The Prize

Chapter One

England, 1066

He never knew what hit him.

One minute Baron Royce was wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his leather-covered arm, and the next he was flat on his back on the ground.

She had knocked him off his feet. Literally. She'd waited until he took his helmet off. Then she'd swung the narrow strip of leather in a circle high above her head. The small stone nestled in the center of her makeshift sling had gathered speed until it wasn't visible to the naked eye. The sound as the leather sliced through the air was like that of a disgruntled beast, half snarl, half whistle. Her prey had been too far away to hear the noise, though, for she stood in the frigid morning shadows of the walkway at the top of the wall, and he stood down below, nearly fifty feet away by her measure, at the base of the wooden drawbridge.

The giant Norman had made an easy target. The fact that he was also the leader of the infidels who were out to steal her family's holding had sweetened her concentration, too. In her mind, the giant had become Goliath.

And she was his David.

But unlike the saintly hero of ancient stories, she hadn't meant to kill her adversary. She would have aimed for the side of his temple if that had been her goal. No, she had wanted only to stun him. For that reason, she'd chosen his forehead. God willing, she'd given him a mark to carry for the rest of his days, a reminder, she hoped, of the atrocity he'd committed on this dark day of victory.

The Normans were winning this battle. In another hour or two they would breach the inner sanctuary.

It was inevitable, she knew. Her Saxon soldiers were hopelessly outnumbered now. Retreat was the only logical alternative. Yes, it was inevitable, but damn galling, too.

This Norman giant was the fourth challenger the bastard William of Normandy had sent to take her holding in the past three weeks.

The first three had fought like boys. She and her brother's men had easily chased them away.

This one was different. He wouldn't be chased. It had soon became apparent that he was more seasoned than his predecessors. He was certainly more cunning. The soldiers under his command were as inexperienced as the ones who'd come before, but this newest leader kept them well disciplined and at their task hour after relentless hour.

Victory would go to the hated Normans by the end of the day.

Their leader would be dizzy with his success, however. She would see to it.

She had smiled when she dispatched her stone.

Baron Royce had left his mount to pull one of his soldiers out of the moat surrounding the holding. The foolish soldier had lost his footing and fallen head first into the deep water. Because of his heavy armor, he couldn't catch his balance and was sinking to the bottom. Royce reached down with one hand, caught hold of a booted foot, and lifted the young soldier out of the murky depths. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the vassal onto the grassy bank. The racking coughs coming from the lad had told Royce he didn't need further assistance. The boy was still breathing. Royce had paused to remove his own helmet, and was just wiping the sweat from his brow when the stone had found its mark.

Royce was thrown backwards. He landed a fair distance away from his stallion. He didn't sleep long. Dust still clouded the air around him when he opened his eyes. His soldiers were running toward him to offer assistance.

He declined their help. He sat up, shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of the pain and fog that confused him. For a minute or two, he couldn't even remember where the hell he was. Blood trickled from a cut high on his forehead, above his right eye. He prodded around the edges of the injury and only then realized a fair chunk of flesh had been torn away.

He still didn't understand what had hit him. From the size of the jagged wound, he knew an arrow couldn't have done the damage. But damn it all, his head seemed to be on fire.

Royce pushed his pain aside and concentrated on standing up. Fury came to his aid. By God, he would find the bastard who'd done this to him and give him equal measure.

That thought cheered him considerably.

His squire stood holding the reins of his mount. Royce swung himself up into the saddle and turned his attention to the top of the wall that surrounded the holding. Had his enemy aimed at him from that spot? The distance was too great for him to see even a glimpse of a threat.

He put his helmet back on.

Looking around, he saw that in the ten or fifteen minutes that had passed since he'd taken the blow, his soldiers had seemingly forgotten everything he'd taught them.

Ingelram, his temporary second-in-command, had the full contingent of men fighting in a unit near the south side of the fortress. Arrows rained down on them from the top of the wall, making advance impossible.

Royce was appalled by their ineptness. The soldiers held their shields up above their heads to ward off the arrows, and they were fighting a defensive battle again. They were in the exact position he'd found them in when he'd joined them for this nuisance duty this morning.

Royce let out a long sigh, then took command again.

He immediately changed tactics to prevent them from losing the ground they'd already secured. He pulled ten of his most reliable soldiers away from the wall and went with them to the small rise above the holding. With one of his own arrows he killed a Saxon soldier who was standing on top of the wall before his men had even had time to secure their own sightings. Then he allowed them to take over the task. In little time at all, the Saxon walls were once again unprotected.

Five of Royce's men climbed the walls and cut the ropes to the bridge, lowering it. God help him, he'd actually had to remind one of the eager volunteers to take his sword with him.

Royce rode first across the wooden planks of the drawbridge, his sword drawn, though there really wasn't any need. Both the lower bailey and the upper one were completely deserted.

They made a thorough search of the huts and outer buildings and discovered not a single Saxon soldier. It became clear to Royce that the enemy had left their holding by a secret passage. Royce ordered half his men to search the walls for such an opening. He would seal it the minute they located it.

The Normans secured the holding in William's name a few minutes later when they hoisted the duke of Normandy's banner, displaying his magnificent colors, onto the pole atop the wall. The castle now belonged to the Normans.

Yet Royce had completed only half of his duties. He still had to collect the prize and take her to London.

Aye, it was time to capture Lady Nicholaa.

A search of the living quarters of the keep produced a handful of servants, who were dragged outside and pushed into a tight circle in the courtyard.

Ingelram, as tall as Royce was, though he lacked the bulk and battle scars, held one Saxon servant by the back of his tunic. The servant was an elderly man with thin, graying hair and puckered skin.

Royce hadn't had time to dismount before Ingelram blurted out, "This one's the steward, Baron. His name's Hacon. He's the one who told Gregory all about the family."

"I didn't talk to any Normans," Hacon protested. "I don't even know anyone named Gregory. God strike me dead if that ain't the truth," he added boldly.

The "faithful" servant was lying, and he was feeling quite proud of himself for possessing such courage in the face of dire circumstances. The old man still hadn't looked up at the Norman leader, though, but kept his attention on the overly eager blond knight who was trying to tear his tunic off his back.

"Aye, you did talk to Gregory," Ingelram countered. "He was the first knight to take on the challenge of securing this holding and capturing the prize. It won't do you any good to lie, old man."

"He be the one who left with the arrow in his backside?" Hacon asked.

Ingelram glared at the servant for mentioning Gregory's humiliation. He forced Hacon to turn around. The servant's breath caught in the back of his throat when he finally looked up at the Norman leader. He had to tilt his head all the way back in order to get a decent look at the giant, who was covered in leather and steel links. Hacon squinted against the streamers of sunlight that reflected off the armor and into his eyes. Neither the warrior nor his magnificent black stallion moved, and for a brief minute, the steward imagined that he was looking at a grand statue made of stone.

Hacon held on to his composure until the Norman removed his helmet.

He almost lost his supper then and there. The barbarian terrified him. Hacon felt sick with the need to cry out for mercy. The look in the Norman's cold gray eyes was frigid with determination, and Hacon was sure he was about to die. Yes, he'll kill me, Hacon thought. He said a quick Pater Noster. It would be an honorable death, he decided, because he was determined to help his gentle mistress until the very end. Surely God would welcome him to heaven for protecting an innocent.

Royce stared down at the trembling servant a long while. Then he tossed his helmet to his waiting squire, dismounted, and handed the reins to a soldier. The stallion reared up, but one hard command from his master stopped his budding tantrum.

Hacon's knees went limp. He fell to the ground. Ingelram reached down and hauled him back up to his feet. "One of the twins is inside the keep, abovestairs, Baron," Ingelram announced. "She prays in the chapel."

Hacon took a deep breath, then blurted out, "The church was burned to the ground when last we were under siege." His voice sounded like a strangled whisper. "As soon as Sister Danielle arrived from the abbey, she ordered the altar moved to one of the chambers inside the keep."

"Danielle's the nun," Ingelram volunteered. "It just as we heard, Baron. They're twins, they are. One's a saint, bent on serving the world, and the other's a sinner, bent on giving us trouble."

Royce still hadn't said a word. He continued to stare down at the servant. Hacon couldn't look up into the leader's eyes very long. He turned his gaze to the ground, clasped his hands together, and whispered, "Sister Danielle's been caught in this war betwixt the Saxons and the Normans. She's an innocent and wishes only to return to the abbey."

"I want the other one."

The baron's voice was soft, chilling. Hacon's stomach lurched again.

"He's wanting the other twin," Ingelram shouted. He started to say more, then caught his baron's hard stare and decided to close his mouth instead.

"The other twin's name is Nicholaa," Hacon said. He took another deep breath before adding, "She left, Baron."

Royce didn't show any reaction to this news. Ingelram, on the other hand, couldn't contain his disappointment. "How could she have left?" he demanded in another shout as he shoved the old man back to his knees.

"There are many secret passages built into the thick walls of the keep," Hacon confessed. "Didn't you notice there weren't any Saxon soldiers here when you crossed over the drawbridge? Mistress Nicholaa left with her brother's men near to an hour past."

Ingelram bellowed in frustration. In a bid to ease his anger, he shoved the servant again.

Royce took a step forward, his stare directed at his vassal. "You do not show me your strength when you mistreat a defenseless old man, Ingelram, nor do you show me your ability to control your enthusiasm when you interfere with my questioning."

The vassal was properly humiliated. He bowed his head to his baron, then helped the Saxon to his feet.

Royce waited until the young soldier had taken a step away from the servant. He then looked at Hacon again. "How long have you served this household?"

"Near to twenty years now," Hacon answered. There was pride in his voice when he added, "I've always been treated fair, Baron. They made me feel as important as one of their own."

"Yet after twenty years of fair treatment you betray your mistresses now?" He shook his head in disgust.

"You won't give me your pledge of loyalty, Hacon, for your word isn't trustworthy."

Royce didn't waste another minute on the steward. His stride was determined as he made his way to the doors of the keep. He pushed his eager men out of his path and went inside.

Hacon was motioned into the cluster of servants and left to worry about his fate when Ingelram rushed after his lord.

Royce was methodical in his search. The first floor of the keep was cluttered with rubble. Litter covered the old rushes. The long table near the far corner had been overturned, and most of the stools had been destroyed.

The staircase leading to the chambers abovestairs was still intact, though just barely. The wooden steps were slippery with water dripping down from the walls. It was a dangerously narrow climb. Most of the banister had been torn away and dangled over the side, and if a man lost his footing, there was nothing to prevent him from falling.

The landing on the second level was just as pitiful. Wind howled through a gaping man-sized hole in the center of the far wall. The air was bitter from the cold winter wind blowing in from outside. A long, dark corridor led away from the head of the stairs.

As soon as Royce reached the landing, Ingelram rushed ahead of him and awkwardly drew his sword. The vassal obviously meant to protect his lord. The floorboards were just as wet and slippery as the steps, however. Ingelram lost both his sword and his balance and went flying toward the gaping hole.

Royce caught him by the nape of the neck and sent him flying in the opposite direction. The vassal landed with a thud against the inside wall, shook himself like a wet dog to rid himself of the shivers, then picked up his sword and went chasing after his lord again.

Royce shook his head in exasperation at his inept vassal's puny attempt to protect him. He didn't bother to draw his own sword as he started down the hallway. When he reached the first chamber and found the door barred against him, he simply kicked it open, ducked under the low lintel, and went inside.

The room was a bedchamber in which six candles were burning. It was unoccupied save for a serving girl who cowered in a corner.

"Who resides in this chamber?" Royce demanded.

"Mistress Nicholaa," came the whispered reply.

Royce took his time studying the room. He was mildly surprised at how Spartan and orderly the chamber was. He didn't realize women could live without a clutter of possessions surrounding them. His experience was limited to his three sisters, of course, but that was quite enough to allow him to draw such a conclusion. Still, Lady Nicholaa's room didn't have a bit of clutter. A large bed stood against one wall, its burgundy draperies tied back. The hearth was on the opposite wall. A single low-fashioned chest made of fine, burnish red wood stood in a corner.

There wasn't a single article of clothing hanging from the hooks to give Royce any idea of the woman's size. He turned to leave the chamber, but found his path blocked by his vassal. A glare quickly removed the obstacle.

The second door was also barred from inside. Royce was about to kick it out of his way when he heard the sound of the latch being removed.

The door was opened by a young serving girl. Freckles and fear covered her face. She tried to curtsy to him but only half completed the formal greeting when she got a true look at his face. She let out a cry and went running across the large chamber.

The room was alight with candles. A wooden altar covered with a white cloth stood in front of the hearth. On the floor in front of the altar were several leather-padded kneelers.

He saw the nun at once. She was kneeling, her head bowed in prayer, her hands folded below the cross she wore on a thin leather thong around her neck.

She was dressed in white, from the long veil covering her hair to her white shoes. Royce stood inside the doorway and waited for her to acknowledge him. Because there was no chalice on the altar, he didn't genuflect.

The serving girl timidly touched the nun's slender shoulder, bent down, and whispered in her ear. "Sister Danielle, the Norman leader has arrived. Do we surrender now?"

That question seemed so ridiculous that Royce almost smiled. He motioned to Ingelram to replace his sword, then walked farther into the room. Two servants stood together near the fur-covered window across the room. One held a baby in her arms. The infant was diligently chewing on his fists.

Royce's attention returned to the nun. He could only see her profile from his position. She finally made the sign of the cross, a signal her prayers were finished, then gracefully gained her feet. As soon as she stood up, the baby let out a lusty cry and reached out to her.

The nun motioned the dark-haired servant forward and took the baby into her arms. She kissed the top of his head and turned to walk toward Royce.

He still hadn't gotten a good look at her face because she kept her head bowed, but he found himself pleasantly affected by her gentle manners and her whisper-soft voice as she crooned to the baby. The infant's head was covered with a sprinkling of white-blond hair that literally stood up on end, giving him a comical look. The baby cuddled contentedly against the nun and continued to suckle on his fists. He made loud, slurping sounds, interrupted only by an occasional yawn.

Danielle stopped when she was just a foot or two away from Royce. The top of her head only reached his shoulders, and he was thinking to himself how very fragile and vulnerable she appeared to be.

Then she lifted her gaze and stared into his eyes, and he couldn't seem to think at all.

She was exquisite. God's truth, she had the face of an angel. Her skin was flawless. Her eyes fascinated him. They were the most appealing shade of blue. Royce imagined that he was looking at a goddess who'd come to earth just to tantalize him. Her light brown eyebrows were perfectly sculptured into soft arches, her nose was wonderfully straight, and her mouth was full, rosy, and damned appealing.

Royce found himself physically reacting to the woman and was immediately disgusted with himself. His sudden lack of discipline was appalling to him. The indrawn breath he heard told him Ingelram was experiencing the same reaction to the beautiful woman. Royce turned to glare at his vassal before looking at the nun again.

Danielle was a bride of the sacred church, for God's sake, and not booty to be lusted after. Like his overlord, William of Normandy, Royce honored the church and protected the clergy whenever possible.

He let out a long sigh. "Who does this child belong to?" he asked in an attempt to regain his unholy thoughts about the woman.

"The baby belongs to Clarise," she answered in a husky voice he found incredibly arousing. She motioned to the dark-haired servant in the shadows. The woman immediately took a step forward. "Clarise has been a faithful servant for many years. Her son's name is Ulric."

She looked down at the infant and saw that he was gnawing on her cross. She removed it before looking back up at Royce.

They stared at each other a long silent minute. She began to rub Ulric's shoulders in a circular motion, but kept her gaze fully directed on Royce.

She showed absolutely no fear in her expression, and she'd given the long sickle-shaped scar on his cheek little notice. Royce was a bit unsettled by that-he was used to quite a different reaction when women first saw his face. The disfigurement didn't seem to bother the nun, though. That pleased him considerably.

"Ulric's eyes are the same color as yours," Royce remarked.

That wasn't exactly true, he realized. The baby's eyes were a pretty blue. Danielle's were beautiful.

"Many Saxons have blue eyes," she replied. "Ulric will be eight months old in less than a week. Will he live that long, Norman?"

Because she asked the question in such a gentle, undemanding voice, Royce didn't take offense. "We Normans don't kill innocent children," he replied.

She nodded, then honored him with a smile. His heart started pounding in reaction. She had an enchanting dimple in her cheek, and, Lord, how her eyes could bewitch him. They weren't blue, he decided. They were violet, the identical shade of the fragile flower he'd once seen.

He really needed to get hold of his thoughts, he told himself. He was acting like a besotted squire. He was feeling just as awkward, too.

Royce was too old for such feelings. "How is it you've learned to speak our language so well?" he asked. His voice had gone hoarse.

She didn't seem to notice. "One of my brothers went with Harold, our Saxon king, to Normandy six years ago," she answered. "When he returned, he insisted we all conquer this language."

Ingelram moved to stand next to his baron. "Does your twin sister look like you?" he blurted out.

The nun turned to look at the soldier. She seemed to be taking his measure. Her stare was intense, unwavering. Ingelram, Royce noticed, turned bright red under her close scrutiny and couldn't hold her gaze long.

"Nicholaa and I are very much alike in appearance," she finally answered. "Most people cannot tell us apart. Our dispositions, however, are vastly different. I've an accepting nature, but my sister certainly doesn't. She has vowed to die before surrendering to England's invaders. Nicholaa believes it's only a matter of time before you Normans give up and go back home. 'Tis the truth, I fear for my sister's safety."

"Do you know where Lady Nicholaa went?" Ingelram asked. "My baron has need to know."

"Yes," she answered. She kept her gaze on the vassal. "If your baron will give me his assurance that no harm will come to my sister, I'll tell you her destination."

Ingelram let out a loud snort. "We Normans don't kill women. We tame them."

Royce felt like tossing his vassal out the doorway when he heard that arrogant boast. He noticed the nun didn't much care for the remark, either. Her expression turned mutinous, though only for a fleeting second. The flash of anger was quickly gone, too, replaced by a look of serenity.

His guard was suddenly up, and though he couldn't give a reason for his suspicions, he knew something was amiss.

"No harm will come to your sister," Royce said.

She looked relieved. Royce decided then her anger had been a reaction to her fear for her sister.

"Aye," Ingelram interjected with great enthusiasm. "Nicholaa is the king's prize."

"The king's prize?"

She was having difficulty hiding her anger now. Her face became flushed. Her voice, however, remained calm. "I don't understand what you mean. King Harold is dead."

"Your Saxon king is dead," Ingelram explained, "but duke William of Normandy is on his way to London even now and will soon be anointed king of all England. We have orders to take Nicholaa to London as soon as possible."

"For what purpose?" she asked.

"Your sister is the king's prize. He intends to award her to a noble knight." Ingelram's voice was filled with pride when he added, "That is an honor."

She shook her head. "You've still to explain why my sister is to become the king's prize," she whispered. "How would your William even know about Nicholaa?"

Royce wasn't about to let Ingelram enlighten the nun. The truth would only upset the gentlewoman. He shoved his vassal toward the doorway. "You have my word no harm will come to your sister," he promised Danielle again. "Now tell me her destination. You have no understanding of the dangers outside these walls. It's only a matter of time before she's captured, and there are, unfortunately, a few Normans who won't treat her kindly."

He'd softened the truth for the innocent woman, of course. He saw no reason to explain in detail the atrocities her twin would be subjected to if she was caught by ill-disciplined soldiers. He wanted to protect the nun from the harsh realities of life, to shelter her innocence from worldly sins, but if she refused to give him the information he needed, he would have to be more blunt with her.

"Will you give me your word you'll go after Nicholaa yourself? You won't give the duty to someone else?"

"It's important to you that I go?"

She nodded.

"Then I'll give you my word," he said. "Although I wonder why it matters to you if I go or send someone-"

"I believe you'll act with honor toward my sister," she interrupted. "You have already given me your word no harm will come to Nicholaa." She smiled again. "You would not have attained such a powerful position if you habitually broke your word. Besides, you're considerably older than the soldiers under your command, or so I was told by one of the servants. I believe you've learned patience and restraint by now. You'll need both to capture Nicholaa, for she can be very difficult when she's riled. She's clever, too."

Before Royce could respond to those comments, Danielle turned and walked over to the two women standing by the window. She handed the baby to the woman called Clarise, then whispered instructions to the other servant.

She turned back to Royce. "I shall give you my sister's destination after I've seen to your injury," she announced. "You've a fair-sized cut on your forehead, Baron. I'll clean and bandage it. Do sit down. It should only take a minute or two of your time."

Royce was so surprised by her thoughtfulness and her kindness that he didn't know how to react. He started to shake his head, then changed his mind. He finally sat down. Ingelram stood in the doorway, watching. The servant placed a bowl of water on the low chest next to the stool on which Royce sat while Danielle collected several strips of clean white cloth.

The baron swallowed up the stool. His long legs were stretched out in front of him. Danielle skirted her way between his feet and stood between his thighs.

He noticed her hands shook when she dipped the cloth into the water. She didn't say a word to him while she saw to his care, but when the injury was cleaned to her satisfaction and she was applying soothing salve, she asked him how he'd come by the wound.

"A stone perhaps," he answered with a shrug. "It isn't significant."

Her smile was gentle. "I think perhaps it was significant at the time. Why, the blow must have left you stunned, at the very least."

He was barely paying attention to what she was saying. Damn, she smelled good. He couldn't seem to concentrate on anything but the beautiful woman standing so close to him. The faint scent of roses caught his attention. So did the cross nestled between her breasts. He stared at the holy article until he was able to control his reaction to her. The minute she stepped back, he stood up.

"My sister went to Baron Alfred's holding," she told him. "His home is just three hours north of here. Alfred has vowed to resist the Normans, and Nicholaa plans to add our brother's loyal soldiers to his fight."

A shout came from the doorway, interrupting the conversation. One of Royce's soldiers was requesting his attention. "Stay with her," Royce ordered Ingelram.

The warrior was already out the doorway when the vassal's fervent reply reached him. "I'll protect her with my life, Baron. As God is my witness, no one will touch her."

Royce's sigh echoed down the hallway. God save me from eager young knights, he thought to himself. If he hadn't been blessed with such a patient nature, he knew he would have slammed Ingelram's ignorant head through a wall by now. He'd imagined doing just that several times in the last hour.

Another young soldier was waiting for Royce at the top of the steps. "There's a battle raging even now, Baron, to the south of the fortress. From the walkway atop the wall we can see that the Saxon dogs have our Norman soldiers surrounded. The colors of the banner tell us the small contingent belongs to Baron Hugh. Do we ride to give him assistance?"

Royce left the keep and climbed up to the walkway to judge the situation for himself. The soldier who'd reported the battle trailed behind him. He was, unfortunately, just as unskilled as Ingelram and as hopelessly enthusiastic as well. It was a dangerous combination.

"Do you see how the Saxons have our soldiers in retreat, Baron?" the soldier asked.

Royce shook his head. "You look, but you don't see," he muttered. "Hugh's men use the same tactic we employed in our battle near Hastings. Our soldiers are drawing the Saxons into a trap."

"But the odds are surely in the Saxons' favor. Their numbers are thrice-"

"The numbers aren't in the least significant," Royce countered. He let out a weary sigh, reminded himself he was a patient man, and then turned to look at the dark-haired soldier. "How long have you been in my ranks?"

"Nearly eight weeks now."

Royce's irritation immediately vanished. There hadn't been time for training, what with all the preparations needed for the invasion of England. "You're excused for your ignorance," he announced. He started toward the steps. "We'll give Hugh's men assistance, but only because of our love of a good battle, not because they need our help. Norman soldiers are vastly superior in any fight, and Hugh's men will most assuredly claim victory with or without our help."

The young soldier nodded, then asked if he could go into battle by his baron's side. Royce granted his request. He left twenty soldiers at the holding and rode out with the remaining men. Since there were only women, children, and servants inside the walls, he decided Ingelram could easily maintain order until he returned.

The fight was invigorating, though too quickly finished, in Royce's estimation. Because he was a cynical man, he thought it odd indeed that as soon as he and his soldiers joined the battle, the Saxons, with still at least double the number of soldiers, scattered like mountain wolves into the hills. Had the battle been staged to draw him out? Royce, weary from too little sleep, decided he was arrogantly overly concerned about the Saxons' retreat. He and his men spent another hour ferreting out infidels from their dens before giving up the chase.

Royce was surprised to find that Hugh, a friend and equal in rank under William's command, was leading the contingent, for he assumed Hugh would be fighting by their leader's side on the final sweep into London. When he put that question to the warrior, Hugh explained he'd been dispatched to the north to subdue the faction there. He had been on his way back to London when the Saxons attacked him.

Hugh was a good ten years older than Royce. Gray stained his brown hair, and the faded scars on his face and arms made Royce look almost unblemished.

"I have only lesser-skilled soldiers in my unit," Hugh confessed in a bleak voice. "The more experienced were sent ahead to William. I tell you, Royce, I don't have your patience for training men. Had it not been for our informant's warning, I believe I would have lost most of my men just now. The Saxon spy put us on our guard at just the right moment, and for that reason the ambush wasn't nearly as effective as it might have been. My soldiers are still without discipline." Hugh leaned forward and, in a voice usually reserved for the confessional, whispered, "Two of my men have misplaced their swords, I tell you. Can you believe such a sin? I should kill the fools now and be saved the aggravation." He let out a long sigh. "With your permission, I'll ask William to place a few of my boy warriors in your ranks for proper training."

The two barons, surrounded by their troops, started back toward the holding.

"Who is this informant you mentioned?" Royce asked. "And why do you trust him?"

"The man's name is James, and I haven't said I trust him," Hugh answered. "He has proved to be reliable thus far, that's all. He tells me he's hated by the other Saxons because he was given the unholy chore of collecting the tax. James is very familiar with the families in this area. He was raised here, you see. He knows all the favorite hiding places, too. Has the wind not taken on a wicked bite this past hour, Royce?" Hugh asked then, switching topics as he pulled his heavy cloak around his shoulders. "My bones are feeling the rattle of winter now."

Royce barely noticed the cold. A fine mist of snow was swirling around them, but it wasn't sufficient to blanket the ground. "You have old bones, Hugh. That's the reason you feel the cold." He grinned at his friend to soften the insult.

Hugh smiled back. "Old, say you? You'll change your opinion when you hear about my astonishing victories against the Saxons."

The arrogant warrior then began to relate, detail by methodical detail, the series of victories he'd claimed in William's name. He didn't finish with his litany of boasts until they were in the courtyard of the castle.

Ingelram wasn't there to greet his lord, and Royce surmised the besotted vassal was still abovestairs, staring at the nun.

The mere reminder of the Saxon woman made him uneasy-something about her bothered Royce, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.

Perhaps, he thought to himself, it was because she waited until Hugh was settled before answering. "Aye, my lord. The parents are both dead. They're buried in the family plot atop the crest to the north."

James's neck began to ache from having to tilt his head all the way back in order to look up at the Norman's face. When the crick became too irritating, he turned his gaze to the floor. The action proved a blessing, for the tightness in his chest immediately loosened once he wasn't looking directly at the warrior's face. The Norman's eyes were just as terrifying as the hideous scar covering most of his right cheek, James admitted. His hard, cold gaze was far more intimidating than his size or his marks.

"Now tell me about the other members of this family," Royce commanded.

James hurried to answer. "There are two brothers. Thurston is the eldest of the children. It was reported he died during the battle in the north. This hasn't been verified yet."

"And the other brother?"

"His name is Justin. He's the youngest in the family. He was injured in the same battle. The nuns are taking care of him now at the abbey. It isn't believed Justin will live, though. His injuries were quite severe."

Ingelram continued to stand by his leader's side. Royce suddenly turned to his vassal. "Did I not order you to bring the nun to me?" he demanded, still speaking Saxon.

Ingelram answered him in the same language. "I didn't know you meant to question her, Baron."

"It isn't your duty to know what I plan to do, Ingelram. You're to obey without question."

Ingelram took a deep breath. "She isn't here," he blurted out.

Royce resisted the urge to strangle his vassal. "Explain yourself," he ordered in a hard voice.

It took all the courage Ingelram possessed to meet his lord's stare. "Sister Danielle requested an escort back to the abbey. She'd given her word to her superiors she'd be back before dark. She was also most concerned about her brother. Because he's the youngest in the family, she feels great responsibility for him."

Throughout the halting explanation, Royce hadn't shown any reaction. Ingelram didn't have the faintest idea what his lord was thinking. The not knowing made his voice squeak when he continued. "The brother's injuries are life-threatening, Baron, and she wanted to sit by his side through the night. She promised me she'd return to us in the morning. Surely then she'll answer any questions you have for her."

Royce had to take a deep, calming breath before he dared to speak again. "And if she doesn't return to us in the morning?" he asked in a mild, thoroughly controlled voice.

Ingelram looked stunned by that question. He'd never considered such a dark possibility. "She gave me her word, Baron. She wouldn't lie to me. She couldn't. She's a bride of the church. It would be a mortal sin on her soul if she didn't tell the truth. If, for some reason, she cannot leave the abbey in the morning, I'll be happy to go inside and fetch her for you."

Royce was conditioned by years of training to control his temper. He did so now, though the urge to shout at the foolish vassal made his throat ache. The fact that the Saxon informant was in the hall did help somewhat, for Royce would never ever chastise one of his men in front of an outsider. It would be an indignity, and Royce always treated his men the way he expected to be treated. Respect was earned, not demanded, but dignity was taught by example.

Hugh cleared his throat, gaining Royce's full attention. The older warrior gave his friend a sympathetic look, then turned to Ingelram. "Son, you can't go inside the sacred walls to get her. The left hand of God would descend upon all of us if we dared to violate the most holy law of all."

"The holy law?" Ingelram stammered out, clearly not understanding.

Hugh rolled his eyes heavenward. "She's under the protection of the church now, son. You've just given her sanctuary."

Ingelram was finally beginning to understand the ramifications of his deed. He was horrified by his own conduct. He was also desperate to find a way to redeem himself in his lord's eyes. "But she promised me-"

"Be silent."

Royce hadn't raised his voice when he gave that command, but the Saxon informant jumped a good foot, for he'd gotten a glimpse of the fury in the warrior's gray eyes. He took several steps back in a puny attempt to separate himself from the Norman's wrath.

Royce was amused by the Saxon's cowardly retreat. The little man was literally shaking in his boots. "You've told me about the brothers, James," Royce said then, returning the conversation to the household. "Now tell me about the twin sisters. We were told that one is a nun and the other…"

He stopped when the Saxon shook his head. "There is no nun in this household," James blurted out. "There is Lady Nicholaa," he added in a rush when he saw how his explanation was affecting the Norman. The jagged scar on the warrior's face had turned stark white. "Lady Nicholaa is-"

Royce interrupted him. "We know about Lady Nicholaa," he said. "She's the one who defended her castle against us, isn't that correct?"

"Aye, my lord," James answered. "That is correct."

"Now I want to hear about the other twin. If she isn't a nun, then…"

The Saxon dared to shake his head at him again. James looked more perplexed than frightened now. "But my lord," he whispered, "there is only one. Lady Nicholaa does not have a twin."