Читать онлайн книгу «The Shielded Heart» автора Sharon Schulze

The Shielded Heart
Sharon Schulze
Her Gifts Set Her Apart From The World Of Men… .Swen Siwardson had vowed to keep Anna de Limoges safe. Yet, the Church's decree that she remain innocent seemed a sin against nature, for the beauteous artisan was a woman made for loving. Particularly by him… !Anna de Limoges had never seen the likes of Swen Siwardson. A warrior tall and true, here was a man of passion and secrets who asked only to be her friend . But didn't he realize that Anna would pay any price to become more than a friend to the honorable Swen?



Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u6013fe71-71f6-59ee-b035-7f4e070c9678)
Excerpt (#uc632cb99-01db-5bf1-9b4f-564c89aa05b4)
Dearreader (#u0832e2ed-3d72-5ce3-9aa5-3d21fe9fef2c)
Title Page (#u328ea969-91c3-5733-8704-cdfc526bf265)
About the Author (#u592b934b-9908-5511-8d3a-432993ac644a)
Dedication (#u5dd948a7-66cd-5764-b52e-f1289942e865)
Prologue (#u42821cd4-8147-5c63-80b0-7b64601c2621)
Chapter One (#u73bde73b-4f05-5c27-a5b6-f117d8f2ad86)
Chapter Two (#ufb3ae9de-91ba-59e6-9db0-01668274277d)
Chapter Three (#u61395506-5030-5bae-b5db-dc89a5fba682)
Chapter Four (#u2d41c05c-21e1-5b8d-a96e-8593842abcf7)
Chapter Five (#u15db7303-f131-579a-b861-42fdfb6e373c)
Chapter Six (#u095e82c7-56ff-58bf-bc8f-c53cb73beba9)
Chapter Seven (#uc2485f77-cc69-58d6-a1e6-f9c30f38e82a)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

“Stop being kind to me,”
Anna demanded
“I don’t deserve it. I’m not angry with you. I’m annoyed at myself.”

Anna kept her hands at her sides, fingers clenched. The powerful temptation to move closer to Swen shocked her. How she wanted to grab him by the front of the tunic and shake him until she wiped away the aggravating look of amusement that had returned to his oh-so-handsome face.

But even more shocking was the equally strong yearning to grab him by the tunic and employ a completely different method to rid him of his smile.

It wasn’t possible to smile while mouth to mouth, was it? She pressed her own lips into a firm line to combat the urge to grin at the image that thought brought to mind. Holy Mary save her from yielding to the desire to find out the answer for herself…!
Dear Reader,

This holiday season, we’ve selected books that are sure to warm your heart—and all with heroes who redefine the phrase “the gift of giving.” Critics have described Sharon Schulze’s books as “rich,” “sensual” and “intriguing.” Her latest, The Shielded Heart, is all of those things and more. Set in eighteenth-century England, this spin-off of To Tame a Warrior’s Heart is the stirring story of a warrior who learns to accept his special psychic gift as he teaches an enamel artisan—with her own unique vision—about life and love. Don’t miss it!
Award-winning author Cheryl Reavis returns with another of her sensational and heart-wrenching Civil War stories. Harrigan’s Bride features a soldier who chivalrously marries the bedridden daughter of his late godmother, and finds unexpected love. Be sure to look for A Warrior’s Passion by the multi-published. Margaret Moore. Here, a young woman is forced into an unwanted betrothal before the man she truly loves can claim her as his wife.
Rounding out the month is Territorial Bride by Linda Castle, the sequel to her first book, Fearless Hearts. A love is put to the test in this darling story of opposites when a cowgirl is seriously injured and tries to rebuff her city-bred fiancé.
Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical® novel.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

The Shielded Heart
Sharon Schulze





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

SHARON SCHULZE (#ulink_0d0f9b97-c950-5db1-9999-3925b81b52dd)
is a confirmed bookaholic who loves reading as much as writing. Although she has a degree in civil engineering, she’s always been fascinated by history. Writing about the past gives her a chance to experience days gone by—without also encountering disease, vermin and archaic plumbing!

A New Hampshire native, she now makes her home in Connecticut with her husband, Cliff, teenagers Patrick and Christina, and their miniature daschund, Samantha. She is current president of the Connecticut Chapter of RWA; in her spare time she enjoys movies, music and poking around in antique shops.
With much love and a raised glass of Asti
to my fellow Red Flannel Ums—
Chrissy, Mom, Auntie, Mary, Patti, Becky and Ari—
for Ladies’ Weekend, and all the rest of the year, too!

Prologue (#ulink_18a42ff9-33c0-56ff-9db4-99bcd1324f36)
He’d lingered here too long.
Heart pounding hard in his chest, Swen rolled onto his back and stared at the night-shadowed ceiling.
He could not halt the images his traitorous mind painted there.
Past, present…
Future?
He closed his eyes, yet the illusions taunted him.
He lay there, eyes open, as scenes played themselves out before his unwilling gaze. How he hated them, and himself—powerless to bring them to an end, powerless to change the cruel hand of fate.
Had he made yet another life for himself—found a place where he’d gained respect, found friends dearer to him than his own family—only to lose everything he valued once again?
The images faded. Despite the weariness and loss weighting him down, Swen climbed out of bed and began to dress.
The only way to escape this curse was to run farther, faster, never allowing his emotions to catch up.
Eyes burning, he stared into the darkness.
Alone. Running all his life.
Why had he believed he could ever stop?

Chapter One (#ulink_fca170ab-9734-5873-be07-937128873936)
Welsh Marches, Autumn 1215
Anna accepted her escort’s assistance and climbed atop the chestnut gelding, giving the earnest young man a smile despite her discomfort. It wasn’t his fault she’d come to loathe the fractious beast they’d given her for the journey. ‘Twould have been the same had they mounted her upon the most docile palfrey; over the years she’d agitated many a steed by her mere presence. It made any form of travel, save shank’s mare, a battle of wills.
If only her workshop were nearer the abbey, she could walk when Father Michael summoned her, instead of traveling nearly a day’s ride surrounded by a troop of guards. So much time lost, away from her work—time she could ill afford. Yet the abbot pressed her for more, always more, in his vain attempts to please the abbey’s most eminent patron, King John.
She took a last look from atop her lofty perch. The brilliant sunlight made the gray stones of the Abbey of St. Stephen of Murat gleam with a heavenly aura.
Though she appreciated its beauty, she also knew ’twas just the effect the order sought.
Heaven on earth…with His Eminence, Pope Innocent, as its king.
And Anna de Limoges as the Church’s faithful servant.
Her lips curled into a wry smile as she nudged her horse into motion. She knew better than most just how calculating even Father Michael, the most gentle of men, could be.
He was no different from any other man of God in that respect.
Yet how could she complain, when they allowed her to practice her craft?
Once they’d been on the road for a time, Anna and her mount reached enough of an understanding that she could focus her attention on more important things. Her design of the chasse the abbot had commissioned to hold his latest acquisition—reputedly a splinter of the True Cross—didn’t seem quite right, though she hadn’t yet decided what bothered her about it. She’d created a number of reliquaries in the past few years, but this one…She must make this one different from the others, something unique, special—the perfect frame for so holy an object.
The perfect gift for King John.
If only Father Michael had permitted her to touch it…
She sighed. ’Twas likely just as well she had not. For whether the splinter truly came from Christ’s cross, or was nothing more than a piece of wood, the abbot would have her embellish this chasse with the finest enamelwork.
Mayhap he had good reason to keep the relic from her grasp. It was not for her to decide if the object was worthy of the frame she created for it.
Anna shook off her uneasy thoughts. ’Twas unusual for her to see darkness looming about her, tainting her view of the world. With little more than bits of metal and glass, and the images that filled her mind, she created pictures of color and light. Through her vision stories of God’s love, transformed into art fit to grace any altar.
Her attention focused inward, she relaxed in the saddle and settled down to ponder her creations.
To create the enamels was her purpose in life; for as long as she could remember, her thoughts had centered about her work. She’d been blessed with a gift.
And because of it, she had become a gift to the Church.

The chill of dusk settled over Anna like a blanket, startling her from the dreamlike state she’d fallen into. The rhythmic tread of the horses, the warm sunshine upon her face, had conspired to fill her mind with the scenes she would use to create her unique designs. ’Twas ever thus when she worked. Her mother had said more than once that a team of oxen could tread right over Anna, and she’d scarce take notice of them.
Her mind still muzzy, she clambered out of the saddle on her own and gazed about her. She shook her head and stared at the men of her guard as they set up camp.
The sounds of their banter filled the air, then faded from her notice as a rush of sensation overwhelmed her.
At the sudden tingle at her nape, she turned so quickly her feet tangled in her skirts. She caught her balance and straightened. The tingle intensified to an icy chill.
Upon the hill across the clearing sat a warrior atop a mighty destrier, silhouetted dark and menacing against the last fiery glow of the setting sun. Both man and mount appeared huge. Before she could do more than gasp, he nudged the horse into motion and descended into their camp.
Four of her guards raced toward him as another grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back toward the fire. “Over here, mistress,” he rasped out. He released her, drawing his sword as they joined the others on the far side of the leaping flames.
Anna craned her neck, peering around the fire and the men who surrounded her to catch another glimpse of the warrior. Why had she felt that strange awareness of him, before she’d known he was there?
The chill of it lingered still.
Suddenly the warrior laughed, jolting her, and halting her men in their tracks. “Think you I’m so foolish as to attack you single-handed?” he asked, his deep voice tinged with mirth. He removed his helm and tucked it beneath his arm. “I mean you no harm. I’ve traveled far. I only wish to share your company—and your fire.”
William, the captain of the guard, stepped forward, shoulders back as if to emphasize the bulk of his barrellike chest. “And who might you be?” he demanded, the sword he grasped in his meaty fist held at the ready.
“Swen Siwardson, a Norseman late of Lord Ian ap Dafydd’s household.”
That set up a murmur of comment. “You serve Prince Llywelyn’s Dragon?” William asked.
Who was this Dragon, Anna wondered, to tinge William’s voice with such awe? She’d never seen him treat anyone—not even the abbot, his own master—with any more than grudging politeness.
Evidently viewing her guard as little threat, Siwardson dismounted and led his horse closer. “Aye. I left his keep at Gwal Draig not a week since.”
She’d expected a hulking brute, but the man who approached with purposeful strides was anything but. Though he towered over her men and his shoulders appeared broad beneath his fur-trimmed cloak, he moved with an easy grace. If only the fire weren’t in her way, she thought, struggling to see around it.
William motioned to the men behind him. “A moment, milord.” They huddled together, their conversation too quiet for Anna to hear, then William left them to join her and the other guards near the fire. “I say we let him stay, mistress,” he said, low-voiced. “Be a good way to hear what’s goin’ on on the other side of the border.”
“If you think it safe,” she said, as William would know this better than she.
He grunted in agreement and returned to Siwardson and the others. “You may join us, milord, so long’s you put aside your sword while you’re in our camp. I’m William de Coucy, captain of the guard. You may give your sword to me, I’ll make certain no harm comes to it.” He nodded toward Anna and the men surrounding her. “And we’ve a lady with us, milord. I trust you’ll treat her polite, if you take my meanin’.”
“Of course. I thank you.” Siwardson bowed in Anna’s direction. Surely he could not see her past the fire? He then hooked his helm onto his saddle and led his mount to the cluster of trees where the other horses were tethered. After he hobbled the massive beast, he returned, unbuckled his sword belt and handed the weapon to William.
After cautioning her to remain where she was, her guards left to join the others. The men talked briefly, then split up, some to unload the pack animals, the rest to finish setting up camp. Perhaps because of Siwardson’s size and presumed strength, William set the warrior to work putting up Anna’s tent.
Anna unclasped her cloak and laid it aside, then settled herself next to the fire to observe Siwardson. He appeared created of shadows, his movements smooth and graceful despite his size, his face a mystery. What kind of man would laugh as he faced eight armed men, alone?
And to venture unarmed into a group of strangers…?
Intrigued, Anna rose and, after noting that her guards were all busy elsewhere, moved toward him. She wanted to see Siwardson’s face, to judge for herself this stranger who had sent a frisson of awareness dancing down her spine.
She wandered closer to where he knelt hammering the last tent peg into the ground, and stopped a few feet away. His hair shone white-blond in the firelight, but with his back to her, she still could not see his face.
“Milord?”
His movements slow, deliberate, he straightened and turned to stare at her. Stifling a gasp, she stared back. Light blond hair fell to his shoulders, curling slightly about his darkly tanned face, and his eyes also pale a blue, they shimmered like ice.
Still holding her fixed with his gaze, he muttered something—a curse, from the sound of it—in a language she did not understand.
Recognition lit his gaze, she’d have sworn, yet she knew they’d never met.
He bowed, releasing her. “Milady. Thank you for allowing me to share your camp.”
Her heart beat so fast, she had to draw a deep breath and force herself to calm before answering. “You are welcome, sir. But ‘tis William who deserves your thanks, not I. ‘Tis not for me to say who joins us or not.”
“Surely the men take their orders from you?”
“Nay, milord, they don’t answer to me. I’m naught more than the baggage they protect and convey from one place to another.” She smiled. “You wouldn’t expect a coffer of plate to venture an opinion, would you?”
Finely chiseled lips curled into a grin, causing a dimple to appear in his right cheek. “Nay, milady.” He stepped closer and, casting aside the stone he’d used as a hammer, took her hand in his. Warmth swept through her fingers and up her arm to envelop her heart as he brought her hand to his lips. “You’re unlike any baggage I’ve ever seen—” he tightened his hold “—and far more lovely.”
Anna snatched her hand free, afraid he’d notice how her pulse pounded so strangely at his touch, his words. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from him so easily. His face, limned in firelight, held her spellbound. His strong, even features fit his size, and his tanned skin provided an enticing contrast to his pale eyes and hair.
And his height…Rarely did she need to look up to meet a man’s gaze, yet the top of her head scarcely reached Siwardson’s broad shoulders.
“If you’re no coffer of plate, milady, what kind of baggage are you?” His grin widening, he stared at her hair, disheveled by her hood. “A bundle of furs, mayhap?” She stood motionless while he brushed the wispy curls away from her face, his fingers lingering against her cheek. He shook his head. “Nay, nothing so coarse. Silk—aye, ‘tis—”
“Sir!” Anna cried, her voice little more than a croak of sound. His rough palm remained cupped about her cheek, evoking a confusing array of thoughts and sensations. ’Twas too much to bear! She took a deep breath and raised her hand to grasp his wrist. “You must not—”
As her fingers closed about his arm, Swen finally paid heed to the strange sensation he felt where they touched—and to the unusual awareness of her he felt inside—and released the woman. She let go of him just as swiftly. “I beg your pardon, milady. I did not intend to abuse your trust.” Lips twisted in a mocking grimace, he stepped away from her. “Please, may we start over?”
She looked uncertain, confused, but she did not run from him, nor did she call for her guards. Perhaps he had not overstepped the bounds of propriety too badly.
As if to calm a frightened animal, he moved slowly and reached for her hand. He clasped it gently within his sword-hardened palm and swept a bow worthy of a French courtier. “I am Swen Siwardson, milady. I am most pleased to meet you. Will you tell me your name?”
She stared at their joined hands for a moment, then looked up to meet his gaze. “I am Anna de Limoges, chief artisan for the Abbey of St. Stephen of Murat.”
Though he heard her speak, the words scarce made an impression upon him, for he was drawn once again to her face—unknown to him, yet as familiar as his own heartbeat. Swen feasted his senses as he sought to remember where he’d seen her before.
’Twas no hardship, for she appeared lovely in the flickering firelight. She was tall for a woman, largeboned and buxom, yet slim enough to entice him to span her waist with his hands. She carried herself with a bold grace, her shoulders thrown back and her head held high. Her unbound hair, streaked blond from pale to dark, swept back from her face and fell in a mass of wild curls to her hips. Her lashes and brows were dark, a fitting frame for her light amber eyes.
He saw dreams there, an otherworldly vision not quite focused on the here and now. Her eyes captured him, drew him into a place he’d never been.
Swen shook his head and forced himself to look away. Nay, he knew he’d never met her, for if he had, there was no way he could ever have forgotten her.
Peering past her, Swen saw William stoop to toss an armful of branches next to the fire. He then approached them with a strong, determined stride at odds with his bulk and grizzled appearance. “Mistress Anna,” William said, his voice as sharp as his gaze. “Is he bother’n you?”
She snatched her hand free, just as Swen released it. “Nay, William.” She took a step back and nearly bumped into the guard.
William reached out and steadied her. “Have a care, mistress.” She glanced over her shoulder when he spoke, and met his scowl with an inquisitive expression.
She shook out her skirts, then turned to Swen and gifted him with a demure smile. “While ‘tis a pleasure to meet you, milord, I’m sure you must be hungry and tired from your journey. I thank you for putting up my tent. ‘Tis far more than we should ask of a guest,” she added with a pointed glance toward William. The guard grunted in response. “Please, rest, take your ease by the fire. We’ll ask no more of you now than the pleasure of your company.”
“To arms!” a voice cried from across the clearing, accompanied by the unmistakable clash of steel.
Swen’s heartbeat quickened at the sound, and he looked up. Men ran from the forest, swords and cudgels at the ready, firelight glinting off their hauberks and helms. He reached for his sword and came up empty-handed just as William sent him an apologetic shrug.
Anna grabbed William by his free arm as he drew his own blade. “His sword, William, where did you put it?”
“There’s no time, lass.” He pulled out of her grasp and, seizing her elbow, tugged her away from the tent.
Swen cast a swift glance about the clearing where William’s men engaged their attackers. He intended to join them in their fight.
“No, William,” Anna said, her sharp whisper attracting Swen’s attention. She jerked away from William and snatched up the rock Swen had used as a hammer. “We must stay with him. Can’t you see he’s unarmed?”
“’Tis my duty to protect you, mistress.” William grabbed for her, but she scampered away, toward Swen.
Did she believe she could protect him with naught but a stone?
Did she believe he needed protection?
Swen shook his head. She’d think differently of Swen Siwardson after this skirmish, he vowed.
“Go with William, milady.” He drew the dagger from its sheath at his waist, then slipped another from his boot. “I need no more than this.” He paused only to see William take hold of her again, then grinning, he leapt into the fray.

Chapter Two (#ulink_4a223634-2a72-5011-9ef0-a77d881b2839)
“Is he mad?” Anna struggled against William’s grip on her upper arm, but she knew he’d not permit her to escape him again. “We must help him. He’ll be killed!”
“Let him go, lass.” William gentled his hold. “There’s naught you can do but keep out of his way and let him fight. Now give me your word you’ll stay out of sight. I cannot do my work if I have to worry that you’re roamin’ about.”
“You have it.” She tightened her grip on the rock and moved back into the shadows on the fringe of the forest. William gave her a stern glare of warning before he raced off into the fray.
She’d not hold William back, but she could not lurk here in the shadows when she might be of assistance to someone. She crept around the clearing, watching as her guards beat back the invaders with a surprising skill. She’d never seen them in action. Indeed, she often wondered why Father Michael bothered to employ a troop to guard her at all, for they’d never before encountered any threat that she was aware of.
She stopped on the opposite side of the clearing from her tent, taking care to remain deep in the shadows. She clutched the stone tight in her fist and wondered if she should seek some other, better weapon. The sounds of battle and the sight spread out before her bore little resemblance to the tales of war she’d heard as a child. There were no noble warriors pitted against each other in formal combat here. The reality she saw before her was noisy, dirty, full of blood and pain; a struggle for life, a fight against death she’d had no idea existed.
And these men fought for what? For her? To protect her from some unknown enemy? Or was this a chance attack by a pack of knaves bent upon robbery and murder?
The lives of eight—nay, nine—men, in return for her safety? Her heart paused, then thundered in her chest. Nay, she would not have it! No matter her vow to William, she could not allow so uneven an exchange.
Her gaze fixed on the chaos before her, Anna gathered up her skirts and tucked her hem into her belt to keep it out of the way. Then, hefting the rock in her hand, she eased toward the fray.
Where could she help? Her men were armed with swords and knives, shields and armor. Swen Siwardson, however, had naught but two knives to aid him.
’Twas a simple decision to seek him out and help, if she could.
She had no trouble finding Siwardson in the swirling mass of weapons and men. He towered over the others, the firelight glinting off. his flaxen hair. He’d tossed aside his fur-trimmed cloak, and fought garbed in a short woolen tunic and leggings. They’d afford him scant protection, compared to his mail-clad opponents.
Praise God, he appeared unharmed.
Anna stopped and stared. He was grinning!
Surely he must be mad.
She crept closer. Siwardson fought with the grace of a dancer, darting about, both blades flashing, urging on his attacker with a laughing taunt even as he moved in to slash his face. He stabbed the smaller knife into the man’s forearm below the short sleeve of his mail tunic. While the man cried out in pain, Siwardson pulled his knife free, stepped closer, and disarmed him. Working quickly, he pinned his foe to the ground, bound his hands with a piece of rope from his belt and dragged him toward the brush alongside the clearing.
She peered past him into the shadows. There were several men, all bound, on the ground near the bushes. Siwardson must be a skilled warrior, indeed, to have overcome so many with such meager weapons.
But now, at least, Siwardson could arm himself properly. His opponent’s sword lay on the ground. He picked it up and moved it aside.
What was he doing? she wondered as he abandoned the weapon and rejoined the waning battle, his knives once again at the ready.
She knew little of a fighter’s ways, ’twas true, but she couldn’t help but believe that Swen Siwardson was a most unusual warrior.
It had grown quieter now, no battle cries, just the sounds of men—far fewer men, she noted with relief—engaged in serious combat. It appeared the tide had turned in her guards’ favor, for more of them remained on their feet than their assailants.
Her assistance wouldn’t be necessary after all. She eased her grip on the rock and stepped back into the shadows, prepared to wait as William had bidden her.
With luck, he would never realize she’d broken her vow. William in a temper was a sight to behold; she’d rather not be on the receiving end of one of his lectures. And William, unlike nearly everyone else who dwelled with them in the small village of Murat, had no qualms about taking her to task.
Intending to return to her tent, she eased farther into the fringe of the camp, her attention still fixed on the clearing. William, Siwardson and her other guards collected weapons and took the surviving invaders captive. They paused to bind serious wounds before they moved the men to the other side of the clearing.
She backed into a tree and smacked the side of her head against a low-hanging branch. The sharp pain jolted her attention away from the clearing—a wise decision in the shrouded darkness. Raising her hand to her temple, she found a tender lump still swelling. She’d best be more careful, lest she look as battle-scarred as the others.
When she felt the tug on her skirts, she thought she’d snagged them on another branch. Her senses swam when she bent to free herself, but the hand that grabbed hers and pulled her down cleared her head in a trice.
Anna tumbled to the ground off balance and landed, gasping, in a heap atop an armor-covered body. She drew in a deep breath, but a hard, foulsmelling hand cut off her attempt to scream.
“None of that, now, demoiselle,” he whispered in a deep, coarse voice. He shifted her about till she slid over his rough mail to sprawl alongside him, the weight of his arm across her middle pinning her to the uneven ground. “Don’t want you hurt. Got my orders. I’m to keep you safe—can’t even sample the wares,” he said with disgust. He pulled her tighter to him for a moment, and the hand against her mouth moved in a rough caress. “’Tis a pity, that—you’re a comely armful. But I need gold more’n I need a wench to tumble.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “That’s God’s truth. And you’re worth naught to me if you’ve been harmed.”
Orders? What could anyone want with her—harmed or not?
She didn’t intend to go along with him to find out.
Despite his avowal that he would leave her alone, his touch made her stomach clench with fear. She had to get away from him, soon. She lay quiet and listened, hoping to hear William or Siwardson—any friendly voice—move closer to this side of the clearing.
But it sounded as though everyone was far away, busy with the aftermath of the attack. Why hadn’t they realized she was missing?
Because she’d been told to stay put, away from the battle, a traitorous little voice taunted.
It seemed she’d have to rescue herself.
Anna took stock of her surroundings. All the activity seemed centered too far away to be of any use, so there was no sense trying to make noise to attract attention. What else could she do?
The darkness enclosed them. Anna could see nothing of her captor’s face, couldn’t judge if she might be able to reason with him. She knew from the feel of him that he was tall and muscular, pressing heavily against her and holding her down with ease. He stank of onions, horses and old sweat, the stench so strong she wished he’d covered her nose instead of her mouth.
She drew a shallow breath and let it out slowly. ‘Twould be a miracle if her heaving stomach didn’t decide to erupt at any moment.
Anna tried to open her mouth to bite him, but his palm pressed too tightly over her lips. She squirmed beneath his hold instead.
“Enough!” he snarled. He slipped his leg over hers and eased his weight atop her, then lifted his arm from her waist.
A wave of loathing gave her the strength to jerk her right arm free. She’d managed to keep hold of the rock she’d carried; she swung with all her might at his head.
The rock connected with his helm with a resounding thump and he jerked back and released her. “Bitch!” he snarled, lunging for her.
“William!” she cried as loud as she could. She scrambled away from him on her hands and knees, tripping herself up on her trailing skirts.
When a hand grabbed her ankle, she kicked out with her other foot and struck metal, hard, with her soft leather boot. The jolt shot up her leg, but she ignored her throbbing toes and drew back to do it again.
Her captor held on until her foot connected—this time with something with more give to it. His face, perhaps?
He released her abruptly, then crashed through the bushes as he hurried away.
Anna sat back with a thump onto the hard ground. She’d be a mass of bruises on the morrow, she had no doubt. Already she ached from head to toe.
Siwardson raced toward her, William hard on his heels. “What’s wrong? Mistress, what do you here?” he demanded.
She leaned against a tree, her head lolling wearily against the trunk until her hair caught in the bark and pulled on her bruised scalp. She sat up straight. “There was a man…You need not go after him. He ran so fast, he’s long gone.”
“Someone bring a light,” William called.
“And send two men into the forest,” Siwardson added. “Mistress Anna’s been attacked.”
William and Siwardson debated sending anyone after her assailant, finally deciding it would be useless in the dark.
Siwardson hunkered down beside her. “What happened? Why are you out here, away from the camp?”
William took the torch a guard handed him and joined them. “Are you all right, lass?” He leaned closer, the torch illuminating the concern on their faces.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, smoothing her hair back and wincing when her fingers brushed against the lump on the side of her head. William scowled, but Anna avoided his questioning look. “How did we fare? Are there many hurt?”
“Two of ours dead, and another two wounded bad enough that they might not last the night, God rest their souls,” William told her, his voice grim as he crossed himself. “But I think we got the better o’ that mercenary scum, thanks to Siwardson here.”
“I’m glad I could help.” Siwardson reached out and gently stroked near the bump on her temple. “Will you tell us now what happened, milady? Who did this to you?”
She had to gather her thoughts before she could answer; though she’d felt some pain at his touch, it was overlaid with a trace of that same tingling awareness she’d noticed before he rode into their camp.
She didn’t understand it, but ’twas a pleasant sensation. It flowed over her again as she met his gaze, distracting her from her aches, their surroundings…
’Twas too tempting to sink into that feeling, so she looked away.
“The lump is my own fault. I backed into a tree.” She looked down at her disheveled bliaut and focused her attention on smoothing out the fabric. “Then a man grabbed me and dragged me down into the bushes.”
“By God, ’twas a ruse to take you.” William slammed his hand against the trunk of a tree. “Are you unharmed, lass?” He handed the torch to Siwardson and stomped away. “The abbot’ll have my ba—” he coughed “—my head for this, and with good reason.” He paced back and forth, muttering to himself, then halted before her, staring at the ground, his ruddy face a deeper red than usual. “He didn’t touch you, did he, lass? I mean—”
“Nay, William,” she cut in, taking pity on his plight. Her own cheeks felt hot. This was not a conversation she’d wish to have under normal circumstances, but now, with Swen Siwardson at her side, watching her with the avid stare of a hawk…
This bone-deep embarrassment was yet another, unusual sensation he’d caused.
“I am…” she began, her voice weak. Find your backbone, Anna, she admonished herself. She forced herself to meet Siwardson’s gaze. “He did not touch me, other than to drag me to the ground and hold me captive.” Siwardson’s eyes darkened. “He treated me roughly, so no doubt I’ve bruises aplenty, but I’ll survive.”
“William, perhaps he simply saw this as a chance to take a woman,” Siwardson said. “We were otherwise engaged. If he’d been watching the camp before the attack, he could have seen Mistress Anna. She is beautiful. What man would not want her for his own?” he asked with a rueful smile. Anna’s pulse beat faster at his words, at the admiration in his eyes. “While his fellows fought with us, he decided he’d rather wrestle with a woman. ‘Tis a far more pleasant pastime.”
William shook his head. “Nay, ‘tis too easy an explanation. What I want to know is why they attacked us. We’re far from any keep, easy prey, I guess. But these lands belong to the Church. Robbers don’t usually bother us out here. There’s naught but wilderness between the abbey and the village. Look you, our road is traveled so seldom, it’s little more than a track through the forest. Keeps the rabble away, suits us fine.” He paused, hitched up his braes. “I can only think of one reason for an armed troop to be out here.” He looked at Anna. “We’ve never been attacked before, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. We’re guarding the abbey’s most priceless treasure, after all.”
“What treasure is that?” Siwardson asked.
William hesitated, then with a shrug, he nodded toward Anna. “Her.”

Chapter Three (#ulink_499a1eb2-3952-516f-9817-e562199350f6)
Swen stared at William. “What do you mean?” he asked. A tide of heat washed over his face as he considered how his words might be taken. “I beg your pardon, lady. I did not mean that you have no value, of course. ‘Tis only that he spoke of you as though you…” He’d best stop, he realized, for anything he said would make things worse. “I don’t understand, but ‘tis none of my affair.”
Mistress Anna—nay, she was naught but Anna in his mind—stared down at her fingers, twisted tight together in her lap. She looked pale, as though she’d been ill, or would be soon. He was a rag-mannered lout to press them for answers that were no business of his. They’d been attacked, perhaps because of her presence here. Some of her men, men she probably knew well, had been killed in her service. Most likely she wished him and his curiosity long gone.
His absence was an easy enough gift to give her, though in truth, he’d rather remain with her. She and his reaction to her presented a puzzle he ached to solve. But ‘twould be churlish to press her out of a selfish desire to satisfy his curiosity.
Or to savor the pleasure of her company.
He stood and held out a hand to her. “May I escort you to your tent, milady?”
She peered up at him through her lashes, then placed her hand in his and allowed him to help her off the ground. She moved slowly, as though she hurt, but the look she turned his way dared him to remark upon it.
He understood pride well enough to ignore her challenge. He placed her hand on his forearm and covered it for a moment with his own.
William motioned them ahead with the torch. “Come along,” he growled, falling into step with them as they entered the camp. “’Tis past time to settle down for the night. And I’ve a powerful hunger and thirst. We’ll eat, then see what we can learn from those mercenary scum.”
A tug on his arm brought Swen to a halt. “William, how do you know they’re mercenaries?” Anna asked.
“‘Tis a simple matter. Their armor and clothes are worn and mismatched, their weapons, such as they are, were old in my father’s day, and they fight like a pack of wild dogs after a bone.” He glanced at Swen. “What think you, Siwardson?”
He’d plenty of experience with hired soldiers. “Aye, you could be right. ‘Tis a pity, for they’re not apt to tell us who hired them, or why.”
William grunted his agreement. “Probably don’t even know who paid ‘em, most like.”
Anna looked from Swen to William and scowled. “So some unknown person may have hired these men to attack us, or to capture me?”
“Aye, lass.”
“But why?”
William sighed. “Have you no notion of your value to the abbey? Your work is prized above most others’, and you’ve a gift no one can steal from you. There’s only one way to get it, mistress. If they take you, they take your gift. There’s plenty who’d pay no heed to whether you wished to work for them or not.” He doused the torch in the dirt, for they had no need for it by the fire. “At least they’ll do you no harm, if it’s any consolation. No one would risk damaging the goose that laid the golden egg. But have you never wondered why Father Michael keeps you and the village under guard? ‘Tis to protect you. Christ on the Cross, child, you’ve wits enough to understand this.”
“How wonderful,” she said, tossing her mass of hair over her shoulder. “If I’m taken captive, I need not worry for my safety.” She reached a hand toward William. “But what of yours? Or your men? We’ve lost two already, and for what?”
“They knew the risk when they hired on,” William said, but he did not meet her eyes. “They lived a good life in Murat, and their families will never want.”
“I know.” Anna gazed at William’s face for a long while. “But that doesn’t make me feel much better about their deaths. I do understand, William,” she murmured. She slipped her hand free of Swen’s arm. “I’ve forgotten my place in the world, I fear.”
“None of that, lass,” William said. “Come, sit by the fire and eat. You’ll feel better for it. Let Siwardson look over that bump on your head while I get the food.”
He’d not escape Anna’s spell so soon after all, Swen thought with a skip of his pulse. “I’m no healer, milady, but I’ll do what I can.”
Someone had brought a rough order to the clearing. Their victims and their few prisoners were gathered off to the side, overseen by an armed guard. The wounded would need tending; then, perhaps, they might be coaxed to reveal who’d sent them here.
Could they be so fortunate? He doubted it.
Though they’d been lucky so far. Anna had escaped abduction, only some of her men had been killed, and they had vanquished their foe—for the nonce. Much of their success was due to Anna’s guards. William had trained his men well; they were efficient fighters. He doubted that the grizzled captain had learned his craft in this remote backwater of the Marches. But whatever drew him here, ’twas to Anna’s benefit to have him lead her escort.
It wasn’t William’s fault she’d nearly been taken, Swen thought as he settled her beside the fire. Despite the fact that he’d been busy, he’d noticed her roaming about the clearing as the battle progressed. He was certain the older man had told her to keep away from the fighting. She shouldn’t have been there.
Though who could say she’d have been any safer in her tent?
If she’d been abducted from there, the farthest edge of the camp, they’d not have seen or heard a sound if she’d called for them.
He sat down next to her. “What happened back there?” Fingers tingling in anticipation, Swen reached to move her unruly curls out of the way. Her hair was so soft…
She turned slightly away from him to allow him better access to the lump. “The man lay hidden in the bushes.” She winced as he drew a finger over the bruise. “He grabbed me by the ankle and pulled me to the ground.”
“How did you get away?”
Her breath escaped in a hiss when he blotted the blood from the swelling. Surprisingly, she chuckled. “I hit him in the head with a rock—the one you used as a hammer.”
“So you gave him a bruise to match yours,” Swen said with a smile.
Her answering smile was so fleeting, he wondered if he’d imagined it. “Nay, it did naught but dent his helm. But when I kicked him in the face he released me at once and ran away.” She reached up and captured his hand in hers, bringing it to rest briefly against her cheek. “’Twas what he said that frightened me worse than being held down,” she added, frowning. “He told me he was to take me captive, but he must not harm me—” she met his gaze, her own steady “—in any way. Though he wanted to. But ’twas worth too much to him to keep me safe. Someone is willing to pay very well to gain my services, it seems.”
Swen tightened his grip on her hand, then released it. “Don’t be afraid,” he told her. “Do you imagine William would permit any harm to come to you? Especially after tonight’s events?”
“This is all too much to consider. That my guards laid down their lives for me…” She shuddered and wrapped her arms about herself. “It’s not right. They shouldn’t be at risk because of me. I only wish to do my work, without interruption, to the best of my ability, for the abbot keeps me busy with commissions. I don’t have time to worry about whether someone will try to take me from Murat. I’ve too much to do.”
Was her work so important? He knew he was ignorant about many things, especially life here in the south. A man who could fight and protect his family, or who could provide well for his loved ones through his skill in trading—those were talents of great value in his world.
And they were occupations for men. He’d never met a woman whose worth was not tied to her beauty, her family bonds or her dower. Anna de Limoges must create objects of great importance to be so valuable herself.
Despite the roaring fire, Anna continued to shiver. Swen looked around and spied his cloak where he’d tossed it aside earlier. He retrieved it from the ground and, after shaking it out, draped it around Anna’s shoulders.
She snuggled into the heavy fabric with a murmured word of thanks. He drew the fur-lined hood up around her neck, his fingers lingering to stroke along her cheekbone.
He’d been right earlier when he’d likened her skin to silk—soft and smooth to the touch, sending a shiver of awareness over his own skin before he forced himself to back away. “Does the cloak help?”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
One of the guards brought them a trencher of bread and cheese and a wineskin. Anna picked at the food, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. She looked troubled, tired, and her face had not lost its pallor.
What could he do for her? he wondered, for her uneasiness weighed heavily upon him.
“Mistress Anna, don’t feel you must stay here on my account,” he said. “You’re weary, and dawn will arrive before you’ve had a chance to get much rest. Come, let me escort you to your tent.”
Her eyes grew round. “I don’t wish to be alone.”
“I’ll guard you myself. No harm will come to either of us, I promise you. Who would be mad enough to attack me?” he added with a grin, patting the hilt of his dagger.
Her answering smile was faint, but beautiful. He rose and helped her to her feet. “William,” he called, “Mistress Anna is retiring to her tent.”
The captain turned, set aside an ale horn and joined them, bending to kindle a torch in the leaping flames. “Get some rest, lass. ‘Tis the best thing for you.”
William went into the tent first, sword at the ready, and lit a lamp. “Come, lass,” he said, opening a bundle of furs and spreading them on the ground. “You look ready to swoon. Sit you down before you fall.”
Swen held back the door flap and led her into the tent. “I told her I would stand guard,” he said. “She is concerned that her attacker might return with more men.”
“Aye, ‘tis a good idea. There’s not enough of us left to sleep in shifts. We’ll all stay awake for what’s left of the night.” He gazed at Anna, curled up in the furs. “All except you. You might as well sleep, if you can.”
She nodded, though Swen didn’t believe for a moment that she’d rest. He could see too many questions in her amber eyes. But she’d stay put in the tent.
He’d see to it himself, if need be.
“Good night, milady.” He raised her hand to his lips. As he turned to leave her, an image suddenly filled his mind, a picture so vivid and real he felt it like a blow to the heart.
Swen drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly as he willed his feet to carry him a short distance from the tent. He slid his knife from its sheath and leaned back against a tree, letting the knife’s familiar weight soothe him.
He knew now why Anna de Limoges seemed so familiar to him, an awareness he felt deep within his being.
He’d seen her before—many times before.
In his dreams.

Chapter Four (#ulink_7d232514-e41e-5fa5-b385-d9bc2413200b)
By the time the sun began its slow climb into the sky, they’d tended the wounded, bundled the dead onto the pack animals and set off upon the last leg of the journey to the village of Murat.
Anna pulled her cloak high about her chin against the morning chill and fought to remain upright in the saddle. She hadn’t slept at all. Every time she closed her eyes, a confusing melange of images and feelings whirled through her brain.
And no matter how she tried, she could not regain her usual clearheadedness.
Her gaze strayed once again to the broad back of Swen Siwardson as he rode beside William at the head of their motley party. Mayhap she should blame him for her lack of sleep, for she’d felt his presence outside the thin walls of her tent all night.
She had no words for the sensation he evoked. It reminded her of the warmth radiating from a fire, more intense when he was near, lessening with distance.
It was as if some invisible cord bound them together.
He drew her toward him with no effort that she could see, yet like the flames, he tempted her nearer, pulled her toward the heart of the fire.
Anna closed her eyes and sought to clear her mind. Her puzzling reaction to this newcomer in their midst was naught but an aberration. She’d never met his like before, ’twas nothing more than that.
For the remainder of their brief journey, she sought to focus her vision on the brightly garbed trees, to keep her mind fixed with grim determination upon the tasks awaiting her return to the workshop.
Yet it seemed, for the first time in her life, she’d encountered a distraction that made the lure of her craft pale in comparison.
Siwardson’s face appeared before her mind’s eye, his ice-blue gaze intense.
And try though she might, she could not erase the image from her brain.

They reached Murat much sooner than Swen had expected. By his estimation, they’d traveled little more than a league or two from where they’d made camp. But given last night’s attack, he understood why William had stopped. If they’d sought to finish their journey by moonlight, they’d have made an even easier target.
Though Anna had ridden in silence behind him, every time her gaze lit upon him, he felt it as clearly as if she’d reached out and trailed her fingertips along his spine. He’d swear her eyes’ caress had the weight and substance of a physical touch.
He shifted in the saddle. If she did not cease her no-doubt unwitting assault soon, he suspected he’d embarrass them both with his body’s enthusiastic reaction when he dismounted.
Swen looked about as they rode out of the trees. The village stood in the midst of a wide clearing, surrounded by a crude wooden palisade. The expanse between the wall and the forest was filled with tilled fields, most already harvested from the look of them, with a few rough-hewn animal pens along either side of the gate into the village.
As soon as William led them into the open, the workers toiling in the fields abandoned their tasks and began to hurry toward them, shouting greetings as they made their way across the uneven ground. But their cries of welcome turned to wails of alarm once the injured guards and the packhorses with their grievous burden came fully into view.
A woman, skirts kilted to her knees, ran ahead of the others. “Ned?” she called, her voice aquiver. Eyes frantic, she scanned the cluster of horses as they drew near.
“Damnation,” William muttered. Grim-faced, he halted his mount and leapt from the saddle into her path.
“Where’s my Ned?” she demanded, though she gave William no chance to reply. Despite his attempts to hold her back, she squirmed past him. Her gaze lit upon a worn pair of boots sticking out from beneath the blanket-wrapped body atop one of the packhorses. “William, ‘tis not…”
William turned to her. “I’m sorry, Mistress Trudy.”
“Nay!” Sobbing, she clasped the guard’s feet to her chest with one hand and tugged at the blanket with the other.
“Here now, you don’t want to do that.” William grabbed for her, but she pulled free of his hold. Wrapping her arms about the body, she laid her face against the horse’s coarse coat and began to wail.
Anna gathered up the trailing hem of her cloak and pushed it aside. “Trudy, nay,” she cried as she grasped the high pommel of her saddle to dismount.
Swen slid from his mount to help Anna down, but before he could reach her, her feet became entangled in her skirts and she began to slip sideways.
Heart pounding wildly, he lunged for her, capturing her against his chest as she fell. She rested in his hold for a moment, a warm and welcome burden, then squirmed free in a flurry of fabric.
“Have a care, mistress.” Reluctant to let her go, he steadied her on her feet.
“Thank you, milord,” Anna murmured, then hurried to the grieving woman, eased her away from the body and bent to enfold her in her arms. She peered over Mistress Trudy’s shoulder and met Swen’s gaze, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
Swen turned away from their grief, for there was naught he could do to ease it.
He could, however, do his best to see that no more of her people came to harm.
He took up Anna’s reins along with his own and led the horses to William’s side. “’Tis not my place to tell you your business,” he said to the older man, scanning the thick trees surrounding the fields. “But I think ‘twould best serve your mistress to move her and the others inside the village without delay.”
William nodded. “Aye, milord, you’ve the right of it, I trow.” He rubbed his gloved hand over his mouth, his gaze sharp as he, too, eyed the dark menace of the forest. “Do you feel it, then—eyes watchin’ us?”
“Aye. Sharp as a dagger’s point against my back,” he added, fighting the urge to twitch his shoulders and erase the sensation.
“Come on, all o’ you,” William ordered. He climbed back into the saddle. “’Tis past time, most like, to get within the walls.”
Swen led the horses to where the women stood, Anna still helping to support Mistress Trudy with an arm about her shoulders. “I’m sorry for your loss, mistress,” he told Trudy. “Your Ned fought brave and true.”
With a sniff and a swipe of her sleeve over her eyes, she stepped away from Anna and straightened her gown. “I thank you, milord,” she said, her voice faint but firm. “Ned always did his duty.”
“Here, ladies, I’ll help you up,” Swen said, standing next to Anna’s mount and cupping his hands.
Anna stepped back. “You first, Trudy.”
“Nay, mistress, you go on.” Though her lips trembled and her eyes remained glazed with tears, she squared her shoulders and took the packhorse’s lead rein from the guard who held it. “I’ll walk wi’ Ned.”
“I understand,” Anna murmured. She laid her hand on Trudy’s shoulder for a moment, then allowed Swen to help her into the saddle. He handed her the reins and, mounting, followed the others into Murat.
William ordered the gates closed and guarded, then marshaled his men outside the stable to give them their orders. Swen dismounted and gazed about him with curiosity. In the months since he’d arrived in Wales he’d yet to see inside the walls of a town, having stayed within castle walls for the most part.
Murat appeared much like most other villages he’d seen, both in his native Norway and on his journey through Scotland and England on the way to Prince Llywelyn’s court in Wales—a series of cotters’ huts along a main street, several barns and large buildings and an assortment of crude sheds ranged along the palisade wall. The cluster of well-made stone and timber buildings at the far end of the wide street caught his eye, though, as did the cloud of smoke rising into the sky from a large stone chimney in their midst.
It looked far neater and more organized than any smithy he’d ever seen.
The sudden clatter of hammer against metal coming from behind the stable told him where the blacksmith plied his craft.
Mayhap ’twas no smithy after all. Swen turned away with a shrug. No matter, Murat was small; whatever the strange buildings’ purpose, he’d learn it soon enough.
He looked about for Anna, but she’d disappeared into the group of villagers as soon as she’d dismounted. She hadn’t returned.
Though why should she? This was her home; she’d no reason to linger outside the stable with him. After watching him lay about with knives and fists the night before, wearing a half-wit’s grin on his face, no doubt, she could hardly be blamed for wanting to be quit of him.
Still, he wished for her presence, even as he knew ’twas better that he spend no more time with her. Now that he remembered she’d been in his dreams—although the dreams themselves were naught but a blur in the back of his mind hinting of danger—he’d be best served to make his farewells and leave Murat.
Leave before the dreams he’d already had became clearer in his thoughts.
Or before he dreamed of her again.
But he feared the plan even now taking shape within his foolish mind would keep him firmly rooted here.
Because for the first time in his life, the desire to stay was stronger than his fear of what might happen if he didn’t go.
William came striding toward him, a welcome distraction from his pondering. “What? No one’s taken your mount for you?”
Swen looked down at the reins, still held tight in his hand, and shook his head.
“Here, milord, Owen’ll take him.” A young boy stood just inside the stable doorway despite William motioning him forward, his eyes wide as he stared at Swen.
“Come along now, lad,” William said, his voice tinged with exasperation. “They’re big, I grant you, but neither the man nor his beast will do you harm.”
Still Owen hesitated within the stable.
William shook his head. “Beg pardon, milord. We’re far from the world here, and most of the folk hereabouts live simple lives. The boy thinks you’re a giant or some such creature, most like.” He reached over and took the reins from Swen. “Owen, this brave knight saved Mistress Anna from as fierce a pack o’ brigands as it’s ever been my misfortune to meet. We could not have beaten them without his help. Will you reward his courage with a show of cowardice?”
Swen wondered he did not hear the gulp of air Owen took—for courage, no doubt—before the boy moved out of the doorway. Owen took three steps into the open, planted his feet square in the dust and held out his hand as though he expected to lose it. His eyes, if anything, appeared wider than before as he stared at Swen, but his gaze and stance did not falter.
Swen reclaimed the reins from William, led the huge black stallion toward the boy and placed the reins in Owen’s outstretched hand. “Here, lad—see you care for Vidar well,” he said, speaking the accented words slowly so Owen would be sure to understand him. “Don’t let his size frighten you. He’s sweet-natured.” He nudged the horse with his shoulder. “Aren’t you, old fellow?” Swen stepped back. “He especially likes it if you scratch right here;” He pointed to the area just below Vidar’s ears. “Rub him down well, and you’ll gain a new friend.”
Owen stroked Vidar’s velvety muzzle. “Aye, milord. I’ll take good care o’ him.”
Swen nodded and turned to William. “May I speak with you?”
“Of course. I figured to bring you along to my home. My wife’ll see you fed. We can talk then.” He led the way toward the odd cluster of buildings at the end of the street.
They passed through an open door in the palisade side of the largest building into a tidy hall. A sturdy trestle table and benches marched down the center of the room, and a beautifully carved wooden rack held several shelves of plates and drinking vessels—and pride of place—against the far wall. Fresh rushes and herbs crunched underfoot, releasing a crisp scent to mix with the homey smells of bread and cooked meat. Swen drew in a deep breath and released it with a bittersweet sigh.
The sights, the scents surrounding him…this place smelled of home.
A small, slim woman dressed in a vivid blue gown and linen apron bent over the hearth at the far end of the room, stirring something in an iron pot. Her headrail had slipped to the side, revealing a pleasant face surrounded by a nimbus of fiery curls touched with streaks of gray.
William laid a hand on Swen’s shoulder and motioned him to silence, then somehow managed to cross the rush-strewn floor without raising so much as a rustle. He paused behind the woman and nodded toward the door. Swen closed it.
She looked over her shoulder as the door shut with a thump. “William!” she cried. Metal clanged as she dropped the spoon into the pot and spun into William’s arms. “Welcome home, husband.”
“Bess!” William stooped to buss her on each cheek. He captured her lips for but a moment before he sighed and eased his hands from her trim waist. He reached up and brushed his fingers over her disheveled curls. “I’ve brought us a guest, m’love.”
She stepped back, reached up to straighten her coif, then looked across the chamber at Swen. Her eyes were the same bright blue as her dress. “Good day to you, sir,” she said as she bobbed a curtsy. “Welcome to our home.”
“This is Swen Siwardson, a knight of Lord Ian ap Dafydd’s household,” William said. “Siwardson, Mistress Bess de Coucy, my wife.”
“‘Tis a pleasure to meet you, mistress,” Swen said. When he bowed to her, her eyes widened and a flush mounted her cheeks. Apparently courtly manners had not yet reached Murat. He stifled a smile. He shouldn’t be surprised, for they were new to him as well, among the many pleasant and useful things he’d learned since he left Bergen.
But did those pleasures compensate for the sense of loss he felt whenever memories of home intruded on his mind?
“Come, sit and be welcome, milord,” Mistress de Coucy said, interrupting his maudlin thoughts. He consigned them to the devil, where they no doubt belonged, and sat down on the bench she drew away from the table. She returned to the fireplace, crumbled some fragrant leaves into the pot and, taking up the spoon, gave it a stir. “Dinner will be ready soon.”
William fetched a pitcher from the hearth and three mugs from the shelves of plates. “Mead, milord?” He poured a generous measure into a mug and handed it to his wife, taking the opportunity to kiss her cheek again. He then filled the other mugs and set one on the table in front of Swen before settling onto the bench across from him.
Swen accepted the cup with a nod of thanks. “Your health, mistress.” He raised the cup in salute.
“Aye, Bess,” William added as he did the same.
Swen drank deeply of the spiced brew and considered how best to broach the idea nagging at his brain.
William drained his mug and thumped it onto the table. “By the rood, I’ve been craving a taste of Bess’ brew since last night! My Bess makes the best mead I’ve ever tasted,” he said, his pride in his wife’s talent obvious.
Mistress de Coucy wiped her hands on her apron and joined William on his bench. “He always says that, milord.” She nudged her husband in the ribs with her elbow. “And I always say ‘tis because he’s ne’er been anywhere else to drink any other that he thinks so,” she added with a smile.
Swen took another drink. “Nay, he’s the right of it, mistress. ‘Tis fine mead.” He grinned. “And I’ve traveled far and wide enough to know.”
“Stop teasing with my wife, you young pup,” William grumbled. “Else I’ll be forced to boot you from my door ere you chance to taste her cooking.”
“William, behave,” his wife scolded with a shake of her head. “You’ll give him a strange idea of our hospitality.” She took up the pitcher and refilled their cups. “Don’t you worry, milord, he doesn’t mean a word of it.”
William gave the hem of her coif a playful tug, but his face wore a somber expression. “Aye, you’ve the right of it, wife. Even a taste of your cooking’s not enough to repay him for all he’s done. Siwardson, here, deserves far more reward than we can be giving him.”
“What do you mean, William?”
“Anyone would have done the same,” Swen protested, and meant it.
“I take leave to doubt that,” the older man said, his voice laden with disbelief. “Why should a chance-met stranger risk his life for the lot of us? ‘Tisn’t as if our decency and honor—assuming we have any—is branded upon us for all to see. You knew nothing of us, milord, and that’s God’s truth. We could have been the enemy, like the rabble that attacked us.”
His wife grasped his arm. “You were attacked? By the Virgin, William, is everyone all right? What of Anna?” She rose and made to step over the bench.
He drew her back down and shook his head. “We lost two, Ned and Pawl, and two more are wounded.” His voice, his expression, his bearing all spoke of his sorrow at the loss. “But Anna’s safe.” He slipped his arm about her shoulders and tugged her closer. “Would I be sitting here, swilling mead, if aught had happened to the child? As it is, I wouldn’t be here now if I could be of any help to those who were hurt.”
Mistress de Coucy made the sign of the Cross and pressed the hem of her apron against her tear-filled eyes. “Why were you attacked? No one’s ever threatened you on the road from the abbey before.”
“That’s true, but the abbot doesn’t set us to guard the lass for no reason, Bess. They came for Anna. One of them said so to Anna, right before she whacked him upside the head and sent him running off with his tail between his legs. And it would have gone far worse for us all without Siwardson’s aid.”
Swen had sat there in silence, watching and listening to the de Coucys. He hoped to gain some insight into the situation at Murat and how Anna fit into the lives of the people there. Despite William’s description of her value to the abbey, Swen didn’t understand at all. She was a person—a woman—and not a nun or a ward of the Church, from the sound of it. How could she belong to an abbey, like land, or riches, or livestock?
And how had they gained possession of her?
But whatever the circumstances, he could see that both William and his wife valued Anna, and he’d lay odds it had nothing to do with her worth to the abbey. Their love and concern for her shone from their eyes, sounded in their voices, when they spoke of her. He’d seen firsthand William’s gruff affection for his “lass.”
Mistress de Coucy stood. “Husband, you cannot expect me to stay here and see to your comfort—nor yours, begging your pardon, milord—when we’ve injured people to tend to.” She climbed over the bench. “And I’ll not believe Anna is fine until I see her for myself.” She strode to the hearth and wrapped the tail of her apron around the handle of the pot. “Our dinner will keep until we’re through.”
William leapt to his feet. “Here, Bess, let me get that. I’ve told you before, ‘tis too heavy—”
“And many a time I’ve told you, there’s no need. I’m no dainty flower to be coddled.” She lifted the pot from the hook over the flames and set it down away from the fire. Moving with the ease of long practice, she gave the pot a final stir, covered it and banked the coals. “Though I appreciate the offer.”
“So you always say,” William muttered.
She untied her apron and hung it on a peg near the mantel. “Come, love,” she said, moving to his side and giving his cheek a pat. “We’ll be giving Lord Siwardson a bad opinion of us both if we don’t cease our squabbling.”
Swen opened the door, startling a young girl in the process of reaching for the latch. The child gasped, but stood her ground.
“Where’s Bess?” she asked, clutching her side.
“Here, child.” Mistress de Coucy nudged Swen aside.
“Come right away,” she said. “Else I don’t know what’ll happen. We can’t make Mistress Anna stop. And she’ll take sick if she don’t, Mam says.”
“What is she doing, Ella?” Mistress de Coucy took the girl by the hand. “Come along. You can tell me as we walk,” she added as they set off.
“You’d best come too, William,” she called over her shoulder. “No telling what she’s about. I may need you to talk sense into her.”
Swen wondered if he should wait there, or tag along. He wanted to go—
William must have noticed his hesitation. “You too, lad. Even if she won’t listen to me, whatever this latest crisis is—” his sour expression provided a perfect complement to his dry tone “—I’ve no doubt she’ll do anything you ask of her.”

Chapter Five (#ulink_3c14e398-084c-579b-9d77-d0325985b6b5)
Anna stared down at the familiar width of her workbench. The large wooden table dominated the expanse of her workshop, just as the task that now covered it filled her heart. Tears spilled from her eyes as she reached down and adjusted the woolen blankets shrouding the battle-marred bodies of the dead guards.
Trudy placed two winding sheets alongside them. “Ye need not do this, mistress. Nay, you should not even be here. We’re here to serve you, not t’other way ‘round. Especially with such work as this. Father Abbot would ne’er approve.” She took a deep breath and wiped away her own tears, moved to the forge and hefted an iron kettle from the coals. “Ned’s my man, mistress,” she said as she poured the water into a shallow basin and carried it to the workbench. “’Tis a hard task, sorrowful. But it must be done. ‘Tis my place to ready him for burial.”
Anna dropped the cloth she’d held clutched in her hand into the basin and met the woman’s steady gaze. Trudy wanted to do this last task for her husband, she could see it in her eyes. ’Twas not her place to deprive her of these last moments with her husband to satisfy her own sense of guilt.
She reached out and gave Trudy’s work-worn hands a squeeze. “Aye, you’re right. But are you certain there’s nothing 1 can do to help you?”
“Ye’re a good lass, Mistress Anna. I thank you for offerin’,” Trudy said, sniffling again. “But ‘twould be best if ye just leave me to it.”
Anna walked around the table, paused to steady her racing heart, then forced herself to raise the edge of the blanket and look at the other guard’s face. “What of Pawl? He has no wife to ready him for his final journey. Shall I bring his mother here, guide her crippled hands as she prepares her only son for the grave? Or should I stand beside his orphaned daughters—little more than babes—and watch as they wash his life’s blood from his body?”
Anna drew aside the blanket and folded it before she placed it at Pawl’s feet. She kept her gaze fixed upon his blood-spattered body, though she wanted nothing more than to look away, to run away, as far and as fast as she could.
Her stomach heaved. In her mind’s eye she’d seen sights as bad as Pawl’s corpse…visions far worse, if truth be told. But they were nothing more than pictures in her mind. Fingers shaking, she reached out and touched the closed eyes, the pale, flaccid face. ’Twas Pawl, and yet not. In her visions, she’d never smelled the scent of death that clung to the men, never felt the sorrow and pain that clenched like a fist round her heart as she straightened Pawl’s limbs.
She’d never looked upon the face of someone she knew in her visions, someone who had given his life that she might live.
Never had the scenes in her mind made her feel.
She would not cry, for her tears would change nothing. Instead, as always, she’d do what she must. She looked across the workbench and met Trudy’s sympathetic gaze. “I cannot let his family see him like this. They should remember him as he was…At least let me lay him out with what decency I can. He gave his life for me. ‘Tis the least I can give him in return.”
Trudy nodded. “Aye, mistress, your help would be a blessing to them, I’ve no doubt.”
Anna started as the sound of footsteps along the stone-lined path came through the open door. Trudy met her questioning look with a shrug and went on with her work. With a swipe of her sleeve over her eyes Anna blotted away her tears, then moved to stand in the entry. Whoever was coming, she’d send them on their way. She neither wanted nor needed an audience to watch her perform this task.
Anna’s heart sank as the visitors came around the curved path and into view. Trudy’s youngest daughter, Ella, hurried along the walk, with Bess and William in tow.
And Swen Siwardson right behind them.
She forced herself to calm, though she felt herself teeter on the edge of losing her usual placid composure. For now ’twas almost more than she could bear to carry out her obligation to Pawl and his family. She hadn’t the means within her to contend with Bess’ concern, nor with Siwardson’s presence.
She fumbled behind her until she grasped the leather strap used to latch the door and, giving it a tug, stepped outside her workshop and closed the door behind her.
Bess let go of Ella’s hand and rushed to envelop Anna in her arms. “What are you about, Anna?” Before Anna could think of an answer, Bess released her and stood looking up at her face. “William told me of the attack. Were you harmed and didn’t tell him? When Ella said to come right away, I knew that there was something wrong. What is it, child?”
Her shrewd gaze nearly destroyed Anna’s resolve. Sympathy was the last thing she needed at the moment, else she’d dissolve into a puddle of tears.
“I’m fine, Bess,” she snapped, then reached out a hand in apology when she saw the hurt in Bess’ face and realized how she’d sounded. “Forgive me. It’s been a difficult time…”
Bess’ expression softened. “There’s no need,” she said. “I should not have attacked you so soon as I saw you.” She patted Anna’s arm. “Trudy sent Ella to fetch me, said you were about to do something that would harm you?” Eyebrows raised in question, Bess waited.
Harm her? While Anna wondered what she meant, Bess headed for the closed door. “You’ve no need to go in there,” Anna said as she moved past Bess to block the door with her body—too late to stop Ella, who squirmed past her and, opening the door a crack, slipped through and shut the door behind her in a trice. But Anna stood her ground. “I was just about to prepare Pawl’s body for burial.”
William and Swen had stayed several paces away from the women while they talked, but at Anna’s words, William moved toward them. “Lass, you’ve a kind heart. His mother will appreciate your help, won’t she, Bess?” Grasping his wife by the arm, he moved her back a few steps.
Grateful for his intervention, Anna gave him a weak smile, wondering all the while how she might make everyone leave. The longer she waited, the more she dreaded what she must do. She sent William a pleading look and hoped he would understand what she wanted.
Bess tugged against William’s hold, but he did not release her. “There’s no need for Anna to—” She broke off when William shook his head.
“She’ll manage fine on her own. ‘Sides, Trudy’ll help her. She’s in there, isn’t she?” he asked with a glance toward the workshop.
“Yes, she’s preparing Ned’s body.”
He turned to Siwardson. “They could use some help with lugging and lifting, I imagine. Would you stay and lend your strength to their task?”
What was William thinking? “There’s no need,” Anna said. “We can take care of it on our own.”
“Of course I’ll help you any way I can, Mistress Anna,” Siwardson said, though he looked as surprised by William’s request as Anna felt.
“Thank you, lad.” William led Bess back toward the path. “Come back to the hall when you’re through, and we’ll get you settled in.”
Bess appeared reluctant to go, until her husband leaned down and murmured something in her ear, then straightened and said, “They could use your help tending to the injured, I imagine.”
“Aye,” Bess agreed. After one last piercing look at Anna, she smiled, said goodbye and allowed William to lead her away.
Anna stood in front of the door as though rooted there, uncertain what she should do next. How could William and Bess go off and leave her with Siwardson? ’Twas most unlike their usual protectiveness. Not that they’d ever had many guests at Murat to protect her from…
But then again, she’d not ever so much as seen a man like Swen Siwardson. He was young, strong and handsome, ’twas true—certainly more so than the monks of St. Stephen’s or the men of Murat—but she could see that he also possessed a sense of joy in life completely foreign to her experience.
She found the combination overwhelming.
Siwardson waited with quiet patience while she mulled over the situation, then winked at her when he caught her staring at him. Such a tide of heat washed over her, ’twas a wonder she didn’t melt all the way down to the soles of her boots from it!
“Demoiselle, you need not fear to invite me within,” he said, the even tenor of his voice serving to ease away her embarrassment. “I’m perfectly harmless, I assure you.” While she wasn’t sure she believed that statement, she couldn’t resist the smile that accompanied it. “If you’d prefer that I leave, I shall, with William none the wiser.”
“Nay, milord, ‘tis not necessary.” He’d only be here for a day or so at most; surely she could remain immune to his charm for that long. She should look upon his time at Murat as an adventure.
And enjoy it while she could, her mind taunted.
But she had no business thinking such thoughts, especially given the present circumstances. Anna smoothed her hands down the skirt of her gown to still their faint trembling and reminded herself of what lay ahead. ’Twas enough to calm her disordered brain—for the moment, at least. “’Tis kind of you to agree to William’s request, though I cannot understand why he would ask a guest to help with such a gruesome venture.” She reached for the latch and opened the door. “I’m sure that both Trudy and I will appreciate your assistance.”
Ella scampered past as Swen followed Anna into the building. He gazed about him with curiosity. ’Twas a large chamber, nearly the size of the main hall in his parents’ home, dominated by a huge forgelike hearth at one end. Shelves, tables and strange tools were ranged about the room, and a number of lanterns hung from the rafters at close intervals, especially over the massive table in the center of the room.
What was this place?
Anna led him to the table. Trudy stood beside it, bent over a body—her husband’s, he assumed, while the corpse of the other guard lay uncovered on the far side of the table. A bloodstained blanket sat neatly folded at the body’s feet.
Trudy set aside a wet cloth and looked up. “Lord Siwardson is here to help us,” Anna told her. “Is there anything you’d like him to do?” She picked up a kettle from the bench near the door and crossed the room to the hearth.
The other woman straightened, curtsied and gave a nod of acknowledgment. “’Tis good of ye to offer, milord.”
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“Nothin’ for the moment, milord.” She reached out and smoothed Ned’s hair back from his battered face. “Though once I’m done wi’ the washin’, I’ll need some help raising him up to put him in this.” She picked up a large piece of linen and wiped the tears from her eyes on the edge of it. “But the mistress could use your help, most like,” she added with a nod toward Anna. Giving him a wan smile, she turned once again to her task.
Anna stood near a bench lined with casks across from the hearth, ladling water into the kettle. “I’ll take that for you,” he offered when she made to lift the pot. Though she looked surprised by the suggestion, she moved aside and let him take it to the hearth and place it over the coals.
Drawing up two tall stools, she motioned for him to take one. He pulled the two seats closer together and sat down. Anna glanced back at Trudy, still standing beside her husband. “I think we should allow her some privacy,” she said, her voice pitched low. “When I offered to help her earlier, she said she’d prefer to do it herself.” Gathering her skirts together, she hopped up onto the stool. “I thought to wait until she’s finished before I take care of Pawl.”
“It must be difficult for her, losing her husband,” Swen said. “It’s never easy when our loved ones are gone.” A vast understatement; some losses were pains that never healed.
He heard his words again in his mind, thought back over his behavior around Anna and nearly jumped off the stool to storm about the room. By the saints, when had he begun mouthing platitudes?
God’s truth, he didn’t know what to say to Anna; ever since he’d recognized her last night, his mind seemed to go blank with confusion whenever she was near.
He raked his fingers through his hair and fought a surge of self-disgust. He hadn’t had this much trouble around a woman since he was a beardless youth.
If ever.
Anna glanced at Trudy, then turned her attention back to him, her gaze thoughtful. “Yes, I can see that it’s difficult.”
A strange response. Perhaps she hadn’t lost anyone close to her. If that was so, she was more fortunate than most.
She closed her eyes for a moment; when she opened them, he’d have sworn ’twas pain that darkened them to a deep, honeyed amber.
Perhaps he was wrong.
“‘Tis probably foolish to warm the water when he cannot feel it, but I’ll do it anyway,” she said, her voice wavering a bit. She slid off the stool and took up a poker to stir the fire, staring at the cloud of sparks that rose into the air. “I thought to spare his mother and daughters more sorrow, though it seems little enough, under the circumstances.”
“It’s good of you to do it,” he said, and meant it. “Most ladies would not exert themselves so much for one in their employ. They’d have their servants take care of such a task.”
“Ladies and servants?” She laughed, though he heard no humor in the sound. The poker clattered against the hearth stones as she cast it aside and whirled to face him, her gaze questioning. “Why should I have servants?”
Why, indeed? “But aren’t you mistress here?”
Her brief burst of laughter sounded genuine this time, before she cut it off by clapping her hand over her mouth. She glanced over at Trudy with a look of guilt on her face. Trudy never even looked up. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I’m not laughing at you, milord, truly. But I can see that William told you nothing of our lives here in Murat.”
“Nay, he had no chance to do so before Ella came to fetch us.” He rose to stand near her, drawn by the sparkle of humor that brightened her eyes. “But you have guards to protect you, William and the others obviously hold you in high regard. Indeed, last night William said—”
“He said I was of value to the abbey. I’m sure ‘tis true. Father Michael, the abbot, prizes me highly.” She reached over and took his hand, sending that mysterious jolt of energy surging through him, and led him to an enormous steel-banded chest against the wall. He felt the loss of her touch like a pain when she released him to fumble with the ring of keys tied round her belt. “Let me show you the source of my worth to the Abbey of St. Stephen of Murat.”
The key turned smoothly in the lock; Anna raised the lid and reached inside.
The cross Anna drew forth in both hands gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the open door—as tall as his forearm was long, the polished gold embedded with all the jeweled colors of the rainbow. It must have weighed as much as the kettle she’d filled, yet she held it with an ease that mocked his earlier attempt to help her.
She looked it over for a moment, then cradled it in her arms like a child and met his gaze. “It’s meant for the altar of King John’s private chapel,” she said with simple pride.
But what had that to do with anything?
“I believe ‘tis my finest work yet,” she continued. “The engraving is more detailed than any I’ve done before, and the colors—” She smiled. “The colors are as deep and true as any found in God’s creation, though Father Michael would caution that I shouldn’t be so arrogant as to say so.”
Swen thought that the cross, while an object of great beauty, could not compare to her loveliness. “You said you’d explain, Anna,” he urged.
“I’m as much a servant as anyone else here at Murat, milord. This cross is my creation, brought forth from within my mind, created by my hands for the glory of God and the abbey.” Her fingers moved in an unconscious caress over the designs etched in gold. “This village exists so that I might do my work. Murat and all its people—especially me—and my work, belong to the abbey, to do with as God wills.”

Chapter Six (#ulink_8b15eaa0-3107-5740-bd5f-68d8ef7190f2)
Swen’s mind reeled at Anna’s words. Didn’t she realize how strange her situation sounded?
Perhaps not, for all he’d heard in her voice was acceptance and pride, no sorrow or pain. Yet she spoke of her life as though her craft and skill were her sole reason for being.
“What of your family? You must miss them.”
Her eyelids lowered to shield her eyes. “I’ve been here a long time,” she said. “I scarce think of them now.” She cradled the cross closer. “The work is more important than one person’s feelings.”
He heard a world of loneliness in Anna’s voice and words, though he didn’t believe she was aware of it. He bit back the questions he wanted to ask. ’Twas not for him to challenge her way of life, especially considering the state of his own.
And if she defined herself by her craft, he found it no hardship to praise her through it. “Your work is beautiful,” he said. His touch gentle, he reached out and stroked the cross. Though not so lovely as you. The smooth metal glowed with warmth, but it felt cold against his skin, lifeless. ’Twas an object, nothing more.
Yet if he raised his hand to Anna’s face, he’d feel the warmth and life pulsing beneath her skin; if he threaded his fingers through the mixed gold of her hair, he knew the springy curls would twine about his fingers with a touch that felt alive.
Swen moved his hand away from the cross with more haste than grace, lest he give in to temptation and follow his wayward thought’s lead.
An act likely to shock this innocent young woman into shunning his very presence.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw Trudy struggling to move Ned’s body. “’Tis time for me to earn my keep,” he said, thankful for an excuse to put some distance between them. “I’ll help her while you lock that away.”
Anna felt a surprising sense of loss as she watched Siwardson go to Trudy’s aid. She’d enjoyed showing him her work.
The way he’d looked at her she found even more than enjoyable. She had no words, no comparison, for the feelings and thoughts he sent coursing through her body with a single glance of his pale blue eyes.
When she’d taken his hand…She closed her eyes to savor the memory of that sensation. The touch of Swen Siwardson’s palm against hers had made her heart soar, like the feeling she got when she looked upon one of her finished pieces and saw her vision translated into being.
She opened her eyes, her gaze drawn to Siwardson once more. He dealt with Trudy with a gentleness and patience she didn’t expect from so large and vigorous a man. He seemed thoughtful and kind—attributes that, when combined with his looks and smile, she found all too appealing.
Anna sighed and turned away from the scene. Though she would always mourn Pawl’s death, the thought of preparing his body for the grave did not seem so frightening to her now. She’d do what she must, then get on with her work.
She laid the cross back into its nest of wrappings in the chest, trailed her fingers over the fine details etched along its length. Perhaps the attack had been God’s way to jolt her—nay, everyone at Murat—out of the quiet complacency of the way they lived. She’d always felt her work was the focus of all her yearnings, the satisfaction of her every desire. No harm could come to her, to any of them, while they carried out their duties. There was safety and solace in doing the work the abbot set before them.
She knew better than to believe that now. The outside world had violated the sanctity of their lives. The security they had known had disappeared because someone wanted the gift she carried within her.
They would not have it, she vowed. If the attack had been a warning, she’d understood the message. She would hold her gift close, prize it more highly, protect it however she must.
As for Swen Siwardson, she’d avoid him when she could, and pray he left Murat soon.
For she feared he possessed the power to destroy the entire fabric of her life.

After Swen and Trudy finished wrapping Ned’s body in a winding sheet, Trudy patted Swen on the arm, murmured her thanks through her tears and left. Since Anna lingered by the chest, he dumped out the water Trudy had used, then refilled the basin from the kettle on the hearth. He pulled a stool close to the workbench, and waited for Anna.
It seemed to him that she hesitated to join him. Finally, though, he heard the key click in the lock.
“You need not stay, milord,” she said as she joined him. “I’m fine now, and as I’m sure you could see, I’m quite strong enough to manage this on my own.” She gathered together her glorious hair and tied it back with a strip of leather. “I don’t know what William was thinking, asking you to help me with the heavy work.”
William’s intentions seemed clear to him, but if Anna didn’t recognize what he’d been up to, Swen didn’t intend to enlighten her.
Especially given her present mood; she looked capable of defending herself quite handily in word or deed, should the need arise.
Swen drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. Unfortunately for his peace of mind, he found Anna in this mood even more appealing.
For his own safety, the situation called for discretion. “Perhaps William simply wanted me to help Trudy, and to ease your way through this difficult task. I doubt he intended any insult to you.”
Anna grimaced. “Why must you be so reasonable, milord? It makes it most difficult to work up a grudge against you,” she added with a rueful chuckle.
“I have no intention of angering you,” he said, fighting back a smile. “And you should not call me ‘milord’—I’m no nobleman. Swen will do, if you wish.”
She took up a cloth and dipped it into the basin. “Are you not? Your horse and trappings are very fine, and William seemed impressed to learn of your association with the dragon person you mentioned.”
Dragon person? Swen could not help but chuckle when he considered Lord Ian’s reaction to that description! It had seemed to him that Lord Ian ap Dafydd, Prince Llywelyn of Wales’ Dragon, was renowned far and wide for his fierceness as the prince’s enforcer. Certainly William knew of him.
Anna must live an even more sheltered life than he’d realized.
“Recently I’ve been part of Lord Ian’s—the Dragon’s—” he added at her look of confusion “—household. ‘Tis an honor I hold dear.” He rose and helped her raise the body to remove Pawl’s tattered shirt. “But my real home is in Bergen, in Norway. My family are merchants there. We haven’t quite the same ranking of nobility as the Normans or Welsh. My family is well-placed and has some power, but we are not noble.” He shrugged.
“‘Tis proper to call you by your Christian name?”
“Aye.” In truth he cared little whether ’twas proper; he simply wanted to hear his name from her lips.
“You must call me Anna, then,” she suggested with a hint of a smile.
“You honor me, Anna.”
They worked together in companionable silence until the time came to close the winding sheet over Pawl’s face. “Should I fetch his mother and daughters?” Anna asked. “Or should I wait and ask Father Michael when he arrives to lay the men to rest?”
“The abbot is coming here?” he asked.
“William sent for him as soon as we arrived in Murat. He should be here tomorrow, to give them the last rites and to say a Mass for their souls.
“Mayhap I should ask the girls’ grandmother,” she murmured. “I don’t know—is it right for his daughters’ last sight of their father to be thus?” She gazed at the body for a moment. “I don’t believe I’d want to remember my father like this.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I cannot remember the last time I saw my parents,” she said, letting her tears fall unchecked as she met his gaze.
“You must have been very young when they died.”
She looked away and swiped at her wet cheeks. “My parents aren’t dead.”
“Do they never visit you?” Swen asked, horrified at the thought of any parent disregarding so lovely and talented a child. He avoided his family for long periods of time by his choice, ’twas true, but despite the pain he always felt when he saw them, he still could not bring himself to ignore them completely.
And knowing they were in Bergen, alive and well, brought him a sense of comfort, no matter how strained their relationship.
“Nay, I don’t think it’s permitted.”
How could anyone keep a parent from their child? “Permitted? By whom?”
“When they gave me to the abbey, I think that the abbot—not Father Michael but the old abbot—said they could not see me ever again.”
The biting remark Swen had been about to make died on his lips when he saw the pain in Anna’s eyes. She took a step back from the workbench and raised her hands to her face. “Why have you made me remember?” she asked, her voice little more than a whisper. “I hadn’t thought of it in so long. I had almost forgotten…’Twas better that way.”
He hadn’t meant to cause her such pain! Swen reached for her, but she shrugged away from his hand. “Nay.” She spun on her heel and hurried to the door, her shoulders slumped forward as though she sought to protect herself from further harm.
“Anna, please—I would never intentionally cause you harm.” He pushed away from the workbench, intending to go after her.
“I think you’d better leave, milord Siwardson.” The determination in her words stopped him in his tracks. She straightened and turned to him, her tearstained face composed once more. “I thank you for your help, but I require it no longer.” Pulling the door open farther, she held it wide in silent invitation. “Mayhap I’ll see you at the funeral, if you’re still here.” Her voice and her expression both told him clearly that she hoped he’d be long gone by then.
Not a chance, he thought as he crossed the room. He paused before her, took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. “You can count on it,” he told her. His gaze holding hers captive, he bowed, then turned her hand over and kissed her palm. “Adieu, Anna.”

Chapter Seven (#ulink_ed1c979a-880a-5c9d-bdd3-fb0743925daa)
Anna sat alone in the darkness of her workshop after the villagers had come and taken the bodies to the church. There, they’d keep vigil over them until Father Michael arrived from the abbey to lay them to rest.
Her tears had dried up earlier, but still the ache in her heart—over the guards’ deaths, as well as her confrontation with Swen—kept pace with the tide of confusion whirling through her head. So many memories, blessedly pushed aside by the passage of time until they lurked like creatures of the night, hidden deep where remembrance would not find them.
She had not allowed herself to feel for so long! But now that the walls surrounding her childhood had crumbled into bits, she felt awash in all the emotions she had hidden away for so many years.
The sensations were almost more than she could bear.
She blamed Swen Siwardson, though she knew his innocent questions had not been intended to cause her hurt. But even before they’d spoken—aye, by his presence alone—he had caused the initial breach in her defenses.
She could pinpoint it to the moment, that instant when a tingle of awareness had snaked its way along her spine and made her turn to see what had caused it.
Groping for a flint, she struck a spark and kindled the wick of an oil lamp. The priests were wrong to blame Eve for seeking the fruit of knowledge and destroying Paradise, she thought as she stared into the tiny flame. ’Twas not the knowledge the apple gave Eve that caused her fall from grace, ’twas her curiosity about what the apple could give her.
Just so had Anna’s curiosity about Swen Siwardson caused her own downfall. If she’d never turned to face him, never touched him, never spoken more than a civil word of greeting to the stranger in their midst, would the walls around her heart still protect her?
She stood, picked up the lamp and made her way to the ladder leading to the loft. Weariness dogging her every movement, she gathered up her skirts and climbed the steep treads to her chamber.
It seemed days since she’d slept, but even after she’d undressed and said a prayer for Ned and Pawl, she could not settle. She lay upon her bed, staring at the lamp, until she thought she’d go mad.
After a time visions came to fill her mind as they had so often in the past, but these were not the usual visions of a beneficent God that she might use in her work. These scenes showed her a God of vengeance, sights to put fear in the hearts of those who would not believe.
Had even her gift been tainted?
Desperate to escape her morbid thoughts, she rose and tossed on her clothes. She knew of only one thing that could give her the respite she craved.
Taking up the lamp again, Anna descended to her workshop, tied her leather apron about her waist and immersed herself in her craft.

It seemed to Anna that the group gathered in Murat’s small church late the next morning for the funeral Mass wore sorrow and exhaustion upon their faces in equal measure. The sun shone bright through the open doors and windows, glinting off the plain silver cross, pyx and chalice that adorned the altar. They had no elaborate gold and enamel embellishments here; the objects Anna created were commissioned through the abbey. Since all the materials to make them were provided by the abbey—and Anna had no coin to purchase her own—she had not been able to create anything for the village’s own chapel.
She felt the lack most keenly today. Ned and Pawl deserved better than this simple church could provide.
The bright sunlight made her want to crawl back into the darkness of her workshop to escape its glare. She’d labored alone for most of the night, hammering copper ingots into thin sheets with a vigor that would have surprised her assistants, to whom that mindless chore usually fell.
Despite the fact that they lodged at the opposite end of the village, far from the racket she’d made in the night, they didn’t appear to have slept much either, she noted as she scanned the chapel’s occupants. The attack had not just taken away two members of the community, but it had heightened the sense of threat to everyone in the town as well. The villagers wore their concern drawn tight about them, like a mantle held close against the cold.
Father Michael must have journeyed through the night to have reached the village so quickly. He’d come well guarded by a troop of seasoned fighters, men who seemed as frightening to her as those who’d attacked her party.
As Siwardson had warned, he was still here. He stood with William and Bess near the rear of the chapel. He met her gaze and nodded to her, sending a chill down her spine. She drew in a sharp breath and spun on her heel to face the altar.
She let the words of the Mass flow around her, the soothing cadence lulling her overburdened mind into an almost dreamlike state. Here was the peace she sought.
Too bad it would not last.
She started when she looked up and found the abbot standing before her, ready to give her Communion. Her mind still adrift, she opened her mouth to accept the Host, then drank from the chalice he offered. Lowering her gaze, she attempted to bring her thoughts back in line with the solemn ritual.
For the remainder of the Mass she focused her attention on her surroundings, hoping that she could regain the sense of well-being she’d lost the past few days. Mayhap listening to Father Michael might help her regain her gift. His faith in God and the Church was deep and true; she could not help but be inspired by him.
William came up to her outside the church once the Mass had ended. “Will you join the abbot and me at my house, lass? Everyone’ll be there. Bess and some of the other women have made enough food for an army, been slaving away at the hearth since daybreak. Father Michael wants to speak with us alone before he heads back to the abbey. We can go up into Bess’ solar and be private there.”
“Does he want to see us right now?” she asked, sensing a reprieve from the villagers’ questions and expressions of concern. They meant well, she knew, yet her emotions felt too new to run that gauntlet now.
“Aye, he wants to leave as soon as he can after the ‘pleasantries,’ as he calls ‘em, are over.” He hitched up his belt and looked behind him, sending a fiery glare at one of the abbot’s guards who stood nearby. He leaned closer to her and lowered his voice. “I’d just as soon have the men he brought with him out of here, at any rate. I don’t trust ‘em at all.” He took her arm in his meaty fist and led her toward the street. “I’d just as soon see you safe to my house, mistress, if you don’t mind.”
With William at her side Anna made it through the crowd gathered in his hall with little difficulty. Bess passed them as they headed for the stairs at the back of the room, gifting them with a smile and a promise to bring food and more drink to them so soon as she could.
Bess’ solar was at the top of the house, a long, narrow chamber fitted under the eaves, with shuttered windows, now opened wide, at either end of the room. Seated in simple chairs at opposite sides of the trestle table in the center were Father Michael and Swen.
Anna hesitated in the doorway, grabbing at William’s sleeve to keep him from entering the room. “Why is Siwardson here?” she whispered. “He has no business with us, nor with the abbot.”
“Actually, lass, he does, a proposition that could affect us all. Be a good lass, now, and come along.” Since she still held his sleeve in her hand, William tugged her right into the room with him.
Swen stood and offered her his chair. Anna glared at him, but could see no way to refuse it without appearing churlish. She nodded her thanks, sat down and settled her skirts about her. With her hands folded on the table, Anna waited for someone to explain what this was about.
William pulled a bench up to the table for Swen, then went around the table to sit opposite him. “Shall we get started then, Your Eminence?”
“Of course.” Father Michael toyed with the goblet in front of him on the table, but he did not pick it up to drink. Anna stared at him, impatient to learn what he had to say.
And why Swen Siwardson had to be present to hear it.
Swen watched as the abbot squirmed beneath Anna’s expectant look. He couldn’t decide if the elderly cleric was afraid of her, or if a woman’s presence made him uncomfortable. Despite Father Michael’s calling, he was still a man, after all.
Lord knew, Anna made him uncomfortable, Swen thought, stifling a chuckle.
But more likely ’twas the way Anna stared at Father Michael, as though waiting for some word from God Himself, that played havoc with the man’s composure. That was more than anyone should have to bear.
The abbot was not at all like Swen had expected, after hearing Anna’s tale of how she’d come to be in the abbey’s possession. Although she’d told him that it was the previous abbot who’d accepted her—as their chattel, from the sound of it—he’d assumed Father Michael must be of a similar disposition, most likely a worldly, venal man.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/sharon-schulze/the-shielded-heart/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.