Bound to the Warrior. Barbara PhinneyЧитать онлайн книгу.
huge eyes. “Treat these mounts well, or you’ll be treated as you’ve done to them,” he told him in heavily accented English. The boy nodded, most likely understanding only the fierce tone.
Adrien glanced suspiciously around, and his mere size caused several maids and men to step back. Geoffrey stood his ground.
Ediva leaned close to Adrien and spoke tightly in quiet French. “These people have lost family at Hastings. I doubt any have seen a Norman before, except the troops that marched through to inform us of our new king. Some of those men were very brutal. Be wise, lest you find yourself wondering if your next meal has been poisoned.”
She tempered her words with weariness. She’d already buried one husband and after this frightful trip, was reluctant to bury another. Even if she could escape the fury of the king should Adrien die, new widowhood would risk Ganute’s cousin, Olin, descending upon her with foolish airs of his wrongful claim on Dunmow Keep.
Adrien drilled her with a penetrating look. “Mayhap I will have you taste my food first. You don’t want me here any more than they do.”
She answered him with a heavily burdened sigh. Of course, he would show his control over the keep she’d vowed to protect. But at this moment, she couldn’t care less. “Such a delightful way to start a marriage,” she muttered. “I’m sure you will want to inspect your new holdings. Go ahead. I plan to have a bath and a meal and a sleep. And if you feel the need for me to taste your food, wake me. For I really do not care.” She lumbered stiff-kneed up the motte and into the keep.
Adrien confirmed to himself his horses were being cared for before ordering a young, brash-looking boy to take him to Ediva. He, too, wanted food and a bath and a good sleep before he inspected his new home, but those must wait. He would not have his wife ordering him around in front of his new staff and he planned to tell her so.
The boy took him up the stairs to the top floor, then down a corridor that was rounded like the tower’s outer wall. The door at the end led to Ediva’s solar, and when Adrien threw it open, he found Ediva sitting with her steward by her side while a maid dug through a nearby trunk of clothes. The curtains that usually closed off the bed were pulled back and a light breeze rolled through the room by way of two narrow windows. The private solar was bright. A whitewash lightened the curved walls, and pushed to one side was a large, round brazier with an ornate cover.
Ediva was tossing clothes into Geoffrey’s open arms. Another young woman sat at a table, sewing feverishly. His new wife didn’t look up from her task, even when his gaze finally lit on her. “I’ve found some things for you,” she said.
Geoffrey held a mix of fine linens and sturdy wools. As best as Adrien could tell, all items were old-fashioned and of Saxon design. The leather thongs looked stiff and useless, but he’d find replacements for them easily enough.
“Thank you.”
She said no more. The girl on her knees pulled out a piece of cloth, one that snagged Ediva’s attention enough for her to fall to her own knees and grab it. The girl started back in surprise. Immediately, Ediva stuffed the linen back deep into the trunk again. A burgeoning silence swelled in the room.
No one moved.
Curious, Adrien strode up to peer into the chest. A tail of the material stuck out a moment before she shoved it deeper in. The cloth was pale blue in color, as lovely as Ediva’s brilliant eyes. Her hand lay on the other clothes, shaking ever so slightly. Adrien crouched and looked into her face. Her eyes were closed.
“Ediva?”
She swiped her hand over her cheek and opened her eyes. Glaring at the brash boy who’d accompanied Adrien, she snapped, “Harry, why are you still here?”
Harry looked down at his feet. “I came in with my new lord.”
“Well, you can leave now.” She twisted to speak to the woman sewing. “Margaret, I don’t need half of Dunmow Keep traipsing through my solar.”
“Ediva?”
She turned her attention to Adrien, her expression cool as the late winter rain that had fallen that morning.
“Harry will be your squire,” she carried on in English, still on her knees. “If you need me, he will know where to find me.”
“I have my own squire.”
“Harry has some knowledge of French and a good ear for learning. Use him as much as possible.” Her voice was steady, but her hands still trembled and though she looked toward his face she would not meet his eye.
Irritated, he stood and folded his arms. “I will decide the staff, Ediva.”
“You know nothing of the staff here. This is my keep, Lord Adrien, and as its lady, I make such decisions.”
With that, she slammed the lid of the trunk down. All the servants jumped.
Enough, Adrien decided as he threw open the trunk lid. Whatever was in this thing had shaken Ediva more than anything he’d seen her encounter, including the king’s command to wed. Retrieving the blue garment she’d hidden, he discovered it was a woman’s shift.
Holding it up with both hands, he drew in a sharp breath. There were long, violent slashes in it, and splattered about them were brownish stains.
Blood. He’d been a soldier long enough to recognize the unwashed stains. ’Twas a sleeping shirt of good quality, and most likely hers. What had happened? “Is this yours, Ediva?”
She snatched it back and thrust it into the arms of the girl beside her. “Never mind. Turn this into rags, girl.” Immediately after, she ordered the servants to leave.
After the servants had filed out and the door shut firmly behind them, Adrien said, “That’s blood. What happened?”
Her chin had wrinkled. Just as he thought she wouldn’t answer, she said, “Ganute’s departure gift to himself.”
Adrien fought for words, but nothing decent surfaced. Her cheeks pink, Ediva returned to her seat. “He...surprised me, ’tis all.”
Was that all it was? Nay. From her expression, there was more. He paused, also hating how he couldn’t seem to form a sentence or even find the right words to say. “You...had been married for some time, surely. You are...old.”
Silence followed, with a sudden tension Adrien had felt only before battle. All he’d meant to say was she was old enough to know what some men want. Obviously, his English needed work.
Unless the departure gift was...
His blood ran cold.
Slowly standing, Ediva turned to him. “Old? Old!” The word bounced around the quiet room like an angry bee in a clay pot. “Am I a battered pan into which you slop bones and broth for your sup?”
She wiped her eyes furiously. “I am many things, my lord, but I can tell you with much certainty, that I am not old!”
Snatching up her hem, she limped past him and threw open the heavy oak door with the ease of a man twice her size. As it slammed against the wall, she did her best to stalk from her solar with as much dignity as her bruised and aching body would allow.
Standing there, Adrien felt a pair of eyes lingering on him. He found Harry, the young whelp Ediva had assigned as his squire, peeking into the solar. The boy barely reached his elbow and was as clumsy as a half-grown pup, but he lifted his brows and shook his head like a wise old man.
“What’s your problem, boy?”
The boy’s French was horrible, but he understood. “Milady don’t like to be called old. Even m’maw and my sisters don’t like being called old.”
Adrien scowled at him. The boy colored, appropriately so, in Adrien’s mind. Harry quickly turned away, but as he did, Adrien caught his arm. “What kind of man was her ladyship’s first husband?”
The boy looked around him, as if to confirm