Falling for Her

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England, November, 1066 Roscelyn inhaled the odor of decayed vegetation that rose from the freshly turned earth. Considering the rich, loamy soil, this hedged section of ground beside the orchard might well serve as a garden. Except for the graves that crowded the area. She shivered against the damp wintry afternoon and eyed her father's headstone. 'Twas a hasty effort that nowhere near matched the finely wrought design of her mother's headstone. But that would change. In a matter of months, she would be able to build a monument worthy of her father. The secret scroll he had left unto her care not only provided her the means to control her own destiny, but the means to free England from the butchering Normans. At the thought, she realized she was pacing. Halting mid-stride, she glanced down, then released her pent breath. At least she had not stepped on any graves, praise the Blessed Virgin. She had no desire to incur the wrath of the dead in addition to the misfortunes that currently plagued Cyning. Half the village folk sick with a catching fever, scarce enough food to last the winter, a late sowing of the winter crops that would feed the village in spring--none of which compared to the Norman threat. With her father and brothers dead, there would be no protection from the wretched Norman curs should they visit Cyning. But Cerdic was dead as well, God forgive her sense of relief. Gunderic had seen him fall early on in the battle. And according to Gunderic, the remaining Saxon armies--friends of her father's, men she knew and had entertained at Cyning--had retreated to the fens of northeastern England. Even now they forged an alliance with the Danes in hopes of driving the Normans from England. Meanwhile, she possessed the scroll. For the moment she'd buried it beside her father's headstone. 'Twas the safest place she could think to hide it. She shivered with anticipation, then caught herself before she could begin pacing anew. Faith, 'twas difficult to keep still when she held proof that the Norman Duke William had deceived the pope. Her lips curved in a grim half smile. The Bastard Duke William thought himself clever, no doubt. He'd received papal blessing for his invasion of England by claiming the Saxon King Harold had sworn over sacred relics to serve him. Lies. The word sizzled in her head like fat dripping into the flames of an open cook pit. In truth, King Harold had given his oath under duress, had been forced to swear allegiance while a virtual prisoner at William's court in Normandy. As for the sacred relics that Harold had held while making his pledge to the greedy Norman duke? They were in fact no more than the bones of a goat. Again she fought the urge to pace. The truth was sworn and attested to in the scroll by the bishop of Rouen and several of William's barons. The pope could hardly deny the document's authenticity. His Holiness would withdraw Church support for William's foray into England. Saxons would again rule the land. And for her efforts in delivering the Saxons from the Normans, she could name her price. She hugged herself beneath the folds of her gray cloak. She would demand riches enough to make certain her people never again suffered from hunger or cold, wealth enough to pay hundreds of housecarls for protection that Cyning would never again be left to the mercy of an invading army. And as Cerdic's widow, she would demand his lands and give them to her sister. Abruptly, a sense of desperation crept over her and she clutched the material of her cloak in her fists. Prithee, God, speed the remainder of Gunderic's recovery. The only housecarl to return from battle, Gunderic's loyalty had near cost him his life. Badly wounded, he'd scarce possessed the strength to carry her father's remains home, much less those of her br