Chapter Three

G envieve woke with a start. Her eyes flew open, and for an instant, she could not remember where she was. Then it hit her; she did not know where she was. Nay, she thought, she had heard Lady Jillian say she was at Merewood Keep. Merewood…why was the name so familiar?

The dull ache at the back of her skull picked up tempo and throbbed in earnest when she tried to remember where she had heard the name. The blow to her head must be muddling her thoughts, but one thought slashed through the fog, I won’t give up, even if it hurts to think!

The silence in the room was deafening, and the realization she could do nothing to break through that silence made her heart pound and her chest grow taut with fear. Dozens of questions swirled around in her aching head. But only two had the power to drive her to the depths of despair and the brink of madness: How in the name of God would she be able to survive if she could not speak? Her hands clenched the bed linens until her knuckles ached. Glancing down, she saw they were white with strain. A line of sweat beaded on her upper lip. She swiped at it with the sleeve of her borrowed sleeping gown. How would she get word to her parents that she was safe?

The room started to fade out of focus, and a disturbing buzz began to sound in her ears.

Genvieve gritted her teeth and clenched her jaw, hanging on to consciousness. “ Aut vincam ,” her mind screamed, while she tried to say the words aloud to no avail. The effort to be heard cost her; she was limp from the exertion. She gingerly touched her throat and winced. It was still so tender to the touch. It had to be badly bruised on the inside as well. But what would happen when it healed? Would she regain the use of her voice?

Mon Dieu , she did not know.

*

MacInness was not certain he believed the man in front of him was capable of accepting Garrick’s men-at-arms and household knights, let alone the Saxon people of Merewood Keep. When his friend suggested MacInness observe the training session, he hadn’t intended to participate since his injuries were still fresh.

But as MacInness eyed the gray-haired warrior, one of de Chauret’s vassals, with equal disdain, he silently measured the man for a box made of pine. Hell, he’d even help dig the hole to bury him, he thought then smiled. A pity the Norman would have to die, he almost admired the way the man had with a battle-axe.

“Then you’d like to test your strength against mine?” the Norman asked.

“My pleasure.” MacInness unconsciously assumed his battle-stance, his body taut as a coil, ready to spring to the attack.

The other warrior, Henri, didn’t back away. In fact, he took a step closer, so that they were nose to nose. MacInness was almost impressed. At his snort of laughter, all sound ceased and movement in the lower bailey came to an abrupt halt.

Warriors and stable hands stood side by side, quietly waiting for the impending fight. Henri drew his sword first, but MacInness was quick to answer the challenge. He drew out his claymore and swung it above his head before gripping it with both hands to land a savage blow to the warrior’s side.

Henri reeled back from the impact and his expression had MacInness smiling. He knew the Norman was impressed. The mon should be. In a lightning-fast move, MacInness had the warrior off-balance. Taking full advantage, he sheathed his claymore, and started to push the warrior over with his free hand.

It was MacInness’s turn to be surprised. The Norman grabbed MacInness’s hand and righted himself. But before Henri could land a blow with his broadsword, MacInness had his dirk poised in the hollow of the man’s throat.

“I’d hate to kill ye,” MacInness growled. “Ye’re almost a worthy opponent.”

“Enough,” Garrick bellowed. MacInness closed his eyes and swore, but he obeyed, slipping the dirk back into its leather sheath.

“When I asked you to join the morning’s training session, I did not think you’d try to kill one of our vassals,” Garrick bit out.

MacInness took a step back, brushing his unruly red hair out of his eyes. “I hadna planned to.” He’d rot in hell before he admitted why he would have killed the man.

He’d overheard Henri insulting the woman he rescued. Since Lady Jillian had barred everyone from the solar, MacInness knew that the Norman had not seen the injured woman, so there was no reason for the Norman to hold such a low opinion of the poor lass.

MacInness felt protective of her and her honor. It did not matter what had happened to her before he came upon the infidels beating her. She didn’t deserve the beating, and she didn’t deserve Henri’s disdain. So, he accepted the offer to train with the men, and if the Norman was foolish enough to accept the challenge, then it wasn’t MacInness’s fault if the mon died because of his lack of ability.

Garrick took the other warrior aside and spoke to him. Whatever was said would obviously stay between them. Henri nodded and stalked away.

“Patrick,” Garrick called out, “MacInness volunteered to ride out on patrol this morning.”

MacInness glared at his friend but did not contradict him. He’d save that for later. He was tired, his head a bit muddled from the mead they’d had to drink before coming to the bailey, but he’d cut out his tongue before he admitted to a weakness.

As the group disbanded, MacInness had to admire how quickly Garrick had diffused the situation. Although he would rather have taken a piece out of the Norman’s hide first.

“You won’t want to get on the wrong side of that one,” Patrick said nodding toward the retreating warrior. “He’s de Chauret’s right hand man, not too slow with sword or fist,” Patrick added with a twinkle in his eye, as they entered the cool, dim stable.

“I dinna want to be on his right side, either,” MacInness said sullenly, saddling the horse Garrick insisted he use. He was racking his brain trying to reason out why he had reacted so strongly to the Norman’s words.

“Does everyone think she’s a leman?” he asked the tall Irishman. The Norman’s slighting comments about the dubious reputation of the woman he rescued bothered him to the point where he’d been ready to kill to protect the woman’s honor.

“’Twas dark when you brought her in, and Lady Jillian had her settled in the solar before anyone else knew she was there.”

“She was badly injured,” MacInness said slowly, the memory of those injuries plagued him still.

“You’d think from the way Lady Jillian keeps everyone away that the woman has something to hide.”

MacInness shrugged. He didn’t know any more than Patrick, hadn’t had the time to find out while they were on the run from whomever had attacked the lass.

Patrick frowned at him. “Does it matter?”

MacInness wondered why it should. He didn’t know anything about her other than she had long dark hair and beneath her bruises was very beautiful. As they led their horses through Merewood’s gates, MacInness admitted, “I canna answer ye yet. I feel—” he said and stopped.

What did he feel? Why did the woman addle his brain to the point where he was defending her honor before he even knew who or what she was?

Patrick looked over his shoulder at the group of men riding out to join them. “In the ten summers I have ridden with you, I’ve only seen you this way once before.”

“Dinna even start,” MacInness ground out, sensing what his second in command was about to say.

Patrick nodded. “When you are ready to talk, I’m ready to listen.” With that he urged his horse into a canter with his heels.

MacInness waited a few moments, allowing the others to follow behind Patrick, before he too picked up the pace.

*

Genvieve wanted to heave the tray across the room at the dense serving girl. Short of doing that there was no way to get the girl to pay attention to her. It seemed that since the young woman knew Genvieve could not speak, she ignored her and carried on her own one-sided conversation.

Genvieve was tired of hearing what she should and should not do in order to regain her strength. Finally, the servant left, after tucking the covers around Genvieve for the third time. The room had grown steadily darker with the approaching night. A pale shaft of light spilled through the arrowslit, illuminating a few floorboards next to the bed where she lay.

If I stay here one more moment, I shall go mad! Genvieve was sick to death at hearing the words inside of her head instead of aloud.

The sound of raised voices drifted in on the night air. She drew in a deep breath and was rewarded with the heady scent of rain in the air. The breeze changed and had a sudden chill to it.

We need rain , she thought, no longer trying to use her voice to speak. It hurt her throat too much. Mayhap if I give my voice a rest, it will come back more quickly.

Swinging her legs out over the edge of the bed, she slipped off and stood. Though her legs were shaky from fatigue, they held her up once she locked her knees. Grabbing the woolen wrap off the top of the chest near the wall, she pulled it around her shoulders. Though still summer, the nights had grown noticeably cooler as of late.

A wave of dizziness threatened to send her to her knees, but she put a hand to the wall and waited until it passed. Steadier, she opened the door a crack and checked to see if anyone stood outside. A fair-haired young warrior stood near the top of the stairs. He looked vaguely familiar, but Genvieve could not place where she had seen him. Her memory had definitely suffered from the blow to the head. Trying to remember anything beyond the present moment was an effort.

As she watched, someone called out from the darkened hall below, and the warrior quickly descended. Genvieve knew she had only a few moments, if at all, before the man returned to stand guard. Slipping out of the chamber, she followed the steps to the floor below. Standing in the darkened hall, fear overwhelmed her and for a few heart-stopping moments she could not see a way out. Her gaze swept the room and finally noticed a faint light near the floor on the other side of the hall.

Her bare feet made no sound as she ran across the vast room. Once on the other side, she paused to catch her breath, placing her ear against the door to listen. Nothing. Pulling the door open, she slipped outside and down the stone steps.

Freedom.

She darted across the bailey toward the shadows of the stable yard. Lord, she had no idea it would feel quite so liberating to be outside the hall. A gust of wind whipped past her, accompanied by a flash of light.

Genvieve froze in her tracks. The answering rumble of thunder had her quaking with fear. Just a summer storm , she reasoned with herself, trying to overcome the fear that gripped her every time she heard the deep rumble or sharp crack of thunder. It has always been thus, since the storm that had uprooted two ancient trees and shaken the foundations at her family’s holding in Rouen. The first fat drops of rain were all the warning she got before the skies opened up. She was soaked before she could seek cover.

No longer anxious to escape, she headed for the stable to get out of the driving rain. She shivered and looked about her. A few horses were curious enough to poke their heads over their stall doors, but after sniffing the air they lost interest and ignored her. Genvieve sank to her knees in the corner on a sweet-smelling pile of hay. She grew colder by the moment; sorry that she ventured out at night, but even more sorry that she hadn’t been able to get away.

Her eyes drifted closed, though the shivers racking her body did not cease. Exhaustion finally claimed her, and she feel into a deep, dreamless sleep.