both." She disengaged from her maidservant and turned toward the prospective groom.

"Much joy to you, Ranulf. You have made a wise choice."

He bowed. "Thank you, my lady. I feel fortunate. Aelveva takes a great chance with me. I have but few worldly possessions."

"You offer the most precious gift anyone can give, Ranulf," Aelveva replied. "You give me your love."

At that moment, she would have traded all she owned to hear Alain say those words to her.

The villagers now padded through the snow on their way to church.

Garth burst upon them. "Did she say 'aye,' Ranulf? Did she?" The boy bobbed with excitement, his cheeks and snubbed nose red from the cold.

"Aye, little warrior." Ranulf rocked back with laughter.

Garth began to dance, chanting, "I am going to a wedding."

"Hush," Aelveva admonished. "Run along and wait for us in church, Garth."

Heralding the news, the boy tore down the snowy path now splotched with the purple shadows of dusk.

A crowd gathered around the happy couple. Of course the Normans expressed their good wishes, but many Saxons offered kind words also as Ranulf had earned their respect by his fair dealings and infectious banter.

Gwyneth wanted to enjoy the couple's happiness, but she still felt shaken by the scene she had observed on the church steps. What had transpired between Edith and Alain?

"Gwyneth, I have been looking for you."

She swung around and stared up at Alain. His violet-blue eyes glinted joyously, and he carried a cylinder of parchment in his hand.

"Ranulf, why do these ladies weep?" he asked, humor in his tone. What have you done to them?"

"They are tears of joy, my lord," Aelveva answered for him. "Ranulf asked me to be his wife."

Alain slapped his friend's back. "So you finally gathered your courage and did the deed. When will you wed?"

Ranulf lovingly looked down into Aelveva's upturned face. "As soon as we can."

"Good. If you wait too long, Lent will be upon us, and you will have to postpone the nuptials till after Easter. I'd like to see you wed before Gwyneth and I go to Westminster."

"What?" Dismayed, Gwyneth looked up at her husband. "When? Why?"

Alain laughed. "One questions at the time, dearling. The king commands we attend him there to celebrate Whitsunday, in June." He opened the parchment and showed her the message.

"Oh," Gwyneth commented for lack of anything better to say. She had no desire to leave the safety of her home to go to court.

"You shall have a wonderful time," Aelveva exclaimed as Ranulf smiled.

They all looked to her for some show of enthusiasm. "Aye," she responded, forcing a smile.

"But enough talk, we shall be late for Vespers," Alain reminded them.

They joined the throng and made their way to church, but Gwyneth's mood lingered as cheerless as the dismal winter twilight creeping in on them.

***

Gwyneth stood by the table in the counting room, keeping the chill at bay with a goblet of mulled wine. Outside, the snow fell thickly, and the wind howled, rattling the tightly closed shutters. The tallow tapers relieved some of the gloom of the winter night, but the small lights strained ineffectively against the dreariness in her heart.

The interchange she had witnessed between Alain and Edith, still haunted her.

She had many reasons for happiness. Gwyneth had not walked in her sleep since she married. Her people enjoyed safety, Alain spared her from Wulfstan, and Aelveva would soon wed. Her handsome, husband sat by her side, poring over the designs of the infirmary they planned to build along with the new keep and curtain wall.

Alain had been so responsive to her proposal for an infirmary that he asked the abbess to send the plans of the one at the abbey. Gwyneth’s dream would soon come to fruition, yet she found it impossible to muster any excitement.

"You have no suggestions?" Alain shook his head. "I thought you would fair burst with ideas."

"In truth, my head reels with them." But they weren't about the infirmary. Since she observed Alain with Edith, her mind held room for nothing else.

"Sometimes it helps to discuss the possibilities."

"Aye," Gwyneth answered on a sigh. Reaching for the wine, she took a sip then set the goblet down.

"Gwyneth, what ails you?

How could she explain she feared Edith's seductive charm would win him from her. To be honest, to confront him about the scene she witnessed, she must admit that she hid behind a tree and spied on him.

"I wish the woman, Edith, gone from here."

"Why?" He drew away from her, shock on his face.

She turned from him, unable to meet his gaze. "Because I have known her since childhood. She invites trouble. She has been betrothed before, and that man died. Charles Strong Arm paid her court, and he also lies dead. I want you to find both her and her mother another place."

"I cannot banish a poor widow and her daughter. They depend on me."

"I think the daughter relies on you over much. She looks at you with sheep's eyes." Mortified, Gwyneth realized she had revealed herself. She turned to see Alain smiling at her.

"Go on; you were saying," he encouraged, eyebrows bobbing.

Infuriated, she walked off a few paces. His footsteps fell behind her, and his arms slips around her waist.

He leaned down and whispered, "Me thinks you are jealous."

She turned in his arms and looked up at him. "That is ludicrous!"

"Is it?" He smiled smugly.

She drew away. Hand on hips, she shot back. "'Tis a supposition that betray your egotism." "'Tis the deduction of a logical man based upon your statement. You just told me you did not like the way she looked at me."

Her envy exposed, Gwyneth felt her face flush. "Why do you defend that brazen hussy?"

"I have nothing to defend. She has done no wrong." His eyes took on a serious expression, and his smile disappeared. "And neither have I."

Gwyneth had to admit he slept in their bed every night. In fact, since the work load on the estate decreased during the winter, she and Alain often retired to their bedchamber in the afternoon as well.

"I did not accuse you. I like not the girl's behavior. She acts the wanton. Furthermore, she behaves irresponsibly. She leaves her mother for days to go heaven knows where."

"Gwyneth, the girl is young and lonely, but why do you suddenly bring up the subject? Edith has lived here all her life." He raised his eyebrows and peered deeply in her eyes. "I believe you saw us this afternoon at church."

Shame swallowed Gwyneth. Unable to sustain his stare, she bowed her head.

"You did see us, didn't you?"

Still looking at the floor, Gwyneth nodded.

"I sought her out to give her some coin. I ordered special mead and bragot to celebrate Ranulf’s wedding. He told me he would propose to Aelveva, and I felt sure she would agree." He drew her close. Cupping her chin, he tilted her head up. "I do not want Edith. I've not desired any other woman since I saw you."

His lips touched down on hers, and she returned the kiss. With all her soul, Gwyneth wanted to believe him. Why, then, did doubt slash away at her like a dull saw through an oaken log.

***

Aelveva and Ranulf celebrated their marriage amid the rollicking festivities of Twelfth Night. Two Saxon widows and two Norman soldiers joined them in the connubial adventure.

Gwyneth's heart swelled. Soon the distinction between Norman and Saxon would disappear, and the descendants of these unions would call themselves English.

As she watched the guests fill the great hall, Gwyneth felt a surge of pride. Because she had supervised the decoration of the great hall for the Christmastide, the chamber stood ready for the wedding celebration, and she felt more than satisfied with the results.

Garlands of cedar and pine festooned the white washed walls and filled the air with their spicy scent. Suspended from the ceiling beams, the circular iron chandelier glowed with candles and a cluster of mistletoe. The central hearth roared with a huge log, its heat permeating the room with cozy warmth.

Mulled wine, ale, and the bragot and the special mead Alain ordered flowed abundantly as well as a cider the Norman’s loved so well. Tables groaned with all manner of game, fowl, winter vegetables, great pies, custards, dried fruits, and nuts.

Gwyneth smiled as Aelveva and Ranulf shared a goblet of wine. The bride's white headraile shimmered against the wreath of holly holding it in place. Arrayed in a moss green tunic, trimmed with gold embroidery, the woman beamed radiantly.

Ranulf turned from his love to attend Garth who tugged at his arm. Dressed in fawn garb, the big sergeant never looked as handsome.

Their love promised a strong marriage; one based on the deepest respect and admiration. How Gwyneth wished she could enjoy the same. She felt guilty for the envy she harbored in her heart, but she longed to hear Alain say he loved her.

Why did his declaration mean so much to her when she possessed everything else? With startling clarity, the answer hit her.

Because I love him.

The piper and harper began to play their merry tune, and she scanned the room, searching for her husband. She and Alain must lead the dancing.

Consternation filled her heart as she spied him gazing down into Edith's pretty face. Unable to bear the sight, Gwyneth turned away. Why couldn't the girl marry someone from York, or better still London, and go far off to live?

London. This summer she must travel to Westminster Palace. The thought chilled Gwyneth as she contemplated the consequences of being discovered as she walked in her sleep while at court.

***

Chapter 14

"Everything is in readiness, my lady." Closing the lid of the trunk, Aelveva rose from her knees, wending her way through the maze of baggage on the bedchamber floor to the window where Gwyneth stood. "I wish Ranulf and I could accompany you and his lordship, but by the time you return, I shall be big with child. I did not think I would conceive almost immediately." Beaming, the woman patted her swelling abdomen.

Aelveva calculated correctly. Alain and Gwyneth planned to bide at court for about two months, coming back to Wykston in time for Llamas in August.

"I shall miss you, Aelveva, but I should not want you to endure the discomfort of such a long journey that late in your term," Gwyneth commented, looking with chagrin at her own flat stomach.

Married nine months now, she should have been almost ready to present her husband with a child, but each time the moon cycled, her flux arrived with frustrating regularity.

To his credit Alain never mentioned the lack of an heir, but Gwyneth cringed at the disappointment she viewed in his eyes whenever her menses came on.

Sometimes Gwyneth believed that the same dark seeds that caused her to walk in her sleep, also prevented her womb from quickening even though she had not taken a night stroll since her marriage.

Interrupting her grim thoughts, porters entered the room. Two men to a trunk, they hauled the heavy luggage away.

Dejected, Gwyneth sat on the edge of the bed. "Oh, Aelveva, this is not an opportune time to leave."

"Why not, my lady?" Aelveva shook her head. "The masons from York have made good progress on the tower. The builder predicts it will be finished before the first frost comes again. The fields lie green with crops, the orchard is laden, and the sheep grow fat on the hillside. Ranulf and I will tends things. We will give special attention to your infirmary since we know that it is your heart's desire."

"I know. Ranulf proved a conscientious castellan when Alain left for York, and I am most grateful to you both, but, I do not wish to go."

"My lady, what really distresses you?" Aelveva walked to her. "'Tis the sleepwalking isn't it?"

"Aye," Gwyneth nodded. "The prospect frightens me. You know 'twas the reason my father never let me go to court during old King Edward's reign or poor Harold's."

"But you've not taken a night stroll for months." Aelveva shook her head. "Do you not think you are cured?"

Gwyneth took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "By the rood, I hope so."

Aelveva smiled and took a seat by her on the bed. "I think the malady is gone, and now that the rebel leaders lie dead or hide in exile, you have the opportunity to enjoy a safe trip through lovely countryside." She winked mischievously. "And until you get to court, you'll have your man all to yourself."

Neither she nor Alain would be absorbed in the business of the estate. Perhaps once she rested and relaxed, Alain's seed would take root in her womb.

And he would be away from Edith. The bold wench had disappeared again, much to Gwyneth's relief. Perhaps she visited a lover in another village and would soon marry and leave forever. Nevertheless, she knew King William's court hosted many beautiful, worldly women. Gwyneth prayed Alain would not fall victim to their charms.

Garth suddenly burst on the scene, eyes wide, cheeks pinks. "Mother, come see! The soldiers wait in the courtyard to escort His lordship and my lady. Lord Wykston said while he is gone, I am to practice my swordplay. When he returns, he will foster me. He says I'll make a good fighting man."

"Take a moment to breathe, lad." Aelveva laughed as she leaned forward, giving him a hug.

Ranulf, appeared at the door and bowed. "I am sorry for the noisy intrusion, my lady. He ran ahead of me."

The boy never failed to lighten her spirits. Gwyneth smiled and motioned Ranulf to enter. "'Tis his way, and I would not change him for all the gold in William’s coffers."

Handsome and commanding, Alain stepped in the chamber. "Are you ready to depart, wife?" Her heart lurched, but Gwyneth nodded, praying the visit would not result in her undoing.

***

Alain woke. Drowsy, he turned over on the fur pelt, reaching for Gwyneth, but the place where she had fallen asleep felt cold, empty.

Alarmed, he wondered if she had become ill and confused as she did the night Ulfer tried to abduct her. He recalled how she had walked from the manor house to the pond.

"Gwyneth," he called softly, sitting up.

The wind tugged at the flap of the tent, allowing the light of the full moon to shine inside. She stumbled forward but did not answer, colliding with the small table between them.

Hadn't she seen it? The moon afforded enough light.

Alarmed she had hurt herself, he rushed to her, helping her up. "Sweeting, answer."

In the moonlight, she looked dazed.

"Please, I must find Godwin."

He remembered she had made that same plea the night they met. Alain felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. God's bones! Did his wife suffer from fits of madness? Was that what Aelveva had meant when she used the term confused. Had young Robert and his men been right to harbor doubts about her? Had he been so convinced she was a spy that he did not see the obvious? Still, she had proved so lucid, logical, and capable later. Except for that one occasion, she always displayed a quick, lively wit. There must be a rational explanation for her strange behavior. But what was it?

"Godwin, where are you?" she asked, trembling.

Was Godwin the man she had met with the night Alain had first found her? Gwyneth had never given him a reasonable explanation why she had been wandering alone in the woods. But perhaps, as Aelveva explained, she'd become sick and disoriented. If he hadn't been so blinded by his conviction that she acted as a spy, he would have deduced this long ago.

Furthermore, whoever Godwin was, he had not been her lover. Gwyneth had been a virgin when she came to Alain's bed as his wife. So who was this fellow who disturbed her rest? Why had she refused to discuss him?

"Come, my little rose," he whispered. "We will find him together. First, though, let us go back to sleep." He gently led her back to the pile of furs. "Rest well," he murmured, holding her.

***

Breaking her fast with ale and bread, Gwyneth sat by Alain at the small table near the opening of the tent. A gentle breeze drifted in, ruffling his dark tonsure and billowing the wide sleeves of her tunic. From her seat, she watched the glow of dawn creep on rosy knees into the interior of their pavilion.

"Who is Godwin?" Alain asked.

Terror constricted her throat. Not able to swallow her drink, Gwyneth set down her tankard. "W-Why do you ask?"

His gaze bore into hers. "Let us be done with games." Calmly, he related the events of the past night, his recollections of the time they met, and the incident at the pond.

Gwyneth realized with horrifying certainty the illusion had reached its end. How could she explain? Once she confessed, her best hope was to be remanded to a convent. The worst would result in.... No, she could not even think of that possibility. But she must consider that likelihood because he could denounced her as a witch. On the edge of hysteria, she began to shake violently.

"Is the truth so vile that you cannot bring yourself to speak of it?" Alain leaned forward across the table and took hold of her clammy hand. "Who is Godwin, and why do you ask for help to find him?"

Tears filled her eyes and stuck painfully in her throat. "He was my little brother," she blurted out.

Strangely, Father Alfred had never mentioned the boy's name. He simply referred to the child as Leofric's son.

"But he died with your mother in the storm. Why do you ask for help to find him?"

She slipped her hand from his and buried her face in her palms, giving full vent to her sorrow. Alain pulled her into his arms. She rested her cheek against his chest and listened to the beat of his heart. His body felt like a bulwark of strength around her, but once she revealed her terrible secret, she would never find protection in his arms again. The prospect filled her with grief, and she cried harder.

"Wife, what troubles you so terribly? Can you not confide in your husband? You trusted me once."

Drawing back, she brushed her tears away with her fingers, but Alain took her into his arms again.

"Gwyneth, you do not lack courage. When you considered me your enemy, you displayed more fortitude than you do now. Why do you hold back?"

She looked up at him. Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. "Because, I am so afraid."

He kissed her temple. "No matter how terrible the problem, I promise to stand by you."

"Even if what I tell you may mean my death and...yours?"

"Gwyneth, you are my wife. Together we will find a way through our troubles. Besides I'm a soldier, I often face death."

"Our troubles?"

"Aye." He took up the napkin and dabbed her eyes. "What hurts you pains me also.

In truth, Alain had wedded her with the full knowledge that his men distrusted and feared her. He had taken a great chance as his troops might have deserted him.

Besides that, he could be accused of consorting with a witch. She must alert him to the danger. 'Tis your turn to take a risk, Gwyneth.

"Very well, but this will take some time," she answered.

"We have all the time in the world, dearling." The callused tips of his fingers grazed the slope of her jaw. Descending to the pile of furs, Alain urged her onto his lap. "Now, tell me."

Gwyneth blew her nose, inhaled a shaky breath, and confessed everything.

"So that is why you didn't move when Rampage almost trampled you."

"I did not see him."

"Even though your eyes were open."

She nodded and burst into tears.

"Sweeting," he murmured, rocking her in his arms. "I wish you had told me of this sooner."

Through her sobs she answered, "I thought you would think me possessed and renounce me as a witch. 'Twas the reason my father refused to allow me to marry."

He kissed her temple. "I fear wicked people more than evil spirits." He pushed a curl back from her hairline. "You are safe now, Gwyneth. I will always protect you."

"Nay, I am not. I can stroll at any time and can implicate you. I may do so at court."

"Ah, so that explains your lack of enthusiasm about visiting Westminster?"

Gwyneth lowered her gaze. "'Twas the most compelling reason."

Alain kissed the side of her neck. "What is the other?"

She was not ready to discuss her fear that he might be seduced away from her by another woman. "One admission is enough for this morning."

He smiled rakishly. "I know ways to make a lady talk," he remarked, cupping her breast, "and cry for mercy."

Like dry tinder, her desire kindled to the spark of his touch. "Aye." She slipped her arms around his neck and inhaled his woodsy scent. "But I think you prefer to amuse yourself in other ways than playing cleric and listening to confessions."

A chuckle rumbled in his chest. "At the moment, priestly celibacy is not what I have in mind."

Her heart burst with joy. Her husband knew the worst about her, yet he still wanted her.

Alain's heated gaze blended with hers as he tipped her back on the luxuriant pelts, and she felt the soft warmth beneath her. His mouth seized hers in a fiery kiss, and Gwyneth eagerly yielded up her willing flesh.

The bud of affection, born of his generosity and gentleness toward her, had unfurled lately into the full bloom of love. The emotion only increased the depth of her passion, causing her to long to yield up everything she possessed to this man. Her own pleasure became secondary and his assumed preeminence. Breaking the kiss, she sat up, forcing him to roll off of her.

His amazed look made her smile. Gwyneth tugged at his garments, helping him to remove them. Her efforts were not slow or seductive, but quick, efficient, and with a new dimension of longing she had never before experienced.

Alain sat up and reached for the hems of her chainse and tunic. She raised her hips and then her arms, enabling him to slip the clothes over her head and fling them in an arc across the pavilion.

Gwyneth pushed against his shoulders and sent him sprawling back on the soft furs. She stretched out full length on top of him, blanketing him with the warmth of her body, the glow of her love, the fire of her desire. Her passion fueled to wild, new heights, she kissed him everywhere, tasting his salty skin.

His response answered her in kind. Erect and eager, his hard male member thrust up, full of vigor and life.

Her uppermost aim to please him, she drew back and straddled his powerful thighs. Twining her fingers around his arousal and stroking its length, Gwyneth cupped his sacs with her other hand, gently caressing them.

"Gwyneth," he gasped out, "if you continue, I shall not be able to pleasure you."

"Tell me what would please you."

"Take me within you. I want to feel you around me."

Her heart exalting his love, she drew him deep within her, treasuring the full length of him as she cherished the precious intimacy of the moment. She began the ancient dance in the rhythm she knew pleased him. Her loving continued frantically until her own pleasure seized her in a tender joy that took her to a union with him beyond anything she had ever known.

Still deep within her, he pulled her down over him and rolled over, reversing their positions without breaking contact. Taking the initiative, he took her to sublime heights a second time. Finally, he cried, "Gwyneth," and his body shuddered with his release. Breathless and sated, they lay together in a tangle of arms and legs.

"Little rose, I always enjoy our coupling, but this time our union reached beyond any pleasure I ever imagined."

She kissed his cheek. "Mayhap because truth exists between us for the first time, husband."

***

Her cold hand in Alain's, Gwyneth paused on the threshold of the great hall of Westminster Palace. "Do I look all right?" she whispered nervously. Perhaps I should go back and change into the scarlet silk."

"Nay, I prefer what you have on." He smiled.

She stared down at her sky blue tunic and plucked at the wide embroidered hem of her sleeve. The torch flames turned the silver threads in the swirling pattern of ivy leaves to color of molten cooper. Yet, the garment appeared so pale compared to the bright hues worn by the nobles standing about the cavernous chamber.

Alain winked, his gesture at odds with the stately black of his attire. "'Twill be all right."

Gwyneth wished she possessed his confidence. Everything at Westminster was executed on such a grand scale, she felt overwhelmed. Why, the whole manor house at Wykston could barely fill a fourth of this great hall.

Glancing up, Gwyneth sucked in her breath, marveling at the height of the great hammered beam ceiling. In the center of the floor, an enormous central hearth burned brightly, its light augmented by numerous torches blazing at intervals along the stone walls. Long rows of trestle tables, covered with white linen, lined the perimeter of the room.

"Let us pay our respects to the king, and queen," Alain murmured, claiming her attention.

Her gaze fell upon the regal figure seated on the dais beneath a canopy of red and gold cloth. Even from this distance, William exuded fierce energy. Neither the folds of the tan, ankle-length tunic, nor the cloak of crimson, fastened on his broad shoulder by a ruby brooch, hid the power of his muscular physique. A lustrous coronet, wrought in the shape of strawberry leaves, crowned his sandy head. Erect and alert on his throne, William emanated power, authority, sovereignty.

Arrayed in an overtunic and headraile of sunny yellow, tiny Queen Mathilde sat by his side, a smile on her pale face.

Her gaze focused on the floor, for fear of tripping on her own feet, Gwyneth kept pace with her husband as they approached the royal couple and knelt.

"Welcome, Lord and Lady Wykston." William's voice rumbled over them.

"Thank you, sire," Alain responded.

Though she bowed low, Gwyneth peeped up through her lashes as William leaned forward. "We are grateful to you, Lord Wykston. Due to your efforts, all remains quiet in Northumbria."

"For the present, sire. All the rebels either lie in their graves or hide in exile," Alain answered. King William sat back. "We have great faith that you will sustain a lasting peace in our northern regions."

"'Tis my greatest wish, sire." Alain nodded. "A tranquil existence promotes wealth and prosperity for the good of the realm."

"Your wise alliances please us." The queen nodded her approval, her big, blue eyes shining brightly. "They secure enduring harmony more economically than the force of arms."

"'Tis true some of our men have married Saxon women, your highness."

"You have prudently led them by your example," Mathilde stated firmly.

Gwyneth raised her head for a better view. Her gaze traveled from the amiable queen to King William as he looked kindly at his dainty wife. The man's stern visage had softened to that of a fond husband.

He cherishes her. The idea stunned Gwyneth, although everyone knew that William remained uncommonly faithful to his wife when adultery seemed the rule at court rather than the exception.

Would Alain come to love her one day? The king and his consort gave her hope that he would, for their marriage, like hers, was a political alliance. If they found love, the same chance existed for her and Alain.

"Rise, Lord Wykston, and introduce your lovely wife to all present," William commanded. "Know that we appreciate your achievements and loyalty."

Gwyneth and Alain stood and slowly backed away from the royal couple. Relieved to escape their scrutiny, she turned and lost her breath. Not ten feet away, his hard gaze boring into hers, stood Wulfstan, Thegn of Braeton Hall!

***

Along with most of the court, Alain had gone falconing. To avoid the outing, Gwyneth feigned a headache. Now she sat in a quiet corner of the rose garden, still tortured by her silent encounter with Wulfstan. She fingered her rosary and stared into the bed of gillyflowers, certain the thegn was up to no good.

Judging from the man's past behavior, he attended court to gull William into believing that he served as a loyal vassal. Meanwhile, Wulfstan bided his time, waiting for an opportunity to acquire more land.

From the hard gleam in his eyes last night, Gwyneth knew without a doubt that the man still bore her ill will. Wulfstan had turned on his heel and strode from the great hall as soon as he saw her. Perhaps he did not wish to come face to face with her husband. Even so, a confrontation had to take place unless the thegn had decided to leave court.

Gwyneth knew she should have informed Alain of the man's presence immediately, but she refrained, not sure of what form of action her husband would take. He had harbored a great deal of jealously toward Wulfstan, believing that she had wanted to wed him before she had convinced him of the truth.

Suppose he recognized the thegn as the arrogant monk he had met at the abbey? That insight could result in disaster.

"So we meet again, my lady."

Startled by the familiar voice coming from behind her, Gwyneth gasped and turned. Wulfstan! Immersed in her thoughts, she had not heard him approach. Now he stood in the garden, his pale blue gaze piercing through her. His blond hair and beard had grown again and moved in the breeze.

"Have you no warm greeting for an old friend?"

His tone sounded civil, but Gwyneth knew his tactics. He always covered his malice with courtesy then struck with ruthless savagery when his victims least expected the onslaught.

Taking the offensive instead of waiting for his attack, Gwyneth rose from her seat, clenching her rosary. "Why do you seek me out, Wulfstan?"

"Your directness borders on rudeness, my lady," he replied, stepping closer. "After all we once meant to each other, I wished to see your lovely face again."

"Cease your nonsense, Wulfstan. You meant naught to me, and I represented a rich dowry to you."

"Nay, Gwyneth. You underestimate my affection and the force of our joint destiny. Together, we will create a dynasty to wipe the Normans from the face of the earth. We shall seize the greatest wealth ever possessed in this kingdom." He reached for her hand.

She jumped back. "You rave wilder than Ulfer when he is in his cups, Wulfstan. If you seek to destroy the Normans, why do you take King William's hospitality?"

"I use whatever means at my disposal to fulfill my fate, and you must take yours in the same grand scheme." He moved closer.

Gwyneth put out her hand, preventing his advance. "Your treachery is vile, and I will have no part in your base design. Leave me. I am a married woman."

An obscene smile spread over his face, and his pale eyes reminded Gwyneth of January ice.

"Many a wife has become a widow. With so many ways to die, death looms ever near. A man falls from his horse, meets the point of a sword, stops the flight of an arrow, ingests poison." He counted the possibilities on his fingers.

Gwyneth cringed inwardly but refused to let him see her fear. "Get ye gone from here, Wulfstan, else my husband will skewer you on his sword like a roasting pig."

"Your lot could be great beyond your imagining, Gwyneth," Wulfstan insisted.

"Aye. My wife's future shines bright," Alain stated.

His jaw slack, Wulfstan whipped around, and Gwyneth's heart sunk. Her husband had crept up on them so quietly, they had not heard his approach. Why was he here when he told her he would be with the falconers until Vespers?

Alain moved near as he placed his arm around her shoulders, but he glared down at her. "I returned to inquire on the state of your health, my lady. I see you fare much better."

By St. Cuthbert! Does he think I lied so I could tryst with a lover?

"My wife is remiss in her manners as she has not introduced you to me, sir. Still, there is something familiar about you. Perhaps we have met before?"

"I think not, my lord." Turning pale, the coward bowed. "I am Wulfstan, Thegn of Braeton."

Gwyneth felt Alain's arm tighten around her shoulders. Looking up, she saw her husband's face darken with anger. "Surely, Lady Gwyneth mentioned that I was an old friend of her late father's," Wulfstan continued. "We met quite by chance this morning. I was congratulating her on her marriage when you came upon us. Now if you will excuse me, my lord, I have some pressing business."

***

Alain's guts roiled with rage as he paced the length of his chamber. Gwyneth sat on the bed, her face grim with denial, her chin raised in defiance.

Furious, he remembered where he had seen Wulfstan before. The thegn had pretended to be the monk who gave Gwyneth the news of Leofric's death. He also conveniently delivered a marriage contract for her to sign. The man's hair and beard had grown out now, but his eyes, his strong body, the configuration of his features remained the same.

In all the months they had lived together, Gwyneth never mentioned Wulfstan's masquerade. Why not? Furthermore, she had deliberately lied to Alain this morning, saying that she felt ill and could not possibly accompany him. Why again?

Because the two of them had planned a tryst.

The complete account Gwyneth had given him about her relationship with Wulfstan had proven a lie, especially when she said she loathed the thegn.

In the months that they had been married, Alain had become inordinately fond of Gwyneth, but, more importantly, he had begun to trust her. Now he had caught her red-handed. What a great fool he had been!

"So how long has this deception been going on?" he barked out, walking toward the bed.

"I told you no deception exists." She stood and move toward him.

"Then why did you neglect to tell me Wulfstan was the monk who came to the abbey?" He grabbed her wrist. "The man must have wanted you beyond all reason to take that chance."

She yanked her arm away from him, but did not retreat. Instead, she stepped forward. "Nay. He wanted Wykston. Still wants Wykston, and will do anything to get it, and well you know it."

"That fact has long been established, my clever wife. Now explain why you refused to tell me?"

Hands on her hips, eyes blazing with indignation, she stared up at him. "Because I did not know if his army waited outside the abbey ready to attack if he failed to return to them within a certain time. I had the safety of the nuns to consider.

"Besides, he left after you forbid me to sign the contract. I thought I was safe from him, and in case you have forgotten, I had just lost my father. I was numb with grief and not thinking very clearly. The only thing I wanted to do was to go home and grieve his loss."

She began to pace. "After that, my dear husband, we came under attack. Most of my men died. I busied myself for some time with the wounded and dying, and I tended Norman and Saxon both. Then I buried my father."

Her voice cracked, and she stood still at the mention of her father. Alain expected her to cry, but Gwyneth lifted her chin and continued her defense.

"Following his funeral, the survival of my people became my main concern. I worked side by side with you in the fields, reaping the harvest to ensure we had food for the winter. Then we had married, and I believed that I was safe from Wulfstan. Soon after you left for York, I had the smith and miller to procure so our people would not starve or go without needed tools."

She looked him straight in the eyes. Without blinking, she said, "That is the reason I did not tell you. I forgot about him and the whole hateful incident at the abbey. In truth, I had not thought about the cur again until I saw him here yesterday evening.

"As for failing to inform you last night, you surrounded yourself with a bevy of ogling women." She bit her lip. "Furthermore, I did not know how you would react, so I kept my counsel until I could decide when to tell you. As I can see from your reaction, I was right to keep silent."

She sniffed and again Alain believed she would cry, but her eyes remained dry.

"Now, you may believe what you wish, my lord. I give not a tinker's damn. I am tire of defending myself against your blind mistrust, but consider this...while we fight between ourselves, Wulfstan plans something." She paused and took a deep breath. "He made unveiled threats on your life. He believes he and I have a destiny together because of some mad raving of Ulfer's, and will perpetrate whatever vile deed necessary to achieve his aim. I suggest that rather than suspecting me, you concentrate on the real danger: Wulfstan!"

She collapsed into a chair and burst into tears. Alain stared down at her, taking in her words, but his heart still smarted with pain. He had to leave, to put some distance between them, to sort out the facts. Maybe then he could see the problem in its proper perspective. He turned and left abruptly, slamming the thick oak door behind him.

***

For some time Alain had walked aimlessly and finally found himself at the stables. A good long ride in the fresh air was what he needed to clear his mind.

After asking a groom to deliver his tack, Alain prepared Rampage himself. Swinging into the saddle, he cantered his mount away from the field and toward the Tyburn Marsh.

The cool breeze carried the salty smell of the sea inland. As he neared the wetlands, he caught sight of a row of cygnets swimming in tandem behind a mother swan through the brackish water. Somewhere in the abundant crop of spiky cattails emerging near the bank, a bullfrog croaked out his low-pitched song.

Alain dismounted. Tethering his mount's reins to the branch of a bramble bush, he sat, staring out at the marsh. Despite the pain in his heart, he forced himself to analyze what he had seen between Wulfstan and Gwyneth. He had to admit, he had not witnessed much. He did not find the two in a passionate embrace. The man had been telling Gwyneth she had a fine future. Still Alain had known that the thegn believed in Ulfer's nonsense.

Alain grudgingly admitted that her arguments for keeping Wulfstan's escapade to herself were sound, reasonable.

Besides, Gwyneth had been nothing but good—to him and for him. She'd gifted him with a king's ransom to finance a keep. She had also given him her passion, affection, and encouragement. Her actions were not those of a woman about to abandon her husband.

His suspicion, once a survival tool for him, no longer proved useful. It certainly did not help to forge the bonds of a strong marriage. What was it Ranulf had once said? Your distrust follows you like a long shadow. It darkens your life.

He must find Gwyneth and apologize.

***

Chapter 15

Vespers over, Gwyneth emerged from St. Margaret's parish church. The entrance of the edifice stood at right angles to the abbey cathedral. The smaller house of worship ministered to the needs of the parish while the cathedral served as the seat of the bishop and functioned for state occasions.

Still annoyed, Gwyneth saw Alain hurry to her, and she turned away from him to walk across the church lands to the palace behind it.

The wind whipped up, catching her headraile and stirring the surface of the busy Thames.

"Gwyneth," he murmured, catching up to her. "Please, hear me out."

She turned and faced him, not wanting to make a scene as the other nobles thronged to William's home.

"Aye, my lord?"

His face held a look of humility she'd not seen before.

"Gwyneth, I rode to the marsh and considered your words. Perhaps I...have been hasty."

She kept her voice low and calm. "You accuse me of treachery and obstructing the truth, and all you can say to me is that perhaps you've been hasty? If your attempts at warfare proved half so fainthearted as your apology, I should fear for Wykston and all its folk."

"Gwyneth, I'm not a minstrel to woo you with fancy songs and flowery words."

"You prate on eloquently enough when you hurl your accusations." She turned and resumed walking, and he kept in step by her side.

"Would you have me grovel?"

She cast him a sidelong glance. "'Twould do for a start."

"I don't beg well, Gwyneth."

"Nay?"

"For how long will you punish me?"

She stopped. "Punish you? How do you think I felt?"

"Please, Gwyneth, I want to atone. I'll buy you an ell of silk."

She remained silent.

"A cloak of miniver?"

She crossed her arms.

"A trip to the Cheap in London?"

She resumed walking.

He caught her hand, stopping her progress. "I'm terribly sorry. Tell me how I can atone."

"That was all I wanted to hear."

He pulled her close. Several Norman ladies cast cold glances at her as they passed by.

"I will not live beneath the cloak of suspicion, Alain."

"I shall never doubt you again, love."

She relented to the smile tugging at her lips. "I shall hold you to the trip to London."

They both laughed.

***

Wulfstan left court abruptly on the day Alain confronted him with Gwyneth. Feeling safe in that assurance, Gwyneth and Alain embarked on a tour of London.

She felt relieved to leave court. Now the Norman ladies could not shamelessly pursue him, and she hoped to discover more about her husband. The greater part of Alain's life still remained a mystery to her although she had lived with the man for almost a year now. Away from the concerns of Wykston and the intrigues of court, perhaps he would reveal something of his former life to her.

The tense journey down the river over, Gwyneth now rode beside him, casting all her cares temporarily away as the sights and sounds of the city called to her.

Under a gray sky, London stretched around them out in all directions. The sheer size of the place awed her. Thatch-roofed, wattle and daub buildings sprawled everywhere.

Throngs of people bustled about the streets, and the sounds of the city merged into a unique song with a meter all its own. Hawkers peddled their goods. Children ran about and dogs barked. The smiths' hammers, on the ironmongers' lane clanged noisily. Carts and wagons rattled by loaded with wares. Church bells chimed. Smells from the river mingled with the fragrance of baking bread, roasting meat, smelting iron, tanning leather, and horse manure.

Alain turned to her and grinned. "You are quiet, Gwyneth. What thinks you?"

She returned the smile. "I never expected London to be so enormous."

"'Tis said five thousand people live here now." Gwyneth patted her palfrey's neck as she observed the great number of shops lining the street. Along one street, tradesmen shaped metal, along another they wove cloth, and on still another they cooped barrels.

Skimming along the wide, busy river, small boats conveyed fish, chickens, eggs, and cheeses to market. Large ships brought products from Flanders, Normandy, France, Norway, and the Germanic States.

Suddenly, the wind picked up and the sky delivered on its threat of rain.

"We can take shelter at that inn over there." Alain nodded towards an establishment with a white stag painted on the sign hanging in front. "Right now a goblet of mulled wine would ward off the dampness. We can order a pasty as well if you are hungry."

"Know you the place well?" she asked.

"Aye," he answered. "The fare is excellent."

The damp in her bones, her appetite sharpened by the cool air, Gwyneth needed no convincing. "You read my mind, Alain. I am about to perish."

"Good." He tapped his middle. "I am so hungry my navel is hitting my backbone."

Gwyneth giggled. "'Tis fortunate today is not a day of fasting. You may eat a whole side of roasted boar, if you wish."

He chuckled. "At this moment, I feel as if I could." They left their mounts in the stable behind the inn and entered the dining room. The warmth as well as the delicious smell of roasted fowl welcomed them. Near the large hearth in the middle of the flagged floor, a young boy turned a brace of moorhens on a spit.

Exposed oaken beams, darkened with age, supported the white-washed walls. By the look of the well-dressed clientele in dining hall, the inn catered to the well to do.

The innkeeper showed them to a private chamber on the ground floor that was a smaller version of the large dining room. As they sat at a trestle by a fire, Gwyneth appreciated its warmth, feeling the dampness ebb from her bones.

Alain took hold of her hand. "You are glad to be away from court."

"Aye." She clasped his fingers and shook her head. "I am afraid I shall never be a polished courtier. My Saxon tastes are far too simple."

"Your tastes match mine." He smiled. "I do not enjoy life there either."

Alain was right. She disliked Westminster. While he spent his time in the company of the men, hunting, or in some other manly pursuit, Gwyneth was left to the mercy of the Norman ladies who made it clear that they held her in contempt.

Many times had they made ribald remarks about Alain, deliberately intending for Gwyneth to hear them, and making no secret of the fact that they coveted his body. They even wagered as to which lady would be the first to seduce him.

Now the tavern wench, who approached their table, had the same hungry look as those women. This tawny-haired girl's bold stare reminded her of Edith and set Gwyneth's teeth on edge.

"What will be me lord's pleasure?" the girl asked.

"Gwyneth?"

"You order," she answered.

He turned his attention to the woman. "Two pasties and two cream custard tarts with raisin sauce."

"Will you be wanting some ale, my lord?" The girl shifted her weight so that her hips swayed.

"Nay. We want two goblets of mulled wine."

As the girl walked off, the simpering smile on her face grated on Gwyneth's nerves.

"Why do you scowl so, Gwyneth?" He squeezed her hand.

"That brazen girl...."

Alain chuckled and leaned forward on the table, taking hold of both of her hands. "The wench bears a resemblance to the alewife's daughter."

Gwyneth wondered if all alewives' daughters were cut from the same ell of cloth. Inhaling deeply, she squelched her jealousy.

She must remember her marriage was a political alliance, commanded by the king. Alain had never said he loved her. She had been well aware of that when they wed. Still, her heart ached when other women flirted with him.

He frowned. "Are you going to sulk?"

"Nay."

A ewerer approached, helping them wash their hands. As he left, the serving girl entered, carrying a large tray bearing their food. The steam rose from the hot victuals and goblets of wine, filling the air with savory aromas. Gwyneth's mouth watered, and her stomach growled.

Tearing into the flaky crust of her pasty with gusto, she put aside all contention. Conviviality restored, they spent the rest of the meal joking and laughing. Warm and content, she yearned to linger at the inn with him, never to be compelled to return to court. The repast finished, they cleansed their hands again.

"My goodness, I am stuffed," Gwyneth commented. "I did not intend to eat so much."

"Your appetite has improved lately." He peered at her a question in his eyes. "You would not be eating for two, would you?"

"I-I, uh, do not think so." Disappointment filled her heart. More than anything she wanted to have his child.

As if reading her thoughts, he leaned across the table and whispered, "Gwyneth, do not fret. We have all the time in the world to have heirs."

He stood and walked to her side of the trestle table. Taking her hand, he urged her to rise as well.

"What say you we spend the night here? The rooms are cozy and clean."

"Twould be wonderful! But would not the king be offended, if we did not appear?"

"Nay." Alain's hot gaze met hers. "As a faithful spouse he approves of husbands paying court to their wives."

"A wise monarch, but tell me how do you know the rooms here are comfortable?"

"Now, Gwyneth, you know that I was not a monk when you married me." He called for the innkeeper as he led her toward the stairs.

Perhaps his past was unimportant, and she should let sleeping dogs lie. Alain treated her well. So far, she felt confident that he had not betrayed her, and she still hoped that one day she would win his love. After all, the abbess used to tell her that if she lived well in the present, the past and future would tend to themselves.

Deciding to take that advice, Gwyneth answered. "Then I suppose we are well matched. You once told me I was no nun."

***

Extending their blissful interlude in London, Gwyneth and Alain left the inn, planning to ride along a lane toward the river to a huge marketplace called the Cheap. They had not ridden more than a few yards when the mournful bay of a hound rent the air. The dog sped by, followed by a group of dirty boys in ruthless pursuit. The gang of urchins throwing stones at the animal, hit the mark, and the poor animal yipped pitifully and fell.

Gwyneth's heart froze. "Alain, make them stop!"

"Enough," he bellowed, wheeling Rampage around between the dog and the ragged boys. He swung from his saddle, and the gang dispersed in all directions. Head bowed, he knelt by the wounded dog in the middle of the narrow lane.

Gwyneth dismounted and walked to her husband. Her heart contracted. The big, gray cur lay breathing hard, tongue protruding, eyes glazed with pain. Two big gashes on its hip oozed blood. The poor beast seemed nothing but skin and bone. Doubtless, its fur crawled with fleas.

"Oh, Alain, why?"

Alain shrugged. "Mayhap the beast chased a goose or duck in its desperation for food, and the boys defended their livestock."

He looked up at her, and Gwyneth saw his eyes misting with tears. Undone by his display of emotion, she turned away gulping back her tears.

He gently stroked the animal's matted coat. The cur whimpered.

"'Tis all right, old boy. No one will ever hurt you again."

He picked up the large animal. "For such a big dog, the poor beast weighs hardly anything, Gwyneth."

She followed him to the stable behind the inn, paying the hostler to find a place for the dog. He entered a stall, lay the animal down in a bed of straw, and sat beside it.

"Gwyneth, please ask the innkeeper for a bowl of gruel." He gave her a coin. "The hound must have nourishment."

Gwyneth left and returned some moments later with the broth. Kneeling, she placed it by the animal. Almost too exhausted to drink, the dog slowly lapped up the warm liquid as Alain lovingly stroked its wiry coat.

"Do you think you can you save this dog, Gwyneth?"

The stricken look on his face rent her heart with pain.

"I have never treated an animal, but I will try. 'Tis good he was able to drink, but he is filthy, and his wounds need tending. Those blood-sucking fleas certainly do him no good."

Alain called a groom and paid him to bathe the animal with strong soap to eliminate the fleas, after which Gwyneth dressed the dog's wounds with some linen they bought from the innkeeper. She ordered the wet straw discarded, and they lay the beast on clean, dry bedding. "Leave him to sleep now. When he wakes, we will give him more broth. There is naught we can do now but wait."

Instructing the groom to tend the hound for the afternoon, they returned to the inn, changed their soiled garb, and ventured forth to enjoy the sights of the city again.

As they rode toward the Cheap, Gwyneth glanced at her husband. She could not help but admire the way Alain cared about the abandoned beast. Her husband had a soft spot for children and animals. Many men would have left the poor cur to be torn to shreds by the angry gang.

"How is it that you are so fond of dogs?"

"'Tis a tale best told when the snow is deep, and the night is long."

His evasiveness nettled her. "You always give such an answer when I ask about your past. Why?"

"Gwyneth, did it ever occur to you that I do not wish to discuss the past because it may be unpleasant for me?"

"I, uh, nay." She felt her face flushing. "I never considered that. I beg your pardon for the intrusion. I did not wish to cause you distress. Still, I have confided in you, trusted you."

"I will tell you when the time is right, Gwyneth. Now I prefer not to discuss the subject any further."

What could be so horrible about his life that he cannot bear to speak of it?

"Now what would you like me to buy you at the Cheap, my little rose?"

"I prefer to wait and see what is available." She giggled, giving him a sidelong glance. "Is there any limit to the amount I may spend?"

"Uh, well, I hope you will exercise your usual prudence and frugality."

She laughed. "Me thinks I detect a note of caution in your answer."

He smiled. "Mayhap, but I would like you to choose something to commemorate this occasion."

As dismounted, the size of the Cheap and the seemingly endless variety of wares on display amazed her. Merchants sold everything from fine jewelry to live doves.

Since Gwyneth refused to choose a gift, Alain selected a golden brooch with which to fasten her cloak. Wrought in the shape of a circle, the pin swirled with an intricate Celtic design.

"But 'tis so expensive," she protested.

"Nay," Alain fixed it to her cape. "'Twas made for you."

The gray-haired merchant smiled, his brown eyes beaming.

They moved on to a cloth merchant, and Gwyneth chose an ell of green linen for Aelveva. After that Alain purchased a fine scabbard for Ranulf and a toy sword for Garth.

If Gwyneth entertained any questions that Alain would keep the stray dog, her doubts vanished as he haggled a price with a vendor and acquired a cage large enough to transport the sick animal to Westminster.

***

Back at court several days later, Alain and Gwyneth made their way to the great hall. He looked down at his beautiful wife. Her periwinkle tunic and headraile flattered her delicate blond looks, and his heart swelled with pride as she walked beside him.

Each day the bond he forged with her grew stronger. Her kindness overwhelmed him, for she always made an effort to please him.

Quietly and diligently, Gwyneth had nurtured the hound, so that in just a few days, the dog had gained a little weight, was on its feet again, and looked immeasurably better. She would never know how much he appreciated her mercy as the animal represented something to him so deep, so precious, he could not speak of it.

They paused at the huge studded doors of the great hall, now flung open, and watched the unfolding spectacle.

The king had ordered special entertainment as this evening he played host to several foreign dignitaries, and the hall buzzed with activity.

Torches glowed on the walls and candles burned brightly. Servants scurried about, filling goblets with wine. A troop of jugglers hurled their bright balls into the air to the accompaniment of musicians piping a lively tune. Later, gaily dressed acrobats would tumble across the floor. At the moment they stood off in a corner, waiting their turn to perform. Arrayed in their finest attire, the elegant courtiers sat, watching the entertainment.

Taking Gwyneth's hand, Alain prepared to enter. Instead, he froze to the spot, bile rising in his throat. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? Every muscle in his body tensed, ready for attack.

"Alain, you are hurting my hand."

Gwyneth's upturned face wore a pained expression. He quickly released her. "Sorry."

"What is amiss?" Frowning, she rubbed her hand. "You look as if you have seen a ghost."

"Mayhap, I have." He turned, seized her wrist, and marched away, pulling her down the long, torch-lit corridor.

***

Chapter 16

"Please, Alain, tell me what vexes you?" Gwyneth entreated as she struggled to keep up with him.

Inside their chambers at last, Alain slammed the door behind her with such force the walls seemed to shake. The hound leapt up, barking.

Gwyneth hurried to the startled dog and knelt beside it. "'Tis all right, fellow." She stroked the wiry fur on its head, and the dog settled near the foot of the bed, laying a paw over its muzzle.

Alain began to pace. The years of pent-up rage and loneliness descended on him like a rockslide.

Gwyneth moved to him and placed her hand in his. The bewilderment on her face caused him to stop his movement.

"Alain, tell me why you are in such a wrath? I have never seen you like this before. 'Tis frightening."

"Gwyneth, I...." He exhaled a breath in frustration.

He wanted to share his story, but the pain stabbed so deeply, he could barely speak. For years he had rehearsed what he would say, and what he would do when he met his father and stepmother again. As a child, abandoned and crying himself to sleep, he had planned a bitter revenge. Now, he was so undone, he could do nothing but run like a wounded wolf and lick his wounds in the solitude of its den.

But he was not alone. His wife's light footfalls sounded behind him. Soft as swansdown, her arms twined around his middle as she rested her body against his back.

"Alain, you once told me that a burden shared becomes half as heavy."

Turning in her arms, he faced her, his embrace tightening around her. "'Tis a long tale—"

"Best told when the night is long and the snow is deep," she interrupted. Her gaze fused with his. "I do not think the story will keep until then."

Gwyneth broke from his hold, took his hand, and led him to the table. She poured the wine from the flagon into two goblets, filling them to the brim. She offered him one, and he accepted.

"Tell me, Alain, please!"

He looked into the cup, watching the candlelight shimmer on the dark surface of the wine before tipping it back, draining it, and banging the vessel down.

"My father bides here at court," he answered quietly. "I saw him a few moments ago sitting with the king."

Frowning, she set down her drink. "I thought you did not know your parents. You told me you were...I mean...I am confused."

"I was born a bastard so you assumed I did not know them," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Aye." She nodded, her gaze still on the wine goblet.

He sat. "I did not know my mother. She died giving me life, but I knew my father well—very well—or so I thought. I lived with him until he married my stepmother."

She stared at him, astonished. "What is his name then?" "Warroc, Lord of Raddon. He holds one of the largest estates in Normandy."

A look of perplexity on her face, Gwyneth slowly sank into a chair next to him. "But you called yourself Fitz de Personne, Son of Anyone."

"When I took that name, I feared for my life. He and my stepmother, Eleanor, tried to have me murdered."

"Oh, Alain!" She left her chair to kneel beside him, slipping her arm about him in a fierce embrace. "How could anyone kill a child?"

"I know not. I cannot fathom their actions." He pulled her into his lap, needing to feel her near.

She caressed his face. "Tell me everything about it, Alain."

Guts roiling, he said, "The memory makes me sick to my heart."

She kissed his cheek. "My past life was filled with darkness, but when I shared my secrets with you, you made them disappear like stars before the sun."

The time had come to lance the boil festering his soul. He took a deep breath and exhaled audibly. "Though I was a bastard, I lived with my father. He treated me well. So did everyone in his household. I felt loved and wanted until I was seven. That year my father married the beautiful Lady Eleanor.

"From the moment the woman saw me, she hated me. 'Twas but a few weeks after she took up residence in my father's estate that she connived to separate us, and I was sent to foster."

Feeling the abandonment anew, Alain paused as the pain slashed his heart.

"In truth 'twas time for me to go, but greed spurred her on. She surmised that my father planned to leave me an inheritance. Eleanor wanted everything for herself and the legitimate heirs she planned to give Warroc."

"Avarice is one thing but you accuse your stepmother and father of murder."

"'Tis no empty charge. My would-be assassin named her."

Gwyneth sat up. Her eyes wide, she put both hands over her mouth.

Alain could still feel the terror sweep over him like a raging torrent as he recalled the incident.

"I remember every minute detail of that day they tried to perpetrate the foul deed as if it were yesterday. I had come home to celebrate the Christmastide with my father. 'Twas the first time I had returned in a year and only the fifth time in as many years that I was allowed to return to Raddon.

"The men had organized a hunt as Eleanor had a craving for venison. She carried a second child, and my father denied her nothing since she had already presented him a legitimate male heir.

"We left at first light. I can still see the tree limbs, black under their dusting of snow."

Alain's stomach churned with apprehension just as it had that cold, gloomy morning when he was a boy.

"My deerhound, Fleetfoot offered me my only consolation. I had owned him for a few years and loved him dearly. The animal was a skilled hunter and could pull down a large stag.

"My father suggested we break up into pairs. One of Eleanor's henchmen, a great, dark oaf, called Eustace, volunteered to be my partner.

"The man terrified me. I was still only a lad of twelve years old. Although I was tall for my age, my strength and inexperience posed no match for the hulking, seasoned warrior.

"To make matters worse, the man's face bore a horrible, jagged scar on his swarthy cheek, and a broken nose, giving him a grotesque, hideous appearance."

Agitated now, Alain stood, lifting Gwyneth to her feet. "We rode for hours, traveling deep into the thick woods, though I saw no deer tracks. All the while an ominous feeling gripped in my guts, but my father had approved of Eustace so I had no choice but to follow.

"Frightened, I asked when we would stop as the sun shone straight above in the sky. We had traveled about six hours by then, and I knew we would never be back at Raddon by sundown. I did not want to spend the night in the forest with this man, but the huntsman told me to shut my whining mouth."

Alain halted, his fists clenched as all the pain and fear of that day long ago stormed his heart. After a few moments, he gathered enough composure to continue. "Finally, we stopped near the edge of a steep ravine. Below, a swift stream carved its bottom. Eustace ordered me to dismount. I obeyed, though I thought the better of that move.

"Behind me, I heard Fleetfoot growl. I turned. Eustace had drawn his hunting knife. 'Tis strange the small things you remember. I can still see the feeble winter light glaring off its sharp edge, and I almost wet my braies."

Even now the memory caused Alain's stomach to lurch.

"Meanwhile, Fleetfoot had circled around and stalked him from the back.

"With an obscene smile, Eustace ordered me to say my prayers. He gloated as he informed me that Eleanor ordered him to kill me. I had nowhere to run. My back was toward the cliff, and Eustace faced me."

A cold sweat bathed his body as the terror of that moment assaulted Alain anew.

"He sprang for me, but in a move of divine inspiration, I stepped to the side. Fleetfoot lunged and pushed Eustace over the precipice, but the good dog plummeted with him. The man plunged into the abyss, his head smashing on the rocks before the rapids sucked his body under.

"The sight of my faithful animal lying broken and dead on the boulders broke my heart."

Alain swallowed hard and blinked back the tears stinging behind his lids. "I have never felt so completely alone as I did when Fleetfoot died. 'Twas as if my last support in the world had been knocked out from under me." He paused, his heart so full of grief he could not speak.

Gwyneth embraced him and he held her close, composing himself enough to continue. "I mounted my horse, and rode for days, surviving on anything my arrows or sling could bring down, which was pitifully scant. At night I took shelter in barns, caves, or churches.

"Unable to feed my horse, I left it near a church one night, knowing the priests would keep the beast.

"Freezing, ragged, and starving, I collapsed days later at the door of a Benedictine monastery."

Even now, Alain could feel the excruciating cold numbing his limbs and the unrelenting hunger gnawing his belly.

"Did the monks not ask about your parents?" she whispered, resting her cheek on his chest.

"Nay. They never guessed my identity. After my ordeal I looked like a beggar, and they assumed my impoverished parents deserted me. I never disclosed any information for fear my father and Eleanor would discover my whereabouts."

He removed her headraile and ran his fingers through her smooth, golden locks.

"I stayed at the abbey for two years. They taught me to read, write, cipher, and many other things. In fact their kindness caused me to consider taking Holy Orders."

She stroked his cheek. "Then how did you become a knight?" "A devout nobleman, Charles de Langniac, came to the monastery on his yearly retreat. The old lord lost all his heirs in one way or another.

Because he loved children, he helped young boys who had aptitude but were penniless." Alain paused, sighing as he remembered the old man.

"I often acted as his partner when he wanted some swordplay for exercise. I knew little because I had just become a squire when I ran away, but he said he saw an innate ability. So Lord de Langniac asked the abbot, his old friend, to allow me to go to his estate. He believed I could best serve God by following my natural talents.

"Because of his generosity, I became a knight and continued my academic studies as well for the old lord was a learned man." He shook his head. "Unfortunately, he died soon after I won my spurs and left all his lands to the monastery so I went Caen and offered my sword to William."

"Alain, I do not know what to say except that I never want anything to hurt you again."

"Thank you, little rose," he answered stroking her cheek.

"After all you have suffered, 'tis obvious why you were so kind to Garth and wouldn't allow the hound to be hurt."

"Aye."

She tilted her head back and looked into his eyes. "Sweetheart, let us go back to Wykston. We can follow the example of Lord de Langniac and make our estate a place of refuge for the sick, the troubled, and the unwanted of the world."

"That is my plan, but I must conclude this business with my father."

She withdrew from him and rose. "To what end, Alain?" Fear in her eyes, she clutched his hand. "Surely you would not—"

"Kill him?" he interrupted, standing as well. "Nay. You should know by now I am no murderer."

"Then why not leave? Put all the sorrows behind you and proceed with our plans." She released his hand.

"Nay. I must expose him and Eleanor to William and to the whole court. Every one must know what blackguards they truly are."

"You have not thought your strategy through. The strike you plan is a poor tactical and political move." She stepped back.

"How so?" he challenged, crossing his arms over his chest.

"William has but a tenuous hold in Britain. The Scots are fierce warriors. Given the slightest provocation, they would raise their swords in an instant to invade. Queen Margaret's brother, Edgar, a leader of the last rebellion, bides his time at Malcolm's court in case you have forgotten.

"As if that is not bad enough," she continued, heaving a sigh, "the French cast a covetous gaze on Normandy, and would plunge a dagger in William's back, if the occasion arose. Do you think he will tolerate petty squabbles between the only nobles upon whom he can rely when his realm is in jeopardy?"

She shook her head. "I know not how many men your father has pledged to William for service, or for how many days a year he has promised them, but I am sure what he can offer the king is more than you can provide. Doubtless, if Lord Raddon serves as an important ally, the king will bestow a great estate on him here."

Gwyneth spoke with clear logic, but the pain in his heart made it difficult to reason. He had lived with the anger and bitterness too long. Could he ever relinquish it?

"Gwyneth, do you not want to see justice done?"

"Justice? Aye." She put her hands on her hips "But you will not see it meted out by men. Leave such things to God."

"William will understand. He escaped murder as a child as well. He hid while his enemies butchered his custodian as the poor, old man slept."

She clasped his arm. "Alain, your anger clouds your reason!" Her voice became shrill, grating in his ears.

"'Tis you who will not see reason," he shouted back.

Nostrils flaring, chest heaving, she stepped back. Her voice sounded quiet yet cold as she retorted. "Hear this then, and hold it in your memory well. I will not be a party to this folly. You can either bide here or come home with me. With you or without you, tomorrow I leave Westminster."

"You would desert me?" he asked, tasting bitterness in his mouth.

"Nay." She withdrew her hand. "'Tis you who desert me, our people, and all we have built because you will have your revenge!" Tears filled her eyes and she turned away from him. Rancor ground in his guts. He had stripped his soul, and stood before this woman as naked and completely vulnerable as a new babe. Instead of offering him succor, she planned to leave him. He felt wounded, betrayed, and abandoned again. Why couldn't she understand that he needed to finish this business before he could go on with his life?

He spun her around to face him. "Gwyneth, I warn you. I'll not beg you to stay, but if you desert me now, I will never forgive you."

***

The sun shone brightly, penetrating the fabric of her tunic and warming her back. Still, its radiance could not melt the chill in her heart. In front of the great stables, her armed escort about her, Gwyneth mounted her white palfrey, and made ready to set out for Wykston—without Alain.

Blind with revenge, her husband obstinately insisted on exposing his father and stepmother, despite all the sound, logical arguments Gwyneth proposed. The rift between them gaped before her like a deep, wide abyss, and left her with a sense of gnawing emptiness. Until now, she had not realized how much of her life he filled.

Fear ambushed her heart. Suppose Alain and she never found their way to a reconciliation? He had said he would never forgive her if she left. Yet, she couldn't stay and watch him sow the seeds of his own destruction.

Her vision blurred by a fresh fall of tears, she rode away from the palace, past the great abbey, surrounded by its quilt of cultivated fields, and down the winding path to the river's edge. Though swamped by a deep sense of shame for her desertion, Gwyneth could not resign herself to become a part of Alain's retaliation.

"Holy Virgin, please help me to let my husband see reason," she murmured.

Reason.

How foolish she had been! She could not expect him to think rationally when he suffered such gut-wrenching agony. She had taken the wrong approach. Alain needed sympathy, consolation, understanding—to know she cared. Later when his pain had been assuaged, Gwyneth could use rational means to convince him.

She must return to him now before the breach between them became unfordable. She raised her hand, signaling the escort behind her to stop.

"My lady!"

The shout came from a distance. She turned in the saddle to see a rider near the crest of the hill. His green cloak billowing out behind him, the man rode toward her pell mell as his mount's hooves kicked up a cloud of reddish-brown dust from the trail.

The lithe herald reined in, vaulted from his saddle, knelt, and bowed his golden head. "My lady, the king begs you to return immediately. Warroc, the Count of Raddon, has been injured. He fell from his horse a short time ago."

The man they wished her to treat was her husband's would-be killer! Why did the king ask this of her?

"Where is the Royal Physician?"

"He left for London early this morning, my lady. 'Twill take too long to travel down the river to London and search for him. Lord Raddon needs help immediately!"

Her duty clear, she delayed no longer. Murderer or not, she must attend. Gwyneth turned her mount. Her escort in tandem, they followed the messenger back to the palace.

Dismounting, she procured her basket of remedies from the luggage cart and sped with the herald to Warroc's chambers. The anteroom was empty, but as Gwyneth entered the bedchamber, she found the king and courtiers hovering about the bed. Everyone turned and stared at her, and a sudden hush fell over the room. King William came forth, and Gwyneth curtsied deeply.

"Your husband wrote me of your healing skills," William explained. "He informed us you eased the pain and suffering of my subjects at the battle fought near Wykston. We beseech the Almighty you can help our valued friend and trusted ally.

"A rotten limb toppled, startling his mount as we rode this morning," William continued. His stallion reared, and Warroc of Raddon fell."

The mighty conqueror appeared stricken with worry.

"I will do what I can, sire, but if he is injured inside, there is naught any mortal person can rectify."

"God be with you then, my lady," William replied, returning to the foot of the Warroc's bed.

Gwyneth shuddered, remembering a poor wretch Winna had treated at Wykston. His flesh bore no wounds, but his bleeding inside caused his death. Gwyneth closed her eyes, dispelling the dismal memory, and concentrated on the serious task ahead of her.

Refocused now, she set out her medicines and called for water and linens. Proceeding with her patient's examination, she marveled at the man's resemblance to husband. The dark eyebrows, the finely chiseled nose, the square jaw were so like her husband's. When she pulled back his eyelids, examining the size and shape of his pupils, the violet-blue of his irises startled her. His dark hair bore streaks of gray. Both men stood taller than average, with huge shoulders and chests.

Her assessment completed, she breathed a sigh of relief. He did not have the pale, sweaty appearance of someone who was hemorrhaging internally, nor did he have a serious head or neck injury. Nevertheless, a lump the size of a goose egg protruded from the back of his head. No wonder the poor man lay unconscious. However, Gwyneth found three cracked ribs on his right side.

"Who is Lord Raddon's manservant?" She surveyed the crowd.

An old gnome of a man stepped forward and bowed. His face reminded her of a hawk as his aquiline nose and large, golden eyes lent him a predatory look. His gaze pierced her.

"His name is Monsar, my lady," King William revealed. "He is a mute. An enemy hacked his tongue many years ago."

She handed him a pair of shears. "Please cut some linen into wide strips, Monsar."

She turn to the king. "Unless there is something I failed to discover, I found nothing more than some broken ribs. Thus far they have not penetrated his lungs. We must bind him with linen and a poultice of comfrey made into a plaster to keep his torso stiff. If he remains bound for six weeks or so, his bones will mend nicely. There is naught else we can do."

The king's face relaxed. "We are most grateful. You will stay with him until he is well." William's words rang with command not request.

"As you wish, sire." She curtsied, obeying. The king reached out and helped her up. "We feel secure in the knowledge that you are tending this man."

"I shall endeavor to deserve your confidence, sire," she replied.

William and his entourage exited, leaving her with Monsar. The little man cut the cloth into wide bands while she made the poultice. Gwyneth and the servant worked quickly, girding man with the sticky strips until they completed the difficult task.

As she smeared some beebalm salve on the bump on his head, Warroc groaned and opened his eyes. Gazing at Gwyneth, he frowned as if confused.

She put a finger to his lips. "Waste no energy with talk, my lord. I am Gwyneth of Wykston, come to tend your injuries. You fell from your horse and broke some ribs. Are you in pain? Just nod your head."

He did her bidding.

"I shall give you something to ease your suffering, my lord."

She left his side and mixed some vervain with ale, instructing Monsar to elevate his head. Returning to him, she spoon fed the liquid to Warroc. While she dosed the man, Gwyneth could not help but think that this was certainly a strange way to meet her father-in-law.

***

Alone in his room, Alain sat at the table in his chambers, watching his hour candle melt down to another ring. He had hoped Gwyneth would have returned by now. How humiliated he had been this morning when the king's herald came here looking for her, and he was forced to tell the man that she had departed for Wykston.

How could she leave him? He never would have forsaken her! Knowing her as he did, she was tending his father's wounds at this very moment. He could not fault her for that. Though Alain wanted revenge, he did not wish his father or his stepmother dead. Such blood lust would make him like them—murderers—and he had no wish to sink to that base level.

Alain had shunned court at midday, his misery so complete he could not face anyone. Instead, he bid Robert to deliver his meal to his rooms. The food had tasted like gall, and he fed most of it to the hound.

The animal seemed to sense his sadness. Periodically the dog approached, resting his head on Alain's knee. Stroking the animal's wiry coat gave him comfort.

Court had become a living hell for him. First Wulfstan made an appearance. Now his father had arrived, and Eleanor must be skulking close at hand as well, spinning her silken web of destruction.

Strangely, no one had mentioned the woman. When Alain asked Robert, the boy related he had not heard of a Lady Raddon. If his memory served him correctly, his father and Eleanor shared an inseparable union.

Moreover, where were his half brothers, Riwal and Deroc? Surely Eleanor wished to promote their interests to the king.

The door creaked open then closed again, and Alain's heart beat fiercely as he recognized the quick, light footfalls announcing Gwyneth's arrival. Jumping to his feet, he strode to the anteroom.

She looked exhausted, pale, her headraile about to slip off.

His anger flared. "So you abandoned me, but you hurried to aid my enemy."

Undaunted, Gwyneth met his gaze. "I do not wish to argue with you, Alain. I know you will not believe me, but I was returning to you, hoping to resolve our difference. William's messenger hailed me first. The king ordered me to aid Lord Warroc."

"I know." He turned from her, raking his fingers through his hair. "The herald came here, looking for you."

She placed her basket on the table and slowly trod to the bedchamber as her headraile fell to the floor.

For a reason Alain could not comprehend, he needed to know about his father. "How does he fare?" he inquired, following on her heels.

Gwyneth stopped abruptly and turned, colliding with him. She looked up at him, her silver eyes wide with surprise. "He will recover."

"No need to look so shocked, wife. I told you once I am neither a beast nor a murderer.

"I have known that for quite some time, Alain. That is why I returned, I could not bear the thought of you being alone with your pain, but...."

"But what?"

"Not moments ago, you called the man your enemy." "'Twas he who made himself my foe."

"I know." Gwyneth put her arms around him, nestling close to him, her voice full of compassion. "How I wish I could change that."

He held her tightly, needing her comfort as he needed the air he breathed. He kissed the top of her golden head. "I do not wish him dead, I just want him to receive the justice he deserves...and I do not want you to be involved with him or his wife."

"I will limit my contact with him to treatment, Alain. I cannot say that I understand the hurt you feel, for I have not lived through your experience. My father never cast me out. Mayhap with time I shall come to comprehend it."

Her soft words felt like balm on his aching heart. She seemed to care, to understand.

"To be sure," she continued, "I never really departed. Half way down the path to the river, I felt compelled to stop. I could stray no farther from you."

He attempted to kiss her, but she put her palm against his chest, arresting his advance.

"Wait, Alain. There is something you must know. I want no dispute between us, but I must tend Warroc until he is well. 'Tis my sacred obligation, and I could no more relinquish that duty than you could break the rules of your knightly code."

"The Royal Physician can care for him," he answered.

"Nay. William commanded me, and even if he had not, I began treatment, and I shall remain with my patient until I can discharge him from my care."

He raked his fingers through his hair. "'Tis hard for me to swallow the fact that you give aid to the man who plotted my death."

"I must admit I had some conflict about that, but I have never refused my skills to anyone in need of them. Enemies or not, I treated your men as well as mine when they battled for Wykston."

How could he forget her compassion, her devotion to duty. To her, those men were neither Saxon or Norman, but poor wretches who needed succor in their agony. Suspending all prejudice, Gwyneth felt the same way about his father. He knew she would never shirk her responsibility.

"Alain, can you understand?"

He faced her. "Aye, but can you appreciate my position?"

"To be sure, and I respect the pain you must feel. I can live with our differences." She reached out and touched his hand. "Can you?"

He nodded. "Still, I cannot help fearing for you. My father and his wife exude evil.

"You keeping mentioning the woman, but I did not see her. The only women by his side were servants. If the lady attends court, wouldn't she have bide at his bedside?"

"Without a doubt. What about her sons, Riwal and Derroc?"

"Sweeting, I saw no one new. Mayhap they did not accompany your father. He could have left them to administer his estate."

"Nay they would not miss an opportunity to further their interests with William."

She circled him with her arms. "There is something else I pledge to you."

"What is that?"

"While I live and breathe, I shall never leave you again, Alain."

***

Satisfied with her patient's progress, Gwyneth quit Lord Raddon's chambers and headed for the walled garden below his rooms. The lush turf cushioned her footsteps, and she removed her shoes, reveling in the cool texture of the soft grass on the soles of her feet. As she padded to the stone bench in the corner, she sat, enjoying the glorious abundance of marigolds and gillyflowers. White butterflies fluttered by. High above, the white limestone towers of the abbey cathedral shimmered against the azure celestial vault. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the fragrant smell of the sun-drenched roses rambling across the high, thick stone walls.

Gwyneth sighed with contentment. She opened her eyes and smoothed the skirt of her pale yellow tunic. She and Alain planned to leave for Wykston soon. At court a month now, they needed to return to Wykston as Llamas would soon be upon them and after that harvest time. Close upon that Aelveva's lying-in would arrive, and Gwyneth wanted to attend her companion at her confinement.

The crunch of gravel on the path alerted her to another presence in the garden, and she looked away from the colorful flowers.

"Lord Raddon! I asked you to wait until tomorrow to venture out so far. Monsar, how could you permit his lordship to leave his apartments and risk falling on the steps?"

Her father-in-law put up his hand, signaling her to silence. "'Twas not Monsar's fault. I could abide those four walls any longer. I am accustomed to moving about. I felt as if I would stiffen permanently if I did not get up and walk a bit. I have been in bed for three days."

Leaning on Monsar's arm, Lord Raddon walked to her, grinning broadly, his eyes matching the violet-blue of his long tunic. His smile completely disarmed her, banishing every trace of annoyance she felt.

She shook her finger. "If you should fall and re-injure yourself, you will end back in bed where you do not wish to be, and I shall be forced to postpone my return home and upset my husband's plans."

"Ah, so you finally have mentioned him. 'Tis about that man I wish to speak."

Gwyneth regretted her words. Alain's caution resonated in her ears. Warroc so totally charmed her, she had let down her guard, giving him the opportunity to question her.

Why did he want to speak about her husband? How did he even know about Alain? The man had just arrived at court not a week ago. Surely, Warroc believed his son dead.

Fear settling in her belly, Gwyneth scanned the garden. She found herself alone with these two men as all the courtiers would be on their way to Vespers. The manservant could overcome her, and her screams would go unheard if they decided to assault her.

"I-I am to meet him at Vespers, and I am already tardy. If you w-will excused me," she stammered, trying to walk past the two men.

Warroc caught her wrist. "And when you do not arrive, he will come looking for you. Then I shall have the pleasure of finally seeing him."

Gwyneth's heart raced. Like a wildcat pushed into a corner, Gwyneth lashed out. "Unhand me, my lord. Injured or not, you have no right to subject me to such indignities. If you wish an interview with my husband, come by it honestly and simply ask for one."

Warroc loosened his grip. "I humbly beg your pardon, my lady. I meant no harm."

His complexion faded to gray, and he winced as he attempted to bow. His torso firmly bound in plaster, he barely managed a nod.

Despite her anger, Gwyneth felt a pang of remorse for the man suffered obviously from pain. The gnomish manservant stepped closer to her, scowling.

Warroc put a hand on the man's shoulder. "'Tis all right, Monsar. Leave us. I wish to speak with the lady alone, and I doubt she will attack an invalid." He pulled a wry smile. "Go to Vespers."

The man left, and Gwyneth relaxed a bit, aware that Warroc had not the strength to chase her, if she decided to run. Still, she resolved to return to the palace and began to follow the paths between hedgerows of hawthorn.

Warroc stepped in beside her. "Why are you reluctant to speak of your husband, my lady?"

"Why does he interest you?"

"I have reason to believe he and I share a kinship."

Gwyneth's mouth went dry, and she felt her knees shake. The man suspected something. "Kinship? How can that be?"

"His name is Alain, is it not?"

"Aye, but that means nothing." "It means a great deal." Warroc began to breathe hard from exertion. "How so?"

"I shall tell you all, but first let us find a place to sit, for my ribs ache fiercely."

They reached the palace and a guard opened the great studded doors. She and Warroc entered an anteroom. Continuing to the great hall, they sat at a trestle table near the entrance of the chamber.

Warroc sighed deeply. "I once had a son named Alain. In truth I had three sons, but they are all gone from me now."

"Gone from you?"

"Aye. At least Riwal and Deroc lie in their graves as does my wife. They died before my eyes of a fever. I survived, though at the time I wondered why God spared my life. Alain, my eldest, vanished before that some twelve years ago. He and the huntsman, with whom he traveled, were never found. My men and I searched high and low for days, but we never recovered their bodies." The man's voice broke, and he hung his head.

Gwyneth sat immobile, riveted to the spot.

"At the time of Alain's disappearance, my wife had already given me one son and expected another, but I have been unable to forget my first born. He was a good lad." He looked into her eyes. "Mayhap he was the best of all my sons. The others turned out to be selfish and spoiled like their beautiful mother."

Gwyneth leaned toward him. So the man knew something of his wife's wickedness, but certainly he hadn't guessed she plotted Alain's death.

"Since we never uncovered my son's corpse, I always hoped he may still live. I discovered your husband was a Norman when I inquired about your background yesterday. Then the king told me about you and Alain."

Warroc ventured ever closer to exposing Alain's identity, and Gwyneth felt her panic rise with each word he uttered. Was his sad story the truth or just a ploy to engage her sympathy and trick her into a confession? Why did he not just leave them alone?

"There are many Norman free lances who have pledged their swords to King William. Many of them are called Alain as 'tis a common name among the people of Normandy."

"To be sure, but how many of them are bastards as your husband is? How many of them are the age my son would be?

"I know not, my lord, nor do I care. My husband and I want nothing from his father, whomever the man may be. We wish to be left in peace to build our lives together."

Trembling from head to toe, Gwyneth got to her feet and started to leave. "Now please excuse me."

"I beg you, hear me out!" Warroc pleaded, catching the sleeve of her primrose tunic.

Suddenly the doors of the great hall swung open, crashing against the walls. The dogs, sleeping by the fire, jumped up and barked, and the servants froze as Alain burst through the entry.

His fists clenched, he marched toward Gwyneth and his father. "Unhand my wife, my lord! Now!"

***

Chapter 17

Lord Raddon loosened his grip.

"Alain!" Gwyneth rushed toward him. "I thought you attended Vespers."

He twined a protective arm about her waist. "I waited on the church steps. When you did not arrive, I became worried."

"I can explain, my son," his father answered.

"How dare you address me as such!" Alain retorted. "You've been no father to me."

Warroc stood with effort. "I dare because I speak the truth, and we all know it. Now that I see you, I am sure of it. You're older, taller, but your face, the color of your eyes and hair are like mine."

His anger mounting, Alain retorted. "Why this sudden outpouring of paternal concern when you and your wife, Eleanor, conspired to murder me?"

"A damnable lie!" Indignation on his face, his father stepped toward him. "Why do you say such a thing?"

Gwyneth jumped between them. "My lords, this can be discussed quietly. The servants are staring at us." Warroc resumed his seat.

"'Tis no falsehood," Alain continued his denunciation. "Eustace named Eleanor when he ordered me to prepare for death."

Warroc's face turned livid. "Nay." He shook, his head, disbelief in his eyes. "I cannot imagine she'd be that evil."

"Why should I lie? Why would her own henchman bear false witness, especially when he was about to slash my throat? I'll never forget the obscene smile on the blackguard's face. His hideous leer lingered in my dreams for years. He took enormous pleasure in tormenting me before he lunged at me."

Warroc clutched his heart. Groaning, he pitched forward off the bench. Alain and Gwyneth rushed toward the count, helping him to his feet.

Was it possible his father truly did not know what Eleanor had ordered?

"Husband, we must get him to his rooms!"

He and Gwyneth supported his father as they slowly made their way from the great hall, up the steps to Lord Raddon's chambers. With patient care, they removed his outer clothes and helped him into the big, canopied bed.

"I cannot believe your words, my son."

"Hush, my lord. You should sleep now." Gwyneth covered him with a cream-colored down quilt.

"Nay! For years, I wondered about my son's fate. Now I must know the truth."

Was his father sincere? How he wanted to believe that! How he needed to know that his father had really loved him--still loved him.

"Please, son. Even if the pain of it kills me, I must hear the truth." Gwyneth interlaced her gentle fingers with Alain's, her touch giving him reassurance. She gazed up at him, a silent plea eloquent in the depths of her silver eyes.

His thoughts a mass confusion, Alain shrugged. "I hardly know where to begin."

Her gaze met his. "Tell him the story as you told me, husband."

Alain pulled two chairs to the side of the bed and sat by Gwyneth. Crossing his legs, he leaned back, taking hold of her hand again. Once he began, the story seemed to pour forth effortlessly, cleansing him like a gush of spring water from the earth.

"But Eustace mentioned only Eleanor. He never accused me! Why didn't you return and expose her?" his father asked.

"I was a terrified boy, a bastard. Besides, you seemed to abandon me, and you appeared besotted by your wife. I thought you colluded with her. After all, the woman gave you two other legitimate sons. You didn't need me. In fact, I felt certain you would kill me. That is why I never revealed my true identity and called myself Fitz de Personne, the son of anyone.

Warroc struggled to heave himself up, but Gwyneth jumped from her seat. "Let me help you." She plumped his pillows.

Winded from the exertion, he lay down on pillows again. "But both of you must know that I never could have been a party to such a crime! No matter how much I wanted the woman, I never could have conspired to kill my own flesh and blood. I grieved for years. I loved you, Alain. I still love you."

"Then why did you send me away?" He stood, feeling like a vulnerable, young boy again, the wound of desertion smarting fresh in his heart. "I was just a lad. I needed you."

"'Twas time to send you to foster."

Alain folded his arms and began to pace at the foot of the bed. "So you expect me to believe that your marriage and my banishment occurred coincidentally?"

"Nay." Warroc shook his head. "I must be honest about that. I knew Eleanor begrudged you my affection. I hoped that once she had her own children, motherhood would give her a feeling of security. I thought she would come to accept you. I was not totally blind to her faults though you may have thought so. But I am sick to my soul to discover she was a murderess."

"Was?" Alain halted, a quizzical look on his face.

"Aye. She and your brothers died of a fever several years ago."

Alain could not move. For years he had sought vengeance on a person who no longer existed. The realization struck him like a mule kick. He stepped closer to his father. The man looked so hurt, vulnerable and had been just as much of a victim of deceit as he.

"I never searching for you, Alain."

"I took pains to avoid detection, my lord. I wanted to control the time and place of our confrontation so I could meet you as an equal. That way you and Eleanor could not destroy me. With power and wealth behind my name, I would possess the credibility to unmask the both of you."

Warroc shook his head. "I regret the part I played in earning your distrust. Still, I thank God I found you again, although I never expected to find you here. I learned about you, through asking about your wife. I wanted to ken all I could about this beautiful Saxon woman who was so skillful." Lord Warroc smiled at Gwyneth. "Then Monsar indicated he caught sight of you at church. He recognized you immediately because he believed you resembled me a great deal when I was younger."

"How?" Gwyneth asked. "The man cannot talk." "Through the years we devised a way to communicate by various signs."

Alain remembered Monsar with fondness. The speechless little elf of a man had often played with him before he had been fostered.

His father sighed deeply.

"You should sleep now, my lord," Alain suggested.

"I cannot until I know that I haven't found you only to loose you again," Warroc replied.

Tears rolled down his father's cheeks, causing Alain to cringe inwardly.

"I loved your mother, Alain, more than any woman on earth. Her name was Herleve. We were to be betrothed, but we quarreled bitterly. I don't remember why. I was young, foolish, full of pride.

"She never told me she had conceived before I left on a long visit to England. Perhaps she wanted me to stay with her because of love not obligation. In my arrogant way, I thought she would be waiting for me when I returned, and we would be wed.

"On my return to Normandy, I found she had died, giving you life. I went mad with grief, but I still had a part of her in you, so I took you home with me.

"Son, go to that chest on the table, open it and remove the scroll of parchment inside."

Alain obeyed, noticing the tiny wooden dragon his father had whittled for him also occupied the chest. He had not seen the toy since he went to foster.

"Read it," his father urged.

Alain unrolled the cylinder so Gwyneth had access to its contents as well. After she read it, she looked up, her eyes misty. Putting his arm around her waist, he swallowed hard, gulping back his own tears.

The document deeded the estate of Beaucieux to him to hold in his liege lord's name when he reached his majority.

"Did Eleanor know of this title?" Gwyneth asked.

"Most certainly," Warroc answered, looking at Gwyneth. "I explained to her that although Alain's birth occurred outside the bonds of marriage, he was still entitled to his share of the inheritance. I told her that even though I had not wed his mother, she was of noble birth, and I wished to give him the estate near the river."

"Eleanor replied that the land belonged to me to dispose of as I wished. She made no protest. I believed she accepted my decision. The sons we had together would receive a vast inheritance when I died."

"Eleanor used stealth and attempted murder instead of open opposition," Alain commented.

"The woman victimized both of you," Gwyneth remarked, pointing to the parchment. "This document provided her with a motive for murder."

"Aye. I was devastated when I lost you, Alain. 'Twas as if a part of me had died as well. I carried that old deed and the carved dragon with me always. They remained the only things I had by which to remember you. Now, I give them to you. The manor is yours. I hope you will give the wooden toy to your first-born child."

Alain's throat ached with unshed tears.

"Have I your leave to declare you as my son? I want to proclaim the fact to the whole world. I've always been proud of you and never denied my paternity."

Rendering him speechless, emotion welled up inside Alain so that his heart flowed with uncontainable joy. Through the years of estrangement, his father had missed him, mourned him, loved him.

His arm about Gwyneth's waist, he trod to the bedside. Kneeling, he took the Warroc's hand. "Aye, father, as I recognize you."

***

Five weeks later, Gwyneth trailed behind Alain and Lord Warroc as they took a tour of the sunny garden. The colorful tapestry of summer flowers dazzled her senses, delighting her eyes and intoxicating her with their scent. The hound, now robust and well groomed, trotted along by her side as she afforded her husband and father-in-law the opportunity to enjoy the relationship so long denied them.

As good as his word, Lord Raddon announced to the world that Alain was his son, and the reconciliation wrought a profound change in Alain. He no longer possessed the haunted look of a man on an never ending quest. He let down his guard and had become less mistrustful. He appeared more at peace with himself.

Lord Raddon also filled the void in Gwyneth's heart left by her own father. Soon they all planned to return to Wykston for a long stay as Alain wanted to show his father the estate and the new stone keep, which, through Ranulf's messages, she knew would be finished by the first frost.

She anticipated the journey with relish. Back in her own home, she would be surrounded by everyone she loved—and high time too. They had prolonged their stay while Warroc recovered. Llamas had come and gone. The harvest, with all the heavy toil it entailed, would soon descend upon them again. After they reaped the crops, livestock must be butchered, nuts gathered, the grain milled to flour, and cheeses pressed.

Gwyneth did not care about the heavy labors as she harbored a selfish reasons for wanting to return. Perhaps back in that peaceful atmosphere, she would have the opportunity to complete her husband's happiness by presenting him with an heir.

With the frequency that she and Alain enjoyed each other, she was surprised she had not conceived long ago. Her empty womb troubled her as she tallied all the women she knew who became pregnant shortly after they wed. Was she barren? The prospect caused a hollow feeling to lodge in the pit of her stomach. Gwyneth wanted children—desperately.

The dog whimpered, looking up at her with soulful eyes as if it sensed her doubt and offered commiseration. She knelt to hug the animal, taking comfort in the warm, furry contact. Perhaps when she found peace and no longer lived with the threat of an accusation of witchcraft, the blessed even would occur.

Hope brightened. Her night walks were becoming more infrequent. Months had elapsed between incidents now. Was a cure possible?

***

Half asleep. Alain reached out to draw Gwyneth near, but his hand came in contact with a cool linen sheet rather than her warm flesh.

"Gwyneth," he called, but all remained quiet.

A long sliver of bright illumination contrasted sharply against the blackness. That meant the door had been left slightly ajar, allowing the light from the torches lining the corridor to seep in. His new found happiness had caused him to be careless, and he had not bolted the stout oaken barrier.

At this moment, Gwyneth could be roaming about, inviting a charge of witchcraft. Panic rising, he leapt from bed, jumped into his breeks, and hurried to the door, scanning the long corridor.

God's bones! She stood at the far end of the long, passageway near the alcove, which housed the king's privy. Against all logic, he called softly. Fear gripped him when, as he expected, she did not respond.

Alain dashed after her, thanking God the hallway was empty. He reached her just before she entered the nook.

Putting his arm around Gwyneth's waist, he hastily urged her away. As he led his wife back to his room, Alain decided they must leave for Wykston as soon as possible

***

Stroking the hound's head in a desultory fashion, Gwyneth sat in the encampment by a brook. The gentle babble of the water coursing over its rocky bed did little to ease her mind, and she barely nibbled her midday meal. Sick with humiliation, she understood why Alain insisted they leave Westminster for Wykston as soon as arrangements could be made to travel.

Gwyneth felt her cheeks flush, and tears stung her eyes. She could not even bear to think of the event. She had once again exposed her husband and herself to danger.

Perhaps she and the abbess had been overly optimistic.

This time the situation dashed her bright hope, and with painful clarity, she realized her malady still haunted her. Possibly she would sleepwalk all her life, living with the everlasting threat of torture, excommunication, and death by drowning.

Was the origin of her night strolls also the root of her infertility? Troubled, she may never conceive. The possible consequences of her condition flung her into an abyss of despair.

Furthermore, the long hours she spent in the saddle as she travel home served to deepened her melancholy as she could do nothing but ride—and think. With nothing to occupy her mind, with no one to tend, she felt unable to distract herself from her depressing thoughts.

As a result of her inactivity, countless scenarios played themselves out in her mind's eye. Would Alain become fed up with her barren condition and renounce her himself? She immediately felt ashamed for entertaining the thought. He behaved so protectively toward her, insisting they leave court immediately.

Still, he had been ignorant of her strange ways when he wed her. When no child arrived, his altruism could wear thin. Would her malady constitute grounds for an annulment?

Worse, a charge of witchcraft could be leveled at him—against the whole village if someone wanted to truly hurt him. Someone like Wulfstan.

The thegn could assure that every inhabitant be excommunicated for following his liege lord in such a case. Trial by ordeal presented an alternative, but how many poor souls possessed bravery enough to hold a red-hot metal bar, or plunge an arm into a cauldron of boiling water? Even if the poor wretches survived the tribulation, they could die if the wound festered, or be left maimed for life.

A trained knight like Alain needed full use of all his long, brawny limbs.

Gwyneth looked up. Everyone fed, the men indulged in a brief rest before resuming their journey. They would arrive at Wykston just after Compline, but neither the memory of visit with the abbess yesterday nor the prospect of seeing Aelveva again lifted her spirits.

Agitated, she got to her feet, strolling deeper into the woods, glad for the opportunity to stretch her legs. She stopped short.

No! It cannot be!

Through the green lace of dense foliage, Gwyneth saw Alain and Edith. Face to face, they appeared in deep conversation. The woman's face and posture strained with distress, and Alain held her hand. How dare he touch another woman!

The world seemed to darken around her, and Gwyneth turned and fled. Tripping over a long bramble cane, she tumbled to the ground, the thorns scratching at her ankles.

Suddenly the rustle of leaves warned her of someone's approach. She scrambled to her feet to see Alain and Edith hurrying forward.

"Gwyneth, Aelveva's time has come!"

"But 'tis too early." Gwyneth felt her panic rise. "Where is Winna?"

"At the abbey," Alain answered. "She wished to exchange herbs with Sister Emma. Edith was on her way there to fetch her when she saw us. I'll lend her horses. That way she and Winna can reach abbey and return more quickly."

"That will still take a day or so," Gwyneth replied, running toward her mount. "I can be in Wykston in a few hours." Two precious lives had no one on whom to depend but her.

They arrived at Wykston shortly before Compline. Leaving everyone in her wake, Gwyneth dismounted and raced through the great hall, up the stairs to the gallery toward her old room, which Ranulf now shared with Aelveva.

Outside the door, the big, sinewy sergeant paced. The waning daylight could not conceal the anxiety etched on his handsome face as he halted and bowed to greet her. For the first time, she saw fear in his hazel eyes as he came forward to greet her.

Garth, too, looked frightened. He sat on the ground, quietly for once, his big green eyes staring up as he rose and aped Ranulf's manners.

"Ranulf, what happened?" Gwyneth walked toward him.

He bowed. "'Tis a miracle you've come, my lady. She fell, and her pains commenced. I sent Edith to fetch Winna."

"The girl met us first," Alain said, stepping aside Gwyneth. He turned to her. "I brought your basket of remedies." He held out the pannier.

She hung its handle in the crook of her arm. "Thank you, Alain. I'll go to her now."

Garth tugged at her sleeve. "Will my mother die, my lady?"

How could she answer the frightened boy's questions? How could she allay his fears, Ranulf's, and her own? Aelveva could very well die. Childbirth proved risky for mother and babe.

She dropped to her knees, hugging him. "She survived your birth, Garth. Do you want to help your mother?"

He nodded. "Aye, my lady."

"Then pray."

"I have been praying all day, my lady."

She stood and shot a look at Ranulf and Alain. "Then continue. She and the babe need your prayers." And so do I.

Gwyneth mustered her courage and turned from them, entering the small, familiar room. Candles blazed against the whitewashed walls, dispelling the darkness of the late hour. Elspeth, Agatha, and Galswinthe stood about the big, new bedstead Ranulf had the carpenter make; its blue hangings pulled open to reveal Aelveva lying still.

The maidservants faced her and bowed as she neared the bed, their heads covered in tight-fitting, white coifs.

"My lady?" Aelveva called, her eyes closed.

"I am here," Gwyneth answered softly, trying not to communicate the horror she felt as she viewed her friend's condition.

The woman's face appeared the color of tallow, her eyes circled by dark rings, her lips almost as livid as her complexion.

"I recognized your step. I prayed you would come," Aelveva whispered, her eyes still shut. "'Tis early. Will my babe fare well?" Aelveva opened her lids. Her usually clear green eyes appeared glazed and sunken.

How could Gwyneth answer this question truthfully and give the woman the encouragement she needed? "The child is in God's hands, Aelveva. Let us keep our faith and fight hard."

"I have faith in the Almighty...and in you, my lady."

Touched by the complete vote of confidence, Gwyneth almost burst into tears. But she suppressed her emotions. Dear, sweet Aelveva needed her, now more than ever before, and she could not allow anyone to see her defenses crumble.

Barely able to speak, she stammered, "I m-must go for a moment. I need to prepare. I shall return immediately."

Ranulf and Alain stared as she left the chamber and fled down the gallery into her own rooms. She stood against the closed door for a moment, staring into the darkened room. Suddenly, her tears flooded forth in an uncontrollable rush.

The task ahead of her far exceeded her abilities. Gwyneth had delivered babes before, but Winna had always been there to help. Moreover, they had been normal births. Aelveva's labor had been induced by a fall; she had another full month before her time was due.

Gwyneth felt so alone, so helpless. The odds were great Aelveva and her unborn babe could die.

Hands over her face, she slid down the wall to huddle on the floor by the door and wept until her eyes and throat burned. A rap jolted her back to the responsibility before her. "My lady?"

The voice belonged to Elspeth, the kitchen maid. "Aye," Gwyneth replied, clambering to her feet, wiping her wet face on the sleeve of her tunic.

She did not open the door as she did not want the girl to see her crying. Nor could she communicate her self-doubt to Aelveva or anyone else for that matter. Everyone needed to give the laboring woman courage. The woman's greatest weapon right now was faith, and that could not be jeopardized.

Elspeth continued, "Lord Wykston and Sergeant Ranulf ask that you come, and Father Rollo and Father Alfred told me they would pray for Aelveva at mass."

"I shall be there in a moment. Tell them I am preparing myself, and thank the priests for me."

"Aye, my lady."

Gwyneth heard the sound of the girl's quick foot falls fading in the distance. Her clothes discarded, she rushed to wash basin on a stand beneath the window. Washing quickly, she donned clean, old, garb.

Suddenly, Gwyneth remembered her birthing sheet. For a year now, she had stored the large linen, hoping to use it for her own confinement. Now a more urgent need for it had arisen.

Rummaging through the big trunk at the foot of her bed, she pulled it free and tucked it under her arm. Next she lifted the birthing stool from the corner. Fully equipped now, she hurried to Aelveva, hoping the big piece of cloth she carried would not become the woman's winding sheet.

"How is Aelveva?" Warroc inquired, falling into step beside her.

"We must pray and hope," Gwyneth replied.

They entered the room. Ranulf, Alain, and Garth stood by Aelveva's side. Several women from the village also came.

"I'll ask everyone but Elspeth, Agatha, and Galswinthe to please leave," she requested, entering the chamber. "'Twill be a while before the child comes, and Aelveva must rest. Ranulf, Garth needs to break his fast." Gwyneth placed her hand on her own growling stomach. "In fact we all should eat something."

"I want to stay with my mother," Garth whined.

"You must do as you are told," Aelveva affirmed, her voice strained with effort.

Warroc took Garth's hand. "Come with me for a while. I'll show you how to carve a dragon from a piece of beechwood." He looked at Alain then returned his gaze to the boy." I used to do that for my own lads."

Garth took Warroc's hand. "May we make a guardian angel for my mother instead?"

Her father-in-law smiled. "Aye, but first you must eat your meal. Come along."

They left, and Alain turned to Ranulf. "Let us follow that advice. I am hungry as a wolf, and you look as if you need some fresh air and a good stretch of your shanks."

Ranulf shook his head. "You go. I want to stay." Gwyneth moved to them. "Come outside. I wish to speak to both of you."

They hastened out of the room to the gallery. Below them in the great hall the soldiers dined.

"There is naught you can do, Ranulf," Gwyneth admonished gently. 'Twill serve no one, least of all Aelveva, if you fall ill."

"She's right, Ranulf," Alain said. "I bought some imported Brie and a keg of good Norman cider from some merchants in London. Let's enjoy them."

Ranulf shook his head. "I doubt I shall be able to enjoy anything until I know Aelveva is out of danger," he answered reluctantly. " I can't help but remember that the same thing happened with my first wife, except this is worse. Arlette carried to term. I've never run from any foe, Alain, but this is one I do not know how to fight."

"Then listen to me, Ranulf," Gwyneth ordered, putting on a show of bravado. "Neither Aelveva nor I can afford you to fall ill. I can't nurse you both at the same time. You will go with Alain, you will eat your breakfast, then you will visit your wife. She needs your encouragement and strength more than she had ever needed anything in her life. Now off with you!"

Gwyneth lectured herself as well as Ranulf because no one empathized with him more than she did.

The two men walked to the door, but Alain stopped, turning to face her. "I will bring something back for you."

"Thank you," she replied, wishing she could manage a smile for him.

They left, and Gwyneth returned to the room. Suddenly, Aelveva moaned, and her hands clutched the top of the sheet.

Panic threw its strangling net over Gwyneth, choking the breath from her body. Her heart raced, and a chill covered her body with cold sweat. She had to rein in her runaway emotions. Aelveva, her friend, her life-long companion needed her.

Gwyneth stepped to her patient. "I must look."

Aelveva nodded, gasping with pain, unable to talk.

Gwyneth pulled back the linen. Aelveva's swollen stomach bunched hard for several long seconds before her muscles relaxed. The spasm over, she performed her examination, finding the birth opening still narrow.

"Twill be a while." She covered Aelveva.

Their breakfast finished, Elspeth, Agatha, and Galswinthe entered, followed by Ranulf. Alain tagged behind, carrying a large napkin in one hand and a tankard in the other. Gwyneth left the expectant parents with the women as she and her husband sat on the floor in the gallery just outside the doorway.

"Are you sure you don't want to go down stairs?" Alain asked.

"Nay. I want to stay close."

Alain handed her the tankard and unknotted the linen, offering her half a trencher broken and generously spread with Brie. The fragrance of the fresh bread and ripe cheese caused her empty stomach to growl. She felt near to fainting with hunger since she had eaten nothing since midday.

"Thank you, Alain." Salivating, she picked up the food and took a bite. The rich, creamy texture contrasted well with the crunchy crust.

"You're welcome," he answered. "I know you are worried, but you are a good healer, my little rose." He took her free hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Everything will be all right."

She stared into her lap and bit her lip. Never had she needed reassurance more than she did at this moment. Never had she loved him more for giving it to her.

"I hope I deserve the confidence you have in me, Alain, but the situation is serious."

"I know, but we must look on the bright side. As I told Ranulf, we should be grateful she didn't fall earlier. The child wouldn't have had as good a chance to survive."

"That is true. Still, the baby may have been injured and—"

He put a finger over her lips. "Hush. Let us not borrow trouble."

Alain was right. She could not afford one wit of self-doubt to undermine her.

Gwyneth had just finished the last drop of her cider when she heard a shriek. Dropping the tankard, she jumped up and turned, hitting her nose on Ranulf's chest as he came through the door.

His face was ashen. "My lady, please come."

Gwyneth whizzed past him to the bedside. Aelveva lay against the pillows, panting for breath, beads of sweat glistening on her brow. Gwyneth lifted the sheet. In the short time she took to break her fast, Aelveva's labor had progressed. Her birth opening had enlarged considerably. Was the labor now going too fast?

"You are doing well." Keeping a cool facade, she patted Aelveva's hand.

Ranulf and Alain stood in the doorway, their anxiety mirrored in their eyes. She approached two men who also looked as if they needed reassurance.

"'Tis all right."

"But she screamed as if she were being murdered, my lady. And she looks so exhausted."

Gwyneth agreed, but she sought to comfort him. "'Tis called labor for a reason, Ranulf, and 'tis also normal for women to scream. I'm told giving birth does smart a bit."

The big sergeant nodded. "You know what is best."

If he knew the terror and doubt she felt, the man would not think her so wise.

She turned from the man, again taking up her watch at the bedside. "Hold my hand, Aelveva and squeeze as hard as you have to. Do you want the biting stick?"

Her patient gave her a weak smile. "Not yet, my lady."

As the labor progressed, and night faded to dawn then brightened to morning and afternoon. Gwyneth did her best to make the woman comfortable, bathing the sweat from her body and securing her long red hair beneath a clean linen coif. Wanting to ease Aelveva's pain, she was inclined to dose her, but Winna long ago had warned her against this temptation. Poppy seed potion stopped the travail. Aelveva's pains occurred more frequently and lasted longer as twilight descended.

After performing another examination, Gwyneth stated,

"'Tis time for the birthing stool."

She, Elspeth, and Galswinthe helped Aelveva onto the wooden stool, while Agatha went to fetch water. Suddenly, another gripping pain seized Aelveva.

"My lady," she called feebly, "I feel something that is not right."

Stooping, Gwyneth looked under the birthing stool, and her trepidation reached a crescendo. Between Aelveva's thighs, a tiny leg and foot protruded out. The babe was breeched!

***

Chapter 18

"Ranulf, let us go to the courtyard and practice our swordplay. If I do not get some exercise soon, my sinews will be rendered useless." Alain stood. His limbs stiff from sitting on the floor in the dim, cramped gallery for so long, he stretched and yawned. "Besides, if you continue to hone the edge of that blade, you will wear the metal away."

Still seated, the sergeant looked up at Alain. "I know, mon ami, but 'tis difficult to leave when I know danger lingers near my wife and child."

Alain's concern for Ranulf increased by the moment. Never had he seen the usually devil-may-care man so completely undone, and he had campaigned with the combat-hardened warrior for years. This was the first time Alain had seen the man so worried, shaken.

Not one to do anything by halves, Ranulf had given his heart to Aelveva, totally, unconditionally. Now, he stood to lose everything—everything—again for he had lost his first wife and babe in childbirth.

The big, sandy-haired sergeant seldom uttered a word of apprehension. Even before battle, he always maintained an air of optimism. Presently, Alain could almost feel the man's aura of pain.

Never eloquent, Alain racked his brain, trying to find some word of comfort for his dispirited friend. What would he himself want to hear if their roles were reversed? The consideration prompted a shadow to fall across his heart. Suddenly, the hairs on the back of Alain's neck stood on end. Life without Gwyneth seemed so, dismal...empty.

He could not bear the thought, for she had become like the dawn of his life, quietly illuminating his world and filling each day with brilliance, warmth, and promise.

Guilt jabbed his heart. He should not be concerned with himself. He must focus on cheering Ranulf.

"Aelveva and your child are in the most capable hands I know," Alain encouraged as he sat again. "Gwyneth nursed both Robert and my father. I suppose I am stating the obvious, but they recovered. The king himself preferred her care to that of the Royal Physician when my father became ill," Alain reminded him, feeling a sense of deep pride in his capable wife.

"I know that, Alain." Ranulf wiped his blade, replacing it in his scabbard, and set his whetstone in an oblong wooden box, slamming down the lid. "'Tis just that I feel so helpless, and this waiting drives me to the brink of madness."

Frustration quaked in the big, brave man's voice, causing a lump to swell in Alain's throat. How he wished he had some magical answer for Ranulf.

Gwyneth's light, dancing steps sounded behind him, and Alain's gaze pierced Ranulf's. They jumped up and turned. The grave expression in her eyes caused his gut to contract with fear.

"Aelveva." Ranulf's voice cracked with emotion. "Is she all right?"

"So far." She bit her lip.

Alain believed his wife was trying to reassure them, but she could not hide pale face and the anxiety lurking deep in her eyes.

"The child?" Ranulf inquire softly.

Her chin trembled. "The babe is breeched, Ranulf."

"No!" Ranulf turned, pounding the wall with the end of his fist.

Controlling his own dread, Alain put a hand on his shoulder. "Steady, man. Hear her out."

Ranulf turned toward Gwyneth. "Forgive me, my lady."

"'Tis all right, Ranulf. I understand your concern." She took a deep breath. "I would ordinarily turn the child, but 'tis too late for that. The babe's whole leg has descended." She lowered her lids. "I will do my best." Her fingers tightened on the cross suspended from her neck.

Ranulf nodded.

Alain suspected that his friend's throat was so choked with tears that he could no longer speak. He noticed Gwyneth blinking quickly as if she, perhaps, tried to suppress her tears. He knew that at this moment the hearts of his old friend and good wife were breaking. Empathizing, he fought to keep his own emotions in check.

"May I see her?" Ranulf asked softly.

"Aye," Gwyneth nodded. "I need your help to lift her to the bed, but Aelveva must see you confident and unafraid. She needs all the courage and strength you can muster."

"I will not fail her, my lady."

"I know you will not, Ranulf," Gwyneth said quietly.

Alain followed them into the birthing room. Though the window was open, the unbearable heat from the blaze of candles, needed to give sufficient light, hit him in the face like a slap.

"How fares my brave girl?" Ranulf asked, lifting and placing her on the bed.

"I feel so tired, love," Aelveva murmured wanly.

"Hold my hand. Let me give you my strength." Ranulf intertwined his fingers with hers.

Alain cupped Gwyneth's elbow and took her into the corner. "This may be another hurdle, but I still feel better, knowing that she and the babe are in your hands."

"Thank you, Alain. Please pray. We need God's help."

She blinked, but despite her best efforts, tears beaded her eyelashes, and Alain quickly dabbed them away.

"I will," he said softly, kissing her temple. He walked to Ranulf. "Mon ami, let's leave the women to their business. We intrude here."

The big man rose and followed Alain from the room. Gwyneth moved to the bed. As Aelveva lay beneath the blue down quilt, her stamina seemed spent.

Sweet Jesu! Where were Winna and Edith? They should have arrived before this. Gwyneth need help. Now!

She firmly took the woman's limp hand. "You must remain calm and work with me. Can you do that for the babe and me?"

"Aye," Aelveva's gaze met Gwyneth's. "As long as you are with me."

Overcome with emotion, Gwyneth turned away to prevent her patient from seeing the terror in her eyes and called for water. She withdrew soapwort leaves from her basket and lathered her hands with the mild suds, ensuring they were sufficiently slippery.

"I must examine you, Aelveva."

"Do what you must, my lady." Gwyneth probed. A chill froze her heart. The cord coiled around the babe's neck! She tried to slip her fingers beneath it. It felt loose enough. She held her breath. With infinite care she eased the slick lifeline over the infant's head. Exhaling slowly, she rested for a moment.

Thank you, dear God. The quick prayer could not express the profound gratitude she felt.

"Just a while longer, and you will hold your baby."

The Aelveva nodded. She grimaced and grunted softly as Gwyneth introduced her hand once more and slipped the infant's other limb down, easing its whole little body forward a bit more.

"Elspeth, hurry! We need more warm water. Agatha, call for Galswinthe to make the linen ready to receive the babe."

The women sprang into action and moments later Galswinthe hurried through the door.

"Aelveva, I know you feel exhausted, but you must push as soon as the next pain comes."

"I shall try, my lady."

Gwyneth dabbed the sweat from the laboring woman's brow as they all waited.

Finally Aelveva's abdomen bunched tightly, and she writhed, screaming. Agatha quickly put the biting stick into between the mother's teeth.

"Push, Aelveva. Work with the pain," Gwyneth urged, holding on to the new life, easing it forth.

"Oh, oh, oh," Aelveva cried. The infant boy emerged; tiny, red, but perfectly formed. His little chest heaved as Gwyneth held him up at last, and the babe took his first breath and squalled weakly. The road ahead would not be without obstacles as he was small, but he was alive and so was his mother.

"You have another son, Aelveva," Gwyneth announced.

"Thanks be to heaven," the woman gasped out, tears in her eyes. "And thank you, my lady."

A deluge of emotions rushed over Gwyneth as joy, gratitude, and blessed relief, flooded her soul like the morning sun, brightening her being. Tears blurred her vision as the wondrous power of the miraculous event impacted her. A new life had come into the world, and she had taken part in the momentous happening.

The rest of the delivery progressed quickly. Gwyneth cut and tied the cord. Agatha bathed the babe while Galswinthe and Elspeth helped to rid Aelveva of the afterbirth, then cleansed her.

Her fatigue forgotten for the moment, Gwyneth wiped the sweat from her moist face, feeling as if her feet had wings as she exited the room.

Ranulf immediately rushed toward her. "Aelveva?"

"She fares well, Ranulf, and you have a fine son." She smiled, thinking that the little boy resembled a small, skinned rabbit, but she thought the better of expressing that opinion.

Ranulf smiled, and his eyes took on their old, familiar twinkle.

"Congratulations, man," Alain exclaimed, smiling.

"May I see them?" the new father asked.

"For a moment. They need sleep after their long travail and so do the both of you." She pointed toward the eager sergeant and her husband.

Winna's old hunched form followed Edith's shapely one up the oaken staircase. "I am sorry we arrived so late, but our horse went lame. How fares the mother?" the old healer asked.

"Well," Gwyneth answered.

"The child?" the old woman asked, apprehension on her face.

"He is small, but he lives."

Edith's face showed relief.

Winna smiled widely. "We can fatten him. You did well, my lady, but you look tired. You should rest now, I shall keep watch."

Gwyneth nodded. "Thank you, Winna."

They entered the room and expressed their happiness and best wishes. Gwyneth's heart swelled with emotion as Ranulf knelt by his wife's bed and kissed her hand. "Thank you for our son, and thank God you are all right, love," he said with tenderness.

The babe tucked in the crook of her arm, Aelveva pushed back the blanket to reveal the red face of the swaddled newborn. A look of pure wonderment shone on Ranulf's face as he gazed on his son for the first time. The crisis over, Gwyneth suddenly ached with fatigue. Feeling stifled in the hot, crowded chamber, she stepped outside the room for a breath of fresh air. Suddenly, the gallery seemed to whirled around her in a blur, while a loud noise buzzed in her ears. A moment later she plunged forward into unbounded blackness.

***

Alain heard a thud and went to the door to see Gwyneth lying on the floor.

Winna ran forth. Placing a her hand to Gwyneth's forehead the woman looked up at him. "She is exhausted."

"Aye. Stay with Aelveva and the babe. I can tend her." Scooping her up, Alain carried her to their room.

Gwyneth had pushed herself beyond all human endurance. Sure the crisis was over, she had let down her guard and collapsed.

Since they first met, she had done little but work and care for everyone around her. Even in the deep of winter, when the fields lay in slumber beneath their cloak of white, waiting for the first kiss of the sun, Gwyneth toiled. Never idle a moment, she spun wool and flax, sewed, embroidered, distilled herbs for potions and simples, managed the household, and always tended the sick.

Removing her headraile, he unbraided her thick, golden plait. Next, he performed the slow, tricky maneuver of discarding her overtunic without waking her. Finally, he slipped off her shoes and massaged her slender feet.

He felt drained himself, though he had managed to nod off intermittently during the long vigil. How much more depleted Gwyneth must feel?

He cast off his own garb and reclined beside her, turning to cradle her in his arms.

"Sleep, my sweet rose," he whispered, kissing the top of her head.

Sometime later, he woke to the glare of the sun on his face. He rose from bed, intending to close the shutter, so as not to waken Gwyneth. He paused and stood at the window for a moment, listening to the distant clink of the stone masons at work on the keep.

Because Gwyneth had given him her money to hire extra teams of laborers, in just six months, the workers had made amazing progress on the tall, square tower with its walls ten feet thick. Gwyneth stirred, and he turned toward her. She appeared so fragile, vulnerable. How could anyone suspect this devoted, good woman of witchcraft?

Still, frightened, ignorant people dealt from fear rather than reason. A mob of terrified people would hurl her into a deep river without pity, mercy or a twinge of guilt if they believed she threatened them.

The thought of her beneath the cold water, fighting for breath, scared Alain, and his gut tightened the same way it did before he charged into battle. He inhaled deeply as well, suddenly realizing he had been holding his breath. Involuntarily, he imagined her being pulled from the river, her long hair tangled, her skin livid and her lips blue.

Wishing to God Gwyneth would never roam again, he vowed to take every measure to safeguard her. He viewed the keep again then closed the shutter. Unfortunately, not even the tower's stout walls could ensure her safety.

Alain stood to lose everything as well from such an allegation, but his main concern centered on his wife. The idea that anyone could hurt her made him furious. The prospect of life without her loomed more like unendurable an phantom. Gwyneth reminded him of the dawn, shedding her light and warmth on all quietly, asking nothing in return.

Like a bolt of lightning, a revelation galvanized him. He loved her, deeply, fiercely...hopelessly. Why hadn't he realized it sooner? How could he have been so dull-witted? The process had occurred so slowly, so gradually that he never perceived it happening.

But he had fought trusting her, loving her, afraid she would betray and desert him. Nevertheless, her sweetness and devotion had snared his heart irretrievably. Alain had never dreamed he could feel this way. The sentiment shook him because now he was exposed, unprotected from hurt.

She could leave me.

The old fear of abandonment reared its ugly head. But if Gwyneth wanted to go, she would have escaped long ago. Hadn't she proved her loyalty time and again? Why couldn’t he just enjoy the gift. Not every man was so blessed, and he was tired of always anticipating the worst. True, that frame of mind had served him well, but things had changed, and he must revise his thoughts and behavior according to his new circumstances.

He strode to the door. Hailing a servant, he ordered food to break their fast and tubs for baths.

She yawned, and he moved to the bedside. Her lids opened, and she smiled. "Good morrow."

He returned her smile. "Good morrow."

Suddenly, she frowned. "Oh!" Jumping up, she moved to the trunk and took up her tunic.

"Where do you think you are going?"

"To Aelveva," she answered, panic on her lovely face.

"Not in your life." He stood in front of her, his hands on her shoulders. She would work herself to death if he did not stop her.

"Alain, I must," she pushed past him.

He caught her wrist, "What you must do is rest."

"But she is my patient," she argued.

"And you are mine." He pulled her close. "Aelveva and the babe fare well. They are in Winna's capable hands. Now, back in bed."

She relaxed against him. Her softness made his loins ache with desire. Still, to ensure her well being, he restrained himself.

"Are you hungry, sweeting?"

"Starving. I can't remember when I ate last."

"Good."

A knock heralded the arrival of their food. Robert entered and left them trenchers, cheese, cider from Normandy, which Alain loved, and barley water for Gwyneth.

He noticed his squire had become used to his wife and did not flee from her. Perhaps all her good works had won over the suspicious persons in the village. That thought brought relief. He had enough to worry about without having someone on his own estate sabotaging his wife.

Alain brought the food to her, insisting Gwyneth remain in bed.

"You'll spoil me, dearling." She smiled. "Really, I fare well."

"Let me indulge you. Besides, I have an ulterior motive for wanting you to save your strength." He bobbed his eyebrows suggestively.

"Oh, I see." Gwyneth nodded and giggled.

"Now do not jump to conclusions, Gwyneth. I wish to accompany you somewhere. I've something important to tell you, and I do not want any interruptions."

"Oh? What is it?"

"'Tis a surprise."

"Oh, Alain, you know I have little patience."

He laughed. "Eat up then. After we've bathed and dressed I'll show you."

***

The sun shed its copious light upon the forest, filtering through the majestic nave of green, leafy branches. Hand and hand, Alain and Gwyneth strolled into Wykston Wood. Her rose-scented perfume blended with the redolent fragrance of the forest. Birds twittered merrily, and a hare hopped through the bracken to dive into a hole near a cluster of red-brown boulders.

"Are we almost there?" She glanced up at him. "The suspense is tormenting me."

"Just there." Alain pointed to the spring that fed the mill pond. Two swans glided on the shimmering surface; bill to bill their long necks formed the shape of a heart.

Walking toward the stream, they sat on the grassy bank, listening to the musical babble of the rushing water.

Alain could not suppress a smile as he noticed the look of impatience on her lovely face. "I hope what I tell you will make you happy."

"If you do not tell me soon, I will burst."

"Patience," he teased as he slipped his hand from hers and put his arm around her shoulder.

"A virtue I lack."

"I'll not tease you any longer. What thinks you of transforming the old manor house into a larger infirmary than we originally planned? I also want to build a building for orphans."

"Oh, Alain." She threw her arms around him. "You could not have pleased me more. 'Tis a dream I've held dear since I was old enough to know I could ease suffering." She drew back. "But what will we do with the structure you have already built."

"You will use it as a herbarium instead of that cramped stillroom you work in now. You can have a big place to dry your herbs and mix your simples."

She hugged him again. "Thank you, sweeting. You could not have made me happier."

"I was hoping, I could." He lifted her unto his lap. "I've missed you." He nuzzled her neck, increasing the ever-present need for her to a new level of intensity. Alain didn't want to merely enjoy his wife, he wanted to love her, wholeheartedly with his body, mind and soul.

She laughed, and its sound reminded him of tiny, silver bells.

"It has been but two days, my randy husband."

"Is that all? It seems like three months." He lifted her hands and kissed the tips of each finger.

"Ummm lovely." She laid her head on his shoulder.

"'Tis just the beginning of what I have in store for you," he brushed a wispy curl of gold back from her forehead.

Alain wanted to see and feel those golden locks twined about his body. He removed her headraile and plunged his hands into her tresses, raking his fingers through them, reveling in the silken texture of each fair strand.

"A bold promise, my lord." She smiled, as she tipped her head back to better look at him.

Answering her challenge, Alain drew her against him again, kissing her forehead, eyelids, cheeks, the tip of her nose, and finally, he claimed the sweetness of her tender mouth.

His tongue probed the crevice of her lips, and she invited his entry as her arms circled his neck. Savoring the taste of her, his darting member swept against the stimulating texture of her tongue and smoothness of her inner cheeks. He broke away to brush a trail of kisses along the smooth descent of her neck to the crook of her shoulder.

She trembled in his arms. "Alain, I've missed you too. 'Tis impossible to say how much." He tugged at her garments, and she raised her hips then lifted her arms as he helped her shed her clothes. He quickly did the same then spread his mantle on the ground and dipped her back against the soft red wool. For a moment Alain drew back, just kneeling by his wife, spellbound by the beauty of her white curves and long, shimmering locks draped against the scarlet cloth.

Sensuous yet vulnerable, she enthralled him. He wanted her beyond all endurance, yet a deep need to protect and cherish her burgeoned in his heart.

"You're beautiful, Gwyneth."

"Am I?" Her gaze melted into his. "You've never told so me before."

Her knuckles grazed the underside of his jaw, increasing the heat in his loins.

"Then I have been a fool, Gwyneth."

"Nay, sweetheart. I think you are wonderful." She kissed him with her plump, pouting lips, and her fingertips skimmed over his sensitive flesh, goading his need mercilessly.

His heart expanded. Could it be she returned his love as well as his passion. Did he ask for too much?

She attempted to straddle him, looking surprised as he prevented her from doing so. "I wish to pleasure you first."

"Then I acquiesce." She reclined, smiling at him, her gaze never leaving his face.

He lay beside her, his fingers playing over her breasts. Her pink crests thrust forth like rosebuds, beckoning him. He accepted their invitation, his mouth closing first over one succulent tip then the other as he suckled and laved, paying reverent homage to her.

He felt her soft palms on the back of his neck as she exerted gentle pressure, holding him to her.

"Please," she uttered on short breath. "Do not stop."

Spurred on, Alain continued his adoration of her being with his lips and hands down to her waist, over her flat belly and lower.

She gasped. "Alain," she cried, as her hips jerked upward. He continued his loving until her spine arched, taut as a new bow, and tremors frantically racked her body. She tugged on him.

He answered her request, covering her, protecting her, loving her with his whole being. With profound emotion, he held her against his needy body as if he embraced the most precious treasure in the world.

She writhed beneath him as Alain molded her to him, cupping her firm buttocks in the palms of his hands, kneading, prodding, stoking her inner fires higher and higher.

"Alain," she cried out. "Fill me."

"Aye, little rose, with all my love."

He had spoken that precious word for the first time, and he saw her eyes ignite with joy.

He took his possession slowly, and her enthralling welcome almost stopped his heart. For Alain, their union vaulted beyond the meeting of flesh to the sublime heights of lovemaking.

Gwyneth reciprocated in full measure, returning the same intensity of response, touching the profoundest depth of his soul. He held her securely as wave after wave of shudders quaked through her body.

"Alain," she cried as her body throbbed around his.

Sure she had found her pleasure, he allowed free rein to his own fulfillment. For the first time in his life, he experienced the sensation of being truly one with another person. The gnawing loneliness fled, replace by an indescribable joy. His need attaining the same apex as his sentiment, Alain found exquisite release.

He rolled from her and cuddled her next to him, kissing her cheek. "I love you, Gwyneth."

She burst into tears, "And I love you, Alain.

Giddy with joy, he drew back and sat up, hefting her on his lap. "You love me?"

"Aye," she answered through her tears.

A tumult of emotions storming his heart, he kissed her again. Finally breaking away, he murmured, "Oh, little rose, you've made me so happy. I never dreamed you'd say those words."

"W-Why are you so shocked that I love you?"

"Because you refused to marry me until the king commanded it."

She took his face between her hands. "But sweetheart, I though I made myself clear when I explained about my sleepwalking. Later I feared that if I did marry you, you could also be implicated by a charge hurled at me. Even though the king commanded me, I would have still refused if the abbess hadn't convinced me."

"What did she say to persuade you?"

Gwyneth told him.

"She is right. I am not superstitious. I fear evil people more than evil spirits."

"I agree, love, and I do not think we have seen the last of Wulfstan."

"I am sure we haven't," Alain murmured, reaching for her again. "But for now, I do not want to think of him, Gwyneth."

***

He loved her!

Gwyneth was thrilled for she'd thought never to hear those words so longed for, so cherished, from his lips. Her bliss unbounded, she skipped her way down the stairs, through the great hall and out into the middle of the bustling village.

Her basket over her arm, the warm sun penetrating her old russet tunic, she walked past the cooper's shop, then the smith's forge on her way to orchard as the apples hung ripe for the picking.

She smiled as she thought that the long delay in her husband's admission of love had been worth the wait, for now Alain repeated his avowal often and on a daily basis. She had never expected the declaration, but recalling their union in the woods, she felt a warm glow.

Something magical happened that day. Their joining encompassed a fresh element, a new depth of passion and breadth of sensitivity, which had been absent until then. Pleasant though their encounters had been, this was the first time she felt Alain's emotion had matched her own.

Her husband finally had fallen in love with her. At last their emotional journey had taken them both beyond respect, beyond admiration, beyond affection to abiding love. Her heart so full she barely could breathe, Gwyneth felt a sense of lightness, as if a large burden had been lifted from her heart, which now took wings.

The years of loneliness had fled. No longer would she walk about, feeling that her body surrounded a large gaping void. Now she had more than a husband: Gwyneth had found her soulmate! Someone with whom to confide, dream, share true intimacy. The hopes she had for her marriage beckoned not as the pale glitter of a distant, unattainable star but as a glorious, tangible, reality.

Would the knowledge that Alain loved her induce her recalcitrant body to flower with her husband's child—children? Somehow, for the first time since her marriage, Gwyneth felt confident she would conceive. She smiled as she saw Garth, with the other village children, playing with the cur. The glinting of their hair in the sun and the squeals of their laughter gladdened her heart.

Familiar footfalls sounded behind her, and she turned in front of the empty wool house. Alain's dazzling smile and violet-blue eyes shone down on her.

"What are you up to, my sweet rose?" he asked.

"No good at all, my lord." She winked.

"Good. Then we can be wicked together."

"The prospect suits me well since you're my favorite accomplice in mischief." She smiled.

"I had better be your only accomplice." He placed his hand on her shoulder.

"Do I detect a hint of jealousy."

"You do," he replied, drawing her closer.

"Rest assured you remain my only accomplice, only husband, only love."

"If you continue that talk, I shall have to take you to our chambers."

"Is that an invitation?" She batted her eyelashes playfully.

"Aye, but I'll have to postpone the assignation."

She frowned. "Why?"

"The merchants we expected have arrived from Durham and York to discuss preparations for the fair."

Months ago, they had discussed hosting a fair at Michaelmas, but they had lingered at court too long to prepare for September feast. A Martinmas-in-Winter fair would take place in November instead.

"Oh, Alain, I can hardly wait!" She clapped her hands together.

"Nor can I," he answered smiling.

"Do you wish me to greet these merchants?"

"If you wish."

"'Tis a good time to have a fair. People will want a celebration before the weeks of Advent descend upon us."

They started to walk to the manor house. "I'll meet you in the anteroom, Alain, but first I want to change into a proper tunic."

He kissed her forehead. "Until later then," he murmured as they parted ways.

***

A few days later, Gwyneth, clad in her oldest tunic walked toward Aelveva who sat under a beech tree just outside the kitchen house door. Fully recovered, and her complexion rosy under her white headraile, the new mother rocked a cradle. A finger to her lips, the maidservant alerted her that little Dunstan slept.

Tiptoeing to the cradle, Gwyneth gazed down at the peaceful baby. In the month since his birth, the babe's skin had faded from the poppy red of a newborn to the soft pink of a cherry blossom.

"He grows by leaps and bounds," Gwyneth whispered. "He seems to have gained weight since yesterday!"

"Aye. He has inherited Ranulf's appetite."

Gwyneth giggled softly as she caressed his smooth, bald head. "Do you think he'll have a sandy thatch like Ranulf's or your coppery silk?"

"I just hope he will just grow some hair." Aelveva chuckled. "I care not what color 'twill be."

Gwyneth sat next to her companion and took up her knife on the bench. In front of them, large buckets of fat formed a semicircle.

"I know Lord Alain said not to be concerned about hawking our wares, but I should certainly like to make some of that lavender soap to sell. I hope Agatha gave us only beef and mutton fat," Aelveva commented.

"Aye, and she told me she took care not to salt it while she cooked."

"Good. Else we'd never get the soap to harden properly. I once tried goose and chicken fat. 'Twas a mess, my lady," Aelveva explained," picking up a waxy piece of congealed grease.

Gwyneth took up a hardened slab as well. Turning it over, she scraped some particles of gelatin and meat from its underside. Suddenly, her stomach flip-flopped. Sweat drenched her body as a wave of nausea washed over her, and she dropped her knife. Grabbing up a wet cloth and pressing it to her mouth, she jumped up and stepped away, leaving Aelveva wide-eyed.

Gwyneth turned her back and leaned against the smooth, silver-brown trunk of the beech tree as she gulped in the fresh October air.

"Are you all right, my lady?" the maidservant called, coming up behind her.

"I shall be in a moment," Gwyneth answered between deep breaths.

"What is amiss? Have you eaten something that upset your stomach?"

"I have no idea. All at once, I just felt sick, and uncommonly hot." Gwyneth sunk to the bench beneath the tree.

"I feel a bit warm, myself, and 'twill get hotter as we melt the fat."

Image of the boiling fat struck Gwyneth with another wave of nausea. "Aelveva, I must go to my chambers," she announced, getting to her feet.

"Do you want me to come with you, my lady?"

"Nay, I shall recover. Have Elspeth help you. I shall be back as soon as I can." Gwyneth hurried away.

***

Voluptuous and auburn-haired, harvest time graced the land like a lusty serving wench, dropping the fruits from the apron of her bounty on Wykston's rough-hewn table. Smiling at the image Alain conjured in his mind's eye, he glanced at Ranulf. From their vantage point atop the motte, the view spread out in glorious spectacle for many leagues.

Soon a fair would bring people from all over the north of England to his home, increasing commerce in the village. Who knew? Perhaps in the years to come, Wykston would be a large center of trade. If a cathedral, complete with a holy relic, could be built here, it would attract pilgrims from all over Europe.

Very soon now he would move into his own keep. He and Ranulf watched as the workers hoisted large baskets of slates from the ground to the top of the tower.

"I cannot wait to see them begin the roof," Ranulf remarked, enthusiasm in his voice. "Then we can occupy the keep." "Aye." Alain nodded. "I could hardly believe the slates had finally come from Wales until I had to pay for them. They cost dearly. The bag of gold Gwyneth gave me to build the keep is gone. I suppose I could have spared some of the expense, but the slates will not burn from a flaming enemy arrow the way thatch can, and the cistern on the roof will provide us with water on each level of the building. The servants will not have to haul it from the well, and 'twill ensure us against dying from thirst in the event our well is poisoned during a siege."

"I like the privy in the nook; twill save long journeys on cold nights."

Alain had the builders fashion one like King William had at Westminster.

"And the undercroft will store a great deal of food," the sergeant added.

"Just like you, Ranulf. Always thinking of your stomach."

"Not always," the sergeant added, bobbing his eyebrows.

Alain laughed. "I share the sentiment."

Lord Raddon wound his way up the steep incline to the foot of the tower. Garth, his red hair a brilliant beacon in the sun, skipped beside him. The hound kept pace with them, nose to the ground, sniffing diligently.

"I never thought the builder would make good his promise to have the keep ready by Martinmas, but he will finish his task before time," Ranulf remarked.

"I paid for extra crews of masons with some of Gwyneth's jewelry. The rest of her ornaments went to pay our troops. I loathed to take her ornaments, but she insisted. She would not permit me to go to a moneylender. The poor girl has naught left but her wedding ring, and the gold cross she always wears."

"You will have good coin next June when you shear the sheep," Ranulf reassured him.

"Aye, if all goes well." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Eight months must elapse before that time. A great deal can happen in that long period."

"A lot can happened in a day," Ranulf replied.

Lord Raddon joined them, as Garth made a beeline inside the tower.

The hound sniffed Alain and began to lick his hand. He stooped, scratching the dog's head.

"You've always had a way with animals, Alain," his father commented.

Ranulf dropped to his haunches to pet the creature as well and the dog rewarded the sergeant with a lick on the cheek.

"You've had this beast for months now. When are you going to give it a name?" Ranulf asked.

"He has a name," Alain answered, "a nice simple tag."

His father and friend looked at him curiously.

"Would you share it with us?" Ranulf asked?

"I call him Dog." Alain replied.

A smirk on his lips, Ranulf shrugged. "Of course. How witless of me."

***

The joyous activity of Martinmas descended upon them once again.

True to his promise, the builder had the keep ready for occupancy, and for the last several weeks Gwyneth had been consumed with arranging her new home. Tapestries hung on the stone walls, keeping chilly drafts at bay. She and Aelveva had sewn colorful pillows for the chairs. She especially enjoyed decorating her and Alain's bedchamber. Her husband had commissioned the carpenter to build a large bed for their bower, and Gwyneth had fashioned a special swansdown coverlet for them to snuggle beneath in the coming months of winter.

Picking a pillow from the bed, Gwyneth hugged it to herself, dancing round her new bedchamber. Now certain that she had conceived, Gwyneth found her happiness difficult to contain. As if to convince herself, she tallied the weeks in her mind. The full moon had come and gone twice, but her monthly flux remained wonderfully absent.

Whirling past her harp, she held out her hand and plucked its strings, filling the room with the joyous ripple of its song. She smiled to herself, thinking that the miracle must have taken place the day Alain told her he loved her. She laid the pillow on the mattress and calculated.

If Alain's seed had taken root that day, the child would arrive in June when the daisies dotted the meadows, and the cattle grew sleek in the pastures. She pictured long summer days when she could rock the child outside in the shade of a spreading elm or beech.

Oh, she could not wait to tell Alain! But first she wanted to make her news especially festive by buying something at the fair that would make the occasion special, a token that he could keep, remembering the event every time he cast his glance on it. Gwyneth secured her green, woolen mantle and set out to find the momento. She verily skipped down the steps from the gallery and pranced through the great hall of the new keep. The hammered beam ceiling vaulted thirty feet above the flagged floor; a large circular chandelier, wrought of iron and ablaze with candles, hung from its center. She stepped out to the courtyard. Advancing further, she looked below to the village.

The Martinmas-in-winter fair spread before her like a colorful tapestry. Bright tents of every hue merrily decked the landscape where merchants had set up their temporary shops and stalls, loaded with goods of every kind. Hawkers plied their wares, their voices carrying on the cool wind. The smell of freshly baked pasties and roasting fowl filled the air, whetting her appetite. The whole small village buzzed with festivity.

The cheerful bustle contagious, Gwyneth imagined her feet floating over the ground as she descended the steep hill. The blustery wind caught her mantle and nipped her face.

She stopped at the first booth. Taking hold of the thick blue cloak, she rubbed the sturdy cloth between her thumb and forefinger.

"'Tis a fine garment, my lady," the old, chubby merchant's dark eyes gleamed shrewdly. "The cloth was woven in Flanders."

The cape was the most beautiful garb Gwyneth had seen in a long time. "To be sure, but 'tis not exactly what I want."

The man's crestfallen expression touched her heart, but she wanted a souvenir that could be passed down father to son or daughter.

She walked toward the silversmith's stall. Admiring the intricately wrought brooches, her gaze fell on the most wonderful gift for Alain: a huge, round cloak pin, its surface writhing with the animated splendor of a Celtic pattern.

Gwyneth haggled with the thin, auburn-haired merchant until they agreed upon a price. She reached into her leather purse to draw out the coin and handed it to the man. She replaced the money with the jewelry, tucking it into the pouched secured to her girdle beneath her cloak.

Tonight, when she and Alain retired, she would give him the good news and the gift. She shivered with delight in anticipation of their rendezvous. Gwyneth walked through the center of the village, mingling with throngs of people from all over the north, some traveling from as far away as Berwick. She returned greetings as she looked for her husband.

She wanted to share a pasty with him. Lately, her stomach became upset only in the morning, and her appetite had increased sharply. She smiled, imagining herself as plump as a Christmas goose as her body became great with child.

Arm linked, Robert and dark-haired Elspeth walked by and paid their respects. Gwyneth acknowledged the greeting and continued on her way.

Father Rollo, Father Alfred, and Lord Warroc walked together. The old priests had become good friends, though in other places Norman and Saxon clergy had their difference. Their amity had had a healing effect upon the relationship between the Norman and Saxons in the village.

In the distance, Gwyneth saw Garth watching the puppet show. Laughing at the antics, Ranulf stood nearby, his heavily muscled arm around Aelveva who held the new babe.

Gwyneth walked past the tavern. The place buzzed with the activity of a beehive. The alewife enjoyed a brisk business, though Gwyneth did not notice Edith.

But where is Alain?

She left the crowd behind her, walking beyond the commercial center of the village toward the ancient gravestones in the churchyard.

Gwyneth looked down to see a patch of withered comfrey growing near the thick clump of yews. What luck! She had been wanting to go into the woods lately since this was the time of year to dig up the valuable root, but she had not found the time. She always used it to set broken bones.

She stooped and took hold of a jagged rock to dig up the plant. She paused, hearing the muffled tones of a man and woman in conversation. The voices seemed to come from behind the high growth of evergreens.

Was that Alain's voice?

Peering through the yews, her heart sank like a stone to the hollow pit of her stomach. A tender expression on his face, Alain was wiping Edith's tears!

***

Chapter 19

Anger surged in Gwyneth's heart like the incoming tide. This made the third time she had seen her husband and Edith together. True the alewife's daughter had given her the message that Aelveva had fallen ill, but why hadn't the woman come to her? Why did the hussy always run to Alain, and why did they always meet alone?

Tears stung her eyes. No longer able to bear the sight of them together, she turned from the scene, her mind a tumult of speculation. Had Alain lied when he said he loved her? Why did he wait so long to say such a thing if he did not mean it?

Perhaps to keep you off guard, Gwyneth.

Had Alain been keeping Edith as his leman since before their marriage? No wonder he constantly sprang to the girl's defense, protesting her innocence when her motives came into question.

How blind he was! Couldn't he see that the woman played an integral part of Charles Strong Arm's death? Given the chance, Edith would kill Alain. Maybe she already had tried. Gwyneth believed with all her heart that Edith had plied the sentries at the mill with drink so they could be slain. Hadn't she left the marriage feast early? Furthermore, the girl was the sole member of the village who enjoyed the freedom of leaving the village and traveling to places unknown for days on end.

While Gwyneth lived and breathed, she refused to suffer Alain's leman to remain right under her own nose. The fight hot in her, she marched toward them but stopped. She hesitated to speak to them with anger in her heart.

Her dignity of paramount importance to her, she refrained from approaching them without it intact. She would confront her husband when she had regained her composure, but as long as she lived, Gwyneth resolved never to trust him again.

The pain of betrayal heavy in her heart, Gwyneth plodded toward the church. She longed for solitude, to think and pray. Entering the darkened church, she slowly trod to the altar rail. She fell to her knees and wept until she could not cry anymore. If hell existed on earth, its torture consisted of losing a dream.

But through the tenebrous agony, a shaft of light penetrated the gloom. She was not alone: Gwyneth had her child to think of now; a small, fragile life, solely dependent on her.

She considered retiring to her dower lands. There she would raise her babe and dedicate her life to the care of the sick and suffering who came to her for help. Though the injury inflicted on her heart would never heal, Gwyneth realized with sharp clarity that she still had an important purpose in life.

She rose, her limbs aching from kneeling for so long. The little church surrounded her with its quiet darkness. Likely the sun had set, and everyone enjoyed supper.

No, something was not right. No one had attended Vespers! Where were Father Alfred and Father Rollo?

She hurried from the church, stopping short in front of the portal. The sky ahead loomed bright with the most unusual sunset she had ever seen.

Gwyneth gasped. This was no sunset. It was fire! Wykston was burning!

***

The granary was blazed. Big, jagged flames soared skyward, piercing through the thatch, licking the stout beams and devouring the structure with voracious fury. Sick with apprehension, Alain realized his only hope lay in to preventing the fire from spreading. Otherwise, the whole village would be engulfed in the raging conflagration.

The cries and shouts of the villagers rang in his ears. The crews of masons, along with the merchants, peddlers, and every soldier Alain commanded joined the battle.

The flames cast a flickering orange hue over everyone, lending them an eerie appearance. The heat singed Alain's face as sweat poured off him. Still, he remained close to the hut, receiving the big buckets of water, drawn from the well and passed to him, hand to hand, down the long line of men, women, and children.

All efforts seemed fruitless as the storehouse continued to burn with a vengeance.

"Damnation!" Alain swore under his breath. Why the hell hadn't Leofric built the village out of stone? Such structures should be as secure as possible. They were vital to the life of the estate.

Robbing the breath from his lungs, thick, black smoke billowed out of the small windows. The odor of sulfur choked the air. Alain could taste the acrid flavor in his mouth, feel the grit between his teeth, and see the grime on his skin as he continued to fight his hellish enemy. All the while he prayed no one would be hurt. A loud groaning noise, followed by a thunderous clatter, boomed through the night as the heavy, oaken beams of the roof collapsed. A shower of sparks spewed upward, dropping a fiery rain on the battle weary firefighters, burning holes in their tunics.

"It fell inside." Alain yelled to Warroc, who labored at his side. "Mayhap we can contain the fire if the wind stays calm and doesn't fan the blaze to leap up,"

"And if the flames don't burn through the walls and travel to the barn, next to it," Warroc bellowed, his face streaked with soot as the fire roared like an uncontrollable beast.

Ranulf ran forward. "Alain," he shouted, "All the animals in the stables have been herded in the surrounding pens.

"Good work, Ranulf," he yelled as he still accepted the full buckets and continued to douse the shack. "We may not be able to save the buildings, but at least we'll not suffer from loss of lives and livestock."

Ranulf took up his place next to Warroc. Alain's hopes dashed as he noticed that the thatch on the barn had already kindled.

"Look there," he shouted to his father and best friend, pointing to the barn roof. "The sparks must have ignited it," he yelled as his gaze met Ranulf's grim stare.

"'Tis better for the barn to go as no building stands to its left. If the fire had gone to the right we'd have lost the whole village," Warroc barked out, his face smudge with soot. The gray strands in his hair shone with an orange cast as the firelight flickered over them.

"If the wind shifts, we may still lose it," Alain replied as he paused to catch his breath and wipe the stinging sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand.

His father grunted, nodding gravely.

The villagers' fought on valiantly for about an hour, but their speed began to flag as the water now took longer to reach its destination.

Alain's back, arms and legs burned with fatigue as he watched the barn being consumed. Still, he kept working. Unfortunately, too little water arrived too late, and to make matters worse, Alain noticed that the wind began to whip up and had shifted as well. God's bones! The whole village would be incinerated.

"Please take a rest, my lord," Robert pleaded, as he approached. "I've taken one and am refreshed. I shall take your place."

Until that moment, Alain had not missed Gwyneth. Where was she? Perhaps she toiled farther up the queue. Or maybe she was watching little Dunstan while Aelveva took a turn in the water line. He missed her, wanted her by his side. He needed her support and encouragement—terribly—but he could not muse upon his wants for long.

The conflagration raced through the row of shops. Their old, dry timbers had ignited like tinder, creating a long, wide wall of fire. The peddlers and merchants had long ago moved all their wares far from the blaze.

Now, as he continued to battle, Alain noticed the old tanner and a group of men struggled to drag his tools and materials from the shop. The smith did the same with his implements. The saddler followed suit as did the cooper until the villagers retrieved most of their valuables.

Sadly, ravenous flames engulfed the little shops one by one, leaving in their wake a path of smoldering cinders down the center of the whole village.

Helpless, Alain watched the fire burn itself out as the exhausted firefighters staggered to the keep.

But where was his wife?

***

Gwyneth watched in horror as the sky glowed with orange light. Picking up her skirts, she ran toward the fire. Suddenly, from out of the shadows three merchants came forward and surrounded her.

"What a boon fer the thegn," the tallest man sneered, pulling back his hood. Despite his disguise, Gwyneth immediately recognized him as Edric, one of Wulfstan's henchmen.

"Wulfstan will be so pleased," he continued.

The other men grunted in agreement. One bore a horrible, deep scar across his cheek and pointed a knife to the base of her throat. The other had no teeth, lending the lower part of his face a sunken appearance.

"Offer any resistance, lady and I'll be forced to skewer yer 'eart," the scarred one warned.

Trembling uncontrollably, Gwyneth nodded, and instinctively, her hands covered her belly, protecting her unborn babe.

"'Twill do ye no good to scream either; no one will hear ye," the toothless man gloated. "We set fire to the granary so everyone will be distracted fer quite some time. "'Twas too easy to do." He laughed. "With all the folk enjoyin' the fair, we had no trouble slippin' in to the village, with these disguises and hiddin' in a wagon full of wares."

Unfortunately, the oaf spoke the truth. Alain had posted guards, but it proved impossible to detect every villain with so many unfamiliar people coming into Wykston.

Two of the men came forward, grabbing her roughly. The scarred man sheathed his knife and gagged her while the toothless one tied her wrists tightly behind her back. Using a dagger, which he had also drawn, Edric prodded her forward.

Despite her fear for herself, Gwyneth felt heartsick. Filled floor to ceiling with bags of grain, the granary lay destroyed. The village's whole supply of grain had literally gone up in smoke. How would they get through the winter without bread?

Hiding like a mole in the earth, Wulfstan would undermine Alain until he had Wykston for his own. Sooner or later he would kill her husband, by stealth—so as not to incur William's wrath. Then the thegn would force her to marry him. But what about the child she carried now? Wulfstan would kill the babe. He could deliver a fierce blow to her abdomen, forcing Gwyneth to miscarry her beloved baby.

Fear and revulsion paralyzed her, and knees shook so hard she had to stop her trek.

"Move!" Edric roared, sticking what felt like the tip of his knife between her shoulders.

Pain shot down her back, and Gwyneth fell. As the two other men jerked her up, she vowed that somehow she must escape. Her child's life depended on it, and so did her own.

They plodded on through the dark, damp woods. The wind moaned a dirge through the bare limbs of the trees. They walked until they came to three horses.

Edric swung into the saddle, and the other men hoisted her behind him, forcing her, much to her disgust, to ride behind the toothless man. They rode, following the route of a narrow stream.

The clouds parted, revealing the starlit heavens. As the dawn broke, Gwyneth oriented herself by the direction of the rising sun in the east. The rose-colored sky flamed to her right, indicating that they had traveled north. She felt certain they moved close to the border of Scotland, likely about a half a day's ride from Braeton Hall.

Stopping at a cave, they broke their fast. The scarred man untied her hands while the toothless one offered her wastrel and ale from a leather mug. The coarse bread tasted stale and proved difficult to chew.

They allowed her to relieve herself behind a rock, but Gwyneth found no opportunity to attempt flight. She could not outrun them as they had the horses. Besides, these men would not scruple to abuse her and cause her to lose her child should a shuffle ensue. No she would have to think of a clever plan to get away.

Edric rode off, leaving Gwyneth in the custody of Tosig, the scarred man, and Aelfric, the toothless one.

Crisp and cold, the wind sliced through her like the honed edge of a keen knife. Her hands rebound and her mouth gagged, she walked to the cave and huddled deep inside, trying to keep warm. Tired now, she settled down in the pile of fallen leaves, blown in by the wind, grateful for the protection of her thick woolen cloak.

Suddenly, her hand struck a rock. Her eyes acclimating to the dim light, Gwyneth saw a circle of them. Perhaps some wayfarer had taken refuge here and built a fire against the chill. But how could she use the weapon? She couldn't fight two men. Still a chance may present itself. Slowly, she curled her fingers about the smooth stone.

Several hours latter, Gwyneth heard the thunder of hooves and felt the earth quiver as two men reined in. Looking toward the mouth of the cave, her mouth went dry. Wulfstan stood at the entrance, his dark bulk silhouetted against the light of day.

***

"Where the hell is she?" Alain asked with exasperation. He sat by his father and Ranulf at a trestle table in the great hall. In front of them the fire in the central hearth crackled, keeping the chill at bay.

Warroc shook his head and stared into his tankard. Ranulf shrugged.

Initially, when Gwyneth did not appear, Alain did not panic. He had bathed, changed garments, and eaten a light meal, thinking that she had stayed with Aelveva.

Her children asleep, the redheaded woman informed him that she'd not seen Gwyneth since midday. Still, he did not panic. He persuaded himself that she was tending the children. Some of them had gotten blisters from the flying sparks. Miraculously, no one else sustained serious injuries.

As time ticked away, and no one he asked had seen her, panic set in. Now he sat with his head buried in his hands, afraid to even speculate.

He looked up, fear chilling his heart, and a cold sweat moistening his upper lip. "You don't think she could have been inside a burning building?"

"Nay," Ranulf replied quite emphatically. "I have smelled the odor of human flesh burning. The unmistakable stench was absent. Rest assured, Alain." He placed a comforting hand on Alain's shoulder. "She was not in the granary." He let his hand fall away.

"What reason would she have for going in there?" Lord Warroc asked. "You ordered all the grain taken out of there this afternoon. I thought you had gone mad to undertake the task in the middle of the fair, but thank God you had the foresight."

"Aye," Alain muttered, not commenting on his reasons for doing so.

Dressed in their familiar russet garb and white headrailes, tiny Elspeth and chubby Agatha entered the room diffidently.

"You asked to see us, my lord?" Agatha queried as both women curtsied.

"Know you the whereabouts of Lady Gwyneth?"

"Nay, my lord," the women answered together. "The last time I saw her, she was heading toward the church," Elspeth ventured further. "'Twas in late afternoon."

Following that lead Alain, Ranulf, and Warroc hurried out of the keep. They searched the church, and the surrounding area, but they found no evidence of her.

A shroud of terror enveloped Alain. Had she gone into the woods to gather roots? Gwyneth had mentioned that she needed some comfrey for setting broken bones. Had a pack of wolves fallen upon her as she had set about that task? At this moment, she could be lying face down in the forest bracken, wounded, bleeding or.... A shiver quaked through him.

Perhaps she had fallen asleep and taken one of her night strolls.

"Father, we must organize a search party."

"Aye, son. The sooner we begin the better while the trail is still warm."

Though everyone was exhausted, Alain led a search party of fifty soldiers. Behind him the men carried torches against the cloaking darkness. As he looked back over his shoulder, the procession of lights reminded him of the beads in a flaming rosary. He hoped God heard the fiery prayer.

Scouring the immediate countryside in all directions, they rendezvoused at midmorning to give Alain the disappointing news. The deep woods had refused to relinquish its secrets.

Sick with worry, he ordered them back to Wykston. After a short rest, they would make another attempt—this time with provisions to search for several days.

***

"So we meet again, my lady," Wulfstan commented as he entered the cave.

Gwyneth struggled to her feet.

"I have a proposition, or perhaps I should say proposal." The huge blond man strode toward her, a sardonic smile on his face.

She remained silent.

"Come, come, now, my lady. Is this a gracious way to greet an old friend?"

"Friends do not abduct each other, Wulfstan. Let us cease the pretense." Her gaze met his unflinchingly, though her heart pounded against her ribs.

"I see you are determined to be unpleasant." He loomed over her, his glacial eyes narrowing. "Very well. I shall come straight to the point. You will write to your unfortunate Norman husband and inform him that your conscience can no longer allow you to live with him in sin since Lord Alain forced marriage upon you and the alliance is not valid in the eyes of the church. You will tell him that you intend to petition for an annulment."

"Nay, my lord. I will not. Lord Alain never coerced me, and I will not write such a lie."

Wulfstan moved his hand to circle her neck. "Me thinks you will," he whispered as grip tightened.

"I am not intimidated by your threats, Wulfstan." She glared at him, deliberately not flinching away.

"Nay?" He smirked arrogantly as he walked toward her.

"I am worthless to you dead," she shot back.

"But of great value to me alive. Our child will be the great Saxon leader who shall drive the Norman's from the land. He shall outshine the greatness of Arthur and Alfred."

"You babble like a mad man, Wulfstan."

He grabbed her wrists. "Me thinks you will write the little missive."

"You cannot force me."

He let her go. "If you do not, I could have it forged, or I have another plan that would be more amusing. It would not take much to convince a clerical court that you practice witchcraft."

Gwyneth jumped back, hitting the wall of the cave. Did this man know her secret, or was he one of those greedy men the abbess had spoke about who would accuse a woman just to get her possessions? What difference did it make whether he knew or not? Once he hurled the charge, she had two choices: to be cast into the river or to endure the trial by ordeal.

Water horrified her, and the thought of trial by ordeal nauseated her.

He advanced on her, and she retreated.

"How could you say such a thing?" she demanded as she stood pinned against the rough, damp walls of the cave. "You know 'tis not true."

"Mayhap, but you know the way of herbs, and you walk the night in a strange state. If you can cure, you can also cast spells and kill!"

He did know! How?

"Surprised I know your little secret? Ulfer revealed it just before he made his untimely demise."

"Ulfer is dead?" She stared at him.

"An unfortunate accident, but he had grown old and had outlived his usefulness. 'Tis a pity he didn't share that information with me earlier. If he had, we should have been married long before this. Your father would have been forced to accept me, else I would have charged you with witchcraft." He tossed back his head and roared with laughter that bordered on madness. "But I arranged things so I did not need his consent."

Dear God, had he kill her father? He tore off her headraile, grabbing a fistful of her hair. Pulling her head back, he put his face close to hers. "You will write this letter, or you will face an ecclesiastical court."

Wulfstan spun her around so her back pressed against his chest. Roughly he clasped one palm over her mouth and nostrils so she could not breathe. His other hand pinioned her wrists behind her back.

"Now lady, know how it feels to drown."

Gwyneth struggled but to no avail.

"Even now you long for air, but the more you fight the worse your desperation becomes. Your heart is racing in your chest, isn't it?" he taunted.

Her panic increased as she frantically tried to tear herself from of his hold.

"You will squirm and flail in agony, as you do now, but the water will sluice over you in cold, merciless waves. You'll feel your lungs rupture, and then your brain will burst."

Near to unconsciousness, Gwyneth went limp in his arms. He released her, and she dropped to the ground, gasping for breath.

"Of course, I would also be compelled to accuse your husband, and the whole village. Every man, woman, and child will be exterminated like vermin."

Wulfstan laughed again, his glee maniacal. He called to the guard to remove the saddlebag and bring it to him. Removing the writing materials, he demanded water and mixed it with the ink powder he emptied from a piece of parchment into the well made of horn.

"You will write what I tell you, my lady," he demanded, holding a quill toward her.

***

Alain paced his room, waiting for the pack animals to be loaded with supplies so he could resume his search.

The new chamber seemed so empty without her. The bed looked too big, empty. The blue hangings and down quilt, which she had so lovingly fashioned, brought him no warmth in her absence. The small harp, alive with music under her touch, remained silent on the oblong table by the wall.

His life, so happy just two days ago, had collapsed into a shambles. Gwyneth was gone, and with her all his vitality, all his joy.

He walked to the window. The peddlers and merchants had packed their wares and filed in slow procession past the devastated shops of the village. He shook his head, feeling sorry for them. They had made little money. He closed his eyes against the painful sight as the charred rubble and cold ashes mirrored the desolation in his heart.

He heard footsteps behind him and felt a big palm on his shoulder.

"You must not lose hope," Warroc encouraged.

He turned. "I am trying not to, father, but you cannot imagine how I feel."

His father gave him a wry smile. "Nay? How thinks you I felt when you vanished without a trace."

Alain heaved a heavy sigh. He had wrapped himself so tightly in the shroud of his own misery, he could not see beyond it. "I am sorry, father. How thoughtless of me."

"Nay. You are blinded by your pain. Your reaction is understandable."

Alain felt crushed under the weight of his responsibilities. The shops in the village had to be rebuilt, and the masons needed to be retained to reconstruct them. Sadly, he had no ready coin for the project.

He must wait seven months to sell his wool, which the sheep had not grown yet. Even then, he doubted the price of the wool would cover the entire expense. Alain would be forced to borrow the money, or write the steward at his estate in Normandy, hoping some funds could be collected there.

Meanwhile, what would the poor craftsmen do? Most of them had lived above their shops.

Unfortunately, his mind would not focus on any of those problems. His main worry centered on Gwyneth. Nothing mattered without her.

"Have heart, my son. You will find her," Warroc assured.

Alain had no doubt he would find her, but would she be dead or alive?

"My lord," Robert called from the door. "All is ready. The men await you."

"Father, please look after the estate while I am gone. I know I leave this in a shambles, and 'tis a great burden for you."

"I have survived worse." His father smiled. "I'll have everything in order when you find that elusive wife of yours."

They walked down the steps of the gallery and into the huge great hall of the new keep. His men stood, facing him, waiting for his instructions. He made ready to address them, when Garth ran to him.

"My lord, a strange man in the village bid me deliver this to you." The boy held out a piece of parchment, and Alain accepted it.

"Didn't you recognize him?" Ranulf moved toward his stepson.

"Nay," Garth answered.

"Perhaps he was one of the peddlers." Alain suggested, as he unrolled the missive and perused the first few lines of the message.

Surely, he misread the words! He reread the same sentences again. He had understood correctly the first time. Devastated, he walked to the chair against the wall, sat, and allowed the letter to fall from his fingers, not reading the rest of it.

The words of the succinct note caused him to be ill. His wife, whom he had come to trust, honor and love more than his own life, had betrayed him! She had deserted him after she vowed that she would never leave him.

How could she lie to him with such ease?

His soul writhing in agony, he stood. "You may all retire. No search will take place." He waved his hand in dismissal, watching frowns of puzzlement flicker across the faces of all present. "Alain?" Amazed, Ranulf stared at him.

He did not answer his friend. In a daze, he trudged to his chambers. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he stared into space. His first impression had proven correct about her. She had been a spy, working with Wulfstan. He never should have trusted the woman. For over a year, she had pretended to care about him, his father, his friends. Every act of kindness, every ministration, had been a ploy to win his trust so she could deliver the death blow.

He had been so stupid, so gullible! How did he allow her to insinuate herself into his heart? Was she the evil enchantress Robert had once believed her to be? Nay. The woman was a consummate liar who had bided her time.

Indeed, she allowed him to mastermind the plan to improve Wykston. Now that he'd built a strong fortress, she would seize it, using the citadel against him and William as she was privy to every nook and cranny of its plan.

What a lust-blinded fool he had been!

Gwyneth had lied about Wulfstan too, swearing that she hated and loathed the thegn. Now she most probably was lying in his arms. The idea made Alain so angry, he rose from the bed, picked up a chair and smashed it against the wall, sending a burst of splinters and shattered wood all over the room.

The outburst did little to discharge his fury or the wrenching agony that tore at his gut. He must ride to Braeton Hall. He would kill Wulfstan as he should have done the night the devious thegn came to the abbey, trying to claim Gwyneth.

The perfidious wench never told him of the man's visit until months later.

"And you believed her excuse. Fool!" he muttered to himself, hitting his forehead with the flat of his hand. But even Wulfstan's death will not cause Gwyneth to love you, his logic dictated.

He walked to the chest at the foot of the bed. Raising the lid, he drew his rough palm over the soft linen of Gwyneth's tunic still redolent with the odor of roses. He lifted the garment to his face, inhaling the familiar fragrance. Abruptly, Alain dropped the garb back in the chest, slamming the lid down.

He must forget the faithless woman. Let her proceed with the annulment and cast her lot with her Saxon lover. Good riddance to her!

Finding a woman had never been a difficult task for him, even when he'd been a landless, bastard knight without a farthing to his name. Now as Lord of Wykston, with an estate in Normandy and heir to all his father's lands, few women would refuse him.

He would choose the richest heiress he could find. That would show Gwyneth that he did not need her. But he still loved and wanted her with an intensity, which, until now, he did not think possible. How could the woman be so loving, so sincere one moment, then turn on him like an adder?

If she planned to leave him, why did she nurse his soldiers and give him a king's ransom for the keep? If she loved Wulfstan, she could have run to him when Alain had campaigned in York, giving her funds to him to build a keep at Braeton Hall.

His logic rebelled against the inconsistency of her behavior. Women changed their minds; that was an irrefutable fact. But they did not change their characters. Something was gravely wrong. He must read that letter again.

"Son," Warroc called from outside the room.

Alain sprang to the door. His father and Ranulf entered.

"I thought you would want this in your safekeeping," his father said, holding the letter toward him. "Ranulf took it up from where you dropped it."

"As a matter of fact, father, I was just coming to retrieve it." Taking the parchment Alain reread the letter—this time all the way through.

My Lord Alain,

I wish to inform you that I must follow the dictates of my conscience. For that reason, I cannot allow our marriage, which you compelled me to enter, to continue. Holy Mother Church considers coercion a major impediment to the sacrament of Matrimony. As I can no longer live with the lie of our marriage, I will petition for an annulment.

Being a man who honors his father, you will understand my wish to be true to my heritage and comply with the wishes of my late parent, Lord Leofric. Therefore, I shall ally myself with Thegn Wulfstan. Gwyneth of Wykston

Insight flashed in his mind like a fork of lightning in the summer sky. "Of course," he exclaimed, waving the missive in the air. "Read this, father."

"Ranulf and I already have," Lord Warroc confessed, looking a little sheepish. "We are confused."

"Don't you understand?" Alain asked, seeing the perplexed look on their faces.

"I took the liberty of showing this to Aelveva," Ranulf said. "I hope you do not mind, Alain, but she has been beside herself with worry. This letter assured her that Lady Gwyneth is alive."

"Nay. I approve of your action. Tell me, what thinks Aelveva of my wife's message."

"She believes Lady Gwyneth would never write such a lie of her own accord. She said Lord Leofric would never have approved of the alliance. He refused Wulfstan several times. She fears Gwyneth has been abducted and is being held against her will," Ranulf declared.

"I concur with her theory," Alain added, nodding. "Gwyneth told me as much many months ago. Had I read the whole message through, I would have saved myself a great deal of heartache and precious time."

"We must plan a rescue," Lord Warroc stated with determination.

"Aye, and quickly," Alain agreed, as he tucked the parchment into his tunic close to his heart. But even if he hadn't that evidence of her loyalty, Alain knew he'd have gone after her.

***

Still captive in the dank cave, Gwyneth hoped that Alain would understand her cryptic message. If not, he would flare into a towering rage. Worse, he would be hurt, wounded beyond healing.

Tears trickled down her cheeks. She had waited so long and worked so hard to gain his trust, his love. She had succeeded only to be forced to lie, and throw the love and trust he had for her back in his face.

"Please, God, let him realize the truth," she whispered. Trying to calm herself, Gwyneth bit into the crust of the coarse wastrel. The meager supper was not appetizing, but she must keep up her strength and provide nourishment for the new life growing secretly within her.

She trembled, contemplating the fate of her unborn child should her captors discover her pregnancy. She touched her still flat stomach. Even if Wulfstan did not force her to abort, he would never allow Alain's child to live after the baby was born.

Surely, he would never mistake this child for his own. She was already two months into her pregnancy and Wulfstan and she never.... She shuddered at the mere thought of that man ever touching her. She shook her head, trying to dispel the vile thought.

Wulfstan would rid himself of her as soon as he got his hands on Wykston, and the son he wanted from her. He probably wouldn't denounce her as a witch then, for his child would be suspect. No, he would arrange a discreet accident, as he had for Ulfer, and who knows how many other hapless victims who stood between him and his goals.

To survive, Gwyneth must escape. She must plan it carefully. Failure meant death. She felt for the smooth stone. She had no had a chance to use it. For the past few nights, two men kept the watch, casting dice before the fire. She might be able to knock one unconscious but not two. Soon, however, they would change guards. Perhaps just one man would keep watch tonight.

Oh, how she wished she had her herb basket. Just a little poppy seed in their ale, and she could be half way back to Wykston before her gaolers woke.

Such wishful thinking proved fruitless. She must make do with what resources she had. Taking an inventory, Gwyneth thought of three tools. Her mind, her body, and the big, heavy stone.

No, Gwyneth, you have others. Of course! Why hadn't she thought of them before?

***

The central hearth of the great hall crackled with bright, sinuous flames, chasing the chill from the cavernous chamber. Dog dozed by the soothing warmth. Next to the beast, Aelveva stood, clad in an old russet tunic, her brow furrowed with worry, her new babe asleep in her arms. Gnomish Monsar sat, head bent, patiently instructing Garth in the craft of carving a wooden bowl.

Servants milled about, performing routine tasks, morose expressions on their faces. No one said much, but Alain knew they shared his concern for Gwyneth.

Seated at the trestle table, he turned his attention back to the map of Braeton Hall spread on the oaken surface. A tankard of bragot in hand, Warroc hovered to his left, his long crimson tunic reaching his ankles.

Dressed in his hauberk as he had just returned from patrolling the area, Ranulf directly faced him across the large parchment.

"We could post troops here," the sergeant pointed to the back of the stockade bordering the forest. "With grappling hooks our men can climb over the barrier. Once inside we could rescue Lady Gwyneth and be long gone before the Saxons discover what has happened.

Suddenly Edith burst into the room. Drenched to the skin, she left a trail of rain in her wake as the water dripped from her old, brown woolen cloak. "By your leave, my Lord Alain, may I speak with you in private?" she gasped out. "By all that's holy!" Warroc bellowed. "Come near the hearth, girl, or you will catch your death."

"Lord Alain, please!" she pleaded as she moved to the fire, holding her hands to the heat.

Alain stood and walked to her. "There is no longer a need for secrecy between us, Edith. You may speak before my father and the others. 'Tis time they learned of your valor."

She dropped her hands and turned to him. "Thegn Wulfstan plans to ride to York to present Lady Gwyneth's petition for annulment to the bishop," Edith blurted out.

Gasps echoed through the great hall.

"How do you know this, girl?" Warroc demanded.

"I have just come from Braeton Hall, my lord." The alewife's daughter shivered visibly.

"Have you seen Gwyneth or talked to her?" Alain asked. "Nay, else I would have helped her escape. Wulfstan has her hidden deep in the forest. He fears you'll lay siege to Braeton Hall and retrieve her. He seeks to keep her hidden until the annulment is granted.

"Damnation!" Alain cursed, bashing his fist on the table.

Little Dunstan began to squall, and the hound jumped up, barking. Aelveva put the baby to her shoulder and walked to the far end of the hall, patting his small back as she paced.

"How is it you come and go to Braeton Hall without suspicion, Mistress Edith?" Warroc asked.

Rubbing her chapped hands, the alewife's daughter moved closer to the flames and cast her gazed downward.

"I've asked you a question, girl," Warroc declared.

"'Tis a long story, father, and right now every moment is precious," Alain interjected. "It suffices to say that, at great risk to herself, she has been gathering information for me for months."

"Very well," his father acquiesced, his gaze fixed keenly on the girl.

"Edith, know you where Wulfstan keeps the Lady Gwyneth prisoner?" Alain asked.

"Not exactly, my lord, but I heard some of the men talking about a ride to the Scottish border to do guard duty."

"Where along the border?" Ranulf queried, frowning. 'Tis many leagues long."

"Aye, but I believe that 'tis northeast of Braeton hall. I watched the guards ride out each morn and return a little after noon, so it cannot be longer than half a day's ride," she explained.

"'Tis still a large area," his father countered.

"Aye, but we need not be concerned," Edith added. "You have a faithful friend that can lead you to her."

"Who?" the three men asked in unison.

"Why, the dog there," Edith replied, pointing to the cur. "He is like a beast I once had and seems to be more of a scent hound than a sight hound. Such animals can track their owners."

"She is right!" Alain exclaimed, standing. "Why did we not take Dog the first time?"

"Aelveva, would you go to Lady Gwyneth's room and get me something that she has worn recently."

"Aye, my lord," the redhead replied, approaching, her babe now asleep. "I'll bring the overtunic she wore the night before she disappeared, but I wish to accompany you, my lord."

"Lady Gwyneth would not wish me to allow you to do that," Alain said. "Your son needs you, and I cannot say what danger we will encounter. You serve Lady Gwyneth by seeing her home is well run."`

"As you wish, my lord." Tears in her eyes, Aelveva bowed, then quietly went on her errand.

"I shall send heralds to the bishop and the king to inform them of Wulfstan's treachery and deceit," Warroc stated.

"Aye, father, I leave you in charge here. We leave immediately. I will find my wife and take care of Wulfstan once and for all time," Alain vowed.

***

Chapter 20

Night crept in silently, broodily overtaking the day. The forest mist, veiling the black, bare tree limbs, thickened by the minute. Despite the protection of her sturdy, woolen cloak, the dampness penetrated Gwyneth's bones, causing her teeth to chatter. Streams of moisture, barely invisible in the dim light, trickled down the sides of the cave like large, shiny tears.

At the mouth of the cavern, Tosig squatted by the meager, smoky fire built from the unseasoned wood he had scavenged from the area before Aelfric departed for Braeton Hall. Later, her gaoler would enter the hollow, and take up his post just inside the gap, sitting with his body in front of the entrance, preventing her escape.

However, Tosig had unlashed her, enabling her to take nourishment, and tonight he kept the vigil alone, giving Gwyneth the opportunity she needed. The basket of wastrel over her arm, a leather bottle of ale in her hand, she walked toward him.

The struggling fire flickered over his face, accentuating his disfigurement. The poor man would not have been bad looking but for the deep, crescent-moon scar, so cruelly mutilating his cheek.

"Tosig would you care for the rest of this bread? You are exposed to the elements, and this damp cold hones the appetite."

His eyes widened with surprise. Was he astonished by her compassion, or wary of her motives? Perhaps the man had received little gentleness in his life.

He rose as she placed the coarse fare in his outstretched, work-worn palm. "I thank ye, me lady. I be fair starved."

So was she, but she had to ingratiate herself to this man. He held the key to her freedom in his hands.

"Sit then, Tosig," Gwyneth urged as she did the same.

He bit into the hard crust, chewing vigorously as the crumbs flecked his bushy, brown beard.

"Doesn't the thegn provide better food than this?" she inquired. "How does he expect loyalty from the men if he mistreats them so? A body needs a little cheese or fish to keep going. Even soon dried fruit and nuts would help."

Tosig swallowed the course bread and took a swig of weak ale to wash his food down, then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "True, me lady. Wulfstan is a hard man, but the likes o' me ain't got much choice. Me and Aelfric is members of the fyrd. We be pledged to do military service for the thegn a certain number of days a year. Then we go back to our usual work on his estate."

"What might your employment be?" she asked quietly, blowing her warm breath on her cold, numb fingers.

"I be journeyman shoemaker, my lady. I would like to 'ave me own little shop one day, but I'll never 'ave the coin to do that. Me master is fairly young and in good health so he resides at Braeton Hall to stay." He picked up a long twig and started to trace aimless lines in the damp earth.

Gwyneth continued to draw the man out. "You are a young man. What of your mother, father?

"Me folks be dead. I've no brothers or sisters.

"Do you have a wife, Tosig?" "Nay, but I do 'ave a lass who likes me, scar and all." His gaze softened and his face assumed a wistful expression, "Most lasses won't let me git near 'em, but she's a good one me Morag is. She says 'tis what's in me 'eart that counts, not what's on me face. But why is a fine lady like ye askin' such questions of a poor wretch like me?"

"I am interested in all people, and I do not like to see anyone suffer," she answered truthfully. "Do you have plans to wed?"

"Nay." He shook his head, and his shoulders sagged as he felt discouraged, but he continued to draw in the moist earth. "I sees the lass but rarely. She is a Scot. Lives over yon border, and she ain't got no dowry. Her folks is poor as dirt. Thems tend a few 'ead of bony cattle and works a strip of common land. I don't get much chance to visit, 'er, I don't."

"Your prospects appear somewhat bleak, Tosig. Doesn't that make you sad?" Gwyneth lifted her palms upward in question.

He looked up and nodded, his eyes wistful. "It does, me lady, but there's nowt I can do bout it."

"That is a shame." She paused, her heart racing.

Now, Gwyneth. Make your proposal now! "Suppose I told you I know a way for you to have your own shop and have Morag for your wife as well."

He pierced her with a sharp stare for a few tense moments. "You wouldn't be tryin' to 'oodwink a poor feller like me?"

"Nay, Tosig." She returned his steady gaze.

They man stood and walked to the entry of the hollow. He turned and asked, "'Ow, me lady?"

Gwyneth rose and walked to him. "Allow me to return to Wykston," she proposed urgently, "and I will see that you have all you need."

"Not in yer life, me lady. The thegn will kill me, then hang me flayed hide to 'is door. Me life may not be the best, but 'tis still dear to me."

His words rang true. She had once seen a man's dried skin, removed from his dead body and nailed to the door of a manor as a warning to all other would be transgressors. Nevertheless, she had to convince the man, or she was undone.

"He will not know where you are," she continued. "By the time he discovers anything, you will be safe in Scotland with your lass. You will have money to buy leather and tools to start your work. Mayhap you can set up your little shop in perhaps Edinburgh or Perth."

The man looked away from her. As he appeared to ponder her words, the puckered scar on his face contorted beneath his scowl.

His gaze met hers again. "'Twould be a dangerous thing to do. Sometimes the thegn checks on 'is men. If 'e finds 'em sleepin' or doin' somethin' else 'e don't like, he cuts 'em down."

"Then we should not waste time, Tosig." Close to tears now, she choked out, "Please, let me go back to my life, and find a new one for yourself."

"'Ow will you pay me once I let you go?"

"I shall pay you before you go?"

He tossed his head back and laughed. "Ye must be thinkin' I'm daft. Ye ain't got no gold, my lady, and if I let ye go, yer husband would be after me like a robin on a worm."

She shook her head. "Nay, Tosig, my husband would reward you for helping me. Neither he nor I have anything against you. 'Tis Wulfstan he will punish because the thegn is a cruel man who has stolen another man's wife."

Tosig's gaze met hers. "To be sure." He touched his cheek. "'Twas he who gave me this. I was not an ugly lad afore he scarred me."

The man appeared to be considering her proposition, and Gwyneth pressed home her point. "Wulfstan is selfish and harsh. Look at your bedroll." She stooped and picked the corner of the woolen blanket up as she rose. "This cloth is too thin for such a chilly night. Lord Alain would not treat his lowest scullion so meanly." She dropped the wool at his feet. "If you were in Scotland with Morag, you would be warm, cozy and among people that would be kind to you."

"I would need a good bit o' coin to start me life, me lady."

Gwyneth took the leather pouch at her belt from beneath her mantle. She opened it, and retrieved the cloak pin she had bought for Alain. She hated to part with the piece, but no other opportunity afforded itself. She placed the pin in Tosig's hand.

"'Tis a fine piece, me lady, but 'twill not be enough."

Tears pricked behind her eyes as she unclasped her mantle. Gwyneth carefully lifted the fine gold cross and delicate chain, hidden beneath her tunic, from around her neck. Giving up the gift from her father crushed her heart, but she had no choice.

"Now will you agree?" Gwyneth hoped he would not demand her wedding ring as well.

She held her breath as the man seem to be deliberating with himself. He bit the cross and pin, nodding as if satisfied.

"Go quickly, me lady. Follow the stream. 'Twill take you due south, and straight to Wykston. I'm afraid I must take the horse, though. Wulfstan will not kill you, but he'd hack me to pieces in a second."

Her heart slamming, Gwyneth ran into the dense mist before the man had finished his words, frightened he would change his mind. A few moments later, she heard the thud of hooves pounding through the foggy forest and knew Tosig was riding to freedom.

Gwyneth ran until her lungs burned, and a stitch stabbed her side. Gasping for breath, she stopped, scampering beneath a yew where she hid until she felt able to proceed.

The pain gone, she scrambled out from the temporary haven and began her long flight home, keeping as close to the stream as possible. At times the opaque mist obscured her view of the brook, forcing her to keep her course by listening for the rush of water.

The hoot of an owl pierced the fog, followed by the sound of a skirmish in the bush. Had the airborne predator caught the hapless prey? Gwyneth cringed in empathy for the poor creature. Hunted herself, she hoped she would not share a similar fate.

On and on she traveled, resting only briefly as she tried to put as much distance as she could between the cave and herself. Inevitably, Wulfstan would discover her escape. His rage boundless, he would ruthlessly chase her down.

Gwyneth longed to be back at Wykston, safe in her keep before the thegn garnered that information. But even if she succeeded and arrived home unharmed, she wondered if she would ever really be safe from him.

He knew her secret. If Wulfstan became certain he would not be able to wed her, his condemnation of her and the whole village would follow. While she carried her child, the authorities would not kill her, but she would await her time in a filthy gaol.

Once Gwyneth had given birth, the babe would be wrenched from her breast. She would be taken out and drowned, unless she underwent trial by ordeal. But she may not survive that either.

"Dear God, protect us all from Wulfstan," she prayed softly as she continued her journey on through the endless mist.

***

Daybreak prowled the eastern sky as sullen and gray as a hungry wolf emerging from its dark lair. The fog continued to hide her in its deep, white cloak, and Gwyneth said a silent prayer of thanks for the cover. Perhaps she would reach her home and maybe someday this nightmare would end.

Suddenly, hope sank like a millstone, when in the distance, she heard the beat of hooves coming from behind her. Climbing a tree, she stood precariously on the slippery, wet branch of a thick yew. Hidden high above the ground in the dense evergreen, Gwyneth could hardly distinguish the pounding canter of the mounts from the beat of her heart. Suddenly, the thunderous clamor came to an abrupt halt. Paralyzed with terror Gwyneth held her breath, squeezing her eyes tight, and clutching the branch as she recognized Edric's sinister voice below her.

"We've been travelin' for hours, me lord. Shall we camp here for a spell and resume the search later?

Please, dear God, let them go on, Gwyneth prayed desperately, shaking so violently that she almost lost her footing.

She opened her eyes and looked down. The fog had become so thick, she could not see her pursuers, but she knew from the sound of their voices and the snorts of the mounts that they remained near—to near.

"Nay," Wulfstan answered, his voice filled with venom. "We press on. I will find the elusive bitch if it takes till Judgment Day. She will be my wife. I will beget my son on her, and we will drive the foul Normans from this land."

"Aye, my lord." Edric's voice betrayed his fatigue.

"As for that traitor, Tosig, if I ever catch him, I shall tie him to a stout oak and order the archers to use him for target practice. The lout never thought I'd travel to the cave, but that is how I foil my adversaries, Edric. I always do the unexpected. I lull them to complaisance. Then I strike."

"Beggin' your pardon, me lord. We be not sure 'e's a traitor. Scottish rievers often slip over' the border. They may've killed Tosig fer the 'orse and taken the girl hostage till 'er husband comes to claim her. Lord Alain could 'ave discovered 'er whereabouts and come for 'er."

"Who would tell him?" Wulfstan scoffed impatiently

"The girl, Edith."

"Nonsense, Edric. I gave no order to capture the lady. Her abduction was a bit of luck that fell into your lap. Furthermore, I never told Edith where the noble lady was hidden."

So Edith was working for Wulfstan. I knew it! But Alain doesn't suspect she is a traitor. "I still don't trust the girl," Edric replied, an edge on his tone.

"Enough talk. Let us be off," Wulfstan ordered gruffly.

The sound of hooves and the jostle of weapons passed beneath her, becoming faint in the distance as the troops resumed their search.

Gwyneth released her breath in relief. She decided to remain at this spot for a while, letting Wulfstan put a league or so between them before she resumed her long trek home. Ironically, she would follow her pursuer at a safe distance. The thegn would never guess she lagged behind him.

The imminent danger over, her fears momentarily assuaged, Gwyneth descended the tree and took shelter under a low-growing bush. She lay on her side. Pulling her knees up to her chin, she made herself as comfortable as possible in the thick fall of leaves. Exhausted, she closed her eyes, resting for a few moments as the rhythm of her heart returned to its normal tempo.

Behind her eyelids, the vision of a plump, rosy babe with violet-blue eyes filled her thoughts, and her heart overflowed with love.

A new determination surged within her like the swell of the ocean, rushing away all her doubts on its strong current. She would survive not only for herself, but for the tiny life within her. Nothing would stop her from bringing forth this child; not Wulfstan, not a charge of witchcraft, nor any other evil.

Gwyneth scampered out from her haven and began to run with renewed vigor. She had traveled about half a league when the earth gave way under her feet. Losing her balance, she hit the ground face down.

***

Ordering his men to take a brief respite, Alain sat beside Ranulf on a fallen oak log. A huge, white bracket of fungus invaded one end of the rotten wood. He turned away from the sight, half-heartedly trying to force down the nourishment he shared with his sergeant.

He would never be able to thank Ranulf for his steadfast loyalty. The man offered tremendous comfort to him and bolstered Alain's spirits, helping him to retain his, at this point, tenuous sanity.

Alain took a long quaff of ale as he contemplated the ironic events of the past few days. Just when he believed his life had finally taken a steady course, his world turned topsy-turvy. Would he ever find the peace he yearned for?

More importantly, would he ever find Gwyneth? Every moment that passed increased the odds for failure. The morbid vision of his wife, lying motionless in the spongy bracken, flashed into his mind. The image made his stomach queasy.

He set down his leather bottle and replaced the wooden stopper then wiped the sweat from his hand. If Wulfstan had harmed Gwyneth, Alain would tear the knave limb from limb with his bare hands.

"You are too quiet," Ranulf remarked, as he tipped his leather bottle up to his lips.

"I am thinking," Alain answered.

"Aye, and your gloomy thoughts are betrayed in your eyes." Ranulf nodded. "You must keep faith, Alain, else you will descend into the hell of despair. Lady Gwyneth is a resourceful woman. You, yourself, often tell me how clever and competent she is. She will find a way to escape or create an opportunity to do so. She has the courage of a berserker. Don't you remember how brave she was when we captured her."

The memory caused tears to clog his throat. He and Ranulf had witnessed her grit the night they captured her. "She is determined as well," he added.

Dog rose to his paws and stretched his back. He yawned widely, his long tongue extending forward. Closing his mouth, he shook the bracken from his fur and trotted to Edith, who sat alone, eating a crust of bread. The cur whimpered, laying his muzzle in her lap. She smiled and offered the animal a crust, which he downed in a gulp.

Ranulf looked in her direction. "Another female, who has more guts than most men. She risked her life dozens of times during the past year, pretending to spy for Wulfstan," he remarked softly, looking in the woman's direction. "Aye. Had it not been for her warning, every sack of grain would have gone up in smoke. She got to us just in time so it lies safe in the undercroft. 'Tis too bad she did not know Wulfstan planned to abduct Gwyneth. I would have gladly lost the grain instead of my wife."

"You haven't lost your wife." Ranulf contradicted, shaking his finger. "She is temporarily absent."

"Of course, you are right, man."

"Why haven't you told Warroc about her?" Ranulf nodded toward Edith.

"I did not wish to spoil his joy. He has suffered much." Alain set down his leather bottle and placed the wooden stopper in its opening. "You were the sole person privy to the information."

"And the Lady Gwyneth?"

"She has had a great deal to contend with as well. She had a difficult year. She'll find out all the details soon enough. I think 'tis only fair she learns the truth."

"I felt the same about Aelveva. I did not want anything to disturb her during her pregnancy, and I am glad I kept my peace. In the end, she needed every ounce of strength. I get the shakes just thinking about that birth. Besides, you asked me to tell no one."

"Thank you for respecting that confidence. Had you told Aelveva, Gwyneth would have known our secret. Your wife can keep nothing from mine."

Ranulf laughed. "True, indeed."

Dog sniffed the air, started to whine, and grabbed the hem of Edith's chainse in his teeth, pulling at it.

She immediately stood. "Good beast," she praised, petting the animal on the head.

The hound dropped her hem and ran a little ahead then stopped, turning to look at her. When she did not follow, he ran back to her, barked, and took off again, repeating the process.

Edith walked toward Alain and Ranulf. "The animal bids us follow."

"So it seems," Alain agreed. "Are you sure you will not return to Wykston. 'Twould be safer for you.

"I know. If Wulfstan discovers I have been in league with you all these months, he will do his best, or I should say his worst, to kill me. Be that as it may, I shall stay. Lady Gwyneth will need a woman to assist her if she is hurt. She has always been kind to my mother, and I wish to return the kindness." Her sky-blue eyes filled with tears.

"I understand, Edith. Your courage will be rewarded when we return to Wykston."

The hound continued to bark in earnest, continuing his short sallies and withdrawals.

"Let us be off," Alain ordered, hoping that Dog had picked up the right scent.

***

Gwyneth struggled to a sitting position. She had stepped into a depression in the ground, which had been covered with a heavy fall of leaves. Likely the hole housed a family of hares. She flexed her ankle and sighed in relief, assured she had not broken it when she felt no pain.

Slowly, Gwyneth commenced her travels south again as her stomach ached with hunger. She had lost track of time but calculated that she had not had a decent meal for two or three days. She began to forage about for food.

Delighted to find some nonpoisonous mushrooms, she stuffed them into her mouth with undue haste. Even raw and without herbs to enhance their subtle flavor, they tasted delicious. Unfortunately, the meager supply did not fill her. Even as she finished the last succulent cap, she was still famished.

She gathered some acorns. Placing them on a rock, she cracked the hard shells with a stone. The astringent flavor of the raw nuts puckered the inside of her mouth uncomfortably, and she shuddered, forcing them down all the same.

Slowly, she hobbled down to the stream for a drink. Her thirst quenched and her hunger somewhat assuaged, Gwyneth continued her journey. How far had she traveled? She could not tell the time for the mist still pervaded the forest, hiding the position of the sun, preventing the length of the shadows from giving her any clues.

Thoughts of impending doom undermined her hopes. Suppose she reached Wykston to find Wulfstan had killed everyone there? Furthermore, a chance remained he had turned back to meet her head on and alone.

She prayed the fog held and Wulfstan decided to take another route home.

***

The hound ran alongside Alain's trotting mount. Nose close to the ground, Dog sniffed relentlessly. Suddenly, the animal stopped. Alain raised his hand, signaling the men to rein in.

Ranulf looked at him, a quizzical expression on his face. "Why do you think the cur stopped?

Alain’s heart felt as if it would thump out of his chest. "Do you think she could be lying in the underbrush?" he asked.

"I think not," Ranulf replied, anxiety on his face. "Dog would have run straight for her to ferret her out.

Dog pointed still as a statue. What in Hades was going on?

In the distance, Alain heard an almost imperceptible sound. He motioned to Ranulf. "Have the men dismount as quickly and quietly as possible," he murmured. "I believe we are about to meet a group of riders. If they are foes, we must be ready to attack. If they are friends, mayhap they will join us in our quest. See that the girl hides in the underbrush."

Ranulf immediately carried out the command, quietly passing the orders down the line so as not to alert the enemy.

Some men led their horses behind bushes and trees on either side of the trail. Others formed a barrier across the narrow path as all waited in silence. Dog hunkered down, panting and alert. His sides heaved like bellows as his long, pink tongue protruded out the side of his mouth.

Alain and Ranulf remained mounted side by side at the front of the line.

The sergeant returned to him. "I can hear them now myself. The noise grows louder by the second. I would like to think that 'tis a band of monks on their way to Durham to pray at the tomb of the venerable Bede, but the penitents would likely be making the pilgrimage on foot."

"Aye," Ranulf agreed. "Were the fog not so dense, I am sure we would certainly see them by now."

The earth shook with the rhythm of a trot, and the rattle of mail and weapons became unmistakable. The mist ahead swirled in agitation.

Suddenly, Wulfstan emerged from the fog. On his helm, the traditional figure of a squatting boar embellished with a silver cross shone through the pale fog.

Drawing his sword in a flashing arc, Alain charged into his path. "Defend yourself, Wulfstan!"

"Make ready to die and know your wife will bear my son, Norman swine." Naked blade in his hand as well, the thegn spurred his mount forward.

Alain did the same. On impact both men fell to the ground, rolling away from the horses. Meanwhile Ranulf blew his horn, charging also as the Normans circled the Saxon forces.

Alain and Wulfstan regained their footing. Blades still in hand, their bodies crashed together with bone-crushing force as harsh snarls erupted from their throats. Their blades sparked upon impact. Again and again their swords clanged, but neither combatant gained an inch of ground.

All around them the forest rang with the din of battle as horses whinnied, and men shouted fiercely, or screamed in pain.

For a man who dodged battle, the Saxon thegn was proving a formidable opponent. Suddenly, Wulfstan's blade broke off close to the hilt. He flung it to the ground. Alain did the same, wanting the fight to be fair. Daggers drawn, they circled each other, cautiously waiting for an advantage. Wulfstan stooped and grabbed up Alain's sword. Wheeling around with tremendous speed, the Saxon tried to lop off his opponent's head. Alain ducked, avoiding the blade, then lunged full force at the thegn's middle, landing atop the man.

Wulfstan lay very still, his blue eyes open, his mouth agape. Alain had sunk his razor-sharp dirk deep into the heart of his enemy. He drew back and stood, breathing hard, his gaze fixed on the widening stain of red on Wulfstan's chest.

Someone shouted, "The thegn lies dead," and the Saxons who were left standing lost heart and quickly surrendered.

Bloodstained and battle-weary, Alain put up his weapons, staggered to the trunk of an oak, and sank down. Robert rushed forth to take his gear.

Ranulf took a seat beside him.

"The girl, Edith?" Alain asked.

"She comes now with Dog," the sergeant pointed toward the alewife's daughter as she emerged from beneath a bush, the animal scrambling out behind her.

Edith's face was smudged with dirt, and she pulled her brown, borrowed cloak around her.

"The men are exhausted, Ranulf. After we rest, assign a burial detail. Then rest of us must press on. Every moment counts."

The thegn would never trouble any of them again, but was it now too late to save his wife?

Robert returned with tankards of ale, and some linens, dampened in a nearby rivulet.

"Thank you, lad," he called after the squire as the boy walked away. After wiping away the blood and grime from their hands and faces, Alain and Ranulf took long swigs of ale.

"What about the Saxon prisoners?" the sergeant asked, putting down his tankard. "Most look like poor members of the fyrd."

Alain thought about his decision for a moment. He dragged himself to his feet and faced his prisoners.

"Men of Braeton Hall," he began. "I proclaim your home for King William and hold the land in his name. You may swear your fealty to me, or I shall petition the king, my liege lord, and let him determine your fate. Remember that you were part of an abduction. Know that William is a fond and faithful husband." Alain shook his head. "He will take unkindly to someone who has interfered between husband and wife."

The men looked at each other as if they weighed Alain's words carefully and nodded.

"Me lord, I'm called Baldwin. I'm but a poor man, a member of the fyrd. I'd nowt choice but to follow the thegn. Most o' us 'ere be in the same boat. 'E would 'ave killed us and our kin if we'd 'ave gainsaid him. As fer me, I be castin' me lot with you, me lord,"

"Me too, me lord," man after man affirmed as they enumerated the cruelties Wulfstan visited upon them. "Very well," Alain announced. "You are my men now, but if you swear fealty to me and the king, I will expect you to aid me in my search for my lady wife."

"Aye," the men cried in unison.

They took the oath en masse, and after a brief respite the men mounted and set out again with plans to meet the burial detail at Wykston.

Guilt gnawed at Alain as he pushed the men to the very limits of their endurance, but he had to find his wife.

***

Gwyneth stumbled on, still following the narrow stream. The sky grew darker, and she resigned herself to another night in the cold, dreary forest. She felt hungier than she had ever been in her life. The acorns lay about in abundance on the forest floor, but she had difficulty gathering enough of them to fill her empty stomach.

And the taste! Perhaps roasted, the nuts would yield a better flavor, but she had no flint stones with which to start a fire, and the mist made the twigs too wet to kindle a spark. Besides, the smoke and flames would alert Wulfstan to her whereabouts.

A sound, like a distant rumble, caught her attention. The unfamiliar noise came from directly in front of her. Was it the rush of a waterfall? Impossible! She had not heard a cascade on the way to the cave, and she retraced her route along the stream. Along with the roar she heard the unmistakable sound of clanging metal and stopped.

"A battle!" she exclaimed to no one and began to shake violently.

Wulfstan had likely engaged some adversary. Gwyneth did not need divine inspiration to conclude that his foe was her husband. If Wulfstan won, he would return, and she would meet him face to face. Maybe this time she would not be so fortunate, and he would capture her.

Maybe he met Alain and killed him. The thought chilled her to her heart.

Gwyneth ran for cover. Should she stay hidden here or run in another direction? The abbey loomed foremost in her mind, but she hated to invite Wulfstan's wrath upon the innocent nuns there.

If she fled back north, she could take refuge in Scotland at the court of saintly Queen Margaret. Still, the Scots may not welcome the wife of man who fought for the king of England. Heading southeast into Wales presented another possibility.

But she had not one farthing. If her husband lay dead, Wulfstan would try to seize Wykston and her dower lands. Alain's men could rally behind Ranulf and save her home.

Was Ranulf still alive?

Exhausted, famished, and confused, Gwyneth buried herself under a thick layer of fallen leaves blanketing a hollow beneath a large rock. The noise had faded and silence reigned supreme again throughout the murky woods.

Gwyneth thought of her unborn babe—Alain's child. If her husband had died, he would live on in his child. She must give this baby the opportunity to live a good life. Maybe Warroc still lived. Perhaps he had not fought with Alain. Her father-in-law would want the child.

But he may be dead, too, Gwyneth.

Why was she thinking so pessimistically? Her husband would triumph. Alain was a valiant knight.

Still, she had to prepare herself for the worst. Wulfstan passed her by in the forest. Likely Alain had been looking for her if he read the meaning in her cryptic missive correctly. At this moment one or both of them could lie dead. One thing remained certain: The wily thegn would not fight him fairly.

But Gwyneth refused to give up. Her child's life depended upon her determination and fortitude. She resolved to remain in her leafy haven until nightfall. Under cover of darkness, she planned to head southwest to Gloucester where William kept the Christmastide. She resolved to reach her destination in time to plead her cause to the king. Hope beckoned and faith would light the way.

But suppose Wulfstan hurled his charges of witchcraft at her?

Her heart full of determination, she said aloud, "Then I shall endure trial by ordeal. I shall grasp the hot metal bar."

She had treated burns. None of her patients' wounds ever festered. Gwyneth would treat herself. Other women survived the tribulation, and so would she.

She did not know how long she lay in her little hollow when the frantic baying of a hound imbued her with terror. Under the persistent high-pitched yowling, the relentless beat of horses hooves pummeled the forest floor

Had Wulfstan returned with a hunting dog to track her? If so the fog would not help her now. Nor would climbing a tree for the animal would bark at the base of the trunk. The baying became louder, increasing her panic by the second.

Her heart raced so fast, Gwyneth could scarcely draw a breath, and the lack of air made her dizzy. She forced herself to inhale slowly and deeply.

Should she run? Surely the animal would pursue her. Still she could not let the beast just pounce upon her for the hound's howls were frenetic now, and the battering of the horses' hooves cause the ground beneath her to tremble. If she crossed the stream, the hound may lose her scent.

She must go now! But her decision came too late. Instead of creeping out of her hole, Gwyneth drew back into the hollow, squeezing her eyes shut. Leaves and earth fell on her face, and the strong smell of an unwashed dog drifted to her nostrils as the infernal baying continued. Loud scratching grated in her ear as she imagined the dog digging in the dirt as if possessed.

Trapped, she heard the men dismount. If I am captured, I shall simply flee again and again if I must, but I shall never give up.

Finally, the beast leapt on her, yet he did not bite. His wet nose jabbed her face. She parted her lids to see his eyes glowing red in the dark. Her vision already accustomed to the darkness, she recognized Dog.

"Dog!" she cried as the animal licked her cheek.

"She is there! Enough Dog! Quick, we must help her." She recognized Alain’s voice barking out the command. "Alain!" she shouted, crawling forward.

Strong arms lifted her to the safety of his embrace. Alain's soft lips touched her forehead, eyelids, cheeks, nose and finally her lips in a kiss that spoke volumes of fear, desperation, longing, love.

"Oh, Alain. Wulfstan...." Tears occluded her throat and sprang from her eyes. She buried her face in the crook of his neck. Too overcome with the tumult of emotions storming her heart, she was struck dumb.

"Ssshhh, we'll talk later."

Alain sat on the ground, rocking her gently, kissing her, and Gwyneth noticed tears brightening his eyes. Her heart swelled larger until she thought it would burst with love.

He drew back. "I know you are exhausted, but you must be starving as well." Alain set her gently on the ground and stood. "Robert, food for the lady. Ranulf give the order that we dine and bivouac here for the night."

"Aye, Alain," he said, smiling. He walked toward them. Bowing, he said, "'Tis glad I am to see you, my lady, and Aelveva will be beside herself with joy. She wished to search with us, but your husband," he shot a glance at Alain, "forbade it and rightly so as she is still nursing our son."

"I cannot wait to see her again, Ranulf."

The lad came forward and set down a basket filled with some bread, ale, and linens he had wet in the stream. With a nod, he took his leave.

Gwyneth washed her face and hands, turning the white napkin filthy brown with the grime from her skin. Next, she shook the bracken from her hair and soiled headraile. Unfortunately, there was naught she could do about her stained tunic, but after living in the most primitive of conditions, she was grateful for what simple amenities could be afforded her at the moment.

Though the fare was simple, to Gwyneth, the plain, dark bread and weak ale tasted delicious.

As she ate, she noticed many of the men were Saxon, but they were not prisoners. They carried the weapons and broke bread with Alain's men.

She set down her drink and addressed her husband. "Why are so many of these men Saxon?"

"I gave them a choice to either follow me or be delivered to the king." He wiped his mouth and hands on his napkin. "They gladly swore fealty to me and William, saying that Wulfstan was a cruel master, and they were happy to be rid of him."

"I cannot blame them for changing their allegiance," Gwyneth remarked. "Their action makes the union of our two peoples easier to accomplish."

"I think that dream will take some time to be completely achieved through England, but we have made a good beginning at Wykston," Alain answered. "We have no dissension there, and that is good, for the work before us will challenge the saints."

"I know of the fire," she remarked softly, touching the back of his hand. "I saw the flames in the sky, and the men who captured me boasted how easily they penetrated our home because of the fair.

"Aye," Alain answered grimly. "I do not know how we could have prevented the deed. Our guards were posted, but 'tis difficult to discover Wulfstan's kind of stealthy treachery."

"They disguised themselves as merchants and rode through the gates hidden in a wagon full of wares. Disguises are an old trick of Wulfstan's. He used it at the abbey."

"Aye, as a result Wykston Village lies in ashes." Alain shook his head, a disgusted look on his face.

"The whole of it?" Gwyneth asked, her mouth going dry.

"Nay, some of the villagers' houses are intact, but the shops and the homes where the craftsmen lived above the ground level were incinerated. The barn suffered the same fate.

"They told me they burned the granary house," Gwyneth related, explaining the rest of her adventure. "I am sorry we lost the grain."

"We did not lose it, and you are safe now, love," he revealed.

"How did you manage to save it?"

He stood. Helping her to her feet, he lifted her into his arms. "Later," he murmured.

She returned the embrace but stiffened in his arms. Over his shoulder, the familiar face and form of the alewife's daughter came forward through the mist. Gwyneth pulled back, leaving him with a surprised expression on his face.

"What is wrong, Gwyneth?"

"Alain, there is much you must explain. Now!"

***

Chapter 21

A quizzical look on his face, Alain set Gwyneth on her feet. Fresh garments draped over her arm, her long tawny plaits reaching to her swaying hips, Edith came toward them. The girl appeared remarkably clean and well groomed although her coarse, russet tunic was old and worn.

"Would you care to change your garb, and tidy yourself as I have just done, me lady?" Edith asked. "I took the liberty of askin' Aelveva to select some things for ye as I knew ye would be wantin' to refresh yourself?"

"Tell me what other liberties have you taken, Edith?" Gwyneth retorted. "Furthermore, why are you here? And what truck have you carried on with Wulfstan? Do not deny your involvement. I heard the thegn and his man, Edric, speak your name with my own ears."

"Gwyneth, this is not the time," Alain intervened, trying to lead her away.

"'Tis exactly the correct time," she replied, gazing at him defiantly. "I will have my answers. I will know why the two of you have met clandestinely on several occasions. You both thought I was unaware of your rendezvous. Well, I am sorry to disappoint you."

"Moreover, I think Edith is implicated in the massacre of the men at the mill and now the burning of the village."

Edith's shoulders slumped and tears formed in the corners of her eyes, trickling down her cheeks.

"Yer right in a way, my lady, but the evil started before then." The girl put her hands to her face.

Alain placed his hand on Gwyneth's shoulder. "Edith has been as much a victim of Wulfstan as you, wife."

"By my faith, how?" Gwyneth put her hands on her hips. "Has she been bounded, gagged, and abducted? Has she been compelled to spend her days and nights fighting for her life with naught but her brains between her and disaster?"

"She has done exactly that since your father died," Alain answered, matter-of-factly.

As they were speaking, the men had erected tents, and Alain ushered the two women inside the one meant for him and Gwyneth. They all sat on the brown fur pelts arranged on the floor, and the alewife's daughter placed the fresh change of garb beside Gwyneth.

"Edith, tell her the whole tale," Alain urged.

"Aye, me lord." Edith replied, wiping her eyes on the wide sleeve of her old tunic. "The terror began over a year ago when Wulfstan came to Wykston to visit yer father, me lady. 'E and Ulfer plotted that ye and he should marry. We all knew that Lord Leofric intended fer ye to live at the abbey with the abbess, Mother Clotilde. Nevertheless, the thegn and Ulfer hoped to persuade yer father to relent.

"When Lord Leofric refused to change his decision, Wulfstan and Ulfer plotted to kill 'im."

Gwyneth gasped, clasping her hands to her mouth. He had hinted as much. "How do you know that?"

Edith nervously tugged at the end of her girdle. "Because Wulfstan's cupbearer acted as yer father's as well that night at supper. The thegn of Braeton hall brought his minstrels and jugglers with him. E' said he wanted to bring some cheer. Me mother and I was there too. We 'elped serve the guests. We all knew the wretch was up to no good, me lady."

Edith frowned and shuddered as she continued, "The cupbearer was a clever knave. 'E, tasted the mead me mother brewed before he served Wulfstan and yer father, me lady. Everyone in the hall drank the same mead. That way no one could point a finger and say the drink was poisoned.

"But, on the second round, me mother was fillin 'er flagons at the barrel and witnessed Wulfstan's man pour something into his flagon. The cupbearer saw me mother watching 'im. 'E told 'er that if she warned Lord Leofric afore 'e filled his tankard, 'e'd have Wulfstan kill me. 'E did his foul deed and then 'e pretended to trip and managed to spill the rest of the poisonous mead on the floor.

"The cupbearer told his vile master me mother knew. Wulfstan informed us that if we said anythin' that 'e would accuse us of murder for we had been near the mead too. He was a powerful nobleman, and we were but poor brewers." Edith shook her tawny head. "No one would believe us, me lady. In court a thegn far outweighs our testimony."

Gwyneth knew that to be true. Saxon courts did not examine evidence. What determined the case depended upon the number of oath takers each side presented to verify its word. The word of a thegn's outweighed a churl's, an earl's superseded a thegns. Wulfstan's oath helpers would swear to the truth of his word. Though the Normans now ruled the land, Edith and her mother were simple folk, easily intimidated by the older custom.

"Later that night, Lord Leofric became ill, and we was scared to death, me lady. Old Winna could do naught. She said he had fits and was having trouble breathin, me lady."

"Oh," Gwyneth exclaimed, suspecting from the symptoms Edith described, that the poison was savin.

Devastated by the realization that her father had been horribly murdered, Gwyneth burst into tears. The pain in her heart burst like a festered boil.

Alain held her close. "Please, sweeting. Your father has been at peace now for over a year."

"Shall I leave now, my lady?" Edith inquired, moving toward the entrance of the tent.

"Nay," Gwyneth said on a sob. "I must know all."

Edith continued. "Wulfstan could have silenced us by killin' us, but he knew 'is threats were enough to control us. Besides that, the man seemed to enjoy torturin' me mother and me. Mayhap he believed that with Leofric dead, he 'ad nothin' more in 'is way. 'Twas common knowledge 'e lusted after Wykston, and 'e believed the drunken prattle of Ulfer about a son, who would bring glory and wealth to him. But, Lord Alain upset 'is plans so the thegn devised another. 'E would get Ulfer to take you away."

"When Ulfer failed, Wulfstan became furious. 'E beat me and vowed to vex Lord Alain in every way he could. 'E was mad with rage when 'e learned you were to be married, me lady. 'E planned a little wedding present, as 'e called it.

"I was to take bragot and mead to the men guarding the mill. Wulfstan told me 'e did not want to kill those men; 'e simply wanted to burn the mill and starve the Normans out. I was reluctant as I was in love with Charles Strong Arm." Edith wiped a tear with the tip of her finger.

"Wulfstan said that if I did not obey, 'e would kill me mother outright, and if I had any notion of betrayin' him. I was terrified. So on the night of your wedding, me lady, I did his biding.

"You know the rest. I shall never forget the sight of those dead bodies, my lady. Charles and 'is men could offer no resistance. They were in a fast asleep in a drunken stupor when I left them as I kept proposing they drink to 'is lordship's 'ealth."

Edith burst into tears again, and Gwyneth's heart filled with pity. She handed the girl her handkerchief.

"I was 'orrified that the man I loved was dead. 'Twas the second man I cared about and lost," she gasped out between sobs. "I didn't care about anythin' after that. When Lord Alain questioned me, I blurted everythin' out and begged him to save my mother."

Edith's shoulders heaved, and she wept copiously.

Gwyneth put her arm around the girl. "I am sorry Edith. I have judged you unfairly."

"Since that time, Edith has pretended loyalty to Wulfstan. She has informed me of his plans," Alain revealed. "'Twas she who warned me of the plan to burn the grain. We were able to remove it all out and store it in the undercroft of the keep. Despite our action the arsonists got their revenge. While we were waiting for them at the storehouse, they likely saw us since we did not expect them to be disguised as merchants. They could not get to the grain so they started a fire in the stable instead."

"Edith, will you forgive me for my jealousy and suspicion?"

"There is naught to forgive, my lady. I should ask be askin' your pardon, for I was a party to Wulfstan's treachery."

"An unwilling ally, and I would do as much for my mother if I feared for her life," Gwyneth assured her.

"Thank you, me lady." She stood. "Would you like me to assist you with a bath. We've no tub but I can 'ave water put over a fire and I've some soap."

"I would like that, Edith."

"Have Robert prepare the same for me, Edith," Alain added. Remorse in her heart, Gwyneth watched the girl leave, then met her husband's gaze. If she had not been so full of mistrust and pride, she would have gone to Alain and Edith when she saw them together. They would have told her the truth, and she would not have been captured.

She took her husband's hand. "Why didn't you tell me, Alain?"

"For many reasons, but mainly because I did not want you to worry and live in fear. You had enough to be frightened about in the past."

"You refer to my sleepwalking."

"Aye," he answered, rubbing the pad of his thumb across the back of her hand.

"'Tis a strange thing, but I do not think I have done that for some time."

"You have not since we left London." He drew onto his lap.

"I am sorry, Alain."

"For what, my little rose?" He kissed her neck.

"For my distrust of you and Edith. 'Twas petty of me."

"I know something of suspicion." He drew back and smiled, and even in the gloomy light of the tent, his eyes gleamed like fine sapphires. "You have shown me that love and trust go together."

"You have helped me learn as well." She smiled.

Still holding her, he drew back an arm's length. "I have? What might that be?"

"That to vanquish my fears, I must face them."

"That is true. Enemies are not defeated by retreating from them. I have learned also. You have taught me to trust, Gwyneth."

He pulled her to him again and kissed her fully on the mouth.

"Me lord and lady, your water is ready," Edith called. She and Robert stood at the flap of the tent.

"Leave the bathing utensils. My lady and I will assist each other," Alain said.

***

One week later, Alain lay in his bed in Wykston keep. Outside, the wind blew, and he wondered if the snow was still falling outside. It did not matter. Cuddled under his thick quilt, Gwyneth safe and asleep in his arms, he felt as content as a cat before a kitchen hearth, and he did not plan to move from his bedchamber for a long time.

He felt Gwyneth's fingers laced with his. "Are you awake?" she asked, her voice still heavy with sleep.

"Aye," he answered, kissing her cheek.

She turned to him slowly as she stretched languorously, arching her back and extending her limbs. "Good morrow, love," she greeted, the sound of slumber was still in her voice.

"A good morrow to you as well." He propped himself up on his elbow. "Did you rest well?"

"Never better." She giggled, and her silver eyes sparkled with merriment. "I see that I did not wander either."

"Nay, you did not," he affirmed, chuckling. "That is because you cannot bear to leave me."

Her eyes took on a serious expression. "Nay, I cannot, though when I was wandering the forest, and my thoughts became black, I believed I might never see you again."

"I am not that easily killed. Remember, assassins have been trying to be rid of me since I was a boy." He laughed.

"Do not speak of it so lightly, Alain." She stroked the slope of his jaw. " I do not wish to be a widow."

"Nay?" He raised his eyes, mocking surprise. "A widow has powerful status. You'd be mistress of your own destiny with no master to whom you must answer," he joked.

"You would leave me with no coin, a burned village, and the hostile Scots at my back door?"

His hand settled on her breast. "You have charmed other enemies," he said before his mouth claimed hers, taking her breath away.

He broke the kiss, and his lips traveled to her neck, while his fingers played over her breasts, fanning the desire quickly building within her.

"Aye, love, but you would not want another man to raise our child."

His hand stilled, and he pulled away, staring at her in wonderment. "When?"

She laughed. "When what? Do you want to know when your child was conceived, or when he will make his appearance into the world?"

"Uh, both, I suppose."

She ran her fingers through his thick sable hair. "I believe your seed took root the day we went to the spring in the woods."

"Aye, 'twas a magical time." He lay back down beside her.

She turned to him. "The babe will make his appearance in June."

"His arrival? How can you be so sure 'twill be a boy."

"Shall we wager on it then?"

"Aye, but after we make some more magic." He pulled her close, covering her face with kisses.

"Thank you for saving, my life, love," she whispered. "I saved my own as well," he answered. "For without you, I have no life."

***

Epilogue

Wykston Manor 1074

Alain at her side, Gwyneth sat on a bench beneath the big beech in the garden, her newest babe, Enid, in her arms. Above them, the keep, now flanked by additional wings, and other buildings rose like a dignified sentinel behind, maintaining the peace for as far as the eye could see beyond its crenellated curtain wall.

Below them, the village, rebuilt of red sandstone and slate lay devoid of commerce. Alain had declared this Midsummer's Day one of rest and frolic for all the folk, and everyone in Wykston joined celebration at the keep. The June sun bestowed warm, vibrant kisses on them all and provoked a lovely fragrance from the new roses, rambling in bushing profusion on the garden wall. At the edge of the walk, Gwyneth's dark-haired son, Richard, played with Dog. The dignified abbess, who had made a rare visit to Wykston, carried on a lively discussion with Father Rollo, Father Alfred, and Warroc beside the bed of gillyflowers. Since his reconciliation with Alain, her father-in-law had traveled from Normandy to Wykston every other year. Gwyneth and her husband visited him on the alternate years. There they also stayed at their estate in Normandy, which had partially financed the building of the village.

Edith, rewarded with a title and land for her courage and loyalty, now lived close to the Scottish border.

Watching the flow of drink, Gwyneth laughed to herself, thinking that many a husband would awake tomorrow with a splitting headache.

Gwyneth stood, hardly able to contain her joy as Ranulf and Aelveva approached. Recently knighted for his great service to the king, Alain's old friend had become the new lord of Whitmere Hall.

Aelveva, resplendent in her yellow tunic, held Dunstan's hand. The boy had grown a great crop of sandy hair and was the image of his father. Their newest child, Maud, nestled in Aelveva's arms. Garth was now Alain's foster. The boy ran ahead of his family, his red hair unmistakable in the bright sun.

"Well, old friend, I see that Lady Gwyneth won yet another wager," Ranulf said, slapping his comrade on the back."

Alain laughed. "She has indeed. She predicts the sex of our children with uncanny accuracy every time. 'Tis a plot to pick my pockets."

"For shame, my lord." She turned to him, an irrepressible smile tugging at her lips. "'Tis you who always chooses the stakes."

Alain's violet-blue eyes sparkled. "I do at that."

"What is your prize this time?" Aelveva asked. "Ranulf gave me a topaz ring when Maud arrived." She lifted her hand to display the large, honey colored gem.

Alain took a leather pouch from his belt. He loosened the thongs, took her hand, and inverted the little sack, allowing the contents to fall in the hollow of Gwyneth's palm.

She stared down at a Celtic cross in disbelief. The piece was exactly like the one with which she had bought her freedom. Tears welled in her eyes. Her heart filled with sentiment, her words came with difficulty. She looked up at him. "How? Where?" she asked shaking her head.

Alain offered her his handkerchief. "After Easter when I went to Edinburgh for the king, I stopped in a shoemaker's shop for a pair of shoes for you. The shoemaker wore the cross round his neck. I knew how much your father's gift meant to you, and the reason you no longer possessed it. For those reasons, I asked if I could buy the piece from him."

"Did he have a scar?" Gwyneth asked excitedly.

"Aye, he did," Alain affirmed.

"Tosig!" Gwyneth exclaimed as she sank to the bench once again.

"Correct again," Alain said.

"When he realized I meant no harm, and I told him my wife bought her freedom with a cross just like the one he wore, he took it off and gave it to me. Tosig confessed how he came by it. He related that because of you, Gwyneth, he found a happy prosperous life, and the time had come to return the sacred symbol to its rightful owner. He recounted that he was able to buy it back from the man to whom he sold it very soon after he set up shop."

She stood and Alain slipped the cross over her head, careful not to wake the blond infant in her arms. "Thank you, love," she whispered.

"That is not all he said." Alain dropped to his haunches and lifted another pouch, which he had left on the grass.

"So now you are finally going to let me see it," she declared.

"Aye, Rose," Alain answered.

He withdrew a lovely pair of red leather shoes. "Tosig said to expect a pair every year at this time. He says he has found happiness with his wife, Morag, and wants to share his lot with the brave lass, who gave him the courage to find a new lease on life."

Gwyneth fingered the shoes. "As he did for me. I am glad the man found joy."

Warroc had left his clerical friends and joined Richard. They both hurried toward Gwyneth. Dog followed, sniffing at their heels.

"Mother, I am hungry," Richard announced.

Her father-in-law's eyes twinkled, and he patted his middle. "So am I," he affirmed.

"Very well then, let us to the feast, " Alain shouted. Gwyneth's heart swelled. The three generations of men, Warroc, Alain, and Richard all resembled each other so strongly, there could be no mistaking they were related. Surrounded by friends and family, Gwyneth felt fortunate. Everyone whom she loved was here today.

"May I have the honor of holding my new granddaughter?" Warroc asked. "I never had a daughter, and I have a special fondness for little girls."

"Then I give her to you with pleasure," Gwyneth answered.

His chest swelling, Warroc, Lord of Raddon, took the tiny child into his muscled arms with heart-rending tenderness.

Everyone paraded across the lush, verdant turf to the middle of the sunny inner bailey where tables, groaning with food, had been set for the hungry diners.

Alain and Gwyneth lagged back, holding hands.

"I have another surprise for you today," her husband said.

She turned to him. "Oh, Alain, you know I cannot bear the suspense."

"I shall not tease you then." He drew her into his arms. "William has changed the penalty for witchcraft from death to banishment."

She sighed. "Thanks be to heaven, my love. Though that threat has not hung over me for many years now, I feel happy for other poor souls who may still be accused."

"Aye. You have not walked in your sleep since well before Richard was born.

The abbess was right. She said that when I felt safe and had a family of my own, I would not roam about looking for the one I had lost."

Alain took her into his arms. His violet-blue eyes aglow, he whispered, "Want to make another wager?"

She giggled. "That depends on the stakes, my lord."

"We could further enlarge the infirmary?"

"In that case, you are on, and our next child will be another girl."

"That would suit me well. Like my father, I have a fondness for females. Shall we seal the bargain then?"

She nodded, and Alain possessed her lips with a kiss that proclaimed his unending love, and Gwyneth responded in kind.