The Conqueror (Hot Knights) (3 page)

As soon as the Norman left, Edeva climbed gingerly off the bed and moved her aching body toward the storage chests in the corner. She began to refold and smooth the garments the Normans had carelessly thrown down. Tears filled her eyes. Pigs! They did not appreciate what they despoiled.

Nay, that was not true. She had heard their admiring words. They knew the workmanship was fine. They had compared her embroidery skills to that of Norman noblewomen.

The memory did little to ease her fury. The garments in the chest belonged to her! She was mistress of Oxbury!

The knot in her throat tightened. Her father had been killed at Stambridge, her eldest brother at Hastings. Her mother was dead two years of a fever. She, Beornwold, Godric and Alnoth were all that were left of their family.

She was a prisoner, and her brothers were forced to hide in the woods like wolfsheads, while the Norman pig slept in her parents’ bed and pawed through their possessions as if he had a right to them.

Anger and grief almost overcame her, but she shook them off and moved to a smaller chest behind the others. She opened the chest and lifted up the yellowed linen. Underneath, three exquisitely crafted weapons rested on an old scrap of dyed leather. Jewels glinted from the handle of a dagger sized to fit a woman’s hand. A short sword with a pommel of braided gold and a smaller, plainer knife lay beside it.

Edeva lifted the dagger, her breath quickening. The Norman had aided her in one way. When she saw him going through her parents’ things, she had remembered the weapons stored away. Here was the means to fulfill her vow.

She removed the dagger and the smaller knife, then smoothed back the linen and closed the chest. The short sword would be too difficult to hide. She would have to manage with the smaller weapons.

Her hands trembled as she searched the room, seeking a place close at hand, yet hidden so she could take her enemy by surprise. She finally decided to hide the smaller dagger in a crack in the wall behind one of the tapestries, the larger one in the bed itself.

When the weapons were secured, she lay down on the bed, her plan solidifying in her mind. She would wait meekly on the bed, and when the Norman tried to climb on top of her, stab him in the throat. It would probably not kill him, but the quick loss of blood would weaken him and the damage to his throat prevent his calling out for aid as she finished him off.

A brutal end, but the Norman deserved it. He and his kind had killed her countrymen and unlawfully seized control of English lands. God would forgive her for murdering him.

But the rest of the Normans would not. As soon as they learned their leader was dead, they would seize her and exact revenge. There was little hope she could escape, although she could try. If she hid after she killed him, she might flee later.

Nay, they would know she had killed him and they would hunt her down. A tremor traveled down Edeva’s spine. Was she brave enough to endure torture and defilement?

And what of her people? In their quest for vengeance, the Normans might well lay waste to the manor, burn the village, slaughter everything in their path. She had heard the tales of what they had done to the countryside around London after the battle at Hastings. It was said the region would not recover for a generation. How could she bring such a fate upon the villagers and servants who had served her father and her father’s father?

She sat up wearily. If only there was someone to advise her. But her brothers were off in the woods, consumed with their own schemes for revenge. And even if they were here, she doubted they would take her plan seriously. Always they mocked her.

Except Alnoth. He had a kind heart. Edeva’s insides twisted as she thought of her younger brother. She must do something to help him. Tormented, she went to the window and looked out at her enemies. Her earlier plan returned, goading her to take action. Despite the risks, she must be bold. She must kill the Norman.

“D
o you think any of the men know how to operate a mill?”

Jobert turned and stared at Rob. The knight gestured across the yard toward the kitchen lean-to. “You told me to set the women to baking, but there’s no flour. Bushels of wheat, but none ground. I took some down to the village, but there’s no one to run the mill.”

“Damn them! If they’ve killed the miller . . .” Jobert started toward the gate. “How could they be such lackwits! I told them to spare any men who had useful skills.”

“Nay, the miller’s not dead.” Rob hurried to fall in step behind him. “Merely stubborn. Refuses to work. From what I can make out, one of our men raped his wife, and now he does not care if he lives or dies. I held my sword to his gullet, and he did not flinch. But if we kill him, we’re no better off.”

“Torture,” Jobert muttered. “We’ll torture him until he agrees to serve us.”

Wretched, stubborn Saxons, Jobert thought as he took Rob and another man and walked down to the village. They seemed determined to thwart their new masters at every turn. He could not understand such foolishness. They were serfs, villeins at best. Why should it matter that they now served a Norman rather than a Saxon lord?

It should be the easiest of tasks to control such people. They’d seen him hang the rebels. Did they care so little for their own necks that they continued to challenge his will?

The village was quiet when they arrived, eerily so. No dogs barking; no children crying. Wispy trails of smoke wafted up from the smokeholes of only a few daub and wattle huts. It appeared half of the inhabitants had vanished.

Jobert swore softly, wishing he’d thought to set a guard on the place. But the Saxons would come back eventually. They were not so stupid that they would freeze in the woods this winter rather than serve him.

That did not help now. He needed capable hands to butcher the excess lifestock and preserve the meat. To prepare food for his men. To make ale and churn butter. To gather honey and fish the river.

If he set his men to such tasks, they would grumble and swear, and eventually drift away to try their fortunes elsewhere. There was plenty of opportunity in England for fighting men. He could keep his troops only if he offered them an incentive to stay. If he could not offer them conquest and plunder, he must at least fill their bellies and allow them their leisure when they were not on guard duty.

The miller’s house was a neat timber structure a distance from the mill on the river. The three men paused outside it. Jobert drew his sword and stooped to enter. He blinked in the dim light and made out a man of middle years seated by the fire. He regarded Jobert with a steady, wary gaze. A soft, scuffling sound came from the sleeping loft above the main room. “The wife,” Rob mouthed.

Jobert glanced up at the loft. “Was she injured?”

“Nay. But she is a comely thing, young enough to be the man’s daughter.” Rob shrugged. “Mayhaps the miller fears that she will come to prefer brawny, virile Normans to him.”

Jobert looked back at the miller. Easiest to threaten him by telling him what they would do if he refused to grind the corn. But he had not the words to make the man understand. In exasperation, he asked Rob, “Have we found no one among the Saxons who speaks our language?”

“None milord. At least that will admit it. I think some understand more than they let on.”

Jobert nodded. Sneaky, perfidious bastards. He wished he could string up the whole lot of them and start over with good solid yeomen from Normandy. Seeing the mulish set of the miller’s grizzled jaw inflamed him to action. “Seize him!” he ordered Rob and Niles.

The two each grabbed an arm and began to drag the miller across the room. Jobert bent down to go out the low doorway and then set off toward the river. When he reached the millhouse, he glanced back to see his men bringing the Saxon. The man was pale, but his expression was stubborn.

Jobert jerked his head to indicate they should take the prisoner into the millhouse, and then went in after.

The building was closed and hot, stiffing with the over-sweet scent of rotting grain. Jobert felt a renewed sense of aggravation at having to deal with petty insubordinations. The lower room was filled with shelves piled with empty grain sacks and woven sieves. Measuring pots and scoops hung from the walls. “Take him upstairs,” Jobert said.

They all climbed the ladder to the upper story. Jobert told Rob to turn the pulley that opened the sluice gates. The sound of water pouring in to the millpond could be heard. Jobert gestured to the mechanism which turned the shaft that rotated the huge millstone. “Take him over there and bind his hands to the wallover.”

Rob’s eyes widened. “What do you mean to do?”

“Once the water wheel begins to turn, the wallover will rotate and the force of it will tear his hands from his body. I’m hoping he sees the wisdom of resuming his duties before that.”

The two men led the miller over to the wallover. He gaped in confusion as they placed his hands in the wheel of the mechanism, and then began to babble as he realized what they meant to do. He struggled as they tried to bind him. Rob and Niles hung on gamely.

“Now, we’ll see how stubborn he is,” Jobert said. Outside, the water wheel began to turn. The miller’s eyes widened in terror. He turned to Jobert beseechingly. Jobert approached him. “Do you obey?” he asked, thinking that the miller must guess the gist of his words. The cogwheels connected to the wallover began to creak. The miller nodded frantically.

“Release him,” Jobert said, “then bring the grain and see if he does not near kill himself to grind it.”

Jobert turned, satisfied, and began to climb down the ladder.

He left the millhouse and went down to the millpond. Willow and alder grew near the water, and the fallen leaves shone bronze in the blue water. Jobert inhaled deeply, breathing the earthy smell of wet vegetation.

He walked along the bank and eyed the deep pools among the rocks. There would be trout and pike there. He should set the village children to fishing, and the women to weaving weirs. Salted and dried fish would make a welcome change this winter, and they would need plenty for Lenten.

He could do none of those things unless he found some way to communicate with the Saxons besides brutal shows of force such as the one he had just used.

On the way back, he saw Rob and Niles coming out of the millhouse. “Should we stay and see that he does the work?” Rob asked.

Jobert shook his head.

“He could poison the grain,” Niles suggested. “He hates us even more now; he will want vengeance.”

For a moment, Jobert considered. The miller might not fear death, but he obviously dreaded torture. He must know he was defeated. “Leave him,” he said. “I don’t think he will trouble us further.”

They walked back through the village. Jobert regarded the silent huts with narrowed eyes. With luck, word of his treatment of the miller would convince the other Saxons that resistance was futile. And he must find someone who spoke their tongue, someone they would listen to.

The rest of the day continued in the same frustrating fashion. A half dozen knights complained to him of the demeaning nature of their tasks. Why could he not order someone else to gather firewood and find forage for the horses? Must they be the ones to haul sacks of grain between the storage sheds and the mill? What had they done to deserve the ignominious task of feeding the livestock?

The only ones who didn’t complain were the men with the duty of supervising the women in the kitchen lean-to. When Jobert went to inspect their progress, he found out why.

He actually had no thought to go there, until he heard the giggling. The feminine sound, so out of place among the coarse male shouts echoing through the rest of the manor, drew him to investigate.

The kitchen was smoky and hot, but instead of the enticing odor of food cooking, it was filled with the sharp reek of something burning. No wonder, when he saw what the kitchen wenches were up to. There were a half dozen of them, stripped utterly naked. Two of them were splayed across the wide tables used to prepare food. A bare-chested knight licked some sort of liquid off the nipples of one, while the other was fondled by a different man. The two of Jobert’s men not occupied in such titillating fashion stood watching, a naked wench on each arm.

A shriek from the woman being licked masked the sound of his entrance, and Jobert stood unobserved for long seconds. Then one of the men standing turned to the skinny, barely-developed wench on his right and said, “You’re next.”

She gave a squeal, broke away from the man’s grasp, and headed for the door, running smack into Jobert. She drew in her breath with the terrified squeak of a cornered rabbit and all eyes turned to look.

Silence settled on the kitchen. Jobert could hear the sound of fat sizzling in the ovens, and the dull drip of the liquid that the woman had been anointed with. From the sour smell, it must surely be ale, as it ran off the table into the dirt below.

“Milord,” one of the men mumbled.

“I see you have found a means of persuading the Saxons to cooperate,” Jobert said. “I presume the evening meal will be a veritable feast.” His gaze moved over the men. “If it is not, I will have the lot of you staked out on the tables, and it won’t be giggling maids who dine upon your privates, but men eating scorching hot food off your balls with their knives.”

Dead quiet met his words. No one moved.

Jobert turned and left the lean-to. He began to walk across the yard. Despite his harsh words, he did not think completely ill of his men’s behavior. They had managed to control the skullery maids and he had hopes that there would be decent food at last.

He glanced up at the upper story of the manor hall. The image of naked breasts and female thighs reminded him of the woman prisoner.

He could deal with her as his men had the kitchen wenches, but he did not think it would work. The women he had observed were willing to do anything to secure their captors’ good will. The Saxon she-cat was another sort of creature altogether.

He looked again to the narrow upper window. What had possessed him to rescue her?

The thought was interrupted by a shout from the gate. Jobert turned to see Alan hurrying toward him. “Milord, come quickly! The Saxons are stealing the cattle!”

Jobert swore furiously and began to run.

* * *

Something was happening. Edeva stared out the window at the deserted manor yard. Some time ago, she’d heard shouting and the noisy chaos of men arming themselves. Now all was quiet. Frustration seethed through her. If her brothers had attacked, she should find a way to help them. While she might not be able to take on an armed man in combat, she was a fair shot with a bow. Hidden among the trees, she could have killed or disabled some of the enemy and contributed to the English cause.

Instead, she was locked away, forgotten. The Norman leader had sent no one with food for her, nor had he come himself.

Edeva gritted her teeth. She hated this helplessness. If only she were a man. She would not have to endure the humiliation of being a prisoner; she would be either dead or fighting alongside her brothers!

The familiar resentment welled up inside her. Why had God cursed her? She was as brave and strong as many men, but because of her feminine form, she was not allowed to do the things they did. She’d grown up among boys, fishing, hunting, shooting a bow, fighting. Of those her age, none of them could best her. Then, wretchedly, at fourteen winters, her body betrayed her. Her breasts grew. Even when she bound them as tight as she could bear, they still jiggled when she walked and filled out her clothes in embarrassing fashion.

The rest of her life changed as well. Most of the boys would no longer wrestle or fight with her, and the ones that would often tried to kiss her when they got her down.

Her indulgent father suddenly demanded she stay inside with the women. Instead of roaming the woods with her brothers, she was forced to spend her days sewing, weaving and helping with all the tedious tasks involved in running a manor.

Although her soul chafed at the unfairness of life, she had tried to do her duty. She had learned to make soap and tallow candles, to supervise the butchering and preserving of meat, to tan leather and clean wool. Taught at a very young age to spin and weave, her skills now advanced to sewing garments and doing fine embroidery.

And her efforts were not grudging. She put the same toil into her feminine tasks as she had in keeping up with her brothers. She meant to make her father proud.

But her father had not lived long enough to wear the beautiful green tunic with bands of carefully worked gold embroidery along the neck and sleeves. Now she feared the Norman would take the garment for his own. Edeva glanced at the chest where the tunic was packed away, wondering if she should destroy the garment before the Norman pig returned. She could not bear to see her enemy wear her handiwork.

Bitterness suffused her as she turned back to the window. She would not give up. Her, brothers might yet succeed in routing the Normans from Oxbury. If they could draw the enemy into the woods and attack...

Nay, she thought glumly, they had tried that and it had not worked. With fewer men, her brothers had even less of a chance to defeat the Normans. Having seen them up close, observed their numbers, the superiority of their weapons and armor, Edeva knew that the Normans would never be overthrown by treachery.

If only her brothers realized that. She felt a stab of aggravation at the thought they might even now be attempting another doomed ambush. If only she could help them, if only . . .

Her attention shifted as she heard voices in the yard below. She held her breath, praying it would be the exultant shouts of her countrymen.

The hated sound of Norman French drifted up, destroying her hopes. Edeva sighed, then strained her ears to make out words.

It pleased her to know that she understood the invaders’ tongue, while they treated her as if she was deaf, speaking freely before her. It gave her an advantage, an advantage she intended to use as long as possible. Although she had resented it at the time, she now felt gratitude that the woman brought from Flanders to teach her embroidery had insisted on speaking the language of the French court.