Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord. Carol Townend
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Praise for Carol Townend
THE NOVICE BRIDE
‘THE NOVICE BRIDE is sweet, tantalising, frustrating, seductively all-consuming, deliciously provocative…I can’t go on enough about this story’s virtues. Read this book. You’ll fall in love a hundred times over.’
—Romance Junkies
‘From the very first words, this story snatches the reader from present day, willingly pulling hearts and minds back to the time of the Norman conquest. Culture clash, merciless invaders, innocence lost and freedom captured—all wonderfully highlighted in this mesmerising novel.’
—Romance Reader at Heart
AN HONOURABLE ROGUE
‘Ms Townend’s impeccable attention to detail and lush, vivid images bring this time period to life.’
—Romance Reader at Heart
‘Anyone who wants to read a very satisfying and heart-warming historical romance will not go wrong with AN HONOURABLE ROGUE by Carol Townend.’
—CataRomance
HIS CAPTIVE LADY
‘Ms Townend does an excellent job of drawing readers into the world of the Saxons and Normans with clever dialogue and descriptions of settings and emotions. I give this book a very high recommendation!’
—Romance Junkies
The sheer physical strength of the man was impressive—the wide shoulders, the muscled thighs—she had felt this for herself as he had carried her up those stairs. But there was more than mere strength here. Yes, it was most odd. It was there in his eyes…This evening Emma would swear she could put her life in his hands and rest easy.
But he is a Norman!
Pointedly, she made a show of looking about his bedchamber. It was furnished with royal extravagance. There were two braziers—comforting glimmers of heat. Adding more coals to one of them, Sir Richard waved her towards it. ‘Warm yourself, my lady.’
My lady. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. How long had it been since anyone had done her the courtesy of addressing her by her title? But he would soon stop doing so once he learned about her son…
Carol Townend has been making up stories since she was a child. Whenever she comes across a tumbledown building, be it castle or cottage, she can’t help conjuring up the lives of the people who once lived there. Her Yorkshire forebears were friendly with the Brontë sisters. Perhaps their influence lingers…
Carol’s love of ancient and medieval history took her to London University, where she read History, and her first novel (published by Mills & Boon) won the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s New Writers’ Award. Currently she lives near Kew Gardens, with her husband and daughter. Visit her website at www.caroltownend.co.uk
Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord
Carol Townend
Author Note
In the eleventh century heraldry was in its infancy—the devices of the various noble houses did not start to develop properly until the second quarter of the twelfth century. However, flags and pennons may be seen on the Bayeux Tapestry. They were used in the Battle of Hastings to convey signals as well as to reveal identity. Count Richard of Beaumont’s crimson pennon is similar to these.
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To Lucy and Mike with love and much thanks for supporting historical research in la belle France
Chapter One
Winchester—1070
Emma was halfway to the wash-house just outside the city walls when the fluttering of a red pennon caught her eye. Up there, on the road that led to the downs, a squadron of Norman horse soldiers had crested the rise. With a scowl, Emma gripped little Henri’s hand. She was late, but this she had to see. Was it him? It had to be. Sir Richard of Asculf, commander of the Winchester garrison, was finally returning from campaign in the North.
Emma stared past the row of cottages and some field strips up the hill, squinting in the bright spring sun while the March wind tugged her green veil and skirts. One knight looked much the same as another in full armour, hence the importance of his pennon. And, of course, more than one knight had a red pennon. Since William of Normandy had come to wrest the crown from King Harold, Emma had seen several such. Sir Richard’s had a silver line running through it, but the conroi, or squadron, was still too far away for Emma to make out the device.
‘Mama, you are hurting my hand!’ Henri said, trying to slide his small fingers out from hers.
‘Sorry, sweetheart.’ Emma slackened her grip, but she stayed stock-still, waiting while the column drew nearer. If it was Sir Richard, and her instincts told her it was, he had been away for several months near York. The rumours were that it had been a particularly bloody campaign; already some were calling it the Harrowing of the North. Many Saxons had been put to the sword, and not just warriors—women and children had been killed, too. Murdered was perhaps a more accurate word. Some said even the ducks and pigs had been slaughtered, and the grain had been burned to ensure that anyone left standing would have neither the will nor the wherewithal to contemplate rebelling against King William. Up around York, the Saxons that had been left alive would be battling merely to survive, exactly as she was.
But Sir Richard would be all right; his kind always were. A strong, handsome face lit by a pair of penetrating grey eyes hovered at the edge of Emma’s consciousness. Sir Richard was Norman, and while he might be a friend of her sister, Cecily, he was likely as ruthless as the worst of them. Those eyes…so cold.
Anger churned in Emma’s stomach as the line of horse soldiers snaked over the rise, chain-mail gleaming like silver, shiny helmets pointing to the sky. Doubtless they were eager to return to their quarters. Everything that had gone wrong in her life was their fault, she thought, homing in on the great grey the lead knight was riding. Sir Richard had a grey destrier. If the Normans had never crossed the Narrow Sea, her life would have proceeded as it should have done. Her mother and father would still be alive, her brother, too. Lady Emma of Fulford would be happily married and Henri would be legitimate…
Normans. Apart from her mother, God rest her soul, Emma loathed them.
Yes, it was Sir Richard sure enough, that war-horse gave him away.
‘Sir Richard.’ Muttering the name as though it were a curse, Emma turned back to the river path. Sir Richard was no doubt returning to a comfortable feather bed in the castle while, thanks to the likes of him, she—Emma glanced at