Hers To Command

Sir Henry had to notice Cerdic’s furrowed brow and glaring gray eyes, yet when he reached them, a merry little smile played about his well-cut lips, as if he thought they were going to celebrate his arrival.

Or was he amused by her men? Did he think himself superior? That Normans were naturally better soldiers?

To be sure, her men looked a little slovenly after waiting in the yard, and Cerdic’s hair could use a trim—but Sir Henry’s hair was astonishingly long for a Norman’s, and he was hardly dressed as befit a nobleman. He looked more like a well-to-do merchant, except for his sword.

Or maybe, she thought as she remembered his behavior in the upper chamber, this was simply the man’s normal expression when he was with noblewomen, especially one as beautiful as Giselle.

“Sir Henry, this is Cerdic, the leader of our escort and the garrison of Ecclesford,” she said by way of introduction.

“Your forefathers must have been Saxons,” Sir Henry said amiably, “judging by your hair and that battle ax.”

“I knew thou wert a Norman by thy pretty face.”

Sir Henry continued to smile, yet she could see a growing determination in his brown eyes, and his knuckles started turning white. So did Cerdic’s, and for a moment, it was like watching two powerful stags about to butt heads.

She didn’t want them to come to blows. Cerdic was her friend, and they needed Sir Henry.

“Cerdic,” she interposed, her voice taking on a slightly warning note, “Sir Henry is going to be our guest at Ecclesford.”

Mercifully, Cerdic let go of Sir Henry’s arm and stepped back.

Sir Henry laughed with apparent good humor. “Well, my brawny friend, what say we get on our way? Unless I’m very much mistaken, there’s a storm brewing and I would rather not get wet.”

CHAPTER TWO

AS A COOL AUTUMN BREEZE carrying the scent of rain blew across the hedgerows, Henry studied his companions and contemplated this rather odd turn of events. It wasn’t every day he awakened to find himself being scrutinized by unknown ladies, but as he’d told them, it wasn’t the first time he’d discovered women in his bedchamber, either. Women had been chasing after him since he was fourteen years old, which meant that the flattery and pleasure of such encounters was far from fresh, or even entertaining anymore. He had been far more annoyed than happy to discover two ladies examining him, especially after another nearly sleepless night.

However, he’d also meant it when he’d said he would have considered bedding the beautiful Lady Giselle. Indeed, he had never seen a woman more lovely. She had perfect features, pale skin with a hint of a blush on her cheeks, and lustrous blond hair. She wore a fine mantle of wode-dyed, dark blue wool, held together by a broach of silver. Her gown was fine, too, of deep blue damask and belted with a supple leather girdle. Her veil was made of soft white silk that floated about her round cheeks, and she had stood with her blond head bowed, her eyes demurely downcast, as modest as a nun in a cloistered convent.

Her sister, on the other hand…she was something completely different. She wasn’t pretty, especially when her face was pinched with anger and disapproval, and she had been much more plainly attired. She had been as strong as a young man, too, at least judging by the blow she’d struck when he mistakenly—very mistakenly—grabbed her hand. Was it any wonder he’d thought her a serving wench?

Then she’d acted as if he’d burst in on them. Her nut-brown eyes had fairly snapped with displeasure, and her full lips thinned to near invisibility.

In spite of his annoyance, which he took chivalrous pains to hide after he’d seen Lady Giselle, there’d been a moment when Lady Mathilde glared at him that he recalled bold women made the best lovers, for they were never shy to tell him what they liked, or to ask for his preferences.

Once he learned Lady Mathilde was of noble birth and the beauty’s sister, however, he quickly turned his attention back to Lady Giselle. He became mindful of the sorry state of his purse, his lack of an estate and his age. He was not so young that he hadn’t started to think of marrying and starting a family, especially with the example of his brother and sister, as well as his friend Merrick, to illustrate the joys of domesticity. Years of traveling from place to place, of being always a guest, had lost their luster, too.

His brother would surely counsel him to woo and wed Lady Giselle if he could. She was rich, she was young, she was beautiful—what was lacking? Well, one thing, but at the moment, it didn’t seem like much of a hurdle. Henry had vowed he would be in love with his bride when he wed.

His smile grew as he watched Lady Giselle’s slender body swaying in the saddle. It would surely be an easy thing to fall in love with such a beauty, and he was not without some confidence that he could arouse a similar feeling within her. He had his looks and years of experience with women on his side, and to win the love of such a woman, who would bring lands and wealth as her dowry, was surely worth whatever effort it might take.

And if he won the fair Giselle, Nicholas would finally have to say something good about his younger brother. Nor would he be able to accuse Henry of leading a wastrel existence anymore.

So why not begin the wooing? Henry thought, spurring Apollo to a slightly quicker pace until he was between the ladies.

“Have we much farther to go?” he asked Lady Giselle, giving her his most charming smile. “I’m not sure how long the rain will hold off.”

“Not far now,” Lady Mathilde answered, while her sister nudged her horse forward to ride beside Cerdic.

Whether that was due to her modesty or not, Henry was slightly disgruntled at being so obviously left behind to ride beside Lady Mathilde.

That lady immediately fastened her inquisitive brown eyes onto him and asked, “Why do you hate Roald?”

God save him, she was as bold and blunt as her sister was shy and maidenly.

“You need have no fear of offending my delicate sensibilities, Sir Henry,” she said when he didn’t answer right away. “I can believe anything of Roald.”

Despite her curiosity and her confidence that his reason wouldn’t upset her, the explanation was not a tale he cared to share with a woman. “Surely any man of honor would dislike him.”

She didn’t bat an eye or look away. “He can be charming and sly, and he has more influence at court than we will ever have. Perhaps, if you don’t hate him as much as I think, you may decide it is not worth the risk to offend him. You may even decide you should help him.”

It was an insult to even imply that he was capable of such duplicitous behavior. “I’ve said that I’ll help you, so I will—and even if I hadn’t, Roald will make no overtures to me, nor would I accept them if he did. He hates me as much as I hate him.”

“I must assume, then, you quarreled. Over a wager? Over a woman?”

God’s wounds, she made him sound like a confederate who’d gotten in a bit of a tiff. “I would certainly never wager with Roald and his cronies. For one thing, they probably cheat.”

She slid him a glance that was both shrewd and appraising, but in a complimentary way. “A woman, then?”

That was close to the truth, and yet their animosity sprang from a far different cause than she surely imagined.

Rather than endure her interrogation and who knew what other implications she might come up with, he decided to tell her the truth, if not in complete detail. “When we were both at court, I came upon him trying to force himself on a serving girl.”

As always, the bile rose in his throat as he remembered the poor girl’s terrified face, and a girl she was. She couldn’t have been more than ten years old, but he would spare even this bold, prying lady that unsettling information. “I made him let her go at the point of my sword, so Roald has no love for me.”

At first he thought he saw grim satisfaction on the lady’s features, but it was quickly replaced by a piercing, searching gaze that was as uncomfortable as his brother’s. “When did this happen?”

“Two years ago.”

“He was not charged with trying to rape her?”

Henry winced inwardly at the harsh, if accurate, word. It was disconcerting to hear a lady speak so directly of such an act. “No.”

“So although you caught him in the process of committing a crime, you let him go?”

Henry flushed, feeling a twinge of guilt at her accusation, although he’d told himself that night, and ever after, that he had done nothing to feel guilty about when he had allowed Roald to leave. “You didn’t see the girl, my lady, or hear her sobs and pleas not to call the guard. She was sure no one would take her word over Roald’s, and that Roald would say she led him on, and then her reputation would be ruined. I could not disagree, so yes, I let him go.”

The lady tilted her inquisitive head with its pointed little chin. “Many noblemen would not interfere at all, believing a servant’s body theirs by right, whether she was willing or not.”

“I don’t,” he answered with firm honestly. “I would never take a woman against her will, whether high born or low, and I have never made a woman cry out in pain and anguish, or left her bruised and bleeding.”

Lady Mathilde looked ahead at Cerdic and her sister, and he regretted speaking with such force. He should have remembered that, no matter her appearance or her manner, she was still a lady.

“That girl was fortunate you were there to help her,” Lady Mathilde said quietly, and with sincerity and compassion—a hint of gentleness and sympathy that was rather unexpected, and not unpleasant.

Inspired to be pleasant in return, Henry nodded at Cerdic at the head of the cortege. The fellow had a sword at his side and a rather fearsome battle ax strapped to his back. The shaft of his ax had to be four feet long and the head looked sharp enough to split hairs. “It’s rather unusual to see an Englishman in a position of such responsibility and trust.”

In truth, he couldn’t think of any Norman nobleman he knew who would give an Englishman that much responsibility, or consider one a friend. It had been nearly two hundred years since the Conquest, but old enmities died hard.