A Saxon's Love

A SAXON’S LOVE Marilyn Grall

ISBN: 1-891020-90-0 Copyright 2000, Marilyn Grall NNew Concepts Publishing 4729 Humphreys Rd. Lake Park, GA 31636 www.newconceptspublishing.com

OTHER NCP TITLES BY MARILYN GRALL: CONQUEST OF THE HEART IN SEARCH OF AMANDA TAMING THE LION

CHAPTER ONE

Kent, England, 1070

He should have been dead. In fact, for all intents and purposes, he was. Dead and buried in the forest near King’s Vale. But Ranulf of Ravenwood hadn’t died that day three years ago. He’d come damnably close, but the sword thrust taken in a fair fight with Sir Stephen Dubois had not ended his life.

"Whoa, boy," he said, pulling back on the tired horse’s reins. The wagon shuddered to a halt; iron, copper and tin pots clanging their complaint. Ranulf was home. Ravenwood Manor might be in the hands of a Norman, but it was still home to Ranulf, and he’d come back to reclaim his birth right. All he needed was a workable plan. Ranulf’s destination lay just ahead on this mist-enshrouded road -- Ravenwood Village. Adjusting the leather mask hiding his face, Ranulf clucked to the old horse again, setting the tinker’s wagon in motion. He had spent the last many months learning the pot menders’ trade, and now he would put that training to use. What better way to spy on his own home, and devise that plan, than as a lowly worker, a traveling tinker seeking warm shelter for the coming cold months? Ranulf’s eyes narrowed, his emotions torn between guilt and anger. Being this close to Ravenwood brought back more than memories of home. It brought back one particular remembrance -- a memory of searing ecstasy and ravaging rage. Three years ago, in a heedless need for revenge, he had forced a woman to his will at Ravenwood, making her his own on a bloody, hellish night of retribution -- the night he had executed her husband for heinous crimes against his own wife and family. That woman was Brenna de Rouen, the Norman who now held Ravenwood. The mist began lifting as Ranulf reached the village. A wizened old man looked up from his tiny garden patch, and Ranulf took a deep breath. Now it began. If he could fool old Matthieu with his leather mask disguise, then perhaps the first part of his plan would work. He needed all the information he could gather. Spying on Ravenwood -- and learning its weaknesses -- was a very necessary step toward success. Matthieu looked up as the wagon came to a halt. "Are you in need of help, stranger?" he said. Ranulf let out the breath he’d been holding. The old man did not recognize him. "Does this village have a hut I might use for the winter?" he replied, his voice casual. "I am a skilled tinker. Mayhap the manor folk could make good use of my services." Matthieu scratched his chin, covered in bristly gray hair, and Ranulf nearly smiled. ‘Twas a signal the man was thinking, pondering the situation. Ranulf had known Matthieu all his life. The mayor of Ravenwood’s village would never deny shelter to a needy man. "Old Widow Maven just went to her reward," Matthieu finally said. "I expect you could use her cottage. What should we call you?" "Tinker," Ranulf said simply. Matthieu nodded. "Fair enough." He led the way to the widow’s hut. The hut was simple, a one-room structure with a central fire pit and scant furnishings, but Ranulf didn’t care about the lack of luxury. He’d lived in far worse conditions since the Normans had stolen Ravenwood and changed his life forever. He began unpacking the wagon, while Matthieu started a fire to warm the room. "Lady de Rouen has given me some fine herbs for boiling," Matthieu said conversationally. "The brew warms chilled bones and soothes the aches of travel. I’d be glad to share some, if you like." Ranulf turned sharply. Brenna de Rouen -- the Lady of Ravenwood. His fists clenched tightly and anger surged that Matthieu had mentioned her name so easily. The old man should hate her! Brenna de Rouen

was the wife of the man who had slaughtered Ranulf’s family... Calling on all his willpower, Ranulf took a deep breath and reined in his anger, his white-knuckled fists going slack at his sides. As a traveling tinker, he shouldn’t show any reaction at all to the woman’s name. "Aye," he finally answered. "The drink would be most welcome." Matthieu nodded, then headed toward his own cottage, and Ranulf followed him out the door, ducking to avoid the low lintel. Almost involuntarily, his gaze swung to the left. Nothing was there now, naught but a fallow field. But on that night three years ago, that field had held a large tent -- the temporary lodging of Nathan de Rouen. Unexpectedly, tears filled Ranulf’s eyes, and the anger he’d just reined in became a burning, silent rage. He couldn’t help reliving the Norman destruction of his life... King Harold had been killed at Hastings, and Ranulf had been on his way to London to pledge fealty to the conqueror. The battle was over, the Normans had won. More than anything, Ranulf wanted peace for his family. His wife...his daughter...his son. Several of Ravenwood’s men-at-arms had caught up with him. And from that moment on, nothing in Ranulf’s life had been the same. The ghastly tale they told changed everything forever. Nathan de Rouen had attacked Ravenwood, with the blessing of William, the new Norman king. De Rouen had pulled Ranulf’s wife and young daughter into the courtyard, then personally raped and killed them both. As if that wasn’t enough, he’d then executed Ranulf’s son, calmly slicing the boy’s throat from ear to ear while the horrified villagers watched. As a final sacrilege, de Rouen burned the warm, comfortable manor house -- the home of Ranulf’s family for more than one hundred years -- stating he wouldn’t live in the barn of Saxon swine. Ranulf had wanted to gallop back to Ravenwood, to seek righteous vengeance for these hideous crimes. But the men from Ravenwood dissuaded him. What good would it do? Had they escaped the Norman themselves, risking all to warn their master, just to go back and fight a lost cause? The Norman king had given Ravenwood to de Rouen. Nothing, no amount of bloodshed, would change that now. After spending a sleepless night, Ranulf had to agree. A dozen men-at-arms had fled Ravenwood after the massacre, just to warn their master that de Rouen wanted him dead. He couldn’t repay their loyalty by forcing their return to Ravenwood. There was nothing left there for Ranulf in any case. His family was dead, but he still had loyal men whose very survival now depended on him. So he’d become an outlaw, an infamous Saxon rebel, instead. For months, Ranulf and his outlaw band -- which had grown to more than fifty men -- wreaked havoc on the countryside, causing as much trouble as possible for the Norman conquerors. And then one night he’d finally gotten his revenge on Nathan de Rouen. He’d walked into de Rouen’s tent, pulled the man outside, then calmly slit his throat from ear to ear in righteous recompense for the way de Rouen had killed Ranulf’s son. Returning to the tent, he’d pulled de Rouen’s startled young wife into his arms, bluntly telling her she was a widow now, and forcing her to yield -- but not painfully. Nay, even in his fierce bloodlust, Ranulf had found he could not physically harm the girl. Instead, he’d forced her complete surrender, arrogantly deciding that that would be an even worse punishment for having married the monster, Nathan de Rouen. With cynical enjoyment, he’d listened to her whimpers and moans of pleasure during her own ravishment, using her thoroughly in fair retribution for the rape of his own beloved mate. It wasn’t until several hours after the forced mating that guilt had set in, and by then he and his men had been far afield from Ravenwood. Never in Ranulf’s life had he defiled a woman! And

the worst part of all was that the wench had stayed in his mind from that moment on... He wanted her again, and that only caused him anger, and further guilt. She was the hated wife of his hated enemy! Nay, he did not want her! Or so he kept telling himself... Weeks after that fateful night, Ranulf had challenged another Norman, Lord Stephen Dubois, to a fair fight. That was the fight that should have cost him his life, but it hadn’t. And now Ranulf was back at Ravenwood. The burned manor house had long since been replaced by a stone monstrosity, but at its heart, the estate was still the same. It was home. Ranulf would claim his birth right again -- and he would purge his soul of Brenna de Rouen.

The soft, sweet sound of a lyre floated through the dry autumn air. Leaves swirled lazily to the ground from nearly-bare branches, and Brenna de Rouen sighed. She wasn’t sad, not really. ‘Twas just a touch of melancholy. She often felt this way when the glorious colors of autumn turned brown, when cold, dark winter loomed on the horizon. With no one to hold close during those cold winter months, a woman could be chilled to the bone. Brenna shivered, then laughed wryly at her own foolishness. King William would gladly find her a new husband. She was the one who had pleaded for him to wait. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to marry again. It was just that... She stopped, futilely trying to push the thought aside. What was the use of wishing for a man who was dead? Of yearning for the man who had most likely saved her life? His name was Ranulf, and he’d once been the lord of this very manor. That was before his outlaw days...before he’d come back to Ravenwood one fateful night, seeking revenge... Perhaps she wouldn’t have died that night, but surely before very long. Nathan de Rouen, her brutal husband, had lost his male potency since his victory over Ravenwood. Brenna secretly thought that was God’s own punishment for his cruelty, but on that night, as on many others, he had blamed her for the problem, never himself. She couldn’t count how many hours she had spent on her knees, trying to coax his flaccid member to life with her mouth. Or how many times he had beaten her senseless when nothing happened. And then Ranulf of Ravenwood stormed into her life, and the nightmare she’d been living abruptly ended. Of course, they hadn’t known the outlaw was Ranulf, not at first. But as he’d stripped Brenna’s clothing from her body, as he’d forced her to his will on the small sleeping cot, he’d said, "An eye for an eye, my pretty Norman wench, ‘tis only fair." Later, that phrase had made perfect sense. Ranulf had been avenging the rape of his wife. But he’d done something else that night. Ranulf the Outlaw had changed Brenna...forever. No matter that she had been the spoils of battle, mating with him had been the most incredible experience of her young life. The world would call what he’d done rape, but to Brenna, it had been something far different than that. She’d never known a woman could feel that way -- so tight and full she thought she would shatter, and then that shimmering, quivering, glorious sensation of release. Three times. Brenna sighed again, reliving the memories. It had been the very first time she had ever been taken without awful pain, the very first time she had experienced pleasure during the sexual act.

God help her, but she was not sorry her brutal husband had been killed that night. If anything, she was grateful to Ranulf for the execution. And there was something else she was even more grateful for, something else that had changed her life. Ranulf the Outlaw had left Brenna with child that night -- something Nathan de Rouen had been unable to accomplish in five years. At nearly two and twenty years of age, and having thought herself barren, Brenna de Rouen had found herself pregnant. Now, three years later, the delightful imp born of that union was the sunshine of her life. Strumming the lyre, Brenna looked across the low garden wall, toward Ravenwood Village. Her home sat on a rise, and she could see the village quite clearly through the open, but guarded, manor gates. Other than Niel, her son, it was the manor folk that brought joy to her days. She truly loved the people of Ravenwood. Her eyes narrowed in concentration when she noticed a wagon being unloaded at old Widow Maven’s hut. Then, seeing the man’s unique tools, Brenna smiled. "A tinker," she murmured, standing and setting the lyre aside. The man’s leather mask didn’t bother her in the least. Many men wore such things to hide hideous scars. Her cook would be well pleased to hear of the tinker’s arrival. Gathering her skirts and picking up the lyre, Brenna headed for the manor house, intent on sharing the good news. She had no way of knowing that just as she turned to leave the garden, Ranulf looked up and saw her, his eyes narrowing, too. She looked different, he conceded, more mature than she had that night wearing naught but a shift, wide blue eyes startled -- but somehow grateful -- golden hair unbound. Now she looked regal, golden tresses hidden beneath a modest veil, her clothing rich velvet. She looked like the Lady of Ravenwood. Ranulf cursed softly, then reached into the wagon for another parcel. Brenna de Rouen. Against his will, his loins tightened, throbbed. Could he purge the wench from his soul? He smiled grimly. Aye, he could -- by wresting Ravenwood from her dainty hands.

Ranulf was tending the fire in the hut’s central hearth when the creaky door swung open, and old Matthieu came in. Ranulf bowed his head, then abruptly made a decision. He’d proven the leather mask could hide his face well enough, but he needed at least one man at Ravenwood to know his true identity. Turning his back on Matthieu, Ranulf carefully removed the mask, then slowly turned to meet the old mayor’s scrutiny again. Matthieu whitened, his jaw sagging, then dropped to one knee. "‘Tis a miracle!" he whispered, awe struck. "‘Tis my lord Ranulf!" Ranulf pulled Matthieu back to his feet. "Aye, old friend," he admitted, "‘tis I. But, for now, at least outside this hut, I must be known as Tinker, naught more." Matthieu nodded, understanding dawning on his wrinkled face. His voice low, he said, "But you were dead, my lord. How is it that you’re here in the flesh?" "‘Tis a long story," Ranulf replied, gesturing toward one of the stools in the hut, then seating himself on the other. Matthieu’s face was still gray. "Why not brew your herbs while I tell the tale?"

Matthieu nodded, pulling a pouch from his cloak, adding fragrant flakes to the boiling water Ranulf had prepared. "What did you hear about my death?" Ranulf asked. Matthieu stirred the pot, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Just that you had died in fair battle against Lord Stephen of Almswick"--he looked askance at Ranulf--"a battle you had instigated yourself." "Aye," Ranulf agreed. "But when Stephen Dubois thought me dead, I was only unconscious. Before he returned to bury me, I was able to crawl to a nearby cave." "I did hear something about that," Matthieu said. "‘Twas assumed that some of your men had buried you, then escaped the King’s Vale forest. No one had any inkling that you were still alive." Ranulf found two tin cups in his belongings, then poured the hot, fragrant brew. Taking a sip, Matthieu sighed his contentment, and Ranulf hid a smile. Obviously the concoction was a true remedy for the old man’s aches and pains. "I lived in that cave for weeks," Ranulf continued, "with the help of two men who insisted on staying." He sipped his own drink. "The others scattered, avoiding capture, and I sent my two rescuers on their way as quickly as possible." "But surely you’ve not been hiding nearby for three years," Matthieu insisted, sitting up straight and puffing out his chest. "Naught happens in this area that I don’t know about." Ranulf smiled again. "Nay, Matthieu," he admitted. "Once my wounds began healing, I stowed away on a merchantman and ended up in a seaport town in France. ‘Twas there that I learned the trade of tinker," he added, gesturing to the various items around the hut, "as well as the French tongue. A traveling pot mender gave me shelter. He taught me the trade. It was the only thing that kept me sane while I regained my former strength." "And now you will use this training as a disguise while planning how to reclaim Ravenwood?" Matthieu queried. "Aye," Ranulf replied, his face grim. "I will reclaim Ravenwood -- somehow. ‘Tis my birth right." "And what of Lady Brenna?" Matthieu continued. "Once Ravenwood is back in your hands, will you take her to wife?" Ranulf bristled, sitting up very straight. "Nay, old man," he growled softly. "I may take the wench to my bed again, until I tire of her, but marriage? Never." The tin cup clattered to the packed-dirt floor as Matthieu surged to his feet. "Nay, lord, I cannot allow that..." Suddenly remembering himself, he sat again. "I pray you won’t do that, milord," he said, more calmly. "Lady Brenna is a fine woman. She should be no man’s whore." Unbidden guilt assailed him, but Ranulf forced it to the back of his mind. "The lady has already been my whore," he said softly. "Or have you forgotten the night I executed her husband?" "Nay, lord," Matthieu said, his face reddening. "I haven’t forgotten. God knows Nathan de Rouen needed killing -- and mayhap...what you did...was justified, in revenge of your own dear wife -- but you do not really know Lady Brenna. She has been very good to us." "Ha!" Ranulf snarled, standing to pace the floor. This bit of news was wholly unwelcome. He’d far rather

hear that the wench was a tyrant, a demon, a scourge to the manor folk, than that she was a benevolent angel, caring for them all! "She’s pulled the wool over your eyes, old man," he insisted. "Surely the wife of Nathan de Rouen is more devil than saint." "Why?" Matthieu countered, standing himself. "Does a noblewoman have a choice about whom she marries? Who is to say that Lady Brenna held a good opinion of her husband? Please believe me, my lord. She has a good heart." Ranulf hesitated, running a hand through his tawny mane, but finally shaking his head. "Nay, friend," he said quietly. "I will not believe it. She could not have lived with Nathan de Rouen without becoming evil herself." Matthieu stiffened. "In that case, lord, I beg your leave. There is naught more to say." He picked up his pouch, then added, "These herbs are from the lady’s own garden. Think you a sinister wench would care for an old man’s aches?" With that said, Matthieu left the hut, and Ranulf cursed again. He’d savored the taste of revenge for three long years -- and now the taste was turning bitter.

CHAPTER TWO

Brenna smiled, leaning back in her chair. The work was done, and she felt satisfied. The harvest had been plentiful -- the best they’d had in her three years at Ravenwood -- and now every bushel of grain, every fruit and vegetable was accounted for. Keeping account books might be vastly unusual for a woman, but the activity had given purpose to Brenna’s life. Blessed -- or cursed -- with keen intelligence, Brenna had mastered the English tongue even before her husband was killed. After his death, she’d pleaded with her priest to teach her to read and write, both in English and French. The man had done so, shaking his head all the while at the foolishness of women. While Brenna blossomed with the child everyone believed was her husband’s, her mind blossomed with new learning. And by the time the child was born, she had become proficient as a scribe. Of course, being a woman, Brenna had a warden, and the king had chosen a neighboring nobleman for the job, Lord Stephen Dubois. It was Lord Stephen’s task to make sure the account books were correct and that all appropriate taxes reached the king’s coffers, but Lord Stephen could find no fault with Brenna’s bookkeeping. King William himself seemed amused that a woman would prefer running her own domain. The sound of delighted giggles broke through her reverie, and Brenna smiled again. Turning in her chair, she was just in time to catch a small bundle of energy as Niel vaulted into her lap. "I’m sorry, milady," his harried nursemaid cried, placing a hand over her heaving breast. "The little master got away from me again."

"‘Tis all right, Emma," Brenna laughed. "I’m through with my work. This little imp is just what I need." Running a hand through his tousled blond curls, Brenna bent to kiss his head. Finally tired out from his run through the manor house, Niel leaned against her breast, popping a thumb into his cherub mouth. "‘Tis because you took him to your own breast," Emma scolded fondly. "He’s sorely attached to his mam, more so than a noble child should be." Brenna nearly laughed, but caught herself just in time. What would the class-conscious Emma think if she knew Niel’s true sire was an outlaw Saxon rebel? Luckily, no one knew that and never would. Niel had a strange, sickle-shaped mark on his right hip, and his eyes were hazel -- like Ranulf’s -- but other than the tiny mark, his little body was perfect, and his coloring was easily attributable to Brenna’s own. Aye, no one would ever know Niel was not the get of Nathan de Rouen. "I don’t regret nursing him myself, Emma," she finally answered, stroking his hair. He was nearly asleep in her lap. "There’s nothing better in this world than feeling a small mouth tugging on your nipple." "Harrumph," Emma replied, bending to gather the toddler into her ample arms. "If you’ll excuse me for saying so, milady, I can think of far better pleasures than that." Brenna laughed again, relinquishing her child. She knew she should chastise the maid for her disrespectful words, but Brenna encouraged open honesty from the servants and manor folk. She’d discovered the best way to learn their needs was to simply listen to them. ‘Twas a concept no man running a manor seemed to understand. During Brenna’s tenure, crime had become nearly unheard of at Ravenwood. When she was forced to dispense justice, it was almost always over some small squabble -- such as who owned a piglet or who had spilled ale into a bushel of grain. Aye, the folk of Ravenwood were content. Much as she’d heard they had been under Ranulf of Ravenwood.

Ranulf was not content. At the moment, he was pacing the small hut, thinking of Matthieu’s words. How could the old man believe the wife of Nathan de Rouen was good? Then Ranulf looked down at the pot sitting beside the smoldering fire, and frowned. ‘Twas true that the woman had given Matthieu herbs to ease his pain. Ranulf sighed, then began setting up his tinker’s shop. Whether or not Brenna de Rouen was a simple victim of marriage didn’t really matter at this point -- Ranulf still intended wresting Ravenwood from her hands. And his first step toward that goal was having the manor folk believe his disguise. Hours later, Matthieu entered the hut again. "I came to apologize for my rudeness, milord," he said, then shuffled his feet. "I’ll not take back the words, though. ‘Twould be dishonest." Bent over his workbench, Ranulf grunted acceptance. The manor’s brewery master had already given him several large copper pots to mend. He was repairing the handle on one, bringing solder to a molten state to seal a leak on another. "Would you hand me those pincers?" he finally said. Matthieu handed him the tool. "I thought perhaps if I told you more about the lady, you would--" Ranulf’s head shot up. "Nay," he growled, guilt and anger sparring for control. "I don’t want to hear you sing her praises. Mayhap the wench has bewitched you. Mayhap that concoction she feeds you is the Devil’s own brew."

Matthieu’s eyes widened. "Are you truly accusing her of witchcraft, milord?" It would be convenient to do so, Ranulf knew. A convicted witch would be killed -- burned at the stake -- but Ranulf shook his head. He had no intention of killing the girl. "Nay," he admitted. "She’s no witch. But I’ll still not hear you defend her. The wife of Nathan de Rouen cannot be good." "‘Tis guilt by marriage, not deed," Matthieu muttered. Ranulf nodded. "Aye," he finally conceded, then narrowed his eyes, "but would you have me honor her instead, Matthieu? Would you have me put de Rouen’s wife on a pedestal? Have you forgotten what he did to my family?" "Your heart is scarred, milord," Matthieu said sadly. "Seared as if by that molten metal. I’ve not forgotten what happened here three years past, but hatred and revenge do naught but destroy the soul." "Ah, but forged metal is stronger, Matthieu," Ranulf countered, carefully pouring the liquified solder into a fault. "A sword made of iron breaks easily, a sword seared by the blazes of hell does not. There’s much to be said for being hardened and well tested." He raised his head. "For instance, I haven’t been mesmerized by a pretty face." "‘Tis so much more than that," Matthieu persisted. "The lady even keeps her own account ledgers, milord. She’s far, far more than just a pretty face. Her intelligence rivals that of most men." "Ha!" Ranulf barked. "Mayhap she’s a witch, after all. Women don’t keep accounts. You’re mistaken, Matthieu." "Nay, sir, I’ve seen her working on them myself. And I know the numbers, if not the words. Aye, Lord Ranulf, she keeps her own books." Setting the newly-mended pot to one side, Ranulf stood up, pulling off thick leather gauntlets. "Then mayhap she does the task in order to cheat her Norman king," he mused. "Surely Nathan de Rouen’s wench would be good at such treachery." Matthieu shook his gray head. "Nay. The king sends a warden. In fact, the warden is Lord Stephen--" His words halted as the door to the hut creaked open, revealing the lady herself standing on the threshold. Ranulf stood firm, but his heart pounded. He was wearing his leather mask again -- now he would learn if the disguise was adequate. Brenna de Rouen had seen him well enough that night three years ago. His right hand itched for a sword. Would she call the guards? She only smiled, then rapped on the doorframe. "Might I come in?" she asked, and Ranulf frowned. She was the mistress of the manor -- she could enter any hut she liked. Why couldn’t she be rude and haughty, instead of polite? "Come, lady," he growled low, purposely disguising his voice as well. She was holding a large iron flat-pan with a detached wooden handle. "The connection has broken," she said to Matthieu. "I’d noted the tinker’s arrival. Now I’d like to test his talent with Cook’s favorite utensil." She turned to Ranulf. "Would you mind if I stayed and watched?" She smiled impishly. "I promise not to get in the way." Her eyes twinkled with merriment, a dimple formed in her right cheek, and Ranulf cursed under his

breath. She should be a harridan, demanding instant compliance, not this sensual creature with laughing blue eyes and an utterly kissable mouth... Stopping that line of thought, he inclined his head. "Of course, my lady. ‘Twould be my honor to serve you," he said. Brenna’s cheeks heated as the tinker turned away -- a reaction not caused by the white-hot brazier in the room. ‘Twas the tinker himself who’d caused it. Bare-backed, chest leather-clad, he was magnificent, an undeniably powerful male. Sweat glistened on his massive upper arms, droplets easing down the deep cleft of his spine. She shivered. How would it feel to have those brawny arms holding her close, to rake her nails down that strong back, to feel his hips moving... She shook her head, clearing the scandalous thought. ‘Twas one thing to admire a manly form; ‘twas quite another to wish for...much more. "Are you ill, milady?" Matthieu said. "Nay," Brenna answered a little breathlessly, then added, "but I think I shall wait outside, after all, in the fresh air." "There’s no need to wait, lady," she heard the tinker say. "I’ll take the repaired flat-pan to your cook." "My thanks," Brenna murmured, frowning a little, as she left the hut. The tinker hadn’t turned from his work to say those last words. Was he hiding something? She shook her head again. Ridiculous. What would a tinker have to hide? The strangest feeling stirred in her belly, her steps faltering momentarily. ‘Twas almost as if she had just encountered her lover...but of course that was ridiculous, too. She had encountered a workman; her only true lover had been an outlaw. Brenna couldn’t help laughing at that. Married to a high-born Norman for five horrid years, and yet her only claim to love had been a single hour with a rebel. She had no illusions about that hour, either. The rebel hadn’t loved her in return; he’d simply used her for revenge. But the tables had turned. Instead of hurting her, he’d given her a wondrous gift, her heart’s dearest desire -- a child. Ravenwood’s huge gates creaked and moaned as men pushed them closed. Brenna turned, wondering what was amiss, but the gates soon swung open again, the riders’ colors apparently recognized. Stephen Dubois and a small entourage rode into the courtyard, and Brenna smiled at her warden. He was a very tall, very handsome man with raven hair cut short in the soldier’s style. Brenna was well aware that it was Lord Stephen who had thrust a sword into Ranulf the Outlaw’s chest, but she couldn’t hold that against him. The battle was a fight to the death, instigated by Ranulf himself. Lord Stephen had only defended his life. "Good day, my lord," she said, sketching a curtsy. The knight dismounted, "Good day, my lady," he politely replied. "I had not expected you quite so soon." Stephen quirked one brow. "Does that mean your accounting ledgers are not ready for my perusal, madam?" "Nay, sir," Brenna assured him. "The books are in good order, as you will soon find out."

Stephen nodded and offered his arm. Brenna immediately took it, then said, "And how fares my dear friend, Mary, now that her babe has been born?" His smile was genuine. "My wife fares quite well, Lady Brenna, as does little William. Mary says he has the hungriest mouth of all our babes." Brenna chuckled. "‘Tis a good sign, my lord," she said. Standing nearby, Matthieu overheard this exchange, then hurried back to the tinker’s hut. Opening the door and finding Ranulf alone, he said, "Milord, I followed Lady Brenna to make sure she was all right, and..." he hesitated. "And?" Ranulf prompted, still bent over his workbench. Matthieu had no desire to see further bloodshed at Ravenwood. There had been enough three years ago. But he must warn his true lord. "Milord, you must not leave this cottage for several hours. Lord Stephen Dubois has just arrived!" Ranulf turned from his work. "What would Dubois be doing here?" he asked. "Lady Brenna is his ward." Ranulf thought about that for a moment. "Have you told the guards of my arrival?" he finally asked. "Aye," Matthieu answered, hesitant again. "They know we have a new tinker." "Then they’ll not stop me if I wish to pass?" Ranulf continued, holding up Cook’s mended pan. "Nay, they won’t, but milord--" "Lord Stephen’s arrival is the perfect opportunity for me to study the manor house, Matthieu. The woman will be occupied with him." Matthieu nodded, since that made perfect sense. "Be careful, milord," he said. "I will," Ranulf promised, then ducked under the low portal, leaving the hut. Watching him, Matthieu sighed and shook his head, wondering what the future held. ‘Twould be a blessing to have Lord Ranulf returned to power, but what of the lass? Lady Brenna had treated the manor folk very well, yet Ranulf insisted on hating her. Matthieu had to wonder if his lord would feel that way if he knew the lady’s secret...

Ranulf inclined his head respectfully to the manor guards, and they allowed him entry without a qualm. Ranulf smiled grimly. ‘Twas child’s play to gain access to the inner courtyard. That bit of knowledge would serve his plans very well. He approached the kitchens, drawn by the mouth-watering scent of baking bread. Cook was just what he’d expected, a rotund, cheerful woman of indeterminate years. She looked up and smiled as he knocked on the open door. Obviously, his leather mask didn’t bother her at all. Brushing a strand of graying hair off her face, she said, "You must be the new tinker. I see you’ve brought back my pan."

"Aye, Mistress..." "Just ‘Cook,’" she answered, turning to pull the loaf he’d smelled baking from a deep oven. "Would you like a piece of fresh-baked bread? There’s freshly-churned butter, too, and I know milady wouldn’t mind...In fact," she continued, turning again and reaching into a clay pot, "Here’s a coin for the repair work. The pan looks just fine. ‘Tis one of my favorites, you know." Accepting his meager pay, Ranulf couldn’t help smiling. Cook was such a talkative, happy sort. But his smile faded as he realized just how he would use the woman. If he won her trust, undoubtedly Cook would tell him everything she knew about the manor -- knowledge he would use to attain his own goal. Pushing the dishonesty of the act aside, he said, "I’d be very pleased to share your bread." Cook smiled again. One hour later, Ranulf had indeed learned much about the manor, at least about the house that had replaced his family home. ‘Twas built of limestone, around a central great hall, with a large central stairway. For the convenience of servants, there was also a second staircase near the kitchens. Ranulf said his goodbyes, then made his way to that back stairwell. He kept to the shadows, since explaining his presence might not be easy, but he was determined to learn all he could about Brenna de Rouen’s home. The second level held sleeping quarters; the third was probably for high servants. Lower servants would sleep on pallets in the great hall. Ranulf eased down the second floor hallway on quiet feet, looking in room after room of guest chambers. He stopped at the second-to-last door, pushed it open, then blinked in surprise. The chamber was a nursery, evidenced by the small bed and neatly folded children’s clothing. Had Brenna de Rouen been pregnant the night he’d forced her to his will and executed her husband? Guilt stabbed his conscience again. He’d never even thought about such a possibility. What kind of man would rape a pregnant girl? Shaking his head to dismiss the thought, he told himself firmly that it didn’t matter at all. ‘Twas not his business that de Rouen had left his spawn in Brenna’s belly. She -- and her child -- would leave Ravenwood once it was his again. Closing the door, he went to the last doorway in the hall -- and there discovered Brenna de Rouen’s lair. This was an apartment fit for a queen! Or a wench who chose to live like one, doubtless at the expense of Ravenwood’s manor folk. The solar was spacious, smelling of flax oil and beeswax, with priceless tapestries warming the stone walls, a large hearth and expensive furnishings cushioned in rich brocade. Aye, the wench liked her luxury, Ranulf mused grimly. Doubtless, she’d raped the land and raised taxes and rents to finance this voluptuary lifestyle. No matter what old Matthieu thought. He went into the bedchamber then, finding more of the same, including a very large bed draped in the richest velvet. Those bed curtains could be pulled closed for warmth, or to cocoon the owner in her ill-gotten wealth. Turning away from that sybaritic altar, his gaze settled on a chair -- and he frowned. Beside the simple, carved armchair was a small table holding a basket of sewing. Crossing the room, he picked up a small nightshirt, his frown deepening. Why would the pampered wench be sewing clothing for the child? Why not force a servant to the task? Having no answer, Ranulf placed the shirt back in the basket, turning once again to peruse the room. There was a sturdy table along one wall, with another simple chair pushed under it. Fingering the quill, ink and scrolled parchment, he realized the woman was using this as a writing desk. Ranulf smiled wryly. Old Matthieu was right, in this instance, at least. Brenna de Rouen could read and write. With that thought, a frown creased his brow again. De Rouen’s wench was learned, a mother -- a

woman who sewed clothing for the child herself, and who apparently wrote her own letters. Why couldn’ t she be the villainess he’d wanted her to be? Why did she, more and more, seem the innocent victim of marriage instead? An errant breeze removed the question from Ranulf’s mind. Raising his head, he followed the clean scent, and found a balcony. The structure was hidden behind a tapestry, but there was also a thick wooden door, which stood ajar. Carefully, Ranulf eased through that door, once again staying in the shadows. And then he smiled. The wall beside the balcony had enough rough texture for foot and hand holds. ‘ Twould be no harder than climbing a tree. If need be, he had found easy entry to Brenna de Rouen’s bedchamber. And if what he suspected was true, he could gain this chamber with no one knowing, except, of course, Brenna herself. Nathan de Rouen had burned Ranulf’s family home, but the outer wall of Ravenwood remained intact. If the well-hidden postern gate his grandfather had built was still there, Ranulf could come and go at will. His loins tightened at the very thought of lying with Brenna de Rouen again. Aye, mayhap he’d revisit this chamber ere long. Smiling grimly, Ranulf left the ostentatious lair, never suspecting that Brenna’s only contribution to the room was the simple wooden chair that had belonged to her grandmother. Everything else had been Nathan de Rouen’s -- plans and architecture that had been nearly finished at the time of his demise. Descending the servant’s stairs, Ranulf paused, hearing voices from the great hall. "Aye, my lady, I am well pleased," he heard, immediately recognizing Stephen Dubois. "Your bookkeeping is excellent, your accounts in perfect order. The king will be pleased, as well. The crown’s share of profits are considerable this year." "We were blessed with a very good harvest, my lord," Brenna answered. "May I offer you refreshment?" Ranulf moved quietly to the back entrance of the hall, looking inside. Dubois and Brenna de Rouen were seated before the fire, Brenna’s small, graceful hands pouring wine for her guest. Ranulf remembered Stephen Dubois with absolute clarity, remembered the day they had crossed swords in a fight that should have been to the death. Unconsciously, Ranulf’s hand went to the scar on his chest. A healer told him that if the blade had entered one inch to the right, he would have indeed been dead. As it was, by some miracle, Dubois’s sword had missed Ranulf’s vital organs, glancing off a rib. The fight had been fair, Ranulf couldn’t -- and wouldn’t -- deny that. He held no hatred for the Lord of Almswick Manor. Just then, a plump woman entered the hall, obviously a nursemaid, holding a towheaded toddler in her arms. Ranulf’s frown returned on seeing the child, and a huge lump formed in his throat. His own son had looked much the same at that age. Swallowing his raw emotions, he supposed most toddlers looked alike. The maidservant handed the squealing, happy child to Dubois, who bounced the lad on his knee, causing more happy peals of laughter. The lump in Ranulf’s throat doubled in size, and he felt telltale moisture behind his eyes. He wanted to curse his own weakness, but he couldn’t. Stealing to the back door by the kitchens, he left the manor house, no longer needing to hide. Cook called out, holding a kettle in need of repair. Almost automatically, Ranulf took it, promising to return on the morrow. The woman didn’t even ask why he was still there. But Ranulf couldn’t think about the lax protection in Brenna de Rouen’s home. All he could think of at the moment was his murdered family. His son had been just ten years old when Nathan de Rouen slit his throat, his daughter merely thirteen when she’d died at de Rouen’s vile hands. Behind the leather mask,

tears seeped from Ranulf’s eyes; he could no longer hold them back. Brenna de Rouen had a son -- a son! -- and Ranulf had nothing. Nothing but a burning need for revenge.

CHAPTER THREE

Old Matthieu was sick. Two village women came at first light to tell her so, and Brenna gathered her herbs and rushed to his side. Matthieu’s breathing was labored, interspersed with fitful coughs, his forehead burning hot. Fearing lung fever, Brenna immediately set to work. Finding a large pot, she directed a young girl to fill it with water, then set the pot to boiling over the fire pit. Scattering a handful of herbs in the water, Brenna nodded approval as aromatic steam began filling the hut. She made a hot mustard poultice for Matthieu’s chest, then urged him to drink a tonic made from wild cherry bark. Now there was naught left to do but wait, watch and pray, and Brenna did just that, holding his hand and soothing his fevered forehead with a moist cloth.

Ranulf exited his hut with yet another repaired implement for Cook. He couldn’t help smiling. The woman had found more than a dozen items needing repair over the last two weeks. More than anything else, Ranulf suspected she wanted someone to talk to, and he certainly didn’t object to that. He had learned more of Brenna de Rouen’s running of this manor during those conversations than he might have on his own in far more than a fortnight -- and he’d gained a grudging respect for Brenna’s obvious intelligence. The fact that Cook was utterly devoted to her mistress was something Ranulf could not understand, since Cook’s mother was Saxon by birth, although her father was French. As with Matthieu, her Saxon heritage didn’t seem to matter in this case. She was completely loyal to the Lady of Ravenwood. He was headed toward the manor gates, and the kitchens, when a group of villagers caught his attention. One was a woman known for her ability to exaggerate. Wringing her hands in vexation, she claimed that Matthieu had been stricken with lung fever. Surely, he wouldn’t last through the day. Another villager immediately scoffed at that, saying the Good Lord wouldn’t take Matthieu to his rest just yet. He was suffering naught more than a mild ague, and he was in the skilled hands of... Ranulf didn’t hear the rest. He’d already heard what he’d needed -- his old friend was already being cared for -- and Ranulf knew next to nothing about the healing arts. ‘Twas better to keep his distance from the villagers, in any case, since most of the manor folk had known him before his supposed death. They weren’t likely to recognize a man they thought long buried, especially with his mask disguise, but the less time he spent with them the better. Ranulf strode toward the kitchen instead. His stomach growled in appreciation as he caught the scent of roasting meat. Entering the warm, welcoming chamber, he found a young boy turning a spit at the hearth. Sizzles of fat dropped from the venison haunch onto fiery coals as the meat was turned, then turned again, in a never-ending cycle. At

Ranulf’s approach, the boy looked up and smiled, obviously proud of his important job. Ranulf returned the boy’s gap-toothed smile, then simply set the repaired pot on a work table, as Cook was not in the room. Taking the opportunity, he quickly left the kitchen again, heading for the main part of the house. No one stopped him as he crossed the great hall, which didn’t surprise him overmuch. Even the household servants had gathered outside Matthieu’s hut, awaiting word of their beloved elder’s health. There were several rooms on this first floor of the manor house, but Ranulf was only interested in one; the manor’s accounting chamber. Finding the room was no problem, and as Ranulf had suspected, there were shelves filled with neatly stored parchment scrolls and leather-bound ledgers, each carefully dated. He found what he wanted easily enough -- the original writ from King William, sanctioning Nathan de Rouen’s attack on Ravenwood. Grateful that he’d learned the French language while recovering from his wound, Ranulf perused the document, then grunted with satisfaction. The writ had not given de Rouen permission to slaughter Ranulf’s family. Thinking that bit of information might become useful, Ranulf tucked the document in his tunic, then quickly left the chamber. Cook had returned to the kitchen by the time Ranulf entered it again. She smiled, looking up from her task of pouring steaming liquid into a jar. "Would you take this to Matthieu, Tinker?" she asked, putting a lid on the crockery pot. "‘Tis venison broth. ‘Twill help ease the tightness in his chest." "Is he better?" Ranulf asked, nodding and accepting the pot from Cook’s work-roughened hands. "Aye," she affirmed. "He’s sleeping peacefully now." Ranulf was more than glad to hear it. Matthieu had been the mayor of Ravenwood Village for nigh on thirty years. ‘Twould be a sad day for all when the elder finally died. He made his way to the old man’s hut, then quietly opened the door, expecting to find a village goodwife attending his friend. He found Brenna de Rouen instead. Taken aback, Ranulf sucked in a breath. He surely hadn’t thought she would stoop to caring for a commoner -- mayor of the village or not. Once again, his opinion of the woman shifted, his hatred of her dead husband losing ground to admiration for the lady herself. She hadn’t noticed his presence yet. Ranulf took the opportunity, quietly studying her as she sat at Matthieu’s side. She was tired. Even from where he stood, Ranulf could sense it. Tired...but still incredibly beautiful. There was no denying that. Her waist-length golden braid was a little disheveled, a few errant wisps of hair caressing her face. In profile, her lips looked full, ripe...enticing. She chose that moment to open her mouth, her small pink tongue slipping out to moisten the upper lip, and Ranulf felt himself go instantly, painfully hard. Iron hard. He’d plundered that ripe pink mouth three years ago. He’d sucked that lower lip, nipped at the upper, then penetrated her moist, silky depths. He’d sucked and licked her helplessly erect nipples, then tongued her most intimate place, until her hips writhed in ecstasy and she begged for ravishment. Aye, she’d begged...he’d intended her to do just that. And he’d taken her then and used her for revenge. Revenge. Ranulf winced. He didn’t want revenge against her now, he suddenly realized. How could he want revenge against a woman so clearly devoted to the people of Ravenwood? Just as she realized he was there, and turned to face him, Ranulf came to another realization. Matthieu was right. Brenna de Rouen did not deserve his hatred. She had been nothing more than the unwilling chattel of a brutal man. His heart lightened at the thought, then darkened again. Even so, he would wrest

Ravenwood from her delicate, gentle hands. Ravenwood must be returned to his family. Nothing could change that fact. "Tinker," she said a little breathlessly, pulling Ranulf from his thoughts. "What have you there?" Ranulf looked down at his large, scarred hands, then back up again. "‘Tis venison broth," he admitted, swallowing as she licked her upper lip again. "Cook said it would help Matthieu." "My thanks," Brenna replied, rising and taking the pot, setting it down on a small wooden table. "He’s sleeping now, but I’ll..." Her overgown was apple green, Ranulf noted, the underdress nearly white. And her generous breasts were clearly delineated beneath the snug bodice, secured with crisscross lacings. Her waist was so tiny, her hips provocatively flared. He swallowed again. Almost unwillingly, he stepped toward her. Brenna’s head was swimming, and her breath caught in her throat. She wanted to kiss this man, wanted it more than anything since... Impossible! she told herself. She shouldn’t be wanting this tinker, anymore than she should have accepted ravishment by an outlaw. And yet... He raised her chin, then lowered his head with only the tiniest hesitation. His breath warm and moist, he whispered something guttural, then claimed her mouth with his own. The kiss was devastating...and heartrending. His tongue parted her lips, entering her mouth forcefully yet gently, letting her know who was in charge but never causing her pain. ‘Twas so much like...No! No! She couldn’t think that way! Surely she’d go insane if she kept comparing Tinker to Ranulf the Outlaw -the father of her child. One hand kneaded her breasts, the other pulled her hips to him. She felt the proof of his lust, and her own arousal quickly matched his. Nothing had ever felt as good as this, except that one night, three years ago. Reality intruded as Matthieu coughed harshly. Brenna broke the contact, pushing herself back from the tinker’s hard chest. Dear Lord, what had she done? Kissing this man...thinking about the other... His strong hands were on her shoulders, and they tightened. "I’ll not apologize for kissing you," he said. Brenna shook her head. "Nor should you," she murmured, blushing, deeply embarrassed by her wanton actions. Without thinking, she continued, saying, "‘Tis just that you suddenly reminded me of--" A hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening in shock. What had she nearly admitted? She felt his hands tighten even more. "I remind you of who, woman?" he growled low. "Your dead husband?" She felt his anger and quickly shook her head again. "Nay, nay, not Nathan. You remind me of..." she turned away before finishing, and he let her go. "When we...kissed, you reminded me of a man I once knew." "A man you once knew," he murmured. She turned back to face him. "Aye, a man I once knew, but for only a single hour." Tears suddenly filled her eyes. "Now, please, no more questions!" And she fled the room.

"She loves you." The hoarse words came from Matthieu, and Ranulf quickly turned toward his friend. "I see you’re awake," he said. Matthieu coughed again, then said, "The lass loves you, milord. I saw it in her kiss, and heard it in her voice." Ranulf helped him sit up, then gave him a sip of water. "Nay, old man," he said, frowning. "Brenna de Rouen could never love the man who used her for revenge. You’re wrong." But he remembered that kiss, and her tear-filled eyes... "Nay, surely you’re wrong," he insisted, but the words sounded forced. He paced the room, pushing a hand through his hair, finally stopping before Matthieu’s bed again. "How could she love me? I raped her, Matthieu..." "It may have something to do with her son," Matthieu quietly replied. "Her son?" Matthieu nodded, obviously coming to a decision. "Niel..." he began, then took a deep breath. "Niel is yours, my lord, your natural son. I’m sure of it." Ranulf stood stock still, feeling the blood drain from his face. "Niel is...my son?" he whispered. Then, "How can you be sure?" "The birth mark," Matthieu answered. "I’ve seen the mark of your family on his right hip." Ranulf abruptly sat down. The sickle-shaped birth mark every male child had borne in his family for hundreds of years! He hadn’t thought of it in a long, long time...not since his own son’s birth. Was Niel really his...another son of his loins? If true, the implications were astounding. Brenna had been the spoils of war, his act of revenge against her executed husband. Dear God, he had raped the woman...and she had borne him a son? Guilt like he’ d never known before rushed through his mind. And another thought occurred to him: If Niel was his natural son, then Ravenwood was already back in his family’s hands. His work here was done. "What will you do, my lord?" Matthieu asked. "I don’t know," Ranulf finally answered. "There is much here I much think upon."

She’d smelled of honeysuckle, Ranulf remembered several days later, as he watched Brenna in the leaf-strewn garden. Her hair had smelled of rich, pungent honeysuckle as he’d kissed her. It was loose today, tumbling in golden disarray down to her waist. He’d pushed his hands through that hair once three years ago, holding her prisoner for his ravishing mouth. Memories of that night were almost as clear as thoughts of the heated kiss they’d shared only days before....He didn’t know anymore if what he felt was guilt, regret, or longing. Ranulf’s thoughts stilled as the garden gate opened, revealing the nursemaid bringing young Niel to his

mother. This was what he’d been waiting for, what he’d hoped to find. He’d learned Brenna’s habits. Near noon each day, she came to this autumnal garden, seeking quiet solace and peace. Sometimes she played her lyre, sometimes she sang in a quiet, sweet voice...and sometimes she played with her son. Niel. Was the boy really Ranulf’s own? There was only one way to find out. Somehow, he had to assure himself of the child’s parentage. Matthieu was certain, but Ranulf needed proof of his own. As he’d supposed, the postern gate his grandfather had built into Ravenwood’s outer wall was still there -- and still well hidden. He’d had no problem at all gaining entrance to this place. Now, he wished he’d come straight through the gates. He wanted to come out from his hiding place behind a still-green hedge, wanted to hold the child and look for his family’s familiar birthmark. Brenna was gentle with the child, and kind, Ranulf noticed. And she laughed with the unmitigated joy of one who loves with her entire heart. He felt a lump in his throat. He had misjudged her before, but no longer. She was a wonderful mother to the boy. "Who’s there?" The words held only the tiniest bit of fear, but Ranulf cursed silently. In his outlaw days, none would have ever discovered him. He must be far more careful in the future... But for now, "‘Tis I, milady. Tinker," he said, stepping out from the hedge. "I didn’t know you would be here, and I was--" "There’s no need to apologize, Tinker," Brenna quickly replied. "Would you like to meet my son?" Ranulf nodded. He’d heard the slight breathlessness in her voice. She was vulnerable, he knew. The kiss had affected her as much -- if not more -- than it had him. He should leave, avoid being close to her, but he had to see the boy. "He’s a fine lad," he murmured, sitting on his haunches before the garden bench. He placed a large, callused palm upon the toddlers head, carefully patting the golden curls. "I understand his name is Niel." "Aye," Brenna agreed, smiling so sweetly Ranulf swallowed hard again. "This is Niel, who just loves getting into mischief, don’t you, my love?" The boy smiled, too, nodded vigorously, then broke into a fit of helpless giggles. Ranulf couldn’t help smiling himself. Niel was a happy, well-cared-for child. Just then, the boy wriggled off Brenna’s lap and began running across the garden, giggling delightedly all the way. "He is perfect, milady," Ranulf said. "Simply perfect...so happy and healthy. You must feel truly blessed." "I do," Brenna replied. "So many things can happen when a child comes into this world, but save for one tiny mark on his hip, Niel is perfect, just as you said. God has indeed blessed me in my son." Ranulf’s heart pounded in his chest, and sweat gathered behind his leather mask. "A small mark, you say?" he asked, his voice deceptively quiet for one whose world might be about to change. "‘Tis the mark of an angel’s kiss, no doubt." "No doubt," Brenna laughed. "But the mark is sickle-shaped. ‘Tis a rather odd form for an angel’s kiss,

don’t you think? I would think an angel’s sweet kiss would be something gentler, a rose perhaps...Are you all right?" Nay, but he couldn’t tell her that. It was true! Neil was his natural son! "Aye, milady," he whispered. "‘ Tis nothing, just a twinge from an old wound." That was true enough. The wound was to his soul. A night of revenge had changed this woman’s life forever, as it had his own. He needed to leave, needed to seek his hut...needed time to think again. Mayhap ‘twas truly time he left Ravenwood. Niel would inherit the manor -- Ranulf knew now that he could never take it from Brenna. He owed her that much, at least...and he owed his son everything.

CHAPTER FOUR

Stephen Dubois would never question his king, but he did not like the burden that had been placed on his shoulders. Shifting in the saddle to glance at the man riding beside him on this cold December day, he couldn’t help shaking his head. The man’s name was Brutus de Roches, and the name -- so similar to brute -- suited him perfectly. How could King William will this obvious lout on such a sweet woman, Brenna de Rouen. The missive had arrived at Stephen’s home, Almswick, a sennight ago, sealed by the king’s own ring. Having no choice, Stephen was escorting de Roches to Ravenwood, where he would inform Lady Brenna that she was to become the man’s wife. ‘Twas a distasteful thought. The brute stood close to Stephen’s own height of six-and-a-half feet, but he must have outweighed him by at least two stone. Each of his arms was like a small tree trunk, and the massive girth of his chest and waist reminded Stephen of a great brown bear he’d once seen in a village fair. But whereas that animal had once been a proud warrior, before being tamed for the amusement of crowds, this brute reminded Stephen far more of a poisonous snake -- conniving, vicious and possibly deadly if crossed, though Stephen had to admit Brutus’s bulk would be good to have at your back in battle. If you could trust him. Apparently King William trusted the man. Brutus de Roches had been a valued weapon for quashing rebellion during those first crucial months after the Battle of Hastings. Brutus’s squire was the exact opposite of his master. The younger man was bone-thin, short and gaunt, but he’d proved surprisingly strong when handling the huge Norman lord’s equally huge destrier. Something in his eyes bothered Stephen, though. A look of stealth, dishonesty, as if he were always on the lookout for his next victim, or his lord’s next victim, whichever the case. "Are we nearly there, Dubois?" The bellowed words pulled Stephen from his thoughts. Turning again to face de Roches, he said, "Aye, my lord, we are nearly to Ravenwood." "Hummph," Brutus grunted. "‘Tis the Devil’s own weather for traveling. The wench best be worth the trouble. Is she comely, at least?" He was right about the weather, Stephen conceded. ‘Twas nearly Christmas, and the air was cold

enough to freeze de Roches’ spittle in his thick, dark beard. "Is Lady Brenna comely?" Stephen replied. "Aye, you’ll find her fair, and lovely enough to look upon." Stephen’s own lovely wife, Mary, had nearly choked after hearing the king’s decision. She and Lady Brenna had become close friends over the years since he’d come to Almswick -- also at King William’s behest -- and Mary knew better than anyone that Brenna de Rouen was in no hurry to wed. Mary had been in no hurry to wed, either, Stephen remembered, at least she’d been in no hurry to marry him, but she’d had no choice in the matter -- just as Brenna de Rouen would have no choice. She must obey the king. He and Mary had made their peace, and were very happy together now, but somehow he didn’t think that would be the case for Brutus de Roches and Lady Brenna. Mayhap it was because he’d heard so much about the lady’s first husband, Nathan de Rouen. What twist of fate was handing her another beast of a man as lord and master? After a day in the man’s company, beast was a generous term... "Tell me of the son, then," Brutus continued, interrupting Stephen’s thoughts again. "What was his name?" "Niel," Stephen answered, reluctantly. His gut tightened by instinct, a feeling that had saved his life more than once, and one he never failed to heed. "Aye, Niel," Brutus went on, looking into the distance as if deep in thought. Slowly turning back to Stephen, he added, "Is the child hardy and whole...or is he a weak thing, needing constant care and coddling?" Stephen swallowed hard. Now he knew what had been clawing at his gut. Only a fool would fail to read de Roches’ intention, and seeing the way the gaunt squire was smiling only confirmed Stephen’s morbid suspicions. Brutus de Roches held no love for his soon-to-be stepchild. A child who was already destined by birth to inherit Ravenwood. De Roches would live there, and be it’s master in guardianship, but his own son -- if one were born of the union -- would never own the manor. Unless, of course, Niel conveniently died. "He’s a fine young boy, fit and strong," Stephen relayed, stalling for time. Surely the king had no idea of this man’s true nature! But what could Stephen do now? They were nearly to Ravenwood. He decided then and there to take up residence at Ravenwood for the next several days, mayhap even until well after Christmas, since Niel -- and even Lady Brenna herself -- might need protection from de Roches, and his squire. The timing of the marriage had been left to Stephen’s discretion, as warden to the lady. In good conscience, Stephen could not give her into this man’s keeping, not without first sending a missive of his own to the king. De Roches would not harm a single hair on Niel de Rouen’s head! Stephen would make sure of it.

"Open the gates! ‘Tis my lord Stephen!" The watch-guard’s words were immediately obeyed, Ravenwood’s gates opening quietly on newly-oiled hinges. The captain-of-the-guard came out to greet Stephen. "Well come, my lord!" Robbie O’Meadhra bellowed, frosty-white air blowing out with his words. "Have you and your companion come to feast with us?" "Aye, my friend," Stephen replied, "And I bring a...message from the king, as well."

The captain’s bushy eyebrows beetled together at the tone of Stephen’s voice, his large, drooping mustache shifting as he frowned. "Fine, fine," he replied, his voice cautious, obviously realizing Stephen was not happy with the situation. "Let’s get you to the manor house, my lords, were mulled wine will ease this beastly cold from yer bones." Stephen reached across the space between their horses, and thumped the captain on the back, in a show of camaraderie. "My thanks, Robbie, we’ll do just that," he said, then, leaning forward, quickly added sotto voce, "I will be sending my squire, Owain, out again sometime tonight, Robbie. I would like his leave taking to be quiet. Seek me out after vespers, and I will give you a missive Owain is to take with him." Robbie nodded. "Aye, my lord," he quietly consented. "I’ll see the task carried out, and the lad on his way again -- safely and quietly." Stephen inclined his head, knowing the captain-of-the guard would act with complete discretion. Brutus de Roches or his squire had no need to know of Stephen’s message to the king. Robbie led the group into the courtyard, calling for a stable lad to take charge of the mounts. "Give him an extra ration, will you, my boy?" Stephen asked the lad, dismounting and patting his dark destrier’s sweaty neck. "He’s traveled long and hard this day." Entering the house, Stephen pushed back his chain mail hood, striding with brisk intention toward the great hall, de Roches following close behind. "Good day, my lord," Brenna said, greeting him as he reached the warm, cheerful hall. The scents of pine needles and sweet candles filled the room. Preparations were well under way for the festive holiday. "Good day, my lady," he returned, wishing there were another reason for this visit. "This is a pleasant surprise," Brenna continued. "I had not expected you to share our Christmas feast, Lord Stephen. Is Mary with you?" She looked beyond his shoulder then, her pretty mouth curved in an expectant smile. Stephen realized the moment Brenna saw Brutus de Roches. She stepped back a little, the smile fading. A shudder ran through her slender frame, before good manners overcame her trepidation, and she said, "I see you have brought another unexpected guest, my lord Stephen." Squaring her shoulders, she walked forward. "Welcome to Ravenwood, my lord." She dropped into a respectful curtsy. Brutus grunted, pulling her back to her feet. "Is this the wench, then, Dubois?" he growled, looking her over from head to toe, his leer missing nothing. "If so, she’s a pretty eyeful." His lurid gaze fastened on her ample breasts. "Aye, a pretty eyeful. She’ll do." Stephen stepped between them, turning to Brenna. "I’m sorry, Lady Brenna, but Mary is not with me. I am here at the king’s behest..." He paused, hating this duty. "The king?" Brenna repeated, swallowing. "What business could the king have with me? I know he was pleased with his profits..." Her voice trailed off, as his had, and Stephen knew then that she already understood the reason for his visit. He watched her face lose all color, and she slowly shook her head. Having no other option, Stephen pressed on. "My lady, I am here to introduce you to Lord Brutus de Roches -- the man King William has chosen to be your husband."

Stephen admired her courage. Knowing as much as he that she had no choice in the matter, Brenna curtsied again, deeply. "Your servant, my lord de Roches," she said, her voice quiet. But Stephen didn’t miss the tears in her eyes before she lowered her gaze. He couldn’t let this go on unchecked. This time it was he who pulled Brenna to her feet. "Nay, Lady Brenna," Stephen said. "You are not his servant until after the betrothal...and the date for that event has been left up to me." He looked around the great hall of Ravenwood, taking in the quiet activities of efficient servants. "‘Tis Christmastide," he said, looking back to her. "Let us celebrate the season. We will discuss the betrothal after Twelfth Night." Brenna nearly fainted with relief. Brutus grunted with disdain.

Later that night, Robbie found Stephen in Lady Brenna’s accounting chamber. Stephen looked up sharply, then smiled. Turning his attention back to the missive he’d just finished, he rolled the parchment, applied melted wax, then sealed the scroll with his signet ring. "The lad’s ready, my lord," Robbie said. "He’s already outside the gates, awaiting yer orders." "You’re a good man, Robbie," Stephen answered, standing and handing the scroll to the burly Irishman. "I know you’re curious about what’s troubling me--" "Nay, sir," Robbie insisted. "No explaining is necessary. I know you have my lady’s welfare uppermost in yer mind. ‘Tis good enough for me." "Have a seat, Robbie," Stephen continued. "I may need further help from you before long. ‘Tis best you hear my suspicions." After the conversation, Robbie left the chamber, new determination in his heavy stride. By the rood, he would protect Master Niel, with his own life if need be! He reached Lord Stephen’s squire in little time. "Here’s the missive, lad," he said. "Ride fast and hard. ‘ Tis important the king sees what yer lord has to say." Young Owain nodded, mounted, and galloped into the quiet night. Blackness engulfed him almost immediately, and Robbie O’Meadhra nodded. Lord Stephen’s missive would reach the king late this very night. He would have Cook save Owain some treats from the morrow’s Christmas feast.

The servant nearly stumbled under the heavy weight, righting himself with a grimace. Ranulf winced in sympathy. The silver platter bearing a perfectly roasted boar piglet probably weighed nearly three stone. Following that servant came an entire, full-grown boar, complete with shiny apple in it’s wide-open mouth, but this succulent addition to the feast was borne by two serving men, each carrying two handles of a special litter meant for just this task. Ranulf’s mouth watered. Christmas at Ravenwood was quite an event. Ranulf was seated at a low table, well below the salt, as befitted his station as Tinker, but he could see

the lord’s dais easily enough -- and his teeth clenched. In the weeks since discovering that Niel was indeed his natural son, he’d wished nothing but good for the boy’s mother. But why had the Norman king chosen such a brute for her intended husband? Ranulf had no love for King William, but Brenna had surely never caused him any displeasure. As far as he could tell, this Brutus de Roches had no fortune to bring to Ravenwood and no powerful family. He must have done something to earn the king’s favor, but Ranulf couldn’t imagine what. The man seemed lacking in honor, and civility must be a word he’d never heard. Even now, with minstrels strolling about the hall playing flute and lyre, and manor folk of all ranks waiting politely to be served, Brutus de Roches was already eating noisily, grease dripping from his mouth, staining his grizzly beard. He’d forced a serving wench to fill his trencher and pour his ale long before Father Peter’s droning prayer officially started the feast. Ranulf’s eyes narrowed. Hidden behind his leather mask, he watched now as Stephen Dubois cut succulent morsels from a proffered platter, then put them on Brenna’s trencher, smiling and talking with her as he did so. Ranulf wasn’t sure who he hated more at that moment -- the brute who would wed the fair lady, or the man who was enjoying her company right now. He knew he was being unreasonable. Matthieu was seated beside him -- even though the mayor of Ravenwood’s village could have chosen a higher seat. Turning to him, Ranulf said low, "At least Dubois will protect her from the swine." Matthieu chuckled. "From which swine, my lo-- Tinker?" he asked, correcting himself. "The swine she will be eating, or the swine who’s now swilling down ale?" Ranulf couldn’t help chuckling, too. The manor folk were in a holiday mood, reveling in the feast, not wishing to think of the morrow. But Matthieu held no better opinion of Brutus de Roches than Ranulf did. He would have no choice in accepting the man as lord, of course, but he didn’t have to like it. Just then, Brutus belched loudly, then reached for Brenna. Before her warden could intervene, he’d hauled her onto his lap and begun ravaging her mouth. Ranulf sprang to his feet, a vile curse on the tip of his tongue -- but Matthieu used all his strength to pull him back down. "Are you mad?" Matthieu whispered hoarsely. "If you interfere, don’t you think Lord Stephen will wonder why? I thought you’d decided to remain at Ravenwood for a time to keep a protective eye on your son. How can you protect him if you’re hung?" Ranulf nodded, accepting Matthieu’s wisdom, but, beyond all reason, he felt as if he were witnessing his own woman’s defilement. Brenna wasn’t his woman, of course; she never had been. She’d been naught more than a means to revenge for a single hour three years ago. But she was the mother of his child... By God he couldn’t watch this. "I need some air," he growled low, moving Matthieu’s hand off his arm, then noting his troubled frown. "Don’t worry, old friend, I won’t slay de Roches." He smiled darkly. "At least not today." With that, he took his leave of the merrymaking, seeking the blessedly cold air of the courtyard. But Matthieu was right...someone else had noticed the momentary event. Stephen looked up just as Ranulf stood abruptly, obviously enraged by de Roches’ behavior. He’d already disengaged the drunken lord from his intended bride, but something bothered Stephen even as he calmed Lady Brenna and chastened de Roches.

Why should the tinker care?

CHAPTER FIVE

Ranulf paced back and forth, pushing a hand through his hair and cursing under his breath. "‘Tis a cold night to be out, Tinker." Ranulf whirled around at the familiar voice. Stephen Dubois was leaning negligently against a wall. "Aye, my lord," he answered, lowering his gaze, "but I needed air. Mayhap I’ve imbibed too much ale..." "You don’t look drunk to me," Stephen quietly rejoined. "Shall we try the truth? Why you were so bothered by Lord Brutus’s behavior?" Unable to stop himself, Ranulf spat on the ground. "Lord Brutus is a pig," he snarled. "The lady deserves better. ‘Twas naught more than that." "Come now," Stephen persisted. "Do you really want me to believe that? Mayhap you’ve designs on the woman yourself. I have no doubt that some lady, somewhere, has called you to her bed." He stiffened, and his voice became flat. "However true that may be, you will not be visiting Lady Brenna’s bed...not if you intend to keep your head." Ranulf nearly laughed. If Dubois only knew! At least the man was willing to protect Brenna. In that, they were of the same accord. Stephen frowned. "Your voice sounds familiar, Tinker, and yet I know we’d never met before you came to Ravenwood." He paused, thinking, then said, "And you speak quite well for a workman..." Ranulf cursed again. He needed to get away from this man. "Mayhap we should return to the feast, sir. Cook has been working for days. I’d hate to disappoint her..." Stephen’s eyes narrowed, then his jaw dropped just the slightest bit. "Raise your tunic, Tinker," he nearly growled, drawing his sword in one smooth motion. "By God, I want to see your chest." Ranulf’s only weapon was the knife in his belt, and he knew better than to fight Dubois with that small implement. Slowly, knowing the outcome already, he loosened his belt and pulled up the coarsely-woven tunic. He heard Dubois’s breath hiss in once the scar was revealed -- the scar Dubois himself had inflicted three years ago. Without raising his head from the sight of that mutilated flesh, Stephen said, "I thought you were dead, Lord Ranulf." Ranulf shook his head, then quietly removed his leather mask. "You came close to killing me, Dubois," he finally said, "but not quite. I’ve been living in France these past years, regaining my strength and making plans..."

"Plans to have your revenge against Brenna de Rouen," Stephen growled low. "You can forget those now, Outlaw. I’m arresting you in the name of the king!" Ranulf ran a hand through his tawny mane, pacing again. Finally making a decision, he said, "You’re right, Dubois. At first I wanted revenge...naught more, except that I also wanted Ravenwood returned to me." He faced Dubois again squarely, ignoring the drawn sword. "But that’s all changed now," he added, his voice low, sincere. "Everything’s changed since I learned that Niel is my natural son." Stephen lowered the sword, then cursed long and low. "I should kill you for that admission, Ranulf," he warned. "Using Lady Brenna as the spoils of war was a despicable act. You should be hung by your--" "Aye," Ranulf agreed, raising both hands, palms out. "I’ve come to that conclusion myself, Dubois, but if you kill me, what of Brutus de Roches?" He moved closer to Stephen, firmly meeting his gaze. "I saw young Owain rush away from here last night. You’ve sent a missive to the king about de Roches, haven’t you?" Stephen glared right back, not saying a word. Ranulf continued. "If you arrest me, Dubois, who besides Robbie will protect the lady from that pig? You might need my strength or skill with a sword before long." Something changed in Stephen’s expression, a definite breach in his stoic wall. Finally, he said, "I think de Roches wants Niel dead." Ranulf felt heat rush to his face. "Nay," he threatened, the word so low and menacing, even Stephen stepped back. "I’ll kill the brute myself before he lays a hand on my son. I will not lose another family to the Normans!" His clenched fist vibrated in the air between the two men, as if de Roches’ neck were already crushed to nothingness in the iron grip. Stephen nodded, scabbarding his sword. "Very well, Ranulf, he conceded. We will protect the child -and the lady -- together." Unclenching his white-knuckled fist, Ranulf took a deep breath, then smiled grimly, knowing he had won this particular battle with his former enemy. Then Stephen added, "But when this is over, Ranulf, I will turn you over to the king. Consider yourself my prisoner." "Fair enough," Ranulf said, pulling on his mask disguise. "Return to the feast, Dubois. I’ll return there myself ere long." "And where are you going?" Stephen asked. Ranulf was already walking away. Over his shoulder he said, "To get my sword, my lord Stephen. You never know when a Norman lout might challenge a Saxon to a fair fight." Stephen chuckled at that. "‘Twas you who instigated the fight three years ago, Outlaw, and don’t you forget it." His deep voice slightly muffled by distance, Ranulf replied, "Aye, but you might find you have to challenge me this time, Norman -- if you truly intend taking me to your king." Stephen shook his head, heading toward the raucous revelry in the great hall. No one had overheard their conversation, he was certain of that. Most of the manor folk were deeply in their cups by now.

Brenna had seen Tinker leave the hall, too. She had barely eaten during the Christmas feast. How could she eat, knowing what she did now? The celebrating manor folk, the minstrels’ merry music, the mouth-watering scents of Cook’s hard work -- all of it meant nothing to Brenna. Not when her life had just become a nightmare again. Brutus de Roches may as well have been her first husband’s twin. He oozed brutality and menace. Tears welled in Brenna’s eyes, but she blinked them back furiously. She would not ruin this feast for others by showing her misery, but how could she survive marriage to this man? Was this King William’s punishment for her having asked to wait before marrying again? Nay, she knew that wasn’t true. Brutus de Roches was a warrior of some acclaim, Lord Stephen had said. He had served his king well in the early months after Hastings, and Brenna -- and Ravenwood -- were to be his reward. Lord Stephen had assured Brenna that her son’s status would not change, which was the only relief in this horror. Niel would still inherit the estate, but Brutus de Roches would be the child’s guardian. Thinking about that, she’d chewed her lower lip so hard she nearly drew blood. Was she the only one who saw de Roches as a threat to her young son’s life? Squirming in her chair, she’d wanted nothing more than to go to the nursery, relieve Emma , and care for Niel herself. How she envied the common folk! They were not forced to sit at the lord’s table while their children were cared for by someone else. Was Niel all right? What if Brutus de Roches had sent that weasel squire to the nursery, intent on harming her child? Terror spurring her, Brenna did try to leave the table...but that was the very moment Brutus de Roches had grabbed her, hauled her across his lap and began raping her mouth. He tasted of sour ale, ripe wine and putrid breath. Brenna nearly heaved what little food she’d eaten as his fat, slimy tongue forced its way down her throat. Nearly faint, she’d felt herself suddenly pulled to safety by strong, unyielding arms. Lord Stephen had settled her back in her chair, thoroughly chastising de Roches for the assault. It had all happened so fast. Brenna’s mind was still reeling from the event, when from the corner of her eye she saw Tinker surge to his feet, massive fists clenched, strong jaw held rigid. Then he’d stalked from the hall, obviously livid with rage at what he had seen, and was helpless to stop. On seeing that, on realizing the depth of Tinker’s reaction to de Roches’ momentary attack, Brenna couldn’t help the tingling spiral of pleasure that tightened her belly, completely obliterating memory of de Roches unwelcome attentions...If only she were marrying Tinker instead of the vile Norman lord! That was impossible, of course. For the second time that night, Brenna wished she were a commoner instead of the Lady of Ravenwood. Lord Stephen had followed Tinker from the hall, and Brenna took the opportunity to leave the table and go to her son. She met Robbie in an upstairs hallway, obviously coming from the nursery. Emma was Robbie’s wife, so Brenna was not at all surprised. She couldn’t help smiling, in fact. The two were well into their middle years, and yet still so very much in love.

"Good eve, milady," Robbie said, stopping to greet her. "I was just checking on the little lad and me wife. Naught’s amiss. All is quiet and peaceful, the little master safe and warm in his bed." Brenna nodded to her captain-of-the-guard, not surprised at his words anymore than his being in the hallway. Robbie was very good at knowing what worried his mistress. Since the arrival of Brutus de Roches, he’d kept a close eye on her son. She breathed a sigh of relief. Her worries at the table had been silly. Robbie and Emma would never allow Niel to be harmed. "Thank you, Robbie," she said, tears welling in her eyes. Then she scurried past him, intent on seeing her sleeping boy. He was angelic, she thought -- at least when he slept. A smile curved her mouth at that thought, despite the threat Brutus de Roches had brought to their idyllic life. Kneeling beside the bed, she caressed Niel’s golden curls. Nothing was more important than his happiness. And keeping him safe. How many times had she wished for a child while married to Nathan de Rouen? Thousands, at least. A child would have brought a measure of happiness to her very unhappy life. She shuddered, remembering too much of her first marriage. She’d never understood how her father could have sold her into marriage with a man like de Rouen. Even from the very first meeting, in her father’s hall, ‘twas apparent to all that Lord Nathan had no sympathy for the fairer sex. He’d made it quite clear, and quite bluntly, that he wanted a broodmare to spawn heirs upon, a wench to keep his home. Brenna had been raised in a strict household, of course, but even her father had paled a bit when Nathan boldly asked if Brenna had been well whipped into proper discipline as a child, if she’d been taught her proper place as a woman. Her father had nodded, and Brenna had felt sick. Looking back on it now, though, she knew exactly why her father had accepted Nathan de Rouen’s offer of marriage -- he’d been desperate for funds after several harsh winters and terrible crops. So, for five horrid years, she’d been Nathan’s wife, but never a mother until Ranulf the Outlaw took her that one glorious night. Pulling the warm coverlet up, and kissing his forehead, she rose from Niel’s side. "Good night, Emma," she said. Emma looked up from her mending. "Good night, milady. Sleep well."

Outside the great hall, as the last of the manor folk stumbled to their homes, Stephen, Ranulf and Robbie O’Meadhra planned their next move. "I agree that a guard should be posted at Brenna’s door," Ranulf said, "but I’d rather it be myself than anyone else." "Be reasonable, Ra-- Tinker," Stephen countered, correcting his slip of the tongue in case anyone was within hearing. "How would we explain the presence of a tinker in such a position, instead of a trained manor guard?" Ranulf smiled slyly. "How many guards are in their cups, Robbie?" he asked. Robbie straightened and puffed out his chest. "Me men know their duty, sir. Most of them are sober

enough." Ranulf grunted at that, not wanting to insult the captain, who was a good and loyal man, but knowing Ravenwood’s guards could use a little extra training in certain areas. He and Dubois had taken the captain into their confidence, since ‘twould be hard to accomplish much without his cooperation. Robbie had come to Ravenwood after Ranulf’s supposed death, so he’d merely accepted Dubois’s decision. Ranulf knew very well that the captain was withholding judgment of this tinker-turned-lord. Ranulf would have to prove his mettle before winning the man’s trust. "‘Tis not unreasonable that a man might be pulled into guard service for one night, though," Stephen said, thinking aloud. "All right, Tinker," he said, nodding. "You shall be the one to guard Lady Brenna’s door." Ranulf began his duty almost immediately, finding his way to Brenna’s rooms. Other than some sleepy-looking servants in the great hall, he saw no one, and no one questioned his presence in the manor house, since Robbie had told his watch men of the tinker’s task for the night. As far as Ranulf could tell, de Roches was passed out in a guest chamber, but he was taking absolutely no chances. Intending to sleep on a servant’s pallet before Brenna’s bedchamber door -- with one eye open -- he reached the outer chamber of her apartment...then stopped dead in his tracks. A maidservant had just opened the door to Brenna’s private chamber, and Brenna was standing there, wearing naught but a shimmering silk bed robe. The robe did nothing to hide her ripe nipples, taut from the cool air in the room. He hissed in a breath, and she saw him, immediately blushing crimson from the roots of her golden hair all the way to the dainty bare toes peeping from beneath the bed robe’s hem. Ranulf’s manhood came to instant, full alert, throbbing with need. Urgent need. He cursed softly. "I beg your pardon, Lady Brenna," he said formally for the benefit of the servants still in the room. "I have been assigned to guard your bedchamber door this night. Please forgive my intrusion." She nodded, then lowered her gaze. The gesture was so innocent, so maidenly, Ranulf’s unruly member surged again. He knew she was no virgin -- she was even the mother of his son -- but there was something childlike about her, too. ‘Twas as if she’d never really become a woman, despite having been married for several years. Ranulf shook off the thought, watching the servants leave the solar and close the large oak door. ‘Twould do him no good to think about Brenna. He had caused her enough harm. He would protect her from the unwanted advances of Brutus de Roches, and from himself, as well. Pulling the pallet to the bedchamber door, he snuffed out the fragrant candles so that only the banked fire illuminated the room, then lay down on the thin mattress. Twining his fingers behind his head, he stared at the ceiling, trying to rest. He was still wearing his leather mask. Normally, he’d have taken it off this late at night, behind the well-barred door of his own hut, but here in Brenna’s chamber he needed the disguise. Hours passed. Ranulf had no intention of really sleeping, just dozing, but even that comfort eluded him. His shaft was still iron hard, pressing uncomfortably against his leather breeches. If he could just ease the tension, mayhap he could rest. Unlacing the confining garment, he hissed a sigh of relief as his manhood sprang free. The tip was already wet, glistening in the dim light. He would only have to stroke it once...mayhap twice... Brenna’s door opened. He saw her at the same moment he fully stroked his member, groaning softly even as her eyes widened in shock, then wonder. He couldn’t stop now. Holding her gaze, he stroked himself again. As her mouth opened, her tiny pink tongue touching the upper lip, he spurted his essence in

a thick white arc, and then again...and again, helpless to stop the urgent convulsions of his manhood, watching that pink tongue licking that sensuous lip, a lip he’d seen swollen from his kisses more than once. God, the child-woman couldn’t possibly know what she was doing to him. His manhood spurted one last time, and he knew his seed was spent...but the rod remained rigid. It had been too long... "Tinker..." Her voice was hushed, the word a mere whisper. He wasn’t even sure he had heard it, but then she came closer...then closer still. In one graceful movement, she let the open bed robe slip from her shoulders, standing before him in her glorious nudity. "I’m not a harlot," she whispered, blushing crimson again. "...But I’m...I’ll have to marry Brutus de Roches..." Tears welled in her eyes, and Ranulf leapt to his feet. "Lord, Brenna, don’t cry," he said, pulling her into his arms. "Please, my lady, don’t cry. There’s no need." Scooping her up, he moved quickly toward the bedchamber door. "Someone might hear us, might come to see what’s wrong," she groaned into his shoulder, her words so muffled and childlike he had to smile. He kissed the top of her head. "No one will bother us, my lady," he assured her, striding toward the bed. "I’m your guard for the night, remember?" At that, a pang of guilt shot through him. What was he doing...? Stiffening his resolve, on reaching the bed he lowered her carefully, then reached for the fur spread. Pulling it up to her chin, he said, "My lady, mayhap ‘tis better we take this no further. I will guard your safety...from outside the door." "Please stay," she whispered, the plaintive words nearly his undoing. "Please, Tinker, I need to be loved." Ranulf groaned, still rampant with need. Thoughts swirled through his mind...but she was willing. So very willing. This was nothing like that other time, nothing like when he’d used her ripe young body simply for revenge. How could he refuse her? He couldn’t. Stripping his clothes off, he joined her on the soft featherbed, the taut ropes holding the mattress creaking under his weight. "Will you remove the mask?" It was a quiet question, with no real demand implied. Should he remove it? Should he tell her his true identity -- tell her that he knew of their shared child? Could she know the child was the get of Ranulf the Outlaw? Should he tell her now the outlaw wasn’t really dead? Nay, he decided. These were dangerous times. He was an outlaw, and Stephen Dubois was determined to take him to the king. The less Brenna knew of the truth, the better. That way, she could in no way be blamed, and she could not be accused of hiding an enemy of her liege lord. He shook his head. "Nay, my lady," he said. "The mask is necessary. It covers things...you shouldn’t see." She nodded her acceptance. "Then kiss me, Tinker," she said. "Kiss me and love me. Make this moment

in time the only reality in my life." His gaze dropped to her mouth. "Your wish is my command, lady," he answered, then possessed her with all the pent-up passion of the last three years, kissing her lips, her throat, her shoulders, her breasts. Her nipples were ripe, delicious to suckle, reminding him with a low groan that these tight red peaks had nurtured his son. He was rampant again, harder than iron. He kissed her belly, licked her navel, then parted her thighs and buried his tongue in her womanhood. She cried out a little, but he ignored her kitten whimpers, laving her swollen nubbin until it burst into joyous, throbbing completion against his tongue. Only then did he rear up and enter her quivering female core, her harsh cry of wonder music to his ears. He smiled, taking her to the pinnacle again and again, finally roaring his own ecstasy and pouring his seed into her, so deeply, so completely, he thought for a moment that he was touching her very soul.

CHAPTER SIX

"What is he doing here?" Brutus de Roches muttered, coming into the room. Ranulf was leaning against a wall of the small accounting chamber, still wearing his leather mask disguise. But now he wore his sword at his side, instead of the tools of a workman. "Tinker has had some experience as a man-at-arms, Lord de Roches," Stephen Dubois answered from his seated position, not even looking up from the missive held in his hands. "He has joined Lady Brenna’s guard -- at my request." Brutus simmered at that, and Ranulf nearly smiled. The brute could say nothing against Dubois’s decision. As Brenna’s warden, it was his right to hire men. Ranulf shifted his stance, rather enjoying the weight of the sword belt around his waist. It had been far too long since he’d been used for his knightly skills, but Dubois had decided Lady Brenna would be best served by having Ranulf close by. A flash of guilt seared his mind. Dubois wouldn’t feel that way if he knew what had taken place several nights earlier... Ranulf had never intended things to go that far, but what was done was done. Since then, he’d been avoiding Brenna as best he could, while still protecting her, and Niel, from Brutus de Roches and his weasel squire. "Hummph," de Roches said to Stephen’s explanation. "Then why have you called me here, Dubois?" "You are to return to London, sir," Stephen replied. "The king has had a change of heart concerning your marrying Brenna de Rouen." Ranulf did smile then, he couldn’t help it. Dubois had shown him the missive from the Norman king. William had, indeed, taken the Almswick lord’s words to heart. De Roches would have to find another heiress to wed. Brutus’s fist came down on the counting table with a resounding crash. "What?" he bellowed. "How dare he go back on his word!" Stephen calmly replied, "He is the king. He need give no explanation for anything." His eyes narrowed.

"However, I will tell you now that ‘twas I who recommended this action, de Roches. I was not impressed with your love for either the lady or her son." De Roches’ face turned crimson. Ranulf wondered if the man might suffer an apoplectic fit. "That’s preposterous!" he blustered. "Why, I have naught but respect and affection, for both the lad and his mother!" His words were patently false, and all in the room knew it. Brutus de Roches wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all himself. "Perhaps you can convince the king of that," Stephen rejoined in a quiet voice. "But for now, you and your squire are to depart Ravenwood immediately." Brutus paled, obviously realizing he had no choice in the matter -- obviously seeing the end of his scheme. He just stood there for a time, saying nothing, doing naught more than slowly shaking his massive head. Brenna chose that very moment to come into the room. Ranulf groaned inwardly. She didn’t need to witness this scene. ‘Twas a thing far better handled by men -- but she’d evidently heard enough of the conversation. "May I send a maidservant to help you pack, my lord de Roches?" she said sweetly, moving close to his side. Ranulf noticed the smile of triumph she, too, could not hide. His pale face turning purple with rage, Brutus suddenly erupted. Turning, he raised his arm and backhanded Brenna, sending her sprawling to the stone floor with the force of the blow. "That’s what you can do with your servants, wench," he snarled, spittle dripping from the corner of his mouth. And he stalked from the room. Ranulf was at her side within the instant, noting that Stephen had gone after the brute. She was already sitting up, favoring a cheek that was already swelling. Ranulf bit back a curse -- not only because seeing her hurt was like a knife to his own gut, but because he’d been trying so hard to avoid being alone with her. She was far too tempting for a mere mortal man. His flesh was already responding to her nearness, and he cursed again. If anything, she was more beautiful than ever with her large blue eyes wet with unshed tears, her wimple displaced and her golden hair in tousled disarray. "I should have known better," she whispered, then bit her lower lip. "Nathan hit me so often, I should have known better than to get that close to Lord de Roches when I offered the maidservant." "Hush," Ranulf said, pulling her close, even against his better judgement. He cradled her against his shoulder, gently, gently running his fingers over her bruising cheek. The bone seemed intact, and he breathed a sigh of relief. But Brenna went on. "Just this morning, my lord Stephen told me of his note to the king. I had good reason to have hope." She looked up at Ranulf. "But mayhap God was punishing me for my joy in another’s downfall..." She chewed her lip again. "...or mayhap this is His punishment for what we’ve done, Tinker." Ranulf swallowed, holding her even closer. "Nay, sweeting," he insisted, kissing the top of her head. "Don ’t even think it." He knew very well that she could be right, but if so, wouldn’t he be punished too? Then he remembered how useless it would be to dream of a future with Brenna, and he realized he was indeed being punished...in the most painful way. He wasn’t sure exactly when he’d come to the conclusion, but he now knew -- had known for days -- that he was hopelessly in love with Brenna de

Rouen, the mother of his child, the woman he had used for revenge. And there was nothing in the world he could do about it. Outlaws didn’t marry ladies, it was as simple as that. Brenna, lying in his arms, felt much the same way. How wonderful their lovemaking had been! So close to what she’d had with a man who was now dead, the comparison was astounding. Ranulf the Outlaw lay buried in the King’s Vale forest...but Tinker, dear Tinker, had filled her heart with joy for that single night. They’d loved each other again and again, doing things that even now made Brenna blush, but loving each other’s bodies til nearly dawn. After that, the guilt came, of course, as she’d known it would. ‘Twas hard to face Tinker every day, since Lord Stephen had added him to her guard on a permanent basis, with guilt and yearning vying for control in her mind. Aye, perhaps Brutus de Roches’ fist had been her just reward for wanton behavior. But God help her, she’d gladly do it again! At the sound of a cleared throat, Ranulf and Brenna both looked up. Stephen was standing there, the look on his face too shrewd to hide his assumptions. Then he sighed deeply and hunkered down beside them. "There’s no hope for it, you know," he quietly said. Brenna and Ranulf nodded -- each with their own thoughts. Brenna knew it was hopeless to fall in love with a tinker, and Ranulf knew the situation was even worse than that. "De Roches is being escorted to London under a guard of my choosing, lady," Stephen finally said. "He won’t be a threat to you anymore."

Unfortunately Dubois’s declaration of Brenna’s safety turned out to be a wishful thought. Two weeks later, at a tavern in King’s Vale, Ranulf heard a disturbing tale. He had come to this tavern because ‘twas the only place -- other than Matthieu’s hut or in Dubois’s or Robbie O’Meadhra’s company -- where he could be himself, Ranulf, instead of the former tinker of Ravenwood, now a man-at-arms. Here at the Boar’s Head, where loyalties to Ranulf the Outlaw were absolute, he could relax, enjoy his ale and not worry about betrayal. They had been surprised that he was not dead, but pleased. More than one of his old band had sought him out, glad in the news that he was alive, and wondering when they would band together again. The Boar’s Head brought Ranulf a simple comfort he craved, but at the moment, comfort was the last thing on his mind... "‘Tis just as I say, Ranulf," the man insisted. "Brutus de Roches is hiring men...He intends to attack Ravenwood!" The Christmas season was over, and Dubois had returned to Almswick, having decided to postpone taking Ranulf to the king -- if he could indeed have accomplished the task -- for the sake of Brenna’s protection, or so he’d said. Ranulf suspected Stephen Dubois was wrestling with his own conscience, not sure whether his loyalty to the king outweighed his growing loyalty to Ranulf. All had seemed peaceful at Ravenwood, except for the hearts of lovers with a hopeless future, until Ned’s warning just now. But Ranulf knew Ned to be a man of his word. The bootmaker might be small in stature, but he was tall in deed. Ranulf had used the man’s keen ear for gossip many times in the past, not to mention Ned’s skill with a knife. The man was to be believed. "Tell me more," Ranulf said, slowly lowering his mug of ale to the worn wooden table. "When will this attack take place, and what does de Roches think he will accomplish?"

Ned scratched the side of his nose. "De Roches thinks he will win King William’s"--he spat on the dirt-packed floor on saying the name--"respect again by successfully attacking Ravenwood, and forcing the lady Brenna into his bed." Ranulf grimaced. De Roches must be losing his mind. One thing anyone knew about William the Bastard -- he was a man of high moral standards. Forcing Brenna to his bed, which would not happen, by God, would be the last way to win the king’s respect. Then Ranulf’s great shoulders slumped. He himself had forced her once upon a time. If the king ever knew that, and if he knew that Ranulf was still alive, any hoped-for future with Brenna would be even more useless. That one impetuous act of revenge had cost them all so much. The only good thing to come of it was Niel, and he was the main reason Ranulf had decided to stay on as a guard at Ravenwood, at least for the meantime. He avoided Brenna as much as possible -- as did she him -- for the sake of sanity, but seeing his small son in the care of Emma seemed natural enough. No one suspected his motives as he watched the child and his nurse at play. "Methinks the attack will take place within a fortnight," Ned continued. "Apparently Brutus de Roches has some high-placed friends who’ve leant him enough gold to raise a small army. They think there will be returns in profits from Ravenwood once Brutus de Roches has the manor under his thumb." Ranulf stood and clamped a hand on Ned’s shoulder. "Nay, friend," he said. "Brutus de Roches will not gain Ravenwood. ‘Tis more likely, he’ll lose his head instead." Hours later, Ranulf paced the floor of Matthieu’s small hut. "‘Tis well enough that I promise to protect Ravenwood from Brutus de Roches’ vile plans, but how can we do it with so few men? Ned thinks de Roches has already hired a score of trained mercenaries." Robbie O’Meadhra took a sip from the fragrant drink Matthieu had brewed, then said, "Is that true, though? How do we know that’s not more bluster than fact? What we need is a spy to find de Roches’ camp. We need to see for ourselves." "A spy," Ranulf repeated, turning to Ravenwood’s captain-of-the-guard. "Someone who knows the land like the back of his hand -- someone who’s used to hiding in the forest without being seen." Matthieu looked up from his own steaming brew. "Mayhap ‘tis time for Ranulf the Outlaw to be resurrected," he said. Ranulf smiled...and nodded. Within a matter of days, a small band had been gathered -- Ned, wiry and strong, Geoff, big as a bull and just as mean when need be, but gentle as a lamb most of the time, and twin brothers, Jon and Ian, who had more brawn than brain, but ‘twould be loyal to their shared last breath. Aye, Ranulf the Outlaw had been resurrected. And Brutus de Roches would soon feel his wrath.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"I counted forty men," Ranulf said, pacing the back room of the Boar’s Head tavern, "ten with destriers and full armor." Geoff leaned back in a chair, causing it to creak ominously. "And how many men does Robbie O’ Meadhra have at Ravenwood?" he asked. "A dozen men-at-arms and two trained knights, counting Robbie and myself," Ranulf replied. "And Lord Stephen will help." "Aye," Ranulf agreed. "That makes three knights, total, and a dozen guards." It had been nearly a sennight since Ranulf the Outlaw’s resurrection. Ranulf was only too glad to have discarded Tinker’s leather mask. In that time, he had lived in the forest, sleeping in the cave where he’d once recovered. Only yesterday, he had finally located Brutus de Roches’ camp. The amount of men de Roches had gathered was daunting, but not impossible to match. He looked around the room at Ned, Geoff, Jon and Ian. These men had been the core of his band three years ago. In fact ‘twas Geoff who had nursed him from death’s door after his fight with Dubois. It was a good start, but he’d need at least two score more to even the odds, and horses, mail, or at least leather hauberks, and weapons for all of them. More than anything else right now, he needed gold. As if he’d conjured him up, Stephen Dubois chose that moment to open the door and walk in. "Well?" Ranulf said. Stephen smiled and opened his cloak, pulling a pouch from his belt. "There’s enough gold here to provision your army, Outlaw." His eyes narrowed. "I trust you’ll use it wisely and well." Ranulf scooped up the pouch, remembering all too well the time he’d taken gold in this very room from another man -- a man who’d hired Ranulf to kill Dubois. It hadn’t worked out exactly that way, but this gold would buy something much more honorable, the safety of Ravenwood. "Aye, Dubois," Ranulf asserted. "‘Twill be put to the best possible use." "And what use is that?" a feminine voice asked, and every man in the room turned toward the door Stephen had used only moments before. With an indrawn breath and a harsh curse, Ranulf noticed Brenna, swathed in a dark hooded cloak, standing behind Dubois. As their eyes met, he cursed again. "My God," she whispered, a small, trembling hand going to her throat. "You’re not dead!" Stephen’s curse joined Ranulf’s. "What are you doing here, Lady Brenna?" "I-I followed you, my lord," she answered, her voice still wavering. "For days I’ve suspected something foul was afoot, ever since Tinker seemingly disappeared, and you returned to Ravenwood so quickly. When you took gold from the accounting chamber, I decided to find out what you were doing with it." Even in the dimly lit room, Ranulf could see her blush. "‘Twas not that I didn’t trust you, my lord Stephen," she continued. "‘Twas just that I knew you wouldn’t tell me your plans....so I quietly saddled Daisy, and she easily and gladly followed your horse." Stephen shook his head. "God’s blood! You must have been as quiet as a ghost. I never heard you at all. Well, there’s no help for it now." He exchanged glances with Ranulf, then Brenna. Frowning, he said,

"We’ll give you a few moments alone." He gestured to the others, who each stood and ambled from the room. "I should have known," Brenna finally said. Her heart was in her throat. She didn’t know if she was terrified...or glad...or angry. "I should have known that night we lay together that Tinker was in reality Ranulf the Outlaw. How could I not have known the..." "The father of your child?" Ranulf finished for her, closing the space between them. He pushed back the hood of her cloak, then pulled her into his arms. "I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you, Brenna. I just wanted to keep you safe." "Safe?" she murmured as he lifted her chin. "Ummm," he answered, then kissed her. The kiss was long, languorous, deep...and wonderful. Brenna felt herself melting against his muscled chest as his tongue probed her velvety recess, his hands molding her bottom beneath the heavy cloak. He finally raised his head. "I should take you over my knee instead of kissing you," he said, his voice husky. Then he lowered his mouth to hers again, eons later adding, "You’ll never do something so foolish again." He pushed her back and held her shoulders tightly. "Brutus de Roches is gathering an army to attack Ravenwood. For God’s sake, Brenna, he could have captured you on your foolish ride tonight." Brenna drew in a gasp. "So that’s what’s been going on...and why you need the gold. You’re going to fight him!" "Aye," was the terse reply. Brenna looked up into those determined hazel eyes -- eyes she should have recognized beneath that horrid leather mask -- and she knew no argument would keep the Lord of Ravenwood from this task. "You’re not just doing this for me," she said. "You’re doing it for Niel’s heritage...you’re doing it for your son." He nodded. "Lord, Brenna, I’ve wanted to hold you and kiss you -- and hold Niel -- ever since Matthieu told me the truth. I went to the garden that day to see for myself, and learned that Niel bears the mark of all the Ravenwood males." "The sickle shape on his right hip," Brenna whispered. "You’ve know since then..." There was a quiet knock on the door. "We’ve plans to make," Ranulf said, reluctantly. "There’s so little time. One of my men -- Ned -- is going to de Roches’ camp; he’s leaving tonight. He’ll be posing as a servant in need of work, but as soon as he learns the day de Roches plans to attack, we’ll finalize our own plans for a counterattack to defeat him." "And you’ll be hiring lots of men to help with this plan," Brenna reassured herself. Dear God, she couldn’t lose him...not after just now finding him again. He wasn’t dead! "At least forty," Ranulf agreed, as Dubois and the others returned to their seats, fresh mugs of ale in their brawny hands. Stephen cleared his throat. "Will you have a seat, Lady Brenna?" Brenna nodded and found her place on a bench. She knew the happenings of the last few minutes would

take a day or two to fully sink in. But the most important thing was already seared into her heart and soul. Ranulf the Outlaw, her beloved Ranulf, was alive and well!

It took another two weeks to gather forty men, but Brutus de Roches seemed in no real hurry to complete his campaign. The bitter winter weather probably had something to do with it, Ranulf mused. De Roches’ men were more inclined to keep to their brazier-heated tents than to mount an assault against Ravenwood. Ned had indeed breached de Roches camp, posing as a servant, with Geoff staying close by, lurking in the forest. Ranulf couldn’t help smiling. For such a big man, Geoff could hide himself very well. Ned had reported to Geoff on a daily basis, and now, finally, a fortnight since the de Roches threat had begun, they knew when the attack would take place. Brutus de Roches intended waging his assault ten days from now. What he didn’t realize was that Ranulf and nearly sixty men would be waiting for him. Brenna had been on Ranulf’s mind continually. His smile turned wry. At first, he’d wanted nothing more than to wrench Ravenwood from Brenna de Rouen’s hands --now all he wanted was to protect it for her, and for their son. How much had changed in such a short time! Feeling restless, Ranulf donned a fur-lined mantle and walked out into the cold night air. The hidden forest cave had become the headquarters for his own small army; tents dotted the landscape beneath a star-studded sky. Geoff was his sergeant-at-arms, and he nodded to the bull-like man as he passed him. The others of his core group, Jon, Ian and Ned were busy with various duties, preparatory for the battle to come. Brenna...he couldn’t stop thinking about her, not even as he passed tents with open flaps, nodding to men huddled near their braziers, hoping to ward off the mid-winter cold. She was always there, hovering at the edges of his mind but completely enveloping his heart. There was no future for them -- he knew that -- but she stayed in his mind, nonetheless. They had shared some quiet moments before parting that night at the Boar’s Head, before she’d ridden back to Ravenwood in Dubois’s company. "Brenna," he’d said, running his hands up and down her slender arms, "I need to talk to you." "What is it...Ranulf?" she replied, then bit her lower lip. "It sounds so very strange to call you by that name, after thinking you dead for so long." "That’s what I need to talk with you about," Ranulf continued, guiding her to a bench and sitting down with her. He turned to face her, holding her tiny hands in his massive ones. "That night three years ago..." his words faltered. Never before being one to apologize, he was finding this necessary task incredibly hard. "That night three years ago," he started again, "I was so wrong, Brenna, so wrong. What I did was despicable, unforgivable--" She cut him off, placing her fingertips against his lips. Without thinking, he kissed them, and she smiled that brilliant, glorious smile, the one that could tie his heart in knots and send hot blood straight to his groin. "Nay, Ranulf," she whispered, then smiled again. "What you did was not horrid...it was wonderful instead." He shook his head. "That’s not possible."

"Oh, aye, it is possible," she insisted, now grasping his hands. "Don’t you see? Nathan de Rouen was the horrid one, hurting me every time he took his pleasure and never, ever giving me a son." She bowed her head a little, blushing. "That was the first time I’d ever experienced...joy in the marriage bed." "To my shame, ‘twas not a marriage bed," Ranulf insisted. "‘Twas a rape, and naught you say can change it." Brenna looked up. "I don’t want to change it, Ranulf," she said. "Niel was seeded that night. Why would I want to change that?" Ranulf caressed her soft cheek. "You’re too forgiving, my lady." His voice was husky. "But, nay, I wouldn’t want to change that, either. We have a fine son." Then he needed to know something else. "Brenna, how did you know Niel was mine? How could you have known that before I told you of the mark of my family?" Brenna’s gaze swept down to her skirts again. "Nathan couldn’t...ever since the night he killed your family, he couldn’t...perform in the marriage bed. There was no possibility Niel was his. I hadn’t received his seed during that moon cycle, but I did have yours." She was blushing crimson now, but Ranulf nodded. Her explanation made perfect sense. And for the first time, mention of his slaughtered family did not evoke intense, burning rage. Revenge was no longer his object, he realized...protecting his new family had taken its place. Ranulf had pulled her to him then, kissing her forehead, her eyelids, her nose, chin and lips. Ah, yes, her lips. He’d kissed them hungrily and well...until Dubois had interrupted, saying ‘twas time to go. Now, walking through the make-shift mercenary camp, knowing another like camp existed only leagues away, Ranulf shook his head. He loved a woman he could never have; he wanted a life with his son, which he could never have. Had God punished him for that one night three years ago? Yes, indeed He had.

The moon was full the night Brutus de Roches attacked Ravenwood, for which Ranulf was grateful. With eyes easily adjusted to the dim light, he nodded to Geoff, and his small army surged to life. Ranulf knew Stephen Dubois and half his mercenaries were hidden near the manor gates, behind the gates and off to each side. Robbie O’Meadhra and a dozen men-at-arms were on the guard walk, high on the inside of the earthen, stone and wooden manor walls. Brenna was on that high perch, too, Ranulf knew, not that he approved. But she had insisted on having a hand in this battle to save her son’s heritage...mayhap even his life. She would hand crossbow bolts, arrows or lances to those defending the walls. "It must be this way," she had said with such vehemence that he, Stephen and Robbie had finally agreed. "I must help defend my home." De Roches’ men were nearly in place now. Ranulf could even see the brute nod, and then a man laid flint to steel, then tar, and a flaming arrow flew toward the manor walls. "Open the gates!" Brutus bellowed. "Open the gates and surrender Ravenwood, or suffer your fate!" Several more flaming arrows were primed...At that very moment, Ranulf gave a cry to war, and the battle

began. Geoff’s force attained their goal first, followed closely by Ranulf’s dozen men, then those assigned to Ned, and finally Dubois’s forces joined the melee, taking the front. Robbie O’Meadhra’s men poured arrows and bolts from above. Brutus de Roches never stood a chance. But he fought like a madman. Unseated from his destrier in one skirmish, de Roches kept right on fighting, battle ax held in his meaty fist. He swung mightily, easily killing one mercenary, then swung the huge broadsword in his other brawny hand at one of Stephen’s men. That one deflected the blow, and thrust in return, drawing blood. The brute merely grunted, then joined the battle again. Ranulf couldn’t help admiring de Roches’ warrior skills, but that was not the issue now. Fighting his way toward the man, feeling the sing of his sword and the heady power of battle, Ranulf soon reached his foe. "Surrender, de Roches," he cried as steel clashed against steel. "Surrender and you and your men can survive. You’ve fought well, but you’ll not win tonight. ‘Tis a lost cause." De Roches was sweating now, the sheen apparent in spite of the bitter cold. "How did you know...who are you?" he panted, swinging his broadsword against Ranulf’s again. "How did you know that we would come, and when?" "The forest has eyes and ears," Ranulf replied, panting himself. Thrusting again, he nearly skewered the man, but Brutus parried, then fell back for another round. Out of the corner of his eye, Ranulf saw Dubois fighting a duel to the death when another of de Roches’ mercenaries approached from behind, obviously intent on dealing a less than honorable blow. With one swift stroke with the side of his blade, Ranulf knocked de Roches to the ground -- stunned but not dead -- then turned to help his former adversary. The de Roches mercenary was within inches of causing Dubois’s death when Ranulf raised his sword. Dubois turned just in time to see the killing arc of Ranulf’s blade...and the enemy fell dead to the ground, head cleanly severed from his twitching body. The rest of de Roches’ men started scurrying from the field, sensing imminent defeat. Those on horses galloped away; those on foot simply ran, with Ranulf’s men in fast pursuit. Gaining his wits and attaining his own warhorse, Brutus de Roches held up his bloody sword and cried, "We are not done with this..." "...Ranulf of Ravenwood," Ranulf supplied, smiling. "Or mayhap I should say, Ranulf the Outlaw, instead." He saw the look of stark surprise on de Roches’ face, then pulled off the leather mask he’d worn for the battle, baring his countenance to one and all. "Aye," he said to anyone who hadn’t yet realized the truth. " ‘Tis I, the one you thought dead!" Several of Ravenwood’s men-at-arms crossed themselves, others merely stared. Ranulf reached for the reins to de Roches’ horse, intending to stop the knave from fleeing, but Brutus suddenly threw his battle ax. The throw was too sudden and off balance for the mighty blade to do damage, but the handle struck Ranulf’s head. Blood gushed from the wound, and Ranulf felt his knees go weak. Still struggling to overcome the blow, he saw Brenna running full force toward the confusing melee, obviously having seen the attack. With men being pursued, and men pursuing, and with Ranulf still staggering and struggling to clear his

vision, Brutus de Roches took his opportunity, yanking the reins and sending his destrier into head-long flight. Ranulf might have gone after him, but Brenna was suddenly there, blocking the way and crying, "Dear God, what has he done to you?" Ranulf cursed. The wound was a trifle, he could have stopped de Roches! Now ‘twas too late. The man was gone. "‘Tis nothing, my lady," he finally said, catching her by both arms. "Return to your safety. There is naught here for you to do." She ignored him completely, bending and tearing material from her chemise, then ordering him to sit so that she might care for his wound. Looking around and seeing the danger was nearly past, he sighed and complied, mumbling, "Stubborn wench," as he dropped to the ground. Brenna laughed softly, relief evident in the sound. "Well, at least there’s one good use for your hard head, Outlaw. ‘Twas hard enough to save your life." But her fingers were trembling as she wound the bandage around his head, telling Ranulf just how scared she’d been. "We’ll need some basilicon powder, and good soap and water," she continued. "Come into the manor house, and let me treat this properly." Ranulf caught her wrist in his hand. "Nay, Brenna," he said. "Tinker is gone. As you said, I’m Outlaw now. I cannot simply walk into Ravenwood -- not with a price on my head." "But--" "Nay. I will not cause you trouble with your king." "Then I’ll come with you," Brenna insisted, looking around and seeing that the few injuries the defending force had received were being well tended. "I’ll go wherever you’ve been staying." "Brenna..." "Ranulf, please listen," she insisted again. "Others of your men may need some tending during the night. Who here is better skilled than I in the healing arts? Do you have a physician in your camp?" "Nay, but--" Brenna raised one golden brow, and Ranulf nearly smiled. "Stubborn wench," he reiterated. "Very well, you may come to my camp." Stephen approached then, hunkering down beside Ranulf and studying him. His face was solemn, grave, and Ranulf thought he might already know what was coming. Was it time to fight Dubois again? Time to fight for his freedom? He would not --could not -- be turned over to King William. He’d rather die in honorable battle instead. Dizziness assailed him when he tried to stand, and Brenna and Stephen both pushed on his shoulders, forcing him to sit again. "I know what you’re thinking, Ranulf," Stephen began, "but you’re wrong. I’m not taking you to the king this night...or any other, for that matter." Ranulf’s eyes narrowed. "What are you saying, Dubois?" he asked. "You saved my life a little while ago. What kind of man would I be to not repay that in kind? Nay, I’ll not take your life by turning you in. I’ve decided to take up your cause with the king, instead." Ranulf swallowed hard. He had once tried to kill this man, and now Dubois was his only hope for...what? A future with Brenna and Niel? That was too much to hope for, but mayhap he could have a future of some kind at least, instead of facing execution. "Thank you," he said, and meant it.

Then he remembered something else. Trying to stand again, this time he made it. "There’s something I need to show you, Dubois," he added, weaving a little then standing straight and tall. "I left it in Matthieu’ s hut, buried safely, deep in the ground." He saw Dubois frown, then nod. "Very well," Stephen said. "Matthieu is busy tending minor wounds near the gates. There’s probably no one in his hut right now." The three of them made their way to the small lodging. Upon reaching it, Ranulf lit a tallow lamp, then immediately dropped to his knees. Within moments, he had a small metal box in his hands, then a parchment scroll from within its depths. "‘Tis the original writ, sanctioning Nathan de Rouen’s attack on Ravenwood," he said, handing it to Stephen. "If you’ll read it, you’ll see the king never gave de Rouen leave to slaughter my family..." His voice became husky, strained. "King William never gave him permission to rape my wife and daughter, to slit my son’s throat, to murder them all." The room was so silent after that wrenching admission, wind could be heard whistling through the wattle and daub. Stephen read the missive, then frowned. "You’re right," he finally said. "There’s nothing here excusing de Rouen’s behavior." Ranulf nodded stoically. If there was anything more to be done, ‘twould be up to Dubois. Ranulf wouldn’ t beg, and Dubois knew it. Naught more needed saying. Geoff pounded on the doorframe. "‘Tis nearly done, Ranulf," he said. "We’ve rounded up most of de Roches’ men. What are we to do with ‘em?" "Levy a fine of a single coin against each of them," Stephen answered. "They were hired to do a job, and they did it. King William has no need of mercenary prisoners. Let the healthy help the wounded, and send them all on their way." Ranulf agreed. Mercenary soldiers’ only loyalty was to whoever held the purse strings. Doubtless, Brutus de Roches didn’t have much of a purse left, after waging a losing battle. Letting the mercenaries go would do no harm.

Hours later, in the warm, dark cave, next to a roaring fire, Brenna carefully checked Ranulf’s wound. He was sleeping for the moment, his face innocent as a babe’s in his restful state. They were covered with thick furs, both naked after a heated lovemaking session, and she ran her hands across the crisp curls on his chest, then down to the deeply ridged scar near his left ribs. "‘Twas there I received Dubois’s sword," she heard Ranulf murmur, and she smiled, seeing he was awake. Dear Lord, how much she loved this man! If only they could have a future together... "I’d wondered about it that first night," she said, lightly touching the scar, then bending to kiss it. "Now I know what it’s from." She heard him growl low as she continued her kissing path from broad, furred chest to richly muscled abdomen, then lower still. Brenna knew just what she wanted to do now. ‘Twas a thing Nathan de Rouen had demanded often...and which she’d hated doing. But with Ranulf...with Ranulf she wanted to do this more than anything, wanted to give him agonizing pleasure. Her tongue found the moist tip of his manhood and she flicked the tiny hole, then slowly and thoroughly licked the entire plum-red head.

Ranulf arched his hips, his fingers buried in her golden hair. "My God, Brenna," he hissed, then arched again. She took him fully into her mouth, and Ranulf begged for mercy. And Brenna was suddenly on her back, legs grasped beneath her lover’s arms, as he raised her bottom and plunged deep, thrusting wildly, savagely, nearly painfully...but she didn’t care. Just watching his face was her greatest pleasure, watching as he forced her over the edge, then closed his eyes, gave an animal roar, and emptied his seed with vigorous convulsions, filling her womb to overflowing, filling her heart as well.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The pleas began almost immediately. Ranulf had become a hero, though he’d certainly never asked for the role. But what choice did he have when hardworking, honest folk begged for his help? He couldn’t refuse -- not when word of Ranulf the Outlaw’s return had spread like wildfire since the battle with de Roches two weeks earlier. "What will you do, Ranulf?" Geoff asked, and Ranulf scrubbed his face with both hands. ‘Twas the third time this week he’d been pulled from peaceful sleep by someone’s desperate call. "I’ll go after the swine," was all Ranulf said, pushing to his feet, then donning leather breeches and boots. "Where did you say he was holding the girl?" "She’s in her new husband’s hut, but Lord Garreth is claiming droit de seigneur. He has every intention of taking her to his own bed, in the manor house." "Droit de seigneur," Ranulf muttered, pulling a tunic over his head. That’s the last thing he needed -another gift from the Normans. The right of a lord to take a female serf’s virginity before her rightful husband could do the deed. Lord Garreth’s holding was less than a league from Ranulf’s well-hidden camp. Mounting destriers purchased for the battle at Ravenwood, he and Geoff were soon on their way. Pounding hooves announced their arrival. Cold breath billowing in the pre-dawn air, Ranulf dismounted and strode determinedly toward the humble cottage. The door stood open, a brave but obviously tired young man holding off his overlord with a rather rusty -- but still lethal -- sword. Ranulf could see the man’s arm tremble, the sweat on his brow. In another few moments, the battle would have been lost. Where were Lord Garreth’s men? Ranulf wondered, quickly looking around. Then he smiled grimly. Garreth had been so arrogant in his intent, he’d come to the cottage alone -- and unarmed. That act of foolish insolence would cost him the pleasure of deflowering the young woman who stood rigidly, and equally bravely, just behind her new husband. The sound of steel leaving leather filled the small space,

and Ranulf’s sword slipped between Lord Garreth’s spread legs. Lifting the blade just the littlest bit, he said, "If you intend keeping your maleness intact, I suggest you go home, my lord." A rumbling laugh curled through the cold air, this from Geoff, who had placed his sword against the lord’ s right side. Garreth’s face turned purple with rage. "Who are you to tell me thus?" he growled. "I am Ranulf the Outlaw," was the simple reply. Even in the dim light, Ranulf could see the thin man’s Adam’s apple move up and down, up and down, as he considered those words. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and, at length, he lowered his eyes to the ground. Ranulf smiled. Obviously, the man had heard of the recent battle for Ravenwood. ‘Twas good to have a reputation again. "Remove your sword, Outlaw," Lord Garreth grumbled, "and let me go." Ranulf immediately complied, and the man scampered back several feet. Then, feeling much more brave at a distance, he said, "This defiance will not go unpunished, Rolf." The young man who had just lowered the rusty sword looked up, his face grim. Garreth continued. "Get yourself and your whore off my land, and be glad I’ve been lenient and not had you killed. Take naught more than the clothes on your back." Rolf swallowed hard and nodded. The woman behind him sighed in relief, and Rolf put his arm around her protectively. Garreth turned to Ranulf. "We will meet again, Outlaw," he said in a blustering tone. "You may have the advantage this night, but ‘twill be my greatest pleasure to spill your foul blood ere long." And then he was gone, turning and striding toward the safe haven of his well-guarded manor house on swiftly moving, gangly legs. Ranulf threw back his head and laughed. Geoff joined him, and Rolf’s mouth curved into a shy smile. The girl only giggled at first, then laughed merrily, too. Soon recovering, she curtsied and said, "My name is Meg, milord Outlaw, and I thank ye for yer kind help." She blushed prettily then, more than a little embarrassed at what had actually caused the need for Ranulf’s aid. Ranulf pulled her to standing again, then kissed her small, work-worn hand. "‘Twas my honor, mistress," he said, smiling. Turning to Rolf, he added, "Would you like to come with us? You certainly showed enough bravery tonight to be welcome in an outlaw band." The young man’s jaw dropped open, then closed. "Aye, Lord Ranulf," he murmured, his voice filled with awe. "‘Twould be my greatest honor to serve you." He dropped to one knee, but Ranulf scoffed and pulled him up as well. "I’m no lord, young Rolf, just an outlaw. My men simply call me Ranulf, and so shall you." "Aye, my lo--" Red spots flamed in Rolf’s cheeks. "Aye, Ranulf," he corrected. "‘Twill be my honor to serve you."

Brenna heard the pounding of horses before she saw the returning riders. She and Stephen Dubois had just arrived at the camp themselves, had just heard of Ranulf’s latest escapade. She smiled when she saw the two people riding pillion behind Ranulf and Geoff. "I see he was successful," she said, smiling and turning to Stephen. Stephen grunted. "‘Twould be better if he’d stay hidden until a pardon is granted." Brenna whirled around. "Is a pardon imminent, my lord?" she asked. "We can only hope, my dear," Stephen answered. "I’m going to London on the morrow, which is why I came here tonight -- to tell Ranulf my plans. He frowned a little. "And I still wish you hadn’t insisted on coming with me, again." Brenna blushed, lowering her gaze. "I had to come, my lord," she murmured. "‘Tis the only way I can see him." They hadn’t been together since that night of the battle. Brenna had been slowly going insane, only hearing second-hand what has happening with Ranulf. Looking up into the cold, star-studded heavens, she let out a frosty breath and pulled her fur-lined mantle closer to her shivering body. Would there ever come a time when she and Ranulf could meet freely, openly? When their lovemaking would be a sanctioned right instead of a condemned act? Probably not, she reminded herself. Even if pardoned, Ranulf would be a dispossessed lord, she the Lady of Ravenwood. Surely King William would never approve a marriage between them. It was hopeless, she thought. Utterly hopeless, and yet she couldn’t give up! Not only for herself but for their son. Niel should have both parents loving him, raising him... Hands came around her from behind, and familiar warm breath caressed her ear. "Will I have to beat you to make you stay away, sweet wench?" he growled, and Brenna chuckled, knowing he’d never do any such thing. "Mayhap, my lord Outlaw," she said, turning in his embrace, "but kiss me for now. We can save the beating for later." Their lips met, moist and soft against firm and hard, tongues darting, dueling, with Ranulf soon taking control. Mastering her mouth with expert thrusts, he quickly showed her who would direct their love play. "Ahem." The cleared throat broke them apart. "Sorry to interrupt, Ranulf," Geoff said, looking anything but repentant, "but where should I put them?" His thumb indicated the new arrivals. Brenna immediately noticed the shivering young woman and slightly taller young man. Her tongue clucking, Brenna pulled the warm mantle from her own back, placing it around the girl’s slender shoulders, ignoring her soft complaints. "She’s near frozen, Ranulf. We must needs get her out of this cold." "As you desire, my lady," Ranulf answered with a deep, mocking bow, but his hazel eyes twinkled with merriment when he stood tall again. "Shall we retire to yon cave?"

Brenna smiled, too, enjoying the brief game. "After you, my liege," she said, sketching a curtsy. Geoff laughed heartily, following the newest outlaws to warm shelter.

"Me name’s Meg," the young girl told her, shivering a little as she removed her dress. "And ye be the lady Brenna I’ve heard so much about?" "Aye," Brenna acknowledged, taking the gown and carefully setting it aside. The handiwork was lovely. "Was this your wedding dress?" she asked. Meg nodded, her teeth chattering as Brenna led her deeper into the cave. "W-where are we going, milady?" she managed to say. "Whilst our menfolk build a warm fire, I’d thought to help you warm yourself in Ranulf’s secret pool," Brenna answered. "Secret?" Meg squeaked. Brenna smiled. "Well, mayhap not secret, but certainly only known to a few," she admitted. "Come, I’ll show you." And with that she led her shivering charge around a curve in the rock enclosure, smiling as they came to her favorite place in Ranulf’s lair -- a warm pool deep in the depths of the cave. Gentle steam wafted from the incredibly clear water, and Brenna heard Meg’s sharp intake of breath. Crossing herself, Meg said, "Is it of the Devil, then, milady?" "Nay," Brenna assured her, herding Meg toward the inviting bath. "‘Tis from a warm spring, more heaven sent than hellish, I’m sure." Still reluctant, but now curious, Meg pulled off her thin shift, then placed one plump toe into the water. "Oooooh," she groaned, "it is heavenly. Surely this was meant as more blessing than curse." Brenna laughed softly, watching Meg slide into the pool, then hearing another groan of pleasure. Gathering the honeysuckle-scented soap she’d brought herself and a small linen square, she couldn’t help thinking of a more important use this pool had once served. This was the cave Ranulf had used while recovering from what should have been a fatal sword thrust, a wound leaving his chest gaping open and surely inviting putridity. Big Geoff had tended him, cleansing the wound with water from the warm pool. To this day, Geoff claimed the water had healing powers. Brenna shrugged. She had no way of knowing if that were true, but who was she to argue? She was only certain the pool was heavenly for bathing and restoring bodily humors. If the angels had blessed it with more power than that, so be it. She handed the soap and cloth to Meg, who said, "I should be waiting on ye, milady, not the other way around." Brenna smiled. "‘Tis your wedding night, Meg." She looked around the warm, steamy cave. "And for the nonce, this is our manor. Ladies always help the bride prepare for her nuptial bed. We wouldn’t want to break with tradition, now would we?"

Meg smiled, smoothing the scented soap over her skin. "Nay, milady," she said, blushing. "We certainly wouldn’t want to do that." A small silence ensued, broken only by the soft sounds of gentle water. Brenna sat quietly, waiting, and eventually Meg said, "Will it hurt, milady?" Brenna drew in a deep breath, knowing this question would come, having prepared many a maiden for her wedding night. "‘Twill only hurt a little if Rolf takes the time to prepare you, Meg," she admitted honestly. "Your maidenhead must be breached, and there will be a small pinch of pain when that happens, but if you’re moist and receptive, ‘twill be no worse than a bee sting." She didn’t even want to think about what the act could be like. Surely, Rolf wouldn’t be...Nay, no one could be as vile and cruel as Nathan de Rouen had been. Meg nodded, still blushing, but seemingly happy with that answer, and Brenna left the warm pool, in search of a drying cloth. Rounding the corner, and coming upon the men sitting near the cheerful fire in the cave’s cooking pit, Brenna couldn’t help overhearing Ranulf speaking to Rolf. "You must be gentle," he said, holding the young man’s shoulder. "A maiden is not some tried and true harlot. If you want a happy marriage night, begin with a soft touch." Rolf nodded, swallowing hard. Brenna doubted that he’d attained his twentieth year. He was thin but well muscled, and obviously in awe of Ranulf the Outlaw. "A maid has a small nubbin, just at the top of her sheath," Ranulf continued, and Brenna blushed, knowing she should announce her presence but not doing so. "Rub it gently but firmly, in small circles. ‘ Twill prepare Meg for breaching." Rolf nodded again. Even he was blushing now. Ranulf looked toward the cave’s ceiling, where smoke slithered through a small natural vent, then said, "And a woman’s nipples are incredibly sensitive, Rolf. Not only a babe enjoys suckling them." He was sitting cross-legged, but adjusted his breeches, and Brenna’s cheeks flamed, matching young Rolf’s. Ranulf was entirely ready for mating himself, and Brenna felt the heavy pleasure of anticipation swell in her own low belly... "Tease each nipple with your tongue, back and forth with quick strokes, then suck strongly. Do this while caressing the little nubbin, and the maid will soon be begging for more." Brenna couldn’t help it. A small whimper escaped her throat. Both men turned to her at once -- Rolf turning beet red, Ranulf smiling knowingly. Mortified, Brenna grabbed the drying cloth, then quickly turned away. Ranulf laughed behind her, saying, "‘Tis dangerous to eavesdrop, my lady. The words overheard might not be fit for a gentlewoman’s delicate ears." Sobering slightly, Ranulf turned back to Rolf, noticing the young man’s flushed complexion. "Do you love Meg?" he asked, suddenly serious. "Aye, my lo-- I mean, Ranulf," Rolf answered. "I love her with all my heart. We’ve grown up together. I couldn’t imagine loving anyone else." Ranulf nodded. "Then you’ll do just fine."

"Aye," Stephen added, joining the group. "A man who loves his mate will never cause her harm." The men shared companionable silence until Geoff came from another part of the large cave, nodding himself. Looking to Rolf, Ranulf said, "Your bride awaits." Rolf paled slightly, then squared his shoulders. Rising, he walked toward the private alcove and his new wife, more confidence apparent with every booted step. Ranulf smiled. The lad would do well. Then he noticed Brenna as she came to sit beside him. Her cheeks were still pink, and he couldn’t help chuckling. She punched his thigh with one small fist, biting her lower lip, and he threw back his leonine head, roaring with laughter. Dear God, how he loved this woman! Stephen cleared his throat, drawing their attention, then said, "I will go to London on the morrow, Ranulf. The king will be in residence for a few days." He patted his leather jerkin. "I have the writ you gave me right here. Hopefully, King William will grant you pardon, based on the atrocities committed by Nathan de Rouen against your family." "Aye," Ranulf agreed. "Hopefully." He grasped Brenna’s hand tightly. "I’ll not beg him, Stephen, you know that. But mayhap if I were pardoned, Brenna would stay safely at Ravenwood, where she belongs." Brenna opened her mouth to protest, but Ranulf silenced her with a deeply possessive kiss, drawing a mewling whimper from her throat instead of words. A small cry, then a moan of pleasure came from the alcove and Ranulf groaned too, deepening his kiss, knowing as well as anyone that Rolf had just claimed his bride. Ranulf had every intention of claiming Brenna this night, too -- one last time. Geoff raised his tankard. "To the thwarting of Lord Garreth’s vile plans," he said, smiling broadly. The others raised their cups and cheered. As Stephen, Geoff, and even Ned, celebrated Rolf’s nuptials, Ranulf drew Brenna to her feet. "Come with me, woman," he whispered hoarsely. "I’m in need of a bath. And you." "Aye, my lord Outlaw," Brenna breathed. "Your wish is my command."

"I love your breasts," he said, washing each one gently, then cupping them both, admiring the nipples. "I wonder if Rolf has done this to his lady yet," he added, then flicked his tongue over each swollen bud, one then the other, finally sucking greedily as Brenna moaned helplessly. He chuckled between suckling frenzies, reaching between her trembling thighs to massage her nubbin of feminine joy. Brenna’s knees turned to jelly, and he held her up by her slender waist. "If you cannot stand, sweet wench, you’ll have to kneel," he said, growling low as he turned her about and helped her to a kneeling position at the edge of the pool. Her pert bottom was now at the perfect angle for entry -- and something else -- and Ranulf took full advantage. As she groaned, he thrust deeply and well, impaling her on his thick shaft, pulling back, then penetrating again. He also raised his right palm, then smacked her pretty backside, laughing aloud at her yelp of surprise. "That was for coming here tonight, my defiant lady." He spanked her again, and yet again, still thrusting and withdrawing at the same time. Brenna’s breathing was ragged, her sheath clutching him spasmodically, the chastisement

obviously bringing her more pleasure than pain. No matter; he was making his point. The last thing he wanted was Brenna in danger. His own need finally took over. Grasping her lightly pinkened bottom cheeks, his thrusts became more rapid, penetrating deeply, withdrawing, repeating, driving them both to the brink of madness. She shouted her ecstasy while he watched, arching her back as her strong convulsions of release grasped his manhood, causing his own roar of completion as he emptied himself in pulsing bursts he thought might never end. Afterward, they gently washed each other again, then Ranulf said, "I do not jest about wanting to keep you safe, Brenna. A word from me, and Stephen will have you locked in your chamber at Ravenwood, I’ m sure of it. Must I do that, or will you give me your word to not come to this hideout again. ‘Tis not safe." Brenna looked up, her blue eyes shiny with tears. She bit her lower lip. "Nay, Ranulf," she whispered. "I’ ll stay away." Two tears slid down her flushed cheeks. "I love you, my lord Outlaw," she finally admitted. "Dear Lord, I pray the king will give you pardon! At least then we can meet..." Ranulf hushed her with a finger across her lips. His mouth grim, a furrow of worry creased his brow. "Nay, Brenna," he said quietly. "Even if the king grants my pardon, there can be no future for us." Brenna ’s tears flowed, and he kissed them away, then ran his hand down her damp cheek, as if memorizing its contour. "Niel will inherit Ravenwood, so my task here is complete. I love you, too, my sweet wench," he admitted, his own voice raw, "but ‘twould be useless to believe a marriage between us will ever be allowed. You know that as well as I do, my love. For both our sakes, this should be our last time together." He swallowed hard, feeling his heart crack, then break. But ‘twould be better this way. Above all, he must think of Brenna’s future -- and his son’s. Brenna nodded, new tears flowing freely. She knew he was right, but Dear God, that truth hurt!

"But how can he refuse us, my lord?" Brenna asked, pacing her private solar at Ravenwood, rubbing her arms against the early April chill. A discreet servant immediately stoked the hearth fire, and Brenna nodded her thanks. "It is his decision, my lady," Stephen replied, accepting mulled wine from another serving wench. "The king is not convinced Ranulf the Outlaw deserves a pardon, although, considering what Nathan de Rouen did to Ranulf’s family, King William has not ruled out a pardon completely." Brenna gulped, then took a deep breath. The sweet-spice scent of the wine was turning her stomach, but she couldn’t think about that now. Pacing again, she said, "Hasn’t he heard of the earl’s rescue?" In the past two weeks since Ranulf’s decree that she stay at home, Brenna had obeyed...but she’d kept informed of the Outlaw band’s activities. Ravenwood’s folk gave her news quite regularly, most especially old Matthieu, and she well knew about Ranulf’s latest adventure. He and his men had been hunting game and had come upon the scene of robbers accosting a wealthy lord, and his entourage. Ranulf had made quick work of killing the offenders and rescuing the lord, who turned out to be none other than the powerful Earl of Cheltingham. The man was so grateful, he’d paid Ranulf more than the robbers would have gotten, giving him gold from a hidden strongbox in his baggage

wain. He had also promised to inform the king of Ranulf’s bravery. "Aye, he’s heard about it," Stephen conceded, sipping his wine. "But the earl has a reputation for exaggerating truths. The king wants far more convincing evidence than that before he pardons Ranulf, if he ever does." Brenna nodded -- immediately regretting the action. "Then hope is not lost," she rasped, suddenly putting a hand over her mouth and running for the chamber pot. Stephen cursed softly. With three children of his own, the cause of Lady Brenna’s ailment was perfectly clear. "You are with child," he said quite simply when Brenna emerged from behind the concealing carved screen, pale and trembling, but obviously over her bout of morning illness. She nodded again, bowed her head, but then lifted her chin again. "Aye, my lord," she acknowledged. "I will bear Ranulf a second child by Christmas." "Mon Dieu, what a mess," Stephen replied. "If the king hears of this, he’ll have you wed in a fortnight." Brenna’s courage faltered, and she slumped into a chair. "Please...no," she pleaded, looking up at Stephen, tears shimmering in her blue eyes. "There must be some way...some way to marry Ranulf. Please, my lord, that -- and this babe and Niel -- are all I want in this life." Stephen shook his head, coming to hunker down before her. "Milady," he said, reaching out to take her small, cold hand. "Marrying Ranulf is very unlikely, but mayhap King William would allow me to find you a suitable match." Brenna rose from the chair. "Nay, not that," she said, pacing again, thinking aloud. "Perhaps Ranulf, Niel and I should leave England, my lord. Mayhap we could hide in Normandy, or..." "You know ‘tis not possible, Brenna," Stephen countered. "Ranulf would rather die an Outlaw than take Niel from Ravenwood. You know as well as I do that he only came back to return Ravenwood to his family. Nothing would change that goal. Niel must stay here...and you must stay with him." Turning to him in a swirl of embroidered silk, Brenna said, "Then we must gain the king’s pardon, my lord. There is simply no other way. Ranulf is the rightful Lord of Ravenwood. Somehow, we must prove that to the king!" Stephen nodded his agreement. Now the only question was How?

CHAPTER NINE

Three leagues from Ravenwood, Ranulf nodded, too, as young Rolf decapitated yet another straw-stuffed foe. "Your skills are improving," he said, clapping the youth on the back. "Now try it again, but this time aim for your enemy’s heart."

At the sound of approaching horses, Ranulf turned to see Jon and Ian entering the camp. As the inseparable twins dismounted, Jon breathlessly announced, "A reward has been posted for yer head, Ranulf!" "Yea," the second affirmed. "The reward is one hundred pieces of gold!" Ranulf smiled smugly, then sobered. "We’d best watch our backs more carefully than ever, in that case," he said. "No doubt greedy scoundrels will be looking for this camp, seeking my death, and they won’t care who else they have to kill to get it." Ranulf watched as Rolf’s breathing became shallow and fast, showing the worry he wouldn’t admit aloud. Rolf’s wife, Meg, was retching each morning, proving a babe was already well on the way. Young Rolf was brave enough, but he wanted safety for his wife and soon-to-be family. Ranulf couldn’t blame him for that -- ‘twas what he wanted for Brenna and Niel, as well. Of course, Brenna and Niel weren’t in danger from reward seekers. Instead, she faced the danger of becoming some lord’s unwilling bride. Ranulf winced. If there were some way to change that likely fate, he would do it. But unless the king... Nay he wouldn’t think about that. He’d already heard of the king’s first refusal. Only time would tell if the tides might change in his favor. Kings -- a Norman king at that -- were notorious for promising one thing, then delivering another, and this king hadn’t even promised...yet. He thought of what else Stephen had relayed during his latest visit. The news was wondrous, yet horrid. Brenna was with child again -- just as Meg was carrying a child for Rolf. The situation was near ludicrous. A lady widow who shouldn’t be pregnant at all, and a young girl who should be happy and content in her fruitful marriage, but instead had no idea if the next sound she heard might be the whoosh of an arrow that would end her young life. Not that Meg complained. Nay, she had taken the duty of cooking for the motley band of outlaws -- and they were grateful. Meg had a touch with whatever forage or game they could gather or hunt. By nightfall, each man always had a contented, full belly. Soon Brenna and Meg would have full, round bellies as well... What would happen? Stephen had warned him that King William would find Brenna a husband posthaste if he learned of the pregnancy. Ranulf understood that well enough. King William’s moral standards were widely known. It was even rumored that a man convicted of rape might well be castrated in the Norman king’s court. Of course the staunch monarch would find a husband for Brenna, to avoid the scandal of an obviously bastard child... "We could remove the posters, Ranulf," Jon said, breaking into Ranulf’s reverie. "They’re easy enough to find -- they’ve got yer picture drawn on them." "Yea, Ranulf," Ian chimed in. "We could do that." Ranulf shook his head. "No, no," he quickly said. "That would only get you killed, my friends." Jon and Ian were his most loyal men, but their plan was foolish. "Ned can hire a few extra guards to secure the camp. There’s no need to risk your lives." Once Ranulf had turned away, Jon and Ian exchanged glances, then nodded. Ignoring Ranulf’s warning, needing to end this new danger to their master, they quietly left the camp again.

The bleary-eyed guard responded to the pounding on Ravenwood’s gate. "What do ye want at this time of night?" he grumbled through the small gate portal. "Decent folk are sleeping..."

"I need milady Brenna," the youth responded breathlessly. "I if can’t see her, two men will surely die!" The guard left the portal momentarily then came back, pulling open the small, one-man opening in Ravenwood’s gate. "Cap’n says to let ye in to see the lady, whelp, but this best be important or I’ll box yer ears meself!" The youth nodded, then followed the burly guard as he puffed toward the manor house, up the dozen front stairs then pounded on the huge oak portal leading into the great hall. The door immediately opened, the guard told the youth’s tale, and within moments, he was being shown into Lady Brenna’s solar. Brenna tightened the sash on her flowing bed robe, then moved through the door between her bedchamber and solar. The lad awaiting her was bedraggled, impossibly thin, and obviously distraught. Instinctively, Brenna knew this had something to do with Ranulf -- or his men. "Milady," the child said, falling to his knees. "Milady, they’re going to hang Ian and Jon! They’ll hang ‘em if we don’t rescue ‘em. Will you help, milady? Will you?" His words had rushed out, leaving him winded, and Brenna shook her head. Kneeling herself, she took his dirty face in her hands and said, "Be calm, child, and tell me again, slowly this time. Why are Ian and Jon about to be hung?" The urchin took a deep breath, then another, and finally replied. "They were caught stealing the king’s wanted posters for Ranulf, milady," he said. "The sheriff’s guard caught them, and they’re to be hung at sunrise as an example to all!" Brenna felt the color drain from her face. "Dear Lord," she said, rising and pacing. "They’re only children themselves, or at least barely men, and just a little addlebrained..." She turned back to the youth. "Where is Ranulf?" she asked. "He and most of the men are gone, milady. I don’t rightly know where, but I went to his camp first, and there was no one there save Meg, Rolf and Ned, and they can’t leave the camp unguarded. That’s when I decided to come here for help." "You know where Ranulf’s camp is, then," Brenna murmured, realizing she hadn’t even thought whether or not she could trust this child. This could be a trap! "Aye, milady," he answered. "Me uncle’s Ned, and I run errands for him and milord Ranulf. They pay me, ye see, and my mam, she needs the help." He bowed his head, seeming ashamed of that fact, then straightened again. "‘Tain’t no shame in working for outlaws when they’re helping folks instead of hurting ‘em." His chin thrust out, nearly daring her to deny that truth. Brenna had to laugh. The youth was obviously no threat to her, or Ranulf. "Wait here," she told him, then left the chamber, telling the guard beyond the door to fetch Robbie O’Meadhra, then telling a sleepy maidservant to fetch a plate of food for her visitor. Ducking into her bedchamber, she dressed quickly and quietly while waiting for Robbie, a plan already taking shape in her mind... Robbie was still wiping sleep from his eyes when Brenna returned to her solar. The youth was busily eating some crusty bread and cheese, washed down with a tankard of goat’s milk, and he barely looked up as Brenna poured her captain of the guard a good portion of ale. "Drink this, Robbie," she said, thrusting the cup into his hands. "‘Twill help brush the cobwebs from your head." Robbie gratefully accepted, then listened as she related the youth’s tale -- and her own ideas for saving

the twins. By the time she was finished, he was shaking his head. Wiping remnants of ale off his drooping mustache, he said, "Nay, milady, it won’t work. You must stay here, and stay safe." But Brenna was adamant. "My plan will work, Robbie O’Meadhra," she insisted. "If there’s one thing I understand, it’s how a man thinks. Put a girl in front of him, who seems to be offering her favors, and he’ll never notice another man working behind his back." Robbie grumbled, and Brenna lifted her chin. "Must I make it an order, Robbie?" she asked. "Nay, milady," Robbie acquiesced. "I don’t like it, but we’ll do as you suggest." He turned to look at the child who had come to warn them, but with his belly full, the youth was curled up before the hearth, fast asleep. Robbie smiled for the first time and said, "We’ll leave him here. He’s already done his job very well." Brenna agreed, covering the lad with a warm woolen blanket, then left with Robbie O’Meadhra for King ’s Vale -- and Ranulf’s all-too-loyal but foolhardy men.

Swirls of mist and a quarter moon helped obscure their passage, with Brenna riding a nondescript grey gelding, a simple hooded cloak hiding her identity, and Robbie similarly disguised. To any who might notice at this near-midnight hour, they looked like weary merchants seeking an inn. The King’s Vale sheriff owned a fine manor house at the outskirts of town, but prisoner housing was near the center of activity -- to dissuade cutthroats and cutpurses from their normal trade. The structure was old, crumbling, but still formidable. Brenna’s heart thumped as she and Robbie dismounted near the jail. She had no doubt how Ranulf would feel about this, especially considering her pregnancy, but what else could she do, leave Ian and Jon to hang? Nay, she couldn’t. Even Robbie O’Meadhra knew that and hadn’t argued all that strongly against her plan. Steeling her nerves, Brenna approached the jail’s stout oak door, knocking timidly, then striking what she hoped was a seductive pose... By the light of the street torches, she saw the jailer’s expression, and in a voice deeper than usual, she said, "I thought you might be hungry, sir," holding up the basket filled with fresh-baked bread, cheese and a flagon of ale, which she had hurriedly prepared in Ravenwood’s kitchens. She saw him lick his lips, then watched his eyes devour her breasts, then her hips, beneath the thin cloak. Taking a deep breath to push out her chest, then moving her hips just the littlest bit, she added, "Would you welcome...company?" The man’s eyes bulged, and he stood back, opening the door more fully. As Brenna followed him into the chamber, Robbie O’Meadhra eased in behind them, then hid in the shadows as Brenna turned and closed the door herself. She noticed the fully-loaded crossbow by the jailer’s chair and shuddered, setting the basket on the only table in the dimly-lit room. There was so much that could go wrong in the next few moments... A sound from the back of the chamber caught her attention, and Brenna gulped, then said, "You’re such a strong, handsome fellow," at the same time boldly approaching the now seated man and putting her hands on his shoulders. His hair was matted with grease, his face pock-marked and his breath sour, but all that mattered naught. He must believe she found him attractive. He smiled up at her. "Give us a kiss then, sweeting," he said. Brenna’s stomach turned over. "Nay," she answered flirtatiously. "Not until you’ve eaten all this fine food

I’ve brought." Another sound from the back of the chamber, a slight scraping...? The jailer laughed heartily, then dug into the basket. Finding the flagon of ale, he emptied a good portion into his mouth, then ripped off some bread and cheese, chewing noisily and belching. Brenna breathed a sigh of relief. Who could hear anything over all that? Before his meal was finished, she saw Robbie nod from the shadows. Ian and Jon were with him, frightened but silent. Setting the flagon aside, the man patted his lap. "And now for that kiss..." Brenna eased closer, as if to comply, then suddenly turned on her heel and ran for the door. Pulling it open, she yelled, "Run!" Robbie, Ian and Jon obeyed her order without question, barreling through the chamber and out the door before the jailer found his feet. Robbie and Jon mounted one horse, Ian the other, holding out his hand for Brenna, who was only steps behind. Ian pulled her up behind him, and the sound of pounding hooves penetrated the misty night, followed by a bellow of outrage. Brenna heard the distinctive sound of a crossbow releasing -- felt the awful pain in her left shoulder -- but clung to Ian for dear life...

Ranulf was bone tired, so weary he was nearly asleep as he rode. He and his men had successfully defeated a band of raping marauders -- scoundrels who took pleasure in defiling innocents and robbing good, decent folk of all they had. He had to laugh tiredly at the thought. Was he really any better than them? "Why do you laugh, Ranulf?" Geoff asked, just as tired himself. "‘Tis nothing," Ranulf replied. "I was just contemplating my chances of attaining heaven." "In this life or the next?" Geoff asked, smiling a little in the darkness. Ranulf sighed, then smiled too. "I’ve had all the happiness in Brenna’s arms that I’m entitled in this life," he admitted. "But I don’t think my chances of that heaven" -- he pointed to the mist-swirled skies -- "are all that good." "You might be surprised," Geoff said, sobering. "We’ve done far more good than evil. Do you really think that deserves an eternity in hell?" Before he could answer they were approaching the well-hidden camp, and Jon and Ian were running out, taking hold of their reins, talking at the same time. "They saved us--" "Robbie unlocked the door--" "Lady Brenna fed the guard--" "They had horses--" "The guard fired his crossbow--"

"Lady Brenna was hit..." At the last words, Ranulf’s heart stopped. It wasn’t hard to figure out that Ian and Jon had been arrested, and Robbie and Brenna had freed them, but the rest... Dismounting in one leap, he took Jon’s shoulders and shook them hard. "What do you mean, Lady Brenna was hit," he nearly snarled. "My God, man, where is she?" Jon swallowed hard. "She’s at Ravenwood," he answered. "Robbie sent Ian and me to the camp and took her home." Within instants, Ranulf was mounted again, turning his stallion and galloping toward Ravenwood. Oh, God, oh, God! What if she died? The ride was fast and furious and, by good fortune, quite lonely. Ranulf was taking no precautions against recognition in this dismal pre-dawn. But on approaching the manor, he slowed the horse and took a deep breath. The last thing he needed was to draw suspicion to Brenna, or Ravenwood. Obviously, the guard had not recognized her, else even now Ravenwood would be surrounded by the sheriff’s men. Dismounting and tying his sweating horse to a nearby tree, Ranulf carefully and quietly made his way to Ravenwood’s postern gate. Knowing the secret of the latch, he was within Ravenwood’s walls in mere moments, then scaling Brenna’s balcony, using the stone hand and foot holds he’d found so long ago -long before he’d fallen in love with the mother of his child. Nay, the mother of his children, now that she was pregnant again. That thought gave him pause, even as he scaled the wall. By God, the wench should be... He couldn’t finish the thought. She’d only tried to help, and she might be dying, or dead, because of it. The balcony door was unlatched, and Ranulf eased through the portal, his heart in his throat. Knowing not what he would find, he entered her chamber, then whooshed the air from his lungs. Brenna was sitting up in bed, pale but very much alive, Emma fussing with a bandage on her left shoulder. The next emotion Ranulf felt was anger, short-lived but intense. She could have died for her foolishness! Approaching the bed with long strides, he merely nodded when Emma gasped, and Brenna smiled weakly. Emma left the chamber without a word, understanding evident in her motherly face, and Brenna’ s smile slowly faded. "Don’t be angry, my love," she said, her voice a mere whisper. "My plan worked. Ian and Jon are safe." ‘Twas the weakness in her voice that gave him pause again. Was she near death after all, from loss of blood? He sat carefully beside her, lifting her right hand, looking closely at the nail beds. They were pink, not blue, and looking up again, he breathed out another relieved sigh. Her lips were pink, too, not the blue tinge of impending death from blood loss. Leaning forward, he kissed those sweet, warm lips, then said, "If you ever do something like that again, I’ll..." Brenna pressed a finger to his lips. "Hush," she said. "Cease the useless threats and kiss me again, my lord Outlaw." Ranulf cursed softly, shook his head, then carefully pulled her into his arms, and complied.

CHAPTER TEN

Brenna recovered quickly from her wound. "‘Twas a mere scratch," she kept telling Ranulf. "I’ve done worse harm to myself in Ravenwood’s kitchens." Ranulf didn’t believe that for a minute, but he admired her unflagging courage. She was a wonderful woman. He wished she could be his wife. That was impossible, of course. As the countryside blossomed into full spring and then the lushness of summer, King William still had not granted Ranulf’s pardon. Stephen Dubois, acting as Ranulf’s emissary, had tried more than once to sway the monarch’s opinion, but though the king grudgingly acknowledged the many worthwhile deeds of Ranulf’s band, Ranulf remained an outlaw with a price on his head. The only good bit of news from Stephen was that apparently, so far at least, they had been successful in hiding Brenna’s pregnancy from the Norman king. Ranulf had finally admitted he and Brenna could not stay apart, but their times together were bittersweet, secret, wrenched from the fabric that had become their lives. Most often, he was the one to use the postern gate and attain her chamber, but sometimes she came to him at the hidden camp, and from time to time he was able to see his son. Niel was three now, rambunctious and boisterous, full of life, and Ranulf loved him with all his heart. Now, in late August, Brenna’s belly was rounding gently with the child she carried. Sometimes Ranulf felt his heart swell to near bursting at the thought of having a second family, a second chance at life. No matter what happened between he and the Norman king, these children were his immortality, the new heirs to Ravenwood. In that fact, at least, he was more than pleased with his life. Especially when Brenna was beside him, sated and asleep, as she was now. Dear Lord, how he loved her! Feeling mischievous, wanting to awaken her and make love again, he picked a wildflower from the lush meadow surrounding them and slowly began tickling her slightly-rounded, very bare, belly. Before she could stir, a lump formed in his throat. That slight roundness was his child, growing in her womb. He leaned over and oh so gently kissed the spot where his offspring lay. Brenna awakened as he did so, laughing softly, then caressing his head. "Good morrow, my lord Outlaw," she said, sleep still thick in her voice. "Good morrow to you, sweetness," he replied, kissing her belly again, gently, then moving up to include her ripening breasts. She gasped, tensing with excitement, as he sucked her nipples, first one, then the other, his hand finding her bud of feminine joy and bringing it to pulsing life. He was as naked as she, and when she grasped his manhood, his groans matched her own. Very soon he was between her widespread thighs, thrusting to ecstasy, giving her ultimate completion as well. In the aftermath, hunger finally reared its head, and they gorged themselves on the basket of food Meg had provided for their special time alone -- a time when by mutual agreement they never talked, nor even thought about, the precarious state of their happiness. Still nude, but gloriously unconcerned in this very secluded spot, Brenna sat cross-legged, devouring bread and cheese, washing it down with a flagon of clear spring water. "This is so good, there are no words to describe it," she crooned, finishing the last morsel, then licking her dainty fingers clean. Ranulf felt his manhood rise again at the sight. Reaching into the basket, he produced a pot of honey, smiling wickedly. Pushing her gently to her back, he spread the sticky substance on her nipples and nether lips, then licked it off with maddening strokes of his tongue, bringing her to pleasure two times before she picked up the honey pot herself. Lying back, Ranulf accepted her intention, breathing heavily, deeply flushed with trying to hold back, then finally erupting into her sweet mouth, at her insistence. He’d

never in his life had a woman drink his seed. His heart nearly burst with love for this woman, this wonderful girl who should be his wife, but never could be. Brenna was hungry again within the hour. She laughed outright as she ate the rest of their food. "‘Tis the babe. Will you still love me when I’m as round as an ale barrel?" Ranulf kissed her nose. "I’ll love you no matter what, sweetheart. I didn’t see you blossom with Niel. I’m looking forward to it with this child." "A very politic thing to say," Brenna replied, laughing softly, "and I choose to believe it." Stretching out on her back, with one slender knee bent, she studied the clouds for a time, then said, "Do you know what I’ ve been craving?" "Nay," Ranulf replied, reaching for a silky lock of honeysuckle-scented golden hair, letting it run through his fingers. "Why don’t you tell me?" "Norse herring. Smoked Norse herring," she replied, sighing. "I even dream about it." She turned to face him. "‘Tis foolish, isn’t it? A grown woman craving a delicacy not even found in King’s Vale." Lying back, she studied the clouds again, then fell into slumber, a small smile on her face. Ranulf watched her, not waking her this time, and an idea came to mind. Brenna asked so little of him, nothing really, other than his love. Why shouldn’t she have her smoked Norse herring? He knew just where to buy it -- at a particular shop in London. The old Danish merchant specialized in northern water delicacies. Aye, he decided, enjoying the utter peace of his beloved’s slumber. ‘Twould be safe enough if he wore the mask disguise; he would go to London, soon.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Brutus de Roches looked down at the bruised, crumpled body and smiled. That should teach the bloody strumpet who’s in charge, he thought. He expected her to come back to her senses at any moment, this time being obedient to anything he asked. But the girl didn’t move -- she was so very still -- and for the first time, Brutus felt a twinge of unease. Whore she might be, as all women were, but she was also well-born. Killing her was never his intent. "Damn the bitch!" he swore, realizing she was indeed quite dead. His only thought now was of survival. He must not be caught! King William had reluctantly welcomed him back to court after the skirmish at Ravenwood, finding no unforgivable fault in fair battle. But if found guilty of a noblewoman’s death by beating, surely Brutus would hang. One meaty hand went to his throat, and he swallowed hard with the thought. The wench had been a virgin until two days ago, when he’d forced her to his will. The king might well have him castrated before he hung. Everyone knew how William the Bastard felt about rape. Turning away from the dead girl, Brutus de Roches vomited, spewing bile across the polished floor. The idea of losing his manhood was even worse than the thought of having his neck stretched. He must leave this inn...he must save himself. Fleeing, his mind whirling, Brutus didn’t see the innkeeper look up from the bar he was wiping. The man

shrugged at the antics of noblemen; ‘twas none of his concern. Hours later, when the woman’s body was discovered, the innkeeper searched his mind for a name but could find none. He could only tell the king’s guard that the man had been wealthy, and large of frame, with a rather unkempt beard. Frowning, the guards left, knowing that could describe half of London’s noblemen or wealthy merchants. Lord Mountbane, the dead girl’s father, and the king would be equally displeased. King William wanted the scoundrel found posthaste, and Mountbane was overcome with grief, and rage. He wanted to remove the bastard’s genitals himself. Before a sennight had passed, Stephen Dubois had been called to the walled city, riding directly to the king’s residence. Dismounting and handing his reins to a young stable lad, his boots clicked rhythmically in the cobblestoned courtyard as he approached the huge oaken doors leading to the king’s hall. "Good day, milord," the footman said, welcoming the lord of Almswick with due respect. "The king is expecting you. I believe you will find him in his private chambers." Stephen nodded, handing his cloak to a young maidservant, who blushed prettily as she curtsied, taking his garment. Emotion clogged his throat. The heinously murdered girl couldn’t have been much older than this one. "My liege," he said, dropping to one knee and bowing his head as he was shown into to the king’s chamber. "Rise, Stephen," William replied. "We have much to discuss." King William stood somewhat shorter than Stephen, but his profoundly commanding presence filled the room. Stephen had great admiration for his king. He was fairminded and moral, just as outraged as Stephen at the cruel rape and murder of Lady Florence, Lord Mountbane’s youngest daughter. The king had been in London, enjoying a brief respite from the continuing rebellion in the northern shires, when the girl had died. Stephen knew he would oversee the investigation himself. Rising, Stephen said, "How goes the war, sire?" "Nearly over, Stephen," William replied, obviously weary. "By midsummer, I think we will have won." "And will the northern shires accept your rule now?" "After three bloody years of rebellion, yes, I think they shall." Stephen nodded, then took the seat the king offered. "Stephen, I’ve heard some very disturbing rumors about who might have killed Lady Florence." Stephen leaned forward in his chair. "Rumor lays the fault on Brutus de Roches." Stephen swore softly, then shook his head. "I wouldn’t doubt it, sire," he said. "The man showed his true colors at Ravenwood. His temperament is dangerous, unstable and cruel. I can’t think of a likelier foe to have committed this terrible crime." "But the man served me well, very well, in earlier years, Stephen," the king added. "I cannot forget that. He even took a wound in battle that nearly caused his death." "Aye," Stephen agreed. "There is that. Then what will you have me do, my lord?"

William squared his shoulder and sighed deeply. "I want you to prove it, one way or the other, Stephen. Prove his guilt, or innocence." Stephen nodded again. "Of course, my liege. Your will is my command." William pulled a cord, and within moments servants brought a light repast. Over wine, Stephen said, "Have you been considering Ranulf the Outlaw’s pardon, my lord?" William chuckled. "Somehow I knew that rogue would come up. Non, my friend, I haven’t had time to think on the knave. Although I will admit that his exploits have become fodder for the minstrels, and the ladies swoon on merely hearing his name." "He’s a good man, William," Stephen reiterated, boldly using the king’s first name. "He’s done more for the countryside surrounding Ravenwood, and even Almswick, than your guards ever had before his arrival." William reddened slightly, then nodded, looking tired again. "Oui, Stephen, I know this is true. So much of my army has been posted to the rebellion, it leaves the peaceful southern shires lacking protection." He rubbed a hand across his chin. "With the forthcoming end to that fractious uprising, this kingdom will finally have peace." "For a time," Stephen added. "Yes," the king agreed. "Only for a time, as men will be men." Stephen waited with baited breath for William to relay any further rumors. When none were forthcoming, he breathed a sigh of relief. Obviously, the king still had no knowledge of Lady Brenna’s pregnancy. That truth wouldn’t hold much longer, of course, unless Brenna retired to her chambers for the duration of her confinement. And even then, the child’s birth would have to be registered, reported to the king. Aye, time was running out. Ranulf needed a pardon...and Lady Brenna needed a husband. Stephen sighed as gustily as the king just had. If only they could wed each other! "My lord," he ventured, "if you should grant Ranulf’s pardon, will you restore his title, mayhap give him an estate to replace what he’s lost?" The king snorted. "You don’t ask much, do you, my lord of Almswick." Stephen felt heat rising in his face. "Perhaps I ask too much," he conceded. William laughed outright. "Oui, Stephen, much too much. The knave was a scourge to the same area he now protects in the year following Hastings. Why should I grant him more than his neck, if I do indeed pardon his crimes?" "Mayhap because you admitted yourself that Nathan de Rouen went well beyond your writ, raping and killing Ranulf’s wife and daughter and executing his son." That barb hit home. With Lady Florence’s murder still so fresh in the monarch’s mind, reminding him of an even greater atrocity had its intended effect. "Your point is well taken, my lord," William said a little formally. "I’ll think on all this, but for now, you have your task. Do it well, and then we will discuss the outlaw’s future." Stephen rose, then dropped to one knee, knowing the audience had ended. "Aye, my liege," he said. "I shall do my very best."

"That I would never doubt, Stephen," the king said, rising himself. "Go now. I’ll expect you back in this chamber in three days time." "Aye, milord." Stephen took his leave, reclaimed his destrier and headed into crowded, boisterous Londontown, riding along the river toward the inn where the men who had accompanied him awaited their orders. He’d spent enough time here nearly five years ago to still have some reliable contacts, and men he could count on to search out facts. If Brutus de Roches was guilty, Stephen Dubois, and his men, would soon prove it. He only hoped the brute was guilty. The world would be better off without him. As it turned out, it took less than three days to prove Brutus de Roches guilt. On further questioning, the innkeeper had no trouble at all identifying the lesser baron, and the words of a serving wench sealed de Roches’ fate. "Aye, he was here right enough, milord," the girl said. "Lord Brutus is his name, ye say? Been here often enough afore, he has." Looking around before continuing, she added, "I heard an awful row that night amongst himself and the lady, I did, then blows...and finally nothing." She bit her lower lip. "I guess that’s when she died. Do you think this Lord Brutus killed her, milord?" "I do, indeed," Stephen affirmed. "And you say they were having a row before the beating? Was the lady here against her will?" The maid looked uncertain, chewing her lower lip again. "‘Tain’t my place to say, milord," she finally answered. "But the lady didn’t seem too happy about keepin’ company with his lordship...I best get back to me work now..." And she scurried down the hall. Stephen frowned. It sounded very much like Brutus was guilty of more than murder. If Lady Florence hadn’t come willingly, he was also guilty of rape. King William received him early the next day, listened to his findings then turned to a guard. "Have Lord Brutus brought to my chambers at once."

Brutus de Roches thought he’d covered his guilt well enough. He’d heard a rumor or two, but nothing substantial. He was even considering finding another wench to warm his bed, when the king’s guard appeared at his door. Sweat broke out on his forehead, trickling down his thick neck, and yet his throat was bone dry. With one guard on each side, Brutus began the walk he knew would end in doom. Why had he stayed in his chambers here at the king’s hall? He should have left the city...the country! No! He could not die! Desperate beyond reason, and still bull-strong, Brutus suddenly lurched to the right, then swung toward the left, kicking one guard in his most vulnerable spot. As the man doubled over, grey with gruesome pain, Brutus pulled a long knife from his boot. Turning to the other startled young guard, he sliced the man’s throat cleanly open, watching with pleasure as the youth stared in shock at his own blood on his hands, then crumpled to the floor. A piercing scream in the hallway brought Brutus around. He hadn’t realized how far they’d come. He was nearly to the king’s chamber! More importantly, he was at the queen’s apartment, and the screaming

woman was one of her handmaidens. Queen Matilda herself was a few feet behind the girl, and Brutus made a decision, a desperate plan. Grabbing the young girl, he put the bloody knife to her slender white throat. "Open the door to the queen ’s chamber," he growled to another maiden. The girl nearly fainted, but did as she was told. Queen Matilda, pulling herself up to her full height, said simply, "And now what, sirrah? Will you kill us all where we stand?" Brutus could hear the footfalls of guards running down the hall. He had so little time... Shoving the girl away, he lunged and grabbed the queen instead. Shocked silence followed that audacious move, and he took that time to haul the queen backwards, into her own apartment, holding her by the hair, holding the long bloody knife tightly against her throat.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Ranulf didn’t like London. It was too crowded, too dirty, and besides all that, the idea of being recognized -- and hung -- held little appeal to a man with a price on his head. But he grinned, realizing none of that really mattered. His lady love had wanted salted Norse herring, and Norse herring she would have, ‘twas as simple as that. He’d just arranged it with the local merchant; on the morrow, six barrels of the foodstuff would be delivered to Ravenwood. Now all Ranulf need do was escape London, most especially this part of London, before being caught. He was too near old King Edward’s residence, now the Norman king’s home. Descending the merchant’s stairway, Ranulf’s attention was drawn by some lively commotion across the road. From his vantage point, Ranulf could see the garden wall of the king’s residence, above that the house itself and the balcony of a rear chamber. Guards were even now rushing toward the house; frantic female voices shouting from within. The next thing Ranulf saw drew a low curse from his throat. Brutus de Roches! He was on that balcony, holding a woman hostage, a knife to her throat. Ranulf bounded down the remaining stairs, crossed the cobblestoned road and sought the dark shadows of late afternoon. Keeping close to the garden wall, he moved closer to the residence, then scaled the wall at its nearest point to the house. Jumping down the other side, he looked quickly left, then right. This back garden ended at the river, with King William’s barge easily visible. No guards remained at the mooring; they were instead running toward the disturbance. After spending months avoiding capture and foiling devious plans -- not to mention scaling Brenna’s balcony on many occasions -- Ranulf found climbing this one, still under the cover of shadowy darkness, mere child’s play. Before any of the guards had even reached the ground below, he was over the rail and approaching de Roches from behind, as quietly and gracefully as a very large cat seeking its prey. For a mere second’s distraction, he noted the king himself coming into the room, followed by none other than Stephen Dubois. Dubois saw Ranulf, nodded the tiniest bit in acceptance, then physically held the king back, whispering in his ear. Ranulf paid little attention to that drama, though. The brute had nicked

the woman’s throat, and seeing the small trickle of blood drove Ranulf into action. He had no idea who the woman was, but it mattered naught. Reaching out with strong hands, he grabbed both de Roches’ arms in an iron grip, pulling them away from the woman, who crumpled to the floor. The knife clattered to the flagstones, and then Ranulf turned and literally threw de Roches from the balcony. The man’s piercing scream filled the air, followed by a dull, sickening thud. Ranulf knelt beside the woman, holding two fingers to her neck and feeling a pulse. Nodding, he started to rise when a maidservant exclaimed "Your Highness!" as she approached the lady just now regaining her senses. Ranulf looked up and caught Dubois’s gaze again. The king and his entourage were crossing the large room, flanked by guards. Realizing who he’d just saved from de Roches, Ranulf nearly smiled. It certainly couldn’t hurt his plea for pardon that he’d just saved the queen’s life! But he’d spent too much time here already, and nodding one last time to Dubois, Ranulf sprang to his feet and reached the balcony rail in the space of two breaths. De Roches was not lying dead on the ground! The scoundrel must have the Devil’s own lifeblood, Ranulf decided, cursing roundly. De Roches was even now running toward the river for all he was worth, the guards following hampered by chain mail, their lances thrown, but the Devil’s spawn evaded them all. Ranulf watched the wily villain gain the river’s edge, then disappear into the frothing water. Ranulf sighed and shook his head. None would follow the brute into the river--any man who dared would drown in his own armor. Knowing there was nothing more to be done, Ranulf leapt from the balcony to the garden, purposely loosening his joints to ease the fall, then rolling and sprinting for the dark shadows again. The guards and growing crowd were far more interested in the swimmer than the man leaving the garden, over the wall. Within a matter of moments, Ranulf was leaving London behind. Stephen Dubois reached the balcony moments after Ranulf fled. He hid a smile, then frowned at the obvious escape -- again -- of Lord de Roches. Queen Matilda was already up and being pampered, a soft, scented cloth pressed to the slight nick from de Roches’ knife. William was by her side, of course, but Stephen couldn’t resist saying, "My liege, do you know who that was that saved your queen’s life?" The king shook his head, personally holding the cloth to Matilda’s throat. "‘Twas Ranulf the Outlaw -- the man seeking your pardon." The king looked startled, then thoughtful, and finally grunted. "Gall and courage. I could have used a man like that in the northern shires." Stephen didn’t press the point. The king would decide in his own good time, but surely the scales had just tipped in Ranulf’s favor.

A full moon had risen, gold and glorious, as Ranulf reached Ravenwood, dismounting at the nearby stream. Using dry meadow grass, he rubbed the sweat from his tired gelding, then led him to the stream. Tethered securely, the animal lowered his graceful head and sipped water. Ranulf had used this hiding

place many a time -- even when he was a young, carefree boy -- and knew the horse would be safe all night. He needed to see Brenna, needed to tell her what had transpired in London. Using the postern gate, he eased into the manor courtyard, then crept along the stone wall toward her balcony. But some instinct told him to turn, and he saw her. She was standing in the manor’s chapel doorway, the portly cleric of Ravenwood at her side. He suddenly realized their conversation was not congenial, and Brenna’s words reached him on the cool night air... "Aye, Father," she said, "I am with child. I’ll not deny it any longer." Ranulf drew in a sharp breath. What was she doing? The priest nodded, his face grim. "You have committed a whore’s sin, Lady Brenna." He stood taller, more rigid. "I will, of course, send word to the bishop, and he in turn will report this...atrocity...to the king." Brenna seemed to wilt. "Please, Father," she began, reaching out and grasping his sleeve. "I don’t want the king to find me a husband! Not yet...not when..." "Not when she’ll be marrying me." Ranulf didn’t remember moving toward them, but he was there now, and placing an arm around Brenna, he repeated his bold declaration. "The child is mine, Father." The cleric’s eyes widened. "I have no pardon from the king yet, but I will marry Lady Brenna this very night. Even if I’m caught and hung, the child will not be born bastard." For the first time in his life, Father Peter was dumbstruck. His mouth gaped open, but no sound came out. Ranulf couldn’t help laughing. "Is it really such a shock, Father?" he asked when he could. "You surely must know by now that I love this woman." Father Peter clamped his mouth shut, then cleared his throat. He thought for a time, obviously going through the various complications, then cleared his throat again, more loudly, and said, "As you are the son of Ravenwood, Ranulf the Outlaw, and the declared father of milady’s child, I see no option but to concur. I shall marry you." Brenna looked stunned. But happy. Turning to Ranulf, she buried her head against his chest. "You’re taking such a risk even being here -- out in the open -- but dear Lord, I’m glad you’ve come." He lifted her chin and kissed her deeply and well, ignoring the sputtering man behind them. "Gather your witnesses, Father," he finally said, his eyes still on Brenna. "You’ve a wedding to perform." The priest left to carry out the chore, and Ranulf pulled Brenna into the cool, dark chapel. "And now, my lady wife, I will kiss you before God Himself." Brenna uttered a single distressed moan at the sacrilege, then melted into his arms.

Cook was weeping openly, even Robbie O’Meadhra had a tear in his eye, Matthieu was smiling from

ear to ear, and Robbie’s wife, Emma, simply beamed with happiness. Father Peter decided that he had, indeed, done the right thing. There might be a hefty fine to pay, and the new husband might not live long enough to see his child born, but who could deny this man and woman were meant for each other in the eyes of God? The wedding had been a simple affair, but somehow, despite the late hour, word had spread among the manor folk. All of Ravenwood shared the joy of their lord and lady -- to them, of course, Ranulf the Outlaw was their true lord. Hastily prepared though it was, the celebration went on until dawn. Even young Niel took part in the impromptu event. As the first cock crowed his greeting to the morning, Ranulf lifted his sleepy wife and took her up to bed. Setting her down gently in the chamber, he deftly removed her tunic, undergown, chemise. When she stood naked before him, her belly beautifully rounded with his babe, he sucked in a raw breath. "You are so beautiful, my love," he said. Her cheeks pinkened as she tried to cover herself. "Nay, I’m not," she countered. "I’m as round as Matthieu’s prize sow." Ranulf chuckled, then scooped her up in his arms and strode to the massive feather bed. Quickly removing his own clothes, he climbed in beside her, then took a plump nipple between finger and thumb. She whimpered, arching her back, as he toyed with the sensitive bud, then moaned with ecstasy as he bent to suckle strongly. Finally raising his head, but moving his hand between her thighs, he said, "Aye, my love, you are beautiful...and I need you now." She nodded, breathless, then accepted his deeply possessive kiss, whimpering again as he spread her thighs and thrust home. At first she thought it was the pounding of her heart, but the next thing Brenna heard was a loud banging -- on the chamber door. Ranulf became immediately alert, withdrawing and rising, still naked and aroused, to stand beside the bed. Brenna pulled the linen sheeting over her bared breasts, and at that very moment the chamber door burst open. Robbie stood there, eyes wide, shimmering with unshed tears. His work-worn hands held a rolled parchment. Brenna knew without asking that it was a writ for Ranulf’s arrest. "Dear God," she whispered as the sheriff’s guard she had fooled strode into the room, his pock-marked face grinning malevolently at what he’d found. Then his eyes narrowed on Brenna, and his mouth thinned into a cruel line. "Did you think I wouldn’t figure out who ‘twas came to the jail that night, lady?" he sneered. "Yer only lucky the sheriff has no need of a wench in his jail, or ye’d be coming with me tonight, too." More men barreled into the room, so many Ranulf couldn’t possibly escape. In very little time they had him yoked and shackled like an animal, not even allowing him the respect of clothing. Brenna’s heart broke, seeing his stooped posture in the monstrous contraption. Not caring who saw her, she left the bed, dragging the linen sheeting with her. Boldly approaching the king’s prisoner, daring anyone to stop her, she took his face between trembling hands and kissed him with the greatest gentleness. He kissed her back, more deeply than she had begun, then whispered, "Send for Dubois. Tell him what

has happened. The king can’t want this now. I was in London..." "You went to London?" Brenna couldn’t help interrupting. He nodded, then shook his head when she would have said more. "I ordered some Norse herring for you--" In spite of everything, Brenna couldn’t help smiling at the gesture "--and while there, I..." "Enough of that, now," the guard groused. "One moment more...please," Brenna begged, allowing the sheet to drop enough to reveal the top of one plump breast. She didn’t care what it took. Somehow she knew what Ranulf was about to say was terribly important. Noting the loosened sheet, flushed with victory, the guard nodded his consent. Ranulf continued. "While there, I saved the queen’s life from Brutus de Roches!" Brenna gasped, then nodded herself. The deputy was moving closer again, within hearing. "I’ll send for Lord Stephen, husband. I’ll send Robbie to Almswick this very hour." Ranulf smiled at the term husband, and Brenna knew what he was thinking. As they pulled him from the room with little regard for his cramped, torturous position, he was thinking the babe she carried would not be born bastard -- even if Ranulf the Outlaw hanged. She rushed to the balcony as the chamber door shut, followed closely by Emma. Tears washed down her face as she watched them load her beloved into a cart filled with rotting straw. "My God, Emma," she cried, turning into the maidservant’s ample breast. "My God. My God." It was all she could say, and Robbie O’Meadhra, standing behind Emma, allowed his lady her tears, not interrupting for the short time it took to cleanse her spirits. Then, clearing his throat, he drew her attention. Eyes red-rimmed, crystal tears still shimmering in their blue depths, Brenna nodded. "Did you hear what he told me, Robbie?" "Aye, milady. I heard," Robbie confirmed. "Would you have me go to Lord Stephen now?" "Yes," Brenna answered, then sagged against the balcony rail. "This is all my fault. If I hadn’t gone to King’s Vale that night to rescue Jon and Ian, none of this would have happened at all." "‘Tis true, milady," Robbie said, "but Jon and Ian would be long dead by now if you hadn’t." Brenna knew that. But, oh, dear Lord, it hurt so much to see Ranulf taken away like a common murderer! Looking up, she continued. "The king knows every good deed Ranulf and his men have done. I cannot believe he will honor this arrest writ, not when Ranulf saved the queen’s life." Robbie still held the offensive parchment in his hands. Tightening his grip on the document, he said, "Aye, Lady Brenna. Surely you’re right." Before the hour was out, Robbie O’Meadhra and several guards were on their way to Almswick to fetch Stephen Dubois. Brenna watched them leave from the gates of Ravenwood. "God’s speed," she whispered, a new tear slowly rolling down her pale cheek.

They had decided to take him directly to London, fearing his own men would free him somehow from King’s Vale. The burly sheriff’s guard rode beside the cart holding his prisoner, feeling smug and content -- and wealthy. His grin widened over rotting teeth. The sheriff had told him the reward would be his, if Ranulf was delivered to the king’s dungeon in London and out of his hands. Baolf could do that with no problem, he assured himself. The outlaw was trussed as tightly as a reluctant wench ready for raping. Aye, he’d deliver the lout to London, all right, and then live on the reward coin for a good, long time. The sun was bright and hot that late summer day, and Baolf offered his prisoner no water during the long hours of the trip, and no way to relieve himself. He smiled again at the thought. He knew the man had just married the whoring widow, Brenna de Rouen. He also knew the arrest had interrupted their mating. The outlaw should be mighty uncomfortable by now, with pent up juices of all kinds. Baolf looked down at the prisoner, cursing under his foul breath. The man lay there, not complaining, not moving, looking for all the world like he was at peace with himself. Ha! The guard thought. What could a thief have to feel peaceful about? He was about to be hung, wasn’t he? Baolf chewed on that thought all the way to London. As they arrived at the king’s residence in late afternoon, his anger was boiling. Not once had Ranulf asked for anything, nor begged for mercy, nor said a single word. The outlaw’s stoicism was rubbing Baolf raw, and he decided to break through it, once and for all. Handing over the arrest writ to the dungeon master, Ranulf stooped over beside him, Baolf slyly said, "Here’s the scum that there writ is for." The master of guards nodded, looking over the writ, then the new prisoner, and Baolf continued. "We caught him fucking his whore, Lady Brenna de Rouen." He laughed uproariously at the respectful title, the master joining him in the hilarity. Just as Baolf had surmised, that was too much for Ranulf. He saw red. Blood red, demon red. He’d held his peace during the hours of captivity, saying nothing, asking nothing, unwilling to give this miscreant any further enjoyment. Brenna was safe -- the sheriff wanted nothing of her, the guard had admitted that much -- and Niel and the new babe were safe, too. His own life mattered little now, and in any case, King William might grant his pardon this very day. But hearing Brenna besmirched was more than he could tolerate. Heart pumping with anger, strong as an enraged bull, Ranulf hurled himself full force at the foul-mouthed sheriff’s guard, sending him flying into the nearest wall. Other men ran to the scene, and Ranulf was soon subdued again, but the jailer sported a deformed left wrist when he finally climbed to his feet. Ranulf smiled. "Have you injured yourself, sir?" he asked, his voice dripping honey. Baolf ignored him. Turning, he reached for a horsewhip on the wall. "I want to punish this one meself, Master Godwin, if ye’ll allow it." Godwin nodded, grim-faced now instead of laughing. "Aye," he agreed, then said to the other men, "Remove his yoke and shackles and chain him to the wall. Prisoners must be taught from the outset what’ ll happen if they cause trouble." Ranulf was grateful for release of the yoke. Standing straight again, flexing muscles long cramped, was nearly compensatory for what followed. He gritted his teeth as the first lash fell, gritted harder as the second, third and fourth tore at his skin. Brenna is safe, he reminded himself. Niel is safe, the babe is safe. He continued the silent repetition even as Baolf cursed, wanting Ranulf to cry out. But Ranulf foiled his plans again, merely slipping into silent unconsciousness on the thirtieth stroke.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"He did what?" Stephen asked the king’s aide. "He left for the Northern shires, yesterday, just after you left, my lord," the man replied. "We received word. The rebellious earls are surrendering." Stephen cursed roundly. "I should go after him." "Nay," the aide said. "‘Twould do no good. King William has fought this battle for three long years. I’m sorry, but an outlaw’s pardon has no importance compared to peace in the North." Stephen knew he was right. If he rode after William, he’d more than likely ruin Ranulf’s chances than gain a pardon. Politics were delicate. There was really no choice but to await the king’s return. "May I see Ranulf?" he asked then, hoping he could somehow improve the prisoner’s situation. The aide hesitated, then nodded. "Aye." Tired from having made the trip from London to Almswick and back twice in two days, Stephen wearily followed the guard to the dungeon -- but what he found there nearly made him retch. Ranulf was in a squalid cell, ripe with human excrement, lying unconscious on the filthy floor. He had been beaten nearly to death! Crouching beside the man who had been his enemy, but had become a respected friend, Stephen felt telltale wetness on his face. The fates had given this man so little -- taking so much from him, instead. Now that he’d found a way to marry his new lady love, as Robbie O’Meadhra had reported, and to gain a new family, would Fate laugh once again and wrench it all away? "Nay!" Stephen answered aloud, rising again. "By God, no, it won’t be taken again." And with that, he left the filthy cell, going back to the king’s aide.

In another part of London, in the dim back room of a moneylender’s establishment, villainy reared its ugly head. A brilliant battle tactician, but nearly drooling with insanity now, Brutus de Roches looked down at the dead bodies and smiled. The girl was naked, mutilated, raped; the man’s dead eyes frozen in shock from witnessing his precious daughter’s defilement. The old Jew had offered all his gold -- everything he had -- if Brutus would just go and leave them in peace. Brutus had taken the gold, then tied to old man securely and proceeded to torture and kill the young, beautiful girl. Once again, rumor was on Brutus’s side. All who saw him dive into the swirling river assumed he had died in the attempt to flee the king’s guards. In truth, he’d nearly burst his lungs swimming below the water -- a trick he’d learned in his youth. He’d finally come up far from the gawking crowds, leaving the water, limping only a little from being tossed like a sack of grain from the balcony. Ranulf would pay for

that! he’d vowed on the spot, then found a whorehouse to hide in while he made his plans. It hadn’t taken any time at all. Not one day past his "death," wearing reasonably wealthy clothes a whore had secured for him, Brutus was entering the moneylender’s shop. Now ‘twas done, and the gold was his. Enough gold to raise an army again. Enough gold to defeat the outlaw once and for all. Enough gold to burn Ravenwood to the ground, to make Brenna his slave, at least until he tired of her. He smiled again, leaving the shop, moving down the cobblestoned street as if belonging there. No one stopped the tall man with dark hair and unkempt beard. He wore the clothes of a respected merchant, why would they want to stop him?

Ranulf awakened slowly. For a fleeting moment, he thought he was back in the cave, recovering from Dubois’ sword thrust. But, nay, that had been three, no four, years ago. And there was no gurgling sound of healing water here from the cave’s warm spring. Here there was no sound at all -- only blazing pain. But something was different. He remembered the whipping -- remembered losing consciousness, then stirring to hell-filled life when they moved him to that infested cell. Now there was no horrid smell, no fetid straw beneath him, as in the cart. ‘Twas still a prison, aye, but he was lying on a cot, the smell of clean, crisp linen filling his nose. He was lying on his belly, his back still aflame from the beating, but he had been made as comfortable as possible, could even smell the basilicon salve that must have been applied to his mutilated back. He heard something then, the creaking of an iron door opening. Shifting his head as little as possible, he saw Stephen Dubois enter the cell. "I see you’re finally awake, my friend," Stephen said, pulling up a rickety three-legged stool, the only other furnishing in the small room. He held a flagon of water to Ranulf’s dry lips. Ranulf drank gratefully, til Stephen pulled it away. "Not too much at first," he said. "We’ve been forcing small sips down your throat, but gulping will only make you sick." His parched throat only partially eased, Ranulf rasped, "How long?" "You’ve been unconscious for two days," Stephen answered. Ranulf frowned. "And the king?" "He’s not here, Ranulf," Stephen said gently. "He’s gone back to the North to take the earls’ surrender. He’s not expected back for another fortnight, at least." "And the pardon?" Ranulf asked, fearing he knew the answer. "We’ll have to await the king’s return, but I’ve sent him a missive." Stephen leaned forward, giving Ranulf more water. "The queen has gone to Normandy, but before she left, she did allow you this chamber, and care for your wounds. She said she owed you that much for saving her life, though she cannot cancel the king’s arrest writ. He must do that himself." "My men?" Stephen sighed. "Scattered to the four winds again, just like the day I thought you had died." He couldn’t help smiling. "You really need to let me actually win one of these days, my clever friend."

Ranulf chuckled, then winced. Even the slightest movement caused hideous pain. "The wounds are deep?" he asked. "Aye," Stephen answered, sobering instantly. "You’ll bare scars for the rest of your life -- but you’ll have a life, whereas Baolf has already lost his." Ranulf quirked a tawny brow. "Queen Matilda said while she couldn’t dismiss the king’s warrant, she could indeed sentence Baolf to hanging. He may have had the dungeon master’s leave to punish you, but not to whip you near to death. The master himself now has the new title of royal privy inspector." Ranulf nearly laughed again, and Stephen continued. "‘Tis even a maidservant of the queen herself who comes thrice daily to tend your back." "And Brenna?" Ranulf rasped again, then drank more pure, sweet water. "Unhappy but safe," Stephen replied. "She feels ‘twas her fault that Baolf captured you." Ranulf shook his head. "I know, I agree...but ‘twill take some time to convince her. ‘Twill also take some considerable time for you to mend, so at least you have a quiet, safe place to do that now." Ranulf grunted at that, then nodded. For now, he couldn’t ask for anything more.

It wasn’t much, but it was nearly impregnable, so Brutus was pleased with what his squire had found. The devious little man Brutus had summoned back to his side had found a small, badly-protected estate on a cliff overlooking the sea. The only way to the gate was up a path most goats would disdain. Aye, Brutus knew on sight this demesne would suit his plans quite well. Defeating the elderly lord and his puny guard took no time at all. They’d apparently thought no one would even try an assault with the manor’s location. Now Brutus sat at the dead lord’s table, wolfing down meat and ale, looking with lecherous intent at the bound and gagged nude maidservant awaiting his pleasure. He’d already gathered twenty men, paying them in gold. They were feasting, too, terrified kitchen servants meeting every demand. Any wench beautiful enough to raise a cock had been sold at auction to any of Brutus’s men who wanted a personal slut. Like Brutus, most of the gluttons had beautiful nude girls at their sides, some bound and gagged, some resigned to obedience -- on their knees under the table already, serving their new masters with eager little mouths. Brutus smiled at the fierce, frightened sucking sounds coming from beneath the table just to his right. That was his faithful squire, receiving high pleasure from his own purchased whore. Brutus had plans to make, more men to hire, an army to quickly train. His intent was to amass enough trained mercenaries to destroy Ravenwood quickly and cleanly. Not like the first time, he vowed. Nay, he would double, even triple, the number of men this time, and only hire the most skilled, deadly killers. The moneylender had given him a king’s ransom to try and save his daughter from harm. That hadn’t worked, of course, but Brutus de Roches had enough gold now to buy an army, defeat Ravenwood, and even mayhap to buy a king’s favor once more. His insanity was deeply entrenched now, though he didn’t know it. It never even occurred to him that King William’s moral code would never allow a villain of Brutus’s ilk to live and thrive.

Brutus grunted down his last mouthful, belched loudly, then hauled the frightened nude girl to her feet. She was blond, like Brenna, so the first thing Brutus did, after her initial raping on the table before all his laughing men, was to cut every inch of her hair off, tossing the tresses into the hearth, laughing maniacally as she sobbed. That was only the beginning. He was insane now, entirely depraved. Torturing the wench, mutilating her flesh, would give him the greatest pleasure of all. His cock sprang to life again at the very thought, and he turned her around, bent her over the table, then used her tighter rear entrance to gain his foul release a second time.

Weeks went by. Two, three? Ranulf wasn’t quite sure, but he was quickly regaining his strength. Thanks to the servant’s skilled attention, his back was healing well, still painful, but he could move now without breaking open the deep, long wounds. He worked his muscles daily, pacing, stretching, squatting, anything to force strength into his body again. A single tiny barred window was his only view of the outside world, but Ranulf had found that by stretching mightily, he could grab the bars and haul himself up to see the sun. He also repeated that effort a hundred times a day, to add life-giving strength and muscle to his arms and chest. By the time he’d been the king’s prisoner for mayhap one month, he was stronger than he’d ever been, both in body and mind. Dubois had long since returned to his own estate, knowing nothing more could be done until the king’s return. And Brenna, his beloved wife, had not been allowed to see him. He’d been allowed a weekly missive from her, but that was all. ‘Twas enough, he supposed, for now. She was well, gaining roundness every week, and Niel was a carefree child of three. Ranulf dearly hoped by the time Niel was old enough to understand all that had happened, ‘twould all be resolved. He dearly hoped ‘twould all be resolved before the new babe was born, but didn’t hold out high hope for that. The king might grant him pardon for his life, but he might just as well banish him from England, or he might require a penance term in this very cell -- mayhap years of penance for his outlaw days. Ranulf had accepted the dire possibilities, but his soul was at peace. Nothing would change the fact that his new family was safe. Brenna was still an official ward of Stephen Dubois, so her future was guaranteed. The church documents proved that she had a husband, so none other would be found for her, which was just what she wanted. And Stephen Dubois would guard her welfare until Ranulf could take up the role himself. He wouldn’t dwell on the fact that that time might never come.

"Who goes there?" The bellowing voice stopped the cloaked figure in its tracks. Seeming startled, the figure nearly turned and ran, then seemed to hesitate, finally approaching the gate again in a limping, slow pace. "Who goes there, I say!" the bellowing guard reiterated. "Halt, or suffer the king’s wrath!" The figure looked up, just reaching the first guard, her hooded cloak falling back. The guard drew in a ragged, shocked breath when he saw what had once been a beautiful young girl. He couldn’t help thinking of his own two daughters as this one slumped into his arms. The child was completely bald, her left eye had been gouged out, and someone had removed her nose! Blood-encrusted fingers crawled up his chest, and she rasped these words: "Brutus de Roches is alive.

He did this...and he’s planning on doing far worse...to Lady Brenna of Ravenwood." De Roches alive? The guard didn’t hesitate. Lifting the girl, he called for the gate to be opened, then carried her straight to the great hall. King William had returned from the North only last night. This lass might not live more than another hour. Surely the king would want to hear her story. William did indeed want to hear the story, and the girl was taken to his private chamber, her wounds tended by his own physician. The man shook his head in dismay as he finished. The cruelty was beyond description. He prayed for her immortal soul, knowing her life was nearly over. William sat at her side. "What is you name?" he asked gently. "Elna," the girl whispered, the mere words an obvious effort. William nodded. "Can you tell me what happened, Elna?" She nodded, then slowly told him the horrid tale. Brutus de Roches had defeated her master, Lord Edwin of Highpoint. She related atrocities unheard of since the Roman days of torturing Christians, then added that de Roches had bragged of torturing and murdering a moneylender and his daughter, here in London. She said Brutus was hiring men, at least one hundred or more, by the time she’d escaped. She’d kept her face hidden beneath a cloak and managed to gain a ride to London with a merchant. When the man’s wife had finally seen her face, they’d thrown her from the cart, decrying her as a demon. She’s been close enough to the king’s residence to go the rest of the way on her own. As the story unraveled, the girl’s weakness increased. Her breathing was labored, her face bathed in sweat. Finally, when all was said, she simply closed her eyes and died, having accomplished her task. "May God take pity on her soul," A priest intoned, then performed the last rites. William bowed his head and prayed along with the others, then called for a messenger. "Fetch Stephen Dubois," he said.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Ranulf paced back and forth, up and down. He wanted to crawl up the walls! He knew the king had returned, triumphant, from the Northern shires. All of London knew it. How much longer would he have to wait to learn his fate? Something else was going on. He could feel it. Ever since early this morning, there’d been a new tension in the air. Something new was afoot. Was that why the king was still making him wait? Ranulf had come to complete acceptance during his tenure in this small room. All his hatred of Normans, all his blame for what they had done to his family, had ended here in this small, cramped cell. He’d realized with great clarity that Nathan de Rouen had acted on his own, not with the king’s blessing, when

he’d raped and murdered Ranulf’s wife and daughter and executed his son. Stephen had explained to him that William’s intention had been for de Rouen to bring the family to London, where they would have become wards of the court. William’s moral code did not approve harming innocents; he’d much rather keep them safe. Horrid things occurred during war. Ranulf knew that, everyone knew that. He’d spent so many years hating the new king of his homeland. What good would that hatred do now? Nothing, he’d decided. The only way to peace and prosperity was to learn to abide together. Maybe he was getting old, he thought. ‘ Twas true, he had nearly reached his thirty-eighth year. Mayhap as a man aged, he craved peace more keenly. Aye, he craved that, he realized -- and to have his wife and family close to his side. The iron door creaked, a guard holding it open. "The king has sent for ye," the man said, but he’d brought no shackles. Ranulf walked slowly from the cell, holding his breath, awaiting the yoke and chains. When none were forthcoming, he blew out his relief. Mayhap his future was secure. He breathed in fresh air as they left the dank cellars housing the king’s dungeons. Ranulf had never smelled anything so sweet as autumn in London, as they crossed a breeze way, heading for the king’s private chambers. He’d known summer had turned to the crispness of fall during his imprisonment, but the turning leaves and bright blue sky were precious to him now, more precious than gold. When he entered the king’s chamber, Stephen Dubois was already there. The men clasped hands in hearty welcome to each other, and then King William spoke. "Brutus de Roches didn’t drown in the river." Ranulf was only mildly surprised. That Devil’s spawn had more lives than a cat. "He has surfaced again, this time having taken over Highpoint." Ranulf was familiar with the place. He surmised de Roches had defeated the old lord’s defenses, but defeating de Roches would probably be much harder. As he listened to the rest of the tale, Ranulf felt sick revulsion. De Roches had obviously gone insane, but he was still a genius tactician. And now he was rumored to have more than one hundred men, with more being hired each day! They were probably coming by ship, mercenaries from other shores... Then the king relayed the worst news. "He intends attacking Ravenwood again, and taking your wife as his slave." Ranulf blanched, sitting down abruptly. The fact that the king had just acknowledged his marriage meant little, nothing. Brenna was in danger again! He could not -- would not -- lose a second wife to a villain! "She’s with child," he rasped huskily, "my child. She must be seven months along by now." The king’s brows raised, then lowered into a frown, but all he said was, "Her being in danger is why I’ve called Stephen here, and released you from your cell." Ranulf perked up immediately. The king rose to his feet. "Ranulf of Ravenwood," he began -- and Ranulf swallowed hard -- "I hereby

entrust you with the task of defeating Brutus de Roches. If you accomplish this task, your title and manor will be restored..." One brow rose this time. "...And we shall forgive the fine for marrying Lady Brenna without our royal permission." Ranulf hadn’t missed the formal "we" form of the command. He swallowed again. The king continued. "Stephen Dubois has twenty men he can spare, Ravenwood has another fifteen, or so. How many of your band can you gather again? In payment for their aid in this matter, they will be pardoned of any and all crimes against the crown." Now Ranulf smiled. The tavern keeper at the Boar’s Head Inn would know where they were, or at least most of them. Geoff, Ned, Jon, Ion, Rolf, even Meg. And they would know where the rest were. Yes, he could gather his men. "There are about twenty, all totaled, sire," he reported, "and I’m quite sure I can gather them again." "Very well," the king said, nodding. "That means we already have an available force of fifty-five men. I will provide another one hundred, since my armies are just now returning from the Northern rebellion." Ranulf smiled again. "You and Lord Stephen will have joint leadership of the men. I will provide the gold needed for appropriate weaponry, horses and armor." The king hesitated, then finally continued. "Brutus de Roches is a blight on this kingdom. If you defeat him, your reward will be great. But if you fail, Ranulf of Ravenwood, you will not take another free breath. You will die an old crippled man, in a cell. Do we have a clear understanding?" "Aye, my liege," Ranulf said, dropping to one knee. "I hear and obey, and I will bring you his head. This I swear."

He’d done this all before. Was it only eight months ago? Ranulf paced the length and breadth of the warm, familiar cave. For the sake of Ravenwood’s safety, he, Stephen and the king had decided he and his men should remain hidden while they made their plans. No use warning de Roches that an army was being amassed, equal to his own in number, and far better in training and weaponry. Let the brute think he had the upper hand. His defeat would be sweeter for it. But Ranulf was restless. Two weeks had passed since his talk with the king. Between the king’s soldiers, Stephen’s, Ravenwood’s and Ranulf’s own band, the forest was alive with activity. Quiet activity, to be sure, well hidden, but the men were ready, chomping at the bit for the battle to begin. Wiry Ned had once again played his role of servant, gaining admittance to de Roches’ domain. ‘Twas another proof of de Roches’ insanity that he didn’t even realize that Ned had fought against him in the previous melee. And just as before, Ned sent word to Geoff, who waited beyond Highpoint’s walls. Every time Ned "needed a breath of air," he would walk out the gates as nice as you please, then report the latest news to the gentle giant, Geoff. Now all they needed was the date of battle. All was ready to go. Defeating de Roches at Highpoint was simply too risky. They needed him to make the next move. Ranulf smiled when he saw Meg serving the evening meal. She was great with her child, but insisted on helping this cause. She and Rolf, as well as all the men from the band, had been promised a home at Ravenwood. They all had a direct interest in winning this battle. Thinking of Meg inevitably brought his

thoughts back to Brenna. She was at Ravenwood, and he visited as often as possible. She truly was round as an ale barrel, and Ranulf loved it. A commotion at the guarded camp entrance drew his attention, and Ranulf saw Geoff riding toward them fast, Ned slumped over the giant’s lap. Ranulf was the first to reach them, dreading what he would find. "What happened?" he said, helping pull Ned from the horse. "They discovered us," Geoff got out, breathing heavily from exertion. "Ned and I got away, but he took an arrow in the leg." Ranulf nodded, realizing that Ned was stirring even as helped to the ground. Geoff had carried him belly-down because ‘twas the safest way to carry an injured man while riding fast. Ned was in no true danger of dying. Ranulf breathed a sign of relief. Once Ned’s wound was tended, Geoff, Stephen and Ranulf discussed this change in plans. "I don’t think he’ll wait more than a day or two now, Ranulf," Geoff reported. "Now that he realizes we’ re on to his game, why wait any longer? He’s got enough men." Ranulf and Stephen had to agree. "We’ll post more guards throughout the forest, watching for any activity. If he’s smart, he’ll send a few at a time and make camp somewhere. Once they’re all here, then he’ll attack." "We could try to take them one at a time," Geoff interjected. "Nay," Ranulf said. "‘Tis time this was done and over. The men are battle ready. I want Brutus’s head on a pike." The next few days were bone-wearying with frustrating tension. A few of de Roches’ men did indeed start coming, and Ranulf felt his sword hand clench and unclench, wanting battle. The waiting was the worst. The weather began changing, clouds rolling in from the sea. Moisture filled the air, and a dense fog rolled in. On that very day, de Roches sent a missive to Ranulf.

My dear Lord of Ravenwood. It has come to my attention that you have gathered a force, intending to defeat me. Very well. We shall meet at dawn, and to the victor will go the spoils of war. I look forward to adding another whore to my present possessions, and to watching your blood seep into the ground.

Ranulf smiled grimly. Finally, the waiting was over.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Brenna knew he would be coming. He’d sent a message -- the battle would be fought at dawn. She paced the chamber, clad in naught but her robe and chemise. What if he died tomorrow? Nay! She couldn’t think that way. He would win! He had to win. How could she live without him if he didn’t? She gave no thought to de Roches winning. That was too horrid to even contemplate. But where was Ranulf? She needed him now. The velvet drapes at the balcony door rustled, and then he was there, magnificent, wonderful, her lover, her life. She threw herself into his arms and then cried helplessly, hating the weakness, but unable to stop herself. "Shh, shh," he said soothingly, rubbing his big, callused hand down her unbound hair. "There’s naught to fear, sweeting. I cannot possibly die on the morrow. I have far too much to live for." She believed him, of course, but the tears just kept coming. He carried her to the bed, gently laid her down, then disrobed, removing her clothes as well. He knew the way to give her the greatest comfort, the greatest hope in their future together. Kissing her deeply, awakening her pleasure with his fingers and mouth, he soon had her mewling her need, begging to be loved. With absolute gentleness he turned her to her side, then bent her leg, giving him access from behind. With the babe so round, ‘twas the best way to mate, and he thrust deeply into her well-moistened sheath, smiling as she whimpered her joy. His hands loved her nipples and bud of femininity as his strokes took them to the pinnacle, roaring his completion as she cried out his name, finding her own. He spent the night in her arms, but well before dawn, with grim formality, he donned full chain mail, shield and sword. Brenna acted as squire, but kissing each piece of cloth, each weapon, each protective device before handing them to him. When the attire was complete, he kissed her fiercely, and ‘twas time to go. Brenna wanted time to stop, but it didn’t. The courtyard was ablaze with torches and they walked together down the manor house stairs. A great white destrier was saddled and waiting, and Brenna watched, spellbound, as Ranulf mounted the huge beast, handling him with casual ease. She’d never seen a more magnificent -- or frightening --sight. Tears swam in her eyes as Ranulf and his entourage left the courtyard behind, heading for the battle that could change her life forever.

As dawn crept over the horizon, Ranulf smiled grimly. Dense fog covered the battleground. Neither side would have an advantage today. He could barely see de Roches’ forces, but he could hear the horses whinnying, anxious to begin. The sounds of hundreds of armor-clad men filled the air, just as anxious to join the melee as the destriers. There were foot soldiers, too, armed with lances and bows, arrows and maces. They would be the first to attack, the first to die. Ranulf said a silent prayer for his men’s protection, then, with one last look back toward Ravenwood -- and Brenna -- he raised his gauntlet and gave a shout. The battle was joined. Ranulf saw young Rolf parry and thrust, then parry again. He was proud of the young man, glad to have

trained him. He saw Dubois’s excellent swordsmanship, and Geoff’s bull-like style of cleaving heads from shoulders without blinking an eye. The Vikings would call Geoff during battle a berserker. ‘Twas true. The gentle giant was nowhere to be seen when Geoff faced an enemy. Ranulf’s own sword was covered with gore and blood, too many men to count having fallen victim to its hunger, before he finally caught sight of his nemesis. Brutus de Roches. Ranulf felt something surge to life deep within him. ‘Twas time -- ‘twas long past time. Brutus de Roches would die by his sword, or Ranulf would die in the effort. There was no other choice, and both knew it. The clang of metal rang out, seemingly cutting off any other noise. For this moment in time, in the dense rolling fog, no one existed but the two men. "It’s no use, scum," Brutus bellowed, thrusting again. "Your whore will be mine by nightfall. You may as well kneel and beg for your miserable life!" Ranulf knew better than to listen to de Roches’ prattle. There was no older tactic than to anger an opponent, thus gaining the greatest advantage. "‘Tis you who may as well grovel," Ranulf countered, blade flashing through the air, catching de Roches’ right arm and drawing blood, even through the chain mail. "Ah ha!" Ranulf crowed. "First blood goes to me. How long do you think ‘twill be before I have your head as my trophy?" "Never!" de Roches raged, thrusting again, but not as effectively as the moment before. Blood was pumping from his cut arm. Ranulf knew the end was near. He waited for his opponent to weaken further, then moved in for the kill, cleaning skewering the brute with a sword thrust through his black heart. Grimly satisfied, he stopped for just a moment, breathing heavily. And that was the moment Brutus’s squire struck from behind. Ranulf felt the knife in his back, the burning, horrid pain. He had one fleeting moment to wonder what Brenna would do without him, then slumped to the ground.

Brenna had spent the hours ripping cloth into strips, as all wives, mothers and sisters of warriors had been doing since time began. No battle was without its victims, and ‘twas the women who ultimately held the hands of the dying, eased their passage to the next world with gentle touches and heartfelt tears. Today would be no different, she knew. The only question remaining was who would win the war. Hours passed, moving inexorably forward, time slipping away as grains of sand in the hourglass. She couldn’t stand it another moment, and rushed to the nursery to hold Niel to her breast. If only the world were peaceful..happy...but men always fought, and women always suffered for it. She didn’t dare spread her fear to Niel, so left him in Emma’s capable hands before long, pacing in her own chamber, arching her back to ease the weariness of her too-round body, then finally going back to the hall. ‘Twas then that she heard it...the trumpet signaling the end.

But what end? She ran now, passing the others preparing for the inevitable injured, running full out to the huge front doors. Then she was on the front stairs, running down them in urgent haste. She couldn’t see anything yet; the fog was still intense. Who had won the war? Stephen was the first weary rider she finally saw approaching, with Geoff riding at his side. There were tears in the giant’s eyes, and Brenna felt her heart drop to her toes. She ran to them, ran through the straggling lines of tired soldiers, past the litters holding the injured and maimed. Why weren’t they declaring their victory? They must have won, else Brutus de Roches would be riding to Ravenwood now, not Stephen and Geoff. But where was Ranulf? Her heart sank even lower as she realized what had to be the truth. "Is he dead?" she shouted, finally reaching Lord Stephen’s horse. "Is Ranulf dead? Where is he?" Stephen dismounted, looking old and weary, even though he was not. He had a small cut on his right cheek and walked with a slight limp, but other than that seemed unharmed. "I don’t know if he’s dead, Lady Brenna," he finally answered. "Geoff saw him struck down by Brutus’s squire just after Ranulf killed de Roches himself, but in the confusion and fog, that’s the last anyone saw of him." "Except I killed the little weasel squire," Geoff added, dismounting himself. "We’ll go back to look some more, but first we have to see to these injured men." Ranulf struck down! Nothing else mattered, not even that de Roches had finally paid the price for his villainy. Ranulf couldn’t be dead, she told herself. If he were, wouldn’t she feel her heart dying? It took mayhap an hour to settle the injured in the great hall and begin seeing to their care. Brenna carried out the necessary chores with absolute competence, but she kept looking toward the front door. He couldn’t be dead! Finally, gratefully, Stephen and Geoff and Brenna herself rode back to the battleground. Riding pillion behind Stephen, Brenna was the first to dismount as they reached the sight of such unbearable carnage. Even through the continuing swirling fog, horrid sights met her eyes. Dead soldiers, disemboweled and staring at nothing. A severed leg with the boot still attached. More severed arms than she could count. Her heart was breaking. If only war didn’t exit! It did, of course, and nothing could change it. But where was Ranulf? "He can’t be dead, my lord," she reiterated, as she, Stephen and Geoff continued their morbid search. "He...oh God, maybe he is!" ‘Twas the first moment she had accepted that awful possibility. Maybe he was dead, and her heart was too stunned by battle atrocities to feel it yet. Stephen took her by the shoulders, then pulled her into his arms. "Hush, my lady," he said into her hair. "Don’t give up hope. We all thought him dead once before, when he wasn’t." One single sunbeam suddenly broke through the fog. Brenna winced against the bright sunlight, then narrowed her eyes. Pulling back from Stephen, she peered through the fog, watching it part, as though on command from above. And through the swirling fog, battered, bruised, weary, but very much alive, Ranulf of Ravenwood strode

to his wife. She met him, tears streaming down her cheeks, and he pulled her into his arms. The devouring kiss they shared said everything. The battle was over, and they were going home.

EPILOGUE

Four weeks later...

Ranulf never thought he’d go mad in his own domain, now that Ravenwood was his once again, but he was beginning to suspect he would if not allowed up from this bed. Or mayhap he’d murder the king’s physician instead. The grateful monarch had kept his word, reinstating Ranulf’s lands and title, acknowledging his marriage to Brenna and pardoning his band of men. Now all that remained was convincing the king’s leech that Ranulf would not collapse if allowed on his feet! The blow that had struck him down truly could have been his death, but wiry Ned had seen the fall and, even with an injured leg, had wormed his way through the melee to Ranulf’s side. Geoff had taken care of de Roches’ squire, but ‘twas Ned who’d managed to pull Ranulf to safety, off the killing field, and tend his wound. For the second time in his life, Ranulf had been blessed by a blade thrust not striking vital organs, his chain mail vest having deflected the blow. As just reward for their heroic acts, Geoff had been named the new lord of Highpoint and Ned had been named his steward. Both men were extremely happy with that turn of events. A moan from beyond the bedchamber door drew Ranulf’s attention, and when the door opened he sprang to his feet, not caring what the physician might say. The physician was too busy dealing with Brenna in any case. She was quite obviously about to birth their child. "Lay her down here," Ranulf ordered, taking immediate control, "and call for the midwife." The physician bristled at that, but Ranulf ignored him. He’d trusted the Ravenwood midwife for a dozen years before the Normans came. She was the one who’d delivered his first two children...and Niel. There was no reason to trust this babe to anyone else. Brenna smiled up at him. "I see you’re feeling better, my lord." Ranulf grunted, then smiled. "Aye, my love," he answered, "and obviously just in time." Brenna’s face scrunched up and she began breathing heavily as another pain gripped her belly. Ranulf

rode it through with her, talking low and gently, holding her hand. The midwife arrived and took efficient charge of the situation. Suddenly, Ranulf found himself without a job to do...until a small arm wound around his thigh. Looking down, he saw the fear in Niel’s wide hazel eyes. The child had been momentarily forgotten in the rush; Emma was helping the midwife. Picking Niel up in his strong arms, Ranulf said, "Let’s go wait on the balcony, shall we, son? Just the two of us, while the womenfolk do their work." Niel nodded, popping his thumb into his mouth and sucking noisily. Ranulf allowed it, in the situation, then parted the velvet drapes and walked onto the balcony he’d first seen a lifetime ago. Everything was so different now. Everything had changed. Brenna was his, Niel was his, Ravenwood was his...and a second child was hurrying its way into life. Life! The word was joyous. He’d never thought it would be again, had never in a thousand years thought he’d be married to Nathan de Rouen’s wife. But the fates had a way of laughing at mortal plans. He’d wanted to wrest Ravenwood from Brenna’s dainty hands, and instead she had stolen his heart. Within mere moments, he heard the lusty wail of a newborn babe. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he cried unabashedly. Walking back into the room, he beheld the most beautiful site in the world -- his beloved wife and new baby girl.

THE END

Dear Reader ~

If you enjoyed this book, you might enjoy the prequel, Conquest of the Heart. Here are the first three chapters.

Happy reading! Marilyn Grall

CONQUEST OF THE HEART

CHAPTER ONE

Kent, England, late March, 1067

"They have come, Mama! They are here!" Panting out breaths, the urchin ran toward his mother, tugging on her worn skirts, then pointing toward the hill. The woman gasped, pulling the child closer to the meager protection of her thin body, her breath billowing out in the frosty morning air. One by one, more heads turned, more manor folk pointed and stared. Their quiet life was about to change...and none knew if that change would be for better, or worse. The new Lord of Almswick had just arrived. Atop the hill, Sir Stephen Dubois watched the child, and the others, carefully noting their reaction to the twenty mounted, mailed knights who had accompanied him to claim his prize. "They have seen us, mon ami," the man riding beside him said. "Do you think they will roll out the red carpet in welcome?" Stephen turned to his companion. It had been a long, hard winter. Even now, with the advent of spring, icy patches still clung to the muddy road. The morning was bitter cold, the horses shivering beneath saddles and caparisons, and Stephen’s royal blue and gold pennants flapped in the steady, frigid breeze. "No," he answered, with just the hint of a smile. "They’d most likely rather scald us in oil than welcome us to Almswick, Henri." But, in truth, Stephen wasn’t overly concerned about the manor folks’ reaction. They would accustom themselves to their new lord...in time. This was his dream, and it was about to materialize. Nothing mattered but that, not even the wretched cold. He’d known far worse weather than this during his years as a mercenary soldier; anything from burning deserts to frozen wastelands. The English countryside was as tame as a demure maiden when compared to some of the places where he’d fought--and won--so many campaigns. But he wouldn’t be fighting today. Almswick Manor was Stephen’s possession now, by decree of King William...as was Almswick’s heiress, Mary, though she didn’t know it yet. Henri snorted at Stephen’s comment, sounding so much like his own warhorse, Stephen smiled again. Sir Henri of Tours was an exact opposite to Stephen in coloring and build. Blond-headed, blue-eyed, fair-skinned and slightly cherubic of face and form, Henri had a great love of food, and some of that fondness showed quite clearly in his stocky frame. In contrast, Stephen was lean and tall, his hair and eyes dark as a raven’s. But the two fought well together, had saved each others’ lives on countless occasions. And Stephen was closer to Henri than he was to his own brothers; they were the very best of friends. In fact, Henri was the only man Stephen ever allowed to see beyond his stern, domineering

facade. It wouldn’t do for anyone else to realize that beneath the firm, decisive disciplinarian was a man yearning for naught more than a hearth and home, a wife...and heirs. "Shall we risk that possibility and descend, then?" Henri asked in his native French. "Scalding with oil might be preferable to this damnable cold--" "In English, Henri," Stephen interjected, turning his mail-clad head toward his friend again. "I want no doubt in anyone’s mind that the new Lord of Almswick understands the commoner’s tongue." "But of course, mon ami," Henri replied, switching to English with a typically Gallic shrug. "In that way the peasants will know they cannot--how do you say?--conspire against you in their own language, eh?" "Oui," Stephen rejoined, smiling grimly this time. Henri’s accent left much to be desired, but he was completely correct. Stephen had no intention of allowing serfs, freedmen or Almswick’s household knights--what was left of them--to conspire behind his back due to a language barrier. Consequently, knowing he was to be rewarded with an estate, Stephen had become fluent in the Anglo-Saxon language since the successful Battle of Hastings last October. The battle that had ultimately brought such changes into his life. Stephen was the third son of the Comte Dubois and as such had known from his youth that he had no hope of gaining a title or land, unless he earned them for himself. With that thought in mind, upon reaching his majority and receiving a generous portion from his father, Stephen had formed an elite mercenary band--the finest in Normandy, it was rumored. He and his men had fought campaigns for anyone with enough gold to afford them, be they sultans, kings, noblemen or even wealthy merchants. Whoever could pay the price. Ah, but his finest decision in the past eight years of constant fighting had been to join Duke William--who was now King William--in his attempt to wrest the throne of England from King Harold. And a bit of luck hadn’t hurt any, either. That day of the battle at Hastings, Stephen and Henri had been among Duke William’s personal guard. Who could have known that one of William’s so-called trusted men was in reality an assassin? No one, not even Stephen himself. Not until he saw the flash of steel. Not until the knife was within an inch of his liege lord’s back. And even then, Stephen had acted on instinct, using skills honed by his many disciplined years of fighting. The assassin had fallen to Stephen’s sword, and as a direct result of that momentary battle, and William’s ultimate success in conquering Harold, Stephen had been given a manor in Kent--Almswick. It was his now...home. Henri quieted his restive mount with a pat to his sweaty neck and soothing phrases spoken in a strange combination of English and French. Looking down the gentle valley toward the manor, his smile broad, as it always was, he said, "‘Tis a very fine piece of property, no?" "Actually, no," Stephen said ruefully, seeing even from here Almswick’s state of disrepair. The fields were still fallow, the orchards still winter-barren, but that was only natural after such a cold, harsh winter. What distressed Stephen, even though he’d been forewarned, was the condition of the manor itself and the surrounding small village. The outer wooden wall of the manor was sagging in places, its gates looked like they would no longer even close, and many of the rooftops in the village were sorely in need of new thatching. Huts that should have been whitewashed regularly were gray and unappealing to the eye, the manor folk warily awaiting them dressed in little more than rags. Warm, clean rags he had to concede, well patched and made of thick wool, but rags nevertheless. Having Almswick would mean a great deal of hard work, but Stephen welcomed the challenge.

Refurbishing Almswick might be a challenge, but obtaining a wife was a foregone conclusion. Stephen couldn’t help enjoying the thought. He’d been preparing to leave King William’s court when the decision was made. Stephen had known he was to be the new Lord of Almswick for several weeks, and a messenger had been dispatched to the manor announcing his imminent arrival, but until that fateful morning three days ago, he’d had no idea he was to be given Almswick’s heiress as well. The decree was King William’s. Lady Mary had been promised to a neighbor, Lord Albert of Tidwell, a man who had sworn fealty to William, but even so, the king had decided that Almswick Manor would be better served by marrying its heiress to Stephen, and he had set the betrothal with Lord Albert aside. Lady Mary didn’t know this yet, and she might well have a thing or two to say about the decision, but it wouldn’t matter. Women very seldom had any choice about whom they were to wed, and Lady Mary would be no exception. As far as the original betrothal contract, that had been written by Ralph of Almswick, Lady Mary’s father, and since he was considered a traitor for his support of the ill-fated King Harold, the contract held no validity in King William’s new court. Lord Ralph had, in fact--along with his two sons--paid the ultimate price for supporting King Harold. They had all died during the fateful Battle of Hastings. Soon after that, Mary’s lady mother had died, and now Mary, along with her two little sisters, were the only family members left at Almswick. And Mary of Almswick would soon become Stephen Dubois’s lady wife. There had been no need to dispatch another messenger with the king’s decision when Stephen was already on his way--which was why the lady had no idea her life was about to change. Stephen would be glad to tell her himself. Willing or nay, the lady would wed him. Stephen had never seen Mary of Almswick. He’d not even seen the manor until this moment. But he didn ’t care if his bride was fair or dark, tall or short, fat or thin. He only cared that she was seventeen--a prime age for bearing his children, his heirs. He had great plans for Almswick, despite its poor condition. It would be his home now, after all. The fortune he had garnered during his mercenary years would see to the needed repairs, and his own knowledge of animal husbandry and farming would turn the manor not only into a self-supporting estate, but a profitable one as well. An infusion of monies was needed, of course, but it would be returned at least ten-fold. By year’s end, Stephen intended to have a healthy crop of fruits and grains, a herd of sheep large enough to sell off surplus wool for profit, and enough pigs and cattle to ensure an ample supply of preserved meat during the winter. From what he could see from this hilltop, the serfs of Almswick hadn’t seen an overabundant supply of food during the winter just past. Noting his friend’s pensive expression, Henri couldn’t help saying, "Do you suppose Lady Mary, at least, will welcome us gladly?" "She will have no other choice," Stephen quietly replied, his voice all the more dangerous for its soft tone. Raising a gauntlet, he signaled his men to begin their descent down the hill. Henri grimaced as Stephen’s demeanor changed, becoming stern, forbidding and closed. His friend was no longer smiling, even the littlest bit. Gone was the man with such a deep yearning for a home and family. In his place was the stern, unsmiling knight who had won his way in the world with the skill of his sword and uncompromising discipline. Discipline of himself as well as of his men. The man whose fighting skills had become almost legendary was about to claim his manor--and his bride.

But Henri couldn’t help smiling again as the column of men and horses, along with several baggage wains filled to the brim with weapons, booty and gold, began descending the gentle slope to Almswick. Doubtless, the next few weeks would be quite interesting. Manor folk who probably did not want a new lord, a bride who did not know she was to be one yet, and a tumble-down estate badly in need of repair. Aye, Henri thought, gently spurring his spirited mount, the next few weeks would most certainly be interesting. CHAPTER TWO

Mary of Almswick heard the commotion in the courtyard just as Hilda, her maidservant, rushed into the room, wringing her plump hands. "The soldiers are coming, milady," Hilda declared, her normally placid face pinched with fear. "What should we do?" Summoning every ounce of decorum she’d ever been taught, Mary rose gracefully from the embroidery frame where she’d been working. Needing time to gather her thoughts, she did not answer her faithful servant immediately. Instead, she crossed to the window and opened the shutters. Cold air swirled into the room, billowing her skirts and loosening tendrils of hair from her tightly-woven braid. She shivered, but not from the sudden gust of cold air. Nor was it from the sight of mounted men now approaching the gates, easily seen from this second-story vantage point, not when Sir Stephen Dubois’s colors were as easily apparent as the number of his men. She’d been expecting the man, after all--the new Lord of Almswick. What sent shivers down Mary’s spine was a sudden memory. This was the very window her lady mother had leapt from months before, ending her life. Mary had been the one to find her mother’s body, after hearing a horrid scream and rushing into this chamber...only to find the shutters open on a cold winter night. Only to lean out this window and see her mother’s twisted body lying in the snow, crimson blood marring the pristine white below her smashed skull. The moon had been full that night, and the picture was just as fresh in Mary’s mind now as it had been in reality then. Mary had flown down the winding wooden steps to the great hall, desperately calling for help as she ran. But even before throwing open the oaken doors to the manor house and rushing to her mother’s side, she had known Lady Evelyn was dead. It was what the lady had wanted, after all. It was really no great surprise that she had finally succeeded in killing herself... "What should we do, milady?" Hilda repeated, wrenching Mary from her morbid remembrances. Mary took a deep, calming breath, pushing aside the memories of her mother’s insanity and ultimate death. That was in the past, and her people needed her in the present. They needed her strength, not her weakness. And they would get it, she vowed. They would get every morsel of strength she could muster. Squaring her shoulders, she took one more look at the royal blue and gold pennants announcing Sir

Stephen’s arrival, then turned to face her servant. Very calmly, she said, "We should greet the new lord, Hilda, that’s what we should do." "Or we could fight him instead," a deep, booming voice declared from the solar doorway as Sir Harold, Mary’s steward, clomped into the room. "He’s not breached the gate yet, milady. We could still fight him." Mary took another deep breath, then lifted her chin, looking directly into Harold’s eyes. With her diminutive height, and being so much younger than the burly man-at-arms, a bold gaze was her only hope of displaying firm authority. "Nay, Harold, we will not fight him," she said. "We could close the gates and--" "The gates no longer close," Mary interjected. "We still have good men, milady, and weapons," Harold persisted. "How many men, Harold? Twelve?" "Aye, twelve." Harold’s shoulders slumped. "And Sir Stephen probably has twenty," Mary continued determinedly. "Twenty men who have been well fed all winter, twenty men who have superior weapons, and, most importantly, twenty men who serve the man chosen by the new king as the lord of this manor." "Aye, William, the damned conqueror, chose this man," Harold groused. "William, the damned king," Mary corrected. Seeing Harold’s defeated posture and the lines of fatigue, hate and concern etched into his craggy face, Mary stepped up to him and placed a hand upon his arm. "You share the old king’s name, Harold, and your loyalty to him is admirable, but he is gone now. Long gone, just as my father and brothers are gone. There is naught we can do about any of that." A lump of emotion closed her throat, but she swallowed hard and pressed on. "Even if we defeated Sir Stephen and his men, King William would only send another in his place. Should we risk the remainder of our men, and the health and security of our manor’s people simply to fight a battle that cannot be won?" Harold smiled sadly. He hadn’t missed the stark emotions she’d quickly banished. "Nay, milady," he finally conceded. He couldn’t help admiring the lady--really not much more than a child. For all her youth, she had spoken wisely. A battle would be useless. He knew it, she knew it. He just didn’t like it one damn bit. "I’m glad you agree with me, my friend," Mary said softly. "Will you stand with me as I greet Sir Stephen?" "I am ever your loyal man, milady," Harold replied, straightening his stance, "just as I was your father’s man. Of course I will stand with you." He placed his work-hardened hand over her delicate one, feeling its childlike fragility, and a frown creased his forehead. "Are you sure you want to meet this new lord in the courtyard, milady?" he asked. "Wouldn’t it be better to wait here in your solar and let me bring him to you?" "Nay, good steward," Mary replied with a definite shake of her head. "Our people need strength, and I will show them strength. ‘Tis what my father would have done. ‘Tis what he would expect me to do."

Harold nodded solemnly, then led the way out of the solar, knowing she would not be dissuaded. Once again, he admired her--and truly regretted she would not be the Lady of Almswick for much longer. Not because of Sir Stephen, although that was certainly a consideration, but because she was betrothed to Lord Albert. She would be leaving the manor within a matter of weeks, taking her sweet little sisters with her to her new home. But all that was in the future, and Lady Mary was right. The people of Almswick needed strength. Strength to survive whatever this new lord might demand of them; strength to survive the debilitating effects of the long hard winter and an appalling lack of funds. As they reached the great hall, a servant met them, with two small children in tow. Mary knelt before the little girls, kissing each golden head. "Take them to the nursery, Anna," she said to the nursemaid. "The new lord has just arrived, and I’ll not have my sisters frightened by all the commotion." "Aye, milady," Anna replied, lifting two-year-old Mae, then holding out her hand. "Come along, Lily." "Must I, Sissy?" Lily asked in her small voice. "I would so much rather stay with you." "Aye, you must, little one," Mary answered, rising to her feet. She squeezed Lily’s shoulder. "I’ll come up to see you and Mae just as soon as I can. You know I love you both, but this is something I must do alone." Lily opened her mouth to protest again, but Mary laid a gentle finger to her lips. "Go with Anna now," she said kindly but firmly, and Lily puckered her lips, frowned, then finally nodded and gave her hand to Anna. Mary smiled at the child’s reluctant obedience, then watched her sisters and their nursemaid move toward the stairs. Suddenly, Lily broke free and ran back to Mary, hugging her almost desperately. "I love you, Sissy," she cried. "Please don’t ever leave me. You’re all I have left!" Tears sprung to Mary’s eyes, but she blinked them away. Mae was too young to understand very much, but at seven years of age, Lily was all too aware that her mother was dead, along with her father and brothers. ‘Twas a terrible burden for such a young child, and Mary wanted to weep for her. But there was no time for weeping. Not now, perhaps not ever. Life was unfolding as it would, and one could not fight fate, or God, or whomever it was that had decided Mary would raise her little sisters--that she would be the only adult family member left after that horrible Battle of Hastings. Mary kissed her little sister, reassured her they would always be together, then sent her back to her nursemaid, all the while wishing for the thousandth time that she could have undone her mother’s madness. Or that she could have at least saved her life...for the sake of the children. Her mother--frail, beautiful Lady Evelyn--had been a victim of the Battle of Hastings every bit as much as Mary’s father and brothers. Leaving the manor house and crossing the courtyard with Harold, Mary couldn’t help remembering again that last night of her mother’s life. It had been in the dead of winter, a bitter cold night. The peat-fueled brazier in the solar had done very little to offset the frigid chill in the room, and Mary had piled blankets and furs over her mother’s terribly thin body as she sat in a chair simply staring at a tapestry on the wall. A tapestry depicting a battle scene, one worked by Mary’s great-grandmother many years ago. Lady Evelyn’s posture that night was not new. She either sat and stared at that tapestry or paced the

room, searching for some way to escape unbearable mental anguish. It had been thus ever since Sir Harold and twelve other survivors had returned from Hastings, bringing news of Lord Ralph’s death, as well as the death of his sons. On hearing the news, Lady Evelyn had turned white, all color draining from her face; then she’d become as still as stone. She’d never left the solar after that day, had even refused food and water unless they were forced upon her. She had been slowly dying, by increments, and Mary knew it. Everyone knew it. She was willing herself to die through starvation. Lady Evelyn hadn’t spoken a coherent word since her husband’s death, only keening wails of grief and insanity. At first, Almswick’s priest had prayed over her for days on end, but to no avail. Frustrated, Father Michael then lectured Lady Evelyn sternly, admonishing her for weakness. Finally, he’d simply given up and declared her mad. But Mary didn’t give up. She remembered her mother before the madness, remembered her laughter, her beauty, her love, and her absolute devotion to her husband and sons. Not that Lady Evelyn hadn’t loved her three daughters. She had...but in a different way. Simply put, Lady Evelyn had needed the strength of men, perhaps to offset her own frailty. Once the men in her life were gone, her three daughters simply ceased to exist in her tormented mind. Mary didn’t want to leave her mother that night, not even for a moment. Lady Evelyn was restless, more agitated than usual, and Mary feared for her safety. But something called her out of the room--she never could remember what; some silly emergency needing her attention since she was by then, for all intents and purposes, the lady of the manor--and she left the solar, unwittingly giving her mother the opportunity she must have wanted. If only she had left a servant in the room. Someone. Anyone. But she hadn’t. Most of the servants were already asleep on their pallets in the great hall, before the blazing hearth. She didn’t have the heart to awaken one of her tired, faithful people on that bitter cold night, so she’d left her mother alone--for such a short time! But long enough. Then she’d heard that blood curdling scream... Mary wrenched her thoughts from those awful memories yet again. Nothing could be done about that. Lady Evelyn was dead, long since buried in unhallowed ground, and remembering that horrid night wouldn’t change a thing. It wouldn’t even save Lady Evelyn’s soul. And besides that, the future was fast approaching. The Normans had just entered the courtyard. Sir Stephen was easy enough to identify. His bearing was totally arrogant. Aye, he was the leader; the one in control. If only, Mary couldn’t help thinking again, as the tall, grim knight approached her on his massive destrier. If only her father and brothers had not died. If only Lady Evelyn hadn’t died, if only... But it was useless to think that way, she firmly reminded herself. They were all dead, and she was the only one left...she and Lily and little Mae. Only Mary had received the message that Almswick had been confiscated by the new king; not an unusual turn of events in a conquered land. Only Mary had been left to see to the well being of Almswick’s people, trying to do so in spite of nearly empty coffers, storage sheds down to their last meager supply of grain, and wood piles which were dwindling faster than trees could be felled to replenish them. Thank God for the peat fuel abundantly available in the low-lying areas of Almswick. If not for that, some of the manor folk surely would have frozen to death.

Mary had swallowed her pride and applied to the king’s mercy, begging his aid, but he had only sent word that a new lord would be dispatched to her manor...and that she would have to make do, like everyone else, until then. Mary sighed deeply, watching Sir Stephen ride closer. There was only so much a woman could do, and she had already done all that she could. Almswick’s future now rested in the hands of this man...this Norman knight...this enemy. She was almost glad she would soon be leaving Almswick, and that Lily and Mae would be going with her. Tidwell. The neighboring estate’s name flitted through her mind as Mary watched the formidable Norman knight draw rein only a few feet from where she was standing. Tidwell Manor would be her new home in a matter of weeks. Lord Albert had contracted for her hand just before the fateful battle that had ultimately killed most of her family. Lord Albert was the only bright light in this whole disastrous affair. Mary would become his wife. And she would be a good, dutiful wife, accepting the marriage bed and her duties as chatelaine without complaint. In fact, she fancied herself in love with Lord Albert, perhaps not with the heart-stopping kind of love she’d once dreamed of, but certainly in a respectful way, certainly in a way that would make her wifely duties palatable. Lord Albert had been courting her since the betrothal was signed, had even shared some grain with her people, though she had to admit it was of the lowest quality and full of weevils. Admittedly, Lord Albert was not an overly generous man, but he had agreed to take Lily and Mae into his home, and that had balanced the scales for Mary. She loved Lord Albert...truly she did. And she didn’t think she could tolerate living at Almswick when it was in the hands of an enemy. A Norman. A conquering Norman. Fie on them all! They were the ones who had killed her family. At least Lord Albert’s estate had not been confiscated, as he had not fought in support of King Harold. If she could just get through the next few weeks, if she could somehow ensure that this new lord would care for her childhood home--and its people--then she could go to Tidwell a happy bride. And she could start a new life, never having to think of the Norman enemy again. Mary of Almswick was quite sure her future had already been decided--her future as the Lady of Tidwell Manor, Lord Albert’s wife.

CHAPTER THREE

As Stephen entered the courtyard, he’d been more than a little surprised to see the obvious lady of the manor awaiting him. Her clothing identified her as such, being more costly than the garments of those surrounding her, but even Lady Mary’s clothes were well worn and mended. She was a small woman, surely not standing more than an inch or two over five feet. In all honesty, she was not a great beauty, her face a simple oval and her nose just a little too short. But her eyes were quite pleasing, a rich, warm brown, and her hair was a light golden brown, the neat braid lying over her

shoulder reaching all the way to her knees. Stephen couldn’t help thinking how beautiful that hair would look unbound. And her lips. Her lips were her crowning feature. Ruby red, full and generous. Utterly kissable. He wondered how that mouth would look wearing a soft smile...or a seductive pout as she lay in his bed, begging attention. With a connoisseur’s eye, Stephen continued his perusal, his gaze moving downward. He felt his breath hitch a little as his eyes settled on her breasts. Full, round...magnificent, even confined behind the modest gown. Aye, Stephen decided, wedding and bedding Mary of Almswick would be no unsavory chore. ‘Twould be quite pleasant, in fact. And despite her petite size, her hips seemed adequate for childbirth, and those wonderful breasts would undoubtedly nourish many a babe. He was well pleased. His pleasure diminished a little as his gaze moved back up to her face. She was blushing--as any good maiden would under a man’s appreciative gaze--but her beautiful mouth was set in a firm, uncompromising line. A defiant line. He realized then that he had met a quietly determined foe. Lady Mary’s demeanor was polite, but the firm set of her mouth told a different story: He was the enemy, and she was not at all happy to see him arrive at her manor. He was, however, quite impressed with the fact that she had not called her men to arms. Even though she saw him as the enemy, she was not willing to risk her people on a useless fight. He admired her for that. It spoke of true courage. Such courage would beget fine, strong sons. "Lady Mary, I presume?" he said, still atop his huge destrier, his voice firm, his face purposely devoid of expression. This situation did not call for politeness or gallantry. It called for firm determination and control. Ruthless control if need be. "Aye, my lord," Mary replied with a sketched curtsy. Her voice was breathless, a little shaky, and Stephen nodded. She obviously felt intimidated, and that was just as it should be. But he could also see she was quite determined to control her fear. His admiration for the diminutive woman inched up another notch. At that moment a maidservant hurried to Lady Mary, carrying a rabbit fur-lined mantle. It was then that Stephen noticed Lady Mary was shivering. Evidently, she had forgotten her cloak in her determination to meet the enemy head-on. His admiration climbed again, as well as his desire to wed the lady. Mary of Almswick knew what was important, and she carried out her duties to her people without flinching, without even a thought to her own comfort. Doubtless, she would carry out her duties as a wife just as conscientiously. He nearly smiled at the thought. As the servant Lady Mary addressed as Hilda arranged the warm mantle around her lady’s shoulders, Stephen let his gaze stray to the man standing beside her. This man was not even trying to hide his dislike behind a polite facade.

He was a burly fellow, with a barrel chest and massive hands. Hands that bore many battle scars. A formidable foe here, Stephen realized. But also one who seemed completely determined to protect his lady. Not a bad combination, really. Not unless he turned against his new lord. "This man is my steward, Sir Harold," Stephen heard Mary say, and he swung his gaze back to her. He hadn’t failed to notice that her voice was strong and clear now, all trace of breathlessness gone. "Does he know his job well, my lady?" Stephen asked. "Aye," Mary replied. "Sir Harold is a fine steward, and a fine man." "Then he shall retain the title...for now," Stephen allowed, purposely watching the reaction of the lady and her knight to this statement. He would establish his dominion from the very first. Harold grumbled something under his breath, but Stephen ignored it. He was used to the ways of men. He’d forgive this warrior his grumbling. The man was merely salving his pride. Looking up, Stephen surveyed the motley crew of household knights who had gathered behind their lady. No more than twelve men, he noted, and they were gaunt of face, with weapons and armor sadly in need of repair. Nevertheless, those weapons could do considerable damage. Stephen gestured to Henri. As Henri rode to his side, Stephen raised a gauntlet to gain attention. "Hear me," he said in a deep, stentorian voice, his breath visible in the frigid air, his fierce dark gaze raking each of the knights and many of the manor folk. "I now claim Almswick Manor in the name of King William." He didn’t miss the murmurs of discontent that statement evoked. Undaunted, he continued. "From this day forth, I am the Lord of Almswick. If you obey me without question, your needs will be met. If you disobey me, you will be punished." The crowd that had gathered shifted restlessly, mothers pulling their children closer to their skirts, shabbily clothed fathers putting too-thin arms around their wives. After giving just enough time for his threat--as well as his promise--to sink in, Stephen pressed on. "No man, woman or child is to have a weapon on Almswick, until you have proven your trustworthiness. This decree includes all household knights." The grumbling increased, and two war-hardened men raised fists in the air. Stephen ignored them and gestured toward Henri. "This man is Sir Henri of Tours, my second in command. He will be in charge of confiscating all weapons." Henri immediately dismounted. "You may begin disarming yourselves now," Stephen concluded. He heard Lady Mary draw in a sharp breath. "Nay, my lord," she declared, causing Stephen to look down on her with mild surprise. "The women must have knives for cooking, the men their bows and arrows for hunting and tools for farming. Would you have us starve?" "Nay, my lady," Stephen quietly stated. "I would not have you starve, though it seems you’ve come close enough to it this past winter." He heard her draw in another sharp breath, obviously insulted. "Sir Henri will assign a man to dole out necessary implements," he explained. "And as far as hunting, my lady, your men will continue to do so...with an escort."

"We don’t need no Norman nursemaids," one man called out, "and we need our weapons. How else can we protect our lady?" "Your lady will be protected by my men," Stephen quietly rejoined, "and by me." He pierced Almswick’s assembled knights with a stern look. "You men will all be assigned duties, but protecting your lady will not be one of them. Once you have proven your loyalty to me, your weapons will be returned. Until then, only my men will be armed." Almost in unison, the men turned to Lady Mary. Stephen saw her nod, and with that one small gesture, these underfed but still well-muscled warriors began removing their weapons, laying them at Henri’s feet. Again, Stephen was well pleased. Men who would obey their lady without question would obey their new lord as well...in time. True to form, Henri evidently felt a bit of humor was needed in this tense situation. "Not so close to the toes," he quipped, jumping back nimbly from the growing pile of weapons, despite his portly size, then bellowing in mock pain as a heavy broadsword crossed his foot. "Sorry," Stephen heard the fellow responsible mutter, but there was a small smile on the man’s weathered, bearded face. Stephen merely shook his head. Only Henri would dare such a thing, attempting to lighten the fearful, tense mood of these people. To Stephen’s amazement, though, by the time the pile of weapons had grown to a considerable size, with every possible weapon on the manor having been laid down, Henri’s occasional interjections of humor had softened more than one face in the crowd. The children seemed far less frightened now, too. Stephen nodded to his friend. He had nothing against good humor...as long as it was tempered with respect. The procession had taken more than an hour, and in all that time Stephen had remained mounted. He knew very well that with his own height and that of his warhorse, he made a formidable picture. Which was just what he wanted. Henri could afford to display humor--he was second in command. The new lord of a conquered manor must remain disciplined and in control at all times. He could not allow himself the luxury of laughter. Now, with the weapons confiscation finally accomplished, and a passing fair wench even offering Henri a shy smile and a gourd of water, Stephen finally dismounted, handing his reins to a stable lad who looked as though he might blow away in the slightest breeze. Striding to Mary, Stephen said, "I will see the manor house now, my lady." Mary had watched the pile of weapons and implements grow, never once taking her eyes from the spectacle. At Sir Stephen’s words, she finally tore her eyes from the unbelievable sight...only to see one almost as daunting. Sir Stephen, in chain mail and blue and gold tunic, stood before her. He was a giant. There was no other word for it. The man had to be nearly seven feet tall in his stocking feet. She had to bend her neck back just to see his handsome, saturnine face. Starkly defined cheek bones, an arrogant though somehow sensual mouth and hawk-like features. All these things described Sir Stephen, and he was the largest man she had ever seen. She felt like David to Goliath. If only she had a stone... "I will see the manor house now, my lady," Stephen repeated. "What of your men...your things?" Mary asked, her voice growing breathless again. She hated herself for that show of weakness, but the man was intimidating, far, far too intimidating. Gathering her strength and

squaring her shoulders, she added, "Our stables can house your men’s horses, but I have no storehouse large enough to hold your possessions. Where would you have me put them, my lord?" The lady was stalling, Stephen realized. She didn’t want him inside her home just yet. No matter its state of disrepair, it was a castle to her. He could understand her feelings, and he felt a surge of sympathy. His own lady mother would have reacted in much the same way. But he quickly quelled that momentary lapse of emotional discipline. Compassion had no place in a situation like this, even if Henri seemed to think it did. Over the past three days, Henri had tried to convince Stephen that kindness and sympathy might be very effective tools for handling Lady Mary, but Stephen had disagreed. He disagreed even more now, after meeting the lady. Nay, firmness and discipline were imperative. Lady Mary was far less than pleased with his arrival. Doubtless, she would be even less happy with her impending betrothal to him. Aye, firmness and discipline. Those were the tools he had used to make his way in the world, and those were the tools he would use here at Almswick...and with Lady Mary herself. With that thought in mind, Stephen said quite firmly, "Sir Henri will see to all the necessary details regarding my belongings and men, your steward will assist him, and you, my lady, will lead the way to my new home without further delay. Is that clear?" "Quite clear, my lord," Mary answered just as firmly, then turned on her heel in a swirl of cape and gown, her back arrow straight, her strides determined as she did indeed lead the way to the manor house. Stephen understood exactly what she was doing. She might have to obey his orders, but she was determined to show him no further weakness, not even resistance to opening her beloved home to him. She nodded to Sir Harold in passing, who had obviously overheard the conversation, and now that he had his lady’s approval, the steward immediately joined Henri with his pile of weapons. Stephen noticed this silent exchange, but he let it pass. He suspected the burly Sir Harold felt quite naked without his sword and dagger, and Stephen doubted the man would have lain down his weapons without Lady Mary ’s agreement. It mattered little, though. Sir Harold could probably kill a man with his bare hands, if need be. He bore close watching. With the slightest gesture of one hand, Stephen signaled Henri, who simply grinned in reply. Stephen shook his head again, momentarily closing his eyes. His rather rotund friend could be exasperatingly cheerful at times, but he was also loyal to his very bones and extremely efficient. Stephen’s belongings would be stowed...somewhere...and the men who had chosen to accompany him would be shown their new lodgings. At least housing them would pose no great problem. The quarters for Almswick’s men-at-arms were probably more empty than full after the Battle of Hastings. After nodding acknowledgment to Henri, knowing the Frenchman would stay as close to Sir Harold as a flea on a dog, Stephen followed the lady who would soon be his wife.

Holding up the frayed hem of her overgown, Mary climbed the dozen stairs to the manor house, thanked the servant opening the massive oak door, then entered Almswick’s great hall. She was well aware that Sir Stephen was following her, which was bad enough, but the last thing she needed right now was to see Lily running toward her, Anna and Mae close on her heels. "I’m sorry, milady," Anna said breathlessly, trying to catch up with her charge. "She couldn’t wait any longer. I was bathing Mae, and Lily ran out of the nursery."

Mary took one look at Lily’s pinched, frightened face and knew immediately that the child had witnessed the scene in the courtyard, from the nursery window. Any thoughts about Sir Stephen’s invasion of her home quickly left Mary’s mind. She scooped Lily into her arms, which caused Mae, wearing naught but a warm linen bathing towel, to hold out her arms and whimper. Mary opened her other arm, and Anna handed the toddler to her. "Hush now," Mary crooned, already heading for the winding staircase, both children cradled in her arms. "There is no reason to be frightened, little ones. I am here, and I will keep you safe." She turned to Anna. "Have Cook send up some warm goat’s milk and honey cakes, will you Anna? I think my girls need a small treat." She heard Anna mutter, "A small treat, indeed. More like a Christmas feast the way things are right now," but she didn’t admonish the servant. The statement was true enough, but the children needed comforting. Food was a good choice, even scarce as it was. Anna turned toward the kitchen hut to carry out her lady’s orders, and Stephen was left to his own devices while Lady Mary saw to the children. He could have ordered her to stay in the great hall with him, of course, but seeing how close she was to the little girls had given him an idea. He wanted to think through his admittedly ruthless plan while still alone. By King William’s decree, the lady was to wed him, so she really had no choice in the matter. However, a lot of needless contention could be avoided with the right tactics. And Stephen was, above all else, a brilliant tactician. He smiled grimly scant moments later, his decision made. Then he frowned as he noticed the condition of Almswick’s great hall. The room was clean enough, with fresh rushes strewn on the floor and every possible surface newly scrubbed, the walls adorned with tapestries sewn by loving hands, but a chill wind seeped in through cracks in the wooden walls. Sealing those leaks would be the first chore he would assign Almswick’s weaponless knights. Wattle and daub were easily available on the estate, and if anything must be purchased, that could easily be done, too. Money was no obstacle to Stephen’s plans for Almswick. The next problem was the room’s furnishings. A scarred, very old table sat upon a raised dais, and the dismantled trestle tables used only at meal times lined one long wall, but other than rough benches and two carved armchairs at the lord’s table, there was no place to sit. Unless you considered the pile of pallets neatly stacked against another wall. This room boasted no padded settles, like his own mother’s hall, and the servants obviously slept right here, in front of a hearth large enough for Stephen’s horse to fit quite nicely. ‘Twas unfortunate that the chimney drew poorly, making the large room rather smokey. Chore number two. Clean debris from the chimney. Or replace it entirely. Stephen began a mental list. By the time he heard Mary’s light footsteps on the stairs, he’d decided the entire manor house should be razed. The lady probably wouldn’t like that idea one little bit, but it needed to be done. The place was a rotting shambles. A stone castle in the Norman style would be far more sensible...and far easier to defend against enemies. "I pray your forgiveness for the interruption, my lord," Mary said politely upon reaching him, sketching a quick curtsy. "The children were quite overwhelmed by all the activity in the courtyard." Stephen admired her infallible manners--if one discounted the firm set of her pretty mouth--and mentioning the children reminded him of his plan. "Your apology is accepted, my lady," he said, then added, "Is there somewhere a little more...um...comfortable where we might talk?" The discussion they were about to have should be private.

"My solar is quite comfortable," Mary answered, blushing. "I realize the hall leaves a little to be desired, my lord, but funds have been short..." Her words trailed off. She was obviously embarrassed at having made that admission to the enemy. Raising her chin, she finally said, "If you will follow me, sir." Knowing no one was watching, Stephen allowed himself the luxury of smiling as he followed Mary’s swaying hips up the winding wooden staircase. Such a prickly little wench. How could so much fortitude be encased in such a small body? A delightful small body, he had to concede, his smile widening as Mary ’s hips tilted from one side to the other with her ascent. A very delightful small body. The sooner this marriage business was settled the better, Stephen decided, following her down a dimly lit corridor. Stephen had been without a woman for several days now, and the need for some fleshly comfort was growing imminent. Perhaps a willing maidservant could serve the purpose, but the thought of bedding the indomitable little woman now entering her solar was tempting indeed. He was a Norman, after all, and Normandy had adopted some delightful French customs since becoming a duchy of France. Certainly the most delightful of those customs was the Frenchman’s propensity for frequently making love. Taking pleasure from a woman--and giving it--came as easily to Stephen Dubois as breathing. His groin tightened at the very thought, and only years of self-discipline allowed Stephen to push all lustful thoughts aside. There would be time for carnal pleasure soon enough. For now, he suspected the battle between himself and Mary of Almswick was just about to begin.

Mary closed the oak door once Sir Stephen had passed through the portal. He’d actually had to duck a little, so great was his height. Not sure what he wanted to speak with her about, Mary could not help feeling nervous. This was her private sanctuary, had always been her family’s private place. She should never have brought the Norman enemy here, even if it was by rights his solar now. Needing to do something while Sir Stephen circled the warm and comfortable torch-lit room, looking it over closely, Mary found herself walking toward the shuttered window again, just as she had earlier this very day. Why had she done that? she wondered upon reaching it. This window held such terrible memories... "Is this where it happened?" Sir Stephen’s deep voice startled her. "Is this where you lady mother met her death?" Mary turned to him quickly, her eyes wide with surprise. "You know about that? About my mother’s..." "Suicide," Stephen finished for her. "Aye, my lady, I know everything about Almswick’s recent history, both good...and bad." Mary swallowed hard. "Yes, this is where it happened," she answered, but her voice was brittle, near breaking. There was no use denying what he apparently already knew, but dear Lord it was hard to talk about Lady Evelyn’s suicide. To Mary’s mortal embarrassment, tears suddenly filled her eyes. Her guilt over her mother’s death was tremendous. Two tears rolled down her cheeks and she turned away again, more embarrassed than ever. Another show of weakness, and she simply could not help it. If only she’d been able to help her mother. "It wasn’t your fault."

This time his words startled her, instead of his deep voice. How could he know she felt responsible? Had the wretched tears betrayed her feelings of guilt? She paused before responding, her shoulders slumped, eyes glued to the closed shutters before finally saying, "It was my fault. I should never have left my mother alone that night, even for a moment. I knew she was not...well." Sympathy crept into Stephen’s heart again. She looked so vulnerable, much more child than woman in her dejected pose, no longer a prickly, determined wench. He was standing beside her now, and the tears on her pale cheeks tore at his heart. He was sorely tempted to turn her to face him, brush those tears away, then kiss her tenderly. But necessity forced him to push the impulse aside. Tenderness was for the bedchamber, not the battle ground. And no matter how vulnerable she looked right now, he suspected this solar truly would be a battle ground ere long. Delaying the inevitable would gain him nothing, and he was losing tactical ground by even considering tenderness at this point. His mind made up, he said, "Lady Mary, I want you to turn around and look at me." She reluctantly complied, and Stephen placed one hand on each of her shoulders, his grip gentle but uncompromising. "I will say this only once, lady, and I want you to listen carefully." She met his gaze squarely, tears still glistening in her deep brown eyes. Stephen drew in a breath, ignoring the tears. "You were not responsible for your mother’s death, Lady Mary," he continued, his tone firm. "A parent may be responsible for his child’s actions, and a husband is certainly responsible for his wife’s behavior, but a daughter is not responsible for her mother." His grip on her shoulders tightened. "Leave go of your guilt, as it is a useless emotion. I want you to do so right now, lady. I need your undivided attention for things we must discuss, and this useless guilt can do naught but harm you...as well as harm those little girls you must raise." "You are right, sir," Mary conceded with a heavy sigh, "at least as far as my sisters are concerned." He had removed his gauntlets, and his large hands felt very warm on her shoulders. She swallowed hard. The feeling was not unpleasant, and this disturbed her as much as her feelings of guilt ever had. She should not be responding to this man in any way. She was promised to another...and Sir Stephen was the enemy. Remembering that undeniable fact helped Mary firm her resolve. Raising her chin, she continued. "My sisters do need me very badly right now, my lord. They need me to be strong, not wallowing in guilt. I shall try very hard to take your advice and let go of that useless emotion, as you so aptly called it, but it will not be easy." He loosened his grip, nodding approval of her agreement. Mary crossed to two comfortable, padded chairs set close to the brazier, taking this time to compose herself. She could still feel the warmth of his large hands, a most disconcerting feeling, and she brushed at the remaining tears on her cheeks to gain a little more time. Surely she had imagined the sudden sense of loss she’d felt when he’d released her shoulders. It was only her tattered nerves. Everything was happening so fast, and she wanted so very much to be strong for her people...and for her family. Aye, that was it, she convinced herself, now gesturing toward the chairs. Momentarily, she had enjoyed the feeling of a man’s warm, strong hands on her person. It was naught more than that. Simply an understandable, human weakness, a need to be touched... Wishing to go no further with that thought, she said, "Shall we sit here, my lord?" "As you wish, my lady," Stephen calmly agreed, folding his long frame into a chair. He hadn’t missed Mary’s reaction to his hands on her shoulders. He smiled to himself. On the surface, she might be determined to show strength, but underneath she was a woman needing the touch of a man. This discussion might go better than he’d first envisioned. On the other hand, it might be a battle royal. Only

time would tell. "What was it you wished to discuss, my lord?" Mary asked, seating herself and lifting a pitcher of water from the table beside her, then filling two goblets. Blushing again, she added, "I’m sorry I cannot offer you anything more substantial than water, my lord. Our supply of ale and wine ran out a fortnight ago. Last year’s crops were not very good." Stephen grunted at that but accepted the water with a nod, acknowledging her explanation. How could the crops have been good when every able-bodied man on Almswick had been called into service for their ill-fated king? Many of those men were now dead. This year’s crop would be better, he vowed. The remaining household knights, weaponless as they were, could certainly do farm work. Good, hard work had never harmed a knight; Stephen could attest to that truth himself. And working the soil tended to instill a sense of pride in a man. Almswick’s men certainly needed a new sense of accomplishment, since they had failed in battle. They might argue the point that farming could instill new pride, but Stephen knew from experience that opinion would change. Even if it didn’t, his goal would be met. Almswick would have ample food next winter, and ale, cider and wine as well. "The discussion, my lord?" Mary prompted, breaking into Stephen’s momentary reverie. Evidently, she was anxious to get this encounter over with as soon as possible. He swallowed the cool, clear well water, tucking his future plans to the back of his mind. The water was truly refreshing to his parched throat. He thanked Mary, held out his goblet for more, then drank the new portion before finally saying, "I believe in coming straight to the point, my lady." "And what point is that, my lord?" "You are not going to wed Lord Albert of Tidwell." Mary stiffened. "Why ever not?" she asked. "Because," Stephen said, leaning forward and resting his massive hands on equally massive, muscled thighs, "you are going to marry me."

~~***~~ CONQUEST OF THE HEART is available at www.newconceptspublishing.com or as a RocketEdition at www.barnesandnoble.com or www.powells.com