The Conqueror's Lady. Terri Brisbin
lawful control of England. Days became almost a week as they faced battle after battle and finally made their way to his promised fief.
In spite of sending word ahead of his claim and his approach, the lady and those who conspired with her had nearly completed their hasty marriage when Giles managed to take control of the keep. He smiled grimly.
Now, it was his.
The building was not very large, but would suit him. It contained three floors with several private chambers and a separate kitchen building. The keep, kitchen, chapel and several other shops were enclosed by the wall. It was not large, but it pleased him and would offer protection until he could replace the wood with stone as William had ordered.
Pushing the mail coif off his head, Giles looked for something to staunch the bleeding from his wound and found a small linen kerchief on the bed. Pressing it against the deep gash, he walked back to the window to watch his orders being carried out. Unfortunately, things were not going as he had instructed.
The newest soldier in his company had some young girl in his grasp, his intent obvious even from this distance. Damn him! Giles had made it clear that such attacks were unacceptable, but Stephen had thrown control away during the battle and now the girl was his next target. Running from the chamber and down the stairs, Giles reached the yard in time to see the lady Fayth intervene.
Before Giles could shout an order, Stephen reached out and grabbed Fayth, lifting her from her feet. Giles called for him to stop, but the noise in the yard prevented anyone from hearing it. As he took off running towards them Stephen hit Fayth with enough force that the lady fell to the ground unconscious. Without stopping, Giles ploughed into the soldier and took him to the ground. Heedless of those watching, he pummelled him until he himself was pulled away.
‘Andre!’ he called to a guard. ‘Carry the lady to my chambers. Henri, find her servant or a healer and see to her care. And,’ he added, wiping his mouth of the blood that flowed freely once more, ‘do not leave her side.’ He turned to face Stephen, who still lay on the ground at his feet. ‘Your disobedience and lack of control have ever been your weakness,’ he accused. ‘You have been warned about this and you have not heeded my words.’
Giles ordered him lifted, stripped to the waist and tied to the fence. The yard was eerily silent now as all watched their new lord discipline one of his own. He would rather not have carried this out now, but a prompt response to disobedience by any of his men was necessary, especially in a time of war. He tugged off the gauntlets and accepted the whip from his second-in-command. Giles did not do this lightly, for he’d felt the lash bite his skin, but he’d learned the hard lesson it taught quickly and had rarely faced discipline again.
Walking to the fence, he looked at those now held in the enclosure and at his men. ‘For disobedience of my standing orders, the punishment is ten lashes. Call them, Thierry.’
Giles unwrapped the length of leather and flicked it into the air. The tip cracked loudly and many of those around him flinched, though no target was touched. He took several paces back and then applied the punishment he had decreed. Thierry counted out the number so that all could hear. Although Stephen hissed with each lash, he kept himself from crying out or bucking. At ten, Giles took a deep breath and paused.
‘And for laying hands on the lady Fayth, ten more.’
His words surprised all who watched for he heard the gasps at his declaration. Giles lifted his arm again and again until the strokes numbered ten. Stephen’s control had waned and he moaned at each bite of the whip. No one moved until Giles nodded his consent.
‘Remove him and leave him there. When we finish the work we have ahead of us, then someone can see to his wounds.’
He met his men’s gazes then before turning around and walking away. Two of his men removed Stephen and went back to the tasks he had assigned before the incident had stopped them, now a man short due to the stupidity and lust of one of their own.
Giles looked around and noticed the sun was not even at its highest point in the sky yet. Sweat and blood now poured down from his head, under his mail and tunic. He had been fighting since just after dawn and he was tired. Once he was certain that his men had control over the yard and the inhabitants, he motioned to Thierry to follow him into the keep.
The days of fighting his way across England were catching up with him and he wanted nothing so much as a secure home, a hot bath and a meal to fill his belly. From the looks of the keep and the turmoil still moving through it, Giles knew that he would not be getting his wishes fulfilled this day.
And he still had to deal with his new wife-to-be.
Her first attempt to open her eyes met with a head-shattering pain, so Fayth lay very still and waited until the urge to vomit quieted. She listened without moving as someone, or some ones, shuffled about the chamber. She was tempted to try again, but the waves of pain pulsing through her skull warned her not to.
‘My lady?’ The whispered words came from a familiar voice, but she could not recognise it so at the moment. ‘My lady?’
Fayth swallowed and then again, but she could not speak. Her head felt as though it would shatter if she tried to answer, but the blasted woman, whoever she was, was relentless.
‘You must wake up, my lady. He is coming.’
Lifting her hands, Fayth slid her fingers over her forehead and scalp until she found the lump. Gliding softly over it, she knew the source of the pain. With her arm shielding her eyes from the light pouring into the chamber, she forced them open.
It was Ardith. The young girl’s tear-streaked face filled with terror as she turned to the door and then back to her. When the door opened, Ardith jumped to her feet and backed away, stopping only when her body hit the wall of the chamber. Fayth watched her as long as she could, but the waves of dizziness made it impossible after a few moments.
‘You were told to care for her wound. Why is she still covered in blood?’
The words, in halting English, echoed in the room, making Fayth’s stomach clench. Ardith was terrified into silence and could only offer a soft sobbing sound at the question. If Fayth could, she would intervene. But the pain and dizziness made it a thing she could not accomplish. She finally found her tongue.
‘She is not used to such duties,’ she whispered, hoping that the effort was enough. It made the terrible pain increase and made her stomach begin to heave.
Luckily the girl could recognise what was about to happen. Ardith grabbed a pail from the corner and held it out just as Fayth began to retch. By the end of it, she had not the strength to lift her head from the bucket and would have stayed in that humiliating position had not a strong pair of hands lifted her up and guided her back to the pillow.
‘Get rid of that now! ‘ he commanded.
It did not have the effect he wanted, for Ardith simply cowered farther into the corner, shaking so badly that she nearly dropped the offensive bucket to the floor. Fayth could only watch as the warrior approached and cursed in Norman French at the girl. Then the commotion outside the door stopped him and Emma entered, carrying a pail and some linens.
‘My lord,’ she said, curtsying before him. ‘You are terrifying her—’ Emma stepped around him and held out her hand to Ardith ‘—as are your men.’
Watching was all Fayth could do as her old serving maid placed the things she had brought in on the table, took the bucket from Ardith’s shaking grasp, and walked with it, past the astonished lord, to the door. Pulling it open, she pushed it into the hands of one of the soldiers there and ordered him away with it. Only the lord’s loud laughter allowed the man to move.
‘You do not seem terrified, old woman. What is your name?’
‘Emma is old, my lord. Please …’ Fayth whispered, trying to lean her head up to stop the wrath she knew would follow.
‘Old enough to have wiped your arse when you were but a babe-in-arms, my lord,’ Emma retorted without a speck of hesitation or the proper