Lord of My Heart by Jo Beverley Page B

try, though,” said Aimery. They looked at him as if he were half-witted.
    “Tell you what,” said one man sarcastically. “Why don’t you stick around the next time the Bastard king happens to be riding by, then you can tell him. And get kicked in the face.”
    Aimery put an edge of authority in his voice. “I know what I’m talking about. I’m an outlaw, but I know William of Normandy has no love for slavery. If you can get word to him, he’ll put a stop to it.”
    “He’d turn against Norman for Englishmen?” one man scoffed.
    “He’ll enforce the law.”
    “What about our women?” cried one young man. “Those guards take what they want and none dares stop them. My sister . . .” He turned away, his face working.
    “Rape is against the law, too,” Aimery said firmly.
    The thunder of hooves shut off the talk. The villagers bolted for the woods even as a troop of horsemen swung around the bend and bore down on them. In moments they were surrounded, and none had escaped.
    It was d’Oilly’s men on the hunt for more forced workers. Aimery cursed his luck. There were five horsemen, but they had a slovenly look which suggested he and Gyrth could take them with even minimal help from the villagers. But violence only ever brought retaliation on the ordinary people. Instead he worked at avoiding attention.
    It wasn’t easy. He was half a head taller than the tallest villager and much better built. He slouched and nudged Gyrth. Gyrth got the message, and Aimery hoped the others would play along.
    One of the soldiers unhooked an ox-whip from his saddle. “Well,” he said in French, “we’ve found a likely lot here.” He changed to clumsy English. “Lord d’Oilly has need of laborers. You, you, you, and you.” He pointed to the youngest and strongest, including Aimery but not Gyrth.
    Gyrth instantly spoke up in English. “Sir, my cousin here is . . .” He tapped eloquently on his head. “He can be no use to you.”
    “He’s strong. You come, too.”
    Within seconds the chosen ones were cut out of the group. One man resisted. “You can’t do this! You have no right. I am a free man—” The whip cracked over his head and he fell silent.
    The five prisoners were herded a mile or so to the river where a bridge was being built to ease access to Robert d’Oilly’s new castle. A dozen men were working there, some of them already exhausted. Aimery suspected more slaves were among the workers to be seen assembling the wooden keep on the raw motte, or hill, in the distance.
    Two of the villagers were added to the men loosening rocks from the bottom of an escarpment; Aimery and another were ordered to join the weary line carrying the rocks down to the bridge. Because of his greater age, Gyrth was put to work there laying the rocks in place.
    As the day passed they were offered no rest or refreshment, though the guards let them scoop water from the river to drink. The five guards slouched in the shade, cracking a whip if they thought any of their slaves were idling. They shared a wineskin and, at one point, some meat pies.
    They frequently shouted comments in French which alarmed the peasants, but they were invariably just scatological insults, pointless because they must assume none of their victims understood.
    Aimery understood, however, and anger grew in him. These men were the scum of the earth, mercenaries brought to England by the lure of easy pickings. The urge, the need, to obliterate them was a hunger in him far greater than the pangs of his empty stomach. He kept telling himself that violence here would destroy his chance to do greater good later, and would bring harsh retribution on the local people, but it grew harder and harder to pay attention to logic.
    He hauled a leather sling of stones onto his bruised shoulders and shambled down to the river. As he passed one pot-bellied guard, the man shouted, “Hey, big boy! Bet you’ve got an enormous one. Bet you stick it in your mother!” Aimery