He pushed the thought aside and strode purposefully towards the door, Henri following like a wolf at his heels.
‘Get some rest.’ He hurled the words over his shoulder. ‘We’re leaving at dawn. I’ve no more wish to be in this situation than you, but like it or not I’m taking you home.’
‘So I’m your prisoner?’
He stopped in the doorway, his jaw clenched so tight he could feel his teeth grind together.
‘I’d rather be your escort, but if you want it that way then, yes, you’re my prisoner. I suggest you don’t try to escape. Believe me, I’ll drag you to Redbourn in chains if I have to.’
* * *
Aediva watched him go, feeling the final remnants of her old life collapsing around her.
How dared he? She marched up and down inside the empty cottage, struggling to contain her anger. The arrogance of the man! How dared he talk about her—Cille—as if she were some commodity to be passed from man to man? As if she had no mind, no heart, no choice of her own. He was an insensitive monster! Just like every other Norman!
At least she’d shown him how she felt and left a red hand-shaped patch on his cheek to prove it. There’d be a noticeable bruise there tomorrow. Whatever happened afterwards, she’d have that satisfaction at least.
So this was why the Normans had come! The truth was even worse than she’d imagined. They wanted Cille as a bride—a prize for some grasping Norman interloper. But what kind of husband would such a man be? What kind of stepfather to Leofric’s son...the son she’d promised to protect?
She clenched her hands into fists. It was cruel—barbaric! It would break Cille’s heart. She couldn’t let it happen!
But what could she do? She could hardly go to the King’s cousin and pretend to be Cille. Someone would be bound to recognise her and reveal the truth. And yet... From a distance, she and Cille were almost identical. And surely Cille’s own people would keep her secret.
She stopped dead in her tracks. Would they? Svend’s criticism of Cille was all the worse for being true. Cille had fled her home in the spring—five months after Hastings and Leofric’s death. And he was right, as the ealdorman’s widow she should have stayed—should have remained to take care of her people. Would they be angry with her for abandoning them? Would they keep such a dangerous secret to protect her?
Svend had been right about Edmund too, and the disgust had been writ plain on his face. Now she wished she’d made up a name—not reminded herself of the one man she wanted to forget. They hadn’t actually been married, but the lie hadn’t been so far-fetched. Her father had wanted it, even if Edmund himself had shown no sign of caring for anything except her dowry. Worse still, he’d been rougher than she’d expected a suitor to be. His kisses had been too demanding, and he’d pressed her for more—far more—than she’d been willing to give. For her father’s sake she’d tried to accept him, but in truth his violence had frightened her.
But he was a Saxon—part of her old life—and the thought of him still hurt, like a bruise she’d inadvertently pressed too hard. He’d abandoned her just when she’d needed him, running off to join the rebellion despite her entreaties. Let Svend draw his own conclusions about such a man. They couldn’t be any worse than her own.
A sense of isolation swept over her, leaving a hollow sensation like a gaping pit in her stomach. Since her father’s death the feeling had become all too familiar. There was so much she felt responsible for, but there was no one—not a single person—she could turn to for help. And there was no one to protect Cille and her baby either. If she didn’t, who would?
She crouched down by the fire, trying to warm the chill in her heart, trying to work out a plan. Could she pretend to be Cille? It was possible. Surely Cille’s people would support her, a Saxon, over the Norman usurpers? And the Normans themselves had never met Cille...had they?
Now that she thought of it, Cille had been strangely unforthcoming on that subject. She hadn’t even said whether she’d left Redbourn before or after the Normans had arrived.
On the other hand, what did it matter? After this many months who would remember the colour of her eyes?
She rocked back on her heels, making her mind up. If this was the only way to protect her sister and nephew then she’d do it—and gladly. The Normans might have invaded her country, but she wasn’t conquered yet. If she took Cille’s place she could find a way to stop the marriage. In the meantime, who knew what might happen? The rebels might gather an army and overthrow the Conqueror, or Cille and the babe might escape. Any risk would be worth that.
She glanced towards the open doorway with a new sense of resolve. She could do it. After all, she’d already fooled Svend du Danemark. And if she could stay one step ahead of him, she had a feeling the rest would be easy.
Chapter Three
Svend tightened the bridle on his destrier with a snap. The sun was casting a pink glow on the horizon and a dozen soldiers were mounted behind him, ready and awaiting his order to depart.
Where was she?
He looked towards the Thane’s hall, his scowl deepening from dark grey to black. He’d slept badly after their confrontation the previous night, angry at himself for losing his temper and at her for provoking it. And now she was late, after he’d told her they’d be leaving at dawn! Damn it, they should have left already!
‘Sir?’
He turned to find Henri at his shoulder. While he was in his present temper, only his battle-hardened lieutenant dared to approach.
‘We’re ready to go after the villagers.’
‘Good.’ Svend nodded with satisfaction. At least one part of the morning was going according to plan. ‘Their tracks head east. They took carts, so they can’t have gone far or fast. Bring them back. Use persuasion if you can, force if you have to, but I don’t want anyone hurt—understood?’
‘Yes, sir. And the woman?’