The Saxon Outlaw's Revenge. Elisabeth Hobbes

lived. Hugh, like all men, would think only of the lineage that must be carried on and her failure to provide the required child. The grief for her daughter, dead after only four days in the world, was still raw after three years. It seemed unlikely ever to diminish. The pain, helplessness and indignity that had accompanied her other failed pregnancies, before and afterwards, still clawed at her in nightmares.

      She thought back to the first baby. The one she had not even suspected she was carrying and tears burned her eyes. Tears of sorrow, and hatred for the man who had unknowingly caused its death.

      Hugh took her hand gently.

      ‘King William dislikes widows living alone. You know you will have to marry again,’ he said. ‘I know your husband granted you a legacy when he died.’

      Piteur’s legacy had been earned many times over in ways Constance did not wish to contemplate ever again. She would crush every jewel and melt every ring if she could.

      ‘I’m sure I could find a dozen husbands who would look past my deformity—’ she indicated her crooked foot ‘—and spend it for me, but I have had enough of marriage,’ Constance said bitterly. ‘I’m done with men using me for their own ends.’

      ‘If I had been in England when your brother-in-law was searching for a husband, I would have put myself forward.’

      Constance’s eyes widened in surprise. She was fond of Hugh, but it had never crossed her mind his feelings ran that deep.

      ‘I’m flattered,’ Constance said sincerely, ‘but you are married now so that is not a possibility.’

      Hugh stretched out his stocky legs towards the fire. ‘That is true, but I would gladly become your patron and protector if you would become my mistress.’

      She should be shocked. She should dismiss him immediately from the room, but she didn’t.

      ‘You don’t mean that,’ she said gravely.

      ‘Sometimes I do,’ he answered. ‘Especially when the night is cold and the wine is sweet and I think how soft your lips are.’

      Hugh’s eyes slid to the corner of the room where Constance’s bed stood and a suggestive smile played around his lips.

      ‘It’s late and my horse is tired. It would be cruel to make him travel further tonight,’ he said roguishly. He reached for Constance’s hand again and began to run his fingers up and down her arm. ‘Come to bed with me. If you’re determined to cloister yourself away you should have some memories to look back on fondly. Perhaps you will change your mind.’

      She was almost tempted, just to see what it would be like. Hugh was kind and reputed to treat his mistresses well. Not all men could be as brutal and demeaning as Piteur and his companions had been. She’d loved a boy once before, in her youth, and that had been sweet and exciting. It was the memory of Aelric that tipped the scales against Hugh.

      ‘I don’t think that would be wise,’ Constance said, withdrawing her hand. ‘I’m done with men and men are done with me. You are welcome to my hospitality in every other respect though. Speak to my steward and he will find you a bed. Come and say farewell before you leave in the morning,’ she instructed.

      Hugh accepted her refusal with a good-natured bow. Constance stood and held out her arm and together they walked to the door.

      Hugh stopped in the doorframe.

      ‘I know you don’t like to speak of your time in Hamestan, or the circumstances under which you left, but I am asking you to consider returning to Cheshire. It might be to both our advantages.’

      Constance looked at him suspiciously.

      ‘I haven’t been entirely honest. The timing of Lord de Coudray’s letter troubles me, too,’ Hugh admitted. ‘Rumours are beginning to emerge that in certain parts of the country there is talk of dissent.’

      ‘From the Saxons?’

      Images Constance had buried for years flashed through her mind. Bodies swinging from the gallows on a foggy day. A pair of blue eyes still defiant despite unendurable pain. Her heart throbbed unexpectedly, surprising her. She had believed it had petrified beyond beating with such intensity.

      Hugh’s lips tightened. ‘Not only them. None have dared to rebel since William’s harrying. The earls in Mercia are becoming restless and William fears Cheshire may follow.’

      ‘Why should this involve me?’ Constance asked.

      ‘Your brother-in-law’s name has been mentioned indirectly and it would be helpful for me to have a connection close to his household. So much of my time is taken up dealing with the Welsh borderlands.’

      ‘I don’t want to return there,’ Constance said quietly. ‘I can’t forget what he did, or forgive him. What advantage is there for me?’

      ‘Do this for me and I will make sure you are safe,’ Hugh said. ‘If you will not become my mistress I cannot prevent you being required to marry, but if Robert were disgraced, or condemned for treason, he would have no influence in the matter.’

      ‘What will happen to Robert if I find any indication he is involved in conspiracy?’ Constance asked.

      Hugh’s eyes were steely.

      ‘If he is involved in any treachery, he will be brought to justice.’

      Constance turned her head so Hugh could not see the emotions assailing her. He was her friend, but first and foremost he would protect his lands and King. His protection might be the only hope she had. Moreover, aiding him would be a fitting revenge on Robert.

      For the first year since leaving Hamestan her hatred for Robert had seared her from within. When she was given to Piteur, her husband replaced him as the object of her loathing, as a black shadow obliterates the grey rock. Now the emotions that had diminished came back in a rush.

      ‘I’ll think on it,’ she promised.

      Hugh’s face broke into a smile. He kissed her briefly on the cheek and left. Constance summoned her serving girl and sat before the fire as the maid combed and plaited her chestnut hair until it shone. She re-read the letter until she could recite it word for word. It was curt to the point of rudeness, but she expected nothing less from Robert. There was no word either of or from her sister, but as Jeanne was not a skilled writer this was to be expected as well.

      Constance climbed into bed and drew the furs up high. In the fading firelight she stared around the small chamber that had been her sanctuary since her wedding. Piteur had seldom entered it. He had kept his quarters in the adjoining room, summoning Constance when he required her presence. She shivered with instinctive revulsion. When he died she had burned his mattress and coverlet, ignoring the protestations and gossip of his servants and tenants who excused her behaviour as the actions of a grieving young widow.

      This house was not hers and despite her words to Hugh, she had no real inclination to stay here. She fell asleep, wondering about the previous owners before Piteur had been rewarded the land. Perhaps they had been hanged like the old thegn of Hamestan. She realised she couldn’t remember his name. She would never forget that of his son, however. How could she after what they had done together? He was probably long dead, believing she had chosen to stay behind. It made her unaccountably sad.

      Blue eyes and a wide grin flitted through her dreams that night, for the first time in years. Blood and screaming followed. She woke before dawn drenched with sweat and trembling and sat wrapped in blankets, hugging her knees until light.

      * * *

      When the morning came her decision was made. She joined Hugh in the snowy courtyard as his horse was saddled and he prepared to depart.

      ‘I’ll do what you ask, but it isn’t enough that you will stop Robert deciding my marriage. I want you to swear that if I find the proof you need to convict him you will help me reach the convent.’

      Hugh put his hand over his heart. ‘You have my word.