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“He was just a boy. Of course I did not kill him, even though—” A sharp knock at the door interrupted him. “Enter!”
’Twas the herald, Gilbert de Bosc, carrying the leather satchel in which Sir Auvrai kept his medicines. Gilbert was no warrior, but a man fluent in the Saxon tongue. Mathieu had never seen him wield a sword in battle and did not know if he would be able to defend himself if necessary. Still, he had his uses, besides functioning as an interpreter. His administrative skills were immense, and he was free to tend the sick and wounded. “Sir Auvrai will be here presently.”
“Tell him not to bother. Lady Aelia will attend me.” Mathieu took the satchel and handed it to her.
“Baron, are you certain—”
“Auvrai has more pressing duties, and the lady has convinced me she is competent.”
It seemed overwarm in the chamber. Aelia pushed open the shutters to let in the evening air before turning once again to face the Norman’s naked chest and rippling muscles. ’Twould not be possible to overpower him. Still, his sword lay nearby, and he’d placed her dagger upon the washstand. If she could—
“If you’re thinking of using the moment to do me some damage, demoiselle,” he warned, taking her blade in hand and stabbing the sharp tip into the wood of the stand, “I urge you to reconsider.”
Aelia bit her lip and pushed up her sleeves. “This will be easier if you lie on the bed.”
He pushed the wooden stool closer to the lamplight and sat down, letting his knees drift apart. “This will do.”
“You expect me to kneel before you?”
“Do what you will, demoiselle,” he said. “But get the sewing done.”
He raised his right arm and rested it upon the washstand, giving Aelia better access to the laceration in his side, as well as a better view of his brawny chest and shoulder. Aelia had no doubt that the visual display was meant to intimidate her.
She glanced at the wound, then at the needle in her hand. The gash needed five stitches to hold it closed.
She knew how to make it ten. There was more than one way to kill a Norman and she would discover it before the evening was out.
Chapter Six
M athieu made a fist with his left hand and pressed his other against his thigh when Aelia pushed the needle through his skin. He concentrated on her mouth while she worked, on those soft, pink lips that had responded so intensely to his kiss.
He’d managed to avoid thinking about it until now, and he knew it would be in his best interests to concentrate on something else.
But she was so close he could see the faint freckles on the bridge of her nose, and the fine line of a tiny scar that fanned out from the corner of her eye. He could feel her warm breath and see the pebbling of her breasts against the soft wool of her tunic.
He sucked in a breath.
“Brace yourself, Norman,” she said, unaware that he’d barely noticed her needlework. She leaned closer, and several loose tendrils of her hair brushed against his chest. “I’m not yet finished.”
Mathieu gritted his teeth. ’Twould be so easy to kiss her again, to draw her to her feet and lead her to the bed, where he would lay her on her back and make her forget he was her enemy.
But he knew ’twas better to concentrate on the needle passing through his skin. Bedding Lady Aelia would be the worst possible course he could take. The situation was already far too complicated.
“Enough, woman!”
He pushed Aelia aside and stood. “I am no altar cloth on which to ply your needle.”
Shouts outside the window caught Mathieu’s attention and he crossed the room to see what the commotion was about. “God’s breath! The grain storehouse is on fire!” ’Twas where the prisoners were held. He threw the tunic over his head, then grabbed his sword. Taking Aelia by the hand, he ran from the room.
“To the storehouse!” he called to the guard as he passed.
“Osric!” Aelia cried as they flew down the steps. “My brother is in that building!”
“And you will be staying here, in the hall, with Sir Gilbert and the wounded men while I get him out.” Mathieu knew she would resist him, but he had no intention of allowing her to join the chaos outside. All his men would be needed to put out the fire and collect the prisoners. There would be no time to deal with whatever trouble Lady Aelia could accomplish.
As he fastened his sword belt, he backed her up to a chair against the wall and watched her fall into it. Her cheeks were flushed with color and each breath seethed with outrage.
“I’m going out there,” she cried. She tried to get up from the chair, but he stood before her, his knees to hers. She tried to push her way free, but Mathieu trapped her in place, leaning over her and placing a hand on each arm of the chair.
He leaned close. “Demoiselle, you will stay here, and give Gilbert no trouble. I will find your brother and assure his safety.”
“No! You can’t leave me here!”
Mathieu straightened and Aelia tried again to slip out of the chair. “Aye, I can.” He pushed her back where he wanted her. “Gilbert! Tie Lady Aelia in place and see that she does not leave the hall.”
A moment later, he clipped down the steps and raced toward the storehouse.
Ingelwald’s hall had never looked like this, Aelia thought as she entered the room.
The huge oaken table that had dominated the large chamber was gone, as were most of the chairs. In their place, ten or twelve injured men lay upon pallets on the floor, moaning or sleeping, as was their wont. Aelia did not take time to notice anything more, but bolted for the door, having easily eluded Sir Gilbert. The hapless Norman came after her, but became distracted when one of the injured men started to retch. She took advantage of the diversion and beat the herald to the door.
Thick smoke filled the yard and choked Aelia the moment she went outside. Undeterred, she headed toward the source of the smoke, the storehouse where Osric and the men of the fyrd were being held. There was already a line of men, women and children passing water-filled buckets toward the stable, which stood beside the grain storehouse, and carrying the emptied ones back to the well. Normans as well as Saxons worked to prevent the fire from spreading, but it seemed to be gaining in strength rather than waning. The heat from the flames was stifling.
’Twas a terrifying sight.
The fire had taken hold of the stable roof, and men were leading horses out to safety. They’d already given up on the storehouse beside it, the place where Osric had been held.
Aelia ran to the front of the water line, where a number of Saxon men lay covered with dirt and ash, coughing and trying to catch their breath. A Norman warrior caught an empty bucket from the roof and handed it back down the line.
“Did everyone get out of the storehouse?”
“Who’s to know?” he replied. “At least some of them got out, but we don’t know if there are any more in there.”
“What about a young boy—a small, red-haired boy?”
The Norman took the next bucket and handed it up to a man on the stable roof. Aelia grabbed his arm. “The boy! Did you see a small boy come out of the storehouse?”
“No. Move aside or help, lady. There is no room here for bystanders.”
Aelia’s heart lodged in her throat. If Osric was still inside the storehouse, he would burn to death.
She heard Fitz Autier shouting orders, and looked up toward the sound of his voice. He had shed his tunic and stood on the stable roof, pouring water from the buckets that were handed up to him.
Aelia ducked away before he could take notice of her, and picked up a discarded rag from the ground. Covering her head and mouth with it, she whispered a silent prayer and ran into the burning storehouse.
She didn’t think she’d ever felt anything hotter than the flames outside. But within the storehouse, ’twas worse. Her throat burned and her eyes watered as she searched the smoke-filled spaces for anyone who might still be inside, but she could see no one. Nor were there any bodies.
“Osric!”
Since ’twas summer’s end, the storehouse was nearly empty, but piles of burning debris obstructed Aelia’s progress through the building. She pressed the rag against her mouth and nose, but soon began to have difficulty catching her breath. A fiery beam cracked and fell in her path, and she tripped.
“Osric!” Her voice was a mere rasp now, and she did not know if he would hear her. She had to move on. If he was still inside the building, he could very well be unconscious.
She heard a groan nearby, and pushed herself up. “Where are you?” she called out.
“Here!” ’Twas not Osric, but an older man called Leof, who had once been a warrior in her father’s fyrd.
Aelia crawled to the man and helped him to a sitting position. “Have you seen Osric?”
“No, my lady.”
Aelia swallowed her frustration and spoke quickly. “You must get out of here!”
“I cannot walk. My leg—it’s broken!”
The fire roared around them. Finding Osric was hopeless now, and Aelia knew she would be lucky to get herself and Leof out of the storehouse.
“I’ll help you up. Lean on me!”
Another beam crashed to the floor nearby, and Aelia knew the roof was likely to fall in at any moment. Somehow, she managed to get Leof to his feet. She pulled his arm ’round her shoulders and held on to him, supporting his weight as he limped back in the direction of the door.
But Aelia could barely see where she was leading him.
“I cannot breathe,” Leof rasped.
“Keep moving!”
Aelia heard a man’s voice call her name, and wondered if it was her imagination. Another crash behind them spurred her on. “Come, Leof—not much farther!”
“Aelia!”
Fitz Autier’s face came into view. He wasted no time, but knelt before Leof and pulled the man into an awkward embrace. When the Norman stood again, Leof lay draped over his shoulder and he was moving away from her. “Let’s go!”
She blinked smoke from her eyes and followed in his wake, grateful for his assistance and trusting that he knew the way out. Yet she despaired Osric’s loss. The building was about to collapse and Aelia knew she could not go back. The heat was unbearable as it was.
And Osric was likely already dead.
Aelia choked on a sob and blindly followed Fitz Autier out of the storehouse. She was torn, desperate for air and cooler temperatures, but horrified by her inability to save her brother. She felt light-headed and ill, struggling for every breath.
“Move, Aelia! I cannot carry both of you!”
Aelia bristled. Fitz Autier would never have to carry her. She hurried alongside him, ducking the falling embers and skirting the debris on the ground.
A wall of flame roared up behind them and Fitz Autier grabbed her hand and pulled her along with him, until they were outside and clear of the building. Aelia fell to the earth, coughing.
She was still trying to catch her breath when the entire storehouse collapsed. Aelia heard shouts and screams of panic all ’round her, but paid them no heed as she coughed and wheezed.
Fitz Autier lowered Leof to the ground and knelt beside Aelia, fighting to catch his own breath. His bare arms gleamed with sweat and his face was covered with soot.
“Of all the witless… What were you thinking, going in there?” he demanded angrily between bursts of coughing.
“Osric! He’s…” The full impact of Aelia’s loss hit her, and she began to weep. She had failed in her duty to Ingelwald, and had been unable to rescue Osric. What happened to her now was of little consequence. If Fitz Autier chose to execute her here and now, ’twould be no less than she deserved.
Mayhap the black ash in her lungs would kill her first.
She pushed herself up off the ground, but her movement was impeded by Fitz Autier’s iron grip on her upper arm. Aelia shook off his hand and rose unsteadily to her feet, turning to gaze upon the site of her brother’s death. Emotion welled in her chest and she whirled away from the charred storehouse amid the shouts of the people all ’round her. Tears blurred her vision, but she managed to see Fitz Autier’s big, blond companion push his way through the crowd, dragging a kicking, screaming boy with one massive hand.
Osric!
“Tell the bastard to turn me loose!” he bellowed as though he were lord and master here. As if he had not just barely escaped with his life.
The blood rushed from Aelia’s head and she remained standing only because someone slipped his arm ’round her waist and supported her from behind. “Osric!” she wheezed.
An expressionless Auvrai d’Evreux held on to Osric as he pulled the boy toward Aelia and dropped him unceremoniously at her feet. “This is the one who torched the storehouse.”
“You lie, Norman. My brother would never—”
Osric jumped to his feet and dashed away from Sir Auvrai’s reach. “I knew they would have to set us free if the building was on fire!” His tone was defiant.
The blood suddenly drained from Aelia’s head. “Osric, no! You could have killed so many…” She tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry. There had to be some additional explanation for Osric’s actions. Surely he had understood the danger of a fire in the center of the village. And now he risked immediate retaliation by their Norman conquerors. “Leof almost died in there.”
“As did your sister, boy,” said Fitz Autier. He kept one hand at her waist as he confronted Osric. “Lock him in again with the other prisoners, Auvrai. The boy’s a menace. He needs to be watched all night.”
“Please let me stay with him!” Aelia cried, relieved once more that Fitz Autier had not seen fit to kill them both.
“And wreak more havoc on this holding? No. He will remain under guard until I order otherwise.”
With little effort Auvrai lifted Osric and tossed him over his shoulder. The knight was impervious to the boy’s kicks and blows as he carried him away from Aelia, who felt suddenly weightless. She would have fallen to the ground had Fitz Autier not held her up.
“But I can see to it that he does no more damage.”
“No, demoiselle. He is no longer your responsibility.”
“He is my brother. I—”
“Enough! Look around you!”
Her people were quiet now, all watching scornfully as Sir Auvrai carried Osric away. They’d heard Osric admit that he’d set fire to the storehouse, putting so many Saxons in danger. He may have intended to get them all free, but had endangered all the buildings in the village. As it was, the storehouse was gone, and the stable had nearly been destroyed.
The Saxons must view Osric as the enemy now—not Fitz Autier, who had risked all to stand on the stable roof, toiling at his own personal risk to douse the flames.
’Twas a horrible end to a dreadful day.
Mathieu was furious. He did not know what made him angrier—knowing that the little Saxon brat had set the fire intentionally, or seeing Aelia run into the burning building.
She might have been killed.
He forced himself to release her. Whatever he’d felt when he’d seen her dash into the storehouse was just a momentary distraction from his purpose here. He needed his prisoners alive and well enough to travel to London. King William expected it.
