Siege Page 3

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “What are you called?”

  She snapped her gaze from his chest to his eyes. A narrowing of those expressive orbs belied the control she struggled to maintain.

  She bowed her head slightly. “Your pardon, my lord.”

  The words should have been soothing, but the hint of sarcasm in her voice put him on edge as he sensed yet another battle to be fought.

  “I know not what I am called, now.” Her hands clenched into fists at her side. “Yesterday I was Lady Fairhurst.” She canted her head, eyeing him closely. “What shall my title be today, sir?”

  This is Lady Fairhurst?

  Nay, it could not be. The woman before him was no withered old widow; she had about her a defiant, mature air. Her green eyes crackled with emotion, her lips compressed and her brow furrowed.

  “What game is this?” He straightened, taking a step toward the woman.

  “’Tis no game, sir.” Scorn dripped from her words.

  Damn the flickering light of the candle.

  He moved another step closer. She held his gaze. Her speech was not that of a simple servant, her carriage straight and confident.

  Lady Fairhurst stood before him.

  “You are not what I expected.” ’Twas an understatement, to be sure. He shook his head.

  Rosard’s gaze moved back over her form. A wave of relief swept over him as he recalled his body’s response to her nearness only minutes before. A response, he feared, he was experiencing again.

  Thanking the heavens for his heavy mail that hid his burgeoning discomfort, he forced his mind from the path it followed.

  A tremor of foreboding rattled along Anora’s nerves as the Norman’s brows arched and his gaze lit with an inner fire she recognized.

  She swallowed the gasp rising in her throat as the warrior spoke the words she’d just thought. The deep timbre of his voice coursed over her skin, leaving a tingling in its wake.

  She shook off the feeling and straightened her shoulders, tilting her chin a little higher. “’Twould seem another Norman bastard is foisted upon us. Like attracts like.” She allowed the disgust she felt to weigh her voice, narrowing her eyes as she repeated the words she’d spoken to Sir Godwin weeks before.

  His silence goaded her.

  Ignoring the dangerous glint in his eyes, she continued her verbal assault.

  “Are you not finished with killing and maiming?” She snorted her contempt. “Will you see all Saxons to their graves? But then with whom will you war? Will you look for a fresh supply of innocent people?”

  “Are you quite finished, my lady?” He watched her, his arms folded over his chest.

  “Nay, I’ve scarce begun.” She began pacing. “Think you to come in and declare yourself lord and master?” Her voice rose. “Think you we will follow meekly as lambs?”

  “What choice have you?” His gaze followed her movements. “King William has ordered it.”

  He cocked his eyebrow, a half smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

  She stopped and faced him. “He is your king, not ours.” She tossed the words out defiantly. “His order holds no meaning here.” His smile disappeared. His gaze hardened. “William is King of England. Best you accept it.”

  She snorted in response. His statement deserved nothing more.

  “You risk much, my lady.”

  She opened her mouth to challenge him, but he slowly raised his hand. It was the size of the hand before her and the many calluses that made her swallow her words, reminding her that he was the conqueror and she the conquered. This man held not only her fate, but that of her people and here she stood, goading him. She snapped her mouth closed, focusing on the floor, lest he see the rebellion she knew still lurked in her eyes.

  “I would know of your family.”

  “What would you know?” Anger and frustration stretched her control. “Where they are buried?” She bit her lip. She took a deep, calming breath. Sweet Jesus, the man could pinch her head from her shoulders with one hand, did she not hold her wayward tongue.

  “You have no living relatives?”

  Was that concern she saw in his eyes? She snorted. Normans felt no concern for their victims.

  “Nay.”

  A strident knock upon the door interrupted the warrior’s next words. Another Norman burst into her room. It seemed the barbarians were incapable of the barest of manners.

  “Father.” The young man’s gaze cut to her. With a brief nod, he turned his attention back to his father.

  “Aye, Gyfton?”

  Again, the young warrior’s gaze slid to Anora. “’Tis the steward, sir. He is reluctant to answer Royce’s questions. And Royce would see that he does, his way.” Gyfton turned from Anora, focusing his attention on his father. “And you know what that means.”

  “Aye.” The Norman followed his son to the door.

  A jolt of fear rocked her and she blurted, “Please, sir. Do not harm Joseph. He is only…”

  The men paused. The Norman glanced over his shoulder. “You will stay here, my lady. No harm will come to the people…provided they and you cooperate.”

  Outside the room, Rosard nodded to the soldier in the hall, waiting a moment until the man stationed himself before the door. Rosard and Gyfton strode to the stairs, their footsteps echoed down the hall.

  “So that is Lady Fairhurst? Far from the old woman you expected, eh, Father?”

  Rosard fixed his son with his best quelling look. Gyfton grinned in response, then sobered. “I know your reason for not harming the Saxons, Father, but how will you keep them from resisting your rule?”

  Rosard stopped at the landing. His son had spoken his concerns. The image of Lady Fairhurst flashed across his mind. Her green eyes had filled with fear, not for herself, but for the steward.

  “The lady is loyal to her people. And the people, are they loyal to her?”

  “Aye. ’Tis what set the steward off. He demanded to know of the lady’s well-being.”

  Rosard nodded as a plan came to mind. “I believe I know the means by which to keep the peace here.”

  Gyfton raised an eyebrow, and then followed as his father proceeded down the stairs. Gyfton showed him to a small room behind the great hall. He heard his eldest son’s voice as they entered. “And where is the plate?” Royce towered over the elderly steward.

  “I would give him the information he seeks, old man,” Rosard advised. The man turned his head, glaring mutinously, and clamped his thin lips together.

  He watched the man a moment. Stepping around him, he allowed his gaze to travel slowly, threateningly over the servant.

  “We’ll find it, you know. I’d rather not turn my men loose to wreak havoc in the castle.” He locked his eyes with the steward’s. “Nor would I like your lady to suffer from your lack of cooperation.”

  Old eyes widened, the wrinkled skin of the steward’s face whitened, and his lips trembled.

  A silent moment passed.

  “’Tis below stairs, directly under the constable’s room,” the old man muttered.

  “And where is the good constable?” Rosard queried.

  “Dead.” The steward shifted.

  “Who has enforced the laws?” Rosard stepped back from the man.

  Eyes cast down, the man answered. “Sir Godwin.”

  Rosard looked to Royce.

  “The captain of the guards.” Royce supplied the answer to his unspoken question.

  “Bring him.” Rosard spoke his command in a quiet voice and then turned to the servant.

  “That is all, Joseph. See that you cooperate with my men and things will go easier for you.”

  The old man stood still for a moment. Straightening his spine, he lifted his head, his blue gaze fired with hatred.

  “What of my lady? What have you done to her?”

  Rosard arched his eyebrow, impressed with the servant’s concern and loyalty.

  “For the moment she is enjoying good health.” He
let the unspoken threat hang over the room.

  The old man sucked in a breath of air. His eyes glazed with fear, crowding out the hatred of a moment ago.

  “You may go.”

  Joseph bowed his head and shuffled from the room, leaving Rosard to wonder how efficient a steward of his years could be.

  That, as well as everything else, he would know before the week was out.

  The door banged on its hinges and Royce entered, shoving a bound man into the room. The man went sprawling on the floor and his son slammed the door shut.

  Rosard looked down at the Saxon before raising his gaze to Royce.

  “Untie him.”

  Royce sent him a glare. He wondered, a moment, what made his son so bloodthirsty? Surely he was sick of the killing. Did he not share his father’s desire for peace?

  In the end, it was Gyfton who cut the ropes and helped the man to his feet. With a jerk, the Saxon shook off the aid.

  “What have you done with Lady Fairhurst? If you’ve harmed even one hair, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” Royce advanced on the guard. “Are the Saxons incapable of recognizing defeat?”

  “Royce.” Rosard cut in. “See to the inventory.” The warning in his voice weighed his words.

  Royce turned and glared at him. His nostrils flared and he opened his mouth. Rosard braced himself for the confrontation.

  Snapping his lips together, the younger man spun around and quit the room. The door closed with an angry clap that echoed in the silent room.

  Rosard exhaled a breath, relieved that his son hadn’t challenged him before the Saxon. He would find the time to speak with him. ’Twas time and more that he bring his son to heel. But that was later.

  Turning his attention back to the guard, Rosard eyed him closely. The man lifted his chin and glared.

  What was it about these Fairhurst people? Could they not tell when a cause was lost? Biting down on his control, Rosard fought the urge to take the older man by the throat and throttle some sense into him.

  He was tired and hungry. His men had yet to be settled, and he had a castle full of the enemy to contend with. He ran his fingers through his hair, fighting the fatigue threatening to snap what little control he had.

  There was only one way to ensure the safety of his men. Though the method was not to his liking, ‘twas the only option he knew would work.

  He inhaled deeply before putting forth the only choice open to the Saxon. “The lady is of import to you and the rest of Fairhurst?”

  The guard’s eyes narrowed, but he remained silent.

  So be it, Rosard thought.

  “If you would keep your lady safe, you and all of Fairhurst must submit to my rule.”

  Rosard noted the rebellion tightening the man’s face. “Be warned, what harm befalls myself or my men will befall Lady Fairhurst.”

  Would it work? His siege had been timid by all standards. His invasion of the castle quite tame—no brutal killing, rapes or destruction of property. Would this warrior see Rosard as less of a threat? Did he, perchance, understand the motive behind his methods? Or would he challenge him?

  Rosard struck again. “I would have your oath of fealty now.”

  The man jerked his chin up, a snarl curled his lips.

  “I’d as soon die than bend my knee to a Norman bastard. Fairhurst will never submit to Norman rule.”

  It was the response Rosard expected. He would do no less were the situation reversed, but still it maddened him.

  “And would you so forfeit the lives of your men? The women and children?” Rosard leveled a measuring glare on the man. “The Lady Fairhurst?”

  The captain’s mouth thinned to a straight line, his eyes glazed in anger.

  Rosard pushed on. “Death can be a painful experience if the axe is not sharp enough or the aim a bit off.” The picture of the lady’s death sickened Rosard. Fighting off the softness that crowded in, he finished. “But if that is your wish…so be it.” His gaze brushed Gyfton. His son stared at him in disbelief.

  “I spoke only of myself. You would not slaughter innocents.”

  “You are so certain of this?” Rosard straightened his shoulders, bracing his feet apart, his arms crossed over his chest.

  The Saxon stared at him. A flicker of uncertainty lit the man’s eyes and Rosard knew he sought a way to reverse his words. A bead of sweat rolled down the captain’s temple and he licked his lips.

  Rosard waited.

  “And would you so easily offer your oath?”

  Rosard considered his question.

  “Nay, but neither would I offer up another’s life. I am surprised a man of your years has yet to learn to curb his temper.”

  There was a scratching at the door and Arlis slid in.

  “My lord, can I be of service?” The man’s gaze swept the room. Encountering the captain, he visibly cringed.

  “You?” The captain’s nostrils flared and he rounded on the man. “You were ever wont to take the easy road, Arlis. But to betray Lady Anora after all she’s done for you…” He shook his head. “She should have turned you out.”

  Rosard observed the scene playing out before him. He had no respect or liking for Arlis the traitor. If the man would turn on his lady, he would as easily turn on Rosard.

  “Gyfton.” He quietly called his son to his side.

  “Aye, Father?”

  “I want two guards in here, now.”

  Gyfton nodded and left.

  “Enough.” He stopped Sir Godwin. “Why did you want this man turned out?”

  Sir Godwin faced Rosard. “He is a troublesome lout; lazy, known to thieve that which he refuses to earn. Several times he was caught stealing food. He is a burden to the people.”

  Rosard turned to Arlis just as Gyfton returned with two guards.

  “There is no place at Fairhurst for one of your ilk. I cannot abide a shiftless man, nor can I tolerate a traitor.”

  “But, my lord, it was because of me that you found your way into the castle. Isn’t that of value?”

  “Aye, it was because of your knowledge and deceit that we are here. But make no mistake, in the end the results would have been the same. I owe nothing to traitors.”

  Glancing over Arlis’s head, Rosard said, “Take him beyond Fairhurst and leave him.” Leveling a cold glare at the traitor, he said, “You are not to enter Fairhurst land ever again. Should you do so, death will be the outcome.”

  “But my lord—”

  “Take him.” As Arlis was dragged from the room, Rosard turned and met the speculative gleam of Sir Godwin.

  “For now, you and your men will be housed under guard until such time as you give me your oath of fealty.”

  * * * * *

  Rosard strode out the doors of the castle, the rosy light of a new day greeting him. His stomach rumbled. He had not seen his bed nor had he answered his body’s demand for sustenance. There was much yet to be done before he could see to his own comforts.

  Halting behind a group of his men, both his sons amongst them, Rosard ran a tired hand through his hair to the back of his neck. He made a futile attempt to massage the fatigue and tension from the muscles.

  “The Saxons have been separated,” Royce said, “and the captain of the guard and his men are below.”

  Rosard waited.

  “How do you propose to garner these people’s respect?” Royce waved his hand to the cluster of frightened villagers. “You must instill fear in them, else they will think you soft.”

  “Look you there.” Rosard nodded to the group sitting on the ground before them. “Do they not look frightened unto death?”

  Indeed, the women and children looked pale and scared. Mothers huddled with their babes, the younger children clutching at their skirts. It was a product of war, this fear, but he longed to see happy faces around him.

  Royce snorted.

  “Seek your bed. Mayhap some sleep will see you in better humor.”

  Rosard watched his son str
ide off, and then moved between his men and stood before the Saxon women and children.

  “I am Rosard FitzGillen, Lord of Fairhurst.” He gentled his words, speaking in their language. “I would have you submit to my rule.” He glanced at the women, several of whom compressed their lips, their stares filled with the heat of hatred. He sighed inwardly.

  “Any actions taken against me or my men will be visited upon your lady.”

  A collective gasp rose from the women, tears glistened in many an eye.

  “Do I make myself understood?”

  A general nod answered his question.

  Leaving them, Rosard walked to the next group, feeling the heat of a gaze upon his back. He knew without looking that Lady Fairhurst watched the proceedings from her window.

  He stopped before a group of young boys, giving them the same speech. Sharing confused glances, the boys shifted on the ground. One young boy, shaggy hair hanging in his eyes, spoke up.

  “Ye mean that if we throw a rock at a Norman soldier, ye’ll do the same to the lady?” His eyes rounded.

  Rosard considered the question.

  “Nay, I mean that if you throw a rock at a Norman, you’ll be whipped and so will your lady.” The mental picture that came to mind made his stomach clench, Rosard prayed the lady’s people had a care for her and were as loyal as they first appeared.

  “Ye would not beat my lady.” The boy stood.

  “Would I not?” Rosard glared the urchin back to his seat on the ground. “I would not test me were I you.”

  He scanned the group of boys. “Are there any other questions?”

  Mutely, they shook their heads, their big-eyed stares reflecting their fear.

  The last group he approached was made up of the elderly men.

  Delivering his words crisply, he prepared himself for the looks of hatred and anger he received.

  “’Tis not an honorable thing ye threaten,” one old toothless man said from the back of the cluster of men. His cohorts nodded in agreement and mumbled their assent.

  “Would you rather I kill you all, then?”

  “’Twould be preferable to the yoke of Norman tyranny.”

  Rosard’s patience snapped. Nodding to one of his men, he said, “So be it.”