Bound to the Warrior. Barbara Phinney

      Chapter Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “In commemoration?”

      She shrugged. “Most likely to curry favor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

      He stopped as Adrien dismounted.

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

      None had taken the offer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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