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unless stolen; certainly not faery.
    She would like to keep it, but she would be questioned. She folded it neatly with cherishing hands and left it there, then returned dazedly to her attendants.
    She had not called out. The Bible said that if a woman did not scream she could not claim assault.
    How strange. How strangely wonderful.
    How sad that such a man was not for her.
    As far as she was concerned, he might as well be a prince of faery. Such men didn’t exist in the real world, the world from which she would have to choose her husband.
    But still, she could not resist a prayer that when finally she found herself in the marriage bed, her husband would touch her as the faery prince had touched her, and take her to the end of the magical path he had opened before her.

    Aimery de Gaillard chuckled as he escaped. When he’d ambushed the secret watcher, he’d not expected to find such a delicious armful. He wished he’d been able to pursue the matter further—a great deal further. She had a lovely, luscious body, and a responsive one.
    At first he’d assumed she was a local wench, but he’d soon guessed she was Norman, probably one of Dame Celia’s women. Few English had that dusky tone to their skin. Blood from southern France or Spain lay in her somewhere.
    Clever of her to stay silent and conceal it.
    And she didn’t understand English. If she did she would have reacted when he described all the wonderful things he wanted to do with her body. He laughed again. If she ever learned the language and remembered some of the things he’d said, she’d be after him with a gelding knife.
    He’d not even been able to steal a kiss for fear of her seeing him up close. Aimery de Gaillard had no business on Baddersley land, and he wanted no connection made between him and a certain Edwald, an outlaw who helped the people against the Norman oppressors.
    An older, bearded man emerged from among the trees. “Taking your time, aren’t you? Why’re you grinning like a fool?”
    “Just the pleasure of the swim, Gyrth,” said Aimery. “It’s a joy to be clean again.”
    Gyrth was Hereward’s man, but he’d been appointed to attend Aimery during his youthful visits to England. It was Gyrth who’d taught Aimery English skills and English ways—the reverence for custom, the importance of discussion, the stoical acceptance of wyrd.
    When Gyrth had turned up at Rolleston, Aimery had known Hereward was back in England and planning resistance. Aimery’s duty to William said he should hand Gyrth over to the king, but instead he had accepted him without question. Gyrth was doubtless part missionary and part spy, but he was also Aimery’s link to the English way of thinking. He needed that as he tried to explain the new Norman laws and customs to the ordinary folk to help them to survive invasion.
    It had been Gyrth’s idea, for example, that they go around this part of England disguised as ragged outlaws. It was a dangerous plan but had proved useful. Though Aimery de Gaillard looked English and spoke the tongue, the English knew him for what he was—a Norman, an enemy. As Edwald the outlaw he was accepted and heard the truth. Many places were doing well under Norman lords, but some were suffering, as here at Baddersley.
    “What you going to do about this place then?” Gyrth asked.
    “I’m not sure what more I can do.” Aimery buckled on his belt and knelt to cross-lace his braies. “I’ve explained the villagers’ rights to the headman. If abuses continue, he should make petition to the king.”
    “And de Pouissey’ll let him go off to Winchester and complain?” said Gyrth with a sneer.
    “William’s always on the move. He’ll come this way.”
    “And treat that devil as he deserves?”
    “And correct injustices,” said Aimery firmly as he stood. “William seeks to rule his people in justice. Constant unrest is not making that easy.”
    Gyrth grinned. “It’s not supposed to make it easy. It’s supposed