doesn’t make much difference. The basics are the same. Here.’
He offered a hand but she ignored it, lifting her chin as she brushed past him and grasped hold of the reins. It was a long way up, but she wasn’t going to show fear—not to him or any other Norman. And she wasn’t going to accept help either. Not if she could help it.
She took a deep breath and heaved, hoisting herself up, and almost into the saddle before she stopped abruptly, feeling the tug of her skirt trapped beneath her boot in the stirrup, holding her back. Desperately she tried to scramble upwards, but it was no use. The horse was shifting impatiently and she could feel herself sliding.
‘Aren’t you going to help me?’ She swallowed her pride, squealing in panic.
‘Aren’t you going to ask?’
‘Help me!’
‘Please...?’
‘Please!’
At once she felt his hands around her thighs, lifting her up and depositing her in the saddle with an inelegant, unladylike thud.
‘Thank you.’ She tossed her head, refusing to look at his face, vividly aware that her own was flaming red. This was mortifying. Even her thighs felt red-hot where he’d touched her, as if she were blushing all over.
‘My pleasure.’ He swung up onto his destrier, his voice brimming with wicked amusement. ‘I’ve never seen anyone mount a horse like that. Is it some kind of Saxon custom?’
She rounded on him fiercely. How dared he? After everything else that had happened over the past twenty-four hours, how dared he make fun of her too? Anger, hot and raw, coursed through her veins as her taut emotions finally snapped.
‘What do you know about Saxon customs? What do you care? All you want is to destroy them! Isn’t that what Normans do? Destroy anything, anyone, who gets in their way!’
There! She felt a surge of triumph. That had wiped the smile off his face. There wasn’t a single trace of humour left in it now.
‘It’s not what we all do.’
His voice was dangerously quiet but she kept going, unable to stop herself from venting her anger.
‘You only want us to lie down and surrender!’
‘It would be best if you did.’
‘Well, we won’t! We might have been beaten, but it doesn’t mean we’ve surrendered. We’ll rise up again and fight!’
‘Do you think that you’ll win?’
She inhaled sharply. His voice was expressionless, but the quiet certainty behind his words made them all the more chilling. He wasn’t really asking her a question, he was giving her an answer. For a moment she felt as though she were facing the whole Norman army—one that the Saxon rebels could never hope to defeat.
‘And as I’ve told you before...’ his voice held a note of warning ‘...I’m not Norman.’
‘You’re still with them. What’s the difference?’
‘We’re not all the same.’
‘If I had my way I’d plunge a dagger into your heart—into every single Norman heart!’
She gasped, surprised by her own vehemence as he regarded her sombrely.
‘That’s quite a threat. And not one to make lightly.’
‘You think I don’t mean it? After everything your Conqueror has done?’
She lifted her chin defiantly, too angry to back down, thinking of her father, of Leofric and Edmund—of all the men who hadn’t come back from Hastings. The Normans had destroyed her world. Of course she wanted them to pay for it! She should make them pay!
He held her gaze for a moment before reaching down to his belt, fingers closing over the hilt of his dagger. Slowly, inexorably, he drew the blade from its sheath, weighing the metal in his hands as if he were considering something.
Aediva felt her heartbeat accelerate wildly. What was he going to do? Punish her on the spot? Her stomach lurched. Of course he was going to punish her. He was a Norman and she’d just threatened to kill him. He couldn’t let such a threat go unanswered.
‘Go ahead.’ He flipped the knife in his hand suddenly, grasping the blade between his fingers as he held the hilt out towards her. ‘Do it.’
‘What?’ She gaped at him, uncomprehending.
‘Unlike my King, I don’t believe in revenge, Lady Cille. But if you do, if you think it will make one tiny scrap of difference, then go ahead. You have my permission.’
Aediva stared at the knife, dumbfounded. Was he serious? He looked serious. But surely he wasn’t going to hand her a weapon just like that? She couldn’t win so easily...could she? It must be a trick.
Her gaze locked with his, shock mingling with suspicion. ‘Your men would arrest me.’
‘Renard!’
She jumped as his shout broke the stillness. Her already ragged nerves were in tatters. What now? Was he going to offer her a lance too?
‘Sir?’ His squire came running through the gates, stopping short as he saw the blade.
Aediva blanched. Hadn’t they acted this scene before—just yesterday in fact? She hadn’t been able to stab Svend then. What made her think she could do it now?
‘Renard will act as witness.’ Svend threw a glance at his squire. ‘Whatever happens here is an accident, understand? No one should be punished for it.’ Then he looked back towards her, lowering his voice as if imparting some secret too intimate to be shared. ‘Will that satisfy you, my lady?’
Aediva licked her lips, trying to moisten them, her mouth too dry to answer. This wasn’t what she’d intended. In her wildest imaginings she’d never thought that he’d simply hand her a blade. She’d been angry, upset at leaving Cille, lashing out without thinking. Surely he didn’t expect her to go through with it? Wouldn’t actually let her attack him? But he was watching her steadily, waiting for her to do something. Was he testing her? Because if this was a challenge, she had to meet it. She couldn’t, wouldn’t let him win.
Slowly, she nodded.
‘Good.’ Svend jerked his head towards Renard, though his gaze never left hers. ‘You can go.’
Carefully she wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the blade, grasping it tightly to stop her hand from shaking. He relinquished his hold at once, letting her take possession as he pulled his leather gambeson swiftly over his head.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Renard cast a last anxious glance towards them, and then they were alone again. Why was he doing this? What was he trying to prove? Except for a thin tunic, his chest was now completely unguarded. She could see the flex of his powerful muscles beneath the linen, the sculpted hard lines of his chest.
‘So...’
