Julie Garwood - The Prize

"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!"

Never arrived exactly eight weeks later.

Baron Hugh had fully recovered from his illness and had left the abbey the day before. The abbess told Nicholaa she'd overheard Baron Royce ask his friend to stay at the holding until he'd taken the prize to London.

"I believe, Nicholaa, the prize he referred to is you," the abbess remarked in a sympathetic voice.

"He's bluffing," Nicholaa muttered.

She repeated those two words to herself over and over again during that long day. She didn't sleep at all that night, either. Royce had sent a messenger back to the abbey just before nightfall with the order that Lady Nicholaa was to gather her possessions and be ready to leave the abbey the following morning.

The abbess didn't believe the Norman was the type of man who would bluff, but she kept that thought to herself. She packed Nicholaa's small traveling bag and carried it down to the front entrance as a precaution against the very remote possibility that the baron did in fact have a plan of action in mind.

"Perhaps, if you're prepared, nothing will happen," the abbess declared.

Nicholaa was dressed and pacing in earnest by the crack of dawn. She wore her favorite cream-colored chainse and royal blue bliaut for the simple reason that her mother had helped her stitch the garments and the clothing always made her mood lighten. The material was too thin for the harsh winter weather, but she wasn't going outside so that didn't matter.

She declined the invitation to join the sisters for morning prayers, knowing full well she'd do more squirming than praying and would certainly distract the others.

Her trusted servant, Alice, came to give her weekly report a scant hour later. The elderly woman was sweet-tempered, extremely loyal to her mistress, and had a strong memory for details. She was fifteen years older than Nicholaa, yet clung to the youthful habit of giggling whenever she was nervous.