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The sounds of their banter filled the air, then faded from her notice as a rush of sensation overwhelmed her.
At the sudden tingle at her nape, she turned so quickly her feet tangled in her skirts. She caught her balance and straightened. The tingle intensified to an icy chill.
Upon the hill across the clearing sat a warrior atop a mighty destrier, silhouetted dark and menacing against the last fiery glow of the setting sun. Both man and mount appeared huge. Before she could do more than gasp, he nudged the horse into motion and descended into their camp.
Four of her guards raced toward him as another grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back toward the fire. “Over here, mistress,” he rasped out. He released her, drawing his sword as they joined the others on the far side of the leaping flames.
Anna craned her neck, peering around the fire and the men who surrounded her to catch another glimpse of the warrior. Why had she felt that strange awareness of him, before she’d known he was there?
The chill of it lingered still.
Suddenly the warrior laughed, jolting her, and halting her men in their tracks. “Think you I’m so foolish as to attack you single-handed?” he asked, his deep voice tinged with mirth. He removed his helm and tucked it beneath his arm. “I mean you no harm. I’ve traveled far. I only wish to share your company—and your fire.”
William, the captain of the guard, stepped forward, shoulders back as if to emphasize the bulk of his barrellike chest. “And who might you be?” he demanded, the sword he grasped in his meaty fist held at the ready.
“Swen Siwardson, a Norseman late of Lord Ian ap Dafydd’s household.”
That set up a murmur of comment. “You serve Prince Llywelyn’s Dragon?” William asked.
Who was this Dragon, Anna wondered, to tinge William’s voice with such awe? She’d never seen him treat anyone—not even the abbot, his own master—with any more than grudging politeness.
Evidently viewing her guard as little threat, Siwardson dismounted and led his horse closer. “Aye. I left his keep at Gwal Draig not a week since.”
She’d expected a hulking brute, but the man who approached with purposeful strides was anything but. Though he towered over her men and his shoulders appeared broad beneath his fur-trimmed cloak, he moved with an easy grace. If only the fire weren’t in her way, she thought, struggling to see around it.
William motioned to the men behind him. “A moment, milord.” They huddled together, their conversation too quiet for Anna to hear, then William left them to join her and the other guards near the fire. “I say we let him stay, mistress,” he said, low-voiced. “Be a good way to hear what’s goin’ on on the other side of the border.”
“If you think it safe,” she said, as William would know this better than she.
He grunted in agreement and returned to Siwardson and the others. “You may join us, milord, so long’s you put aside your sword while you’re in our camp. I’m William de Coucy, captain of the guard. You may give your sword to me, I’ll make certain no harm comes to it.” He nodded toward Anna and the men surrounding her. “And we’ve a lady with us, milord. I trust you’ll treat her polite, if you take my meanin’.”
“Of course. I thank you.” Siwardson bowed in Anna’s direction. Surely he could not see her past the fire? He then hooked his helm onto his saddle and led his mount to the cluster of trees where the other horses were tethered. After he hobbled the massive beast, he returned, unbuckled his sword belt and handed the weapon to William.
After cautioning her to remain where she was, her guards left to join the others. The men talked briefly, then split up, some to unload the pack animals, the rest to finish setting up camp. Perhaps because of Siwardson’s size and presumed strength, William set the warrior to work putting up Anna’s tent.
Anna unclasped her cloak and laid it aside, then settled herself next to the fire to observe Siwardson. He appeared created of shadows, his movements smooth and graceful despite his size, his face a mystery. What kind of man would laugh as he faced eight armed men, alone?
And to venture unarmed into a group of strangers…?
Intrigued, Anna rose and, after noting that her guards were all busy elsewhere, moved toward him. She wanted to see Siwardson’s face, to judge for herself this stranger who had sent a frisson of awareness dancing down her spine.
She wandered closer to where he knelt hammering the last tent peg into the ground, and stopped a few feet away. His hair shone white-blond in the firelight, but with his back to her, she still could not see his face.
“Milord?”
His movements slow, deliberate, he straightened and turned to stare at her. Stifling a gasp, she stared back. Light blond hair fell to his shoulders, curling slightly about his darkly tanned face, and his eyes also pale a blue, they shimmered like ice.
Still holding her fixed with his gaze, he muttered something—a curse, from the sound of it—in a language she did not understand.
Recognition lit his gaze, she’d have sworn, yet she knew they’d never met.
He bowed, releasing her. “Milady. Thank you for allowing me to share your camp.”
Her heart beat so fast, she had to draw a deep breath and force herself to calm before answering. “You are welcome, sir. But ‘tis William who deserves your thanks, not I. ‘Tis not for me to say who joins us or not.”
“Surely the men take their orders from you?”
“Nay, milord, they don’t answer to me. I’m naught more than the baggage they protect and convey from one place to another.” She smiled. “You wouldn’t expect a coffer of plate to venture an opinion, would you?”
Finely chiseled lips curled into a grin, causing a dimple to appear in his right cheek. “Nay, milady.” He stepped closer and, casting aside the stone he’d used as a hammer, took her hand in his. Warmth swept through her fingers and up her arm to envelop her heart as he brought her hand to his lips. “You’re unlike any baggage I’ve ever seen—” he tightened his hold “—and far more lovely.”
Anna snatched her hand free, afraid he’d notice how her pulse pounded so strangely at his touch, his words. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from him so easily. His face, limned in firelight, held her spellbound. His strong, even features fit his size, and his tanned skin provided an enticing contrast to his pale eyes and hair.
And his height…Rarely did she need to look up to meet a man’s gaze, yet the top of her head scarcely reached Siwardson’s broad shoulders.
“If you’re no coffer of plate, milady, what kind of baggage are you?” His grin widening, he stared at her hair, disheveled by her hood. “A bundle of furs, mayhap?” She stood motionless while he brushed the wispy curls away from her face, his fingers lingering against her cheek. He shook his head. “Nay, nothing so coarse. Silk—aye, ‘tis—”
“Sir!” Anna cried, her voice little more than a croak of sound. His rough palm remained cupped about her cheek, evoking a confusing array of thoughts and sensations. ’Twas too much to bear! She took a deep breath and raised her hand to grasp his wrist. “You must not—”
As her fingers closed about his arm, Swen finally paid heed to the strange sensation he felt where they touched—and to the unusual awareness of her he felt inside—and released the woman. She let go of him just as swiftly. “I beg your pardon, milady. I did not intend to abuse your trust.” Lips twisted in a mocking grimace, he stepped away from her. “Please, may we start over?”
She looked uncertain, confused, but she did not run from him, nor did she call for her guards. Perhaps he had not overstepped the bounds of propriety too badly.
As if to calm a frightened animal, he moved slowly and reached for her hand. He clasped it gently within his sword-hardened palm and swept a bow worthy of a French courtier. “I am Swen Siwardson, milady. I am most pleased to meet you. Will you tell me your name?”
She stared at their joined hands for a moment, then looked up to meet his gaze. “I am Anna de Limoges, chief artisan for the Abbey of St. Stephen of Murat.”
Though he heard her speak, the words scarce made an impression upon him, for he was drawn once again to her face—unknown to him, yet as familiar as his own heartbeat. Swen feasted his senses as he sought to remember where he’d seen her before.
’Twas no hardship, for she appeared lovely in the flickering firelight. She was tall for a woman, largeboned and buxom, yet slim enough to entice him to span her waist with his hands. She carried herself with a bold grace, her shoulders thrown back and her head held high. Her unbound hair, streaked blond from pale to dark, swept back from her face and fell in a mass of wild curls to her hips. Her lashes and brows were dark, a fitting frame for her light amber eyes.
He saw dreams there, an otherworldly vision not quite focused on the here and now. Her eyes captured him, drew him into a place he’d never been.
Swen shook his head and forced himself to look away. Nay, he knew he’d never met her, for if he had, there was no way he could ever have forgotten her.
Peering past her, Swen saw William stoop to toss an armful of branches next to the fire. He then approached them with a strong, determined stride at odds with his bulk and grizzled appearance. “Mistress Anna,” William said, his voice as sharp as his gaze. “Is he bother’n you?”
She snatched her hand free, just as Swen released it. “Nay, William.” She took a step back and nearly bumped into the guard.
William reached out and steadied her. “Have a care, mistress.” She glanced over her shoulder when he spoke, and met his scowl with an inquisitive expression.
She shook out her skirts, then turned to Swen and gifted him with a demure smile. “While ‘tis a pleasure to meet you, milord, I’m sure you must be hungry and tired from your journey. I thank you for putting up my tent. ‘Tis far more than we should ask of a guest,” she added with a pointed glance toward William. The guard grunted in response. “Please, rest, take your ease by the fire. We’ll ask no more of you now than the pleasure of your company.”
“To arms!” a voice cried from across the clearing, accompanied by the unmistakable clash of steel.
Swen’s heartbeat quickened at the sound, and he looked up. Men ran from the forest, swords and cudgels at the ready, firelight glinting off their hauberks and helms. He reached for his sword and came up empty-handed just as William sent him an apologetic shrug.
Anna grabbed William by his free arm as he drew his own blade. “His sword, William, where did you put it?”
“There’s no time, lass.” He pulled out of her grasp and, seizing her elbow, tugged her away from the tent.
Swen cast a swift glance about the clearing where William’s men engaged their attackers. He intended to join them in their fight.
“No, William,” Anna said, her sharp whisper attracting Swen’s attention. She jerked away from William and snatched up the rock Swen had used as a hammer. “We must stay with him. Can’t you see he’s unarmed?”
“’Tis my duty to protect you, mistress.” William grabbed for her, but she scampered away, toward Swen.
Did she believe she could protect him with naught but a stone?
Did she believe he needed protection?
Swen shook his head. She’d think differently of Swen Siwardson after this skirmish, he vowed.
“Go with William, milady.” He drew the dagger from its sheath at his waist, then slipped another from his boot. “I need no more than this.” He paused only to see William take hold of her again, then grinning, he leapt into the fray.
Chapter Two (#ulink_4a223634-2a72-5011-9ef0-a77d881b2839)
“Is he mad?” Anna struggled against William’s grip on her upper arm, but she knew he’d not permit her to escape him again. “We must help him. He’ll be killed!”
“Let him go, lass.” William gentled his hold. “There’s naught you can do but keep out of his way and let him fight. Now give me your word you’ll stay out of sight. I cannot do my work if I have to worry that you’re roamin’ about.”
“You have it.” She tightened her grip on the rock and moved back into the shadows on the fringe of the forest. William gave her a stern glare of warning before he raced off into the fray.
She’d not hold William back, but she could not lurk here in the shadows when she might be of assistance to someone. She crept around the clearing, watching as her guards beat back the invaders with a surprising skill. She’d never seen them in action. Indeed, she often wondered why Father Michael bothered to employ a troop to guard her at all, for they’d never before encountered any threat that she was aware of.
She stopped on the opposite side of the clearing from her tent, taking care to remain deep in the shadows. She clutched the stone tight in her fist and wondered if she should seek some other, better weapon. The sounds of battle and the sight spread out before her bore little resemblance to the tales of war she’d heard as a child. There were no noble warriors pitted against each other in formal combat here. The reality she saw before her was noisy, dirty, full of blood and pain; a struggle for life, a fight against death she’d had no idea existed.
And these men fought for what? For her? To protect her from some unknown enemy? Or was this a chance attack by a pack of knaves bent upon robbery and murder?
The lives of eight—nay, nine—men, in return for her safety? Her heart paused, then thundered in her chest. Nay, she would not have it! No matter her vow to William, she could not allow so uneven an exchange.
Her gaze fixed on the chaos before her, Anna gathered up her skirts and tucked her hem into her belt to keep it out of the way. Then, hefting the rock in her hand, she eased toward the fray.
Where could she help? Her men were armed with swords and knives, shields and armor. Swen Siwardson, however, had naught but two knives to aid him.
’Twas a simple decision to seek him out and help, if she could.
She had no trouble finding Siwardson in the swirling mass of weapons and men. He towered over the others, the firelight glinting off. his flaxen hair. He’d tossed aside his fur-trimmed cloak, and fought garbed in a short woolen tunic and leggings. They’d afford him scant protection, compared to his mail-clad opponents.
Praise God, he appeared unharmed.
Anna stopped and stared. He was grinning!
Surely he must be mad.
She crept closer. Siwardson fought with the grace of a dancer, darting about, both blades flashing, urging on his attacker with a laughing taunt even as he moved in to slash his face. He stabbed the smaller knife into the man’s forearm below the short sleeve of his mail tunic. While the man cried out in pain, Siwardson pulled his knife free, stepped closer, and disarmed him. Working quickly, he pinned his foe to the ground, bound his hands with a piece of rope from his belt and dragged him toward the brush alongside the clearing.
She peered past him into the shadows. There were several men, all bound, on the ground near the bushes. Siwardson must be a skilled warrior, indeed, to have overcome so many with such meager weapons.
But now, at least, Siwardson could arm himself properly. His opponent’s sword lay on the ground. He picked it up and moved it aside.
What was he doing? she wondered as he abandoned the weapon and rejoined the waning battle, his knives once again at the ready.
She knew little of a fighter’s ways, ’twas true, but she couldn’t help but believe that Swen Siwardson was a most unusual warrior.
It had grown quieter now, no battle cries, just the sounds of men—far fewer men, she noted with relief—engaged in serious combat. It appeared the tide had turned in her guards’ favor, for more of them remained on their feet than their assailants.
Her assistance wouldn’t be necessary after all. She eased her grip on the rock and stepped back into the shadows, prepared to wait as William had bidden her.
With luck, he would never realize she’d broken her vow. William in a temper was a sight to behold; she’d rather not be on the receiving end of one of his lectures. And William, unlike nearly everyone else who dwelled with them in the small village of Murat, had no qualms about taking her to task.
Intending to return to her tent, she eased farther into the fringe of the camp, her attention still fixed on the clearing. William, Siwardson and her other guards collected weapons and took the surviving invaders captive. They paused to bind serious wounds before they moved the men to the other side of the clearing.
She backed into a tree and smacked the side of her head against a low-hanging branch. The sharp pain jolted her attention away from the clearing—a wise decision in the shrouded darkness. Raising her hand to her temple, she found a tender lump still swelling. She’d best be more careful, lest she look as battle-scarred as the others.
When she felt the tug on her skirts, she thought she’d snagged them on another branch. Her senses swam when she bent to free herself, but the hand that grabbed hers and pulled her down cleared her head in a trice.
Anna tumbled to the ground off balance and landed, gasping, in a heap atop an armor-covered body. She drew in a deep breath, but a hard, foulsmelling hand cut off her attempt to scream.
“None of that, now, demoiselle,” he whispered in a deep, coarse voice. He shifted her about till she slid over his rough mail to sprawl alongside him, the weight of his arm across her middle pinning her to the uneven ground. “Don’t want you hurt. Got my orders. I’m to keep you safe—can’t even sample the wares,” he said with disgust. He pulled her tighter to him for a moment, and the hand against her mouth moved in a rough caress. “’Tis a pity, that—you’re a comely armful. But I need gold more’n I need a wench to tumble.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “That’s God’s truth. And you’re worth naught to me if you’ve been harmed.”
Orders? What could anyone want with her—harmed or not?
She didn’t intend to go along with him to find out.
Despite his avowal that he would leave her alone, his touch made her stomach clench with fear. She had to get away from him, soon. She lay quiet and listened, hoping to hear William or Siwardson—any friendly voice—move closer to this side of the clearing.
But it sounded as though everyone was far away, busy with the aftermath of the attack. Why hadn’t they realized she was missing?
Because she’d been told to stay put, away from the battle, a traitorous little voice taunted.
It seemed she’d have to rescue herself.
Anna took stock of her surroundings. All the activity seemed centered too far away to be of any use, so there was no sense trying to make noise to attract attention. What else could she do?
The darkness enclosed them. Anna could see nothing of her captor’s face, couldn’t judge if she might be able to reason with him. She knew from the feel of him that he was tall and muscular, pressing heavily against her and holding her down with ease. He stank of onions, horses and old sweat, the stench so strong she wished he’d covered her nose instead of her mouth.
She drew a shallow breath and let it out slowly. ‘Twould be a miracle if her heaving stomach didn’t decide to erupt at any moment.
Anna tried to open her mouth to bite him, but his palm pressed too tightly over her lips. She squirmed beneath his hold instead.
“Enough!” he snarled. He slipped his leg over hers and eased his weight atop her, then lifted his arm from her waist.
A wave of loathing gave her the strength to jerk her right arm free. She’d managed to keep hold of the rock she’d carried; she swung with all her might at his head.
The rock connected with his helm with a resounding thump and he jerked back and released her. “Bitch!” he snarled, lunging for her.
“William!” she cried as loud as she could. She scrambled away from him on her hands and knees, tripping herself up on her trailing skirts.
