Page 26 of The Saxon Lord's Unwanted Bride
Never before did he need the wisdom of his brother’s counsel so much. Only Edwin, with his intelligence and insight, could shed light on the mystery of Eloise.
Harald made his way to the dining hall, waving a nearby servant to fetch a flagon of wine and tray of food. A full belly was not the answer to his problems, but at least it would ease them.
It was dark when he returned the bedchamber. Her steady breathing told him she was asleep. Her features looked pained. She lay on her side, the misshapen form of her injured arm grotesque in the candlelight which threw dark shadows across her scars. His instincts told him that she needed protection. Undressing, he climbed in beside her, careful not to wake her. Sleep came easily, brought forth by the wine.
Memories of screams invaded his dream—his own, mingling with the false screams of a temptress. The screams morphed into sharp shards of pain which danced across his back until his skin was on fire…
He sat up, his heart thumping. The chamber was dark save for a thin sliver of moonlight. What had woken him?
“No! Please! Don’t hurt me!” The woman beside him cried out, thrashing her body from side to side.
“Leave me alone!”
He reached out to her and she pushed him away.
“No!” She screamed. “Get away from me!”
Curse her! His head hurt and she denied him sleep.
“Go to sleep. I shan’t touch you,” he growled.
She shook her head, trembling. “I-I cannot,” she whispered.
“Then seek another chamber.”
Her shoulders relaxed, almost in relief, and she climbed out of the bed and groped her way to the door. Her breath came in stuttered gasps and once again he was reminded of his promise to her father. Closing the door behind her, she left Harald alone in the dark with nothing but his conscience—a bedfellow that gave him considerably more discomfort than his nightmares of the Battle of Hastings.
Chapter 8
Winter drew to a close and Harald saw no further evidence of his wife’s deceit. Though he permitted her to wander about the estate on her own, he forbade her to venture beyond its boundaries unaccompanied and she willingly complied, taking Wulfstan with her when she visited the convent. Wulfstan had nothing to report other than she spent her time praying or talking with the inmates while he waited in an antechamber.
Harald still desired her and sent for her at night. Though she was willing, she merely lay beneath him, eyes glazing over as if attempting to distance herself. Each time he withdrew from her, a deep growl of frustration burned in his throat while he heard her heavy sigh before she gathered up her clothes to return to her chamber.
Why did she not react to his administrations? Her unresponsiveness called his virility into question. A man wanted a woman writhing underneath him in pleasure when he took her, not lying passively, waiting for the deed to be done. Though he despised the village whores for their false moans of pleasure, he despised his wife’s inability to react to him. Not since Margery did he care so much to feel, and hear, a woman’s pleasure during a coupling.
Margery—that treacherous whore! He must not be swayed by such temptation again, nor would he let himself be played the fool. Yet his body and heart craved to feel his wife’s pleasure.
As the lush green blooms heralded the onset of spring, Harald received a note from King William, who expressed a desire to stay at Wildstorm to view the construction of the tower as well as tour the surrounding estates. Rumors of further uprisings had reached the King’s ears and Harald suspected that William wanted to test his loyalty.
On the day the king was due to arrive, Harald left his wife to oversee the preparations, while he rode out to accompany William on the last leg of his journey. The King cut an impressive figure despite his age, only evident by the gray in his hair around his temples. William’s entourage was small—a handful of men—a sign of his trust in Harald. Torn between sorrow at what his people had suffered and an understanding of William’s desire for a peaceful, prosperous England, Harald could not help but admire the man.
William motioned Harald to ride alongside him at the head of his party.
“I’m grateful for your oath of fealty, Harald, yet I’m disturbed to hear of these uprisings.”
“Merely a little local unrest, Your Grace.”
“Small ripples can turn into large waves. I need assurance that my trust in you is justified, Harald of Wildstorm.” William spoke quietly but his voice held a note of steel—the same steel which had conquered at Hastings and now ruled England with an unyielding grip.
Despite towering over William in height, Harald understood the older man’s superior strength. It was a trait deep within the man’s character—a strength Harald had often seen in his wife’s eyes—the strength of the Normans.
“Small ripples can be contained.” Harald said. “My people understand the benefit of a prosperous land—the benefits of loyalty.”
William smiled, his gaze focused on the road ahead. “I’m glad ofyourloyalty, Harald. Many would have had me bestow Wildstorm on another. Of course, a king has no need to justify his decisions, but your loyalty is proof that my judgement is infallible.”
“You have my thanks,” Harald said.
“I’m glad of your gratitude.” William chuckled softly. “One of my barons had the effrontery to ask for Wildstorm when he heard I’d granted it to Alain de Morigeaux as dowry for his daughter. But he is content with the reward I gave him. You’ll soon meet him for I intend to send him to aid you in containing these uprisings.”
