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Married To Her Enemy
Jenni Fletcher
From captive to bride…Lady Aediva of Etton will do anything to protect her sister, Cille. So when enemies storm her family’s keep, Aediva assumes Cille’s identity…taking her place as prisoner of Sir Svend du Danemark.Svend’s sole aim is to fulfil his service to William the Conqueror, and rebuild the life a woman’s betrayal once lost him. So when he receives his new orders to quash the Saxon rebellion, he is stunned. To do his duty, he must vow to take the beautiful yet provoking Aediva as his wife!
From captive to bride...
Lady Aediva of Etton will do anything to protect her sister, Cille. So when enemies storm her family’s keep, Aediva assumes Cille’s identity...taking her place as prisoner of Sir Svend du Danemark.
Svend’s sole aim is to fulfill his service to William the Conqueror and rebuild the life a woman’s betrayal once lost him. So when he receives his new orders to quash the Saxon rebellion, he is stunned. To do his duty, he must vow to take the beautiful yet provoking Aediva as his wife!
‘Why?’ She looked panicked. ‘What does he want with me?’
He wishes for you to marry again.
The answer sprang to his lips, but the obvious fear in her voice made him hesitate. With his hand gripping her arm he felt suddenly irrationally protective. It wasn’t his place to tell her the Earl’s plans, but she was watching him, no longer defiant but frightened, asking him a question. He felt a stirring in his chest—something he hadn’t felt in a long time—as if something were shifting inside him. Damn it all, how could such a small woman have such a powerful effect on his senses?
‘He intends for you to marry again,’ he said softly, surprising himself.
‘Marry a Norman?’
Author Note (#uf0132068-111a-5ef2-9e51-cd734d9e7715)
The early years of William the Conqueror’s reign in England were marked by instability and rebellion. Some of those Saxon nobles who had survived the Battle of Hastings had their lands confiscated, but others were offered a chance to keep their homes in exchange for their allegiance. Most, however, such as the infamous Hereward the Wake in East Anglia, chose to rebel against the oppressive new Norman regime—though this generally took the form of stubborn resistance rather than outright warfare.
The description of William’s treatment of the rebels in this story is based on real-life events, most notably those that occurred during the brutal Harrying of the North in 1069. By this point the king had abandoned any attempt at compromise, to the extent that, according to the Domesday Book, by 1086 only five per cent of English land still remained in Saxon control.
This story, however, is set in Mercia in 1067less than a year after the Conquest—when it might still have been possible to gain favour with the new king. William did reward his supporters with English land, and encouraged intermarriage between Norman and Saxon as a means to secure property and lend legitimacy to his kingship. In order to control a large, rebellious Saxon population he also started a campaign of castle-building almost immediately upon arriving in England, so although the stone castle described in this story is slightly ahead of its time, its presence is still plausible during a time of tumultuous political unrest and upheaval.
Married to Her Enemy
Jenni Fletcher
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
JENNI FLETCHER was born on the north coast of Scotland and now lives in Yorkshire, with her husband and two children. She wanted to be a writer as a child, but got distracted by reading instead, finally writing down her first paragraph thirty years later. She’s had more jobs than she can remember, but has finally found one she loves. She can be contacted via Twitter @jenniauthor (https://twitter.com/jenniauthor).
Married to Her Enemy is Jenni Fletcher’s gripping debut for Mills & Boon Historical Romance!
Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
To my wonderful family, because you always said I could do it. And to Andy, my best friend.
Contents
Cover (#ud619956c-bb07-5a64-aeea-4dcc51895fa0)
Back Cover Text (#ub31b2116-7e18-5a87-889c-2c19275dcccb)
Introduction (#u29c346db-cf74-596f-941e-f00746711cfd)
Author Note (#u788f5470-b392-5b14-8e0a-c9207b194e9c)
Title Page (#u25d811b4-1a2d-5737-98f4-2b6d444471fd)
About the Author (#u9f13bbb0-795d-5717-b639-308426d4ee3c)
Dedication (#ucd1ba25e-b139-5d1a-ab62-f0a557382d29)
Chapter One (#uda1e3e31-cf1e-5aaa-aee4-084959db6405)
Chapter Two (#u0b791dd8-3588-589b-9229-93317b731860)
Chapter Three (#ue57584ff-241a-5935-9a5d-68910709b9da)
Chapter Four (#u1ccd454c-6081-5551-89b2-08d2b582ee79)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#uf0132068-111a-5ef2-9e51-cd734d9e7715)
Etton, near Peterborough, Mercia,
August 1067
Aediva shoved the full weight of her body against the heavy wooden gate, skidding in the mud as she finally dropped the iron locking bar.
Then she turned and ran. Back up the hill, back past the abandoned houses and scattered belongings dropped in the desperate rush to escape, back towards the Thane’s hall that stood, circular-shaped and slightly raised on a mound in the centre.
At the entrance she stopped, windswept hair tumbling over her face like a hazel and honey-flecked veil, glancing fearfully over her shoulder as if expecting to find an arrow aimed at her throat.
How long did they have? How long before the Conquest reached their door?
An hour if they were lucky.
Not long enough.
Then she blinked and the fear was gone, replaced by a steely determination. The Normans might be coming, but she had another, more urgent crisis to deal with first.
Breathless, she charged into the hall, skirting around the still-smoking central fireplace before bursting headlong into the birthing chamber.
‘How is she?’ She dropped, panting, into the straw by the bed. ‘Is the babe any further along?’
Eadgyth, the midwife, shook her grey head sadly. ‘Not yet. She needs to push.’
‘But she’s been pushing for hours!’
Aediva chewed her lip anxiously, still weighing their chances of escape. How could it be taking so long? How much more could Cille’s small body take? Every moment of delay brought the Normans closer towards them. Every moment increased the risk of capture, or worse. But Cille’s baby seemed in no hurry to be born.
‘What can I do?’
‘Nothing. All we can do is wait.’
Wait! Aediva caught her breath, trying to stave off the rising tide of panic, the feeling that her whole world—the Saxon world that she knew—was collapsing around her head. First Leofric, then her father and now Cille. Not to mention Edmund. The last year had brought so much heartache and suffering, surely she couldn’t lose her sister as well?
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the memory of that morning: the dull thud of Cille’s swooning body, the terrible slow spread of blood through the rushes. News of the Norman soldiers’ approach had finally shocked her into labour, albeit not before time. The babe was already dangerously late, but Aediva had thought her older sister still asleep, not listening as she’d ordered their people to pack up and flee east, towards the Fens, one of the last strongholds of Saxon resistance. If it hadn’t been for that shock, they might all have escaped.
‘They’ve gone, then?’ Eadgyth handed her a cup of mead.
‘Aye.’
She took a long draught, listening to the heavy rumble of carts in the distance, wondering if she’d done the right thing. She’d made the decision on Cille’s behalf, just as she’d made every decision since their father’s death that last winter, taking over the day-to-day running of the village while her sister prepared for her confinement. Not that Cille had shown even the slightest interest in her inheritance. Since her unexpected arrival in the spring she’d seemed a mere ghost of her former self, barely talking let alone taking charge.
Which had left her to do it, acting as Thane in deed if not name, doing her best to behave as their father would have wanted. But then he’d never faced a Norman invasion! How could she know what he would have done? Would he have run away or simply refused to leave, like Eadgyth? Or put up a fight, defending Etton to the bitter and bloody end? Her heart suspected the latter, but her head had prevailed. What chance did Saxon farmers have against Norman soldiers?
Her gaze slid towards the leather curtain that separated the birthing chamber from the hall, as if she were expecting a horde of Normans to burst through at any moment. What chance did three women have?
She only hoped she’d done the right thing.
She leaned over and stroked the side of Cille’s face—her face, so like hers that they might have been twins, not sisters born two years apart. Every small feature seemed to mirror her own, from the sharply arched brows to the slightly pointed chin. Only their eyes told them apart. Cille’s a warm forget-me-not blue, soft and gentle as a summer’s sky, and her own a fiery brown with gold flecks flashing like lightning across them.
A tear seeped from the corner of one of those eyes now and she brushed it aside, reaching across to clasp Cille’s trembling hands between her own. The fingers felt damp and clammy, as if she were sweating and shivering at the same time. In mercy’s name, how much more could either of them take?
‘Take care of the baby.’
The voice was faint, but Aediva jumped, afraid that she might have imagined it. But, no, those were Cille’s eyes staring up at her, black orbs ringed with crimson shadows so large they seemed to drain the life from her small, sunken face.
‘Hush.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘You need to save your strength.’
‘Please...’ Cille’s voice was ragged, but the look on her face was deadly serious. ‘Promise me. Take care of my child.’
Aediva caught her breath, hot tears scalding the backs of her eyelids. ‘I promise.’
‘There’s something else.’ Cille heaved herself up on her elbows, ignoring Eadgyth’s grunt of protest. ‘Something I need to tell you.’
‘Later. You need to...’
She left the sentence unfinished as she heard a noise outside—a faint rumble at first, building steadily to a thunderous crescendo. The unmistakable heavy pounding of hooves, and lots of them.
Warhorses!
A jolt of panic tore through her body. She’d thought she could control her emotions, but now that the time had come and all hope of escape was lost all she could feel was the rush of blood in her ears and the terrible, deafening thud of her own heartbeat.
Not yet! The plea echoed in her head. Not before the baby was born! They needed more time!
Cille sank back onto the bed with a gasp, her body convulsing with pain. Had she heard it too?
Aediva exchanged a look with Eadgyth, an unspoken message passing between them, and then reached under the bed and drew out a long iron broadsword. It was almost as tall as she was, and heavy to boot, but it was a formidable weapon. She only hoped she could wield it.
Briefly she glanced down at her dishevelled appearance. She’d barely had time to dress that morning, throwing on a simple homespun tunic that was already mud-stained and tattered. Her hair was even more unkempt, coiling down her back in a mass of tangles. She hadn’t had time to put on a headdress. Not that it mattered. What the Normans thought of her appearance was the very least of her worries.
She dropped a kiss onto Cille’s forehead and pulled back the curtain to the deserted hall. Now that the first rush of panic was over, she knew what she had to do.
She took a deep breath, willing her heart to stop racing. She couldn’t help Cille give birth, but she could keep the Norman invaders away until the baby was born. No matter what, she wouldn’t let them into this chamber.
No matter what. Or who.
* * *
Sir Svend du Danemark ran a hand through pale blond hair and swore fluently under his breath.
‘It looks like they knew we were coming.’
His squire, Renard, had a habit of stating the obvious.
Steel-blue eyes narrowed, taking in every detail of the terrain with the experienced gaze of a professional soldier. The base of the valley was a craggy gorge, split down the middle by a meandering river that carried water from the high hills to the east. There was no sign of habitation, just gorse and a scattering of twisted hawthorns, but as the river curved to the south, the land rose and flattened out into a ledge, revealing the stockade of a small, almost completely hidden settlement. No wonder it had taken so long to find.
Svend swallowed another oath. At this time of year the villagers should have been busy harvesting their crops, but the long strips of farmland were deserted. Instead he could see fresh furrows in the mud, tracks left by horses and carts. If they’d put out a banner the residents couldn’t have made their departure any more obvious.
