found himself questioning his King’s methods. How could the Conquest ever be peaceful when Normans were so hated?
He reached the Thane’s hall and thrust his sword point-first into the mud. No matter what Renard’s concerns, if by some unlikely chance she were still hiding inside, there’d be little enough room for swordplay and he had no desire to fight a woman. He still carried his sax on his belt, but he had no intention of using it. He’d bring her by force if he had to, but he wouldn’t hurt her—not if he could help it.
Unlike a Norman fortress, there was no wooden door, just a heavy oxhide draped over the entrance. Cautiously he pulled it aside and stepped over the threshold. A shaft of light filtered in through a hole in the centre of the thatched roof, helping his eyes adjust to the half-darkness. As he’d expected, the hall was deserted—and yet something about the scene wasn’t right. The room was empty, not abandoned. And there was a strange sound coming from behind a partition at the back, like an animal whimpering in pain.
He took a step towards it and then stopped, realising his error a split second too late as the blade pricked the back of his neck.
‘Don’t move!’ The voice was soft but determined, and unmistakably female. More surprisingly, it was speaking in perfect French. ‘Raise your hands!’
He did as he was told, annoyed by his own complacency. He’d been caught out like some raw, callow recruit—but then he’d never expected to find her completely alone. Where were her men? Surely there was somebody here to defend her?
He put his hands on the back of his head, starting to turn. ‘You’re a difficult woman to find, Lady Cille.’
‘Stop! Stay as you are!’
The blade pressed harder against his skin, but he detected a faint tremor. She was afraid.
Briefly he considered disarming her. The position of the sword told him everything he needed to know about her combat skills. A more practised opponent would have pointed the blade to his throat. But he decided to try diplomacy first.
‘My name is Sir Svend du Danemark. I mean you no harm.’
There was a lengthy pause as he waited, inhaling the sweet, heady scent of summer flowers, which reminded him of his home in Danemark.
Fool. He didn’t have a home. He’d left his parents’ farm half a lifetime ago.
‘My lady?’ He prompted her, pushing the memory aside.
‘How did you find me?’ She spoke slowly, as if choosing her words with care.
‘With difficulty. Etton isn’t an easy place to find.’
‘And what do you want from me?’
He felt a flash of irritation. If she thought to interrogate him she’d be swiftly disappointed. Even so, the hint of steel in that soft voice was intriguing. ‘The King’s deputy sent me to find you.’
‘The King’s deputy?’ She sounded genuinely surprised. ‘Why?’
He paused, having considered the same question at length over the past weeks. It couldn’t simply be her value in marriage. As a Saxon noblewoman, and widow of ealdorman Leofric of Redbourn, she’d lend legitimacy to a Norman husband’s authority, but it was unlike FitzOsbern to expend so much time and effort on one who’d proved so troublesome. There had to be something else—something special about her.
He’d hardly been in Redbourn long enough to hear any rumours. The Earl had summoned and then dispatched him almost as soon as he’d arrived. But there had to be a reason. Somehow he’d hoped she might be able to tell him.
The blade pushed harder. ‘Have you lost your tongue, Norman whoreson?’
He grinned, having heard the insult numerous times over the past few months, though rarely spoken with such venom. Clearly Saxon ladies weren’t as sheltered as their Norman counterparts.
‘I’m not party to the Earl’s thoughts, my lady,’ he answered with exaggerated courtesy.
There was another cry from the back—less like an animal, more like a woman sobbing. His brows snapped together.
‘You can’t come in here!’
By the note of panic in her voice he could tell his assailant had heard it too.
‘I can’t?’ His voice was low and dangerous, all trace of humour extinguished.
‘You have to leave!’ Her voice rose higher, becoming hysterical as the blade shuddered against his neck.
It was time to end this.
He moved so fast that she had no time to react. In less than a heartbeat he was facing her, clamping his hands together over the flat sides of her sword and hurling it easily into the floor rushes, then hooking a foot expertly around her legs, knocking them out from under her so that she tumbled backwards, straight into his waiting arms.
It wasn’t a manoeuvre that he’d ever used before, usually preferring that his opponents stayed down when he disarmed them. But then none of his opponents had ever been a woman...and none so light and willowy as the one now cradled in his arms, the dark honey waves of her long hair rippling over his hands almost to the floor.
For a heart-stopping moment he thought he might drop her. It wasn’t because she was pretty, though she undoubtedly was. Her small face was that of a woman in her late teens or early twenties, lightly tanned with smooth, round cheekbones and a pair of pink bow-shaped lips. It was her eyes that held him. Unlike any he’d ever seen before, so wide and lustrous he might almost fall into them. What colour were they? A swirl of copper and gold, fringed with long black lashes, strange and beguiling as jewels.
He shook his head, trying to break the spell. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but the roundabout journey to Etton had hardly disposed him to think charitably of his quarry.
The change as her face contorted into an expression of implacable fury, was enough to render him speechless.
The knife was flicked out of her sleeve so fast that he was almost caught off guard. But a lifetime of fighting had honed his reflexes to the point that he caught her wrist instinctively, stopping the blade a hair’s breadth from his chest.
‘Norman pig!’
She shrieked in her anger and he heard voices outside, followed by footsteps running in their direction. He called out, ordering his men to stop even as she screamed and hurled herself bodily against him, sending both of them sprawling into the rushes.
Svend landed heavily, trying to shield her from both the fall and herself as she thrashed recklessly against him, heedless of the blade still between them, pummelling at his chest as if she wanted to pound him into the ground. The scent of flowers filled his nostrils—honeysuckle and daisies, like a meadow he wanted to bury his face in. He tossed the weapon aside and captured her arms above her head instead, clamping his hands over her wrists like iron manacles.
Still she refused to yield, flailing against him like a cornered animal, fists beating impotently at thin air. He felt a vague sense of surprise. Pretty she might be, but she was also half wild, with an impressive temper to boot.
He rolled on top of
