Her Father's Daughter Read online

  Her Father's Daughter

  by

  Jennifer Mueller

  Her Father's Daughter

  by Jennifer Mueller

  Romance/Historical Fiction

  Fictionwise

  www.fictionwise.com

  Copyright ©2007 by DCL Publications

  First published in Australia, 2007

  Her Father's Daughter

  © 2007 by Jennifer Mueller

  All rights reserved

  First Edition December 2007

  DCL Publications

  36 Monash Street

  Melton South

  Victoria

  Australia

  3338

  www.thedarkcastlelords.com

  ISBN 978-1-921347-43-6

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information and storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  PUBLISHED IN AUSTRALIA

  The National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication for this publication is:

  Author: Mueller, Jennifer.

  Title: Her father's daughter [electronic resource] / author,

  Jennifer Mueller.

  Edition: 1st ed.

  Publisher: Melton South, Vic. : DCL Publications, 2007.

  ISBN: 9781921347436 (ebook)

  Dewey Number: 813.6

  PART 1

  "Calm down, Aelric," the woman at the center of the group announced at the boy's yelling. "I know the Norman taxes are high, but we'll pay them. The shearing starts in a few days, and, when we've wool, we'll have enough to pay for all of us."

  Aelric stared at the lady of the manor. All the men there did. Beautiful like none the town of Wulfgren ever saw before. Deep blue eyes, long brown hair, not to mention a figure that the leather tunic only emphasized. But not one dared broach the subject of marriage with Gwenhyfer of Moerhab. Her father might have been dead, but his reach was still felt. Well more than the knife that he gave her, his only living child.

  "You will have enough. They're your sheep, your land that they live on. Hell, Lady, you own us," Aelric accused.

  Her blue eyes narrowed, and all the men took an unconscious step back. "My father gave you your land and your freedom. You're not my serfs. Get that through your thick skull, boy. Do you want me to rescind the order and make you such again? I need men to work the sheep and land. What I've left isn't fit for farming. Now do you want me to leave you to pay the taxes yourself on the little you don't need to feed yourself, or are you going to work with me?"

  "We're the same age, remember." Aelric got a hard hand to the back of the head as his father, Aethelred, made his will known.

  "Ignore the boy, Lady. He forgets the days of his young life when we were left to such things alone. If my son has finished his posturing, let's get to work."

  Gwenhyfer walked to the gate in the ten-foot high wall as everyone rushed around behind her. The stone manor house with heavy oak doors and shutters, all that stood for protection. Beyond it, untamed land, only the village of Wulfgren, for days. The taxes did not bother her. If not enough money came from the wool, she would dig into her own monies and make up the difference. Not that she would ever tell them that. The Saxons holing up in the area were what caused her the worry. The peddler that came through the week before told of the Normans closing in to rout them out. The village could not afford to be delinquent in paying the taxes after that. All would be suspected of being in league with the Saxons.

  * * * *

  With a great pile of fleece in her arms, Gwenhyfer could hear an unseen commotion. Finally letting the pile drop, she spit out a mouthful and looked around. The yard stood empty, but the voices grew louder, as she followed the sound.

  Aelric, of course, stood at the center. "You saw the fighting with your own eyes?" the boy asked.

  "You should've seen it. Blood everywhere. One great Norman fellow took a man's head off with a single blow."

  "Where are they hiding now? I've to join the Saxons." Aelric crowed.

  Gwenhyfer grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. "You will get back to work."

  "You're not my master."

  Gwenhyfer shook her head slowly. "No, boy. I'm trying to keep your father from having to bury you if there's that much left of you to find. It has been a year since Hastings; the Normans rule. These men hide in the forest. For God's sake, use the brain in your head. Perhaps if they were some Saxon eoarl with a manor and men enough to fight, it might be worth it, but these idiots ... Every person with a hungry belly is turning them in. Do you know how long you would last?"

  Aelric straightened his back. "You mean, if your father still lived, there would be a chance?"

  Her father, the knight. The giant Viking. The thought only made the loneliness return. "I don't even know if he would've survived Hastings, Aelric. Even giants can be overcome when the enemy has long bows. I only know that you'll die if you go to them. You've no skill at arms, and they're on the run. They'll not be able to teach you. I doubt they even have enough swords to provide you with the arms to protect yourself."

  "You could," the boy whispered.

  Gwenhyfer felt like cursing. "I shall not put a sword in your hand and get you killed when your father is getting too old to keep his farm together. Go find a girl and wed her. Raise babies so your father can rest."

  "Yes, Milady," he muttered angrily. Aelric and the others wandered off.

  Loneliness filled her. The same age as most of them, and yet, not one looked at her as if she might be alone. Oh, they looked often enough. She caught them staring when they thought her back turned. Never once would they consider courting her. She never felt so much like a matron. She ran a manor house alone, a wealthy beautiful 'alone'. Scared of her father before, now scared of her.

  * * * *

  Nearing dusk, the villagers trudged back to Wulfgren, to safety, before nightfall. Aelric hung close to a pretty girl, not more than fifteen. His retelling of the skirmish he'd heard about earlier that day rang in Gwenhyfer's ears. A smile teased her lips. If only Aelric knew how much he resembled the young soldiers that whispered such things in her ear, all dead now. That very thought ran through her head when she'd grabbed him by the neck earlier, forbidding him to leave. Almost every man she knew had died fighting the Normans. How many times did her father take her to the army's camp, and every soldier fought for her attention?

  Aelric could, at least, touch his latest crush. Gwenhyfer's Viking father had made sure that, even at the age of twenty, she'd never shared a kiss with a man. A hard enough task in an army camp, but they learned quick enough when he put a sword in her hand and forced them to fight her. They'd never looked at her the same since, nor did any man in Wulfgren, not a soldier among them. Apparently she'd proved even more fearsome to behold in her own home. Sword fighting required a partner to practice with. She hadn't picked one up in three years. Gwenhyfer tried not to smile. Aelric would blush to his toes if he knew what she could teach him about bedding a woman. How many times had she seen the act in those camps? The men did not care about being in full view of a child. Her father protected her well enough, but she had always wondered if he cared what she saw.

  Gwenhyfer found the bow her father also made her learn. Leaving the security of her compound, she stole into the forest and waited. Twenty minutes passed before a faint rustling signaled a deer nearing. Carefully aiming, she let the arrow fly just as something spoo
ked it. Her arrow found its mark, but she could still hear an intruder after the deer let out its last breath. Quickly gutting the animal, she dragged the carcass easily. Three years of feeding herself, she hardly strained at the chore.

  * * * *

  Night came, and the heavy door swung open of its own accord. Gwenhyfer spun around at the intrusion, her hand slipping to the knife she kept hidden in her dress. Hell, she had forgotten to bar the door after she returned with the deer. There, leaning heavily on the doorframe, stood a lone man wearing chain mail, a rich man's armor. His surcoat embroidered with Norman heraldry. A wellborn man then, no common soldier. A damned Norman count stood at her door. His hair dripped water on the floor as his head hung down, seeming too heavy for him to hold up any longer. Just what she needed. He would lead them right to her. Damn Saxons and Normans could not keep their fight among themselves and leave her alone. Wulfgren stood too unprotected for her liking.

  "Good wife, I promise I shall not hurt you."

  Gwenhyfer relaxed her stance, giving a smile. No, he was no threat, not in his state. It was those that followed she needed to worry about. "I promise you shall not, either. You look tired enough to fall over. Maybe after two or three weeks' rest, I might have to worry."

  "Might I get some lodging for the night? I can pay you well."

  Pay? He offered to pay her? Hell, he must be in trouble to offer payment to guarantee her keeping her tongue. "Sire, it would not be good if you're found, I take it?" His head snapped up despite his fatigue, but his eyes studied her, unsure if he could trust her. She kept from smiling. If only he knew.

  "No, it would not be good. I would most likely be killed."

  She could guarantee they followed him. The question was, how closely. "Come inside. There is food on the table. I did not expect anyone, so I hope it is enough for your appetite. Eat, while I put your horse away and lock up for the night." Only one option, keep the man happy until she could get rid of him. He slowly made his way to the table where he sat down heavily. Taking the wooden charger, he spooned what remained for himself. Before Gwenhyfer went about her business, she felt his eyes on her, but this time not on her body. After so many looks, she knew the difference. Turning to him, she said, "Yes, Sire, it is venison. Shall you punish me now or later for eating your King's deer?"

  He stared for a long time. They all looked at her like that. "What shall I tell your husband when he returns?" he finally asked, ignoring her breach of the King's laws.

  "I am not married." She pulled on her cloak, prepared to venture into the wet night air.

  "Your father, then?"

  "Dead these last three years." She left him without another glance.

  The Norman looked around the manor house, for he'd found no farmers' cottage. The room ran nearly sixty feet long and half that wide, with a high vaulted ceiling. Several long tables filled the bare space and, on the far end, stood a massive stone fireplace large enough for a man to stand in comfortably. There, mounted above the fireplace, hung a large leather shield covered with a coat of arms unfamiliar to him, a huge wolf rampant. Underneath it a sword--some six feet long--that he could not imagine a mortal man carrying into battle. On one of the side walls hung a tapestry, embroidered around the outer edge with Celtic, Welsh, and Viking designs. The center depicted the ivy-covered house he sat in now. He ate his fill. No matter how much he wished to look at the woman again, he could not keep his head up any longer, and let it rest on the table.

  * * * *

  When Gwenhyfer returned, the Norman slumped over the table. "A tired one you must be," she said quietly as she laid a blanket over him. He looked so peaceful she could almost forget the trouble she knew stalked him. She'd lived in this house for three years without anything more than a very infrequent guest to fill the nights. The monks at the abbey did not welcome a single female within their cloistered walls, even though many nights she rode at Vespers to the wall that surrounded the place only to hear them sing. Men had enough trouble gaining access for little more than a bed for the night.

  After adding more wood to the fire to keep the Norman warm, she went about securing the shutters. Gwenhyfer sat and watched him sleep. She could almost imagine her father alive and the house filled with people. Not now, not any more. Her hand hovered just above his face before she carefully moved his hair. Without warning, the knight fell to the floor. Surely not from her touch. Then she saw it, a deep gash in his side, hidden by the surcoat.

  "Now that is not part of the plan." She struggled to get him into a position where she could drag him up the stairs and into her bed. That room, the only place where those who came to the house would never go. She removed the surcoat and chain mail. Gwenhyfer carefully lifted the padded gambeson, slit from waist to shoulder, soaked completely with blood. She cleaned the wound that ran from his bottom rib to his shoulder before she bound it tightly.

  A great pounding on the gate quickly shook her from her thoughts and she raced downstairs. "Hell," she muttered, staring down at the blood that covered her tunic. Outside the mist turned to rain while she stood behind the locked gate. "What do you need?" Gwenhyfer called, already guessing.

  "Shelter, lady, and food."

  Gwenhyfer pushed the bar out of place and opened the gate a crack. Ah yes, Saxons, who else? Suddenly she wondered if the man in her bed was the great man that had taken the Saxon man's head in a single blow that Aelric had crowed about. "What brings you out on a night like this?"

  "Searching for a Norman that escaped the skirmish."

  With a deep breath, Gwenhyfer opened the gate wide. Use your brain, her father always said. "You're just in time for fresh meat, then. A tenant brought me a deer. Forgive me looking such a mess. I've just been taking care of it." One man smiled after catching a glimpse of her in the darkness.

  "For hot food and a fire, we promise not to notice."

  As they took off their outer clothes, Gwenhyfer, out of sight in the kitchen, looked up at the ceiling where the very man they hunted lay in her bed. "If you value your life, keep your mouth shut," she whispered to no one. She knew what trouble he could cause, and none of it good.

  * * * *

  A cool gray mist hung between the trees in the dense forest around the rock-lined pool. Vapors rose from the surface before the splash of a bucket broke its calm. The water looked black from the lack of light and tasted of tannin yet was cool and clean to drink. No color clung to the forest that day, only shades of gray making it a dreary sight. Just before she reached the manor, cries echoed through the walls, and Gwenhyfer ran for the house. She rushed up the stairs, two at a time. She had to get to him before anyone heard. With the shearing going on, the grounds were full of people, including the Saxons, who still roamed about giving a hand in return for the hospitality she offered them.

  Tangled in the blankets, he tossed and turned, spouting the Norman tongue that would surely get him killed if anyone heard. Gwenhyfer put a hand to his forehead. He burned with fever. She reached for the cold cloth to wipe away the sweat, but he almost knocked her off the bed as he fought an invisible demon. Then his hand landed on her breast. The feel was enough of a shock for his eyes to open faintly, revealing glassy orbs beneath, lost in a world of his own making.

  "Mon ange," he murmured.

  "Sleep. You're safe," Gwenhyfer whispered. He stared at her for a moment longer before his eyes rolled and closed. Lost to his fever again, he pulled her closer, his hand never leaving her chest, but it never ventured any further. Gwenhyfer could not help but smile as she watched this very large Norman in her bed, too weak to even stand, grow an erection. It took no great guess to tell where his fevered mind took him now. Gwenhyfer wanted to make sure his dreams passed, so she just sat there. His erection grew, each moment larger.

  "Aye, Norman, you just might pull through. Good thing. I was not sure what to do with your corpse if you died on me," she whispered, even though she knew he could not hear her. She concentrated on that thought, instead of the flush of heat at th
e thought of what lay so close. Her father would have killed him.

  For eight days, the Norman slept in the room, undiscovered by anyone, as Gwenhyfer kept watch. Even the villagers that came to work knew nothing of him. She forced thin broth and water down him, even though he never woke.

  * * * *

  When his eyes opened, he found the woman asleep in a chair next to the bed, looking wholly uncomfortable. He was lying in a huge bed with thick wool curtains of dark blue that kept out drafts coming from the stone walls. God, a fine looking woman, he thought, as she slept, worthy of being a queen. With her being the last thing he remembered seeing, no wonder those dreams filled his head like they did. Then again, maybe he'd died, and she was his angel. No woman could be that beautiful.

  "Mon ange," he said quietly.

  She roused at his voice. "Sorry to inform you, but I am not an angel. You're still among the living."

  "You speak Norman?

  "You speak Saxon. Do I question it?"

  He smiled faintly, noticing he no longer wore clothes, and his wounds were bound. "Might I know your name, since it seems you're quite well acquainted with me already?" he asked.

  "Gwenhyfer of Moerhab."

  "Moerhab?"

  She spread her arms wide. "The forest here, it is the name the Saxons call it. The lands lie in the midst of it. You're near the border of Wales."

  "You should have left me where I slept. You could be in great trouble for aiding me."

  He heard her snort of annoyance. "So I should have left you where you fell so you could have bled to death on my floor? It is far easier to deny you being here with no proof to give you away. Those men you worried about came through the same night."

  He lay silent for a moment. "How long have I been here?"

  "Eight days. With the wound you have, I am surprised you're waking at all. Your fever only left yesterday."