Margo Maguire by Saxon Lady Page A

least.
    “Think naught of it. ’Twas no more than what I’d have done for anyone under my protection.”
    “You drew the Saxons away from your men,” she said. “You warned them with your horn.”
    “’Tis a useful weapon.”
    “Your horn? ’Tis not a weapon at all.”
    He pulled her close. Aelia did not understand his reason for making such a comforting gesture, but since his hauberk was surprisingly warm, and Aelia felt chilled to the bone, she did not complain. “You do not believe the horn was an effective weapon? It drew the Saxons away from my men, did it not?”
    “But swords are weapons. Axes, knives… Aye. Your horn diverted the Saxons from their prey. I concede.”
    The voices of Normans and Saxons fell behind them as Fitz Autier guided the gelding out of the forest and onto the valley path. “You’re leaving the battle?” she asked.
    “I’ve seen enough of killing. Raoul will prevail and take prisoner any Saxon who yields.”
    Aelia felt her throat thicken. More of her people would be enslaved, and she could do naught to help them. “What will you do with them?”
    “There is room at Ingelwald, is there not?”
    “For more Saxons who hate you?” Aelia could have bitten her tongue for those cutting words to the man who had just saved her life, but they were out, and their truth could not be denied.
    But Fitz Autier just gave a laugh that sounded more bitter than mirthful, and rode on.
    The woman needed some clothes. What she wore was torn and stained, and misshapen after her swim behind the waterfall. Not that Mathieu did not appreciate that she’d kept her clothes on. In hindsight, ’twas best that one obstacle had remained between them.
    Men and women were at work inside Ingelwald’s walls when he and Aelia arrived. The rubble of the burned storehouse was gone, and the stable roof had been repaired. Normans and Saxons collected debris and swept it away from the paths while the scarred knight spoke with a Saxon shopkeeper. When he saw Mathieu, he turned and approached.
    “Speaking the Saxon tongue now, Auvrai?”
    The knight shrugged. “What happened to you?”
    Mathieu told him about the attack as he dismounted and assisted Aelia from his saddle. He should send her away with one of the guards to the enclosure where the rest of the Saxon prisoners were held.
    But he was not ready to part with her.
    “The lady could use some of your salve, Auvrai.” He reached for her shoes and his mantle, and took them from the saddle.
    “And what of you? I’ve yet to see that wound in your side.”
    “It looked clean this afternoon.”
    Auvrai shrugged again. “You’ll find the salve in my pack, with Gilbert in the hall.” He’d never been one for questions beyond the essential, but he was as loyal as any man could be, and had matters well in hand here.
    Aelia did not wait for Mathieu, but walked toward the hall, as though she were still daughter of the lord, even though she was dressed like the most pitiful pauper in the realm.
    Mathieu followed her. She did not look back but went to the stairs and climbed. He picked up the leather bag that held Auvrai’s salves and bandages, and wentup after her. He climbed all the way to the master’s chamber, but Aelia was not there.
    Mathieu should have known she would not retreat to the room he’d taken as his own. The place she would seek refuge would be her own chamber—the one that had belonged to her before he’d had it stripped. The room was barren of all her belongings, of all comforts other than a plain, straw mattress. Yet she’d gone to the place where she’d likely spent many a carefree hour, he discovered when he went there.
    She stood at the window, looking out. Her arms rested at her sides, one of them bare, the other covered by a puckered woolen sleeve. Her hair had come loose from the thick plait that bound it, yet Mathieu could easily imagine how she would look dressed in her Saxon finery, with her hair shining and flowing loose to