Aediva flung herself onto Cille’s bed and stared hopelessly up at the rafters, watching as a spider wove its intricate web above her head.
De Quincey had been as good as his word, sending a man to escort her to Cille’s chamber in the old Saxon hall, which was still standing side by side with the new Norman tower. She felt as though she were in some uncanny, half-known version of reality, taking comfort in the familiar surroundings despite the army outside.
Her situation was far worse than she could ever have imagined. She’d set out to save her sister, only to find that she’d failed from the start. She’d deceived Svend for nothing, miring herself ever deeper in a lie because she couldn’t bear to admit her own burgeoning feelings for him. A lie he’d uncovered for himself and for which he apparently couldn’t forgive her. He’d been prepared to face the consequences of her deception alongside her, but he’d done so out of honour—not love. And now she was alone, waiting for whatever verdict the Norman Earl might pass on her.
She’d made a mess of everything.
She pulled her knees up to her stomach and groaned. She shouldn’t have let Svend go to the Earl without her...should have insisted on accompanying him. Anything would have been better than this waiting. The suspense was bad enough, but being alone with her thoughts was even worse. The look on his face when he’d left the tent still haunted her. He hadn’t wanted her to go with them, hadn’t trusted her not to make their situation even worse.
Well, after everything she’d done she supposed she couldn’t blame him, but at least there was one way she could prove him wrong.
She heaved herself up off the bed, her spirit reasserting itself. She’d got them into this mess and now she could help get them out of it. For Cille’s sake she’d go along with whatever version of events Svend and de Quincey invented. What had they said? That she was there as a gesture of goodwill, that she’d come to bring word of Cille’s good health...
She repeated the lines inwardly. When she went to the Earl she’d be the very model of restrained behaviour, would show them all how well a Saxon lady could behave.
If she went to the Earl...
The fact that Svend still hadn’t come back was worrying in itself. It must have been an hour since he’d left with de Quincey. If anything had happened to him because of her she’d never forgive herself.
She wrestled her fears back under control. If she were going to be any help at all she had to start by following de Quincey’s advice. He was right—she couldn’t attend the Earl in her tattered gown. She was a Thane’s daughter and it was high time she started to dress and behave like one.
Carefully, she opened the lid of one of Cille’s old coffers, running her fingers over an impressive array of velvet gowns and intricately embroidered headdresses, tasselled belts and linen girdles. She’d never felt more like an impostor. Cille had always been naturally poised and elegant, rarely allowing so much as a hair out of place, while she on the other hand...
What was she supposed to do with so many clasps and ribbons?
There was only one way to find out.
Slowly she untied the laces on the front of her gown and let it slide over her hips to the floor. Then she slipped off her shoes, standing barefoot in her shift as she started to unravel her braid. Her hair had still been damp when she’d retied it after her swim, so that now it tumbled down her back in a riot of waves, swirling around her body like a cloak.
There. She gave a nod of satisfaction. Stripped down to basics, she could start again. She might have arrived in Redbourn looking like some kind of wild creature, but she would leave—if she could leave—like a lady.
She delved back into the coffer, selecting an ivy-green gown trimmed with dark velvet and embroidered with an intricate pattern of gold thread. The neck was cut in a square, the bodice tighter than she was used to, and the sleeves were so long she’d likely trip over them if she wasn’t careful, but at least she and Cille were the same size. It would fit—if she dared to wear it.
If... She draped the fabric against her body and then dropped it again, distracted by a commotion outside—the sound of muffled voices and heavy footfalls, the squeal of axles and the thud of hoofbeats. Was it something to do with Svend? Quickly she ran to the wall, looking for a gap in the timbers, a hole big enough to see through, finally finding one up near the rafters.
With an effort she dragged the coffer underneath and clambered on top, peering out at a scene of organised chaos. No, this had nothing to do with Svend. Everywhere she looked was a hive of activity, as if the army itself were preparing to move. Was it possible? She felt a flicker of hope. Were the Normans leaving?
A man cleared his throat behind her and she spun around in alarm, wrapping her arms around her body as if she could somehow hide the fact that she was wearing only short undergarments.
‘Svend?’
For a moment she didn’t recognise him. He looked the same, and yet different somehow, as if the features she remembered had been deliberately wiped clean. His tunic was gleaming white, a striking contrast to his usual dark-clad appearance, and his blond hair was swept back off his face, making his chiselled features look even more defined, even more dangerous, somehow, as if they were carved from stone.
He was a stranger, this Svend who didn’t trust her, as strong, formidable and remote as an ice-topped mountain. Everything about him looked stern and forbidding. Everything except his eyes. They were blazing at her in a way that made her tremble all over.
She gasped, suddenly aware of her precarious position, standing on a coffer, bare-legged and covered in only the thinnest of shifts. Quickly she jumped down and snatched up a blanket, wrapping it tightly around her shoulders.
‘Apologies.’ Svend cleared his throat again, more huskily this time. ‘I called out, but there was no answer.’
‘I didn’t hear.’ She tried her best to sound casual. ‘I was trying to see what was happening outside.’
‘Ah.’ His gaze flickered down to her bare legs and then up again, as if reluctant to linger. ‘The Earl wants to leave Redbourn tomorrow. The army is preparing... But perhaps I should leave you to dress before we talk?’
She felt her blush deepen from pink to burgundy. Last night he’d wanted to undress her and now he was telling her to cover up! She couldn’t have felt any more mortified.
‘There’s no need.’ She straightened her shoulders, speaking abrasively. ‘I’m sure whatever you have to say won’t take long.’
‘It won’t.’ His gaze frosted again, cold and hard as sharpened steel, utterly devoid of emotion. ‘I’ve been sent by the Earl.’