‘He was a good man.’
‘I’m certain of it.’
‘We were very close. When it happened...so soon after Hastings...after everything else... I felt like the whole world had collapsed. I’d never felt so alone. And ever since...’
She bit her tongue abruptly. Why was she telling him this? Of all people, why was she pouring her heart out to her enemy? No matter how carefully she phrased it, or how sympathetic he might seem, she couldn’t risk confiding in him. One slip and she might give everything away. He was the last person in the world she should talk to.
She pursed her lips, trying to regain her composure. She couldn’t risk Cille’s safety just to ease her own pain. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how badly she needed to talk to someone, she had to bury her feelings—just as she had for the past year. Like everything else, she had to bear them alone.
* * *
Svend stole a glance at her tear-streaked face and swore inwardly. He hadn’t known about her father’s death. Something else the Earl hadn’t told him. No wonder she hated Normans.
The rawness of her emotion had disturbed him more than he would have expected, reawakening that strange, uncharacteristic need to comfort her. Would she accept comfort from him? Would she want it? Hell’s teeth, he wasn’t some maid with soft words and a shoulder to cry on. What was he supposed to say?
He changed the subject instead.
‘Your sister obviously knows about farming. These lands are thriving.’
That much was true. On their journey outwards lowering rainclouds had obscured much of the beauty of the landscape, but now that the weather had cleared he could see how well the fields had been managed. The rolling hills reminded him of his parents’ farm, causing a pang of longing in his chest. Since leaving Danemark he’d buried his homesickness deep within himself, never expecting to find a home or hearth of his own again. Now the idea was unexpectedly appealing—as if he’d found something he hadn’t known he’d been searching for. The King had promised to reward him for his services. Would he offer him land? A man could do worse than put down roots in a place like this. Strange how much his attitudes had changed since arriving in Etton...
‘You know about farming?’ She caught his eye, her own eyes filled with begrudging interest.
‘I grew up on a farm.’
‘In Normandy?’
‘No.’ He sighed. ‘I’m not Norman, remember?’
‘Oh.’ She didn’t apologise. ‘Did you grow flax?’
‘Flax?’ His eyebrows shot up. If she’d asked whether he’d spun gold he couldn’t have felt more surprised. ‘No, our climate was too cold.’
‘Aediva is thinking of growing it here next year. What do you think?’
‘What do I think?’ He hadn’t thought that she cared for his opinion on anything. ‘It’s a tough enough crop, and the land here seems fertile. With a sunny site, it should prosper.’
She gave an enigmatic smile. ‘That’s what she thought.’
He looked across at her quizzically. Who was she, this woman? In the space of one morning his feelings towards her had veered from anger to exasperation to pity, and now they were talking about farming? He wasn’t accustomed to discussing such matters with women. The ladies of William’s court were more concerned with fashion and gossip, but Lady Cille seemed genuinely interested. Not to mention that this was the first conversation they’d had that hadn’t descended into insults or arguing.
‘I didn’t think an ealdorman’s wife would take such an interest in farming.’
‘It’s important to know your land. Don’t Norman ladies take any interest in their crops?’
‘None that I know of.’
‘Do their husbands, at least?’
‘Some of them. The rest have stewards for the work they consider beneath them.’
She made a contemptuous sound. ‘Didn’t you like farming either? Is that why you became a soldier?’
‘No. I liked it well enough.’
‘So what are you doing here?’
He frowned. ‘You’re very curious. Not to mention persistent.’