Vows of Pain and Passion

He knew that she hated him, but to seal herself off in a tomb, living in isolation just to avoid him seemed extreme…

In disbelief, Renouf shook his head as he imagined the horrific life Adaira actively sought for herself. Has her grief driven her mad? Would she give up everything to live in a sealed tomb, dwell in her own grave until she dies?

The demoiselle has confessed her sins and the bishop has given his blessings, Evan stated plainly.

Where is she now? Renouf demanded, none too quietly.

In her room, preparing herself.

We will see about that. Renouf started up the stairs then, turning, he glanced back at his first in command, realizing that he had no idea which room was hers.

The tower room, the small one at the very top, Evan supplied quickly. But, Renouf, I doubt anything you say will affect her decision. Her mind is made up.

Like the very devil it is!

Adaira learned of Renouf’s plans to marry her when she awoke in a new, much larger, and better-furnished chamber.

What in the devil were you thinking, demoiselle? he rasped, as if committing her life to God was the greatest sin of all.

It is my choice— she began, surprised at this reaction.

Had I not arrived in time— Renouf paused and suppressed a shudder. No! he disagreed with a fiery red face. Yours will not be a life of solitude. We will marry.

Vows of Pain

and

Passion

Leigh Lee

GENRE: HISTORICAL ROMANCE/ MEDIEVAL ROMANCE

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, businesses, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only. The publisher does not have any control over or assume any responsibility for author or third party websites or their contents.

VOWS OF PAIN & PASSION

Copyright © 2015 by Leigh Lee

Cover Design by Winter Bayne

All cover art copyright © 2016

All Rights Reserved

First Publication: FEBRUARY 2015

Second Publication February 2016

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this b2016ook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Copyright © 2015 Leigh Lee

All rights reserved.

ISBN- 9781310812491

DEDICATION

In loving memory of my father, the man who taught me to believe anything is possible.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank my husband, for reading through all the many changes.

Gail Kramer, for reading the first manuscript and encouraging me to seek a publisher.

To Winter Bayne, for her incredible cover illustrations.

Pat Hudson, and Donna Shields, I am grateful to you both for your advice.

Chapter 1

Stanwood Manor, On the Sussex coast of England, Late October 1066

Word of the Norman invasion reached Stanwood Manor in the middle of the night. The messenger arrived near to death, babbling tales of horror and of King Harold’s defeat at the Battle of Hastings. The British king was dead and England was falling to the Normans.

Her father, Lord of Stanwood, Alden Godwin, had shaken Adaira Godwin from a peaceful slumber. Her sleep-fogged mind could barely understand why he was telling her they must flee and seek asylum in Wales, the land of his birth. Alden had tried to explain to her that he had sent most of his best housecarls to aid the King’s cause in Hastings. With so few remaining to defend the property, it would be suicide to stay. At three score and one year, he was too aged to fight. Still, Adaira could not comprehend why she must leave her homeland and the insane hope that they might somehow defeat these Normans took root in her desperate mind. Therefore, when she fought the idea of leaving Stanwood and argued with her father about why she must put on the ragged clothing he brought to her, she was unprepared for her father’s sudden anger. Tossing the gown at her, he demanded that she get dressed, pack a small bag, and be ready to leave before dawn.

In all of her ten and eight years, Adaira had never known her father to show such anger. From the moment of her birth, he had cherished, loved, and protected her. Raven-haired and violet-eyed, Adaira was the image of the mother she never knew. The love of Alden’s life, her mother, did not survive Adaira’s birth.

The idyllic life she had lived up until today was over. Even her wedding planned for the first day of December would never take place. Her father’s dearest friend, Lord Gregory, owned the manor that bordered Stanwood, Aldwulf Hall. Adaira had known all her life that Oswald, Lord Gregory’s son, would one day be her husband.

From her window, she could hear her father in the courtyard below, shouting orders to the peasants as they feverishly packed supplies and belongings into a wagon for their escape. It was almost daylight and, if what the messenger said were true, it would not be long after sunrise before the Norman’s would be at Stanwood’s gates, ready to ram them down. Adaira tried to pack faster but her fingers shook and her eyes darted with indecision from item to item strewn about her bed. What to take and what to leave behind would be an easier decision if she were only permitted time to think straight.

Taking a moment, she peered out of the small window and drew a calming breath of cold air. Her mind was a tangle of thoughts, ranging from confusion to terror. The black of night was already beginning to pinken along the horizon and she could see the urgency of the servants in the courtyard below, who hurried to load the wagon. Even as she stood watching, choking fear began to rise up in her throat like vomit. She worried about Oswald and Lord Gregory, wondered if they knew of the Norman’s imminent attack. Aldwulf Manor was less than a league away and, if the Normans came to Stanwood, they would surely attack Aldwulf as well.

Her father’s voice broke through her panic. Adaira looked down to see his worried face below. Hurry lass! Stanwood is one the largest keeps in Sussex and close to Hastings, the Norman’s are sure to be here soon.

A short time later, Adaira appeared at the door leading from the hall, dragging a large bag behind her. Father, you could not have meant for me to carry my own bag!

Alden gave her a sad look. I dinnae wish it so, lass, but things are about to change. I am afraid carrying yer own bag will seem an easy task compared to what will be demanded o’ ye should we not be away from here before the Norman’s attack.

A loud shout from the guard on the tower wall silenced everyone. The Normans are almost upon us! They come over the ridge!

Alden growled fiercely and cursed. Then clutching Adaira to his side, he turned to face the dawn of the new day and crossed himself. We might all die this day, lass. Pray God be with us all.

Norman warriors galloped toward the gates of Stanwood Manor on massive steeds whose hooves pounded into the ground like merciless fiends from hell, ready to trample anything in their paths.

It took little effort to dispose of the small band of guards and archers that stood in defense of the manor and, in what seemed like moments to Adaira, the terrifying Norman warriors were crowding into the courtyard.

A thick cloud of dust, kicked up by the Normans’ entrance, blew past her and her father as they stood amongst Stanwood’s inhabitants. All stood in shocked horror with nothing to defend themselves but clubs and sticks as the air cleared to reveal a ferocious, cutthroat band of men, the likes of which none of them had ever seen.

When the deadly order, Kneel or be slain was shouted, all looked to Alden. Any act of defiance would result in senseless murders and the only hope of survival was to throw themselves on the mercy of their captors. In despair, Alden thrust his sword into the ground and fell to one knee in a gesture of surrender. Eyes glistening, he then reached for Adaira and waved for the rest to follow his lead.

All quickly followed his example, save Adaira, who resisted the pull of her father’s hand. With the innocence of one who had never lived a dreadful day in her life, Adaira glared at the unwelcome group with contempt, unable to accept this fate. The misguided hope that she might escape to Aldwulf Hall and seek help from Oswald made her turn and run toward Stanwood’s massive gate. A burly Norman Chevalier quickly stepped into her path, blocking her exit.

Adaira snatched the dagger secured at her waist with a trembling hand. Pointing it at the knight, she shouted in her most authoritative tone, Nay! Ye viper, stand aside.

The giant Norman, who stood far taller than Adaira, laughed at the smallness of the blade jabbed in his direction. Assuming he was up against some dim-witted peasant too dense to understand the situation, he grinned and winked. Come now, lass, he coaxed in French. I fear the scratch of a kitten more. Put that puny thing away and kneel.

Schooled in French as a child, Adaira understood his words and was surprised that the filthy beast spoke with the excellence of one highly born. Hope that these Normans beasts would honor the Peace of God, the proclamation issued by the clergy to protect the defenseless from violence in times of war, gave her courage. Sweeping her hood back, she stared up at the one threatening her, arching her eyebrows in scorn.

Holding her dagger levelly, she berated, Ye black-hearted churl! I demand thee stand down.

Apparently stunned that it was not a simple peasant girl who challenged him but a woman of some import, the man hesitated. When he leaned in seeking a closer look, Adaira delivered a swift and unexpected slice to his jaw. Though her knife did not cut deep, it did leave a diagonal path of blood oozing from his chin. Shock more than pain backed the man up a few paces.

Zut! he cursed.

Recovering quickly, the now enraged beast lifted his heavy war sword. With the thick blade hovering high above Adaira’s head, he roared, Prepare your soul for death, witch.

The one in charge of the fearsome group had been occupied with scanning the surrounding lands of the fief for hints of threat. Now the commotion drew his attention. Shifting in the saddle, he turned in that direction and saw one of his men preparing to slice the prettiest maiden he had ever seen in half. The hellish fire that blazed from the maiden’s violet eyes, even as she faced certain death, was as surprising as it was mesmerizing. However, she won the commander’s admiration when she then welded her dagger with astonishing precision and scored his man’s chin a second time. A bloody red ‘X’ now brightly marred his jaw.

Ho there, Albert. Hold! the leader shouted fiercely before the warrior could sink his blade into the girl’s skull. Lower thy sword and bring the wench here. I wish a closer look at this little hellion.

A very reluctant Albert brandished a scowl at Adaira before sheathing his sword. "Oui, my lord." Wringing Adaira’s wrist until she dropped the dagger, he dragged her forward and shoved her to the ground.

Sprawled in front of the gigantic steed, Adaira lifted her eyes and got her first good look at the Norman warlord who had commanded the attack on her home. He was undeniably the largest, filthiest, most hideous monster Adaira had ever seen. Shielded by helmet, mail, thick leather, and fur, the brute was heavily plastered with the blood of English men he had cut down and brutally murdered in battle. The only hint that there was indeed human instead of beast beneath those trappings was the arrogant, vivid blue gleaming at her through eye slits in the helmet.

From his lofty position, the warrior scanned Adaira with sparks of interest flaring in his azure eyes. I would know the name of this firebrand that thwarted one of my most skilled champions, he thundered.

Over the laughter of his comrades, Albert turned crimson and was quick to speak in his defense. The Demoiselle is uncommonly sleight of hand for a female.

I see that, the commander roared. Looking again at the gashes on Albert’s chin, he shrugged. Methinks the wound will leave a fetching scar. Surely a welcome addition to your grisly looks. But pray tell, Albert, what will you say to the fair maidens who swoon at your feet when they ask how you came by such a mark? I am wont to hear that story.

The ribbing did not sit well with Albert for he glared at Adaira as he wiped the blood from his chin with the back of his gauntlet. Give me the wench for one night, milord, and I swear I will reap from her a story worth telling, he growled furiously, stepping toward Adaira.

Adaira scrambled to her feet, ready to battle Albert again, and the action made the commander laugh. I fear it would not be a fair fight, Albert. Ye may well lose something precious in the fray.

When all his men, except Albert, began laughing, the commander slashed his hand through the air to regain order. Amusing as this may be, there are more pressing matters to dwell on at present than the taming of wenches. You understand their tongue, Albert. Tell the girl I would know her name and the whereabouts of the Lord of this manor, he demanded.

As Albert translated the command, disgust filled Adaira’s face. Once Albert was through, she turned and focused furious attention on the man atop the steed. Arching an eyebrow, she bided her time, taking a moment to massage the wrist Albert had abused.

When she finally answered, her lips turned down with loathing. I am Adaira, daughter of the Lord of Stanwood Manor, She said with her head held high and her voice shaking with scorn. Swinging an arm out to her father, she continued. This noble, the same that you have treated so despicably, is Alden Godwin, Lord of this keep. I demand our immediate release and that you depart from our lands, you filthy, slimy, Norman bastard of Satan.

Adaira’s father tried again to stand in defense of his only child but the giant guarding him pushed him back to his knees. Alden glanced up at Adaira with despair. Lass! Do you wish to be sliced to the bone? he ground out angrily. Hush your senseless prattle and do as commanded!

The Norman in charge looked at the distraught old man and raised a hand to silence the harsh English. Though the elderly man wore rags, he bore a striking resemblance to the breathtaking beauty now glaring at him, ripe with defiance. The spark of interest grew more intense and the leader returned his attention to Albert. What doth she say?

Albert blushed and his eyes widened as he responded hesitantly. Forgive me, my liege. Some of what the demoiselle says is lost in translation, but here is the most of it. She claims to be Adaira of Stanwood Manor and she says this beggar is her father Alden Godwin, Lord of the hall. Uh…and as unthinkable as it may seem, she demands that you release her family and leave these lands immediately.

Clamorous laughter erupted from the Norman warriors. The commander chuckled with amusement as he took note of Adair’s small delicate features. Does she now? His gaze lingered on Adaira as he questioned Albert further. What more doth Her Highness say.

Albert rolled his eyes heavenward. The rest, my liege, I hesitate to repeat—

Tell me what she said, word for word! the warlord barked with his eyes still trained on the small female rebel.

Crossing himself, Albert stumbled through the interpretation. Ah—well—uh—Oui—she mentions your need to bathe, claims that your father is Satan and—that he never wed your mother.

Adaira sensed she could be in grave danger for speaking such uncommonly brazen words and, this time, no one laughed at Albert’s interpretation. All, Norman guards and Stanwood inhabitants alike, stood silent. She suddenly realized that everyone watched the leader, waiting. Certain he would order her death, her blood ran cold.

Instead, the Norman displayed even white teeth, flashed a look of genuine surprise at Adaira, and laughed. He then enjoyed some sarcastic banter with his men on the matter before demanding silence. With a flourish, the Norman knight brought his fist to his chest in mock homage. Never breaking eye contact, he leaned forward in the saddle, smiling at the small contentious young lady standing before him.

Charmed, milady, he retorted amid hoots from his men. "If you will permit me to introduce myself, I am Renouf de Sinclaire de Normandie and, you demoiselle, along with every other being and thing on these lands, now belong to me. If you wish to stay alive, I suggest you make a greater effort at respect and curb that wicked tongue or I will allow Sir Albert to slice you in two. Comprends?"

Adaira did not need Albert’s eager interpretation to understand Renouf’s declaration of ownership. Her mind iced over with contempt. However, a shot of desperation from her father finally penetrated her outrage and she clenched her teeth, fighting the urge to hurl more expletives the leader’s way.

Renouf cocked his head to one side with sardonic amusement at her barely restrained obstinacy. Wondering if he might have seen the limit of the maiden’s courage, he shrugged and urged his horse a few paces closer. Her Highness is suddenly speechless, he taunted. Have you nothing further to say to your new master and Lord of Stanwood?

Even before Adaira opened her mouth, her father cringed.

When pigs fly, only then will I acknowledge you as master of anything other than the sty where they reside, you miserable, loathsome swine, she spat in French, glaring up at him. I shall instead pray for the day when the gates of Hell open to claim your filthy, accursed hide.

Loud laughter from Renouf’s men followed her outburst, along with a few lewd suggestions on various methods of retribution their leader might seek against the beautiful wench. Renouf was the only one who did not seem to find humor in the moment. He urged his horse even closer and locked eyes with Adaira. A swine is it, ma demoiselle? Perhaps milady needs time to rethink her answer. Chain her to the pigsty, he ordered blandly.

Gladly, Albert replied with gusto and wasted no time grabbing Adaira. Unmercifully, he dragged her, kicking and screaming, to the fence surrounding the sty. Alden flushed hot with anger, yet so outnumbered, there was nothing anyone could do to help his daughter. He lowered his eyes to the ground.

Once Albert had shackled Adaira’s ankle to the post, Renouf rode his prancing horse over to where she sat on the ground and dismounted. He found the young woman even more beautiful the nearer he came to her. Hair as black as midnight framed flawless ivory skin. The lofty blaze from her eyes lured him closer. Squatting at the damsel’s side, he removed his gauntlet,