"If I have to embroider one more rose petal, I will
unsheathe my eating knife and run myself through."
Gwendolyn of Wessex tossed aside the linen nightgown she'd
been suffering over for hours.
She despised needlework in the first place. And in the
second, why bother making a night garment a work of art when
her future, yet-to-be-named husband would only shred the
thing off her anyway?
The women in the lesser hall stared at her in mild horror,
as if they wanted nothing more from life than to stitch
miniscule f lower buds on a decorative garment for Gwendolyn
to wear at her next wedding. As if they wanted nothing more
from life than to warm a man's bed. Gwendolyn didn't even
have any definite plans to wed just yet, but like all
wealthy Saxon widows, she knew a union was inevitable.
The ladies who sat with her on this warm spring day were
more like soulless jailors than noblewomen who embraced the
happy state of widowhood as much as she did. Gwendolyn had
never mourned the cruel knight who'd been foisted on her at
eighteen summers, a man who had adopted the custom of
keeping concubines while battling their Norse enemies.
Gerald had died at the end of a Norse blade some moons ago,
leaving her widowed, but waiting for the hammer to fall and
her overlord to announce another marriage.
What she wouldn't give for her life to be her own. For her
future to be in her hands! She'd been taught young to think
for herself thanks to her parents, wealthy scholars who'd
traveled the world. Their deaths on the road to Rome had
devastated her. She'd spent the rest of her childhood in the
custody of Richard of Alchere, an ambitious lord who'd
shackled her into an advantageous marriage at the first
opportunity—only to find her widowed on his doorstep
two summers later.
She'd been twenty.
Now the power-hungry nobleman was so busy kissing King
Alfred's royal rear, she feared what scheme the two might
script for her next union.
Richard was the most powerful lord in Wessex, and he
protected a key stretch of the coastline for Alfred. Alchere
had been her father's neighbor before his death, after which
Richard had made a fast grab for power by bringing her into
his household.
While their lands may have been a neat fit against each
other, Alchere's militant and unimaginative household bore
no resemblance to the worldly haven her parents had ruled.
Once upon a time, they had hosted scholars from all over the
world to share ideas and study in their expansive library.
Alchere, on the other hand, wasn't smart enough to see
beyond the point of his sword. He ruled with brute force,
however, and King Alfred needed military might as much as he
needed scholars. Well, he needed that more, truthfully.
That military might accounted for why Gwendolyn found
herself back in proud, vain Alchere's keeping again now that
her first husband had died. She'd sent a messenger to
Richard the moment she'd heard of Gerald's death in battle,
knowing Alchere would gladly send protection for her to
return to him. This she did, much as she disliked her
overlord. Better in Alchere's hands than to wait around for
Gerald's family to try and keep her inheritance by marrying
her to his equally brutish brother. She'd packed up
everything she could carry and fled the whole vicious clan.
Now, Alfred kept track of her vast dowry once again, while
Alchere kept her safe in his prison of a cold keep. Her
former in-laws would never touch her here, but peace came at
the price of her freedom.
She tipped her face into the warm sunshine filtering in
through high windows overhead; the group of widows had been
consigned to remain indoors due to fear of raiding Danes
spotted along the coast.
"Lady Gwendolyn, what will your future husband think if
your trunks are packed with naught but old gowns sewn while
you were wed to another man?" Lady Margery currently
hunted for a third spouse, so she considered herself an
expert on the matter of husbands. All the rest of the old
hens looked up to her for that reason.
Not that any of them were ancient. Margery held the
distinction of eldest at twenty-four summers. The five women
had been herded together by their king during wartime to
keep them safe since they were a valuable lot. Each of them
represented opportunities for important political alliances
upon remarriage and as such, they required protection from
the Norse raids all over the coast. Three of the women had
lost their husbands to the bloodthirsty invaders.
"I do not even have a marriage contracted,"
Gwendolyn pointed out for the tenth time in a fortnight.
She'd put forth a great deal of effort to keep it that way
since the idea of another marriage made her blood run cold.
"And if I did, he would surely ignore my bridal clothes
in the rush to the marriage bed anyhow. Why would any man
care about the needlework on a lady's nightgown when their
only interest is ripping a woman's garb from her body?"
She shivered with distaste. Gerald had handled her roughly
those first few months of their marriage. Later, when he'd
gone back to his concubines, he'd visited her less often,
but his touch had remained abhorrent. Painful. Gwendolyn
could not understand why some women spoke of marital
pleasures with blushes and giggles. She'd found no
tenderness in her husband's bed.
"Perhaps," Lady Margery began, peering over the
tapestry she embroidered along with the others, "that is
why Lord Richard finds it such a difficult challenge to
obtain a good marriage for you. The poor man does not think
you will be able to behave with any sort of decorum for the
summer let alone a whole year."
Gwendolyn closed her eyes to let the inciting comment wash
over her rather than box the woman's ears the way Margery
fully deserved.
Once the other women stifled their giggles, Gwen shot to her
feet and circled the benches they'd drawn up next to each
other, wishing she could run on the fresh green grasses
outside rather than pace a musty old hall. The lack of
activity combined with the need to keep a civil tongue would
make her sheep-brained in no time.
"Lord Richard is not finding it
difficult to
contract my marriage." Her youth and her wealth made her
a sought-after bride, if nothing else. She did not deceive
herself that men wanted her for her submissive manner or
extravagant beauty. The years with Gerald had only made her
more unwilling to cater to any man. "I have been
actively bartering with Alchere for more time to consider
the candidates so I might weigh in on his decision for my
next spouse."
At least, that was the version of events she preferred. And
it contained some truth. But Margery put down the corner of
a small tapestry she worked on to better lift her snooty
nose in the air.
"Lady Gwendolyn, we all know the earl asked you to
remain out of trouble for a full year before he'd ever
consider letting you choose a husband for yourself."
Margery's gaze returned to the patch of needlework where she
stitched the outline of a pasty-faced maiden. "He only
offered such a boon since he is certain you will never
fulfill your end. We all know you'll be wed to someone,
whether you will it or nay, before next harvest."
Ah, another nip to Gwen's pride. Gwendolyn had a bit of a
reputation for mischief-making, and she'd never been able to
resist an opportunity to tweak her overlord's arrogant nose.
Of course, she'd lived in Alchere's awful stronghold for far
more years than these widows who came and went under his
all-mighty protection, so she knew how wretched he could be.
His tempers were notorious and his dictates ranged from
unfair to downright evil. He'd even forced her to burn the
books that she'd inherited from her father's household so
that she would not grow "too self-important with
knowledge."
The book burning had nearly killed her. Could she help it if
during her youth she took what revenge she could by
occasionally adorning his ugly mug with beauty paints while
he slept off too much drink? Or tucked the bones he
discarded onto the great hall floor inside his boots so the
castle hounds gnawed him mercilessly?
None of the other women understood her long and frustrating
relationship with Alchere, however. They only saw that she
baited the man wherever possible. So a retort rose quickly
to Gwen's tongue to set Margery straight on the matter of
Alchere, but it was cut off by the abrupt opening of the
hall's doors from the other side.
A page of no more than eight or nine summers burst through
the entrance, his eyes wide.
"Ladies, you must hasten to the keep." He did not
bother with courtesy, but began grabbing their embroidery to
carry away. He spilled a basket of threads and stepped on
the corner of a half-finished tapestry. "The Norsemen's
boats make their way close to shore."
Gwendolyn forgot all about her quarrel with Margery and the
soul-smothering boredom of the women's conversations about
husbands. She understood the danger the enemy presented.
Their raids had cost many lives, much gold and countless
maidens' innocence. These invading warriors were brutes that
had terrorized lands far and wide. The only part of England
where they did not have a toehold was Wessex, as King Alfred
had made a pact to keep them away.
But when you bargained with devils, who was to say they
would honor it? Only a fool wouldn't know fear.
"Hurry," the young page implored, his wide, dark
eyes frightened. "The boats came from the north where
the view is thick with trees. The watch did not see—"
"Go," she ordered him, pointing toward the doors
where the other women fled in a flurry of colorful skirts.
"I must retrieve something from my chamber."
She lurched toward the door, wanting to gather up the few
belongings that were truly hers—belongings greedy
Alchere did not know about. She'd managed to save one of her
father's books from the lord's burning frenzy and she would
not see that prized possession hacked to pieces by pillaging
Danes.
The boy tugged on her sleeve. "There is no time. I was
told to have all the women in the keep at once. They will
lock you in to ensure your safety."
As if anywhere was safe when the Norse terror came. These
Danes could sniff out riches from many leagues distant, and
that surely included a barricaded keep full of heiresses.
Gwendolyn guessed she would be safer on the walls with an
armed knight before her than stashed away with all the other
lucrative possessions. Still, right now all she cared about
was her father's journal. One last tie to her parents that
no man would pry from her fingers.
"You have done your duty," she told the page,
walking with him to the door. But as they reached the timber
corridor that opened onto the courtyard, she pried his
fingers from her wrist. "You may say I refused to go
with you, but unless you plan to drag me by force, I will
not retreat just yet."
The boy appeared ready to argue, his brows knitted in a
fierce frown. But then he shrugged helplessly and ran off,
leaving her unattended. Alchere would be in a fury if he
learned of it. And didn't that suit her just fine? For all
she knew, her king and overlord could start bartering off
wealthy widows as part of their ongoing bargain with the
Danes to keep them away. Perhaps that was Alchere's purpose
in gathering the women together—not to keep them safe,
but to use them as bribes to the enemy. Gwendolyn had no
intention of making herself available for a political
alliance with a bloodthirsty heathen.
Lifting her skirts, she raced through the gallery above the
great hall and found her chamber. Retrieving the journal
swiftly, she tucked the hide-bound book into her garter that
held her stocking and retied the knot to secure it. Then,
peering about the small chamber that had been hers since
childhood, she sought anything else that she wanted to
bring. Heart racing, she scooped up a handful of rings and
tucked them into a small pouch that hung from her girdle. On
her way out the door, as a last moment thought, she plucked
her first marriage veil from where it dangled off a flag
post that held her family's old banner.
Pushing it over the plaits wound about her head, Gwendolyn
knew the veil counted as the most costly item in her
wardrobe. The circlet incorporated priceless jewels from
both sides of her family and boasted metalwork from the
finest goldsmith in Wessex. If the keep was overrun today,
she'd rather have items of value with her than sitting here
unprotected.
Fleeing from her chamber like a thief with stolen goods, she
was headed for the stairs down to the courtyard when a horn
and shouts nearby caught her by surprise.
Undeniable curiosity warred with good sense.
Had the invaders arrived? Was battle imminent? She caught a
whiff of the sea breeze rolling in off the water and smelled
change on the wind. She'd sensed it once before—that
day her parents left her for their trip to Rome, she'd
somehow known despite their assurances that her life would
never be the same. She had that same tickle along her senses
now and wanted to confront her fate rather than hide from
it. If she went out there—up to the castle walls right
now—maybe she would know what was coming before it
happened. Maybe she could make a difference by alerting
Richard to…
She knew not what exactly, but that desire to affect her
future drew her feet toward the stone steps that led up to
the partition over the courtyard. Quietly. Discreetly. She
was adept at climbing all over the keep, quick as a cat, to
spy on Alchere. Of course, she'd been more of an intrepid
scout at fourteen years old, back when she'd hung from the
rafters to drop a fat, furry spider into Alchere's ale after
the book burning. She had hoped the creature would be
poisonous, but no such luck.
Now, she dashed up to the walls, filled with the hopefulness
of her daring. The more she thought about it, the more
certain she became that Alchere would bargain away his
lucrative widows before he let the Danes overrun the keep.
The raiders could take the women and demand their
inheritance and holdings from King Alfred. Alfred would pay
the way he'd always done in the past to keep peace. How many
treaties had he negotiated with these knaves already?
© 2003-2026