«The Prize», Julie Garwood

Chapter One

England, 1066

He never knew what hit him.

One minute Baron Royce was wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his leather-covered arm, and the next he was flat on his back on the ground.

She had knocked him off his feet. Literally. She'd waited until he took his helmet off. Then she'd swung the narrow strip of leather in a circle high above her head. The small stone nestled in the center of her makeshift sling had gathered speed until it wasn't visible to the naked eye. The sound as the leather sliced through the air was like that of a disgruntled beast, half snarl, half whistle. Her prey had been too far away to hear the noise, though, for she stood in the frigid morning shadows of the walkway at the top of the wall, and he stood down below, nearly fifty feet away by her measure, at the base of the wooden drawbridge.

The giant Norman had made an easy target. The fact that he was also the leader of the infidels who were out to steal her family's holding had sweetened her concentration, too. In her mind, the giant had become Goliath.

And she was his David.

But unlike the saintly hero of ancient stories, she hadn't meant to kill her adversary. She would have aimed for the side of his temple if that had been her goal. No, she had wanted only to stun him. For that reason, she'd chosen his forehead. God willing, she'd given him a mark to carry for the rest of his days, a reminder, she hoped, of the atrocity he'd committed on this dark day of victory.

The Normans were winning this battle. In another hour or two they would breach the inner sanctuary.

It was inevitable, she knew. Her Saxon soldiers were hopelessly outnumbered now. Retreat was the only logical alternative. Yes, it was inevitable, but damn galling, too.

This Norman giant was the fourth challenger the bastard William of Normandy had sent to take her holding in the past three weeks.

The first three had fought like boys. She and her brother's men had easily chased them away.

This one was different. He wouldn't be chased. It had soon became apparent that he was more seasoned than his predecessors. He was certainly more cunning. The soldiers under his command were as inexperienced as the ones who'd come before, but this newest leader kept them well disciplined and at their task hour after relentless hour.

Victory would go to the hated Normans by the end of the day.

Their leader would be dizzy with his success, however. She would see to it.

She had smiled when she dispatched her stone.

Baron Royce had left his mount to pull one of his soldiers out of the moat surrounding the holding. The foolish soldier had lost his footing and fallen head first into the deep water. Because of his heavy armor, he couldn't catch his balance and was sinking to the bottom. Royce reached down with one hand, caught hold of a booted foot, and lifted the young soldier out of the murky depths. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the vassal onto the grassy bank. The racking coughs coming from the lad had told Royce he didn't need further assistance. The boy was still breathing. Royce had paused to remove his own helmet, and was just wiping the sweat from his brow when the stone had found its mark.

Royce was thrown backwards. He landed a fair distance away from his stallion. He didn't sleep long. Dust still clouded the air around him when he opened his eyes. His soldiers were running toward him to offer assistance.

He declined their help. He sat up, shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of the pain and fog that confused him. For a minute or two, he couldn't even remember where the hell he was. Blood trickled from a cut high on his forehead, above his right eye. He prodded around the edges of the injury and only then realized a fair chunk of flesh had been torn away.

He still didn't understand what had hit him. From the size of the jagged wound, he knew an arrow couldn't have done the damage. But damn it all, his head seemed to be on fire.

Royce pushed his pain aside and concentrated on standing up. Fury came to his aid. By God, he would find the bastard who'd done this to him and give him equal measure.

That thought cheered him considerably.

His squire stood holding the reins of his mount. Royce swung himself up into the saddle and turned his attention to the top of the wall that surrounded the holding. Had his enemy aimed at him from that spot? The distance was too great for him to see even a glimpse of a threat.

He put his helmet back on.

Looking around, he saw that in the ten or fifteen minutes that had passed since he'd taken the blow, his soldiers had seemingly forgotten everything he'd taught them.

Ingelram, his temporary second-in-command, had the full contingent of men fighting in a unit near the south side of the fortress. Arrows rained down on them from the top of the wall, making advance impossible.