Married to Her Enemy

??d ever seen before—like a Viking from one of the old stories, a dangerous warrior from a wintry land across the sea. He was young, still in his mid-twenties, but there was no doubting his air of authority. His taut, muscular body was clad in a simple leather gambeson and dark hose, shunning armour except for a top of light chainmail.

Eadgyth was right; he wasn’t a monster. Far from it. If he hadn’t been her enemy she might have called him handsome. No, she corrected herself, that word was too bland. His features were too rugged to be called simply handsome, his jaw too squarely set, those glacial eyes too piercingly, disconcertingly blue.

Why did she keep coming back to his eyes?

She watched him cross the room, remembering the feel of his muscular body over hers, the vivid sensation of strength held in check. She’d aimed a dagger at his heart and yet he hadn’t fought back, hadn’t lain so much as a finger on her except in restraint. And then he’d let her go. Why? She could never have beaten him and yet he’d let her reclaim the knife. Had he been toying with her? Or had she really found a chink in his defences?

‘One of my men is preparing broth,’ he murmured, passing the wineskin to Eadgyth. ‘This contains feverfew. It should ease the pain.’

He moved to the far side of the bed and raised Cille gently, draping the cloak around her shoulders and holding her steady as the midwife pressed the spiced liquid to her lips.

Aediva stared transfixed at the scene before her. He is our enemy! she wanted to scream to the rafters. A Norman, or as good as! Had the world turned upside down? Normans were cold-hearted, ruthless invaders! They’d killed Leofric in battle, murdered her father in cold blood, driven Edmund away—destroyed the very fabric of their lives! So why was he helping them and not punishing her? And how could they possibly accept help from such a tainted source?

Cille’s flickering eyelids gave her the answer. She was gulping the liquid down greedily, as if she hadn’t touched a drop for days, seeming to gain strength with every mouthful.

‘Here.’

Without looking up, Svend shifted aside to let her take over and she brushed past him warily, careful not to make contact as she slid an arm under his and around Cille’s narrow shoulders. She was uncomfortably aware of his proximity, of the heat radiating from his broad chest, reminding her that less than an hour before, she’d thrown herself against it in an abandoned murderous frenzy. Wanton or murderess—which would he think was worse?

And why should she care?

He moved around the bed, apparently oblivious to her discomfort, and crouched down on one knee, bringing his face level to Cille’s.

‘My lady, in the name of King William, I promise that no harm will come to you or your child.’

Even through the heavy cloak Aediva could feel some of the tension ease from Cille’s trembling shoulders. She gaped at him in amazement. The unexpectedly gentle, reassuring tone of his voice, so utterly at odds with his warrior-like appearance, was having a similar effect on her own tattered nerves. How could this man, their enemy, be inspiring such confidence?

He glanced up suddenly, then away again, as if he hadn’t seen her, and her anger reasserted itself. He might be helping them now, but if it hadn’t been for this Norman’s arrival, Cille would still be safely awaiting her baby. Offering his protection was the very least he could do!

Cille groaned and Eadgyth stooped to feel her swollen stomach, nodding with satisfaction. ‘It’s time.’

Svend nodded and strode briskly to the doorway, pausing briefly on the threshold. His broad shoulders filled the space easily.

‘If you need anything, one of my men will be waiting outside.’

Then he was gone, leaving Aediva staring at a swinging curtain, emotions in turmoil. Of course she was glad that he’d gone, and yet his presence had been inexplicably reassuring—as if Cille had been safe when he was close by. Typical of a Norman to inflict himself upon them and then leave...

‘Are you going to help me or not?’

Eadgyth’s shrill voice interrupted her thoughts.

‘Fetch some water, girl!’

She leapt to her feet, smitten with guilt at neglecting Cille, if only for a moment. Her distraction was his fault too.

Never again, she promised herself.

Svend du Danemark wouldn’t distract her again. Not ever.

* * *

Aediva stumbled out into the courtyard, gulping mouthfuls of air like water. After the stultifying atmosphere of the birthing chamber it was a relief to be out in the open.

It was twilight. But on what day? An eternity seemed to have passed since she’d last felt the cool breeze on her skin.

She leaned back against the timbered wall and looked up at the first scattered sprinkling of stars, letting the tension ease from her tired limbs. It was over. Cille had a son, a tiny red bundle with powerful lungs that had already made more noise than his mother had in her whole life.

She smiled, recalling the blissful look on Cille’s face as she’d cradled her newborn baby to her breast, so happy even after so much pain. Cille had defied their worst fears, her small body proving stronger than they’d dared to imagine. Aediva had known that childbirth was dangerous, but she hadn’t realised it could be so brutal.