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CONQUEST OF THE HEART
By
Marilyn Grall
ISBN 1-891020-68-4
Copyright 1999 Marilyn Grall
Cover Art by Eliza Black
New Concepts Publishing
4729 Humphreys Rd.
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
CHAPTER ONE
Kent, England, late March, 1067
"They have come, Mama! They are here!" Panting out breaths, the urchin ran toward his mother, tugging on her worn skirts, then pointing toward the hill. The woman gasped, pulling the child closer to the meager protection of her thin body, her breath billowing out in the frosty morning air. One by one, more heads turned, more manor folk pointed and stared. Their quiet life was about to change...and none knew if that change would be for better, or worse. The new Lord of Almswick had just arrived.
Atop the hill, Sir Stephen Dubois watched the child, and the others, carefully noting their reaction to the twenty mounted, mailed knights who had accompanied him to claim his prize.
"They have seen us, mon ami," the man riding beside him said. "Do you think they will roll out the red carpet in welcome?"
Stephen turned to his companion. It had been a long, hard winter. Even now, with the advent of spring, icy patches still clung to the muddy road. The morning was bitter cold, the horses shivering beneath saddles and caparisons, and Stephen's royal blue and gold pennants flapped in the steady, frigid breeze. "No," he answered, with just the hint of a smile. "They'd most likely rather scald us in oil than welcome us to Almswick, Henri."
But, in truth, Stephen wasn't overly concerned about the manor folks' reaction. They would accustom themselves to their new lord...in time. This was his dream, and it was about to materialize. Nothing mattered but that, not even the wretched cold. He'd known far worse weather than this during his years as a mercenary soldier; anything from burning deserts to frozen wastelands. The English countryside was as tame as a demure maiden when compared to some of the places where he'd fought--and won--so many campaigns. But he wouldn't be fighting today. Almswick Manor was Stephen's possession now, by decree of King William...as was Almswick's heiress, Mary, though she didn't know it yet.
Henri snorted at Stephen's comment, sounding so much like his own warhorse, Stephen smiled again.
Sir Henri of Tours was an exact opposite to Stephen in coloring and build. Blond-headed, blue-eyed, fair-skinned and slightly cherubic of face and form, Henri had a great love of food, and some of that fondness showed quite clearly in his stocky frame. In contrast, Stephen was lean and tall, his hair and eyes dark as a raven's. But the two fought well together, had saved each others' lives on countless occasions. And Stephen was closer to Henri than he was to his own brothers; they were the very best of friends. In fact, Henri was the only man Stephen ever allowed to see beyond his stern, domineering facade. It wouldn't do for anyone else to realize that beneath the firm, decisive disciplinarian was a man yearning for naught more than a hearth and home, a wife...and heirs.
"Shall we risk that possibility and descend, then?" Henri asked in his native French. "Scalding with oil might be preferable to this damnable cold--"
"In English, Henri," Stephen interjected, turning his mail-clad head toward his friend again. "I want no doubt in anyone's mind that the new Lord of Almswick understands the commoner's tongue."
"But of course, mon ami," Henri replied, switching to English with a typically Gallic shrug. "In that way the peasants will know they cannot--how do you say?--conspire against you in their own language, eh?"
"Oui," Stephen rejoined, smiling grimly this time. Henri's accent left much to be desired, but he was completely correct. Stephen had no intention of allowing serfs, freedmen or Almswick's household knights--what was left of them--to conspire behind his back due to a language barrier. Consequently, knowing he was to be rewarded with an estate, Stephen had become fluent in the Anglo-Saxon language since the successful Battle of Hastings last October. The battle that had ultimately brought such changes into his life.
Stephen was the third son of the Comte Dubois and as such had known from his youth that he had no hope of gaining a title or land, unless he earned them for himself. With that thought in mind, upon reaching his majority and receiving a generous portion from his father, Stephen had formed an elite mercenary band--the finest in Normandy, it was rumored. He and his men had fought campaigns for anyone with enough gold to afford them, be they sultans, kings, noblemen or even wealthy merchants. Whoever could pay the price.
Ah, but his finest decision in the past eight years of constant fighting had been to join Duke William--who was now King William--in his attempt to wrest the throne of England from King Harold. And a bit of luck hadn't hurt any, either.
That day of the battle at Hastings, Stephen and Henri had been among Duke William's personal guard. Who could have known that one of William's so-called trusted men was in reality an assassin? No one, not even Stephen himself. Not until he saw the flash of steel. Not until the knife was within an inch of his liege lord's back. And even then, Stephen had acted on instinct, using skills honed by his many disciplined years of fighting. The assassin had fallen to Stephen's sword, and as a direct result of that momentary battle, and William's ultimate success in conquering Harold, Stephen had been given a manor in Kent--Almswick. It was his now...home.
Henri quieted his restive mount with a pat to his sweaty neck and soothing phrases spoken in a strange combination of English and French. Looking down the gentle valley toward the manor, his smile broad, as it always was, he said, "'Tis a very fine piece of property, no?"
"Actually, no," Stephen said ruefully, seeing even from here Almswick's state of disrepair. The fields were still fallow, the orchards still winter-barren, but that was only natural after such a cold, harsh winter. What distressed Stephen, even though he'd been forewarned, was the condition of the manor itself and the surrounding small village.
The outer wooden wall of the manor was sagging in places, its gates looked like they would no longer even close, and many of the rooftops in the village were sorely in need of new thatching. Huts that should have been whitewashed regularly were gray and unappealing to the eye, the manor folk warily awaiting them dressed in little more than rags. Warm, clean rags he had to concede, well patched and made of thick wool, but rags nevertheless. Having Almswick would mean a great deal of hard work, but Stephen welcomed the challenge.
Refurbishing Almswick might be a challenge, but obtaining a wife was a foregone conclusion. Stephen couldn't help enjoying the thought.
He'd been preparing to leave King William's court when the decision was made. Stephen had known he was to be the new Lord of Almswick for several weeks, and a messenger had been dispatched to the manor announcing his imminent arrival, but until that fateful morning three days ago, he'd had no idea he was to be given Almswick's heiress as well.
The decree was King William's. Lady Mary had been promised to a neighbor, Lord Albert of Tidwell, a man who had sworn fealty to William, but even so, the king had decided that Almswick Manor would be better served by marrying its heiress to Stephen, and he had set the betrothal with Lord Albert aside. Lady Mary didn't know this yet, and she might well have a thing or two to say about the decision, but it wouldn't matter. Women very seldom had any choice about whom they were to wed, and Lady Mary would be no exception.
As far as the original betrothal contract, that had been written by Ralph of Almswick, Lady Mary's father, and since he was considered a traitor for his support of the ill-fated King Harold, the contract held no validity in King William's new court. Lord Ralph had, in fact--along with his two sons--paid the ultimate price for supporting King Harold. They had all died during the fateful Battle of Hastings. Soon after that, Mary's lady mother had died, and now Mary, along with her two little sisters, were the only family members left at Almswick.
And Mary of Almswick would soon become Stephen Dubois's lady wife.
There had been no need to dispatch another messenger with the king's decision when Stephen was already on his way--which was why the lady had no idea her life was about to change. Stephen would be glad to tell her himself. Willing or nay, the lady would wed him.
Stephen had never seen Mary of Almswick. He'd not even seen the manor until this moment. But he didn't care if his bride was fair or dark, tall or short, fat or thin. He only cared that she was seventeen--a prime age for bearing his children, his heirs.
He had great plans for Almswick, despite its poor condition. It would be his home now, after all. The fortune he had garnered during his mercenary years would see to the needed repairs, and his own knowledge of animal husbandry and farming would turn the manor not only into a self-supporting estate, but a profitable one as well. An infusion of monies was needed, of course, but it would be returned at least ten-fold. By year's end, Stephen intended to have a healthy crop of fruits and grains, a herd of sheep large enough to sell off surplus wool for profit, and enough pigs and cattle to ensure an ample supply of preserved meat during the winter. From what he could see from this hilltop, the serfs of Almswick hadn't seen an overabundant supply of food during the winter just past.
Noting his friend's pensive expression, Henri couldn't help saying, "Do you suppose Lady Mary, at least, will welcome us gladly?"
"She will have no other choice," Stephen quietly replied, his voice all the more dangerous for its soft tone. Raising a gauntlet, he signaled his men to begin their descent down the hill.
Henri grimaced as Stephen's demeanor changed, becoming stern, forbidding and closed. His friend was no longer smiling, even the littlest bit. Gone was the man with such a deep yearning for a home and family. In his place was the stern, unsmiling knight who had won his way in the world with the skill of his sword and uncompromising discipline. Discipline of himself as well as of his men.
The man whose fighting skills had become almost legendary was about to claim his manor--and his bride.
But Henri couldn't help smiling again as the column of men and horses, along with several baggage wains filled to the brim with weapons, booty and gold, began descending the gentle slope to Almswick.
Doubtless, the next few weeks would be quite interesting. Manor folk who probably did not want a new lord, a bride who did not know she was to be one yet, and a tumble-down estate badly in need of repair. Aye, Henri thought, gently spurring his spirited mount, the next few weeks would most certainly be interesting.
CHAPTER TWO
Mary of Almswick heard the commotion in the courtyard just as Hilda, her maidservant, rushed into the room, wringing her plump hands.
"The soldiers are coming, milady," Hilda declared, her normally placid face pinched with fear. "What should we do?"
Summoning every ounce of decorum she'd ever been taught, Mary rose gracefully from the embroidery frame where she'd been working. Needing time to gather her thoughts, she did not answer her faithful servant immediately. Instead, she crossed to the window and opened the shutters. Cold air swirled into the room, billowing her skirts and loosening tendrils of hair from her tightly-woven braid.
She shivered, but not from the sudden gust of cold air. Nor was it from the sight of mounted men now approaching the gates, easily seen from this second-story vantage point, not when Sir Stephen Dubois's colors were as easily apparent as the number of his men. She'd been expecting the man, after all--the new Lord of Almswick.
What sent shivers down Mary's spine was a sudden memory.
This was the very window her lady mother had leapt from months before, ending her life.
Mary had been the one to find her mother's body, after hearing a horrid scream and rushing into this chamber...only to find the shutters open on a cold winter night. Only to lean out this window and see her mother's twisted body lying in the snow, crimson blood marring the pristine white below her smashed skull.
The moon had been full that night, and the picture was just as fresh in Mary's mind now as it had been in reality then.
Mary had flown down the winding wooden steps to the great hall, desperately calling for help as she ran. But even before throwing open the oaken doors to the manor house and rushing to her mother's side, she had known Lady Evelyn was dead.
It was what the lady had wanted, after all. It was really no great surprise that she had finally succeeded in killing herself...
"What should we do, milady?" Hilda repeated, wrenching Mary from her morbid remembrances.
Mary took a deep, calming breath, pushing aside the memories of her mother's insanity and ultimate death. That was in the past, and her people needed her in the present. They needed her strength, not her weakness. And they would get it, she vowed. They would get every morsel of strength she could muster. Squaring her shoulders, she took one more look at the royal blue and gold pennants announcing Sir Stephen's arrival, then turned to face her servant.
Very calmly, she said, "We should greet the new lord, Hilda, that's what we should do."
"Or we could fight him instead," a deep, booming voice declared from the solar doorway as Sir Harold, Mary's steward, clomped into the room. "He's not breached the gate yet, milady. We could still fight him."
Mary took another deep breath, then lifted her chin, looking directly into Harold's eyes. With her diminutive height, and being so much younger than the burly man-at-arms, a bold gaze was her only hope of displaying firm authority. "Nay, Harold, we will not fight him," she said.
"We could close the gates and--"
"The gates no longer close," Mary interjected.
"We still have good men, milady, and weapons," Harold persisted.
"How many men, Harold? Twelve?"
"Aye, twelve." Harold's shoulders slumped.
"And Sir Stephen probably has twenty," Mary continued determinedly. "Twenty men who have been well fed all winter, twenty men who have superior weapons, and, most importantly, twenty men who serve the man chosen by the new king as the lord of this manor."
"Aye, William, the damned conqueror, chose this man," Harold groused.
"William, the damned king," Mary corrected.
Seeing Harold's defeated posture and the lines of fatigue, hate and concern etched into his craggy face, Mary stepped up to him and placed a hand upon his arm. "You share the old king's name, Harold, and your loyalty to him is admirable, but he is gone now. Long gone, just as my father and brothers are gone. There is naught we can do about any of that." A lump of emotion closed her throat, but she swallowed hard and pressed on. "Even if we defeated Sir Stephen and his men, King William would only send another in his place. Should we risk the remainder of our men, and the health and security of our manor's people simply to fight a battle that cannot be won?"
Harold smiled sadly. He hadn't missed the stark emotions she'd quickly banished. "Nay, milady," he finally conceded. He couldn't help admiring the lady--really not much more than a child. For all her youth, she had spoken wisely. A battle would be useless. He knew it, she knew it. He just didn't like it one damn bit.
"I'm glad you agree with me, my friend," Mary said softly. "Will you stand with me as I greet Sir Stephen?"
"I am ever your loyal man, milady," Harold replied, straightening his stance, "just as I was your father's man. Of course I will stand with you." He placed his work-hardened hand over her delicate one, feeling its childlike fragility, and a frown creased his forehead. "Are you sure you want to meet this new lord in the courtyard, milady?" he asked. "Wouldn't it be better to wait here in your solar and let me bring him to you?"
"Nay, good steward," Mary replied with a definite shake of her head. "Our people need strength, and I will show them strength. 'Tis what my father would have done. 'Tis what he would expect me to do."
Harold nodded solemnly, then led the way out of the solar, knowing she would not be dissuaded. Once again, he admired her--and truly regretted she would not be the Lady of Almswick for much longer. Not because of Sir Stephen, although that was certainly a consideration, but because she was betrothed to Lord Albert. She would be leaving the manor within a matter of weeks, taking her sweet little sisters with her to her new home.
But all that was in the future, and Lady Mary was right. The people of Almswick needed strength. Strength to survive whatever this new lord might demand of them; strength to survive the debilitating effects of the long hard winter and an appalling lack of funds.
As they reached the great hall, a servant met them, with two small children in tow. Mary knelt before the little girls, kissing each golden head. "Take them to the nursery, Anna," she said to the nursemaid. "The new lord has just arrived, and I'll not have my sisters frightened by all the commotion."
"Aye, milady," Anna replied, lifting two-year-old Mae, then holding out her hand. "Come along, Lily."
"Must I, Sissy?" Lily asked in her small voice. "I would so much rather stay with you."
"Aye, you must, little one," Mary answered, rising to her feet. She squeezed Lily's shoulder. "I'll come up to see you and Mae just as soon as I can. You know I love you both, but this is something I must do alone."
Lily opened her mouth to protest again, but Mary laid a gentle finger to her lips. "Go with Anna now," she said kindly but firmly, and Lily puckered her lips, frowned, then finally nodded and gave her hand to Anna.
Mary smiled at the child's reluctant obedience, then watched her sisters and their nursemaid move toward the stairs. Suddenly, Lily broke free and ran back to Mary, hugging her almost desperately. "I love you, Sissy," she cried. "Please don't ever leave me. You're all I have left!"
Tears sprung to Mary's eyes, but she blinked them away. Mae was too young to understand very much, but at seven years of age, Lily was all too aware that her mother was dead, along with her father and brothers. 'Twas a terrible burden for such a young child, and Mary wanted to weep for her. But there was no time for weeping. Not now, perhaps not ever. Life was unfolding as it would, and one could not fight fate, or God, or whomever it was that had decided Mary would raise her little sisters--that she would be the only adult family member left after that horrible Battle of Hastings.
Mary kissed her little sister, reassured her they would always be together, then sent her back to her nursemaid, all the while wishing for the thousandth time that she could have undone her mother's madness. Or that she could have at least saved her life...for the sake of the children.
Her mother--frail, beautiful Lady Evelyn--had been a victim of the Battle of Hastings every bit as much as Mary's father and brothers.
Leaving the manor house and crossing the courtyard with Harold, Mary couldn't help remembering again that last night of her mother's life.
It had been in the dead of winter, a bitter cold night. The peat-fueled brazier in the solar had done very little to offset the frigid chill in the room, and Mary had piled blankets and furs over her mother's terribly thin body as she sat in a chair simply staring at a tapestry on the wall. A tapestry depicting a battle scene, one worked by Mary's great-grandmother many years ago.
Lady Evelyn's posture that night was not new. She either sat and stared at that tapestry or paced the room, searching for some way to escape unbearable mental anguish. It had been thus ever since Sir Harold and twelve other survivors had returned from Hastings, bringing news of Lord Ralph's death, as well as the death of his sons. On hearing the news, Lady Evelyn had turned white, all color draining from her face; then she'd become as still as stone. She'd never left the solar after that day, had even refused food and water unless they were forced upon her. She had been slowly dying, by increments, and Mary knew it. Everyone knew it. She was willing herself to die through starvation.
Lady Evelyn hadn't spoken a coherent word since her husband's death, only keening wails of grief and insanity. At first, Almswick's priest had prayed over her for days on end, but to no avail. Frustrated, Father Michael then lectured Lady Evelyn sternly, admonishing her for weakness. Finally, he'd simply given up and declared her mad.
But Mary didn't give up. She remembered her mother before the madness, remembered her laughter, her beauty, her love, and her absolute devotion to her husband and sons. Not that Lady Evelyn hadn't loved her three daughters. She had...but in a different way. Simply put, Lady Evelyn had needed the strength of men, perhaps to offset her own frailty. Once the men in her life were gone, her three daughters simply ceased to exist in her tormented mind.
Mary didn't want to leave her mother that night, not even for a moment. Lady Evelyn was restless, more agitated than usual, and Mary feared for her safety.
But something called her out of the room--she never could remember what; some silly emergency needing her attention since she was by then, for all intents and purposes, the lady of the manor--and she left the solar, unwittingly giving her mother the opportunity she must have wanted.
If only she had left a servant in the room. Someone. Anyone. But she hadn't. Most of the servants were already asleep on their pallets in the great hall, before the blazing hearth. She didn't have the heart to awaken one of her tired, faithful people on that bitter cold night, so she'd left her mother alone--for such a short time! But long enough.
Then she'd heard that blood curdling scream...
Mary wrenched her thoughts from those awful memories yet again. Nothing could be done about that. Lady Evelyn was dead, long since buried in unhallowed ground, and remembering that horrid night wouldn't change a thing. It wouldn't even save Lady Evelyn's soul.
And besides that, the future was fast approaching. The Normans had just entered the courtyard. Sir Stephen was easy enough to identify. His bearing was totally arrogant. Aye, he was the leader; the one in control.
If only, Mary couldn't help thinking again, as the tall, grim knight approached her on his massive destrier. If only her father and brothers had not died. If only Lady Evelyn hadn't died, if only...
But it was useless to think that way, she firmly reminded herself. They were all dead, and she was the only one left...she and Lily and little Mae. Only Mary had received the message that Almswick had been confiscated by the new king; not an unusual turn of events in a conquered land.
Only Mary had been left to see to the well being of Almswick's people, trying to do so in spite of nearly empty coffers, storage sheds down to their last meager supply of grain, and wood piles which were dwindling faster than trees could be felled to replenish them. Thank God for the peat fuel abundantly available in the low-lying areas of Almswick. If not for that, some of the manor folk surely would have frozen to death.
Mary had swallowed her pride and applied to the king's mercy, begging his aid, but he had only sent word that a new lord would be dispatched to her manor...and that she would have to make do, like everyone else, until then.
Mary sighed deeply, watching Sir Stephen ride closer. There was only so much a woman could do, and she had already done all that she could. Almswick's future now rested in the hands of this man...this Norman knight...this enemy.
She was almost glad she would soon be leaving Almswick, and that Lily and Mae would be going with her.
Tidwell. The neighboring estate's name flitted through her mind as Mary watched the formidable Norman knight draw rein only a few feet from where she was standing. Tidwell Manor would be her new home in a matter of weeks. Lord Albert had contracted for her hand just before the fateful battle that had ultimately killed most of her family.
Lord Albert was the only bright light in this whole disastrous affair. Mary would become his wife. And she would be a good, dutiful wife, accepting the marriage bed and her duties as chatelaine without complaint. In fact, she fancied herself in love with Lord Albert, perhaps not with the heart-stopping kind of love she'd once dreamed of, but certainly in a respectful way, certainly in a way that would make her wifely duties palatable.
Lord Albert had been courting her since the betrothal was signed, had even shared some grain with her people, though she had to admit it was of the lowest quality and full of weevils. Admittedly, Lord Albert was not an overly generous man, but he had agreed to take Lily and Mae into his home, and that had balanced the scales for Mary. She loved Lord Albert...truly she did.
And she didn't think she could tolerate living at Almswick when it was in the hands of an enemy. A Norman. A conquering Norman. Fie on them all! They were the ones who had killed her family.
At least Lord Albert's estate had not been confiscated, as he had not fought in support of King Harold. If she could just get through the next few weeks, if she could somehow ensure that this new lord would care for her childhood home--and its people--then she could go to Tidwell a happy bride.
And she could start a new life, never having to think of the Norman enemy again.
Mary of Almswick was quite sure her future had already been decided--her future as the Lady of Tidwell Manor, Lord Albert's wife.
CHAPTER THREE
As Stephen entered the courtyard, he'd been more than a little surprised to see the obvious lady of the manor awaiting him. Her clothing identified her as such, being more costly than the garments of those surrounding her, but even Lady Mary's clothes were well worn and mended.
She was a small woman, surely not standing more than an inch or two over five feet. In all honesty, she was not a great beauty, her face a simple oval and her nose just a little too short. But her eyes were quite pleasing, a rich, warm brown, and her hair was a light golden brown, the neat braid lying over her shoulder reaching all the way to her knees. Stephen couldn't help thinking how beautiful that hair would look unbound.
And her lips. Her lips were her crowning feature. Ruby red, full and generous. Utterly kissable. He wondered how that mouth would look wearing a soft smile...or a seductive pout as she lay in his bed, begging attention.
With a connoisseur's eye, Stephen continued his perusal, his gaze moving downward. He felt his breath hitch a little as his eyes settled on her breasts. Full, round...magnificent, even confined behind the modest gown.
Aye, Stephen decided, wedding and bedding Mary of Almswick would be no unsavory chore. 'Twould be quite pleasant, in fact.
And despite her petite size, her hips seemed adequate for childbirth, and those wonderful breasts would undoubtedly nourish many a babe.
He was well pleased.
His pleasure diminished a little as his gaze moved back up to her face. She was blushing--as any good maiden would under a man's appreciative gaze--but her beautiful mouth was set in a firm, uncompromising line. A defiant line.
He realized then that he had met a quietly determined foe. Lady Mary's demeanor was polite, but the firm set of her mouth told a different story: He was the enemy, and she was not at all happy to see him arrive at her manor.
He was, however, quite impressed with the fact that she had not called her men to arms. Even though she saw him as the enemy, she was not willing to risk her people on a useless fight. He admired her for that. It spoke of true courage. Such courage would beget fine, strong sons.
"Lady Mary, I presume?" he said, still atop his huge destrier, his voice firm, his face purposely devoid of expression. This situation did not call for politeness or gallantry. It called for firm determination and control. Ruthless control if need be.
"Aye, my lord," Mary replied with a sketched curtsy.
Her voice was breathless, a little shaky, and Stephen nodded. She obviously felt intimidated, and that was just as it should be. But he could also see she was quite determined to control her fear. His admiration for the diminutive woman inched up another notch.
At that moment a maidservant hurried to Lady Mary, carrying a rabbit fur-lined mantle. It was then that Stephen noticed Lady Mary was shivering. Evidently, she had forgotten her cloak in her determination to meet the enemy head-on.
His admiration climbed again, as well as his desire to wed the lady. Mary of Almswick knew what was important, and she carried out her duties to her people without flinching, without even a thought to her own comfort. Doubtless, she would carry out her duties as a wife just as conscientiously. He nearly smiled at the thought.
As the servant Lady Mary addressed as Hilda arranged the warm mantle around her lady's shoulders, Stephen let his gaze stray to the man standing beside her.
This man was not even trying to hide his dislike behind a polite facade.
He was a burly fellow, with a barrel chest and massive hands. Hands that bore many battle scars. A formidable foe here, Stephen realized. But also one who seemed completely determined to protect his lady. Not a bad combination, really. Not unless he turned against his new lord.
"This man is my steward, Sir Harold," Stephen heard Mary say, and he swung his gaze back to her. He hadn't failed to notice that her voice was strong and clear now, all trace of breathlessness gone.
"Does he know his job well, my lady?" Stephen asked.
"Aye," Mary replied. "Sir Harold is a fine steward, and a fine man."
"Then he shall retain the title...for now," Stephen allowed, purposely watching the reaction of the lady and her knight to this statement. He would establish his dominion from the very first.
Harold grumbled something under his breath, but Stephen ignored it. He was used to the ways of men. He'd forgive this warrior his grumbling. The man was merely salving his pride.
Looking up, Stephen surveyed the motley crew of household knights who had gathered behind their lady. No more than twelve men, he noted, and they were gaunt of face, with weapons and armor sadly in need of repair.
Nevertheless, those weapons could do considerable damage. Stephen gestured to Henri.
As Henri rode to his side, Stephen raised a gauntlet to gain attention. "Hear me," he said in a deep, stentorian voice, his breath visible in the frigid air, his fierce dark gaze raking each of the knights and many of the manor folk. "I now claim Almswick Manor in the name of King William." He didn't miss the murmurs of discontent that statement evoked. Undaunted, he continued. "From this day forth, I am the Lord of Almswick. If you obey me without question, your needs will be met. If you disobey me, you will be punished."
The crowd that had gathered shifted restlessly, mothers pulling their children closer to their skirts, shabbily clothed fathers putting too-thin arms around their wives.
After giving just enough time for his threat--as well as his promise--to sink in, Stephen pressed on. "No man, woman or child is to have a weapon on Almswick, until you have proven your trustworthiness. This decree includes all household knights."
The grumbling increased, and two war-hardened men raised fists in the air.
Stephen ignored them and gestured toward Henri. "This man is Sir Henri of Tours, my second in command. He will be in charge of confiscating all weapons." Henri immediately dismounted. "You may begin disarming yourselves now," Stephen concluded.
He heard Lady Mary draw in a sharp breath. "Nay, my lord," she declared, causing Stephen to look down on her with mild surprise. "The women must have knives for cooking, the men their bows and arrows for hunting and tools for farming. Would you have us starve?"
"Nay, my lady," Stephen quietly stated. "I would not have you starve, though it seems you've come close enough to it this past winter."
He heard her draw in another sharp breath, obviously insulted.
"Sir Henri will assign a man to dole out necessary implements," he explained. "And as far as hunting, my lady, your men will continue to do so...with an escort."
"We don't need no Norman nursemaids," one man called out, "and we need our weapons. How else can we protect our lady?"
"Your lady will be protected by my men," Stephen quietly rejoined, "and by me." He pierced Almswick's assembled knights with a stern look. "You men will all be assigned duties, but protecting your lady will not be one of them. Once you have proven your loyalty to me, your weapons will be returned. Until then, only my men will be armed."
Almost in unison, the men turned to Lady Mary. Stephen saw her nod, and with that one small gesture, these underfed but still well-muscled warriors began removing their weapons, laying them at Henri's feet. Again, Stephen was well pleased. Men who would obey their lady without question would obey their new lord as well...in time.
True to form, Henri evidently felt a bit of humor was needed in this tense situation. "Not so close to the toes," he quipped, jumping back nimbly from the growing pile of weapons, despite his portly size, then bellowing in mock pain as a heavy broadsword crossed his foot.
"Sorry," Stephen heard the fellow responsible mutter, but there was a small smile on the man's weathered, bearded face.
Stephen merely shook his head. Only Henri would dare such a thing, attempting to lighten the fearful, tense mood of these people. To Stephen's amazement, though, by the time the pile of weapons had grown to a considerable size, with every possible weapon on the manor having been laid down, Henri's occasional interjections of humor had softened more than one face in the crowd. The children seemed far less frightened now, too. Stephen nodded to his friend. He had nothing against good humor...as long as it was tempered with respect.
The procession had taken more than an hour, and in all that time Stephen had remained mounted. He knew very well that with his own height and that of his warhorse, he made a formidable picture. Which was just what he wanted. Henri could afford to display humor--he was second in command. The new lord of a conquered manor must remain disciplined and in control at all times. He could not allow himself the luxury of laughter.
Now, with the weapons confiscation finally accomplished, and a passing fair wench even offering Henri a shy smile and a gourd of water, Stephen finally dismounted, handing his reins to a stable lad who looked as though he might blow away in the slightest breeze.
Striding to Mary, Stephen said, "I will see the manor house now, my lady."
Mary had watched the pile of weapons and implements grow, never once taking her eyes from the spectacle. At Sir Stephen's words, she finally tore her eyes from the unbelievable sight...only to see one almost as daunting.
Sir Stephen, in chain mail and blue and gold tunic, stood before her. He was a giant. There was no other word for it. The man had to be nearly seven feet tall in his stocking feet. She had to bend her neck back just to see his handsome, saturnine face. Starkly defined cheek bones, an arrogant though somehow sensual mouth and hawk-like features. All these things described Sir Stephen, and he was the largest man she had ever seen. She felt like David to Goliath. If only she had a stone...
"I will see the manor house now, my lady," Stephen repeated.
"What of your men...your things?" Mary asked, her voice growing breathless again. She hated herself for that show of weakness, but the man was intimidating, far, far too intimidating. Gathering her strength and squaring her shoulders, she added, "Our stables can house your men's horses, but I have no storehouse large enough to hold your possessions. Where would you have me put them, my lord?"
The lady was stalling, Stephen realized. She didn't want him inside her home just yet. No matter its state of disrepair, it was a castle to her. He could understand her feelings, and he felt a surge of sympathy. His own lady mother would have reacted in much the same way.
But he quickly quelled that momentary lapse of emotional discipline. Compassion had no place in a situation like this, even if Henri seemed to think it did. Over the past three days, Henri had tried to convince Stephen that kindness and sympathy might be very effective tools for handling Lady Mary, but Stephen had disagreed. He disagreed even more now, after meeting the lady. Nay, firmness and discipline were imperative. Lady Mary was far less than pleased with his arrival. Doubtless, she would be even less happy with her impending betrothal to him.
Aye, firmness and discipline. Those were the tools he had used to make his way in the world, and those were the tools he would use here at Almswick...and with Lady Mary herself.
With that thought in mind, Stephen said quite firmly, "Sir Henri will see to all the necessary details regarding my belongings and men, your steward will assist him, and you, my lady, will lead the way to my new home without further delay. Is that clear?"
"Quite clear, my lord," Mary answered just as firmly, then turned on her heel in a swirl of cape and gown, her back arrow straight, her strides determined as she did indeed lead the way to the manor house. Stephen understood exactly what she was doing. She might have to obey his orders, but she was determined to show him no further weakness, not even resistance to opening her beloved home to him.
She nodded to Sir Harold in passing, who had obviously overheard the conversation, and now that he had his lady's approval, the steward immediately joined Henri with his pile of weapons. Stephen noticed this silent exchange, but he let it pass. He suspected the burly Sir Harold felt quite naked without his sword and dagger, and Stephen doubted the man would have lain down his weapons without Lady Mary's agreement. It mattered little, though. Sir Harold could probably kill a man with his bare hands, if need be. He bore close watching. With the slightest gesture of one hand, Stephen signaled Henri, who simply grinned in reply.
Stephen shook his head again, momentarily closing his eyes. His rather rotund friend could be exasperatingly cheerful at times, but he was also loyal to his very bones and extremely efficient. Stephen's belongings would be stowed...somewhere...and the men who had chosen to accompany him would be shown their new lodgings. At least housing them would pose no great problem. The quarters for Almswick's men-at-arms were probably more empty than full after the Battle of Hastings.
After nodding acknowledgment to Henri, knowing the Frenchman would stay as close to Sir Harold as a flea on a dog, Stephen followed the lady who would soon be his wife.
Holding up the frayed hem of her overgown, Mary climbed the dozen stairs to the manor house, thanked the servant opening the massive oak door, then entered Almswick's great hall. She was well aware that Sir Stephen was following her, which was bad enough, but the last thing she needed right now was to see Lily running toward her, Anna and Mae close on her heels.
"I'm sorry, milady," Anna said breathlessly, trying to catch up with her charge. "She couldn't wait any longer. I was bathing Mae, and Lily ran out of the nursery."
Mary took one look at Lily's pinched, frightened face and knew immediately that the child had witnessed the scene in the courtyard, from the nursery window. Any thoughts about Sir Stephen's invasion of her home quickly left Mary's mind. She scooped Lily into her arms, which caused Mae, wearing naught but a warm linen bathing towel, to hold out her arms and whimper. Mary opened her other arm, and Anna handed the toddler to her.
"Hush now," Mary crooned, already heading for the winding staircase, both children cradled in her arms. "There is no reason to be frightened, little ones. I am here, and I will keep you safe." She turned to Anna. "Have Cook send up some warm goat's milk and honey cakes, will you Anna? I think my girls need a small treat."
She heard Anna mutter, "A small treat, indeed. More like a Christmas feast the way things are right now," but she didn't admonish the servant. The statement was true enough, but the children needed comforting. Food was a good choice, even scarce as it was.
Anna turned toward the kitchen hut to carry out her lady's orders, and Stephen was left to his own devices while Lady Mary saw to the children. He could have ordered her to stay in the great hall with him, of course, but seeing how close she was to the little girls had given him an idea. He wanted to think through his admittedly ruthless plan while still alone.
By King William's decree, the lady was to wed him, so she really had no choice in the matter. However, a lot of needless contention could be avoided with the right tactics. And Stephen was, above all else, a brilliant tactician.
He smiled grimly scant moments later, his decision made. Then he frowned as he noticed the condition of Almswick's great hall.
The room was clean enough, with fresh rushes strewn on the floor and every possible surface newly scrubbed, the walls adorned with tapestries sewn by loving hands, but a chill wind seeped in through cracks in the wooden walls. Sealing those leaks would be the first chore he would assign Almswick's weaponless knights. Wattle and daub were easily available on the estate, and if anything must be purchased, that could easily be done, too. Money was no obstacle to Stephen's plans for Almswick.
The next problem was the room's furnishings. A scarred, very old table sat upon a raised dais, and the dismantled trestle tables used only at meal times lined one long wall, but other than rough benches and two carved armchairs at the lord's table, there was no place to sit. Unless you considered the pile of pallets neatly stacked against another wall. This room boasted no padded settles, like his own mother's hall, and the servants obviously slept right here, in front of a hearth large enough for Stephen's horse to fit quite nicely. 'Twas unfortunate that the chimney drew poorly, making the large room rather smokey. Chore number two. Clean debris from the chimney. Or replace it entirely. Stephen began a mental list.
By the time he heard Mary's light footsteps on the stairs, he'd decided the entire manor house should be razed. The lady probably wouldn't like that idea one little bit, but it needed to be done. The place was a rotting shambles. A stone castle in the Norman style would be far more sensible...and far easier to defend against enemies.
"I pray your forgiveness for the interruption, my lord," Mary said politely upon reaching him, sketching a quick curtsy. "The children were quite overwhelmed by all the activity in the courtyard."
Stephen admired her infallible manners--if one discounted the firm set of her pretty mouth--and mentioning the children reminded him of his plan. "Your apology is accepted, my lady," he said, then added, "Is there somewhere a little more...um...comfortable where we might talk?" The discussion they were about to have should be private.
"My solar is quite comfortable," Mary answered, blushing. "I realize the hall leaves a little to be desired, my lord, but funds have been short..."
Her words trailed off. She was obviously embarrassed at having made that admission to the enemy. Raising her chin, she finally said, "If you will follow me, sir."
Knowing no one was watching, Stephen allowed himself the luxury of smiling as he followed Mary's swaying hips up the winding wooden staircase. Such a prickly little wench. How could so much fortitude be encased in such a small body? A delightful small body, he had to concede, his smile widening as Mary's hips tilted from one side to the other with her ascent. A very delightful small body. The sooner this marriage business was settled the better, Stephen decided, following her down a dimly lit corridor.
Stephen had been without a woman for several days now, and the need for some fleshly comfort was growing imminent. Perhaps a willing maidservant could serve the purpose, but the thought of bedding the indomitable little woman now entering her solar was tempting indeed. He was a Norman, after all, and Normandy had adopted some delightful French customs since becoming a duchy of France. Certainly the most delightful of those customs was the Frenchman's propensity for frequently making love. Taking pleasure from a woman--and giving it--came as easily to Stephen Dubois as breathing.
His groin tightened at the very thought, and only years of self-discipline allowed Stephen to push all lustful thoughts aside. There would be time for carnal pleasure soon enough.
For now, he suspected the battle between himself and Mary of Almswick was just about to begin.
Mary closed the oak door once Sir Stephen had passed through the portal. He'd actually had to duck a little, so great was his height. Not sure what he wanted to speak with her about, Mary could not help feeling nervous. This was her private sanctuary, had always been her family's private place. She should never have brought the Norman enemy here, even if it was by rights his solar now.
Needing to do something while Sir Stephen circled the warm and comfortable torch-lit room, looking it over closely, Mary found herself walking toward the shuttered window again, just as she had earlier this very day. Why had she done that? she wondered upon reaching it. This window held such terrible memories...
"Is this where it happened?" Sir Stephen's deep voice startled her. "Is this where you lady mother met her death?"
Mary turned to him quickly, her eyes wide with surprise. "You know about that? About my mother's..."
"Suicide," Stephen finished for her. "Aye, my lady, I know everything about Almswick's recent history, both good...and bad."
Mary swallowed hard. "Yes, this is where it happened," she answered, but her voice was brittle, near breaking. There was no use denying what he apparently already knew, but dear Lord it was hard to talk about Lady Evelyn's suicide. To Mary's mortal embarrassment, tears suddenly filled her eyes. Her guilt over her mother's death was tremendous. Two tears rolled down her cheeks and she turned away again, more embarrassed than ever. Another show of weakness, and she simply could not help it. If only she'd been able to help her mother.
"It wasn't your fault."
This time his words startled her, instead of his deep voice. How could he know she felt responsible? Had the wretched tears betrayed her feelings of guilt? She paused before responding, her shoulders slumped, eyes glued to the closed shutters before finally saying, "It was my fault. I should never have left my mother alone that night, even for a moment. I knew she was not...well."
Sympathy crept into Stephen's heart again. She looked so vulnerable, much more child than woman in her dejected pose, no longer a prickly, determined wench. He was standing beside her now, and the tears on her pale cheeks tore at his heart. He was sorely tempted to turn her to face him, brush those tears away, then kiss her tenderly.
But necessity forced him to push the impulse aside. Tenderness was for the bedchamber, not the battle ground. And no matter how vulnerable she looked right now, he suspected this solar truly would be a battle ground ere long. Delaying the inevitable would gain him nothing, and he was losing tactical ground by even considering tenderness at this point.
His mind made up, he said, "Lady Mary, I want you to turn around and look at me." She reluctantly complied, and Stephen placed one hand on each of her shoulders, his grip gentle but uncompromising. "I will say this only once, lady, and I want you to listen carefully." She met his gaze squarely, tears still glistening in her deep brown eyes. Stephen drew in a breath, ignoring the tears. "You were not responsible for your mother's death, Lady Mary," he continued, his tone firm. "A parent may be responsible for his child's actions, and a husband is certainly responsible for his wife's behavior, but a daughter is not responsible for her mother." His grip on her shoulders tightened. "Leave go of your guilt, as it is a useless emotion. I want you to do so right now, lady. I need your undivided attention for things we must discuss, and this useless guilt can do naught but harm you...as well as harm those little girls you must raise."
"You are right, sir," Mary conceded with a heavy sigh, "at least as far as my sisters are concerned." He had removed his gauntlets, and his large hands felt very warm on her shoulders. She swallowed hard. The feeling was not unpleasant, and this disturbed her as much as her feelings of guilt ever had. She should not be responding to this man in any way. She was promised to another...and Sir Stephen was the enemy.
Remembering that undeniable fact helped Mary firm her resolve. Raising her chin, she continued. "My sisters do need me very badly right now, my lord. They need me to be strong, not wallowing in guilt. I shall try very hard to take your advice and let go of that useless emotion, as you so aptly called it, but it will not be easy." He loosened his grip, nodding approval of her agreement.
Mary crossed to two comfortable, padded chairs set close to the brazier, taking this time to compose herself. She could still feel the warmth of his large hands, a most disconcerting feeling, and she brushed at the remaining tears on her cheeks to gain a little more time. Surely she had imagined the sudden sense of loss she'd felt when he'd released her shoulders. It was only her tattered nerves. Everything was happening so fast, and she wanted so very much to be strong for her people...and for her family.
Aye, that was it, she convinced herself, now gesturing toward the chairs. Momentarily, she had enjoyed the feeling of a man's warm, strong hands on her person. It was naught more than that. Simply an understandable, human weakness, a need to be touched...
Wishing to go no further with that thought, she said, "Shall we sit here, my lord?"
"As you wish, my lady," Stephen calmly agreed, folding his long frame into a chair. He hadn't missed Mary's reaction to his hands on her shoulders. He smiled to himself. On the surface, she might be determined to show strength, but underneath she was a woman needing the touch of a man. This discussion might go better than he'd first envisioned. On the other hand, it might be a battle royal. Only time would tell.
"What was it you wished to discuss, my lord?" Mary asked, seating herself and lifting a pitcher of water from the table beside her, then filling two goblets. Blushing again, she added, "I'm sorry I cannot offer you anything more substantial than water, my lord. Our supply of ale and wine ran out a fortnight ago. Last year's crops were not very good."
Stephen grunted at that but accepted the water with a nod, acknowledging her explanation. How could the crops have been good when every able-bodied man on Almswick had been called into service for their ill-fated king? Many of those men were now dead. This year's crop would be better, he vowed.
The remaining household knights, weaponless as they were, could certainly do farm work. Good, hard work had never harmed a knight; Stephen could attest to that truth himself. And working the soil tended to instill a sense of pride in a man. Almswick's men certainly needed a new sense of accomplishment, since they had failed in battle. They might argue the point that farming could instill new pride, but Stephen knew from experience that opinion would change. Even if it didn't, his goal would be met. Almswick would have ample food next winter, and ale, cider and wine as well.
"The discussion, my lord?" Mary prompted, breaking into Stephen's momentary reverie. Evidently, she was anxious to get this encounter over with as soon as possible.
He swallowed the cool, clear well water, tucking his future plans to the back of his mind. The water was truly refreshing to his parched throat. He thanked Mary, held out his goblet for more, then drank the new portion before finally saying, "I believe in coming straight to the point, my lady."
"And what point is that, my lord?"
"You are not going to wed Lord Albert of Tidwell."
Mary stiffened. "Why ever not?" she asked.
"Because," Stephen said, leaning forward and resting his massive hands on equally massive, muscled thighs, "you are going to marry me."
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