Like most of these hamlets, it consisted of a dozen small thatched huts, a watermill, a few common pastures for sheep, a cornfield, and vegetable patches. Rolfe saw his men herding a dozen villagers, male and female, away from the village. “We will burn out every croft and every cranny until these barbarians learn who their holy and anointed king is!” This was the second uprising in as many years, and King William had been furious, especially as the Saxon lords Edwin and Morcar had escaped. They had just turned the Danish invaders back, retaken York, and sent the Saxons fleeing into the Welsh marches. It had been a fortnight since William’s iron fist had come down hard enough to shake the entire table as he sat with his vassals at York.
The war in these savage northern climes looked to be endless. Another nest of Saxon rebels, yet the king would not be pleased. His blood still coursed from the recent battle, his muscles were still thick with it. He had only to turn his head slightly to the left to see the dozen slain Saxon rebels, their bodies already giving off that peculiar stink of death in the warm June sun. He watched his men rousing the remaining villagers. His mail hauberk clung to his broad frame, and his right hand rested casually on the hilt of his sword. His hair, flaxen and curly, was dark and damp with sweat. He had removed his helmut it lay in the crook of his left arm. He sat motionless on his massive gray stallion in the middle of the road. Rolfe of Warenne watched expressionlessly as his vassal Guy Le Chante wheeled his destrier around, calling to his knights. With a special thank you to Maggie Lichota My mom, truly special and even more wonderfulįriends always said that one day it had to happen,īecause of my constant creative visualization,
Rolfe turned, stunned, to look at the wench who lay curled up on the ground, the wench he had been an instant from raping. Guy knew it, for he shouted, “She’s Mercia’s sister! Good God, she’s Mercia’s sister!” Guy reined in, and Rolfe, standing there with blade upraised, was a hair’s breadth from killing his best vassal. He was on his feet, his sword battle-ready in hand, in the next scant second. One more moment and he would be deep, so deep inside her. Her sobs mingled with his labored breathing. He pressed against her, grunting with pleasure.
And he came down on her, his arms going around her, steel bands, unyielding, and he felt the heat of her against the stiffness of his groin.
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