Juliana Garnett (6 page)

She wanted to smile in satisfaction, but dared not—not yet, when keeping her understanding from the Normans might still win her freedom. So she kept her head down, her attention on her folded hands, clenched together so tightly that her knuckles grew white with strain as her home was transformed into a Norman abode.

When Ceara could bear to look up at the hall again—completely changed now, with furniture moved and familiar hangings gone—she recognized Hardred, one of her father’s thralls, being pressed into service by the Normans. While she had never liked him, she could not help a feeling of pity that he was now a slave to Norman whims. Just as she was.…

She shuddered and Luc leaned forward, his mouth close to her ear as he murmured in English that soon a fire would be built to warm them. His breath was heated against her cheek, his presence much too near, too immediate, so that she found it difficult to reply, or even to breathe. Did he think a few kind words would replace the deeds of the day? Impossible. And she refused to acknowledge his pretense of courtesy.

After a moment of stubborn silence, he laughed softly. “Ah,
little Saxon,” he said in French, “you are as fierce as the men of your land, but you are now brought to hand, as a tamed gyr-falcon. Your wings have been clipped, but you will not admit to defeat … perhaps it will not be so boring a journey as I had thought, delivering a rebel to William in chains. And perhaps you may yet find that being conquered is not all that you fear.”

Chains?
Ceara tensed, that word standing apart from the others, ringing ominously in her brain. She was to be
chained
. Hatred sparked anew. Did they think to humiliate her? She would not have it. She would fight him, escape or die rather than be presented to the Norman king weighed down in chains and shame.

Was it not shame enough to be forced to sit at the feet of the enemy in her own hall? The hall where she had played as a child under her parents’ loving eyes? And well this man must know it, for he kept her here as a prize to display before her own people as well as his. She was branded now, tarred with the brush of defeat.

And I will escape
, she vowed silently, her fingers curling into such tight fists that her hands began to ache. Yes, she would flee into the forest beyond Wulfridge if given the slightest chance, retrieve her beloved wolf and leave this land behind. Wulfridge was no longer hers, would soon be swallowed up by the Norman horde and become unfamiliar. Ah, everything she had done was wrong, save for sending Sheba away to safety. But how safe would the animal remain with Normans prowling fen and wood? They slaughtered everything, these savage invaders, leaving nothing alive for the use of Saxon inhabitants. Not even elderly servants were spared, and certainly not those who defied them with sword and hatred. If she did not escape, she would die as well.

It seemed an eternity before Luc leaned back and away from her, though he kept a hand on her shoulder, his fingers toying with her loose hair. Did he never tire? He had not yet sat
down, but stood behind her like an avenging angel while his men kept Saxon prisoners at work clearing the hall.

Ceara did not betray the turmoil inside her by word or gesture, yet it gnawed at her while she sat silently at the Norman’s feet. Time lagged endlessly. Nor did she betray her distress when Saxon captives were brought before Sir Luc weighed down in heavy chains. The men, bloodied and yet hostile, were offered a choice between swearing fealty to him and to William, or death.

“Know you,” Luc warned, “that if you swear to me, you will keep your oath or suffer the consequences. I do not tolerate treachery, and would respect a man more for the unwelcome truth than a false oath.”

The silence that fell over the hall was oppressive, rife with foreboding. Ceara held her breath, mutely pleading with each man not to yield to the Norman foe.

But she was disappointed, as each man bent the knee to Sir Luc and swore fealty to him and to William, swearing to ply arms only for the Norman rulers. Not one abstained, not even Kerwin, the grizzled captain who had been her father’s finest commander.

“You have made wise decisions this day,” Luc said to the grim-faced Saxons. “I have need of good men to serve me, and will see you rewarded justly for loyal service. Go now and have your chains removed and your heads shorn to the Norman mode, so that all will know of your free choice.”

Ceara closed her eyes, sick at heart. This, then, was the end.

The sickness stayed with her long after the men were led away. They would return to homes and families, while she was to face her fate alone. But had she not known this from the first? Yea, she had known when she took up the reins of command and convinced Balfour’s men to follow his daughter that she risked more than they did if she failed.

At last Luc took his seat, and a table was dragged to the dais and laid with platters of meat, bread, and cheese, as well as flagons of ale. She did not touch the trencher that was placed
before her, but stared with such pointed disdain at Luc when he bade her eat that he did not persist.

“Rebellious Saxon. Starve yourself if it pleases you, then.”

A small smile touched the corners of his mouth, and she was struck by how much younger he seemed then. Without his helmet and coif, she could see that his dark hair was longer than most Normans’, with tousled locks covering his ears and almost brushing against his broad shoulders. Strong black brows soared over his inky eyes like hawk wings, and a rough stubble of beard shadow darkened his cheeks and jaw. Despite a thin scar at the corner of one brow, and another along the square line of his jaw, he was a well-favored man. Yet he was still Norman—still the enemy—and thus detestable to her eyes.

Her disdain did not have the unsettling effect on him that she would have liked. Instead he seemed to find amusement in her aloof silence, and took advantage of any opportunity to goad her with comments made to Captain Remy in English, so she would be certain to comprehend. But she understood the game, and controlled her temper with an immense effort.

Torches burned low, pungent sparks flickering to the tile floor as the Normans ate and drank, celebrating their victory over the Saxons now being forced to serve them. Most of those pressed into service were young and untrained, and looked terrified as they stumbled clumsily about in a desperate attempt to satisfy the victors. Acrid smoke from green wood filled the hall in drifting layers and stung the back of her throat. The smell of burnt meat mingled with the stench of unwashed bodies and spilled ale. What tables were not shattered had been set up along the length of the hall, and wooden benches flanked the long oaken slabs. The enemy filled Wulfridge’s hall with laughter and boasts and the retelling of their victory until Ceara wanted to cover her ears with her hands. Stark pride was the only tether that kept her bound to the Norman at her side. She would not give him the satisfaction of admitting her longing to flee, so sat stiffly with her head held high.

But exhaustion left her almost reeling. She longed for her bed, yet dreaded the coming night. Already, she had seen the few women of the household disappear, and could only imagine their fates at the hands of these rough men. No less would be her fate, she was certain. Luc had kept a hand on her all evening, playing with her hair and occasionally stroking her cheek with the backs of his fingers, as if she already belonged to him. Unnerving in itself, but coupled with the knowledge of what was surely to come, it was almost enough to undo her.

The moment came far too soon. He rose to his feet, a careless hand still on her shoulder. His fingers pressed into her flesh. “Come,
demoiselle
. I would seek rest this eve, for the morrow comes early. You may show me to a bed.”

Stubbornness and fear kept her seated, and tension made her tongue sharp. “ ’tis customary for dogs to sleep at the door, Norman. Seek your rest there.”

“Do you intend to join me?” His tone was mild, but his fingers dug into her shoulder painfully. “You may once have been the lady here, but Wulfridge is no longer yours to command. Lest you wish to sleep on stone yourself, you will show me to a soft bed instead of a cold portal.”

She managed a shrug that did not dislodge his grip. “Wulfridge has long been mine to command, and I prefer my own chamber.”

“Foolish little pagan. If you test me, it will be to your discomfort, for my patience is near gone and I will deal with you harshly. Now rise. I do not intend to quarrel with you in front of the entire hall. I have more pleasant pursuits in mind for this eve.”

Ceara stiffened. The last was spoken loudly enough for her people to hear, his clear English carrying the length of the hall. She glanced up. Dismay flickered on familiar Saxon faces, while the Normans looked smug at her plight. Captain Remy had the temerity to laugh, a grin creasing his face, and he lifted his cup in a salute to his lord.

Reckless fury surged through her, and she forced a serene smile as she obediently rose in a graceful movement. Even as she stood, at last, on a level surface with Luc, he was much taller than she. Yet she would not be intimidated. Not for his satisfaction, nor the entertainment of his men.

She pushed back a loose strand of her hair as she met Luc’s dark eyes with a steady gaze, then deliberately lifted her voice so that all still remaining in the hall could hear: “Yea, you may very well have taken the hall, Norman, but you have not conquered all. As to
pleasant pursuits
, my lineage is pure and I will not willingly suffer the touch of a Norman bastard.”

It was a taunt, such as those he had been pricking her with all evening, but she saw at once this barb was swift and true. Captain Remy slammed down his cup and growled an oath, and there was an uneasy stirring among the Normans before a heavy silence fell.

In the sudden quiet, the sputtering of torches sounded overloud to her ears, as did the wild thud of her heart pounding in her chest. Hot flame leaped in Luc’s eyes; his brows lowered like swooping hawks, and his fury was visible in the strained white lines on each side of his mouth.

Luc’s hands flashed out to grab her upper arms and lift her, dangling her above the floor. It was not an easy task, for she was no small woman, and no man had been able to thus handle her since she was but a green girl. Ceara realized with increasing alarm that she had gone too far, but it was too late to retract her words even if pride would allow it.

“Saxon bitch,” he snarled softly, “be ’ware of whose temper you prod with reckless words, for I am not known for tenderness to women.”

The warning was evident in the fierce grip of his hands and the baleful gleam in his eyes. It was so quiet around them that she could hear the scrape of booted feet shifting uncomfortably on the tile floor, and the faint clink of chain mail as Norman knights moved to get a better view.

Bitterly, she recognized that to further flaunt her defiance would only earn her more humiliation than she had yet suffered. So she nodded curtly, a short jerk of her chin to acknowledge his warning. His grip did not loosen. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and his dark eyes were narrowed and smoky with rage.

Ceara managed not to whimper when he finally released her even as she fell with a jarring thud to the floor, nor did she try to evade him when he curled his fingers around her left wrist in a painfully tight grip and dragged her abruptly from the dais. She had a blurred vision of gaping faces as she was drawn past Norman and Saxon observers. One face stood out, the pale, freckled features of young Rudd watching in horror as his lady was pulled past him. She tried to reassure the boy with her eyes, but was dragged by so quickly she barely had time to fling him a glance.

She stumbled and barely saved herself from going to one knee, but Luc paid her no heed, striding relentlessly on. Her feet skimmed over the hard tile floor in a staggering run at his heels, and she felt foolish and frightened at the same time. He drew her past the armed guards at the hall doors and into the long corridor.

It was empty here, the silence stifling. Their footsteps echoed eerily on the stone. Holy Mary and all the saints—did he mean to kill her for the insult? She must remain calm, must keep her wits about her or she was doomed.

Yet all her wits vanished when he swung open the door to an empty chamber and flung her inside in a smooth swing of one arm, releasing her at the last moment so that she flew like a bound bird toward the rope bed against one wall. She landed half on the edge of the bed, half on the floor, rocking back to stare up at him through the loose net of her hair. He loomed over her, dark and menacing—a threat and a promise, terrifying in his rage.

Ceara swallowed the impulse to cry out for mercy. There
would be no mercy from this Norman, ’twas plain. He glared down at her, tucking his thumbs into the wide leather belt around his waist, his brows crowding pitiless black eyes.

Though Luc did not raise his voice, anger vibrated in his words with grim intensity: “Now you will learn who is master of this hall.”

C
EARA STARED UP
at him with wide eyes shadowed by hatred and fear. Her chest heaved with the quick, soft breaths of a hunted fox as she clung to the bed in a half crouch. A brass lamp filled the room with foul-smelling light, and clouded the air with oppressive gloom.