Siege Read online

  Gyfton leaned against the tree.“Mayhap she’s a beautiful maiden, fearing for her virtue at the hands of the barbaric Normans.” He grinned as Rosard stopped and turned to him.

  Shaking his head, he exhaled. “Gyfton, can you not think of something other than women?” He began striding again. “The late lord of Fairhurst was well into his sixties. His widow is said to be in her fifties. Hardly a maid.” Rosard arched a brow. “What virtue she had is long since gone.”

  His son shrugged. “You paint a bleak picture, Father. I prefer mine.” Pushing away from the tree, he sauntered off, leaving Rosard to contemplate the stalemate between his army and Fairhurst Castle and its lady.

  Turning from his retreating son, he gazed at the stone castle in the fading afternoon light and stopped his silent tirade. Awe replaced the frustration and anger of the seven-week siege.

  Pride straightened his shoulders, a satisfied smile lifting the corners of his mouth. His castle was not the typical Saxon wooden motte and bailey one. Fairhurst was built in the Norman style.

  The Saxon earl must have spent time in Normandy. ‘Twas not uncommon, given King Edward spent his youth there in exile. By the time he took the throne of England, Edward was said to have been more Norman than Saxon.

  At the sound of crunching rocks, Rosard turned and watched Royce approach.

  “God’s bones, Father, how long will this go on? The men are becoming impatient.” He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Aye, ’tis expected. ’Tis the one thing against the sieging army, the lack of activity. But then, those in the castle suffer the same, as well as the dwindling food supply.” He moved his gaze to the village. “At least we are able to hunt our food and are not camped in tents, subjected to the foul temper of the weather.”

  A dark cloud tumbled across the sun and the wind rustled the leaves of the beech tree at his last word. Royce looked to the sky and grimaced. Turning his gaze back to the castle, he shook his head.

  “You should have utilized the siege engines. ’Twould have brought them to their knees.”

  “Aye, and the castle as well.” He eyed his son, irritation simmering under his skin. “And who would make the repairs when it is over?” His brow tightened in a frown. With a thump to his chest he continued, “Me. And ’twould be coin from my coffers repairing my damage.” He shook his head. “’Tis more than stupid. ’Tis insane to destroy that which is now mine.”

  Royce shrugged.

  “And when we have won, what of the old woman? Will she leave the castle?”

  “Aye. ’Twould be foolhardy to keep one under my roof who commands the loyalty of those within the walls. I would risk all with her presence. Mayhap she has relatives where I might send her. Or a convent. It matters not.”

  “Why trouble yourself? Just turn her out.”

  Rosard pinned his son with a glare.

  Royce raised his chin and shifted his stance, bracing his feet apart. “Stupid woman should have surrendered when offered the chance. What hope has she against us?”

  Rosard arched an eyebrow, waving his hand toward the castle. “Aye, and we’ve only been here nigh on two months.”

  He looked away from Royce. “Do you not respect the lady’s determination to keep her castle?” Turning his gaze to the castle, Rosard continued, his voice deep with controlled frustration. “Would you do less? Would you simply surrender without a fight?”

  “Nay, but I am a man. She is only a woman.”

  “Only a woman?” Rosard’s eyes widened. “There is much to admire in a woman who withstands the siege of seasoned warrior.”

  “You sound enamored of the old woman.” Royce’s lips curled, and disgust laced his words.

  “Nay, but I respect her determination and loyalty to her people.”

  Royce snorted, the corners of his mouth slanting down, his eyes glittering with irritation. “Women are treacherous. Deceitful.”

  “The same could be said of men.” Rosard squinted at his son and blew out a breath. “’Tis of no purpose, we’ve had this conversation before and failed to come to an agreement. I wonder, though, where you came by your attitude.”

  Royce’s gaze turned cool and remote. Again, there would be no explanation from his son.

  With a shrug, Rosard turned his gaze to the darkening sky. “The afternoon patrol will be returning soon.”

  “Aye. I will join the evening one.” His son’s words were delivered with a note of challenge.

  He brought his gaze to Royce. “Did you not ride with the morning patrol?”

  His son was a tall man. His dark blond hair, cut short in the Norman style, framed a broad forehead. Royce’s light eyes held seriousness within their depths; his mouth turned down in a perpetual frown. His sons were as different as their mothers had been, God rest their souls.

  “Aye.” Royce quirked an eyebrow. “And I trained with the men later.”

  Pulling his thoughts from the past, Rosard questioned his son. “Think you it wise to exhaust yourself?”

  His son’s compressed lips convinced Rosard of the futility of pursuing the topic.

  He did not voice the thought that it was not only Royce’s well-being at stake. His son knew well that each man depended upon the other. And yes, his son knew his own limits.

  The dark clouds overhead opened up then, and rain spattered around them. Rosard turned toward the hut he occupied, but not before he saw Royce stride to the area where the horses were kept.

  ’Twould be a miserable night for the patrol.

  * * * * *

  A fire crackled in the center of the hut, setting off a pungent odor of burnt wood and damp earth. Rosard sat at his makeshift desk, a thick candle giving off a halo of light as his quill scratched over the parchment, recording the day’s events.

  The door banged open and Royce entered, dripping water on the hard-packed dirt floor.

  “We found this man.” Royce pulled a ferret-faced man forward, propelling him into the room. He stumbled, falling to his knees. “He claims to know of a secret entrance to the castle.”

  He put his quill down and turned to frown at the man.

  “Are you from Fairhurst, then?” The man looked up at Rosard, nodding his head. “And where have you been for the last two months?” He stood and walked to the villein.

  “In…the c-castle, my lord.” The man’s gaze shifted around the room, avoiding Rosard’s eyes.

  “And you left by this secret entrance?” Arms akimbo, he towered over the captive.

  “Aye.”

  “And you would show us this entrance?” He canted his head, suspicion narrowing his gaze.

  “Aye.” The man bobbed his head nervously, his hands rubbing against the coarse, wet fabric of his tunic.

  “Why?” The single word from Rosard filled the small cottage.

  The man turned his startled gaze up to Rosard. “My lord? Do you not wish to end the siege?”

  “Aye, but why do you?” He noticed the shifty look in the man’s eyes, and his suspicions rose.

  “A man cannot live on such small rations of food. ’Tis nearly gone now.” With a shrug he finished, “’Tis but a matter of time before you bring the siege to an end.”

  “Your name.”

  The man jerked, his eyes widening. “Um…Arlis, my lord.”

  “And what do you in the village?”

  “I, uh, I do this and that, my lord.” Again, Arlis’s gaze shifted away.

  He nodded. The man confirmed his misgivings. “I see. Well, then, just where is this entrance you speak of?”

  “I would have to show you, my lord, for ’tis near impossible to find by directions alone.” His ingratiating tone rubbed along Rosard’s nerves.

  Did Arlis think him a simpleton? Many an ambush was perpetrated in just such a manner. And then there was the matter of the moat.

  Royce shifted, pulling Rosard’s attention from the villein. Moving a few steps to the side, Royce stopped close the man, his large presence crowding
the smaller man still kneeling on the floor.“What is the general location of this entrance, then?”

  Arlis gripped his tunic and slowly turned to Royce. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “’Tis on the east side.” His words shook with a fear that reflected in his eyes.

  He turned back to Rosard. “But I would show you myself, the exact location, my lord.” His gaze slid away.

  “Aye. We’ll wait until the castle inhabitants sleep.” He looked at Royce. “See that Arlis is well cared for. And then find Gyfton and come share a flagon with me.”

  “Oh, thank you, my lord.” Arlis rose, bobbing from the waist. “Thank you.”

  Royce wrapped his fingers around the man’s upper arm. “Aye, sir.” He opened the door and propelled the man through it and into the rain.

  Minutes later, Royce opened the door and entered, Gyfton following behind him.

  “You have wine, Father?” He smiled, slapping his hands together in eager anticipation.

  “Aye. It arrived with the supplies earlier.” Rosard nodded toward the corner where wine and cups sat upon a table. “But that is not the reason I asked you both here. Has Royce told you of Arlis?”

  “Aye. Think you ’tis an ambush?” Gyfton stepped to the table and poured three cups of wine. Handing a cup to Royce, Gyfton picked up the remaining two and offered one to his father.

  “Mayhap.” Rosard accepted the cup and turn to Royce. “On your patrols, did you find a way to cross the moat?”

  “Nay. Short of swimming, we found no weakness in the castle defense.”

  Rosard nodded. “Then we will send out a patrol in advance. Have them sweep the eastern area, from the woods to the castle. If there is an ambush planned, we will know of it beforehand.”

  Chapter Two

  Was it the soft whisper of feet on stone, or a gentle swirl of air that woke her from her sleep? Anora couldn’t be sure, but awake she was. In the blackness of her curtained bed, she sat up, willing her pounding heart to a slower beat as she strained to hear any sound.

  The slide of the curtain was her only warning before a rough, callused hand closed over her mouth, muffling the scream that tore at her throat. She shook her head in a feeble attempt to dislodge the wide palm that partially cupped her chin, forcing her teeth to grind together.

  An arm encircled her torso, capturing her within the linens. She struggled, thrashing her legs, only to get tangled in the bedding. With a sudden jerk, she and her twisted linens were yanked from the bed and held against a hard, muscled body, her feet dangling above the floor. She adjusted her hold on his arm, gouging her nails into the firm skin of his exposed wrist. The barbarian didn’t even flinch as she felt the sticky warmth of his blood against her fingertips.

  “Hold, my lady. The siege is at end.” The softly accented English confirmed Anora’s fears. The Norman had breached Fairhurst’s defenses.

  But how? Had they conquered the walls, the hue and cry would have awakened her.

  The only other way in was the tunnel. But how did they know where it was or where to cross the moat? Did they swim across, the warrior holding her would be wet from neck to feet. Nay, someone had to show them where the tunnel was and the way across the moat. Only the people of Fairhurst knew of it. That could only mean…a traitor.

  Her blood ran cold.

  Who would have betrayed them?

  Rage roared through her body. Damn the accursed traitor and these Norman whoresons to Hell!

  She clamped her legs together within the linens and, bending her knees, kicked backward. Her feet met nothing but air and the arm encircling her ribs tightened.

  “Cease your struggles, lest you cause yourself harm.” The veiled threat, whispered just above her ear, sent a shiver of fear through her, but she only renewed her attempts to get free.

  “God’s bones, woman.” He spun her around and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. “Cease.”Air whooshed from her lungs as her stomach collided with his mail-clad shoulder, and he clamped his arm across her legs. Each jarring step the man took out of her room and down the darkened corridor caused the metal of his mail to dig into her skin.

  Shouts, cries and the scrape of metal rose from the great hall.

  Her people still fought. And died, no doubt. Her heart hurt, and she swallowed her anguish.

  He came to a halt and his hold on her legs loosened.

  “Mind your linens.” Her feet hit the floor and she clutched the material to her body as she was turned around.

  “Move forward.” He nudged her. “Let them see you.”

  She stumbled to the landing, bracing herself to see her people slaughtered or maimed. Surprise widened her eyes. The Normans had gathered all of her people into the Great Hall. She scanned the room, tears of joy burning behind her eyes as she found several of her men sporting nothing more than a bloodied nose or a bruised eye.

  The moment of elation was cut short as a thought skidded to a halt in her mind. Mayhap this Norman soldier planned a more gruesome death for them.

  He stepped up behind her and pulled her back against him. He wrapped his arm just below her breasts, pushing them up to strain against the linens she clutched. Anchored against him, she became aware of his power, his maleness, the heat rolling off his body to surround her. He shifted, causing her breasts to rise farther above her coverings.

  Her cheeks warmed. Did he continue, she would be exposed to her people. Was that his purpose? To shame her? To publicly humiliate her? Or did he plan something worse?

  Rape. The word stilled the air in her lungs.

  Please God, not before my people.

  In defense of her, the men of the castle would fall beneath the Normans’ blades. No, if that were his goal, better that it be in private where none could see. At least then she would have the chance to inflict wounds on Edmund’s murderer before she died.

  Her throat tightened. She closed her eyes and fought against the dizziness swirling in her head. Pulling a deep breath in through her nose, she opened her eyes and focused on the tapestry on the wall opposite the landing and waited. For what, she didn’t know.

  Rosard’s stomach churned at the tight, heavy feeling in his loins. How could his body betray him? Had he been so long without a woman that he would respond to the nearness of an aged widow?

  She came barely to his chin; her body was thin and firm for one her age. The linen cap covering her head hid, he was sure, a wealth of gray hair. So how in the name of God did she possess such a fine bosom?

  He dismissed the question and directed his attention to the Saxons.

  “I have your lady. Surrender your arms. The castle is taken.” His voice boomed over the people below and silence fell like a hammer as all eyes turned to him.

  A moment later, the assorted weapons the Fairhurst men held clattered to the floor and the malevolent gazes of their owners were trained on him.

  He searched the faces turned up to him from the hall until he found Gyfton. What was wrong with that idiot son of his? He was grinning from ear to ear and wiggling his eyebrows like a court jester. Had the enforced celibacy finally driven the boy mad?

  He shook his head, turning his attention to the stunned looks and opened mouths of the Fairhurst people. Respect for the Saxons grew as they stood amid the litter of their simple weapons. They were a brave lot, these men—and women, for they too, had armed themselves.

  The widow took a shallow breath. Keeping his eyes on the villeins and his men, he whispered to her, “’Tis done, my lady.” Her body stiffened. “I wish no harm to the people of Fairhurst or my men.”

  Was that a muffled snort from his captive? He deepened his voice. “Do not incite them to revolt,” he warned, and waited.

  A long moment later she nodded slightly. Surely she was a stubborn old lady, Rosard thought with grudging respect.

  The lady caught her breath. The weight of her feminine curves pressed against his arm as she exhaled. She attempted to move away. Acting on reflex, he tightened his hold
, bringing her bottom into firmer, more tantalizing contact.

  Fighting to maintain regular breathing, Rosard murmured, “I shall release you. Have a care to cover yourself, my lady.” Her hands clenched the material of the bedding and he removed his arm, taking a step back.

  Without turning to him, she said in a firm, husky voice, “I would return to my room.” Sidestepping him, she turned away and, clutching the linens about her, scurried back to her chamber.

  Rosard signaled to one of his men. “Guard her room and see that she does not escape.”

  The soldier nodded then strode down the hall in the wake of the woman.

  “Where is the steward? And the captain of the guards?”

  Two Saxon men stepped forward. Rosard motioned to Gyfton and another of his men. “Separate them from the others for questioning.”

  His son nodded and the four men disappeared.

  He watched as his soldiers gathered up the Saxon weapons and moved the castle inhabitants to one end of the hall.

  Satisfied that Fairhurst was now under the control of his army, Rosard returned to the lady’s chambers.

  “All is well, my lord.” The guard informed him and stepped aside.

  Nodding to the man, Rosard pushed open the door. He squinted against the gloom of the room, its lone candle creating a circle of light around a Saxon woman. She turned, and the thick rope of her braid swung around, bumping her hip before disappearing behind her.

  He took three steps toward her and stopped. Peering into the darkened corners, he looked for the elderly Lady Fairhurst, but the room remained silent and empty but for him and the woman in the candlelight.

  ’Twas plain by her shabby garments that she was the lady’s servant.

  “I am Rosard FitzGillen. Where is your lady?” Again, he searched the shadows of the room.

  Silence.

  “Do not think to hide her from me. ’Twill not go easy for either of you.”

  Silence.

  He battled to hold on to his fast waning patience.

  “I would know your name.”

  She notched her chin up a bit higher, her gaze sweeping over his form, her lips pressed into a tight line.