Excerpt of Hers To Command by Margaret Moore

THE FOX AND HOUND in the county of Kent lay ten miles from the castle of Ecclesford along the road to London. It was a small but comfortable inn, with a walled yard, a taproom frequented by the local farmers and food slightly better than one usually found in such places. Inside the building was the aforementioned taproom, redolent of damp rushes, ale and cheap English wine, smoke from the large hearth and roasted beef. A little natural light shone in through the wooden shutters, now closed to keep out the cool, moist morning air of late September.

Five days after Roald de Sayres killed the former garrison commander of Ecclesford Castle, two women went up the rickety steps leading to the chambers where guests could lodge for the night. One of the women, beautiful and blond, trembled with every step that brought them closer to the rooms where the guests slept. The other who led the way appeared full of confident conviction as she marched briskly upward, oblivious to the creaking of the stairs and motes of dust swirling around them. Nothing was going to dissuade Lady Mathilde from her quest, not even her own rapidly beating heart.

"Mathilde, this is madness!" the lovely Lady Giselle hissed as she grabbed hold of her sister's light gray woolen cloak and nearly pulled the white linen veil from her head.

Grabbing at her veil to hold it in place, Mathilde turned toward her anxious sister. In truth, she knew what they were doing was outrageous, but she was not about to lose this opportunity. The innkeeper's son, who knew of their troubles and their need, had come to them the day before and told them of the young nobleman who'd arrived alone at the Fox and Hound — a merry, handsome Norman knight with a very thin purse.

His looks mattered not to Mathilde, and indeed, she would have been happier had he been homely. But the knight's nearly empty purse caused her to hope that he would be glad of the chance to earn some money, even if he had no personal interest in their just cause. The lordly brother and equally lordly friend the knight had mentioned also made her hope he might be the answer to her prayers.

"What else are we to do?" she asked her sister, likewise whispering. "Sit and wait for Roald to take Ecclesford from us? If this fellow is who he says he is, he could be exactly the sort of man we need."

"Perhaps Roald will not dispute our father's will," Giselle protested, as she had every time Mathilde mentioned her plan to discourage Roald from trying to take what was not his. "He has not yet come and —"

"You know as well as I how greedy he is," Mathilde replied. "Do you really believe he will accept losing Ecclesford? I do not. He may come today or tomorrow, demanding that we turn the estate over to him. We must do everything we can to prepare for that."

Giselle still didn't budge from her place on the step. "This knight may not want to help us."

"Rafe said he was poor. We will offer to pay him. And after all, we aren't going to be asking him to risk his life."

"But why must we go into the bedchamber?" Giselle asked piteously, wringing her hands with dismay. "We should stay in the taproom. He will surely awaken and come downstairs soon."

"We have been waiting for too long as it is," Mathilde replied. "We cannot sit all day in the taproom, especially when there is much to be done at home, and did you not see the clouds gathering over the hills to the south? If we do not start for home soon, we may get caught in a storm."

"We know nothing of this man beyond what Rafe has said," Giselle persisted, "and he was only repeating what the Norman told him last night. Maybe the Norman was merely bragging. A man may say anything when he's in his cups."

Perhaps the young man had been drunk, or exaggerating or lying, and if that was so, obviously he wasn't the man to help them. But if he wasn't lying, Mathilde wasn't about to let a knight related to a powerful Norman nobleman in Scotland and who was a friend to an equally powerful lord in Cornwall slip through her fingers without at least asking for his help. "If this fellow seems a liar and a rogue, we will leave him here."

"How will we be able to tell if he's honest or not?"

"I will know."

"You?" Giselle exclaimed, and then she colored and looked away.

Shame flooded Mathilde's face, because Giselle had good cause to doubt Mathilde's wisdom when it came to young men.

"I'm sorry," Giselle said softly, pity in her eyes even as Mathilde fought the memories that flashed through her mind.

"I once made a terrible mistake, but I have learned my lesson," Mathilde assured her sister. Then she smiled, to show she wasn't upset, although she was.

"But since I may misjudge this man, I'm glad that you are here to help me."

Without waiting for Giselle to say anything more lest her sister's doubts weaken her resolve, Mathilde ducked under a thick oak beam and rapped on the door to one of the two upper chambers. Each would contain beds made of rope stretched between the frame, bearing a mattress stuffed with straw, as well as a coarse linen sheet and a blanket. Each bed would be large enough to hold at least two grown men, possibly three. There was little privacy at an inn; however, Rafe's father had assured them the Norman was the only guest still abed.

"Maybe he's already gone," Giselle whispered hopefully when there was no answer to Mathilde's knock.

"The innkeeper would have said so, or we would have seen him leave," Mathilde replied as she knocked again, a little louder this time. She pressed her ear against the door.

"Perhaps he left in the night," Giselle suggested.

"Maybe he's dead," Mathilde muttered under her breath.

"Dead!" Giselle exclaimed.

Mathilde instantly regretted her impulsive remark.

"I do not believe that," she said, lifting the latch of the rough wooden door. "More likely the man is dead drunk and if so, he will be of no use to us."

"Oh, Mathilde!" her sister moaned as Mathilde sidled through the door, the leather hinges creaking. "Wait!"

It was too late. Mathilde had already entered the small, dusty room beneath the eaves sporting three beds, a table and a stool. Articles of clothing had been tossed on the stool beside the bed closest to the door, and an empty wine jug lay on its side on the table, near a puddle of wax that had once been a candle. The large, disheveled bed was still occupied — by a man sprawled on top of the coverings.

He was completely naked.

With a gasp, Mathilde turned to flee — until she saw Giselle's worried face.

What would Giselle say if she ran away? That she had been right, and Mathilde wrong. That Mathilde's plan was foolish and impossible. That they should wait and see what Roald would do, rather than take any kind of action.

That she didn't want to do, so she mentally girded her loins and reminded herself that this man was merely lying on the bed, apparently fast asleep, or passed out from drink. If he was in a drunken stupor and since he had no weapons near him while she carried a knife she wouldn't hesitate to use, surely she had nothing to fear.

He certainly looked harmless enough in his sleep, although his back bore several small scars and welts that were surely from tournaments or battles. She also couldn't help noticing that there wasn't an ounce of superfluous fat on him, anywhere. But then, the Normans were notorious warriors, descendants of piratical Norsemen, without culture or grace, so what else should she expect?

"Is he alive?" Giselle whispered behind her.

"He's breathing," Mathilde replied, moving cautiously closer. She sniffed, and the scent of wine was strong. "I think he's passed out from drink."

Closer now, she studied the slumbering man's remarkably handsome face, slack in his sleep. He looked like an angel — albeit a very virile one, with finely cut cheekbones, full and shapely lips, a straight nose and a strong jaw. His surprisingly long hair fell tousled in dark brown waves to his broad shoulders. His body was more well formed than most, too, from his wide shoulders and muscular back to his lean legs.

She glanced at the clothes lying on the stool. He might be alone now, but he likely hadn't been last night. She wondered where the wench had gone, and if he'd even noticed.

Her lip curled in a sneer. Probably not. Like most men, he had likely thought only of his own desires.

She turned away. "This is not the sort of man we require," she said to her sister. "Come, Gis —"

A hand grabbed hers and tugged her down onto the bed. Mathilde grabbed the hilt of the knife she had tucked into her girdle with one hand and struck him hard with the other. "God's teeth, wench," the young man cried, releasing her as he sat up, still unabashedly naked. "No need to rouse the household."

His eyes narrowed as she jumped to her feet, weapon drawn, panting and fierce, before he tugged the sheet over his thighs and belly. "Tell your husband or father or whatever relation the innkeeper is to you that I have paid for a night's rest, and I will get up when I decide, and not before."

"Our apologies, Sir Knight," Giselle said from the foot of his bed as Mathilde breathed deeply and tried to regain her self-control. "We should not have intruded upon you."

The knight glanced at Giselle and then, as often happened when men first beheld Mathilde's beautiful sister, his eyes widened and his mouth fell open. Giselle, meanwhile, lowered her eyes and blushed, as she always did when forced to endure a man's staring scrutiny.

Totally ignoring Mathilde, the Norman got to his feet and wrapped the sheet around his slender torso. He should have looked ridiculous, but he carried himself as if he were a prince greeting a courtier.

"May I ask what brings you to my chamber, my lady," he asked as genially as if they were in their hall at home, "for I can tell you are a lady by your sweet and lovely voice."

Giselle looked at Mathilde with mute appeal.