Chapter 1
Baddersley, Mercia
Madeleine walked along the woodland path, searching the undergrowth for valuable plants. Baddersley had suffered, first under the rule of her sick father and careless brother, and now under the harsh hand of her uncle, Paul de Pouissey.
She would never understand men. What point was there in conquest if everyone starved, or died of disease?
Medicinal supplies were scarce at Baddersley, and the herb garden was rank with weeds.
She had brought a small box of medicinal and culinary herbs and spices—a farewell gift from the abbess—but more, much more, would be needed.
Most, but not all, of the plants here were the same as those she was familiar with back home—she stopped and picked a handful of cinquefoil, so good for toothache. When she had more skill with the strange English tongue perhaps she would be able to learn from the local people.
It was not very likely, she admitted with a sigh.
It wasn’t just language that cut her off from the English, but the sullen resentment they felt for their Norman conquerors.
Quite reasonably, she supposed, especially when the representative of Norman rule hereabouts was Paul de Pouissey.
Madeleine had never liked her uncle, and now she was coming to hate him.
Things were not turning out at all as she had planned.
After two months of training at Matilda’s court in Rouen, Madeleine had joined the duchess’ train en route to England, the proud owner of chests full of fine clothes, jewels to wear with them, and a tiring woman to care for them.
She had new skills in music and dance, and new friends, including the duchess’ thirteen-year-old daughter, Agatha, and her sixteen-year-old niece, Judith.
The three young women had a common interest, for they were all to find husbands in England.
Now Agatha and Judith were at Westminster, enjoying the festivities surrounding Matilda’s coronation as Queen of England—and meeting all the eligible men.
Madeleine, however, was here in Mercia “learning about her land.” That was how Matilda had described it, adding that such a great heiress would not want to be at court where she would be fought over like a rabbit thrown to the hounds.
Wouldn’t she?
Madeleline suspected the real problem was her right of choice. The king and queen must have come to regret promising her some say in the choice of her husband.
Madeleine stretched and raised her loose brown hair from her neck.
It was a warm day, even in the shade. All she wore was her shift and a simple blue linen short-sleeved kirtle.
This was girdled with a plain leather belt holding two pouches for leaves and roots, but her main object at the moment was not collecting but taking inventory of nature’s storehouse.
She left the path to study a low-growing bush, and her skirt caught on a twig. Impatiently she hitched it higher into her girdle, upsetting the careful folds achieved by her tiring woman, Dorothy, and achieving a length more suited to a peasant than a lady.
Dorothy would have a fit to see her so, Madeleine thought with a grin, but Dorothy was some way back resting against an oak and sewing, and so in no position to object.
The bush proved to be dwayle, as she had hoped. Madeleine stored it in her memory. Though the berries were dangerous, the leaves could soothe those who were agitated or in pain.
Back on the path she noted witch hazel, elder, and some mosses growing on an oak. She saw brambles which would bear fruit later. If the management of Baddersley continued as she had witnessed during her week here, wild foods might be all that stood between them and starvation in the winter.
She now knew why all her Uncle Paul’s enterprises came to naught. He blustered and roared and plied his whip, but he could not organize people to purposeful work, nor could he look ahead and guard against disasters.
Aunt Celia was almost as bad. She had more notion of management than her husband, but her ranting abuse of any shortcoming, and her constant belief that everyone was trying to deceive her, did not lead to good service.
Angrily, Madeleine snapped a dead branch from an elm. This was her land, and it was being abused. The first thing she would do when she had chosen a suitable husband was to throw out Paul and Celia. And they knew it.
At least they were happy to have her out of sight, and so made no objection to her exploring the nearby land as long as she took Dorothy and a guard along.
Dorothy complained at “being dragged all over the place,” and so Madeleine left her to sit in the shade.
Paul’s men were as idle as they could be, and happy to guard the maid rather than the mistress. Madeleine was left to explore in peace.
She never wandered far, however. The people here were cowed but still unfriendly, and she no more wanted to meet any of them alone in the woods than she wanted to encounter an angry boar. She looked back and checked that Dorothy and the soldier were still in sight.
Then she glimpsed water through the trees. She went forward eagerly for there were many beneficial plants which grew in marshy ground at a river’s edge.
A large splash halted her. Just a fish? Or some large animal? She moved forward more cautiously, and peeped out from behind a strand of willow.
A man was swimming.
The smooth line of his back was clear—long, golden, and slick with water. When he turned to swim toward the bank, she could see his face but could make little of it. Young, though. But she’d guessed that from his body . . .
Still in deep water, he stopped swimming, stood, and began to wade toward the bank. Madeleine gave a little sigh as his body was revealed bit by bit.
His shoulders were broad and sinuously strong, sloping down into hard breasts; between the flaring ribs ridges of muscles formed a perfect central cleft which was emphasized by the faint line of water-darkened hair disappearing into the river.
Naked and a part of nature, he was like a perfectly formed wild animal.
He stopped with the water girdling his hips and raised his arms to slick back his long hair. His shoulders stretched, and his upper body seemed to form a heart shape for her delight. She suppressed a breathy, “Oh!” He shook his head like a dog, sending spray to make diamonds in the sun.
He began to wade out of the water again, revealing more of his body, inch, by inch, by inch . . .
Madeleine watched, her chest rising and falling with each deep breath—
He turned suddenly, as if alerted by a sound.
Madeleine looked away, horrified by her rampant curiosity and the disappointment she felt. She knew how a man was made. She’d laid out corpses.
This man was nothing like a corpse. He was nothing like any man she had ever seen. She peeped back.
He stood like a statue, watching the far bank of the river. Madeleine followed his gaze and saw three russet hinds prick their way delicately down to the water. They were alert for danger, but he stood so still they were unalarmed and dipped their heads to drink.
Madeleine looked back to the man.
If anything, his back was more breathtaking than his front. The smooth line from broad shoulders to hard buttocks was surely God’s perfect work. The long valley of his spine could have been drawn by God’s loving finger . . . She imagined running a finger from nape to cleft . . .
Madeleine shut her eyes and said a silent prayer. “. . . deliver us from temptation . . .” But it was no good. She opened her eyes a slit.
He had not moved. He stood as still as a statue and just as God had made him. There was no sign of race or rank, though she knew he was English from the long hair. Though it was darkened by water, it was blond, probably the golden Scandinavian blond much more common here than in Normandy.
But he wasn’t a peasant. He was too tall, too evenly and beautifully developed to be of such low class.
It needed good food from birth and long years of training in a range of skills to develop a body like that—fluid, capable of wielding sword or ax throughout a long battle, able to control a warhorse, climb walls, draw a bow. . .
Water from his hair formed a rivulet in the cleft of his spine. It ran all the way down to his buttocks. Madeleine found herself imagining catching those drops of water on her tongue, running her tongue up that sensuous valley to the nape of his neck . . .
She clapped her hand over her mouth and shut her eyes. What a thing to think!
She heard something and opened her eyes. He was gone, leaving only ripples, and so were the deer. Had such a little noise alarmed them?
The spell was broken. Madeleine hurriedly retreated and leaned against a tree—weak, breathless, and ashamed of herself. How extraordinary and dreamlike that had all been, and how wicked her thoughts. She would have to confess them.
She wouldn’t dare!
Who could he have been? There were no noble Englishmen left in this area. She could almost believe him of the faery world—a river prince, a forest king. Hadn’t she seen dark marks on his body which were surely magical?
She didn’t dare investigate the river plants today. She might be enchanted and dragged down into the water to live as captive to a faery prince.
It wasn’t fear she felt.
To be such a man’s captive . . .
She tiptoed away from the river back toward Dorothy and Conrad. And safety. Safety from faeries and her own wanton weakness—
She was seized. A hand clapped over her mouth. She was entangled in a cloak. In a second, Madeleine found herself pinioned by a strong arm with her back against her captor, silenced by a large, calloused hand.
Her fantasy had become terrifying reality, and this was no faery prince. She struggled and tried to scream. He was Saxon. He’d slit her throat!
He said something she could not understand, but the gentle tone calmed her, and she stopped her futile struggle, though her heart still raced and tremors shook her.