Saxon Lady

“He was just a boy. Of course I did not kill him, even though—” A sharp knock at the door interrupted him. “Enter!”

’Twas the herald, Gilbert de Bosc, carrying the leather satchel in which Sir Auvrai kept his medicines. Gilbert was no warrior, but a man fluent in the Saxon tongue. Mathieu had never seen him wield a sword in battle and did not know if he would be able to defend himself if necessary. Still, he had his uses, besides functioning as an interpreter. His administrative skills were immense, and he was free to tend the sick and wounded. “Sir Auvrai will be here presently.”

“Tell him not to bother. Lady Aelia will attend me.” Mathieu took the satchel and handed it to her.

“Baron, are you certain—”

“Auvrai has more pressing duties, and the lady has convinced me she is competent.”

It seemed overwarm in the chamber. Aelia pushed open the shutters to let in the evening air before turning once again to face the Norman’s naked chest and rippling muscles. ’Twould not be possible to overpower him. Still, his sword lay nearby, and he’d placed her dagger upon the washstand. If she could—

“If you’re thinking of using the moment to do me some damage, demoiselle,” he warned, taking her blade in hand and stabbing the sharp tip into the wood of the stand, “I urge you to reconsider.”

Aelia bit her lip and pushed up her sleeves. “This will be easier if you lie on the bed.”

He pushed the wooden stool closer to the lamplight and sat down, letting his knees drift apart. “This will do.”

“You expect me to kneel before you?”

“Do what you will, demoiselle,” he said. “But get the sewing done.”

He raised his right arm and rested it upon the washstand, giving Aelia better access to the laceration in his side, as well as a better view of his brawny chest and shoulder. Aelia had no doubt that the visual display was meant to intimidate her.

She glanced at the wound, then at the needle in her hand. The gash needed five stitches to hold it closed.

She knew how to make it ten. There was more than one way to kill a Norman and she would discover it before the evening was out.

Chapter Six

M athieu made a fist with his left hand and pressed his other against his thigh when Aelia pushed the needle through his skin. He concentrated on her mouth while she worked, on those soft, pink lips that had responded so intensely to his kiss.

He’d managed to avoid thinking about it until now, and he knew it would be in his best interests to concentrate on something else.

But she was so close he could see the faint freckles on the bridge of her nose, and the fine line of a tiny scar that fanned out from the corner of her eye. He could feel her warm breath and see the pebbling of her breasts against the soft wool of her tunic.

He sucked in a breath.

“Brace yourself, Norman,” she said, unaware that he’d barely noticed her needlework. She leaned closer, and several loose tendrils of her hair brushed against his chest. “I’m not yet finished.”

Mathieu gritted his teeth. ’Twould be so easy to kiss her again, to draw her to her feet and lead her to the bed, where he would lay her on her back and make her forget he was her enemy.

But he knew ’twas better to concentrate on the needle passing through his skin. Bedding Lady Aelia would be the worst possible course he could take. The situation was already far too complicated.

“Enough, woman!”

He pushed Aelia aside and stood. “I am no altar cloth on which to ply your needle.”

Shouts outside the window caught Mathieu’s attention and he crossed the room to see what the commotion was about. “God’s breath! The grain storehouse is on fire!” ’Twas where the prisoners were held. He threw the tunic over his head, then grabbed his sword. Taking Aelia by the hand, he ran from the room.

“To the storehouse!” he called to the guard as he passed.

“Osric!” Aelia cried as they flew down the steps. “My brother is in that building!”

“And you will be staying here, in the hall, with Sir Gilbert and the wounded men while I get him out.” Mathieu knew she would resist him, but he had no intention of allowing her to join the chaos outside. All his men would be needed to put out the fire and collect the prisoners. There would be no time to deal with whatever trouble Lady Aelia could accomplish.

As he fastened his sword belt, he backed her up to a chair against the wall and watched her fall into it. Her cheeks were flushed with color and each breath seethed with outrage.

“I’m going out there,” she cried. She tried to get up from the chair, but he stood before her, his knees to hers. She tried to push her way free, but Mathieu trapped her in place, leaning over her and placing a hand on each arm of the chair.

He leaned close. “Demoiselle, you will stay here, and give Gilbert no trouble. I will find your brother and assure his safety.”

“No! You can’t leave me here!”

Mathieu straightened and Aelia tried again to slip out of the chair. “Aye, I can.” He pushed her back where he wanted her. “Gilbert! Tie Lady Aelia in place and see that she does not leave the hall.”

A moment later, he clipped down the steps and raced toward the storehouse.

Ingelwald’s hall had never looked like this, Aelia thought as she entered the room.

The huge oaken table that had dominated the large chamber was gone, as were most of the chairs. In their place, ten or twelve injured men lay upon pallets on the floor, moaning or sleeping, as was their wont. Aelia did not take time to notice anything more, but bolted for the door, having easily eluded Sir Gilbert. The hapless Norman came after her, but became distracted when one of the injured men started to retch. She took advantage of the diversion and beat the herald to the door.

Thick smoke filled the yard and choked Aelia the moment she went outside. Undeterred, she headed toward the source of the smoke, the storehouse where Osric and the men of the fyrd were being held. There was already a line of men, women and children passing water-filled buckets toward the stable, which stood beside the grain storehouse, and carrying the emptied ones back to the well. Normans as well as Saxons worked to prevent the fire from spreading, but it seemed to be gaining in strength rather than waning. The heat from the flames was stifling.

’Twas a terrifying sight.

The fire had taken hold of the stable roof, and men were leading horses out to safety. They’d already given up on the storehouse beside it, the place where Osric had been held.

Aelia ran to the front of the water line, where a number of Saxon men lay covered with dirt and ash, coughing and trying to catch their breath. A Norman warrior caught an empty bucket from the roof and handed it back down the line.

“Did everyone get out of the storehouse?”

“Who’s to know?” he replied. “At least some of them got out, but we don’t know if there are any more in there.”

“What about a young boy—a small, red-haired boy?”

The Norman took the next bucket and handed it up to a man on the stable roof. Aelia grabbed his arm. “The boy! Did you see a small boy come out of the storehouse?”

“No. Move aside or help, lady. There is no room here for bystanders.”

Aelia’s heart lodged in her throat. If Osric was still inside the storehouse, he would burn to death.

She heard Fitz Autier shouting orders, and looked up toward the sound of his voice. He had shed his tunic and stood on the stable roof, pouring water from the buckets that were handed up to him.

Aelia ducked away before he could take notice of her, and picked up a discarded rag from the ground. Covering her head and mouth with it, she whispered a silent prayer and ran into the burning storehouse.

She didn’t think she’d ever felt anything hotter than the flames outside. But within the storehouse, ’twas worse. Her throat burned and her eyes watered as she searched the smoke-filled spaces for anyone who might still be inside, but she could see no one. Nor were there any bodies.

“Osric!”