The Wagered Wench (2 page)

Chapter Two

Elsinora dragged herself to the bank and stepped out, her stockings heavy with water and body soaked from the waist down. With a sigh, she dropped to the grass and lay there, staring up at the soft blue sky. Tufts of fleece cloud, innocent as newborn lambs, drifted by, exaggerating the shame she felt as she pondered her own wickedness.

Such wanton behavior could not go unpunished forever, of course. One day she would pay for her naughty secret.

Time to go back to the manor and organize supper for her father on his return. Gudderth was elderly and ailing, but he’d insisted on traveling to pay his respects to Robert, Count of Mortain, largest landowner in Cornweal except for the king. Elsinora knew her father was desperate to get her a husband before he died. Her only brother, Edwy, was killed in a foolish brawl ten years ago and her father could not leave a daughter in charge of his manor, Lyndower.

“The men won’t fight for a woman,” he’d said to her many times. “The people will leave. They will desert you and Lyndower to find work and homes elsewhere.”

To prevent this, Gudderth wanted her safely married. Then he could die at peace, knowing he left his land under “good”—meaning male—ward-ship. At nineteen, Elsinora was of age now, but Lyndower was a very distant outpost in the kingdom. The only suitable man within convenient distance was Stryker Bloodaxe and Elsinora had turned him down thrice, because he was an uncouth oaf who didn’t even think to wash his hands and face when he came across the moor to woo her. Thus Gudderth lost patience and took matters into his own hands, journeying many miles to discuss the matter with Count Robert.

She sincerely hoped her father wouldn’t find an excuse to stop at a tavern on the road. If he did, only the devil knew what time he might finally stumble home. Or what day.

Her fate was in his hands. She would marry because she had to—her father insisted. If Elsinora was allowed to remain unwed, she would have been perfectly happy with the bubbles of that stream to keep her content. What could a man do for her that those ripples could not? She’d let Stryker touch her that way too, a few times, but he always wanted more and grew angry with her when she refused to give it. The stream, on the other hand, did not make demands. It waited for her and allowed her to come and go as she pleased. No man would do that. Men wanted complete possession, but Elsinora Gudderthsdottir would always be her own person. Her father often remarked peevishly that he was certain there was no other woman like her in the world.

He buckled the belt over his tunic, thick fingers fumbling for the holes in the leather, eager now to escape. “It’ll be a while till I come back this way. A month or so.” He always felt it fair to say that, even when his message never varied.

She sat up, pouting. “Don’t be too long. What will I do without you?” This too never changed.

Fuck one of those other men in the town with whom you keep company, he might have said. Instead he pulled on his mantle and strode to the door. “It’s getting late. Tidy yourself before your daughter returns.” He swept out, stooping to avoid banging his head on the low lintel. His sword rattled in the scabbard at his side and he almost tripped over the step.

Outside he took a deep breath of relief. Whenever he was done fucking a woman, he always felt as if he’d just escaped some trap.

The sun was warmer now. It must be after noon, for the day was settled into its robes. Helmet under his arm, he walked away from the widow’s house and headed down the muddy lane to fetch his horse, which he’d left in the tavern stables. Everything was just the same as it always was.

Almost. Today he stopped and sniffed. Until now he hadn’t realized he was thirsty, but the odor of ale hops caught his attention. It was thirteen years since he arrived in England and had his first taste of their ale. Unlike many of his countrymen, who still preferred French wine, he had nurtured a taste for the favorite tipple of his adopted land. Perhaps he might stay for a mug. Why not? As he neared the tavern door he heard loud laughter and cheering. Sounded like one of two things going on inside—a good fight, or a good game.

And Dominic happened to enjoy both sports equally.

So he stepped over the threshold into that crowded tavern.

* * * *

It was pitch dark out, and her father had still not returned. Bertha the cook observed, unhelpfully, that it seemed as if something had occurred to delay his trip.

Elsinora looked up from the pork fat she was spreading on a lump of bread for a hasty snack. “Do you think so, Bertha?” They all knew exactly what was most likely to distract her father, and sadly there were several alehouses and brewers between Lyndower and the market town of Marazion.

“I said that big black rook sitting in your father’s favorite tree today was a bad omen,” the cook exclaimed, carrying a pot of water to the fire in her bulging arms. “‘Tis your fault he undertook this journey in his frail state. Now we are left without a master. Who knows what will happen to us! Mercenary soldiers will come and we women will all be ravished in our beds. Mark my words. We have no one to protect us now. Your father’s fyrdsmen won’t stay and take orders from a thin-hipped, shrew-tongued wench like you.”

Elsinora knew that this was what all her father’s serfs thought. They would blame her for any ill that befell their Eaorl as a result of this unwise trip in his poor state of health. “I didn’t want him to go,” she cried through a mouthful of bread and fat. “I told him to stay, did I not? He is my father, as well as your master. I love him too, you know, although you all seem to forget that fact!”

“Selfish girl,” the cook muttered, rolling her head from side to side on its massive neck. “Never give a thought to what might become of us when he’s gone. You could have married Bloodaxe by now, joined this land with his, and that would secure Lyndower. But oh no, you’re too fine for him. Vanity! Ravished, that’s what we’ll be. Ravished in our beds by mercenary soldiers.”

She thoughtfully surveyed the large, lumbering old woman. “Bertha, I’m quite certain they will be too afeard of you to attempt any forceful possession of your person.”

“Aye, joke. You’ll see. No good will come of this. That ugly great rook was a sure sign of evil on its way. You love yourself first and Lyndower second. If that was not true you would have married and put your own wants aside for the good of the manor.”

A cold fist closed around her heart. She dropped the remains of her snack, losing her appetite. Was it true that she was being selfish? She couldn’t win, it seemed. Had she persuaded her father not to travel so far for an audience with Count Robert, people would accuse her of purposefully delaying any chance she might have for a husband. Now, because she was unable to talk him out of it, she’d sent him to his death and left them all without their beloved master. Everything was Elsinora’s fault and she was so confused by it that she no longer knew what she wanted. Sometimes she thought it would be best if she had married Stryker Bloodaxe, just to stop them all blaming her for every ill that befell the manor—everything from bad harvests to sick cows.

Although she would never say so and show her weakness, a day did not pass when she was free of worry about Lyndower and what might happen without her father there to settle disagreements, keep order, and dispense justice. For the first nine years of her life, she’d watched her brother Edwy learn the ropes at her father’s right hand side. She always took a spot behind Edwy, quietly observing and absorbing. When her brother died, she’d stepped up to her father’s side, hoping to share his burden, but Gudderth immediately began planning her marriage. Wife and mother was all she could be and she must embrace it for the sake of the manor.

Elsinora was three when the Normans conquered England. It had little effect on their lives for several years, because they were so remote. Edwy had been too young to fight for the Saxons at Hastings and so Gudderth, unlike many Eaorls, had not lost his son to battle. Keeping to their quiet hamlet in this remote outpost of the country, he’d hoped to go unnoticed as long as possible. That all changed when Edwy died and Gudderth saw his beloved Cornweal slowly sacrificed, piece by piece, to the conquering Norman king’s best knights. He told his daughter then that they must collaborate with England’s new rulers if Lyndower had any chance of surviving intact.

When she was seventeen a Norman knight came to marry her. She barely had time to accept this idea, before they learned that he’d accidentally digested poisonous mushrooms and met an undignified end on the road to Lyndower. That was two years ago and since then their hamlet had been forgotten once more. Hence her father’s latest journey to jolt Count Robert’s memory.

“Bloodaxe would have made you a proper wife and a mother by now, several times over,” Bertha grumbled as she tossed bones into the stock pot over the fire. “Then poor Gudderth would have grandsons to carry on. He would have no need to put himself in danger by undertaking such a journey, just to get you a man.”

“Stryker Bloodaxe would not make me a good husband,” she replied. “He only wants me for my father’s land.” She’d never forgiven him for calling her a mindless, unreasonable wench who talked out of her behind, and then threatening to cut her tongue out for her. That was the last time they spoke. Now she heard he’d taken himself off on some sort of pilgrimage. Good riddance.

“How would you know what makes a good husband? You’re a hot-headed, hard-hearted chit.” Bertha’s big face was somber in the light of the great hearth. “Of course a man will wed you for your father’s land. That is the way of life. You were born the daughter of an Eaorl. You have a responsibility to the people of this manor. You can’t sit about waiting for love, Elsinora. Lyndower needs you to be practical.”

“Well…” Bertha didn’t know what to say to that. Finally she exclaimed, “Always got an argument you have, girl! Just like your brother, you fight for the sake of fighting and look where that got him! Buried up there on the moor when he should have been ready now to step into your father’s boots. Half the time you don’t even know
why
you’re fighting. Ravished in our beds, that’s what we’ll be. Thanks to you.”

“Hush!” Elsinora put a finger to her lips, suddenly hearing the sound of horse’s hooves in the yard. Leaping to her feet, she cried out, “He’s back!” Relief lifted her feet in a race to the door. “He’s back, Bertha. All your worries were for naught!”

She pulled on the iron loop handle and the door groaned, moving slowly and heavily. Rush torches were lit around the yard and a brazier burned, around which several grooms, on the lookout for Gudderth’s return, warmed their hands. “He’s back,” she yelled at them, flying across the puddles, eyes straining through the folds of night, breath misting before her face. “I heard him, I know I did.”

But there was no sign. The guard at the gate looked at her as if she might be addled.

How could she have heard—

And there it was, a great black beast, dark as the night itself, loomed forward, hooves stomping in the dirt, mane and eyes shining in the torchlight. She smelled horse sweat and leather. It was not her father’s horse. This animal was no tame, placid mount; it was a fire-breathing demon, about to trample her into the dirt.

Stumbling back a step, she looked up and found the most fearsome face she’d ever seen staring back at her. He wore a helmet with a strip of metal over his nose, but as the torchlight guttered across his rough features it revealed a thick, vicious scar dividing his cheek. He had a rough, dark beard and through it his lips curled in a gruff shout.

“Don’t just stand there staring, wench.” He jerked his head back and she realized another figure was slumped over the powerful rump of his horse. “Help your master. He is ill.”

Ill? She could smell the ale fumes from where she stood and those low groans were all too familiar.

“Father!” she cried, rushing around the horse and grabbing his dangling legs.

The scarred soldier twisted in his saddle, glowering down at her. “This is your father? You’re his
daughter?”
he demanded, his voice cracking like ice under heavy cartwheels. “I took you for a servant.”

She ignored him to shout at the grooms, who still clustered around the brazier, staring in awe at the monstrous stranger on horseback. “Help me! Why do you stand there catching flies?”

“Help her,” the scarred soldier’s voice croaked out again and only now, much to her chagrin, did the others move to her aid.

* * * *

Dominic stole a cautious glance at the young woman as she set a plate of stew before him with a clatter, poured thin, lackluster wine into a goblet by his hand, and then took a bench on the other side of the table. She had thanked him for bringing her father home, but in such a surly tone of voice that suggested she was more irritated and embarrassed than thankful. She’d had to be prompted by her father’s steward even to offer that slender branch of gratitude.

Now her bright, aqua-blue eyes surveyed the food on the table, but she did not eat. Her mind was clearly preoccupied by her father, who had been carried to bed in his private chamber and now slept soundly, his snores echoing through the high timbers of his hall.