The Conqueror's Lady. Terri Brisbin

considered that any person, villein or free, in his hall might have a concern over them. As a bastard serving his lord, his actions mattered naught except when they interfered with his lord’s desires or needs or commands. Now, it was his word that mattered. His actions were to be heeded and obeyed.

      As he drank the ale again he shook his head at Brice. He’d arranged for them to say their marriage vows before her people to lessen the strain in the keep and village about her health. Rumours had flown round in the days after his arrival and her lack of presence had made them wonder whether he’d killed her or not. Only the word of her servants that she was alive had kept the worst of the distrust at bay.

      Now this.

      ‘This is a private matter between the lady and me.’

      ‘Ah, my lord, you have it wrong there. Within hours, if indeed it takes that long, every person living within the walls or without will know what is between you and their lady. And that you have not consummated your vows.’

      He gazed out over the tables before him, seeing the mutinous stares from those who would never dare to say a word. He could not, nay, he would not relent and bed Fayth before knowing the truth. His hand would not be forced in such a grievous matter.

      ‘Merde.‘ This time he’d said the word aloud.

      ‘Exactly, my lord.’

      ‘I will not explain myself to them, Brice,’ he said, clenching his teeth. Giles looked out over the hall and the people there. His illegitimate standing gave rise to his reluctance in this and he would not discuss it with anyone.

      They knew nothing but what happened here, within these walls, within this small village. They knew not of his struggles to rise from his bitter beginnings, to gain fame and fortune in tourneys across his homeland, and to be worthy enough of this prize he’d received. They knew only of their lady and her father and their land and their crops and cattle.

      Insulting her or the memory of her father while the rebels gathered throughout the conquered lands and even just outside his lands was not the most intelligent thing he could do. Revealing his doubts about her state of purity or her part in plans to overthrow his lawful control of this holding might be appealing, but he knew that doing that would lead to ruin and uproar and possible rebellion.

      For now, he must forbear any urges to strike out too quickly, he must assess his every move and, aye, he must take notice of the way his actions appeared to his people.

      ‘You understand my actions, Brice. What would you suggest?’

      Brice peered out over the people now gathered in the hall and then turned to him.

      ‘'Tis too late to change your actions in this, nor do I suggest you do, but try not to worsen it. They—’ he nodded in the direction of those watching, ever silent in their disapproval ‘—understand more about your situation than I would guess you do. They know the lady, her late father, and the identities and location of those who sought to usurp your position here.’

      Brice gifted him with a knowing look. Ah, so he, himself, had not been the only one to suspect that those now outlawed and their connections to Fayth and Taerford had not yet been revealed or severed completely. ‘Go on.’

      ‘You know what you must do, Giles. Think of Lord Gautier’s counsel about how to act when others depend on your actions,’ he said with a wave of his hand where no one else but Giles could see it. ‘Treat the lady with respect. Take her to your bed as soon as possible, move on as you mean to go,’ he began, lowering his voice. ‘You have not been a … nobleman before. A baron now, a lord of this realm. This presents you with many new challenges never faced before, Giles, as it will to me shortly.’

      Giles nodded in agreement. As the bastard son of a Breton nobleman, he had never been put in a position where others were under his control. Except for his men, the ones who had joined him in fighting with William the Conqueror, he had controlled no one but himself.

      Until now. Now, he held property, he held power.

      He had a noble-born lady as wife.

      ‘And you? Will you follow your own wise counsel?’

      Brice lifted his cup to Giles in a gesture of respect and nodded his head. ‘I can see these things clearly for you. I only hope I can see them as clearly when I encounter them.’

      Giles emptied his cup and placed the metal goblet on the table in front of him. All good counsel aside, there was one immediate problem looming before him—a place to sleep this night. He’d never intended to make her rejection such a public one. However, the sound of the bar securing the door had been unmistakable and the message clear to everyone who’d heard it.

      ‘You allowed her to make her stand, now make yours,’ Brice said as though reading his thoughts. ‘If this breach remains a source for gossip, it makes you and this keep vulnerable to attack. To ensure that some may believe your outward actions, you might consider taking your hauberk off before seeking your lady.’

      Giles laughed as he touched his chest. ‘You did not see her anger when I left the room. I may not see the morn without it.’

      He’d grown so accustomed to the protective layer, he’d not even removed it for his wedding. Now, considering the expressions in the lady’s eyes as he’d forced her into marriage and then questioned her honour, the layers of interwoven iron rings might not be enough to keep him safe while he slept with her.

      ‘My thanks for your wise counsel, friend.’

      Standing, he moved away from the table and waved off the two guards who’d begun to shadow his movements. Giles called to the boy Martin to follow as he made his way through the door leading to the kitchen. The heat from the cooking fires, not yet banked for the night, blasted at him as he entered. Within moments, those working there noticed him and stopped and stared. This was one place in Taerford Keep where he had not established a presence, but he remedied that now.

      After calling for a tub and pails of hot water, Giles was led by someone named Gytha to a small room just off the kitchen. He had planned only to remove as much of the dirt and dust as he could, but soon the sight of the steam rising from the water enticed him to make use of it. He laid his sword in its scabbard on the floor near the tub and then, with Martin’s help, he unfastened and peeled off the layer of armour and mail he wore. He sent the boy, who was training to learn the ways of knights, away with instructions on its cleaning and oiling and closed the door for some measure of privacy.

      He made quick work of removing his padded gambeson and shirt, adding those and his braies and boots to the pile of clothing on the floor. Giles stretched his arms towards the ceiling above and enjoyed the lack of the armour’s weight on his body. It had been too long since he had last indulged in the pleasure of a real bath, using pails of water or even streams or rivers when available to him for the task. Now, a hot soak would ease his tension over his coming encounter with his new bride.

      The next thing he knew the water was growing cold and a pile of clean clothes and drying linens lay on a bench next to the door. Looking around, he also found two buckets with steaming water within reach. He’d not given in to the exhaustion he’d felt for these last months, first battling in Brittany for his uncle’s claim to the duchy and then supporting William’s claim to England on behalf of his liege lord, Simon.

      There’d been little time for the luxury of a hot bath and a leisurely bedding of an appealing woman. He still had months, if not years, of hard work ahead of him, but Giles could content himself in knowing that it was his lands, his keep and his woman. And, God willing, his children. But first, the matter of his wife begged his attention.

      Filled with a fair amount of reluctance, he stood in the tub, finished washing the grime and sweat from his body and hair and climbed out. Drying himself off, he stretched again and then sought the clothes left for him. Tugging the shirt over his head, he recognised the quality of the garment and it took him but a moment to realise the origin of it—this was something left behind by the old lord when he had followed Harold to Hastings.

      As were