The Prize

Chapter Two

Royce's reaction to the Saxon's announcement was swift and surprising. He threw back his head and laughed until tears filled his eyes. Lady Nicholaa's clever ploy to gain sanctuary astonished him. The woman had proved to be extremely resourceful, a trait he was quick to appreciate whenever he chanced upon it.

Nicholaa wasn't a nun. Relief swelled inside him. He didn't understand the reason for such a reaction, however, and quickly pushed the feeling aside. Then he started laughing again. By God, he hadn't lusted after a bride of the church after all.

Ingelram didn't know what to make of his lord's bizarre behavior. In the short while he'd been under the baron's command, he'd never even seen him smile. The vassal suddenly realized he'd never witnessed his leader accept defeat, either.

"Don't you understand, Baron?" Ingelram blurted out. "You've suffered a humiliation because of me. I believed her lies. I gave her escort to the abbey."

Ingelram boldly moved forward until he had placed himself within striking distance of his lord, then said in an anguished whisper, "I alone am to blame."

Royce raised an eyebrow over his vassal's dramatic confession. "We will discuss this later," he announced with a meaningful glance toward the Saxon.

When Ingelram bowed his head, Royce turned back to the tax collector. "Tell me what you know about Nicholaa," he ordered.

James lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug. "I was run out of this area two and one half years ago, milord, when the task of collecting the tax was given to another man. I know that Nicholaa was supposed to marry a giant of a man named Roulf, who had a large holding to the south. She'd been pledged to him since childhood, and if the wedding took place as scheduled, she was married to him almost two full years before he was slain at Hastings. 'Tis all I know about Nicholaa, milord."

Royce made no comment on the information he'd just been given. He dismissed James, waited until he had left the hall, and then turned back to Ingelram. "In future, you will not parade your sins in front of outsiders. Do you understand me?"

Ingelram nodded. He looked properly horrified by the reprimand.

Royce let out a sigh. "When you act in my stead, Ingelram, your mistakes become mine. If you've learned anything from this incident, then the inconvenience you've caused me might all be for the good."

Ingelram was astonished by his lord's remarks. He'd never heard a defeat referred to as an inconvenience before. He didn't know how to respond.

Hugh captured Royce's attention when he interjected, "Lady Nicholaa has proved to be cunning, hasn't she, Royce? She certainly slipped out of your grasp… for the time being," he added with a nod in Ingelram's direction.

"Yes," Royce answered with a grin. "For the time being."

"'Tis the truth, I fell victim to her lies," Ingelram blurted out.

"Nay," Royce contradicted. "You fell prey to her beauty. Recognize the error for what it was so you won't repeat it."

The vassal slowly nodded. He took a deep breath while he removed his sword from his scabbard. His hands shook when he offered his father's bejeweled weapon to Royce. "I've failed you, Baron. Because of me, you've been shamed."

Ingelram closed his eyes in anticipation of the blow. A long agonizing minute passed before he opened them. Why was his leader hesitating? "You don't wish to retaliate, Baron?" he asked, confusion obvious in his gaze.

Royce let him see his exasperation. He turned to Hugh, caught his smile, and almost smiled himself. "What I wish to do and what I will do are two different things, Ingelram," he said. "In time you will understand. Why do you offer me your sword?"

Ingelram was caught off guard by the question. Baron Royce's voice had been so mild. Was it possible his lord wasn't overly displeased by his error in judgment? "I offer you my sword so that you may use it against me, if that is your inclination. Baron, I don't understand why you… I have disgraced you, haven't I?"

Royce ignored that question and asked one of his own. "Under whose command were you before you came into my ranks?"

"I was Baron Guy's squire for two years," Ingelram answered.

"And in all that time did you ever see Guy use a vassal's sword against him?"

Royce was prepared to hear a quick denial. He knew Guy sometimes used intimidating tactics when dealing with younger, inexperienced soldiers, a method that found little favor with Royce. There had even been whispers of true brutality, but he didn't pay any attention to such talk. He believed the stories were simply exaggerations spread by disgruntled men who hadn't been able to meet Baron Guy's rigid training requirements.

He couldn't hide his surprise when Ingelram nodded. "I did witness such retaliation. Baron Guy never killed a vassal, but several unfortunate soldiers later died from the punishment he inflicted. Their wounds became infected."

"Ingelram, that explains your peculiar behavior," Hugh interjected. He turned to Royce. "The boy's speaking the truth, Royce. Guy uses physical retaliation and humiliation to gain obedience and loyalty. Tell me this, Ingelram," Hugh continued with a glance in the vassal's direction. "Are the bastards Henry and Morgan still acting as Guy's right and left hands?"

Ingelram nodded again. "They are his closest advisers," he said. "When Baron Guy is occupied with more important matters, Henry and Morgan supervise the training of the men."

"And the punishment as well?" Hugh prodded.

"Yes," Ingelram answered. "The punishment as well."

"Morgan's worse than Henry," Hugh announced. "I've seen him fight. I hoped he would die during the invasion, but the Saxons didn't accommodate me. I suppose the devil's bent on keeping him alive."

Ingelram took a bold step forward. "May I speak freely?" he asked Royce.

"Isn't that what you've been doing?" his baron answered.

Ingelram blushed. Royce suddenly felt like an old man. He was a good twelve years older than the vassal, but the differences in their reactions made it seem more like twenty. "What else did you wish to say, Ingelram?"

"Most of the soldiers are obedient to Guy, but they aren't loyal, as Baron Hugh supposed. They fear him and do his bidding for that reason alone. There's no loyalty, save to Duke William, of course."

Royce showed no outward reaction to the startling news about Guy. He leaned back against the mantel of the fireplace and folded his arms across his chest. He looked very relaxed. Inside he was furious. A man of such status should be a protector by nature, Royce believed, with values stronger than those of his men. It sounded as though Guy had become a destroyer.

"Ingelram?" Hugh asked. "Did you request this move into Royce's ranks?"

A noticeable wheeze had entered Hugh's voice. He leaned back in his chair to ease his weariness and rubbed his whiskered jaw while he waited for an answer.

"I did request the move," Ingelram answered. "In truth, I held little hope I would be considered, though. The list of soldiers begging entrance into Baron Royce's army numbers over a thousand. My father was able to sway William's mind, however, and my name was lifted to the top of the list. I was very fortunate."

Hugh shook his head. "I still don't understand how you managed it, with or without William's blessing. First you had to gain Guy's permission to request this transfer. 'Tis a fact Guy isn't known for granting requests, especially those that might benefit Royce. Guy's been in competition with Royce ever since their squire days together."

Hugh paused to let out a low chuckle. "I almost pity Guy. He always comes in second best. I think it's making him crazed."

Royce was watching Ingelram. The vassal's face had turned bright red. When Ingelram realized his lord was staring at him, he blurted out, "Baron Guy isn't your friend. He's filled with jealousy. You always best him."

"But why did he grant you this transfer?" Hugh prodded, wishing to get to the bottom of this puzzle.

Ingelram's gaze turned to the tops of his boots. "He didn't see my transfer as a favor to Baron Royce. Quite the opposite, in fact. Both Henry and Morgan had a good laugh over their lord's cunning decision. They all believe I'll never be a fit knight."

"Why would Guy consider you unfit?" Royce asked.

If Ingelram turned any redder, Royce thought, he might burst into flames. He held his patience and waited for the soldier to answer him.

"I'm weakhearted," Ingelram confessed. "Baron Guy said I wasn't strong-willed enough for his unit. Now you have the truth, and Baron Guy has been proven correct. My weakness caused your defeat."

Royce felt like growling. "We're not defeated," he snapped. "For God's sake, put your sword away. You haven't even begun your training, and for that reason I do not fault you. If, however, after six months under my direction, you should make a similar misjudgment, I'll take your throat between my hands and try to strangle some sense into you. Do you understand?"

Royce's voice had taken on a hard edge. Ingelram nodded vigorously. "I shall willingly give you my neck if I fail you again," he vowed dramatically. "No other defeat will I-"

"For the love of God, will you cease calling this minor inconvenience a defeat?" Royce demanded. "Lady Nicholaa has only delayed me; she hasn't eluded me. When I'm ready to leave for London, I'll go to the abbey, and I won't have to go inside, Ingelram. She'll come out to me."

He took a threatening step toward his vassal. "Do you doubt me?"

"Nay, my lord."

Royce nodded. He didn't explain how he planned to accomplish this feat, and Ingelram knew better than to ask. The topic was duly dismissed.

Soon, however, Royce was forced to put the matter of collecting Nicholaa on the bottom of his list of duties. Hugh was far more ill than anyone realized. By the following morning the warrior was burning with fever.

Royce stayed by his friend's side for three long days and nights. He wasn't about to let any of his own inexperienced young men or the Saxon servants near the Norman. They would poison him at the first opportunity, or so Royce believed. The duty of caring for the knight therefore fell on Royce's shoulders. It was a task he was, unfortunately, unqualified to accomplish with much skill.

Royce kept the tax collector in residence and left Hugh's side only once during the long vigil, to question the Saxon about Nicholaa's family. He'd already formulated a plan to force the woman from her sanctuary, but he wanted to make certain he hadn't missed any other considerations.

Hugh's condition deteriorated. By week's end, it became apparent he would die if he didn't receive proper treatment. In desperation, Royce took his friend to the abbey. Both Ingelram and Hugh's vassal, Charles, flanked the cart in which Hugh rested.

The four men were denied entrance to the abbey until they agreed to remove their weapons. Royce didn't argue with the order, and once the swords were handed over, the iron gates to the abbey were opened.

The abbess met them in the center of the stone-paved courtyard. She was an old woman, nearly forty by Royce's estimation, stooped in posture, too, but with a surprisingly clear, unwrinkled complexion.

She was dressed in black, from the veil hiding her hair to the shoes covering her feet, and though the top of her head didn't even reach his shoulders, she seemed unimpressed by his size. Her gaze was direct, unwavering.

The abbess reminded him of Sister Danielle… or rather Lady Nicholaa, he corrected.

"Why have you placed your soldiers around the walls of this abbey?" the nun asked in greeting.

"My soldiers are here to make certain Lady Nicholaa doesn't leave her sanctuary," Royce answered.

"Have you come here with the intent of persuading her to leave?"

Royce shook his head. He walked over to the back of the cart and motioned for the abbess to follow.

The abbess proved to have a compassionate nature. As soon as she saw Hugh's condition, she ordered him taken inside.

Hugh was too weak to stand on his own. Royce hoisted the sleeping warrior over his shoulder. He staggered under the weight, straightened, and then followed the abbess inside. There was a stone staircase directly to the left of the arched entrance. He and his men climbed the steps and followed the nun down a long, brightly lit corridor.

Whispers followed them. The clatter of men's boots as they strode down the wooden floor echoed off the stone walls, but Royce could still hear the soft chanting of the other nuns. The closer he came to the door at the end of the hallway, the stronger the voices became. He recognized the Pater Noster and knew then the sisters were at prayer. From the direction of the sweet, musical sound, he guessed the nuns were sequestered on the floor above.

"We have only one large room in which to house the sick who come to us," the abbess explained. "Just one week past we were filled to capacity, but today only one Saxon soldier remains under our care. You do agree, don't you, Baron, that all men are equal inside these walls, be they Norman or Saxon?"

"I agree," Royce answered. "Is this Saxon soldier Lady Nicholaa's brother?"

The abbess turned around. "Yes," she answered. "Justin is resting inside."

"Is he dying, as I was informed?"

"Only God can answer that question," she replied.

"Justin refuses to accept the cross thrust upon his shoulders. He fights our every treatment. He prays for death while we diligently pray for his recovery. I can only hope God will not become confused by our contradictory pleas."

Royce wasn't certain if the mother superior was making a jest or not. Her brow was puckered into a frown. He nodded again, shifted Hugh over his shoulder, and then said, "I would like to get my friend settled. Can we not discuss your concerns after Hugh has been made comfortable?"

"I've only one concern now," the abbess announced. "You'd best know I have every intention of placing your friend in the bed next to Justin's. I can see from your frown you've little liking for this decision, but I have a sound, practical reason. Sister Felicity is best qualified to care for both men. She's quite elderly now, and I won't have her running from one end of the room to the other. She'll sit between the soldiers. Do you accept this condition?"

Royce nodded. The abbess looked relieved. She turned and opened the door. The room Royce entered was gigantic. He squinted against the sunlight that poured in from three large windows in the far wall. Wooden benches stood beneath each window. The walls were sparkling clean from a recent whitewashing.

Along the opposite wall were over twenty beds. Next to each bed stood a small chest. A single white candle sat on each chest.

Each bed and chest could be enclosed on all sides by white curtains that hung from ceiling to floor. When the draperies were pulled, the area became a cell of privacy.

All but one of the beds was exposed to the sunshine now. Royce surmised that the square white cocoon near the center of the room was the cell where Justin rested.

He settled Hugh in the bed next to the curtained cell. Within minutes he'd stripped his friend of his heavy outer garments and covered him with a mound of thick, soft fleece blankets.

"The wounds on his arms and shoulders are festering," the abbess remarked with a worried frown. "Sister Felicity will know what to do." She bent down and stroked Hugh's forehead in a motherly gesture. "God willing, this one will recover."

Royce nodded. He continued to be very accommodating until the nun suggested he and his men take their leave. Royce shook his head then. "No," he said. "A Norman soldier will guard Hugh until he recovers. He will not be allowed to eat or drink until the food has been tasted by one of your own," he added in a hard voice.

It was obvious from the surprised look on the abbess's face that she wasn't used to being contradicted. "You're a suspicious man, Baron," she said frowning. "This is a sacred house. No harm will come to your friend."

When Royce only shrugged his shoulders, the abbess asked, "And if I do not accept your conditions?"

"You won't turn Hugh away," he countered. "Your vows won't let you."

Her smile surprised him. "I see you're every bit as stubborn as I am," she said. "We'll both spend a bit of time in purgatory for that flaw in our natures. Very well, then. I'll accept your conditions."

Hugh moaned in his sleep, drawing the mother superior's attention again. She gently tucked the covers around the warrior, whispering soft words of comfort all the while. Then she closed the curtains and went in search of Sister Felicity. The minute she turned to leave, Royce motioned to Ingelram and Hugh's vassal. The two soldiers immediately followed the abbess to the doorway and took up their positions on either side of the entrance. No one but a nun would be allowed inside the chamber until Hugh had fully recovered.

While he waited for the abbess to return, Royce decided to appease his curiosity about the Saxon soldier. He wanted to see for himself that the man was too ill to be a threat to Hugh. He wasn't about to take for granted anything a Saxon told him until he had personally confirmed it.

Royce walked to the other side of Hugh's bed and was just about to push the curtain away when someone pulled it back from the other side.

He suddenly found himself shoulders to face with Lady Nicholaa.

Her indrawn breath told him she was even more surprised by their encounter than he was. He assumed she thought he'd left with the abbess. He knew she must have heard every word of their conversation.

They stood no more than a foot apart. A light fragrance of roses caught his attention.

Lord, she was lovely-and, he hoped, frightened. Her eyes were wide with what he suspected was fear.

Yes, he decided, she was afraid. Royce thought that was a most intelligent reaction. The woman should damn well be afraid of him, for every action after all produced a reaction, or a retaliation. Lady Nicholaa had lied in order to gain temporary freedom. Soon, however, it would be his turn to retaliate.

Neither of them said a word for several moments. Royce towered over her and waited for her to cower.

She waited until she could control her anger.

The longer she stared at him, the more furious she became. How dare this Norman venture inside her brother's sickroom?

Her chin came up in an instinctively defiant action.

He quit smiling.

She wasn't afraid of him. That realization stunned him. It was followed by a sinful thought. The woman was close enough for him to grab. Lord, how easy it would be simply to toss her over his shoulder and leave the abbey. It was a sinful thought because she was under the church's protection now. But it was no more sinful than the sudden burst of desire that caught him unawares.

If a man's preferences ran to blue-eyed nymphs, then Nicholaa would certainly be his first choice. He told himself his preferences didn't run in that direction. Then he recognized the lie and gave it up. Hell, he could be content to spend the rest of his days staring at her and wanting more.

Her mouth was too appealing to give him any peace of mind. All he wanted to think about was what she would taste like.

His discipline saved him from grabbing hold of her and finding out then and there. He took a deep, calming breath. He forced himself to put his lust aside and concentrate on staring the woman to her knees. Defiance was all very well and good under certain circumstances, but this wasn't one of them. She needed to be afraid now. With fear came caution, he reasoned. Nicholaa had caused quite enough havoc. It was time for her to surrender. He was determined to make her realize just whom she was up against. He was her conquerer, and she was his booty. The sooner she came to terms with that fact, the easier her life would be.

He was good at intimidation. The scar on his face helped, of course.

Odd, but it didn't seem to be helping him now. No matter how fierce his scowl became, she still didn't cower.

He couldn't help but be impressed. He took a step forward. The tips of his boots touched the toes of her shoes. She still didn't back away. Her head was tilted all the way back so she could continue to hold his gaze, and if he hadn't known better, he would have thought there was a sparkle in her eyes.

Dared she mock him?

Nicholaa was having difficulty remembering how to breathe. In truth, she was more furious with herself than with the warlord frowning so furiously down at her. Her reaction to the Norman was unexplainable. She couldn't quit staring at him. He had the most beautiful gray eyes, though why in God's name she'd taken time to notice the appealing trait was simply beyond her comprehension.

He was trying to intimidate her. She wasn't going to let him. The warrior really was handsome, damn his hide. And damn her own for noticing. What was the matter with her? He was her enemy, and she was supposed to hate him, wasn't she?

He obviously wasn't having any trouble hating her. His dark expression told of his displeasure. Her back straightened in reaction.

"I should have killed you when I had the chance," she whispered.

He raised an eyebrow. "And when was that?" he asked in a soft, mocking voice.

"When I knocked you off your feet with the stone from my sling."

He shook his head.

She nodded. "My aim was true," she boasted. "I meant to mark you, not kill you. Now I regret that decision. Perhaps I'll get a second chance before you're chased back to Normandy where you belong."

He still didn't believe her. He folded his arms across his chest and smiled down at her. "Why didn't you kill me when you had the chance?"

She shrugged. "I didn't feel like it," she announced. "Now I do."

When he laughed, she realized that he still didn't believe her. She couldn't blame him, she supposed, because until this very minute, she hadn't told him a single truth. She wondered if he'd found out she wasn't really a member of the order of nuns. Of course he had, she decided almost immediately. The treasonous tax collector would have told him.

Nicholaa could feel her composure slipping away. Her knees, too. She decided to dismiss him and reached up to pull the curtain closed.

He was much quicker than she was. He had hold of her hand before she'd even touched the drapery.

He wouldn't let go, either. His grip stung like a hornet. She quit trying to pull away from him as soon as she realized how futile her struggle was, and how weak it made her appear.

"Are your possessions here, Nicholaa?"

That question, asked so matter-of-factly, took her by surprise. She nodded before she could stop herself. Then she said, "Why would you ask me such a question?"

"I'm a practical man," he answered. "It will save time to go directly to London from here. Have your things ready or I'll leave them behind. As soon as my friend has recovered, we leave."

She was astonished by his arrogance. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Yes, you are."

She shook her head at him. The veil hiding her hair slipped to one side. Before she could right the damage, he reached over and ripped the covering from her head.

Nicholaa's glorious blond mass of hair tumbled down from the coil on top of her head to hang almost to her waist. His breath caught in his throat at the magnificent sight.

"Only nuns wear the veil, Nicholaa, and you aren't a nun, are you?"

"The pretense was necessary. God understands. He's on my side, not yours."

That ridiculous remark made him smile. "And how did you come to that conclusion?"

The smile had moved into his voice. Was he laughing at her? No, of course not, she told herself. He wouldn't know how. Norman warriors didn't experience human emotions. They lived only to kill and to conquer, or so her brothers had told her. The reason was simple: the enemy soldiers followed a leader who was more monster than man.

"Why do you believe God's on your side?" he asked again when she didn't answer him.

"I did get away from you, didn't I? That should be proof enough, Baron, that God's on my side. I'm quite safe here."

He couldn't argue with that bit of lopsided logic. "For the time being, you're safe," he agreed.

She granted him a smile that showed off the attractive dimple in her cheek. "I'll stay here as long as I want," she boasted. " 'Tis the truth, I'm not leaving this sanctuary until the invasion attempt has been foiled and you've gone back home where you belong."

"The invasion is all but over, Nicholaa. England belongs to us. Accept that fact, and life will be much easier for you. You've already been conquered."

"I will never be conquered."

The mighty boast was thoroughly ruined by the quaver in her voice. He noticed it, too. The rude man had the gall to smile. Her shoulders straightened in reaction.

Royce gave her hand a hard squeeze before finally letting go. Nicholaa started to turn away. He stopped her by grabbing hold of her chin.

He forced her face up, then leaned down until he was just inches away from her. "Don't inconvenience me again."

He didn't raise his voice above a whisper when he gave that command, but his tone was hard enough to truly infuriate her. She pushed his hand away from her chin, then moved to one side so he could get a clear look at her brother.

"Do you actually believe I care if you're inconvenienced or not?" she asked. "My brother lies near death because of your greedy, land-hungry leader, Duke William. Had he left England alone, Justin would still be whole."

Royce turned his attention to her brother. The first thought that came into his mind was that the Saxon soldier really was near death. His complexion was as white as the blanket covering him. Beads of perspiration covered his brow. His hair was the same white-blond as Nicholaa's, but that was the only similarity between brother and sister.

Royce couldn't see any injuries, because the blanket covered the big man from neck to feet.

He judged the soldier to be young from the lack of wrinkles at the outer corners of his eyes and the few scars on his face. He remembered then that the Saxon informant had told him Justin was a year younger than Nicholaa, and from all appearances, she was a very young woman.

So the Saxons also sent boy warriors into battle. Royce suddenly felt very weary. He shook his head in an effort to clear it while he kept his gaze on Justin. The brother's sleep was fitful. He wore a frown that suggested demons were racking his nightmares. Royce found himself affected by the sight of such obvious torment.

Nicholaa saw the concern in his eyes. He'd tried to hide his reaction, but he hadn't been able to. She was surprised, confused, too. Shouldn't he be gloating?

"When he's awake, he prays for death," she whispered.

"Why?"

He sounded genuinely perplexed. Nicholaa realized he couldn't see Justin's affliction. "My brother's left hand was severed in battle."

Royce showed no reaction to her announcement. "He could still live," he said after a long minute. "The injury could heal."

She didn't want him to be optimistic. She wanted him to feel guilty. She took a protective step toward her brother. "You might have been the one who did this to Justin."

"Yes."

His easy acceptance of such a foul deed took her breath away. "You feel no remorse?"

He gave her a look that suggested she'd lost her mind. "Remorse has no place in a warrior's mind."

He could tell from her expression she didn't understand what he was saying. He patiently explained. "A war is like a game of chess, Nicholaa. Every battle is like a well-thought-out move on the board. Once it begins, there shouldn't be any emotion involved whatsoever."

"So if you did, in fact, injure my brother-"

"That's highly doubtful," he interrupted.

"Why?"

"That isn't how I fight."

He wasn't making any sense to her. "Oh? What is it you do when you go into battle if you don't injure your enemies?"

He let out a sigh. "I kill them."

She tried not to let him know how appalled she was. The man acted as though they were discussing the week's mass schedule, for all the emotion in his voice. His callous attitude made her stomach burn.

"Your brother was injured near Hastings and not in the north as I was informed?" he asked, drawing her attention again.

"No, Justin wasn't in the battle near Hastings," she answered. "He was felled at Stamford Bridge."

Royce couldn't contain his exasperation. The confused woman had her enemies mixed up in her mind. "I'm Norman, Nicholaa, or have you forgotten that fact?"

"Of course not."

"The battle at Stanford Bridge in the north was waged by the king of Norway and his soldiers. We Normans weren't even there." He took a step closer to her. "And so, whether you wish it to be so or not, I couldn't have injured your brother."

"I didn't wish it," she blurted out.

Royce didn't know what to say to that. He considered himself an excellent judge of his opponent's reactions. Yet now he doubted his own ability. God's truth, she looked relieved. That didn't make any sense to him at all. Why would it matter to her if he had or hadn't injured her brother?

"You look relieved."

She nodded. "I am… pleased to know it wasn't you," she admitted. She turned her gaze to the floor. "And I apologize to you for jumping to the wrong conclusion."

He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "You what?"

"I apologize," she muttered.

He shook his head, trying to clear it of this illogical conversation.

"If it had been you, I would have had to retaliate, wouldn't I? I'm all Justin has left, Baron. It has become my duty to protect him."

"You're a woman."

"I'm his sister."

Nicholaa rubbed her arms, for it seemed that the room had suddenly become frigid. God, she was tired. She'd been cold for so long, and so exhausted she could barely form a coherent thought.

"I don't like this war," she whispered. "Men do, though, don't they? They like to fight."

"Some do," he acknowledged, his voice brusque in reaction to his sudden urge to take Nicholaa into his arms. Lord, she looked fragile. He could only imagine the hell she'd been through since the invasion. He found it admirable that she would try to protect her brother, even though it was quite ridiculous for her to think she could.

From the whispers he'd heard about her, he realized he shouldn't have expected less. "Do you know, Nicholaa, that you've become a legend among the Norman soldiers?"

That announcement gained her full attention and caught her curiosity. "Only the dead become legends," she countered. "Not the living."

"If that's true, you're an exception," he said. "You did lead the defense against the first three challengers Duke William sent to secure your holding, didn't you?"

She shrugged. "Your leader sent children to try to steal my home. I merely sent them back."

"Even so," he argued, "there-"

She interrupted him. "My brother's soldiers were under my direction, yes, but only after the first-in-command was forced to leave."

"Who is this soldier and where is he now?"

"His name is John," she answered, "and he left for the north." She folded her arms in front of her and turned to look down at her brother. "You'll never catch him. He's far too clever for the likes of you."

"He sounds like a coward. He left you unprotected."

"I ordered him to leave. John isn't a coward. Besides, I can take care of myself, Baron. I can even get away from tiresome Normans when I want to."

He ignored that barb. "A Norman would never have left a woman in charge."

She shook her head. She knew she couldn't defend John now. In her heart, she thought her brother's loyal vassal was one of the most courageous men she'd ever known. Against terrible odds, he had brought little Ulric to her. Her brother Thurston had ordered John to deliver his son to Nicholaa for safekeeping until the war was finished. James, the Saxon traitor, would have no knowledge about the baby, and neither, Nicholaa reasoned, would the Normans. It was a pity that Nicholaa couldn't boast of John's courage now. Little Ulric's safety came first. As far as the Normans were concerned, Ulric was simply the child of one of the servants.

Royce watched the play of emotions cross her face and wondered what thoughts were going through her mind. He didn't like the way she defended the soldier who'd left her to survive on her own with but a small contingent of men to offer protection, but he decided to put that topic aside for now.

"You showed cleverness when you disguised yourself as a nun. My soldiers were taken in."

She noticed he hadn't included himself in that admission. Did he refuse to confess that he'd also been fooled? "Your soldiers are also little boys," she said. " 'Tis yet another reason you'll be defeated, Baron."

"Most of my soldiers are older than you."

"Then they're ignorant."

"Untrained, not ignorant," he corrected. "The skilled soldiers were needed for more important work."

He was being honest with her, but the look on her face indicated she was insulted by the truth. She turned her back on him in an attempt to dismiss him.

He wasn't ready to be dismissed. "I would warn you, Nicholaa, that being clever isn't going to aid your cause. The journey to London will be difficult at best, and the time we're forced to spend together will be tolerable for you only if you behave."

She refused to turn around. There was fire in her voice when she spoke again. "My God, you are an arrogant man. I've been given sanctuary here and even unholy Normans cannot break that law. I won't leave."

"You will."

She let out a gasp and turned to confront him. "You would violate the right of sanctuary?"

"No, but you will walk outside these walls when the time comes."

A shiver of fear rushed down Nicholaa's spine. What weapon could he use against her? Her mind jumped from one possibility to another, and after a long minute she concluded that he was bluffing. There wasn't a thing he could do to force her to leave her safe haven.

The rush of relief made her eyes fill with tears.

He smiled.

Her composure vanished. She completely forgot she was standing in a sickroom. She certainly wouldn't have shouted at the barbarian otherwise.

"As long as Normans are in England, I'll never leave here. Never!"