Married To Her Enemy. Jenni Fletcher
the stockade of a small, almost completely hidden settlement. No wonder it had taken so long to find.
Svend swallowed another oath. At this time of year the villagers should have been busy harvesting their crops, but the long strips of farmland were deserted. Instead he could see fresh furrows in the mud, tracks left by horses and carts. If they’d put out a banner the residents couldn’t have made their departure any more obvious.
‘Ten shillings if she’s still here?’ Renard persisted.
‘Twenty,’ Svend murmured, resisting the urge to knock his squire into the mud.
In truth, he would have paid a lot more to get this over with. Hunting a woman was no honourable task for a knight and he resented his orders—even if they did come from the King via his cousin, William FitzOsbern, the new Earl of Hereford.
Hawklike, his gaze narrowed in on the meagre earthen defences. What in blazes was Lady Cille doing here? The village was well hidden, but hardly a stronghold. What had made her flee a fortress like Redbourn and take refuge in such an isolated place? And why the hell was he wasting his time finding her? Surely the future of the Conquest couldn’t depend on one Saxon woman!
There must be something more important he could be doing!
He kept his thoughts to himself. He’d learnt to keep his own counsel a long time ago, preferring to live up to the reputation his men had ascribed him of being inscrutable, keeping his emotions well hidden.
‘Take the men and surround the palisade.’ He rubbed the light blond stubble on his chin with irritation. He needed a bath and a shave. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
‘You’re going alone, sir?’
Renard’s expression was anxious and Svend raised an eyebrow, not sure whether to be amused or insulted. ‘She’s only one woman.’
‘But it might be a trap. The Saxons might be hiding.’
‘Perhaps.’ He bit back a sarcastic retort. ‘But she’s more likely to come peacefully if we don’t scare the wits out of her.’
‘She might be armed.’
‘I’m certain of it.’
He placed a reassuring hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Renard was a good squire, and would make a fine knight one day, but he could be annoyingly over-attentive at times.
‘Don’t worry. You’ll be close by if she overpowers me.’
He winked, spurring his destrier forward before Renard could detect the sarcasm. The hill was steep but he surged fearlessly ahead, trusting his mount’s training and his men’s obedience as they thundered towards the stockade, his blond hair, worn to shoulder-length rather than in the cropped Norman fashion, streaming behind him like a banner of white gold, as if he were charging headlong into battle.
The wind tore at his face and he grinned, sharing his mount’s exhilaration. Talbot was a fine specimen, sixteen hands high at his grey shoulder, and worth every bruise it had taken to win him. Svend’s grin spread wickedly as he recalled the French Baron whose haughty dismissal of a fifteen-year-old farmer’s son had cost him his finest warhorse—not to mention his dignity before the then Duke William of Normandy.
It was the same day that he’d been plucked from a life of brawling in tournaments and offered training as a household knight—been given a sense of focus and purpose, a way to vent the anger of his past. His low rank hadn’t made him popular with the rest of the high-born squires at William’s court, but thick skin and quick fists had earned him a position he could never have dreamed of. Knighthood and a place in the King’s personal guard. It was no mean feat for the fourth son of a Danish farmer.
Not to mention an outlaw.
He drew rein in front of the wooden palisade and dismounted, tossing his cloak aside and drawing his sword from its scabbard in one fluid movement. The ground was muddy—hardly surprising after a week of near constant rain and mizzle—and it covered his boots in a cloying, sticky mess. Not for the first time he found himself wondering why they’d left Normandy for this fogbound, rain-soaked isle. He was heartily sick of the rough terrain, the appalling weather and, most of all, this search for a woman who seemed more phantom than flesh and blood.
Phantom. His mouth curved in a mirthless smile. That was what his men called her. Impossible to find, let alone to capture. They’d spent two weeks travelling in circles, searching for Etton’s hidden valley. And now, from the look of things, she’d eluded them yet again.
He muttered another imprecation. The Earl had promised to reward him on the King’s behalf upon his return to Redbourn—some share in the spoils of conquest for ten years’ loyal service—just as soon as he found the woman.
At this rate it would take another ten years.
He took his frustration out on the gate, shattering the wooden frame with one kick and sending the locking bar spinning ten feet into the mud. He frowned at the sight of it. If the gate had been barred from the inside there might still be a chance she was there. Foolish of him not to have checked, letting frustration get the better of caution, but no matter. The village was clearly deserted, the wattle-and-daub dwellings empty and abandoned.
He stalked between them, past broken pots and dropped blankets strewn haphazardly over the rough ground, as if the inhabitants had left recently and in a rush. He felt a now familiar twinge of unease. Clearly the fearsome Norman reputation had preceded them—bloodthirsty tales of retribution and punishment. The thought made him uncomfortable. Rule by fear was no just way to govern a country, but the King was implacable towards those who resisted his rule.
Svend wanted no part of it. For the first time in his career he found himself questioning his King’s methods. How could the Conquest ever be peaceful when Normans were so hated?
He reached the Thane’s hall and thrust his sword point-first into the mud. No matter what Renard’s concerns, if by some unlikely chance she were still hiding inside, there’d be little enough room for swordplay and he had no desire to fight a woman. He still carried his sax on his belt, but he had no intention of using it. He’d bring her by force if he had to, but he wouldn’t hurt her—not if he could help it.
Unlike a Norman fortress, there was no wooden door, just a heavy oxhide draped over the entrance. Cautiously he pulled it aside and stepped over the threshold. A shaft of light filtered in through a hole in the centre of the thatched roof, helping his eyes adjust to the half-darkness. As he’d expected, the hall was deserted—and yet something about the scene wasn’t right. The room was empty, not abandoned. And there was a strange sound coming from behind a partition at the back, like an animal whimpering in pain.
He took a step towards it and then stopped, realising his error a split second too late as the blade pricked the back of his neck.
‘Don’t move!’ The voice was soft but determined, and unmistakably female. More surprisingly, it was speaking in perfect French. ‘Raise your hands!’
He did as he was told, annoyed by his own complacency. He’d been caught out like some raw, callow recruit—but then he’d never expected to find her completely alone. Where were her men? Surely there was somebody here to defend her?
He put his hands on the back of his head, starting to turn. ‘You’re a difficult woman to find, Lady Cille.’
‘Stop! Stay as you are!’
The blade pressed harder against his skin, but he detected a faint tremor. She was afraid.
Briefly he considered disarming her. The position of the sword told him everything he needed to know about her combat skills. A more practised opponent would have pointed the blade to his throat. But he decided to try diplomacy first.
‘My name is Sir Svend du Danemark. I mean you no harm.’
There was a lengthy pause as he waited, inhaling the sweet, heady scent of summer flowers, which reminded him of his home in Danemark.
Fool.