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LENGTH: Epic Novel
SENSUALITY: Spicy

Cover art (c) Eliza Black 2006
ISBN 1-58608-966-8
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It's not unusual to find herself awakening in the woods, but the night Lady Gwyneth sleepwalks into the arms of a Norman knight she realizes the danger of being accused of witchery is strong ... and terrifying.

Sir Alan Fitz de Personne is told to hold Wykston for his king, but it is Gwyneth, the lady of Wykston whom he wants to hold for his own....

Rating: Contains graphic sexual content, violence, and explicit/suggestive language. (This novel is a reissue but has been extensively revised and expanded for its NCP release.)

THE SAXON ROSE

By

Fiona Neal

© copyright October, 2006,

Fiona Neal Cover art by Eliza Black,

© copyright October 2006

ISBN 1-58608-966-8

New Concepts Publishing Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Chapter One

Northumbria, England 1069

“God’s bones!” Sir Alan roared in disbelief.

Out of the swirling midnight mist, the woman suddenly appeared directly in the path of his startled destrier. “Move away, wench!” his voice echoed through the murky woods.

Incredibly, the girl never moved. Awash in the fog, she looked as pale and as ethereal as a white rose.

Desperate to keep his horse from trampling her, Alan stood in his stirrups and reined back his mount with every ounce of strength he could muster. Heart slamming, every sinew taut with exertion, he managed to urge the animal around, sparing her from the brutal stomp of the frenzied beast--but not from mishap. While turning his mount, Alan’s leg clipped her shoulder.

Fair hair billowing, white garb aflutter, she crashed to the ground with a bone-crunching thud just off the narrow forest path.

“Sweet Jesu!” he rasped. Why hadn’t she moved from harm’s way?

Jolted to a halt, the long column of men behind him struggled to control their mettlesome steeds. Amid the chinking sound of chain mail and the pounding of their mounts’ hooves, the weary soldiers cursed, “Merde and sacre? bleu.” The supply wagons lurched to a halt and even the horses whinnied in protest.

Alan vaulted from his saddle. Rushing to the wraith-like woman, he knelt at her side, gasping for breath as his sweat soaked into the padded jack beneath his hauberk.

By all the saints, she wore naught but her shift!

Noticing the rise and fall of her breasts, he was grateful she was still alive, but he couldn’t fail to see her nipples, poking enticingly under the cloth of her scant attire. Beneath the smudges of dirt, her beautiful face appeared pale and smooth, like a lustrous pearl.

Alan felt an eruption of hot, potent lust.

Who was this temptress and why had she been prowling these woods at this hour of the night?

One thing he knew; she was no Saxon serf. Though stained with soil and bracken, her garment was woven of fine linen, not the coarse russet worn by geburs. The golden chain and cross about her neck gleamed through the dismal light, and her unbound tresses spilled over the ground like spun sunbeams. Slim and white, her hands appeared soft, not callused by the rigors of toil. Significantly, she had no wedding or betrothal ring on her finger.

“Godwin,” she murmured, slowly opening her eyes. In the ghostly light, they appeared silver and unfocused before her lids closed once more.

Who was Godwin? Was he a family member or a lover? Perhaps she had been trysting.

Questions aside, the girl needed help. He must act now. As he reached out to assess the injuries to her limbs and skull, Alan’s gangly squire leapt forward, grabbing his arm

“N ... no, Sir Alan! D ... Do not touch her.” The boy’s dark eyes glimmered with terror, and his face appeared livid beneath its splatter of freckles.

“What the devil, Robert?” Alan said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. Robert had been his squire for several years. He was a good conscientious lad, even if he tended to over-react at times.

The boy released Alan’s arm. “S ... She may be an evil spirit, come to lead us astray, like the wicked Mist Maiden we’ve heard about!”

A glance up at his troops convinced Alan the boy was not the only one who had apprehensions. The faces of his men seemed taut with fear, and their postures were rigid with vigilance--and with good reason.

Hemmed in on both sides by the dense growth of fog-shrouded oaks, the Normans stood vulnerable and were ripe for ambush from the Saxon rebels they had come to subdue.

To make matters worse, as the troops journeyed northward, the tales they had heard of fairies, goblins, and this so-called Mist Maiden who stalked the night, wreaking havoc on their hapless victims increased their fears.

Alan shook his head in disbelief. The whole north of England reeled with chaos as the Saxon rebels allied with the Danes and Scots, yet his men feared this fragile, unconscious girl.

“Nonsense, lad. Our enemies spread such stories to unnerve us. Likely she is a decoy, placed here by the rebel leaders. In her panic she failed to run from the road quickly enough to elude us. While this woman distracts us, Saxon marauders may be stealing in to slay us.” Alan gripped the hilt of his sword. “It is flesh-and-blood adversaries we must fear, lad, not ghosts and dragons.

“Yes,” Robert replied, a dubious expression on his face.

“Furthermore,” Alan continued, “it would be criminal to leave her here to die. Now out of the way.”

Quickly making the Sign of the Cross, the boy stepped aside.

Annoyed, Alan realized his words had little effect on the squire and the anxious soldiers. In strained silence, his troops gaped at him and the woman. Some crossed themselves, others gestured, warding off the evil eye as they stared at her with suspicion.

Meanwhile, the mist grew ever thicker. Neither the hoot of an owl nor the whisper of the wind stirred the trees. Even from his own troops, only an occasional snort from a horse or nervous cough from a campaigner pierced the gloomy darkness.

Did the Saxons skulk nearby?

He had to put courage back into these men--now! With a demonstration of assurance, Alan examined her graceful arms, shapely legs, and lovely head. Satisfied her bones remained intact, he draped his mantle over her and scooped her into his arms, hoping she had no internal injuries.

“You see, Robert, I touched the woman, and I still live. Obviously, she is not the magical Mist Maiden who suddenly appears in this forest and kills the men who succumb to her charms and touch her.”

His tactic succeeded. The suspense abated, the men relaxed their rigid stances, but their drawn faces betrayed bone-aching fatigue.

In his pursuit of the Saxons, Alan had pushed his troops beyond endurance.

“Ranulf,” he called out to his old friend.

Helm in the crook of his arm, the tall, brawny sergeant approached. “Yes, Alan.”

“Order the men to bivouac in that clearing for what remains of the night.” He nodded to a treeless area just visible through the fog. “If the Saxons attack, at least we’ll have room enough to wield our broadswords.”

“True, but what do we do with her?” Ranulf bobbed his eyebrows suggestively, a smile on his face. The man was Alan’s trusted companion of many years and could be counted on to find humor in the most difficult of circumstances.

“Stop jesting. You know we are honor-bound to keep her. It would be wrong to leave her to fate.”

“Judging from her looks, she appears to be a noblewoman, though a scantily clad one.” Ranulf pushed back his mail coif, revealing his close-cropped pelt of thick, sandy hair. “We could hold her hostage and demand her kin swear fealty to William.”

“A premature ambition, Ranulf. The poor girl may not survive.” The thought made him feel guilt, for he had caused her injury.

“If she were my wife or kinswoman, I’d agree to any terms to ransom her.”

Too pragmatic for superstition, Ranulf had an eye for the ladies, especially comely ones, and this girl’s body would provoke even a monk to lust. “Her people will be angry when they discover she is hurt.” Ranulf shook his head. “They will never believe we didn’t intentionally injure her.”

Alan shrugged. “Maybe. On the other hand, they may not think she is worth ransoming.”

“A possibility, but not every family is….”

“Beware, Ranulf!” Alan halted in his tracks, clenching his teeth against an agony so deep, so wide, it snatched his breath and shattered his heart. The sergeant’s words raked the embers of searing memories he could not bear to recall but could never forget-no matter how desperately he tried.

“It is time to put the past behind you.”

“Never!” Alan grated out. How could he allow his would-be murderers to elude heaven’s justice?

“Your bitterness shadows your life, darkens your soul, and causes you to trust no one.”

“I trust you. Now enough, Ranulf!”

“But….”

“We were speaking about the woman,” Alan interrupted. “Besides, we are not the only raiding party in the vicinity. Her kin may lie dead already.”

“Perhaps that accounts for the reason she wandered alone,” Ranulf affirmed gravely. “I have witnessed many poor folk dazed and roaming aimlessly after their villages were destroyed and their kith and kin slaughtered.”

“Perhaps, but I still think the girl may have been spying. We can inquire about her at the convent our maps show is nearby,” Alan proposed. “The nuns may know her or her family, and they must reveal the truth.”

“After all, it is a sin to lie.” Ranulf chuckled, breaking the tension as they resumed their walk. “Until then, how shall we care for her? We have no provisions to accommodate a lady. You allow us no camp followers of washerwomen.”

Alan looked down at her as he considered the question. Her breathing was even, unlabored--a good sign. Perhaps her fall had just knocked her unconscious, and she would recover. He hoped to God that was the case. “I shall make a place for her next to me.”

“Is that seemly?” Mischief twinkled in Ranulf’s hazel eyes. In the somber light they appeared the color of slate.

Alan could not suppress a grin. “I suppose not, but at least she will be safe.”

“Will she? Who will protect her from you?”

Alan chuckled. No matter what the circumstance, his huge sergeant always found some humor in it. “If you must ask, you do not know me as well as you think.”

“It is because I know you that I ask.” Ranulf rumbled with hearty laughter.

“Your success with the fair sex out-distances mine by miles.” Alan stopped. “This spot will do,” he said, choosing a site near the edge of the forest.

Ranulf removed the cloak from the woman and spread it on the ground. Alan placed her on the garment, wiping the soil from her face with edge of the cape before she rolled to her side.

The sergeant moved toward her. A stab of possessiveness jabbed though him. Alan signaled the man to halt. “No. I will wrap her,” he said, covering her with the thick woolen garment.

Ranulf raised his palms and stepped back, his lips curled in a canny smile. “She is all yours, my friend. Besides, I must post the sentries.” Yawning widely, he strode away.

Alan rose and motioned to Robert. The boy brought him a bedroll and spread it on the ground. Staring at the woman with caution, the squire tripped over his own feet, scampering away to take his place near Father Rollo, their sober chaplain. Obviously, the lad wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and the girl.

The boy’s superstitious beliefs annoyed Alan. Such behavior affected morale. Moreover, by the time he had reached the squire’s age, he had learned a bitter lesson: human enemies pose a greater threat than spirits.

To the accompaniment of swords clinking, helms clanging, and saddles thwacking, his weary troops settled down for a well-deserved rest.

Alan sank to the thick wool, divesting himself of his weapons and helm and pushed back his mail coif. He stretched his tired limbs. Slowly, he inhaled the bracing odor of the forest as it mingled with the delicate fragrance of the woman’s rose scent.

His gaze strayed to the girl’s tall, slim form reclining mere inches away from him. Her well-molded cheekbones and chin created a lovely symmetry within the pale oval of her face. Thick, sweeping lashes fringed her lids.

She sighed. Turning on her back, she threw off the cloak. The “v” neck of her shift opened, revealing a substantial portion of her bounteous breasts.

Desire jolted through him like summer lightning. His manhood burgeoned as he fought the urge to caress those white, breasts, and lave her still-erect nipples. Against all logic, his gaze fell to the girl’s hands to convince himself once again that her long, tapered fingers wore no rings

Was she a virgin? The idea caused him to want her even more. Balling his fists in frustration, he turned from the sight of her body, attempting to calm his fierce need.

If her family still lived, would they ransom her? Part of him hated to relinquish custody of her. Another part hoped they loved her enough to do so.

His kin had not acted so kindly. The memory caused his heart to race as he relived the terror of a helpless boy fleeing from a diabolical killer. His fury ignited, and Alan tore the tussock of wet grass growing near the edge of his blanket up by the roots.

The damsel stirred, and he turned his attention to her once more. Her heart-shaped lips parted. How would that lush mouth taste? Alan deeply regretted that the girl was his foe. Though his lust raged, he must never forget that reality. To do so assured his downfall, and he needed all his strength, wit, and energy to outmaneuver the enemy and stay alive.

Long denied, sleep induced Alan to close his eyes. A vision of the woman loomed before him. The distinctive scent of her perfume lingered in the air, conjuring the image of a dew-washed rose veiled with mist.