The Bought Bride. Juliet Landon

as you see.’

      Lazily, he strode forward as if her defiance meant nothing to him, his hair lifting off his forehead like a thatch in a gale. ‘I’m sure you could. So why the deception, I wonder? Is that your way?’

      ‘Oh, with Normans, sir, I use any wiles I can devise to keep their noses out of my affairs.’

      ‘You appear to have strong opinions about Normans, my lady. What have they done to deserve it, I wonder?’

      For some unaccountable reason, she felt her heart hammering and squeezing her breath from her lungs, further irritating her after she had sworn never again to be affected by a man. This man was standing within her compound as if he owned it, his great legs planted like trees, his hands splayed over slim hips where a gold-buckled belt sat low on a linen tunic with bands of blue and gold. Expensive attire. Unwillingly, she noticed his muscular neck, shoulders and chest like a wrestler, and she found herself doing what she knew men did when they looked at her, peeling him down to his skin to see what lay there. She realised she was blushing, and the smile in his eyes told her that he knew why.

      ‘As for that, sir,’ she said, lifting her chin, ‘if you don’t know the answer, then it’s clear you’ve not been in England long. It would take at least a week to tell you what damage you and your kind have done to us in the last twenty-two years. Fortunately, we still have our dignity and our language left. Those are two things you’ll never remove, thank heaven.’ She looked around for her bailiff and called to him in English. ‘Bran! Get this overweening lout from under my feet, will you?’ To the Norman, she spoke again in French. ‘As you see, sir, I’m too busy for small talk. Another day, perhaps. Pray excuse me.’

      As she spoke, however, even her show of hostility was not enough to blind her to each detail of his face, the faint shadow round the strongly angled jaw, the firm wide line of the mouth, the dent in the chin and the long straight line of the nose. His high cheeks had already caught the shine of the rain, and the eyes that had been no more than dark slits were now widening at her brave animosity, deep brown, dark-lashed and unnervingly bold. She flinched, suddenly and inexplicably uncertain of herself, her eyes sliding reluctantly away to avoid reaching any more liberal conclusions about his remarkably good looks. A bitter voice breathed in her ear: he would be no different from the rest, Norman or English.

      ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I can see you have much to do. Are you the owner of this demesne or is your husband joint owner?’

      ‘You ask too many questions, sir. And your friend is waiting.’

      Her attempts to dislodge him made him smile. ‘Hmm.’ He grinned. ‘Another time then, lady. Perhaps you’ll be at the ceremony tomorrow, eh? As a tenant of the king, you’ll surely be there with your donation?’

      His probing irritated her. ‘Oh, who knows how much curiosity value we English landowners have these days? We’re a dying breed. Why not show ourselves while we still have the chance? Is that what you mean? Good day, sir.’

      He found no ready answer to that, but nodded curtly and strode away through the gate with a word to the bailiff who held it for him. Without another glance, he was back in the saddle and away at a canter, while Rhoese struggled to drag her mind unwillingly back to the pandemonium in the yard and to breathe past the uncomfortable knot of fear in her throat.

      There was no doubt at all that she had overdone the antagonism for no reason except that he was a Norman. Or was there another reason, something too recent to be excused or explained? Something to do with men in general, those unreliable, feckless, self-seeking creatures? For the last ten months she had been reassessing her need of them, and now no other feelings remained except contempt and a wish for vengeance. Cold, hard, sweet revenge. Submission and humility she reserved only for special occasions when nothing else would do, having discovered to her cost how severely they were undervalued.

      The cleric had stopped writing and was clearing away his tools before the rain spoiled his script. A bundle of rolls bounced about in the wind. ‘Who was that, my lady?’ he said, sticking his quills back into his hair.

      ‘I’ve no idea,’ she said. ‘He’ll not be back.’

      Brother Alaric, the lady’s chaplain as well as her accounts clerk, was not a gambling man, but even he felt tempted to put some pence on the return of that admirer before the next sunset.

      The two riders had passed the crofts of Toft Green before one of them smiled and glanced at his stony-faced companion. ‘You should see your expression,’ he grinned. ‘It’s a picture.’

      ‘All right. So tell me. Who is she?’

      ‘That, my fine friend, is one of York’s two remaining women landowners, and I cannot tell you of a single male who doesn’t long to get his hands on it. Yes—’ he laughed ‘—her and the property. Snapped your head off, did she? Well, she would. She’s been here in this corner of the city for the last ten months, since her father died, and she doesn’t let a man within a yard-length of her. Except her chaplain, of course. And her brother.’

      ‘Well, there could be several reasons for that. She’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen, Ranulf. Those great dark eyes spitting fire. That body.’ He sucked in his breath, recalling the thick auburn hair, the full mouth, the skin moist with rain that ought to have told him she was a lady, even without the usual head-covering. She was the stuff of men’s dreams and fantasies. ‘She tells me her father was Gamal. Who was Gamal, exactly?’

      ‘A king’s thegn. One of the last here in York. A wealthy merchant. Disappeared at sea last winter. Traded in furs and walrus ivory, mostly. His wharf is alongside the river by the bridge. Big warehouses and several ships.’

      ‘The business is still going, then?’

      ‘Yes, the trading was taken over by his assistant, a strapping young clever-dick called Warin. Not only the trading, either.’

      ‘Oh? What else?’

      ‘The widow. He moved into Lord Gamal’s house and settled in with the second wife. A shrew. Danish. Didn’t take her long to accept a bit of comfort. But the daughter, Lady Rhoese, moved out and set up on her own. Took her father’s death hard, apparently, and doesn’t want any more to do with the stepmother.’

      ‘Or the stepmother’s lover, who presumably gets his hands on more than the widow?’

      ‘Exactly. There may have been something between him and the daughter. We’re not sure.’

      ‘We?’

      ‘The court. The laugh is, Jude, that she believes that by keeping quiet and out of the way she’ll be quite safe.’

      ‘From what?’

      ‘Norman attention. Marriage, and the usual property take-over. It’s the only legal way a man can get at her estate, unless she sells it to him, of course, although plenty of women lost theirs illegally, as you know. But the idea of a woman holding an estate in her own name is ridiculous when she’s supposed to be rendering knight-service to the king for it. She’ll have to lose it eventually.’ The young man named Ranulf wiped the drips of rain off the end of his nose and looked down sadly at his soaking green woollen tunic. Even for the hunt, he liked to do his best to earn the nickname ‘Flambard’. Flamboyant was what he had always been, and even as the king’s chaplain there would be no sombre clothing for him at a court known for its extravagant dress.

      ‘So the king knows about her, does he?’

      ‘Most certainly he does. Since he saw that survey his late father did two years ago, he knows exactly who’s got what, where it is, how much it’s worth and how much revenue he can expect from it. He’s got her estate earmarked for whoever will pay him most to get their hands on it. Better start saving up if you want to put in a bid.’

      ‘Then he’ll marry her off?’

      ‘Just like that, whether she likes it or not. And she won’t.’

      ‘So she’ll lose everything.’

      ‘Everything.’