Conquering Passion (15 page)

They shared the humour of it as they left Oxford, following the Cherwell River bound for Warwick, another walled town William had his eye on for a castle. The three of them agreed a piece of land on a sandstone bluff overlooking the River Avon, site of four houses belonging to the Abbot of Coventry, would be an ideal location for such a project.

“I’ll bring back that piece of important information. This inconvenient journey might turn to my advantage, and augment my importance in William’s eyes.”

Ram was glad of the company of his brothers. He could keep an eye on Antoine and Hugh, and the presence of family made him feel better. They’d proven themselves as warriors in the hell of Hastings, but Hugh had withdrawn into uncharacteristic moodiness. The seemingly uncontrollable tremor in his younger brother’s hand worried him.

Passing through Bridgnorth on the River Severn, Ram resolved to ask William for this town as part of his holdings. Though somewhat far removed from Ellesmere, it was a good location, and William hadn’t mentioned it for a royal castle.

They decided to stop at Shrewsbury before going on to Ellesmere, to ascertain the latest news of Welsh incursions. He learned, from Norman sympathisers, that Rhodri ap Owain, the rebel chieftain, had been creating havoc around the town of Oswestry.

“This is surprising,” he remarked to his brothers as they left the meeting. “I understood winter normally keeps the Welsh in their mountain hideaways. Perhaps they’re changing their strategy? I propose you both take most of the men and ride to Oswestry. I’ll rejoin you once I’ve inspected Ellesmere.”

He watched the small army ride off towards the west, then ordered his remaining men to set their mounts in motion. After only a few miles they suddenly caught sight, as they neared Ruyton, of a group of riders galloping west.

“Gervais,” he shouted excitedly to his second-in-command, “I would wager those are Welsh rebels, fleeing Ruyton.”

“
Oui
, you’re probably right. We could give chase. Our mounts are still fresh. They have some way to go to the border, and won’t be expecting pursuit.”

“Give the command to pursue.”

The veteran Norman soldiers eagerly spurred their horses, and had closed the gap on the Welsh band significantly before the rebels became aware they were being chased. The lead rider, a mountain of a man, turned and saw them. He alerted the others, and they increased their speed and split up. The moorland terrain was rugged. One false move could result in a horse’s hoof plunging into a pothole in the rolling landscape.

Suddenly, the leader’s horse lost its footing, and animal and rider went down. With incredible agility, as if it were an everyday occurrence, the huge warrior quickly found his feet, and had his dagger out immediately. One Norman soldier fell from his horse with a bone-chilling scream as the barbarian slashed the dagger across his belly, almost severing the lad in two with the power of his thrust.

Ram’s warrior blood rushed to his head. “Gervais, continue the pursuit. I’ll deal with this ruffian,” he yelled, reining in his snorting horse, dropping from the saddle and unsheathing his sword in one fluid movement. The men continued on after the fleeing rebels.

Ram yanked off his helmet, threw it to the ground, and faced the barbarian, noting with surprise the man didn’t look afraid. Ram felt he had the advantage. His opponent had no sword, but he’d seen what the man had done with his dagger and would have to be wary.

Perhaps sending the other men on wasn’t a good idea.

The two warriors squared off—the tall Norman noble trying to make the thrust with his sword that would disarm the rebel, the powerful Welsh barbarian attempting to plunge his dagger into a momentarily unguarded part of the other man’s body. It occurred to Ram he rarely came face to face with an enemy who matched him in height.

“I am Rambaud de Montbryce, Earl of Ellesmere. On the authority of King William, I command your surrender,” Ram declared with calm assurance.

Is that a smile on the barbarian’s face?

“I am Rhodri ap Owain, Prince of Powwydd. Ellesmere has an Earl, you say? The Norman bastard isn’t my king, not anyone’s king yet, therefore I cannot and will not surrender to you.”

Ram thrust again and Rhodri made to deflect the blow. Sword and dagger became braced together as the two powerful men struggled, their intense gazes locked on each other. Ram suddenly used a well practiced manoeuvre and pulled away from the deadlock, taking Rhodri unawares, and his sword flicked the dagger out of the Welshman’s hand. Ram advanced on the unarmed man, again offering him the chance to surrender.

“You don’t understand, Norman invader. Welshmen don’t surrender,” Rhodri sneered. Suddenly he lunged at Ram, knocking the wind out of his body, and
Honneur
out of his hand. As he fell, Ram felt a painful blow to the back of his head.

I survived Hastings to fall here?

His knees buckled and he reeled into oblivion.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Ram didn’t recognize the unsmiling face of the woman bending over him, but it showed concern. Weren’t the angels supposed to be smiling when he reached paradise? He sank back into the murky haze.

“If I’m in heaven, why does my head feel like it’s broken?” he murmured groggily when he awoke some time later.

“That’s because you’re not dead,
milord
.”

“Gervais?” he muttered, half opening one eye. His Second stood at the foot of the bed on which he lay.

“
Oui, milord
. I’m relieved you’re awake.
Non
, don’t try to get up.
Milady
says you must rest. You had a blow to the head.”

“
Milady
? Who is
milady
?”

“She’s the mistress of this manor,
milord
. We brought you here because it was close and we were afraid you wouldn’t make it to Ellesmere. This is Shelfhoc Manor, near Ruyton, and
milady
is Lady Ascha Woolgar.”

“I don’t understand what happened,” Ram said with great exasperation.

“
Milord
, it’s not good to get agitated. When the barbarian lunged and knocked you off balance, you hit your head on a sharp rock. The wound bled a great deal. You have a large gash on the back of your head. We were on the way back and I could see what had happened, but couldn’t get there in time to aid you. The rebel’s horse wasn’t hurt, and he was able to remount and flee. I had to make a decision to either follow them, or help you. We’d killed two of their men, but three of ours had fallen. I didn’t think it wise to pursue them into Wales.”

Ram felt like an incompetent fool. So much for the prowess of the great warrior
Rambaud le Noir
. The scourge of the border, the threat to peace had been at his mercy. He wondered why the Prince of Powwydd hadn’t just finished him off.

“You did the right thing, Gervais. He must have laughed his way back to Wales. Who is this Woolgar woman?” he demanded, his head throbbing. He remembered Mabelle’s soothing touch on his aching temples.

“She’s a Saxon noblewoman,
milord
.”

He dozed off again and awoke later, sensing a presence. He didn’t know how much time had passed.

“Gervais?”

“I’m Lady Ascha Woolgar. This is my home,” a soft voice replied.

Ram opened his bleary eyes and saw the woman he’d previously thought was a vision. She stood beside the bed, and looked to be about the same age as he. What he could see of her hair, at the edges of the wimple, was brown and curly. She was slender and her long thin fingers held a bowl and spoon. She had a look of defeat.

“I’ve brought you some nourishing vegetable broth,” she said, without emotion. “You should eat only broth for a few days, until you feel more recovered.”

She was polite but didn’t smile, and he sensed she didn’t welcome his intrusion into her life.

“My Lady Woolgar, I thank you for allowing my men to bring me here.” There was no warmth in his voice.

“They didn’t give me much choice, my Lord Montbryce.”

“I regret—”

She raised her hand. “Don’t worry. It’s a reality I must accept. I’m a Saxon, a widow. You’re a Norman. You’re the conqueror, I’m the conquered.”

He had to keep his wits about him. He struggled sit up but dizziness overwhelmed him and his stomach roiled. “My Lady, we’re Normans, not savages like the murderous Danes. Our King, your King, wishes peace and prosperity for his people, Saxon and Norman.”

As he mouthed the words, he was certain there would be much bloodshed ahead as William embarked on his plan for the total subjugation of these lands. He wondered why he should bother to justify all this to a woman, especially a Saxon.

She bowed her head slightly. “I’ll let you finish your broth yourself. A manservant will see to your needs.”

An elderly man entered a few minutes later, assisted Ram to stand so he could relieve himself, and then removed the chamber pot. He too was polite, but the undercurrent of Saxon resentment was palpable. The effort exhausted Ram, making him more dizzy, and he slept again, relieved he had managed not to retch.

Later a warm hand on his forehead woke him. It felt good.

“Mabelle,” he croaked, still half asleep. He raised his hand and lay it atop the one on his forehead.

“It’s Lady Ascha.”

Ram’s eyes shot open, sending pain shooting through his head. He quickly removed his hand from hers, bothered he’d found the warmth of it comforting. Ascha seemed to pay no attention to the abrupt movement.

“There is no fever. You’re fortunate, Lord Montbryce.”

Ram’s head throbbed and his throat was dry. “Please, Lady Ascha, my name is Rambaud,” he said wearily.

“As you wish, Lord Rambaud. Who is Mabelle?”

“She’s my betrothed—in Normandie. When I felt your touch, I was half asleep and I thought it was she.”

Surely I’m not blushing?

“Were you dreaming of her?”

“Perhaps I was,” he admitted, thinking it a strange question.

“You’re not a married man?”

“
Non
, not yet,” he said with regret.

For a few minutes she gazed down at him, not with animosity but with a strange sort of longing. He felt uncomfortable, and wished he wasn’t lying in a bed.

“I don’t dream of my husband,” she whispered, and her eyes glazed with unhappiness.

“You told me you’re a widow.”

“Yes. My husband was a warrior, a thane of the king. He’s dead.”

A feeling of dread crept over Ram. Many Saxon nobles had died on the field at Hastings that terrible day.

“You don’t want to ask me, Lord Montbryce, so I’ll tell you, since there’s no shame in it. My husband, Sir Caedmon Woolgar, was a
housecarl
to King Harold. He died at Hastings. At least, we assume he did, since he hasn’t returned home.”

Ram thought of the mass grave where Harold’s
housecarls
lay buried. They’d been determined to fight to the last man. Could the Saxon giant who’d come close to removing his head have been Sir Caedmon Woolgar? He saw no point in avoiding the truth.

“I fought at Hastings,” he said forthrightly.

“Yes,” she replied quietly, smiling an enigmatic smile.

Convinced though he was of the righteousness of William’s conquest, this woman’s plight brought home to him the often terrible consequences of war for those left behind. Men might fight and die and glorify what they did, but there was no doubt women were left to bear the burden of sorrow, and the weight of castles and manors with no man to defend them or provide.

None of this would have happened if Harold hadn’t broken his oath.

By the next day, the dizziness had abated, and he left his bed. The manservant came to help him dress, and informed him Lady Woolgar would receive him in her solar, to which the man directed him. Ascha was seated on a wooden bench by the window, the oiled covering drawn back, despite the chilly air. The embroidery on her lap lay untouched as she gazed out at the surrounding lands. A maidservant sat by her side, sewing.

“Leave us, Enid,” she said softly when she saw Ram enter.

“Lady Ascha, I trust you’re well today?” he ventured.

She didn’t look up at him. “As well as can be expected.”

“I would offer my condolences, but we both know it would sound hollow. I was your husband’s enemy. I strove to kill him and his comrades. I don’t regret it. I could have been the one to deal his death blow.”

Had her expression softened slightly?

She looked him in the eye. “I don’t lay blame at your door. My husband was a fierce warrior. He gloried in war. He died doing what he was born for. In a conflict there must be winners and losers. Sir Caedmon wasn’t on the winning side this time.”

He waited a few minutes. Those sad grey eyes had momentarily distracted him. “What of this manor, Lady Ascha? I don’t wish to add to your burdens, but it’s our King’s wish that we strengthen this border region against the Welsh. You’re not in a position of strength here, through no fault of your own. Many would covet this manor. Rhodri ap Owain was close by, as you know. Gervais tells me you hold more than five hides of land, and that there’s a parish church, a kitchen and a fortress gate. While you do have a rampart and ditch, it wouldn’t hold off a large attack.”