The Craftsman Read online

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2011 Georgia Fox

  ISBN: 978-1-926950-88-4

  Cover Artist: LF Designs

  Editor: Marie Buttineau

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To Tamzin and Pippa

  THE CRAFTSMAN

  The Conquerors, 3

  Georgia Fox

  Copyright © 2011

  Chapter One

  Wessex, England, 1081

  He ran his fingertip along the smooth, curved surface, seeking the slightest imperfection. There was none he could find. The hardened pads of his fingers followed the swell and down into a dip, and then back up slowly. He turned his hand, resting the palm along that same camber. A frisson of satisfaction traveled across his skin, lifting the small hairs along his arm.

  Wulf was pleased. The chair leg was as fine as any human hand could make it. Exhaling a deep sigh, he felt the proud tightening in his gut that followed every successfully completed step. Other folk might laugh to see how reverently he touched the wood he chiseled. They teased him for the long hours he spent shut away with his tools. But he took his work seriously, for without it what did he have? Once he was Raedwulf, disappointing youngest son of the Eaorl of Wexford; then, when the Normans came to conquer, he was taken prisoner. Fifteen years later he was finally freed and now he was simply Wulf the Carpenter.

  And he was as happy as any man left alone to do as he pleased could ever be. But it wouldn’t last would it? Nothing good ever did.

  Annoyed, he examined a splinter stuck in his finger. If he didn’t get it out the damn thing would work under his nail and hurt like a bugger.

  Sucking on his skin, he tasted sawdust and sweat.

  Splinters. There was always one somewhere.

  Speaking of which…his sister’s voice approached the small shed he’d taken over for his work. As usual, Deorwynn chattered rapidly and today there was an added pitch of excitement in her tone. Wulf shrank inside a little when he heard it, because he knew the cause.

  His bride was expected today.

  Damn women. Like splinters. Always a profusion about and seldom good for anybody.

  He knew he should be grateful to his little sister for arranging his freedom. Indeed, he would have been intensely thankful, had his prison been even half so bad as she imagined. Deorwynn was one of those Saxons who still resented the Norman victory. Even now all these years later, and although married to a Norman herself, there remained a few rebellious tendencies in the stubborn little woman. She refused to believe her brother was never tortured while he was in the Norman king’s custody, but in truth Wulf had been well looked after. He’d spent half his life with those captors, grown up into a man during his confinement.

  Now King William granted him amnesty. His sister had married Guy Devaux, the Norman Knight who now possessed their father’s lands and he, Raedwulf, was sent home where he might live “free”, while also being watched. Just incase. There was always a worry that he could try to reclaim his father’s lands—or so they thought.

  Wulf was amused by the idea of being a threat to anyone. His own sister had more mutinous spirit in her small bones than he ever did in his much larger ones. She was of the opinion that everything was worth fighting for; he believed there were very few things in life that warranted the trouble.

  The door opened. She came in without knocking, as usual.

  “Wulf, why are you still in here working?”

  Peace was shattered. It was almost time then. Anxiety gripped his innards, but he kept his face composed. He set down his gouge chisel and sucked harder on the splinter in his finger.

  “Look at you!” she exclaimed, striding around the bench, her pregnant belly leading the way. “Are you not going to bathe and change your clothes? She’ll be here soon.”

  It was five days since he was freed, three days since he’d arrived here at his brother-in-law’s manor. And it was only a day since he’d learned of his impending marriage. Apparently one of the terms of amnesty was that he be wed and quickly, to a Norman woman already picked out for him by the king. That was supposed to ensure he behaved himself.

  In this short period of time his sister expected him to adjust and be fully prepared to greet an unwanted wife.

  “At least wash your hands,” she said, staring at the offending objects.

  He held them up to the sunlight, where it poured in through the workshop window, staining the flagged floor a buttercup yellow. “You don’t think this fancy wench will take to my dirty Saxon hands?” he muttered wryly, examining the calluses and ingrained dirt.

  “No I do not.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Then she’ll be disappointed won’t she? No matter. I daresay it won’t be the last disappointment she suffers while married to me. She may as well get used to it.”

  “Wulf, you promised not to be difficult.”

  He sniffed, turning away, picking up his tools again.

  “You know you must marry her. You may as well try to be pleasant.”

  “I thought I was supposed to simply be myself,” he flung over his shoulder. “'Tis what you advised me yesterday when you surprised me with this news of a bride on her way to me, sister.”

  “Can you not be yourself and pleasant?”

  “No.” He might have to marry this woman, but he didn’t have to smile at her or talk to her. The idea of doing either brought him out in a cold sweat. As for bedding her—since she was a Norman lady from a noble family, being forced to marry a dispossessed Saxon—she was probably hoping for a celibate marriage. In which case he’d gladly comply. He’d been this long without ever knowing a woman; he would prefer not to put himself up for her mockery and loathing.

  He returned to the comfort of his perfectly turned chair leg, caressing the curves with a loving hand as he bent over the workbench, littered with sawdust and curls of wood, and ignored his sister’s sighs.

  “I hope you will not be rude to her. She is a ward of the king’s, you know.”

  Wulf grunted. “What’s wrong with her anyway? There must be something amiss with the wench if he’s passing her off onto me. He can’t care much about his ward, if I’m the best husband he could get for her.”

  “Be kind. It will cost you nothing.”

  “I told you, sister, I will be myself. I cannot change what I am and I refuse to pretend happiness at an arranged marriage I never sought.”

  “You’ve grown stubborn, Wulf. You were not so stern and unyielding when we were children. You would do anything for me back then.”

  He chuckled. “You were six and I was fourteen when father sent you away to that convent. Yes, I would think we’ve both changed in the years since. That was half my life ago.”

  A sudden ruckus in the yard outside took her attention to the window, hands clasped over her swelling belly. “It’s her. She has arrived.”

  Wulf felt as if a great dark shadow moved in to eclipse that bright sun. He sucked harder on his finger and caught the splinter in his teeth.

  “Make haste,” his sister exclaimed, rushing to the door. “Are you not eager to see your bride?”

  He spat the splinter across the cluttered shed and she scowled at him.

  “Please make a little effort.”

  She held the doo
r open, waiting for him. Wood dust floated and spun in the golden shaft of sunlight. He could hear horses snorting, hooves clattering, and creaking wheels lumbering slowly across the cobbles.

  They’d traveled all the way from York, so he’d been told. Wench probably wouldn’t be in the best of moods after that journey in this cloying summer heat. He supposed he was mildly curious to see this woman no one else wanted. If only out of macabre interest. How desperate must the king be to find her a husband that he sent her there to marry him?

  “Straighten your shoulders,” his sister urged, as he reluctantly left his bench and his tools. “Head up and don’t forget to smile.”

  Teeth gritted, he gave her a fierce grimace and she paled a few shades.

  “I said smile,” she muttered. “Not growl.”

  * * * *

  Within the first few minutes Emma concluded that the man they’d sent her to marry was mute. Possibly also deaf. Neither would be a bad thing for her, she reasoned, being of a practical mind. The less trouble he gave her the better. She expected nothing from this marriage except the security of a home and the opportunity of escaping the regime of her sharp-tongued mother-in-law. She still couldn’t quite believe the king had found her another husband, when everyone knew she was barren. She’d resigned herself to entering a convent, until the brief, terse message came from King William, advising her that she was to marry the son of a former Saxon nobleman.

  She studied her new husband warily. He was tall and rough about the edges. His hair was unkempt, streaked with tarnished gold where it was longer and hung across his sweating brow. There was a square, determined angle to his rugged, unshaven jaw and Emma suspected he very rarely did something he didn’t care to do. But as he was so quiet, he probably didn’t argue about it, she thought; he would simply go his own way and do as he pleased. Well, so would she.

  He was looking at her as if he expected her to bite. When their eyes met, he quickly examined the ground and his feet—then a bird flying overhead. After that, an insect on his arm diverted his attention while he watched its slumberous crawl from his elbow to his shoulder. Then he gently blew it off. Anything, it seemed, was more interesting than his future wife. While his sister chattered away, his long fingers twitched at his sides, impatient to be busy elsewhere.

  She was sorry she’d intruded on his day; clearly her presence was an irritant.

  But Emma had expected nothing better. She’d already experienced love with one good man and she knew many people did not have that in their lifetime. Tragically her dear husband was taken from her by early death and during their marriage she’d never fallen pregnant. She supposed that was God’s way of making her pay for the happiness she had known. No one could have everything, and to expect it, would be sinful. At thirty, she was content to settle for a marriage of duty, since the king had apparently changed his mind about letting her enter a convent.

  Here, in this castle fortress, she’d be safe at least. There was food, heat and shelter. There was no angry, cruel mother-in-law to chide her ceaselessly; nothing to remind her of the misery she’d been through nursing a dying, beloved husband for two and a half years. This was a fresh beginning. There were no unpleasant reminders here. Emma was determined to make the best of it.

  “Welcome to Wexford,” said the woman before her—young, fair and heavily pregnant. “Of course, ‘tis no longer called Wexford, but it was once and my husband has yet to give it a new name.”

  So this was the girl Guy Devaux had married. It was said they were in love. Emma didn’t know if she believed that, for Devaux had a certain notoriety when it came to sex and women. But in his young wife’s bright eyes, Emma read contentment, joy, and the sort of confidence that can only come from giving and receiving passionate love with another. She knew that sensation, for she’d had it once, in the early years of her own marriage, before her husband’s illness struck him down and turned him from a vital young man to a weakened invalid, unable even to feed himself.

  Emma glanced again at the other woman’s large belly. Surely she was close to term and must be feeling all the excitement and trepidation of imminent birth—something Emma was never given the chance to experience. She suffered a little sting in her heart, but kept her face stoic.

  “I am glad to be here,” she said quietly, stealing another sideways look at the tall fellow in the stained tunic.

  The other woman followed her gaze and exclaimed, “Oh, this is Raedwulf, my brother.”

  Then it was him—the man she was to marry. At least he was well made and by no means heinous to look upon, even if he was a deaf mute. She could bed with him, as duty dictated, and not feel distaste. She was fortunate.

  But when she inclined her head in greeting, the great, surly fellow simply exhaled a heavy breath of annoyance and scratched his arse as if his breeches had ridden up into the crack.

  Emma raised an eyebrow. A deaf mute with uncouth manners.

  “I’m afraid my husband is away with the hunt and will not be back for a few hours yet, but we have a good supper prepared,” his sister chattered away, smiling, stepping forward to take her arm. “Come, let us go in, Amias. You must be hungry and tired after your long journey.”

  “It is Emma,” she muttered, accustomed to having her name forgotten or mispronounced. She was usually the least important person present.

  “Forgive me,” the young woman exclaimed in seemingly genuine remorse. “Emma, of course.”

  Raedwulf said nothing.

  Well, at least his sister was welcoming. She’d never known much feminine friendship—except for her maid, Joan—and grew up with loud, arrogant brothers, so this would be a pleasant change.

  * * * *

  Wulf took a hearty gulp of ale, watching her above the rim of his tankard. For a woman she didn’t talk much. He reluctantly supposed that was something in her favor. Since she wore a wimple he couldn’t see her hair, only her heart-shaped face. On the whole her expression was calm and somber, but there was an inquisitive spark in her grass-green eyes and perhaps, too, a little wry amusement as she listened to Deorwynn rattle on with seldom a pause.

  Her hands were long, tapered and slender. Whenever she reached for food or dabbled her fingers in the water bowl, his attention was snared by their elegance. He’d never seen hands quite like it. His artist’s mind was caught, inspired. Would they feel as smooth as they looked? They were clean, of course, well-tended hands. Probably never did a lick of work.

  She looked across the table suddenly, catching him in a steady, challenging gaze that was no longer green, but copper, swirled with molten gold.

  His fingers tightened around his ale tankard.

  “I understand you were only recently released from the king’s custody, Raedwulf.”

  She spoke to him.

  He wasn’t prepared for that. It felt wrong.

  Shouldn’t she stay silent until he spoke to her?

  And why did she speak in that slow, careful voice with pauses between each word? Why move her lips in that exaggerated fashion?

  Before he could answer, she added, “It must be strange for you to be home again after so long away.” She inclined her head, her eyes earnestly sympathetic, but still she spoke in that strange way.

  Aha! That was why the king gave her to him. Mystery solved. The woman was simple. Addled. That glimmer he’d mistaken for wry amusement must be confusion as she tried to understand his sister’s conversation, which could be counted on to thwart the wisest man.

  “I grow accustomed to it,” he answered her in the same slow tone.

  She managed a brave little smile. Her skin looked so smooth and fine—like some magically wrought cloth woven by supernatural beings, cloistered from humanity. He wondered if it might be hot to the touch.

  The color of her eyes constantly changed, knocking him further off guard.

  Be kind, his sister had said.

  He struggled to smile back, his facial muscles creaking under the strain. Under the table his sister
kicked him sharply in the shin. Apparently his smile failed. This woman he was to marry however didn’t appear to notice. She continued her meal, picking food with her delicate fingers, sipping her wine and never spilling a drop. Her movements were all very precise and polite compared to his sister’s and her clumsy eagerness to eat everything in sight.

  Deorwynn now asked her something about York. She looked confused for a moment and then answered in a stilted fashion, as if she did not really know anything about the place, although she’d just come from there.

  Pity this woman—Emma—was brain-addled, he thought. She might have made a good marriage if not for that. Her face was pretty, her figure well-carved under that fitted gown, her waist high, suggesting long legs. Clearly she could have done better than marry Wulf, if she’d had all her faculties. He studied her slyly above his tankard, his gaze following the graceful lines. As she reached for the fruit platter, he studied the long sweep of her slender arm, the arch of her shoulder and then the pull of her gown across a full, round breast.

  Very well made, he thought again with a little stab of surprise deep in his gut. Surely she wore a shift beneath her thin gown, but he could have sworn he saw a nipple pricking against the material. Was it possible that she forwent any undergarments because of the sticky summer weather?

  She moved again and the little peak became more pronounced. He tried to look away, but found it impossible. There was the other one. Definitely nipples and hard ones too, perky. He knew what a woman’s roused naked breasts looked like, not that he’d ever touched one. When he was fourteen he’d watched his three brothers with a whore. She was actually purchased as a gift for him, on his birthday, but he’d been too embarrassed by his teasing brothers. So they’d got their money’s worth by mounting her themselves. Wulf had watched them rut the bosomy wench like curs on a bitch in heat. He still remembered, vividly, the sight of her pale thighs spread wide, welcoming each man in, one after the other, her pussy lips slick with their creamy seed and her own juice. He recalled his brothers’ grunts and her groans, the way her dimpled buttocks trembled with every hard thrust as she struggled to accommodate a brother in every orifice; all three at the same time. The writhing, sweating, grunting mass of bodies. He was aroused by the vision, when he did not want to be. He felt he should be appalled by it.