Elena's Conquest Read online

  Elena’s Conquest

  LISETTE ALLEN

  Black Lace novels are sexual fantasies.

  In real life, make sure you practise safe sex.

  First published in 1994 by

  Black Lace

  332 Ladbroke Grove

  London

  W10 5AH

  Copyright © Lisette Allen 1994

  Typeset by CentraCet Limited, Cambridge Printed and bound by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks

  ISBN 0 352 32950 5

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Summer, 1070 AD

  Chapter One

  With a rebellious little sigh, Elena put down her basket on the dusty flagstones. It was still only halffull. But the day was so hot; far too hot to be gathering herbs for old Sister Winifred’s medicinal salves!

  Overhead, the sun burned down from a cloudless blue summer sky, its heat trapped within the mellow stone walls of the little herb garden. Elena heard the chapel bell tolling noon, its silvery chimes hanging heavy in the still air. White doves murmured sleepily in the eaves. The dark, thick forest that surrounded the convent was silent, as if waiting for something to happen.

  But nothing ever did happen here at this remote little convent of Linby, lost in the northern wilds between the hills and the sea - this place where Elena had spent nearly all her life. And their very remoteness, Sister Winifred would remind her severely, was why they were safe - why their impoverished, tiny community had survived, when all around them the king’s soldiers were wreaking savage punishment for the great Saxon uprising last winter. Elena had heard murmurs of terrible happenings, rumours of harsh bloodshed, like the rustling of the leaves in the forest before a storm. She’d heard that at Thoresfield, the great Norman stronghold to the south, the king had installed the notorious Aimery le Sabrenn as commander of the garrison. At the very mention of his name, the nuns crossed themselves, as if to ward off evil.

  But nothing had changed here at Linby, except that perhaps food was harder to come by than ever, and people were more fearful, more wary of strangers. Just occasionally, they had visitors; travellers who stopped for a night or two with the old priest, Father Wulfstan; mysterious, hungry-looking men who rested and moved on quickly. Otherwise, here in the little convent, they were shut off from the world. And this, thought Elena, with a sudden pang, was to be her life, for ever.

  There were some travellers staying with the priest at the moment. Elena knew, because yesterday she’d been ordered to take some of the nuns’ meagre rye loaves over to the priest’s little cottage. She’d not gone inside; the priest’s slatternly housekeeper had taken the bread from her quickly, then given her a bundle of tallow candles that the priest wanted taking to the chapel, and bade her be gone.

  Elena had turned slowly back along the path to the convent - and then, through the trees, she’d seen the man. He was coming towards her, heading purpose­fully for the priest’s house; tall and fair-haired, holding himself proudly in spite of his shabby clothes. Elena’s heart skipped a beat; Sister Winifred had told her sternly that she must never, ever talk to Father Wulfstan’s visitors. But this man, who was perhaps not much older than herself, was blocking her path! Catch­ing her breath, she dipped clumsily to one side to avoid him; the tallow candles slipped from her basket and scattered on the ground.

  The man bent swiftly to gather them up, while Elena stood by helplessly, her face burning with confusion. He placed the candles carefully in her basket, and said,

  ‘They are undamaged. I’m sorry if I startled you - you are from the convent?’

  ‘Yes - I must take these candles to the chapel.’

  He still barred her way, assessing her carefully, taking in the long white veil that had slipped askew as usual over her thick blonde hair, and the shabby grey gown that concealed her slender figure. ‘So’ the tall man said, ‘they’ve shut you up here? With only those old nuns for company? What have you done to deserve such punishment?’

  Elena, startled by his direct question, couldn’t bear to be disloyal to the kindly nuns. ‘The sisters have been good to me! My parents died of the fever when I was but a child - I was left with nothing, so they took me in, gave me a home.’

  She was uneasily aware all the time of his eyes burning into her. Vivid blue eyes, that burned with fire in his tanned, masculine face. Her heart thudded uncomfortably. How different he was to the men she was used to; the worn, kindly old priest, the haggard peasants who scraped a living from the forest clearing. Something stirred restlessly within her as she gazed helplessly up at this tall, golden-haired Saxon. She caught a glimpse of smooth, sunburned skin at the base of his throat, where his tunic lay open, and she felt her mouth go dry.

  ‘You are too beautiful,’ he was saying softly, ‘to be locked away here. Yes, beautiful. Don’t you realise it? Has no-one ever told you?’

  ‘I - I know that it is wicked to be vain,’ stammered Elena.

  ‘Vain?’ smiled the disturbing man. ‘It is not vain to know that you are beautiful, it is God’s gift!’ He lifted one hand and softly touched her blushing cheek. ‘You should not let them shut you away. Those nuns are like old carrion crows, preying on your youth and innocence.’

  In the distance, through the trees, Elena caught sight

  of Sister Winifred looking out anxiously for her. ‘I must go!’ she blurted out desperately.

  The golden-haired man had shrugged, and watched her with narrowed, thoughtful eyes as she hurried back to the convent in confusion.

  That encounter had made Elena strangely restless. Locked away here, he said. Yes, she was! And he had told her she was beautiful; but surely, he himself was beautiful, with his vibrant, masculine features, and his strong body so tautly muscled beneath his shabby clothing! Last night, she had dreamed strange, disturb­ing dreams that were shadowy and dark. She often had dreams, but the nuns told her that it was wrong, and she must forget them.

  This time, she dreamed that she was lost, alone in the forest, and a man riding by saw her and came slowly towards her. She knew it was sinful of her; but instead of running away she found herself drawn towards him, as if under a spell. He held out his arms, and she felt her heart fill with happiness. But as she ran into his embrace and looked up into his face, expecting to see the tanned Saxon features of Father Wulfstan’s name­less guest, she felt a terrible, deadly chill strike into her heart. The man who held her was one of the king’s soldiers …

  Even now, here in the familiar safety of the little walled garden, she felt a strange tightening in her stomach as she remembered the alien horseman of her dream. Her rough linen shift chafed suddenly at her breasts; her hand moved instinctively to adjust her gown, and she discovered, with a little, juddering shock, that her nipples were swollen and hard. She snatched away her fingers as if they had been burned, aware that her breathing had become shallow and ragged.

  The nuns had always instructed her that it was the work of the devil himself to even think about - let alone touch - your own flesh. Elena always tried to accept

  their rulings without question. But her dream had unsettled her, and she knew, without a doubt, that it would return.

  Her lips felt full and slightly swollen; she moistened them and tried hard to fight down the strange yearning that filled her tender body. It was the heat, she told herself desperately, that made her feel so restless. Oh, but she was wicked. Perhaps too wicked to become a nun! She must do penance for her sinfulness, for feeling th
is aching dissatisfaction with her fate when all around her people were suffering so much as a result of King William’s punishment of the rebels.

  But even as she resolved to make her confession to Father Wulfstan, she knew, with a quiet feeling of despair, that she would never forget the dark, unknown stranger in her dream.

  The familiar, everyday sound of the chapel bell broke into her anguished thoughts. Elena jumped from the stone bench and picked up her wicker-basket hastily. She would be late for the service! How quickly this last hour had gone!

  Then she realised that something was wrong. The chapel bell was not tolling the hour steadily and calmly, as usual. Instead, it was being pealed in panic, almost desperation, over and over. A cracked, uneven sound. Elena froze to the spot, suddenly cold in the sunlight. In disbelief, she heard the sound of horses’ hooves; of people running; people shouting; doors slamming.

  ‘The Normans! God help us, the Normans are upon us - ,The hoarse cry broke off, and somewhere a woman’s high-pitched voice lifted in a scream. The doves rose clamouring from beneath the eaves. Iron-shod hooves clattered on the cobbles of the courtyard; harsh foreign voices cursed aloud. Elena heard the sound of steel being drawn, and smelled the stink of burning thatch. Trapped by fire or slaughtered by Norman steel - how many others had died like this?

  Her heart hammering wildly, Elena ran out of the

  little walled garden and stopped, transfixed by terror. There were mounted soldiers in the courtyard - rough men-at-arms in stained leather jerkins. Aimery le Sabrenn’s soldiers had found them at last! And one of them had his swordpoint at the old priest’s throat. Poor Father Wulfstan, who’d herded the terrified nuns indoors, and run out of the little chapel to face this …

  The soldier was threatening the priest in a low, menacing voice. The rebels, old priest - the Saxon rebels. We know you harbour them on their travels, give them shelter. Where have you hidden them? Tell us, or it will be the worse for you, you old fool!’

  Elena listened in anguish. The rebels. Father Wulf­stan’s mysterious visitors, who came and went with such secrecy - the tall Saxon who had spoken to her yesterday …

  In a flash Elena understood it all. The soldiers from the great stronghold of Thoresfield had come here because Father Wulfstan was sheltering Saxon rebels! She let out a little cry of despair and one of the horsemen, on hearing her voice, wheeled round to face her. His horse, startled, reared up, and its great fore-quarters plunged down towards her.

  A sudden blinding pain seared Elena’s senses as a flailing hoof caught her on the side of her head. She called out in terror, and then the blackness engulfed her.

  Darkness fell early in the forest that night. It was still hot and sultry, with the threat of thunder hanging in the air. The light of burning torches, held on high by the men who rode slowly on horseback, cast grotesque shadows on the wavering line of figures that tramped with bowed heads southwards along the forest track. Now and then, someone slipped or stumbled, jerking at the line of coarse rope that bound each one tautly by the wrists. Whenever this happened, the lash of a horseman’s whip would hiss through the air, and everyone would tense involuntarily as they waited for the scream. Afterwards, the silence would be strangely intense.

  Back at the rear of the roped line, someone missed a step, slipping on the sodden leaf mould. A mounted guard, his flaming torch held high, cursed and moved his big horse back towards the offender.

  ‘God damn these Saxon rebels’ he muttered. ‘More trouble than they’re worth …’ Then he saw who had fallen, and smiled slowly.

  The prisoner, who was desperately scrambling up before he could reach her, was female. The flickering light from his torch danced mockingly over the tangled fair curls that tumbled to her shoulders. The plain grey gown, that clung to her slender figure, was stained with mud from her fall. She was one of the little prisoners they’d taken from the convent - the convent that sheltered those cursed Saxon rebels.

  His thin lips curled suddenly, and he leaned across the high pommel of his saddle, his dark Norman face keen with sudden anticipation.

  Tick your feet up, convent brat!’ His voice was silky and slow as he fingered the leather whip in his belt. ‘Or I’ll give you reason enough to move …’

  The Saxon prisoner looked up in sharp fear as she was dragged along by the thick hemp rope. Already, he could see, her fragile wrists had been rubbed raw.

  Blood of Christ, he breathed to himself, but this one was a little beauty. Her features were delicate and regular, her wide, terrified eyes a dark, sultry blue such as he’d never seen before, and her small pink mouth was full and ripe. Even the drab grey of the hideous convent gown couldn’t conceal the high swell of those rounded little breasts. He moistened his lips. A nun? A disguise, most like. Yet more evidence of the rebels’ cunning ways.

  She said, in a low, broken French, ‘I pray your forgiveness, sire. There was a branch across the path.’

  The Norman gave a harsh laugh. So she knew their language! An educated bitch! ‘Save your prayers, little sister’ he jeered, his white teeth gleaming in his coarsely handsome face. ‘You’ll need all the prayers you can think of where you’re going - to the stronghold of Aimery le Sabrenn, lord of Thoresfield!’

  He saw how the wench shuddered and briefly touched the crude wooden cross that hung on a thong of leather at her breasts. So, she’d heard of the Breton lord Aimery. The devil himself. She knew what she was in for.

  He felt a sudden, urgent need for this fair-haired Saxon maid. His eyes narrowed as he rode alongside her, and he licked his dry mouth, feeling the familiar ache in his loins, the tightening. Damn le Sabrenn, he thought suddenly. Hadn’t their fine lord started out as a Breton mercenary, no better than the rest of them? Would he miss one of these Saxon sluts that they’d picked up along with the rebels? Why, with a bit of luck, he wouldn’t even know she was missing! Surrep­titiously he adjusted his constricting breeches, stroking himself briefly as he did so, like a secret promise. Later, perhaps. Later, he would show this little slut what a real man was made of.

  He rode back to his place at the front of the proces­sion, his smoking torch held high. The image of the blonde wench from the convent inflamed his blood.

  Elena watched him ride off with a strange, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t forget the way he’d looked at her, with that hungry light in his dark eyes. She swallowed down the nausea that suddenly shook her, and struggled to keep walking, though she didn’t know how much longer she could go on. The rope had rubbed the skin from her wrists. Her thin leather shoes were almost worn through, and her tender feet were cut and bruised.

  Was it worth going on? Shouldn’t she just refuse, and lie there? If she did, they would cut her free of the rope, and then they’d flog her. Already on this nightmare journey she’d seen strong men quail at the floggings. Yet could it be worse than where they were going? To the vile stronghold of the Breton lord Aimery le Sabrenn, William the , Conqueror’s notorious commander.

  Even at their remote little convent, she’d heard of him. The nuns whispered of unspeakable happenings, of some strange, dark evil that Elena could only guess at. They said that he had personal reason to hate all Saxons with a hard, relentless fury.

  The twisted black branches of the forest reached out to grip her, like fingers tearing at her face. An owl cried and swooped low in front of her. Elena whimpered softly in her fear.

  Her head still throbbed dully from where the plung­ing horse’s hoof had struck her. When she had at last recovered consciousness, she had found herself lying in a cart, on filthy, soiled straw, along with other prisoners who were too weak to walk. The jogging motion of the cart along the rutted forest track had made her feel sick; the stench of the other prisoners, all sick or badly wounded, made her senses swim. When the man who was guarding them sloped off into the bushes to relieve himself, she had slipped from the back of the cart and tried to run.

  She hadn’t got far. Sneeringly, they had told h
er that if she was well enough to run, she was well enough to walk. Roped into line with the rest of the prisoners, she began her long walk into captivity, south to the strong­hold of Thoresfield. They told her that she was a serf now, the property of Aimery le, Sabrenn, great lord and friend of the king, persecutor of Saxons. This surely was her punishment for her rebellious, restless thoughts. ‘Oh, sweet Mary, blessed Mother of God,’ Elena mut­tered in despair. ‘Help me in my hour of need …’ A sob broke in her throat. ‘Help me. Please …’

  It was almost midnight when at last the commander of the guards ordered them to halt in a small, grassy clearing near a half-ruined hovel. As soon as the ropes were untied a man tried to run off into the trees. The other captives watched in despairing apathy as a guard on horseback quickly pursued him and dealt him such a vicious blow with the heel of his whip that he slumped unconscious to the ground. He lay where he fell in the darkness beyond the circle of torchlight, because nobody dared to go and help him. Elena watched it all in horror, her tender heart torn with pity for the poor man.

  After that, the guards moved round on foot, tossing out hunks of coarse dry bread and passing round leather skins of brackish water.

  The water went quickly, because the night was still oppressively hot; and by the time the waterskin reached Elena, it was almost empty. She took a small sip to wash the dust from her throat, and then, looking round quickly to make sure no-one was looking, she hid it beneath the folds of her grey dress. Then she moved silently towards the edge of the clearing, searching in the darkness of the overhanging trees for the fallen man.

  She found him. He was conscious now, but his face was almost grey in the shadows, and a trickle of blood ran from his forehead, darkening his long fair hair. With a gasp of horror, Elena recognised him as the man who had spoken to her only yesterday as she hurried back from the priest’s house. One of Father WulfStan’s guests - one of the rebels! She swallowed down her sudden, sharp distress at seeing him here, like this.

  He looked up, dazed, at the slim, beautiful girl in the grey dress who knelt beside him. ‘It’s you … the girl from the convent …’