He charged up the steps of the hall, trying to hold his panic in check. How was it possible to feel so angry and so afraid at the same time? Was she crazy or just reckless? He’d asked himself that question before, but he was no closer to knowing the answer. Either way, he had to reach her before anyone else did. He didn’t want the Earl to punish her. That was his job.
* * *
Aediva paced up and down the antechamber, fighting the urge to turn tail and run. Back in Etton the idea of taking Cille’s place had seemed so simple and straightforward, but now she was here it felt like madness. She’d been so distracted by Svend that she’d hardly thought about what to do next. Somehow she had to stop the marriage and convince FitzOsbern to let her go, but as to how...
A thousand fears crowded her head. What if she gave herself away? What if the Earl asked something only Cille could know? What if she couldn’t persuade him? What had she got herself into?
She tried to distract herself, looking around the cavernous antechamber with a mixture of amazement and dread. Svend’s description of Redbourn as having changed was the worst kind of understatement. She’d never seen a place like it. New stone ramparts loomed twice as high as the old wooden palisade, encircling a bailey she scarcely recognised—a maze of wooden buildings, tents and one giant tower.
The old Saxon town had been remodelled as a new Norman fortress. And fluttering over it all was the King’s banner—two golden lions on a red background—its presence serving as both a declaration and warning.
There wasn’t the faintest hope of escape. She was trapped in a tower filled with Norman knights, in the very heart of a bailey packed with Norman soldiers, surrounded by a massive Norman-built stone wall. If she’d been trying she couldn’t have imprisoned herself more effectively. If she couldn’t find a way to stop the marriage she might be trapped here for ever.
The door to the great hall swung open and her legs trembled unsteadily. Was it time? Had the Earl summoned her already?
But it was just a lone knight, emerging from the throng inside, striding past her as if she were invisible, leaving the door slightly ajar.
She crept towards it and put her eye to the gap. If she could just take a peek at least she would know what to expect, try to prepare herself for the ordeal ahead...
Like the tower, the hall was built in a new design she’d never seen before. Long and high-ceilinged, its walls were decorated with teardrop-shaped Norman shields instead of round Saxon ones, ornate tapestries instead of antlers and horns. And at the far end, on a dais, stood a man with red cropped hair...
She clutched a hand to her mouth as bile rose in her throat. There was no doubting the man’s identity. His lean body was wrapped in a black bear fur, thick and luxuriant enough to stop the point of a blade, and his fingers were draped in more jewels than she’d ever imagined. This was William FitzOsbern, the Conqueror’s cousin, one of the men who’d brought the whole Saxon world to its knees...whose soldiers had murdered her father.
But he was also the man she had to persuade to call off the marriage and let Cille go. And if she were going to persuade him to do that—going to persuade him of anything—she’d have to swallow her anger, hide her true feelings as well as her identity.
She didn’t know if she could.
‘Lady Cille?’ A steward opened the door. ‘The Earl’s ready for you, my lady.’
She cleared her throat, willing her mind to stay calm and her feet to start moving. She had to do this for Cille—to protect her and the baby. That was why she’d come, why she’d deceived Svend. If she failed now it would all have been for nothing. And she couldn’t—wouldn’t—deceive him for nothing.
Svend. He’d bade her a formal goodbye on the steps of the hall, riding away from her without so much as a backwards glance. But it was for the best. If anything went wrong with her plan she didn’t want him there to witness it—didn’t want to see his face when he found out that she’d lied. If he was going to hate her she’d rather he did it from a distance.
The steward prompted her and she stepped up to the door. One foot was hovering over the threshold when a hand grabbed her elbow, pulling her roughly back again.
‘What—?’
She yelped, startled, spinning around and colliding with a man’s chest.
‘Svend!’
She felt a momentary rush of happiness, quickly dispelled by the thunderous look on his face.
‘Danemark?’ The steward looked confused. ‘She has an audience with the Earl.’
‘She’s not ready!’
Strong fingers clamped over her arm, hauling her away as the steward’s panicked voice followed after them.
‘But she’s been summoned! He’s waiting!’
‘She’s indisposed!’
‘Svend, what are you doing?’ She tried to pull away, but he swung her into an alcove out of sight of the hall.
‘What am I doing?’ he growled. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’
Desperately she searched his face, looking for any trace of warmth or affection, but there was none. There was no empathy now, only raw, unrestrained anger. He was a conquering warrior again, every bit the Norseman and just as frightening—nothing at all like the knight at the waterfall. He looked dangerous, angrier than she’d ever seen him.