Too many years working in menial, back-breaking tasks. Too many reminders that he was not worthy of more. Too much time spent watching those designated worthy, simply for being given a name, gain much for naught else but that name.
Only Simon’s father, who’d gathered three bastard boys from their noble fathers, had seen that ability and skill could mean something and had saved him and Brice and Soren from the life that befitted bastard sons. Training them even as he trained his noble-born son, Simon’s father had branded them with his own ideals of fairness, hard work and confidence in their abilities.
Now, though, keeping those ideals in mind while taking on this new position was a testing of his abilities and his own honour. To know where the line was that separated the classes and when to approach it, when to ignore it and when to respect it were his daily challenges. Watching the father and son walk away, Giles knew it would be a constant battle for him.
Working with the axe and rebuilding required skill and strength, something expected of a warrior, so that would not diminish his standing. But helping a boy fetch water was not—it was servants’ work. Looking around at the still-present signs of battle and knowing that hardship faced them even now, Giles realised it was a ridiculous distinction and shook off any regrets at working alongside his men to ready the keep for the coming winter.
Pomp and ceremony, aspects of being a nobleman, would have to wait until their survival was assured. Turning around, he strode off toward the yard, examining his next plan in his mind. This one involved Fayth and he wondered how it would play out once she heard it.
Fayth made her way throughout the keep, checking each of her people, enquiring of their conditions and seeking news of others, others who’d been killed or left with Edmund. Grief filled her as she learned the names of her father’s soldiers killed during the attack and those who’d died of their wounds. Worse, many villagers innocent of anything but trying to survive had been injured or watched their cottages and fields burned by the attacking forces.
And her heart hurt to learn of the many men who’d followed Edmund into exile. She’d known all of them almost from birth and their experience and skills would be sorely missed in a time of peace and prosperity, even more so during these troubled times.
The only thing that gave her some hope was that the new lord seemed to be treating her people fairly. He’d spoken directly to the cook about the man who’d attacked his daughter and given his word that Ardith would be safe from further harassment. He’d ordered villagers to the keep for their protection and made certain that they had food and shelter. He’d not imprisoned any free man who pledged fealty to him.
None of it matched the fearsome rumours about the invading forces that were pillaging and raping their way across England, spreading from the main battle in the south and moving north to control all of it. The fighting and killing was not complete and many more would die before the struggle for control of the throne was won.
Fayth sighed. So many dead and so much lost to the hunger of men for power and lands. And those not dead already faced the dangers of starvation and sickness and more during the approaching winter. Somehow she must find a way to work with the new lord in order to help her people survive. She turned and took the cloak from Emma’s hands and tossed it around her shoulders as they left the kitchens and entered the yards.
The winds buffeted her, but Fayth stood for a moment outside the door and let them. She’d been within the keep for days and days and it weighed on her more than she’d realised until now. Emma reached out to tuck the edges of her linen veil, a sign of her new position as a married woman, under the cloak to keep the winds from tearing it free.
The last time she’d walked in the yard, she’d followed the Breton to the chapel and her marriage vows. This time she turned her face up to the sun’s lights and enjoyed the smell of the autumn changes. Fayth knew that the number of sunny days would decrease now, until winter’s cold and darker days crept over and controlled the lands and sky, so she used this fair-weather day to continue to seek out her people and determine their needs.
An hour passed and then another and Fayth lost herself in feeling needed once more. Though she’d not asked her husband’s permission to do so, she took note of the needs amongst the people and what supplies they’d used and what were still available to them. Serving these last two years as her father’s chatelaine had forced her to look objectively at the situation around her and to consider the coming winter’s demands. As she approached the smith’s newly rebuilt work cottage she caught sight of the Breton knight leading Durwyn towards the well. Uncertain of his purpose, she shushed Emma and waved her away while she kept to the shadows thrown by the wall and keep while following them.
Fayth stood too far away to hear his words, but Durwyn’s father spoke to the lord and from the glances they threw towards the boy she knew he was the centre of their discussion. The knight did not seem to threaten the boy, but she noticed that everyone carrying out their duties in the yard now watched the exchange. Soon, the boy went off carrying a freshly drawn bucket of water and the lord went back to his tasks.
Wearing next to nothing.
As he passed close by she leaned against the wall so she could not be easily seen by him. He’d been working at some labour that had left him sweating and he’d stripped off his tunic and shirt and worked only in his braies, which lay dampened against his skin. The cool air did not seem to chill him. His muscles moved as he did and she watched his powerful legs stride across the yard to where his men worked cutting up trees they’d felled around the outer edges of the wall.
This was the first time she’d seen him in daylight without clothing covering his form and she discovered an unseemly curiosity about the man who’d shared her bed. He called out something in his native tongue to one of his men, something about his days at his father’s estate, and they laughed before he picked up the large axe and began to swing it around and down, chopping large pieces of trees into smaller logs that would be burned or chopped into planks for other needs.
Giles Fitzhenry, now Baron of Taerford, was as much a mystery now as when she’d received the missive informing her that he was on his way to take her lands…and her. Fayth stepped from the shadows and walked back to where Emma stood speaking with a few of the older women from the village. She listened as they spoke and shared confidences, but she could not take her gaze off the man who was now her husband.
His shoulders were broad and his arms and legs well muscled. Not as bulky as her father was, he stood taller than most of his men, save one. The one he called Brice. Both men were stripped to their braies and matched each other, stroke for stroke, in some unnamed competition that had the men beginning to cheer for one or the other.
When he turned to answer someone’s call, she was gifted with the sight of his equally muscular chest, liberally sprinkled with hair that tapered under the edge of his loosely tied breeches. What would that feel like to touch? His chest and stomach rippled as he lifted and swung the axe, over and over, and in time with his friend. Suddenly, Fayth found it difficult to breathe and a wave of heat passed through her. Peeling off the cloak, she loosened the veil around her neck and tried to take a breath.
‘Here now, my lady,’ Emma said, taking the cloak from her and draping it over her own arm. ‘You look a bit flushed.’ Her maid reached out and touched Fayth’s face and cheek. ‘Praise God, no fever, you are just overheated…’
She didn’t finish her words, and Fayth realised that the three women were following the direction of her gaze and seeing what, or rather whom, she watched. With a shared glance of their own from one to the other that bespoke of some common knowledge, they smiled at her and nodded.
‘Worry not, my lady. It will wear off,’ Alfrida, the smith’s wife, said with a knowing smile.
‘And mayhap not,’ Riletta, the tanner’s wife, said with her own enigmatic smile.
The three looked at her and then burst out laughing. So loud were they that the very man she had been watching stopped and turned towards her. Her face burned now and she could only hope he could not see it from across the distance. Fayth wanted to pull her veil farther forward to cover as much as possible, but stopped herself.
It was not as though she’d never heard the bantering amongst the women before, about their husbands and their bedplay. In the past, she’d disregarded it for her own marriage had been far off and a young maiden had no reason to listen to such gossip. Then, when her father had announced her possible betrothal to a distant cousin from Scotland, such talk had become interesting and she had listened more than a girl in her virginal state should have.
Now, faced with a husband whose physical needs were sometimes clear and sometimes a mystery to her, the intimations were daunting yet enticing. Her mouth went dry when she thought of him holding her against his chest, the one so clearly displayed to her now. But before she could embarrass herself with a misspoke word or gesture, a shrill whistle pierced the air. Turning to find its source, instead she saw the Breton warriors scrambling along the wall.
All of the knights and men-at-arms in the yard began arming themselves and Fayth froze, not knowing what to do or where to go. A few moments later, one of the men, Roger she thought his name was, stepped to her side and took her by the arm.
‘Come, my lady. My lord would have me see you and the women to safety inside the keep.’
The man did not pause as he spoke, only held on to her and guided the others quickly inside. Her last glance back at her husband found him tugging his shirt back into place as his squire held his gambeson, mail shirt and weapons at the ready.
