The Conqueror (Hot Knights) (2 page)

A shudder swept his body as he thought of how helpless she must feel.

He forced his thoughts along a different pathway, thinking of all they must accomplish before winter. The surplus livestock must be slaughtered and the meat preserved. They must have fodder for the animals. Firewood. Thank the saints that the harvest was in, mountains of golden grain filling the storehouses. Apples, cabbages, dried peas, and other vegetables. They would not starve.

But were there any spices to be had in the storehouses? And what of salt? They would need sacks of it to preserve the meat.

He had only a vague idea how all of this was to be done. The life of a fighting man had not prepared him to be chatelaine of a household. Mayhap one of the knights had some idea. And the Saxon women. Somehow they must find a way to communicate with them.

* * *

Utter blackness. Vermin crept through the filthy straw, crawling over him. His limbs were cramped, his wrists and ankles raw from the weight of the shackles. He was going to die here, rotting into the slime covering the stone floor!

He could not breathe, and his heart thundered in his chest. He opened his mouth to scream. A scream no one would hear.

Sweat streamed down Jobert’s body as he jerked upright. A few seconds later he recognized where he was and the clawing dread subsided.

He let out his breath. The nightmare had not troubled him for years. It must be the woman’s circumstances that aroused his awful memories. Try as he might, he could not block out the thought of her.

He reminded himself that she was the enemy. She’d taken part in the attack, would willingly have killed him or any other Norman if she could. Foolish to pity her.

But a woman... For all that she acted the warrior, the Saxon must be petrified, down in the darkness with unseen creatures scuttling across her flesh. It seemed cruel to imprison her so. She was guilty of no more than trying to defend her home.

Jobert climbed out of the bed. He’d slept naked, to avoid transferring any more dirt to the fine, clean bed linens than necessary. He pulled on his worn hose and mud-caked boots, and then glanced toward his sword, visible in a shaft of moonlight shining through the unshuttered window.

No reason to take it. He meant only to find the cellar and drag the woman out of it. Put her in the stables or some storeroom for the night, decide what to do with her on the morrow.

He crept down the stairs to the hall. Soldiers snored everywhere, sleeping on the benches. He moved past them, irritated that they did not wake and at the same time relieved there would be no witnesses to his folly. At the door, he took a pitch torch from the bracket on the wall.

Outside, moonlight glazed the hall and the other buildings silver. Jobert moved stealthily to the back of the hall. Beyond the jakes was an old storage building, the foundation of stone. It was beneath this structure that the food-stores lay.

He found the wooden door and, taking a deep breath, lifted it. In the moonlight he could see steps leading down into the ground. Sweat broke out on his skin as he eased himself into the opening. He had never been able to shake his fear of small, confined spaces.

A sour, rotting smell rose from the damp stonework, churning his already agitated stomach. At the bottom, the odor was overwhelmed by the earthy scents of foodstores. The passageway branched to the left and right. Jobert took the right-hand way.

Entering a chamber, he lifted the torch to see mounds of apples and baskets of leeks and cabbages lining the walls. After a brief but satisfying look at the manor’s produce, Jobert turned and went back the other way.

The passageway grew narrower and lower, and he had to stoop to enter the chamber at the end of it. The tightness in his chest increased. He pushed away images of the entrance being closed off behind him, of being trapped.

Despite the torch, he didn’t see the woman at first. He almost tripped over her as he moved into the room.

Her head hung forward, and for a moment he thought she might be dead. Then he lowered the torch to shine on her face and saw her flinch. Her eyes opened, and she stared at him. No hint of fear softened her steady, hate-filled gaze.

He didn’t want to touch her; it was like reaching out for an adder.

There was no other way. Propping the torch in a niche in the wall, he cautiously groped for her shoulder. He grasped her upper arm and attempted to pull her to her feet.

She tried to rise, but lost her balance and fell into him. A heavy, solid weight. He grunted as he braced his body and dragged her upward with both hands. Her face came to his chin. Jesu, she was tall. He overtopped most women by a head or more.

She swayed again, her legs obviously stiff from hours of immobility. When she fell again, he was ready for her weight, but not for the sharpness of her teeth against his chest as she tried to bite him. With a furious reflex, he swung his hand and hit her on the side of the head. She crumpled.

Resisting the urge to desert her to her miserable fate, he grabbed a handful of her tunic. After catching his breath, he roughly hauled her up. With significant effort and much cursing, he managed to get her limp form over his shoulder. He glanced helplessly at the flickering torch, and then left it.

His muscles screamed in protest as he maneuvered through the narrow corridor back to the stairs. Blind determination carried him up the slippery steps. He paused outside the storage building, considering what to do with his prisoner.

He could dump her on the ground and hope she roused and escaped. A foolish whim. He was the commander of an invading army, not a court gallant. Chivalry was a luxury he could ill afford.

Besides, this fierce Saxon was nothing like the dainty helpless women of the troubadours’ tales. She was a prisoner of war and potentially dangerous.

He began to walk, staggering slightly. As he passed the stables, he considered leaving the woman there, then discarded the notion. His men would wonder at the change in her circumstances.

He glanced up at the watchtower above the gate of the palisade. There was no sign the guard had heard his struggle. Their attention must be focused outside the fort. Either that, or they were sleeping on duty. The thought fueled his determination to deal warily with the woman.

He readjusted his burden and headed toward the manor house. Somehow he got the door open and wiggled through, bumping the woman’s buttocks soundly against the doorframe. When she moaned, he knew a twinge of satisfaction.

The rasping noise of his breathing sounded loud as he lurched his way past the sleepers in the hall. He paused, rigid, when one knight raised his head. “Who goes?” the man mumbled.

“Brevrienne.”

The man grunted, then lay back down. Jobert exhaled a sigh. He had no idea what he was doing. He certainly didn’t want to explain his madness.

The trip up the stairs was hellish. The woman seemed to weigh as much as a horse. His shoulder ached furiously. The sweat poured off him, mingling with the reek he’d already accumulated.

In the upper chamber, he stumbled across the room and dumped the woman onto the bed. Relief flooded him. His absurd venture was finished.

Except, he had no idea what he meant to do with the unholy, vicious wench he’d rescued. He glanced at her unmoving shape, recalling the many weeks since he’d had a woman in his bed. For all her war-like ways, the Saxon was a female like any other. Her body could satisfy... all he had to do was ruck up that filthy tunic.

He grimaced. From what he’d seen of her, the Saxon would probably try to bite him again.

Besides, the experience was bound to disappoint. Every whore and camp follower he’d bedded these past few years only made him yearn all the more for a certain petite, dark-eyed demoiselle who smelled of flowers and aromatic oils.

Jesu, he truly must be tired, mooning over a woman like a green squire. Damaris was probably wed by now. Even if she wasn’t, she could never be his. It was hopeless infatuation, and one he’d meant to leave behind in Normandy.

Sighing, Jobert took off his boots. Leaning over the bed, he rolled the woman to the other side. He climbed in and stretched out. Almost immediately, he fell asleep.

E
deva shifted on the bed, trying to ease her misery. Every part of her body hurt, and the stabbing pain in her shoulders from having her hands bound behind her back brought tears to her eyes. Her brothers had warned her that the Normans would treat her cruelly if she were captured. But even if they tortured her, she would never capitulate to the wretched Norman swine!

The man next to her on the bed turned over, and his weight made the supporting ropes sag and the bed slope downward. Although she tried to remain still, Edeva rolled against him until her breasts were squashed against his arm. Impotent fury enveloped her. She tried to decide if she could reach to bite his bare shoulder.

She would be a fool to do that. He would only hit her again, and with her hands still bound, she had no means of defense.

She stared bitterly at the side of his body, wondering why he had brought her here, dragging her out of her prison in the middle of the night. She assumed he meant to rape her. What else could he want?

But his actions toward her had been brutal, not lustful. Had he found her too unappealing to bed? Her brothers often teased her that she was a “handful of a woman,” and told her no man could desire such a virago. Their taunts stung, but now she realized good might come of her unfeminine demeanor. If the Norman left her alone, she’d have an opportunity to carry out her plan. To cut his throat as soon as she got her hands on a weapon!

She shifted again, trying not to moan. How wretched it was to be tied up and helpless. She had not minded being in the root cellar so much except for the ignominy of being trussed like a Martinmas pig.

She supposed she should be grateful she had not been hanged. It had been dreadful to watch. Only the Normans would mete out such a shameful death to their enemies, rather than allowing them the chance to die in combat and spare their honor.

Norman filth! She wanted to spit in the face of the man next to her.

But that would not be wise. If she sought to live long enough to gain revenge, she must be clever. She might even have to submit if the Norman decided to ravish her.

She did not know how she would endure it, to allow him to put his hands on her, to mount her. She’d want to retch in his disgusting face or claw his eyes out.

She had no choice. Her captor was a big man, all lean muscle and powerful arms and legs. He could kill her without even trying.

Spawn of the devil! Whore’s bastard!

As if he sensed her hatred, the Norman shifted in his sleep, mumbling something. Edeva squirmed away. It took all her strength to edge her body out of the trough made by his heavy weight.

Panting, she managed to put some distance between herself and the enemy. She could see him clearly in the early morning light from the window. Gone was the ugly helmet with the nose guard he had worn when she first saw him. He had no beard and his hair was reddish, the color of a fox’s pelt in summer. Unlike his companions, who wore theirs cropped short and shaved at the neck, his red-gold tresses reached nearly to his shoulders. It gave him a savage look, as if he was a warrior from one of the old legends.

Yet he was undeniably young, only a few years over a score. In sleep, his face did not seem as grim and bloodthirsty, and his features could almost be considered pleasing. Thick auburn lashes, a finely molded nose—not like the beaks she’d seen on some of the Normans. Only his slightly wide mouth betrayed his base, cruel nature.

Her gaze edged downward. Broad swordsman’s shoulders. An expanse of muscular chest, the golden skin shaded with hair of a paler red than that on his head. She could see where the line of reddish fuzz trailed down into his dirty hose.

The sight made her wrinkle her nose in disgust. He had not bathed in some time. Not that she was so fragrant herself. A week they had been in the woods, awaiting the Normans. Eating uncooked food since they dare not build a fire. Sleeping in piles of dried leaves. Living nearly like animals.

Worsening her dishevelment, before the attack she had deliberately smeared herself with mud in an attempt to disguise her fair skin.

Her plan had almost succeeded. No one had noticed she was female when she was first captured, and they had come close to hanging her with the rest of their prisoners. Then, some instinct alerted one of the Normans. He suddenly grabbed her and peered at her more closely. She saw the shock on his face when he realized she was woman. He smiled suddenly, and then felt for her breasts.

Too startled at first to do anything, she finally mustered her courage and spat in his face. He had laughed as if she had made a fine jest. For a moment, she considered enticing the man, then reason returned. She had no skill in womanly seduction, and she would not submit willingly to an enemy.

At the thought, Edeva directed another hate-filled glance at the man lying next to her. If this man wanted her maidenhead, he would have to take it at sword point!

She squirmed again. Her hands seemed to be going numb, and she wondered how she would be able to fight even after he untied her. Sighing, she closed her eyes. She might as well try to rest; she would need her strength.

* * *

Jobert came awake and realized he lay on a bed in a Saxon manor, not on a bench in some noisy hall. No wonder he had slept so late. The sun was well up. His men would think him a sluggard.

He sat up on the side of the bed. As he shifted his weight, he felt something roll towards him. The woman. The memory of his journey to the cellar came back to haunt him. His act of madness.

He turned to look at her. She lay very still, her eyes closed. For a moment, he wondered if he had killed her with his blow, then he decided she slept.

Daylight improved her looks. Some of the dirt had rubbed off, and he could discern the femininity of her features. Or, mayhaps it was that for once she was not glaring at him as if she wished to stick a knife in his belly.

She had full lips, not like a man at all. And under the dirt, her hair was likely as gold and gleaming as others of her race. But it was her body that stirred his morning-heavy loins. She lay on her side, with the shapeless tunic wadded beneath her; and he could make out the unmistakable outlines of her full, rounded bosom.

He reached out a hand to touch her, and then halted. Jesu, what was he thinking? He had no desire to lie with a treacherous Saxon.

The woman’s eyes opened. They grew wide, and then turned dark with revulsion.

At her venomous look, Jobert’s lust vanished. He’d sooner bed a whore with the pox than this nasty-tempered wench!

They glared at each other for a moment, then a knock sounded at the door. Jobert got up to answer it.

“Are you well?” Rob asked, entering. “I’ve never known you to sleep so late. The men need to know—God’s holy teeth,” he swore as he saw the woman, “What does she here?”

“She’s my prisoner.”

Rob’s eyes swept the Saxon. “You left her bound?”

“1 could not have slept otherwise. I fear she would have taken my sword and tried to cut my balls off.”

Rob raised his brows. “Why is she here? Last I knew, you had her thrown into a hole in the ground, presumably to rot.”

“I changed my mind,” was Jobert’s tight-lipped reply. He crossed the room and pulled on his soiled chainse. “God’s bones, I need to have a bath and my clothes washed.” He shrugged toward the coffer shoved into the corner. “Look in there, Rob, and see if there are any clothes that might fit me.”

“You?” Rob said dubiously, going to open the coffer. “I doubt it much. Some of the Saxons are fair-sized, but I see no giants.” He fumbled through a stack of clothing and pulled out a heavily embroidered woman’s overgown. “Jesu, but they have fine things here. I’ve not seen such skilled needlework since we left Rouen.” He held up the crimson garment. “The Duchess Matilda’s own ladies could not match this.”

“Queen Matilda now, Queen of England.” Jobert walked over and pulled the overgown from Rob’s hands and examined it. He could not help wondering how it would look on Damaris, the deep color against her dark hair. Not that he would ever see her again.

“We’re not here to admire women’s gowns.” Jobert thrust the garment away and gestured toward a second storage chest. “Look in there.”

Both men began to paw through piles of clothing. Much of it was women’s, but they also found creamy linen underclothes and embroidered men’s tunics made of lavish materials. Rob held up one especially fine overtunic of green sarcanet embroidered with gold scrollwork and ornate designs. “What of this? It looks almost large enough.”

Jobert made a disgusted sound. “I am to butcher cattle and fight rebels in that? I think not. I will save it for when Lord William comes to visit.”

“King William,” Rob corrected him.

A moment later, Jobert threw down the pile of clothing. “What ails these Saxons? I’ve found naught a man can wear, except to a banquet. Have they no chausses, no simple wool garments? I thought these lands were renowned for their woolen cloth?”

“You should have purchased clothing in London,” Rob reproved. “You know you must always have things made to fit.”

Jobert gave the growing pile of garments a resentful kick.
Should
have. Instead, he’d spent what little coin he had on a fine mail shirt and a carved ivory and onyx brooch for Damaris. The jewelry was still tucked away in his saddle pack. He’d known even as he bought it that he’d never dare give it to her.

His father had sent him some coin soon after, but it had been too late to purchase clothing, if he had thought of it. His mind was all on claiming the manor that William had given him.

His buoyant mood returned. No longer was he a landless younger son. He was a real lord now. All this—the land, the manor hall, yea, even the clothing tumbled on the floor—was his.

With that thought, he bent to pick up the discarded garments. “Put these away,” he ordered Rob. “I’ll think of something else. Mayhap one of the men we killed has something that will serve.”

“You’d wear a dead man’s clothing?”

“I’d take his armor and his weapons. Why should I not make use of what else I need?”

“What of the woman?” Rob asked.

The two men looked toward the bed.

“She might be useful,” Jobert said.

“How? You can’t ransom a Saxon.”

“She could be used to entrap the rebels.”

“If they didn’t try to rescue the others, why should they come for her?”

“If she was the woman of one of the rebels, he might seek her back. Anyway, for now she is my prisoner.”

Rob looked dubious. “If you keep her bound, who will help her to the chamber pot and feed her? We can scarce spare anyone for the task.”

Jobert clenched his jaw. Rob was right. He’d been a lack-wit to rescue the woman. He should have had her hanged with the men, despite Alan’s protests.

“I’ll be down anon,” he said, dismissing Rob. “Tell the men who aren’t on guard or sleeping to gather in the yard.”

Rob left. Jobert put on his sword belt, then looked again at the woman. Her expression hadn’t changed. Defiance oozed from every part of her prone body. Yet, she was undoubtedly in pain, and probably unholy uncomfortable as well. She had not passed water this morn, and even if she had not drunk since yesterday, she must feel the need. He would not treat a prisoner so inhumanely, especially a woman.

Drawing his dagger, he approached the bed. Her eyes widened, affording him a hint of satisfaction. Why not let her think he meant to kill her? That might shatter her maddening insolence.

He brought his knife to her neck, a hairsbreadth away from the smooth skin.

The contempt in her cornflower blue eyes never wavered. Only the way she parted her lips, the faint pulse in her throat, gave away her fear. Jobert felt a stirring of respect. She was brave—he’d give her that.

He hesitated another moment, thinking that if she meant to fool her enemies into believing she was a man, she should have used more dirt. In the full light of day, her sex was obvious. Never had he seen a male with such long eyelashes.

He grabbed her tunic and pulled her to her knees, then reached around to cut her bonds. He saw her intake of breath as he stepped away. She bit her lips as if forcing back a groan, and he felt an uncomfortable sympathy. For a few seconds, as the blood came rushing back into her arms and her shoulder joints unfroze, she would be in agony. The numbness might last for several hours.

He should have freed her the night before. If she proved unmanageable, he could have tied her to the bed.

Now there was a provocative image—the Saxon woman bound to the bedposts, her arms and legs splayed wide.

Nay, he would not allow his thoughts to roam along such pathways. She was a prisoner, and he would treat her as he would any other captive. It was a matter of honor that a knight held for ransom must be dealt with respectfully.

But she was no knight, and, as Rob had pointed out, there was no hope of ransoming her. Using her to entrap the other rebels was equally improbable. She was useless as a prisoner.

So, why did he keep her? Because he did not know what else to do was the answer that came to him. Having spared her life twice, he would look even more of a fool if he killed her now.

And why take a life when he did not have to? Especially that of a woman. She did not match his usual taste in bed-partners, but she undoubtedly had some crude appeal. The longer he looked at her, the more she aroused his lust.

He imagined the warrior wench’s body beneath his, bucking and straining...

Then what would he do with her, having satisfied himself? She would not be easy to tame, to mold into a trustworthy, useful servant. He might have to beat her, to pound some servility into her thick Saxon skull.

The thought displeased him. He did not have time to undertake such a project.

Impatiently, he turned away from the bed. He would let her alone, give her some time to consider how fortunate she was that he was generous to women.

He moved to the door and left the room. Outside, he shoved his short sword in to the doorjamb to lock her in, and then went down the stairs.