Chapter Eleven

E yreka woke with a start; the chamber was dark, and beyond her room, oddly quiet. A pale shaft of silvery light illuminated the far corner, setting her bowl of polished stones and crystals afire. Past midnight, she thought. Her stomach rumbled loudly, and she realized she had missed the evening meal.

“There must be some bread left, mayhap a hunk of cheese.” Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she slid off the bed and stood.

Weariness almost had her sitting back down, but her hunger was greater. The air that stirred through the upper level of the holding was warm, lightly scented with mint and rosemary, herbs she liked to sprinkle atop the rushes. With each step downward, her stiff muscles loosened, but the pain in her ankle became more pronounced.

“I should have elevated it,” she grumbled aloud.

“Aye, milady,” a voice answered from the shadows at the base of the stairs.

“Aimory!” Eyreka placed a hand to her racing heart.

“Why are you not abed?”

“Why are you standing guard inside the hall, instead of atop the curtain wall?” she countered, placing her hands on her hips.

The stern young warrior stood straighter. “I was chosen to guard my mistress.”

She tried to step around him, but Aimory followed. She turned around and glared up at him. “Must you dog my footsteps?”

He nodded his head.

“Has my husband told you to follow me?”

The warrior shook his head. “Nay, but I would not want you to misstep in the darkness.”

A warm feeling flowed through her. She had been about to chastise the warrior and demand that he go back to his post, but his words of concern felt like a balm on her over-tired body. It had been too long since either Garrick or Dunstan had voiced any concern for her well-being. Actually, since the day she wed.

With effort, she pushed her dark thoughts behind her. “I was hungry.”

The young man shuddered visibly. “You did not miss much,” he grunted. “The evening meal had no flavor, save for the salt it had been over-seasoned with.”

“Salt?” Eyreka was confused; Gertie had mentioned earlier that herb-roasted game hen would be served, accompanied by the usual variety of cheeses and meat pies.

“Mayhap you are not used to our rich fare,” she said, thinking the man had little or no sense of taste whatsoever. “I’ll find something for the both of us,” she offered.

The sound of booted footsteps walking across the planked floorboards interrupted whatever the knight was about to say. In one fluid movement, he drew his broadsword and shoved her behind his back.

“Halt,” he commanded in a steely voice.

“Why are you not at your post?” a rough voice demanded from the darkness.

“Georges.” Aimory sounded relieved as the other warrior stepped out from the shadow into a bright patch of moonlight. “I was escorting milady to the kitchens.”

“Actually,” Eyreka said, stepping out from behind her unwanted guard, “I was on my way to the kitchens, and Aimory refused to let me go alone.”

Her husband’s vassal stared at her as if she had crawled out from under a rock. Unconsciously she brushed her hair off her shoulders in an impatient gesture. When the man continued to stare at her, she started to wring her hands, agitation building inside of her.

“You have a message for me?” Aimory asked, thankfully redirecting the older knight’s gaze away from her.

“Aye,” he answered gruffly. “Augustin wants you to relieve Jacques on the southern section of the curtain wall.”

“Why is Jacques on his feet at all?” Eyreka demanded, stepping forward so that her toes nearly touched the overly large feet that belonged to the thickheaded man before her.

Georges’s sharp intake of breath and muttered oath made her flinch, but she did not back away from the angry warrior. “I gave strict instructions that Jacques not stress the injury, lest the wound reopen and my stitches not hold.” By Odin, were all men this stubborn? She watched Georges’s eyebrows raise in disbelief. Did no Norman woman dare to question a man, even when he was so obviously wrong?

“And Henri gave Jacques a direct order to stand watch atop the curtain wall,” Georges bit out.

Eyreka could not help but notice that every line of the man’s bulky frame seemed to have gone rigid. Mayhap she should not have questioned the warrior’s authority. Pausing to think about it, she did have to admit had she questioned either of her son’s vassals, both Patrick and MacInness would have reacted in a similar manner.

Mayhap it was best not to push the men who thought they were in charge. She shook her head. She must be far more tired than she realized. She always questioned the men in her life. More often than not, they were thinking with their feet and needed her to gently remind them that they were doing so.

Aimory stepped in front of Eyreka and held her behind him, his large hand holding her upper arm with a grip of iron while he challenged, “Shall I tell Augustin that rather than guard our new mistress, you choose to raise your hand to her in anger?”

A bleak look flashed across Georges’s hardened features, he lowered his arm. An eternity seemed to pass before he quietly spoke, “I shall tell Jacques you are coming.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

Eyreka shuddered; the hatred that emanated from her husband’s vassal shook her to the core. It had been many years since she had looked into a man’s face and recognized the man’s need to do her bodily injury. She had not openly insulted Georges, she thought, merely taunted him… flaunting his directives with a smile before continuing about her business.

She had been brushing aside men’s directives since her father told her she was to be left behind while he went on a raid. Men, she grumbled to herself, always need to feel that they are in charge. She smiled, thinking of the last raid she accompanied her father on. It had brought her to Merewood and the man she had grown to love. Nearly five and twenty summers later, she was still wise enough to dismiss the lesser dictates the men around her spouted. And by doing so, she ended up newly married, well that had yet to prove itself a wise decision, but she had three grown sons of whom she was very proud.

“Are you all right?” Aimory brought her out of her reverie with his gentle touch. He had sheathed his sword and held her by both arms. The heat of Aimory’s anger swept over her, sorrow following in its wake. She had thought the youngest of her husband’s guard actually liked her.

“Milady?” he asked again, drawing her closer.

The look in his eyes changed abruptly, leaving Eyreka stunned as she recognized the hunger in his gaze. In the soft silvery light, his brown eyes darkened with need, while his gaze raked her from the top of her head to the tips of her bare toes. She stood dumbfounded. Absolutely amazed that the handsome young warrior would look at her, a woman twice his age, with desire in his eyes. The very idea bemused her. Her youngest son was probably older than the warrior who stood before her.

Aimory misread her amazement and assumed that she too must feel what he could not hide from her. She felt herself being pulled roughly against him. His broad chest was more heavily muscled than she credited him with, but she could not get past the idea that he was a boy. She tilted her head up to demand that he stop this foolishness and let her go, but before she could form the words, his mouth captured hers in a demanding kiss. Disbelief had her pushing against his chest with more strength than she thought to possess. She was old enough to be his mother!

“Aimory,” she gasped, trying to catch her breath.

“Aye,” he answered reaching for her, trying to pull her back against him.

“Nay.” She took another step back. Her shock must have registered, because the young knight had the sense to rein in his emotions and now stood stiffly before her.

She did not know what to say. She had never been treated this way by any of her son’s guard. The thought of any of the young men who pledged allegiance to Garrick taking her in their arms was ludicrous. She had never inspired such actions in anyone else before, she thought to herself. Then it dawned on her; you have been too busy mourning your husband to notice other men.

A sudden thought plagued her. Mayhap she should be very careful around Augustin. The Viking prophecy she had been weaned on rang in her ears… If a woman finds love after thirty summers, ’twill burn hotter and brighter than the fires that forged Thor’s great hammer.

Her eyes met Aimory’s. Her lack of reaction to his caresses, compared to the way her body tingled every time Augustin was near, shook her to the core. She groaned, knowing she would definitely have to tread lightly. She had passed thirty summers nearly nine years ago and was very afraid she was in danger of caring too deeply for her husband.

“I shall escort you to the kitchens,” Aimory offered, his voice cracking.

“I’m no longer hungry.” How should she handle the young warrior’s advances? Should she tell her husband? She shook her head. He was a proud man. Eyreka was too tired to even think about what his reaction would be.

Aimory stepped aside. She retraced her steps back to the staircase. As she slowly limped up the stairs, she smiled to herself. No doubt her husband would chastise her for encouraging the poor young warrior. After all, she was old enough to know better than to entice men half her age to lustful deeds.

Slipping back beneath the cool linen cover, she wondered just what she had done to give Aimory the impression that she would welcome his touch. Mayhap, in the morning, she should pretend not to remember the incident. She tossed and turned, trying to sort through the myriad of male emotions that she had come up against since arriving back at Merewood. Two of her sons were no longer speaking to her, still angry that she had not first consulted with them before bargaining with the king. Three of her husband’s personal guard could not stand to be in the same room with her and, by Odin, the youngest of his guard practically threw himself at her!

What would Augustin think if he got wind of what happened this night and misunderstood? If he decided that she was not to be trusted alone with Aimory, her plans for a smooth transition and change in leadership at Merewood would be lost.

She could not bear the thought of coming so far only to be defeated. Desolation swept through her as she lay alone in the bed she once shared with her husband. “Addison,” she whispered. A lone tear fell from the corner of her eye, touching soundlessly upon her pillow.

*

“De Noir!” Georges bellowed.

Aimory ran up the last few steps and took up his post at the southern corner of the stone wall that surrounded Merewood Keep. He did not need to look at the older warrior to know what the man was thinking. Georges de Montgomery radiated an anger that was almost palpable.

“Do you forget who gives orders here?”

Aimory thought it wise to keep his mouth closed.

“Dare you ignore my command?” Georges ground out, his right hand resting on hilt of his sword.

“I do not forget,” Aimory answered quietly. “Nor do I forget who I swore upon my honor to protect with my life.”

Acute anguish flashed in the older knight’s gaze before the cold look that was so familiar replaced it.

“’Tis best that you don’t,” Georges replied before stalking away. “De Noir?” he called out, pausing at the top of the steps leading down into the bailey.

“Aye.”

“Never forget your pledge, ’tis a sacred vow.”

As the warrior strode away, Aimory was confused. How was it that de Montgomery would remind him not to forget his vow to protect their mistress, when the man obviously did not intend to honor the same vow? Everything he knew about his liege lord’s cousin pointed to the fact that Georges was an honorable man, with a strong sword arm and very hard head.

As the moon sank lower in the black velvet sky, Aimory thought of soft, rose-tinged lips waiting to receive his kiss. His groan of frustration was heartfelt as the need to take his mistress in his arms again nearly overwhelmed him.

“Milord Augustin does not want her,” he reasoned aloud. “He sleeps on the lower level with the men-at-arms.”

Each step that he took toward the corner of the wall was an echoed reminder that Lady Eyreka had pushed him away. He was too engrossed in his own troubled thoughts to notice the lone rider crest the top of the rise and pause to look up at the walls of the keep where he patrolled.

“Women,” he muttered half to himself, as he turned to stalk back along the southern wall of the holding.

The horse and rider disappeared by the time Aimory paused to look out across the top of the rise and beyond. Could one die of unrequited feelings of love? He would try again tomorrow, he decided, before continuing on his midnight sweep of the curtain wall.

*

“The guard changes on the hour,” the blond man reported. “And there is no time when the wall is unguarded.”

Aaron the Saxon ground his teeth together. He wanted the land. He had promised his former overlord to take Merewood Keep, if anything should prevent his lord from doing so.

His liege, Owen of Sedgeworth, had been caught withholding revenues from the king, and even now sat in a cold chamber in the Tower awaiting judgment.

Aaron was resigned to the fact that Sedgeworth Keep would be taken from them. But Merewood, with a Norman as lord, might be vulnerable. Unrest was sure to follow the new Baron’s arrival.

The woman, Aaron thought… a Viking, not even half-Saxon… was worthy of more than a Norman pig. She was almost worthy of himself.

Aye, he thought, he’d take the holding, and then the woman. His dark eyes narrowed, she would pay for her part in his overlord’s imprisonment.