taking a finger. Then a hand.” His sword moved lower, pressing against Roald’s groin. “Then something else, until your debt’s paid. Understand, my lord?”
“Yes!” Roald hissed, fighting the urge to cup himself protectively.
“Good.”
The man let go and, gasping, Roald fell to the ground on his hands and knees, the cold cobblestones cutting his palms, his knees bruising. He looked up at the figure looming over him. “Who the devil are you?”
“Can’t you guess?” the man said with a snort of a laugh. “I’m Sir Charles De Mallemaison.”
Roald felt the blood drain from his face. Charles De Mallemaison was the most notorious, vicious mercenary in England, possibly even Europe. He’d appeared in the service of a lord in Shropshire, claiming to be a knight from Anjou. The one man who’d questioned De Mallemaison’s nobility had been found hacked to small pieces on the side of the road; no one had questioned it since.
“A fortnight,” De Mallemaison repeated as he disappeared into the shadows, his cloak swirling about him. “The whole amount. Or you start losing bits.”
AS ROALD was staggering back to his lodgings, no longer drunk but shaking with the aftermath of fear, Giselle slumbered peacefully in the large bed she shared with her sister. Mathilde, however, dressed in a shift and bedrobe and, with soft leather slippers on her feet, paced anxiously by the window.
No terrible dreams troubled Giselle’s sleep, Mathilde reflected. No remorse kept her awake. No shame disturbed her rest. No lustful yearnings robbed her of peace. Giselle was good and honorable and free of sin, whereas she….
What else could she be feeling for Sir Henry but lust? That day by the river, simply seeing him with his damp hair and loose shirt unlaced to reveal his chest, had been enough for her to recall, with vivid clarity, the sight of him in that tavern bed—his back, his taut buttocks and long, muscular legs. Thinking of him swimming, gliding through the water like an otter, had kept her awake for hours.
When he’d described his mock combat with Cerdic, she’d laughed harder than she had in months. He’d been both entertaining and self-deprecating, claiming that he’d managed to defeat the other warrior only by luck and the skin of his teeth.
She’d read another reason for his victory in his animated features, seen it in his sparkling brown eyes—Sir Henry was confident of his skills, and determined to win. It was a heady combination.
Aware of her own weakness, she kept reminding herself that this merry knight, whose very appearance could excite her, would not always be there—unless he won Giselle’s heart. So, determined to keep him at a distance, she’d made certain he had activities with which to amuse himself and that kept him away from both her and her sister for the past few days, such as hunting and riding about the estate. She’d insisted that he take a guard whenever he rode out. As she’d told him, he was vulnerable to attack, too.
He’d taken no offense, but simply laughed in that appealing way of his. Then he’d said he was pleased she had so much concern for his person.
And she did—too much. He was so handsome and well built, she could hardly stop from staring at him as he sauntered through the hall, or spoke to Giselle or Father Thomas.
Now every night she lay awake, restless and uneasy, and prayed to forget the memory of his body and his smiling face. She prayed for the strength to ignore the lust she couldn’t control, the feelings she thought forever destroyed by her past mistake, only to discover that they rose, strong and almost overwhelming, when she was with Sir Henry, and away from him, too. How could she be tempted when she knew where giving in to desire might lead?
Yet she was tempted. She’d nearly kissed Sir Henry that first night, until the fear and panic had come, overpowering her and making her act like a frightened child.
Sighing, Mathilde went to the arched window and looked into the quiet courtyard. The sentries’ torches burned on the wall walk, little flickers of light in the darkness—darkness that even now might cloak Roald’s progress toward Ecclesford.
Had she done enough to prepare for his eventual arrival?
They had as many soldiers as they could afford and Cerdic had to be a better commander than Martin, who she would have sent away even if he hadn’t immediately declared he wouldn’t take orders from a woman. If her father had been stronger this past year, she would have asked him to select a new garrison commander months ago, but he’d been ill, and she’d thought to spare him any more trouble.
If only he had lived! If only she’d been stronger. If only Roald had not come last year and brought disaster with him.
Rubbing her hands up and down her arms for warmth, she tried not to think about Roald or Sir Henry anymore as she went to pour herself some water in which to bathe her face.
The ewer was empty. No matter. She would get more water from the kitchen.
Opening the door, she peered down the corridor toward her father’s bedchamber, temporarily Sir Henry’s. A torch burned in a sconce on the wall, providing some light, although it was dark near the door to her father’s chamber. To her surprise, a shaft of light spread out from below the door.
Sir Henry was still awake? Or had he fallen asleep with the candle lit? A guest had once set his bedding aflame by leaving a lit candle too close to the bed curtains.
Even so, she was not about to enter that room now, in the dead of night, and with him abed and perhaps… naked. Commanding herself not to think about that, she headed for the stairs leading to the hall.
When she passed the door to the lord’s chamber, a low moan came from within. God help her, did he have a woman with him? Was he as lustful as Roald? Was it Faiga?
As long as he helped them as he’d promised, did it matter if he bedded a servant? Faiga would have gone to him willingly; she’d seen the way the serving woman had looked at Sir Henry. There would be no force or coercion.
Mathilde prepared to continue on her way, until she heard a groan from inside the chamber, as if Sir Henry was in pain.
What if he was sick? What if he had brought some illness to Ecclesford?
What if he had knocked the candle over and the bedclothes had caught fire and the room was filling with smoke—
She put her hand on the latch and opened the door. There was no smoke, and a single lit candle stood upon the table beside the bed, its weak flame wavering. Sir Henry was alone, the sheets twisted around his lower body, his hair damp on his forehead and his naked chest beaded with sweat.
Moaning again, he rolled onto his back, one arm flung across his eyes.
Perhaps he had the ague, with its chills and fever that came and went. Maybe he’d traveled to the south of Europe and contracted it there. She’d heard that sickness could come and go for years.
Or perhaps he was only having troubling dreams. How many times had she awakened from a nightmare to find her shift clinging to her sweat-soaked body?
For the sake of the household, she should find out if he was feverish or not. She would be risking more illness if she didn’t.
She crept slowly, carefully closer. He didn’t make any noise, or move again,
