The Conqueror (Hot Knights) (4 page)

Edeva pursed her lips as the voices drew closer. The Normans were not pleased. Apparently many of the cattle had been scattered and lost in the woods. The Norman commander was livid. She could hear him shouting at his men.

Edeva smiled, blessing her brothers for their shrewdness. While it might be impossible to defeat the Normans in open battle, their lives could be made miserable, especially with winter coming. If their circumstances grew too hellish, the enemy might abandon Oxbury and move to a place where there were easier pickings.

She would do her part, Edeva decided. If she could kill their commander, the rest of the Normans might be too dispirited to remain at Oxbury. She looked around the bedchamber and thought of the weapons she’d hidden. She would bide her time. Then, when the Norman was not expecting it, she would strike.

“W
hat happened?” Will’s blue eyes grew wide with dismay as he surveyed his lord’s mud-caked clothes.

“I fell.” Jobert forced his voice to civility. The lad was not to blame. It was the miserable Saxons who provoked him.

The squire hurried to help him out of his filthy chainse. “At least you were not wearing your mail,” the youth observed as he peeled the garment away from his master’s soaked skin.

“If we’d been fully armed, we could have pursued them into the woods. As it was, we had to content ourselves with retrieving the cattle along the river bottom.”

“How many lost?”

“Near thirty head.” Jobert’s mouth tightened. Half the herd scattered. What should have been food for his table would go to feed the rebels instead. He would have to redouble the guard on the remaining livestock until butchering time, taking men away from other tasks.

“Even so, the Saxons will starve this winter.” Alan came into the stable behind Jobert and began removing his own muddy clothes. “They can’t defeat us. We have only to wait. There will come a time when they will crawl to the manor gate begging us to take them in.”

“I would have them crawl,” Jobert growled. “I would have them slither in the mud as we have done.”

Alan gave a bark of laughter. “You did look the sight, sliding in the muck after that one cow. I thought I’d split my side when you went down.”

“Jesu, must you always make merry at my expense?” Jobert glared at him. “If I didn’t chase the cattle, none of the men would have done so either. I don’t fancy eating naught but bread this winter.”

“No one disputes you,” Alan answered. “Art too grim, Jobert. You cannot see the humor in anything.”

“Mayhaps if I was clean, with my belly full of good warm food and wine, I’d not be so short-tempered.”

“Have a bath then. Since there is no other mistress here, the wench we captured can bathe you.”

Jobert raised his brows.

“Why not?” Alan asked. “She must make herself useful like the rest of them.”

The thud of footsteps on the stairs brought Edeva to her feet. Although she’d had hours to prepare for this moment, her chest was tight, her palms sweaty.

The door handle rattled. Suddenly, the Norman was in the room with her. Edeva backed toward the bed as fear gnawed at her resolve.

The Norman scarce looked at her. Instead, he directed a youth and two soldiers to drag out the bathing tub in the corner of the room while other men carried in steaming buckets of water.

Edeva gaped at the scene. The bare-chested Norman was filthy, much worse than before. Still, she had not expected him to bathe.

The Norman began to peel down his hose. Edeva looked away, wondering what she should do. The men were so preoccupied with their leader, they might not notice if she slipped away.

She moved as unobtrusively as possible toward the doorway. Her bare feet scarcely touched the woven mats on the floor, while her heart seemed lodged in her throat as she contemplated the prospect of freedom.

She’d nearly made it when the Norman’s angry voice rang out. “Stop, wench. I mean to have you wash me.”

Edeva went rigid at his words, and then took another step. She would not let them guess she knew their language. At her second step, his hand grasped her braid, his voice was low and dangerous, “Stop, I said.”

The hair prickled on the back of her neck, and the horrendous thought came to her that he might rape her while the others watched, or force her to service them all. Better to have hanged than endure such a fate. She recalled the weapons she had hidden. If necessary, she would turn a dagger upon herself and cheat the Norman of his pleasure.

His hand moved up her braid, and when he pulled on it, Edeva was forced to turn and face him. Unhelmed, disheveled, he stared at her with his grayish-green eyes. She thought to meet his gaze with angry defiance, then reconsidered. It better served her plan to appease him. Once he let down his guard, she would get her chance.

At the change in her mood, the green in his eyes deepened and his mouth curved. Without releasing his hold on her hair, he said softly, “Ah, she’ll do.”

Waving the men out, he pulled her over to the bathing tub.

When the latch dropped, Edeva jumped. She took a deep breath, waiting for his next move. He released her and sat down on a stool to remove his boots.

She shot a glance toward the tapestry where the knife was hidden. Nay, ’twas too soon. Better to let him get in the tub first.

Nervously, she clutched the dirty tunic she wore. She’d thought of changing but there was nothing stored in the room appropriate for what she meant to do. It seemed wasteful to ruin fine linen or silk garments by committing murder in them.

Not murder. She would squander no guilt on the Norman swine. His kind had killed her brother, and he himself ordered the deaths of men she had known all her life. She could still see their anguished, contorted faces as they strangled.

Justice drove her. She would make the foul Norman pay for what he had done.

“Come closer, wench. I would have you soap my back.”

Edeva jerked her attention back to her enemy. He had climbed in the tub and sat facing her, a slight smile on his face.

“Closer,” he coaxed. “I won’t bite you . . . at least not very hard.” His grin widened. “So you are shy. I would not have thought it.”

Edeva’s resolve to appear agreeable abruptly vanished. She wanted to plunge his head in the tub, to see that mocking grin disappear beneath the water.

At her hesitation, his smile faded. “You try my patience, Saxon. Fetch the soap ere I lose my temper.” He pointed to where the wooden bowl sat on the table, then gestured that she should bring it.

She didn’t move. As wise as it might be to pretend agreeableness, she could not manage it.

He stood up and water streamed off his body. Despite herself, Edeva could not help looking at his groin. The sight of his upthrust, engorged shaft riveted her. His hair was red there, too, blazingly so. She could not tear her gaze away.

He got out of the tub and grabbed her arm, pulling her towards him. She shrieked and tried to jerk away. He put his wet arms around her, gripping her tightly. “Listen to me, wench. I saved your life. The least you can do is bathe me.”

Edeva swallowed thickly, smelling him. Horse, mud and pungent male.

He thrust her away and pointed again to the soap on the table, then got back in the tub and waited.

Unsteadily, she moved to get the soap. Clutching the bowl, she approached the tub.

Her hands shook as she rubbed some soap on his back and she wondered how she would keep them steady long enough to strike a killing blow. A sense of unreality crept over her. Her enemy was naked and weaponless. All she had to do was fetch the dagger and thrust it home.

She pushed aside his long hair to wash his shoulders. His flesh beneath her fingers felt firm and smooth, reminding her of the strength, the maleness of his body.

Carelessly, she soaped him, trying not to think about what she was doing—and meant to do. She dare not imagine how his body would look lying stiff and cold in death, how his fair skin would run with blood.

“Your touch is gentle,” he said, startling her. “Not like a warrior, but a maid. Mayhaps I mistook other things about you.” He grabbed one of her hands. “Art not so fierce now, Saxon.”

She pulled desperately from his grasp and backed away from the tub. He turned to look at her, his gaze speculative, vaguely amused. “Water.” He pointed to the buckets of clean water. “Rinse me.”

Edeva took a deep breath, her thoughts in tatters. What should she do? She could not retrieve the knife while he watched.

She got the water and poured the bucket over his head. He sputtered and rubbed his hands through his hair. “Jesu, I’m filthy. Wash my hair, wench.” He turned again and gestured to his head, indicating that she should soap his hair.

Woodenly, she grabbed another handful of soap. His hair was thick. It took a long while to lather it. As she did so, he leaned back in the tub, his eyes closed.

Edeva’s heart began to pound. Now! Now, while his hair was wet and full of soap!

She glanced at the buckets of water only a few paces from the tapestry where the knife was hidden. He would think she went to get clean water, but instead, she would retrieve the dagger. Then she would plunge the weapon into his back.

She took a deep breath and began to walk towards the tapestry. Twice, she glanced around. He was still faced away from her, head back, relaxed.

She found the knife and quickly thrust it behind her, into the he piece of rope binding her tunic. Then she grabbed a bucket of water and approached the bathing tub.

As she regarded the Norman’s broad, muscular shoulders, glistening with moisture, a tremor of fear shook her. Her puny dagger would do little damage to such a powerfully built man. She would have to keep to her first notion to stick the dagger in his throat, but that would be much more difficult.

“Hurry, wench,” the Norman broke into her thoughts with a muffled voice, “rinse me now.”

Edeva moved toward him. She dumped the water over his head and watched it sluice down his body. With shaking hands, she dropped the bucket and reached for the dagger.

“Another,” the Norman called, spluttering. “I’ve got soap in my eyes!”

Strike while your enemy is blinded, Edeva’s mind screamed, but her body refused to obey. Never had she killed a man, nor struck anyone with a weapon. The bloodthirsty nature of what she meant to do unnerved her.

Replacing the dagger in her girdle, she went to fetch the other bucket, and then poured it over him.

The Norman rubbed the water from his face. Then he lay back in the tub and sighed. “Jesu, but it feels good to be clean.”

Edeva stepped away, stunned by her failure. She had missed her chance. This might have been her only opportunity to kill the Norman. She took a shaky breath, overcome with self-loathing:

“Bring me a cloth. I would dry myself.”

His command reignited her hatred. He wanted her wait upon him like a servant!

When she stayed where she was, the Norman turned as much as the small tub would allow. “There, wench.” He motioned to a cloth lying on the floor, “Bring it to me that I might dry, ere the dirt sticks on me again.”

Edeva’s shoulders stiffened. She might not have the courage to kill him, but she would not wait upon him either!

The Norman pushed his wet hair back from his face and regarded her intently. With a splash, he stood. Water streamed off his impressive physique. “I ask you again. Fetch that cloth for me.” He pointed.

Edeva maintained her mutinous expression. Having shown her cravenness once this day, she would not give in to it again.

He crossed to her in three great strides, dripping water, and grabbed her. “What ails you, Saxon? Sometimes it pleases you to serve me, other times you are the most bedeviling creature in creation.” He shook her gently. “Don’t you see that you have no choice? Don’t you see—”

The dagger clattered to the floor, dislodged by his jostling. Edeva froze. She heard his intake of breath. When she dared to glance at him, his green eyes were like shards of ice. “Damn scheming slut. You meant to kill me, didn’t you?”

His breath hissed over her face and terror swept through her. Using all her strength, she pulled away and backed towards the door.

He followed her, slowly, patiently. There was no escape. Changing tactics, she lunged past him, trying desperately to reach the dagger lying on the floor.

He caught a handful of her tunic as she swept by. Edeva struggled, but she could not budge his brutal grip. When she reached up to claw at his face, he shook her until her brain seemed to rattle against her skull.

When her awareness returned, he was gazing down on her with a thoughtful expression. “Cease your struggling,” he said, “you cannot escape.”

Edeva fought to catch her breath. No matter what he said, she would not give up. He was a lying, wicked Norman. Never would she submit to him!

Exasperation seethed through Jobert as he regarded the wild-eyed woman in his grasp. Never had he had so much trouble with a captive. Mayhaps he should beat her senseless and be done with it.

But even that might not stop the woman from scheming to kill him as soon as his back was turned. A chill went through him as he thought about sitting in the tub, eyes closed, neck exposed. Why had she let her chance slip away? Could it be that her womanly nature had overruled her murderous intent?

It would be reassuring to think so, but he was not such a fool as to depend on her soft heart. He must break her will. Defeat her, subjugate her, make it mercilessly clear that she was helpless against him.

Even now, she glowered. He wondered how she still stood after the jarring he’d given her. Her hands were balled into fists, her stance rigid, as if she waited to strike. He admired her courage; if Harold Godwinson had had an army full of men like her, the Saxons would never have...

“Jesu!” He cried out as the woman kneed him in the groin. It was a glancing blow, but still hurt. He leaned over, catching his breath. When the pain faded, he saw the woman standing a few feet away, dagger in hand.

Rage swam in his brain. The bitch had tried to maim him! He would make her pay!

He crashed into her, and the dagger spun harmlessly across the room. There was a “whoosh” of air from her lungs as he landed on her flailing body. This time he did not hesitate, but ruthlessly hauled her up, carried her over to the tub and dumped her into the soapy water.

She landed with a splash. He grabbed one of the buckets of water and poured it over her. She sputtered and tried to rise. He heaved another bucket over her, then leaned down and seized her braid.

He dunked her under. Once, twice, three times. He heard her garbled scream and prepared to douse her again. The sight of her newly clean face stopped him. As the dripping water revealed creamy skin and unmistakably feminine features, Jobert reconsidered his plan to drown her.

He had been taught to honor and protect females, and for all her size and fierceness, the Saxon was a maid. The sight of the wet tunic clinging to her breasts further softened his intent.