Bound to the Warrior Read online

  She looked up at that moment, eyes hurt and hollow. He’d called her old, and he was wrong. She was broken, hurt by Ganute so much that Adrien actually regretted the man’s death. If Ganute was still alive, then Adrien would be able to teach him a lesson he would not soon forget.

  With a stilling breath, Adrien forced out the violent thoughts. The Good Lord wanted him to show mercy and love. His new wife needed such. He walked toward her and wasn’t surprised when she turned her attention back to the garden. Sighing, he sat and took her hand.

  “Ediva, I meant no insult when I called you old. ’Twas not a slight against your youth or beauty.”

  She didn’t move. He pressed on. “I’m a soldier, Ediva, not a fine prince who knows the ways of courtship. And we both know you’re not a maid.”

  She looked at him, blinking. “You don’t know that.”

  He frowned. “I do. You were married to Ganute for five years.”

  “I could still be a maid.”

  Adrien shook his head gently. “We both know that’s not so. Were you ever with child?”

  “Nay, I gave him no children.” Her gaze darted about. “Some said God made me barren to punish me.”

  “For what?”

  She bit her lip. “For not giving my all to Him. For not rejoicing in the marriage consecrated in His eyes. For turning my back on Him when I was—” She cleared her throat. “The chaplain would tell me to pray for Ganute’s safety in battle.” She glanced up at him and he saw a fierceness there as her voice dropped. “If I had prayed, ’twould have been for his death, not his life.”

  Ahh. ’Twas the reason for the backward fealty to William. She owed the king because one of his soldiers had ended her misery.

  His breath drew in sharply. He’d fought at Hastings, following the king who’d led the battle. Adrien had slashed his way through several Saxon knights that day.

  Had Ganute been one of them?

  Still, her words about God... Was she not a Christian woman? The tutor his family had employed had said once that some hearts were closed to the Lord.

  Was she hard of heart?

  Ediva blinked rapidly again, offering the real answer. She was as hard-hearted as a kitten. She was simply afraid to trust—in man or in God. Life had scarred her.

  He lifted her hand, smooth and cold and shaking. He tightened his grip to warm it and prevent it from slipping free. “Ediva, God doesn’t punish those who are already hurting. He has mercy.”

  “Mercy?” Her brows shot up. “There was no mercy for five years. Not even from my own family. I was told to endure my marriage because ’twas my duty to my family.”

  Glancing around, his gaze fell on a bare vine clinging to the sunniest wall of the bailey. Buds were swelling on it. He dug through his memories for something to say. As third son, he’d been expected to serve the church and had studied with monks for much of his childhood. Surely there was some Bible story... “Ediva, God prunes the vine so it will produce good fruit. You must have produced good fruit, for God does not prune that which produces no fruit at all.”

  She shook her head. “I told you I am barren.”

  “Fruit isn’t babes only, Ediva. The respect you have here and the care you show for your staff that leads them to care for you are all good fruit. Even for the short time I have been here, I can see you all care for each other.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’re a soldier. How do you know these things?”

  “I’m not the firstborn son, so I was expected to serve God instead of lead the family.” He pulled her slightly closer but not so close as to scare her. “Enough of me. Ganute was cruel to you, wasn’t he?”

  She nodded. Shaking his head, he leaned forward. Immediately, she drew back, too quickly for the cause to be anything but instinct.

  His stomach tightened. “Don’t be frightened. Never will I force myself upon you. There is no honor in hurting a woman, Ediva.”

  Her short, wobbly laugh brushed his cheeks. “We are married and the king has ordered children.”

  “I will handle the king. He won’t expect babes overnight.” He shook his head. “We may be married, but until you find it in your heart to accept me as husband in every sense, I will demand nothing from you. Nor will you be bruised and beaten at my hand or anyone else’s. I promise you that.”

  And along with his vow came the urge to press his lips against hers, to warm her very soul. He began to lower his head...

  Abruptly, she pulled back her shoulders and steeled her spine. “Adrien, you say that God has been pruning me. But I fear He’s not done yet. Look around. All I own has been given away by a king as brutal as Ganute.”

  “William is not brutal!”

  “Ha! Did he not herd me to London like a sheep for slaughter, then not feed me so I would be weak and compliant? He has no care for me—no more than Ganute cared for me. No more than God cares for me. Don’t say that God allows me to suffer to make me a better person. I have no desire to hear anymore of how good God is.”

  She pulled free her hand and held it up as she flew to her feet. “Nay! Keep your peace and your God because I don’t want either. But remember this. You promised me you’ll not touch me ’til I am ready. I will hold you to that.”

  She spun and stomped up the stone steps into the kitchen, leaving him alone among the herbs only just budding from the cold, damp earth.

  Chapter Four

  Ediva sank into her chair, pretending to prepare for her bath, but she wanted only to ease her temper, lest she bark at her servants.

  Her hand rose to her mouth, as if she could draw back in the harsh words she had spoken. Adrien had done nothing to warrant her anger, except injure her pride by calling her old.

  Rubbing her pounding forehead with a shaky hand, she stood. She ached all over and needed to bathe away the smell of horseflesh and sweat of travel.

  Mayhap you should first apologize to Adrien?

  The nagging voice thumped between her temples, but grouchily, she ignored it. Husband or not, he had no right to know the details of her humiliating marriage to Ganute.

  Her maid appeared in the doorway, spotted her and turned to depart immediately. “Margaret,” Ediva called. “Where is my bath water?”

  “’Tis ready, milady. I will see that it’s brought up immediately.”

  The girl hurried off. Discarding any soft thoughts of an apology, Ediva slowly removed her wimple. With the filth of travel on her and very little sleep these past few days, she needed to bathe and rest more than seek out her husband. How many times had she begged Ganute’s forgiveness for some imaginary folly only to keep the brittle peace that was as delicate as an eggshell? No, she would not apologize again.

  Shortly, Margaret led in three servants with buckets of steaming water and the wooden tub. The young girl deftly prepared Ediva’s bath, helped her with it and then left her to her nap, with cloth-dried hair spread over the furs.

  Sometime later, Ediva awoke. Immediately she turned to the window. Even through the vellum shutters, she saw the sun setting. The shutters were a marvel, for they blocked the wind yet filtered light into her solar. Ganute was proud of them, the vellum being the finest and thinnest, stretched upon dovetailed wood frames. He’d claimed it to be his invention, but Ediva secretly suspected he’d seen them in London.

  Movement caught the corner of her eye and she flipped around. Adrien was sitting in her chair by the other window, reading the keep’s ledger whilst her maid was busy folding clothes into the trunk.

  He looked up, and in the briefest of heartbeats, their eyes locked.

  “Why are you here?”

  He closed the book and locked the long hasp wrapped around it. Where had he acquired the key? From Geoffrey or from her belt whilst she slept? She would ask later. “I have spent the afternoon with your st
eward, inspecting the keep and the coffers. I wanted to check on you.”

  She sat up, and then, realizing she wore only her inner tunic, she pulled up the fur bedclothes. The heavy pelts were suddenly a great comfort to her. She glared at Margaret, who didn’t seem concerned that Adrien was patiently waiting.

  “You inspected the coffers? And the records, too, I see? Were they satisfactory?” She tugged the pelts closer, even though her maid had piled coals into the brazier and closed the shutters to keep the warmth inside. Still, Ediva felt need to cover herself further. “And you have sat by my brazier since, awaiting me?”

  “I have only just sat down, milady. I fear I awoke you when I entered.”

  “I must ask you to leave. Margaret will assist me now.”

  Adrien lifted a finely curved brow, one as dark as her brows were pale.

  “I will see to our supper, then. We shall dine in the hall.”

  Ediva’s stomach growled. She’d missed the noon meal and was grateful that Adrien had delayed supper for her. Since Ganute died, she’d moved the castle routine away from two heavy meals. Their breakfasts were small and fresh, enough to keep them going ’til noon. Supper had become a reflection of breakfast, with broth that had simmered all day, something only to warm the belly. It suited her better than Ganute’s heavy meals, and with the change, Ediva had been able to cut spending, thus adding to the coins in her coffers.

  Another cold thought washed over her. No doubt those coins will soon be off to London as taxes to the king. Ediva had not increased the rent, thus easing the burden on her tenants, and had instead practiced good, sensible thriftiness to allow her to save enough to keep the castle going all winter. She’d hate to see it all leave now.

  But Adrien has already counted it. Geoffrey had opened the strongbox for him.

  She would deal with Geoffrey later.

  “I’d appreciate it greatly, sir, that you wait for me to escort you about the rest of the keep.”

  Adrien had already reached the door. “’Tis all done, Ediva. I have seen all I need to see, counted the silver and secured the strongbox. I do, however, have some changes to make.”

  She felt her ire rising and tamped it down, for she couldn’t exactly stomp away this time. “The king may own this keep, but the coffers are full because of my careful management. There will be no changes.”

  Adrien smiled. The warm curling up of his mouth took her so completely aback, she wondered what foolish thing she’d said.

  “You are quite right about your good management, milady, but know this, the coffers now belong to the king.”

  She straightened her spine. “My lord, know this. My people have no one save me.” She tried to maintain her determination, but her current position offered little help.

  Her husband tilted his head and she knew he was recalling how she’d flashed fear at him before. “Your words do not match your eyes, Ediva.”

  She drew back in her bed but lifted her chin. “When I buried Ganute, I told my people I would do my best to keep them from harm. I’ll do so even if it costs me my life.”

  He walked over, barely taking two strides to reach her. The ropes and wooden braces upon which the overstuffed pallet sat now strained as he pressed his knuckles onto them to lean close. His voice was soft, yet filled with warning. “Let us pray such a high price shall never be demanded.”

  Straightening, he left her alone. Alone and wondering if her new husband would really extract the high price she’d inadvertently suggested.

  * * *

  Adrien strode into the kitchen and ordered some food for them. Several maids scurried in obedience, leaving him alone in the smoky room. The day was nearly gone, but the door out to the small garden where he and Ediva spoke earlier remained open. He watched the youth he’d handed his reins to dump kitchen scraps near where Ediva had been sitting. From the shadows bolted several cats that grabbed the refuse before darting away. One small dog, mange-filled and bone thin, chased them for their prizes.

  Spying him, the youth jumped, turned tail and dashed away. Perturbed, Adrien jammed his fists into his hips and glowered. Aye, he was tall and well-muscled—he was a soldier, after all—but he was hardly an ogre.

  “That’s Rypan, milord. He’s not good with folks,” a fresh voice called out. “He’s not too smart and often can’t speak.”

  Adrien turned to find young Harry sitting by the hearth. A cook hurried past, snapping at him to move out of the way as she tended to the meal. Harry jumped up. The complete opposite of the boy who’d dashed away, Harry had bright, bold eyes and a saucy expression. His most annoying, yet beneficial, trait was his ability to speak French.

  “Where did you learn French, boy?”

  Harry grinned proudly. “I listened. M’maw worked for Lady Ediva’s family. Milady learned it, so I learned it, too.”

  “Did Ediva bring you when she was married?”

  He shrugged. “M’maw came with Lady Ediva, and I guess I was too young to leave her.”

  “Who’s your mother?”

  “One of the cooks. But not the cook.”

  Adrien tossed a look over his shoulder to the cook bustling around behind him. The woman shot Harry a sharp glare.

  “She’s Rypan’s aunt. He’s got no folks besides her.”

  “Your French is horrible, boy. I’ll have to teach you proper grammar.”

  An even bigger smile split the cheeky boy’s face. “I’d like that. Milady speaks to me in French, for her lord could not understand it.”

  Adrien frowned. “Ha! I doubt very much you were her confidant.”

  Harry shrugged. “I do not know what that means, sir. She’d just ask me to get her things.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  “Sweets, mint from the garden, herbs for teas. She don’t drink strong ales.”

  Again, Adrien rolled his eyes at his substandard French. “That wouldn’t require subterfuge.”

  “Nay, ’twas not subberfuge I got for her.”

  Adrien sighed. The boy had no idea what the word meant. “I meant that it would hardly require secrecy. What kind of herbs?”

  Harry shrugged again.

  “Harry!” A voice rang out from the depths of the kitchen. An older woman appeared with a lantern. “Find your sister. She needs to take food to the hall.”

  As Harry dashed out of the dim kitchen, the woman shot Adrien a fast glance before setting down the lamp and stoking the fire.

  “What kind of herbs would Lady Ediva need, woman?” he barked at her, feeling unreasonably annoyed by Harry.

  “Milady doesn’t drink any ales or wines, sir. Herbal teas, juices and broth are all she wants.” She bustled about the trays of food, doing her best to ignore him.

  He refused to take the slight personally. She was none too happy to have a Norman lord, Adrien guessed. As a soldier, he was used to ill-tempered people, even many of the knights who were better educated than anyone here were surly and ill-spoken. ’Twas part and parcel of the work.

  When the yelps and growls of that scruffy dog penetrated his thoughts, his attention snapped away from the cook.

  When he looked back, she was gone. His thoughts returned to Ediva’s earlier words, how she’d subtly suggested Adrien could be in danger of being poisoned. And with that boy suggesting Ediva knew her herbs made him wonder...

  Had she considered such an end for her first husband? An uneasiness wobbled through Adrien. He’d threatened to have her taste the food first. Had Ganute ever thought to do the same? Poisons were often effective. With a cruel lord of a manor lounging through the long winter nights, ’twould be easy to plan a murder. And yet that had not been Ganute’s death. ’Twas on the battlefield that he saw his end. Adrien pursed his lips in frustration. Would life at the keep prove too great a test for him?

&n
bsp; For now, he had little fear of attack. The keep was subdued, watchful. Waiting to see what sort of lord he would prove to be. He pondered the same question himself as he climbed the stairs to Ediva’s solar to retrieve her for the evening meal.

  Hours later, as he lay on a pallet in his private room off the great hall, listening to the servants settling for the night, he still found himself pondering the issue of herbs.

  Wondering if he should force Ediva to taste his food first.

  And hating that he’d even need to.

  Chapter Five

  Ediva awoke early. The eastern sky was barely tinged with morning when she freed the vellum from the window. A hint of spring eased into the room, and she heard her maid roll over on her pallet. Margaret hated to rise early, and because there was no reason to today, Ediva let her sleep. Quietly, she grabbed her cloak and slipped from her solar to walk the parapet above.

  Outside, she drew in cool air. She much preferred the warmth of summer or the insect-free autumns, but early mornings were wonderful any time of the year.

  Ganute often had slept in, and after the nights she had wanted to forget, Ediva would slip down to the kitchens for a small bite of bread and some broth. She’d order her bath water and return to the parapet to wait for a servant to announce its arrival, reveling in the brief span of time that she had to herself and dreading her husband’s awakening.

  Nay! That part of her life was over, she told herself sternly. Ganute was gone and her new husband had vowed not to touch her, a promise she meant for him to keep.

  She had to remain strong and detached. Her husband did not need her—her people did. Dunmow lost too many men at Hastings, and when she’d surveyed the mourners the day she’d buried Ganute, far too many widows stared back at her, all needing strong leadership. And there were worries anew, with the uprisings to the north and Norman soldiers gathering in the town of Colchester ten leagues to their south.

  “Let us pray such a high price shall never be demanded.”