Chapter Twelve

A ugustin growled at his squire and then turned to verbally tear a strip off of Henri’s hide. “Do I understand correctly? Did my wife arise in the middle of the night and not one of my men saw fit to protect her?”

Henri opened his mouth to speak, but Augustin ruthlessly cut him off. “Did you not pledge on your honor to protect and defend my wife?”

“Aye,” Henri bit out.

“And?” Augustin waited for his vassal to continue.

“I protected your wife, until the day she died,” Henri ground out. “The woman you brought back here is not truly your wife.”

Anger erupted within Augustin. He growled low in his throat and lunged for his oldest friend. He had him by the throat pinned to the wall in a heartbeat. “Dare you make such an accusation without knowing what you suggest?” Augustin demanded.

The softening in Henri’s gaze was Augustin’s undoing. “Aye, my friend, I would.”

The compassion in the other man’s eyes tormented him. “What makes you think I have not yet bed my wife?” Augustin asked in a low voice.

“Because you hold Monique close to your heart and would not dare to tarnish the love you had for her by bedding your Saxon bride.” Henri said the word Saxon as if it left a bitter taste upon his tongue.

Augustin should not have been so surprised that his vassal, the oldest of his friends, had guessed that all was not well with his marriage, though Henri was wrong about the reasoning behind his decision. Far from it. He was plagued by his new wife. Every time he walked into a room where she happened to be, awareness sliced through him. Though he hated to admit to the weakness, he had begun to crave the sound of her low, sweet voice.

He did not want anyone else to know the state of his marriage, or the wrong person may overhear and decide to do away with Merewood Keep’s newest lord.

“I trust that you have told no one of this?”

Henri’s face mottled red with anger. “I do not gossip like an old woman.”

“See that you do not.”

Henri nodded, turned on his heel and quit the room. Augustin put his hands behind his back and walked to the other side of the room. By the third time he crossed it, he heard the sound of his wife’s voice. He stopped and looked up. Eyreka’s eyes were heavy with exhaustion with purplish-black smudges beneath them. Her limp was more noticeable, though she was obviously trying hard to hide the fact from him.

He strode across to her and took her arm, gently leading her to an empty seat at the table. “Sara!” he bellowed. “Bring food to break our fast.”

The room fell silent for a heartbeat before servants started moving about again, creating an undercurrent of sound and movement that was not noticeable until it had ceased.

“Thank you, milord. Though mayhap next time, you need not bellow. Sara was standing close enough that you may have damaged her hearing.”

Augustin paused and turned to look at his wife. The woman dared to instruct him on how to treat his servants? The idea was beyond him. Monique would never have dared to tell him what to do, or how to do it.

Before he could answer her, Jean strode into the room, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Augustin acknowledged him with the nod of his head. Jean walked over to the table, looked directly at him, completely ignoring Eyreka. Augustin could not believe that one of his men would insult his wife in such a way.

“Do you not see my wife?” he asked in a cold, clear voice.

Jean looked as if he had not heard him. Augustin leaned forward across the table, nearly crushing the crusty trencher filled with wedges of cheese and hunks of honey-drizzled bread. “Bow to my wife,” Augustin bit out. The urge to plow his fist into Jean’s smug face, one of his own men, was nearly overwhelming. Only the look of uncertainty in his wife’s eye stopped him.

“Mayhap Jean was so intent on delivering his message, he did not notice I was here.”

Augustin could not believe what he was hearing. His lady wife had just been openly insulted in front of a room filled with servants, who now stared at her, and she was suggesting that the warrior had not seen her.

“I cannot believe that you would even suggest—” he started, before she cut him off.

“I believe, husband,” she said, laying a hand on his forearm, “that Jean has pressing news to report.” She turned to address the warrior. “Is that not so, Jean?”

Augustin watched the warrior’s Adam’s apple bob up and down, as Jean strove to clear his throat to speak. “Aye,” he bowed to Eyreka. “I bid you good morning,” he said belatedly. His wife smiled and patted Augustin’s arm. “You see, husband, he was so intent he did not see me.” She turned back to the menacing warrior, who shifted from one foot to the other. “Go ahead, Jean, my husband is listening.”

Augustin thought to reprimand her, but to do so in front of so many servants would only add to the slight she had just received. He shook his head, promising to speak to his errant wife later.

“What do you report?”

“Phillipe de Jeaneaux has just requested entrance to the keep. Henri has bid him enter.”

“Phillipe?” he said smiling, “I have not seen him in an age. I wonder what brings him here.”

“Mayhap rumors at court that you recently wed again?” Jean suggested.

Augustin quelled the warrior’s suggestion with a look. Jean acknowledged the look with a nod. “Have his horse stabled, and see to the men riding with him.”

“I shall see that the bathing chamber is made ready,” Eyreka said, rising. “Mayhap he will welcome the benefits of a hot bath after long days in a saddle.”

Augustin nodded to his wife. Watching her limp quickly away, he remembered that he did not want her to be on her feet too long today. “Lady Eyreka?” he called out.

“Aye?” She paused, halfway across the room.

“I want you to rest today.” He walked over to her and could almost feel the stiffening of her limbs, as his wife stood straighter… taller. In that moment, he wished he had not spent so much time on the battlefield. His ability to bark out commands did not serve him any longer. He was still responsible for so many lives, as before, but now instead of knights he had trained to do battle, they were villagers concerned with their harvests, servants trying to please a lord who could not tell them what he expected from them… as he had no idea what to do with the servants constantly hovering about him.

“I cannot rest when I am needed elsewhere,” she all but hissed the words. “You have an honored guest, a friend come to visit you, and I intend to see to his comforts.”

Would that he had the words to put her at ease rather than on her guard against him. Knowing his new wife, there was sure to be another difference of opinion… and soon. He acquiesced with a nod of agreement.

“I shall send him to you,” he promised, heading out of the hall to the stable in the lower bailey.

*

“Sara, I cannot find the lavender and mint soap I left by the stack of linens.”

“Look underneath the smaller stack to the right. I set them in the small carved bowl, the one from your father.”

Eyreka found the bowl and touched the smooth rim. Her father had carved this while expecting to die at the hands of his captor, she remembered. But he had not died then, she thought to herself. Nay, her father’s captor had accepted her bargain, and they had wed that same day. She missed Addison and the life they built together more than ever.

“Did you say something, milady?” Sara asked, coming to stand beside her.

“Umm, yes, I found the soap.” She held the bowl filled with the refreshing tang of mint and relaxing scent of lavender close and breathed deeply, hoping to clear her mind. It would not do her any good to pine over the husband who had left her behind to see to their sons’ future alone.

The sound of raised voices filtered through the closed door. “They are coming.” Sara nervously looked toward the door.

“You need not stay if you would rather see to your other duties.” Eyreka would not reprimand Sara, knowing how uneasy the Norman warriors made her. She understood Sara’s fears. The Normans had been without mercy when they put down the Uprisings in Northumbria and Mercia a few years past. It was an impression all of her people would not easily dismiss. Her husband would have to move mountains with his bare hands before Merewood’s people relented and accepted him as their liege lord.

“And leave you alone with them?” Her maidservant sounded horrified.

“Send young Janeene or Mildred in to assist me,” she suggested. “I shall be fine. I have done this many times in the past.”

“But those were honored Saxon guests,” Sara protested, “and you were not on the brink of exhaustion, with an injured ankle.”

Eyreka did not have the strength to argue. She motioned for Sara to leave her. Just as Sara reached the door, it burst open and she jumped out of the way. Eyreka did not like the look of the man who stood poised on the threshold of the bathing chamber. His eyes were dark slits beneath straight, heavy, black brows. Though not overly large, or as broad as her husband, the man still towered over her. But it was not the way he looked that unnerved her, it was the way he looked at her.

“Milord de Jeaneaux,” she said, realizing who he was, striving to cover her uneasiness. “Welcome.”

He threw aside his traveling cloak. The young knight who followed behind him caught it.

“Mayhap you would care to undress while I summon another of my serving women,” Eyreka suggested. Before she could slip past the man, he snagged her wrist in a painful grip and pulled her back into the room.

“Oh, but I do not care to undress without your help,” he rasped, looking at her with what she could only describe as an oily smile. One that would come easily, smoothly, but was not at all sincere.

“Sara. Send Janeene and Mildred.” Custom or not, guest or not, Eyreka did not wish to be alone with the unsettling man for one moment longer than necessary.

“Gerard!” de Jeaneaux called out while looking intently at Eyreka. His gaze started at the top of her head, but stopped at the swell of her bosom. An unholy light seemed to gleam from his beady, black eyes.

He made her skin crawl, it was the only thought that got past the revulsion she felt for the man she was about to offer to bathe. “Perhaps you would care to have Gerard assist you?” she suggested in a quiet, but firm voice.

“And miss the opportunity of having you bathe me? I think not.”

“You may go, Gerard,” Phillipe said, with a direct look that had the younger man stopping in his tracks before nodding his agreement.

“But—” Eyreka started to protest, only to be silenced by the quelling look leveled at her. Mayhap it would be better just to get it done. She would speak to her husband later about their guest’s lack of manners.

It was awkward, but Eyreka managed to coax the odious man into the wooden tub of hot water without actually having to watch him do it. At last he was seated, with only the top half of him visible above the steaming water.

“Come closer, milady,” he said, leaning over the side of the tub.

Afraid that he would stand up if she did not do as he suggested, Eyreka decided to try to placate him until one of the servants arrived.

“Wash my back.”

Making a face at the man’s back, Eyreka reached for a bit of soap and linen cloth. Rather than put her hands into the tub with him, she used one of the buckets of water standing beside the tub, one meant for rinsing. She made a lather on the cloth and began to scrub him.

“Milady,” de Jeaneaux barked out, “my back must be clean by now, start on the other side.”

“I only assist in bathing our guest’s backs, milord,” she informed the beast of a man. “I shall send one of my maids in to assist you further.” She stood, shook the water from her hands and reached for a dry bit of cloth.

The slosh of water was her only clue that the man had moved. She was wrapped in de Jeaneaux’s steely embrace before she could think to protect herself. He dragged her closer, banging her hip against the side of the tub as he stood. Eyreka gasped in pain.

When he leaned close, she turned away from him.

“I like passionate women,” de Jeaneaux growled.

She drew back and squirmed, trying to free herself, cursing de Jeaneaux under her breath, “I will not submit to this pig who tries to act like a man.”

She must have uttered those words louder than she planned, because de Jeaneaux stopped and pulled back from her. His face flushed red; his body taut with rage. She never saw the man move. The blow snapped her head back with such force that she fell backwards, landing on her already bruised hip.

De Jeaneaux was incensed. He grabbed a hold of her bliaut, ripping it. She clung to one of the benches feeling the bite of wood beneath her nails, knowing he wasn’t going to stop. She’d pricked his pride.

His brutal hands bruised her. Desperate to protect herself, Eyreka grabbed the bucket she had been using to rinse the linen cloth and swung into his face. He threw back his head and howled as soap stung his eyes.

The door to the bathing chamber crashed open and rocked back on its hinges before sagging against the wall, as the newly splintered wood rained down upon the floor. Eyreka dared a quick glance away from her attacker and almost swallowed her tongue. Her son’s vassal, Patrick, stood in the doorway poised to strike.

Patrick’s green eyes were emerald-hard with rage, his sword extended out in front of him ready to defend. She had never been so glad to see anyone in her life.

“De Jeaneaux!” he bellowed.

The Norman knight froze in his tracks; Eyreka could see the anger in the man’s gaze melt away, fear taking its place. Though she had hoped to be able to defend herself against the Norman pig, she realized de Jeaneaux was almost as broad as the huge Irish mercenary. She would not have held her own against him for long.

A lump of emotion snagged in her throat. She took a calming breath to try to ease the tension there. The stark realization of what de Jeaneaux intended shocked her. The man may be a pig, but he was a very, very large, strong one. And only a very sharp weapon would have stopped him from achieving his goal.

The eerie sound of two blades sharply connecting and sliding against one another made her skin crawl. They were fighting over her. One man fought for the right to defile her, while the other fought to protect her virtue. She took a step back, and then another until she was safely out of range of the bloody brawl.

Dear Odin, Thor, and Loki! What would Augustin think when he found out she had caused such a rift between her son’s guard and their Norman guest? Would he believe that she was not at fault, or would he side with his friend, de Jeaneaux?

“Kelly!” she heard Patrick call out.

Her attention refocused on the men who fought over her. Patrick now had the other warrior pinned by the throat to the planked wall of the bathing chamber. De Jeaneaux’s face was turning blue.

“Patrick!” She hoped he would hear her plea and let go of the man. She could not have de Jeaneaux’s death on her conscience. He was an honored guest, a friend, and fellow countryman to her husband.

The warrior flinched at the sound of his name, but did not loosen his hold. Hands beginning to shake from the delayed reaction to the violence, Eyreka reached out and placed her hand on his forearm, squeezing it gently.

“Agggh!” Patrick groaned angrily. “I can’t kill him?” He sounded like a little boy deprived of a special treat.

“Nay,” she said softly. “For our people’s sake, don’t do this.”

He looked over his shoulder at her, and the menacing look in his eyes softened.

“For my sake?”

He loosened his grip and let the gasping man slide to the floor. Before she could utter a word of thanks, he had de Jeaneaux’s hands pinned behind the man’s back and was tying them together with Eyreka’s roped belt. She thought to point out that she needed it so her hem would not drag on the ground, but the look in Patrick’s eyes stopped her. He still had blood in his eyes. He still wanted to kill the Norman warrior.

“Kelly!” Patrick shouted again, this time loud enough to rattle her teeth.

“Coming!” Kelly paused on the threshold. The anguish in his eyes bothered her. What was he staring at? She looked down at her gown and shock finally set in with a vengeance. Her entire body started to quake with it. She looked down at her hands, willing the trembling to stop, and noticed her fingernails were torn and her knuckles scraped raw.

She smoothed the hair back off her forehead and sighed. She must truly look as if she had been the one bathing and brawling. Eyreka bent down to pick up the overturned bucket and noticed a ragged strip of pale green fabric on the floor. Funny, she thought, it was the same color as the bliaut she had put on that morning.

“Lady Eyreka,” Kelly rasped, walking toward her. He helped her to straighten before guiding her over to the far corner of the chamber, the only dry spot, and had her sit on a roughly carved stool.

She looked up at him and smiled. “My thanks.”

The young warrior knelt before her and took her hands in his. He studied them, turning them over and running a fingertip next to the raw flesh on her knuckles. “He hurt you,” he said simply.

Eyreka did not want to be responsible for the look of hatred she saw filling Kelly’s normally placid features. She looked over her shoulder to where Patrick now stood guard next to her attacker. Kelly’s hatred was mirrored on Patrick’s strong features.

“Nay,” she said finding her voice. “I had just fended him off when Patrick came through the door.” She struggled to smile, though it pained her jaw where de Jeaneaux’s fist had connected with it. “I am fine.”

Kelly’s features softened into lines of grim determination, “I shall report this to your husband.” He bent and picked up a long strip of linen drying cloth and wrapped it around her.

Eyreka started to protest that she was not cold, and moved to shrug off the makeshift cloak and looked down. Her chainse and bliaut were torn. Where they parted, her bruised flesh was exposed for all to see. When she pulled the edges of her clothing back together, her hand was covered by a warm, strong one.

She groaned. “Do not let anyone see me like this,” she begged. “Servants talk, and our people would think my husband was at fault for the attack.”

“He is,” Patrick bit out, stalking across the room toward them.

“No.” She shook her head. “He had no way of knowing that Phillipe would attack me.” She hoped she spoke the truth.

“But it is his job, and that of his warriors, to protect his wife.” Patrick’s words echoed in her aching head.

“Please, don’t tell him about this,” Eyreka begged. “His men are finally adjusting to their duties here, and you and your men seem to accept them at last. If word of what happened were to get out, I fear what the outcome will be.” She paused, “Mayhap your men would misunderstand.”

“It is Augustin’s duty to avenge this atrocity,” Patrick’s voice rose in volume. Still she shook her head at him.

Kelly stood next to Patrick, agreeing with his leader.

“Please,” she asked once more. “If not for the growing sense of a peaceful coexistence between our fellow Saxons and Augustin’s Norman knights… then for my sake?”

The two warriors looked at one another and then back at Eyreka. “Aye,” Patrick ground out, “I’ll let you tell him.”

While not quite what she wanted, it was a small concession. One that she could work with. She raised her hand to his cheek in a gesture she had so often used with her own sons, “Thank you.”

“Kelly,” Patrick ordered. “Escort Lady Eyreka to her chamber. I have a few questions for her husband’s guard.”

Eyreka stepped out into the hallway, surprised to see Henri and Jean standing near the end of the passageway. Both warriors looked distinctly uneasy.

“How long have you been out here?”

Henri turned toward her, and, from the look on his face, noticed the fact that she had been attacked, but didn’t answer her. Jean took a step toward her, opening his mouth to speak; but at a sharp command from Henri, he moved back and stared at his feet.

“Get her out of here,” Patrick ground out, stalking toward Augustin’s men.

As Kelly pulled her along the passageway and around to the back of the hall, she heard voices raised in anger.

“Will Patrick be all right?” she asked, her anxious gaze meeting his.

Kelly smiled, “Aye. No one fights as dirty as Patrick.”

Eyreka stopped in her tracks, “Fights?”

Kelly snorted and pulled on her arm to move her along.

“Milady!” Sara gasped, as they stepped into the great hall. “What happened?”

Eyreka paused and tried to smooth her hair back out of her face, but it was badly tangled and still damp, and fell right back into her eyes. She shrugged and gave her attention to smoothing the wrinkles out of her damp chainse. Noticing the rend down the front, she sighed and answered, “I fell.”

“Hah!” Gertie said under her breath, moving to stand next to Sara. Gertie had her hands on her hips, and Sara had her hands to her breast. Neither one looked as if they believed her. Not that she could blame them, it was a bold-faced lie. But she dare not tell the truth. Too much was at stake.

“I was out walking, and I tripped over my hem.” She lifted the edge of her gown off the floor. “I was in such a rush, I forgot my girdle and my hem got caught under my feet.” As she paused to catch her breath, a few more servants had gathered to listen to her tale.

“I was on the path, on the other side of the postern gate, when I tripped and fell, rending my chainse.”

“How did you hurt your jaw?” Gertie asked, her eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“’Twas the log,” Eyreka said. thinking quickly. “An immense log had been rolled into the path.”

As if he knew she was running out of excuses, Kelly urged her toward the stairs. He leaned toward her and whispered, “You are a terrible liar, milady.”

She gave him a level look and tried to brush past him into her chamber. He held out his arm to stop her. “I’ll check to see that it is safe.”

“Safe?”

“Aye.” Kelly’s voice was hushed. “We protect our own, milady. Even if your husband cannot.”

After satisfying himself that her chamber was indeed safe, Kelly closed the door softly behind him, but not before letting her know that he would be right outside, standing guard.

Eyreka slipped out of her torn clothes and bathed herself as best she could with the pitcher of water and bit of soap. She scrubbed her skin until it was a bright pink, then dried off and pulled on a fresh chainse and deep green bliaut. It would have to do until she could have a hot bath brought in.

By the time she sat down to braid her hair, someone knocked on her door.

“Reka?” Jillian called through the closed door, “Are you all right?”

Eyreka opened the door, looked out at the formidable Irish guard, and pulled Jillian inside. “I’m fine.”

Jillian’s eyes misted over as she touched the tip of her finger to the side of Eyreka’s face. “You did not fall,” she said. “Who did this to you?”

Eyreka sat down on the edge of the bed and folded her hands in her lap. “I would do anything for my sons,” she said simply.

“Augustin hit you?” Jillian stammered, placing a hand to her throat.

“Do you think so little of your new lord that you would accuse him?” Eyreka asked, leaping up from the bed to pace in front of Jillian. She did not want to burden her son’s wife with her worry. The news that a Norman baron attacked her would definitely put an end to any cooperation either side had been willing to give.

Jillian shook her head. “Then who did?”

Eyreka realized she needed to tell someone who would understand the difficult situation she was in. “’Twill make my husband’s adjustment here as lord more difficult if I tell anyone. His knights and the holding’s guard are finally on more agreeable terms.”

“His name,” Jillian insisted calmly.

“De Jeaneaux,” Eyreka whispered, “but I have made Patrick and Kelly both swear that they will not tell my husband.”

Jillian nodded, a small smile curving her lips.

Eyreka saw the change in Jillian and was immediately concerned. “They would not go back on their word and tell him, would they?”

Jillian smiled broadly and shook her head, “Nay, Reka. They will not tell Augustin.”