Bound to the Warrior. Barbara Phinney

      Harry shrugged. “I do not know what that means, sir. She’d just ask me to get her things.”

      “What kinds of things?”

      “Sweets, mint from the garden, herbs for teas. She don’t drink strong ales.”

      Again, Adrien rolled his eyes at his substandard French. “That wouldn’t require subterfuge.”

      “Nay, ’twas not subberfuge I got for her.”

      Adrien sighed. The boy had no idea what the word meant. “I meant that it would hardly require secrecy. What kind of herbs?”

      Harry shrugged again.

      “Harry!” A voice rang out from the depths of the kitchen. An older woman appeared with a lantern. “Find your sister. She needs to take food to the hall.”

      As Harry dashed out of the dim kitchen, the woman shot Adrien a fast glance before setting down the lamp and stoking the fire.

      “What kind of herbs would Lady Ediva need, woman?” he barked at her, feeling unreasonably annoyed by Harry.

      “Milady doesn’t drink any ales or wines, sir. Herbal teas, juices and broth are all she wants.” She bustled about the trays of food, doing her best to ignore him.

      He refused to take the slight personally. She was none too happy to have a Norman lord, Adrien guessed. As a soldier, he was used to ill-tempered people, even many of the knights who were better educated than anyone here were surly and ill-spoken. ’Twas part and parcel of the work.

      When the yelps and growls of that scruffy dog penetrated his thoughts, his attention snapped away from the cook.

      When he looked back, she was gone. His thoughts returned to Ediva’s earlier words, how she’d subtly suggested Adrien could be in danger of being poisoned. And with that boy suggesting Ediva knew her herbs made him wonder...

      Had she considered such an end for her first husband? An uneasiness wobbled through Adrien. He’d threatened to have her taste the food first. Had Ganute ever thought to do the same? Poisons were often effective. With a cruel lord of a manor lounging through the long winter nights, ’twould be easy to plan a murder. And yet that had not been Ganute’s death. ’Twas on the battlefield that he saw his end. Adrien pursed his lips in frustration. Would life at the keep prove too great a test for him?

      For now, he had little fear of attack. The keep was subdued, watchful. Waiting to see what sort of lord he would prove to be. He pondered the same question himself as he climbed the stairs to Ediva’s solar to retrieve her for the evening meal.

      Hours later, as he lay on a pallet in his private room off the great hall, listening to the servants settling for the night, he still found himself pondering the issue of herbs.

      Wondering if he should force Ediva to taste his food first.

      And hating that he’d even need to.

      Chapter Five

      Ediva awoke early. The eastern sky was barely tinged with morning when she freed the vellum from the window. A hint of spring eased into the room, and she heard her maid roll over on her pallet. Margaret hated to rise early, and because there was no reason to today, Ediva let her sleep. Quietly, she grabbed her cloak and slipped from her solar to walk the parapet above.

      Outside, she drew in cool air. She much preferred the warmth of summer or the insect-free autumns, but early mornings were wonderful any time of the year.

      Ganute often had slept in, and after the nights she had wanted to forget, Ediva would slip down to the kitchens for a small bite of bread and some broth. She’d order her bath water and return to the parapet to wait for a servant to announce its arrival, reveling in the brief span of time that she had to herself and dreading her husband’s awakening.

      Nay! That part of her life was over, she told herself sternly. Ganute was gone and her new husband had vowed not to touch her, a promise she meant for him to keep.

      She had to remain strong and detached. Her husband did not need her—her people did. Dunmow lost too many men at Hastings, and when she’d surveyed the mourners the day she’d buried Ganute, far too many widows stared back at her, all needing strong leadership. And there were worries anew, with the uprisings to the north and Norman soldiers gathering in the town of Colchester ten leagues to their south.

      “Let us pray such a high price shall never be demanded.”

      Adrien’s words from last night rang unbidden through her head. She’d seen a heat in his gentle smile, like a fire whose coals looked deceptively cold but whose inner warmth could burn skin.

      A flush rose in her, and she determinedly turned her thoughts away from the memory. The sun peeked over the ridge beyond to paint the battlement pink. Ediva could hear several roosters crowing in competition and a shepherd calling his sheep from their night pen to search out the tender grasses of early spring.

      Another set of noises caught her attention. She leaned forward to peer down into the bailey but the thickness of the walls refused her curiosity.

      She heard Geoffrey’s complaining voice, followed by Adrien’s sharp retort. Both voices rose like the mist on the distant hills.

      Adrien sounded fully awake, unlike Geoffrey, whose sleepy petulance echoed in his tone. Adrien spoke of stakes, ropes and something she couldn’t catch.

      Her husband’s voice rippled over her and her breath stalled in her throat. The wind rising did nothing to cleanse her of the warmth. Foolish, it was, to have a Norman’s voice command such a reaction from her. She was far from a slave to her body’s whims, having learned long ago to control herself. Even a shudder of revulsion could bring about a beating.

      She heard a maid on the stairs. Mayhap the morning ablutions will set her mind on more important matters. Let Adrien wander around the bailey. ’Twould teach him real life, not the one of a nomadic soldier whose only task was to sit upon a high horse and direct soldiers.

      She spent much of the next few days slipping out to visit the new mothers. Her only contact was with Margaret or her steward. Of that morning, Geoffrey would only say that Adrien had ordered a cleaning of the bailey and a meeting with the villagers.

      When she’d asked about the coffers, Geoffrey said that after counting the coins within, Adrien had studied the ledgers but had removed nothing nor sent word to London. The only other act that had stood out in her steward’s mind was the fact that Adrien attended chapel each morning, something Ediva had long given up.

      She had eyed Geoffrey for any hint that he might have joined his new lord in prayer, but the man gave nothing away and she refused to outright ask. With Geoffrey loyal to Ganute, and then to her, and with his dislike of Norman rule, she doubted the steward would switch allegiances, but rather do the minimum to placate his new lord. It wasn’t Geoffrey’s habit to go to the morning services because Ganute barely tolerated the chaplain in his keep, and Geoffrey believed he was better off favoring Ganute. Or mayhap the steward didn’t like being told what to do by the old priest.

      The next Sabbath dawned much the same as the days before. Up early, and this time with a stool to help her, Ediva peered out over the parapet at the bailey below. Her brows lifted sharply at the sight below.

      The bailey nearly sparkled with cleanliness and Ediva noted the extra freshness in the air. Young Rypan was dumping kitchen refuse into an enclosed pen instead of into the garden. Ediva hoped the soil in the garden would not lose its strength this summer.

      “Do you approve, milady?”

      She spun, wobbling on the stool. Adrien stood several feet away, having climbed the stairs on silent feet. He walked closer and peered down at the handiwork. “Be careful when you lean forward. You may fall, though I suppose the landing would be soft in the garden waste. I ordered all kitchen scraps to be put in there and not scattered.”

      She stiffened. “My bailey was not filthy.”

      Even