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‘I say it is mine. As does this.’ Drawing his sword with ruthless deliberation, he raised it, the tip pointed at the very centre of her breast, although he did not allow it to quite rest there.

A feral smile slashed a white gash in the dark, unshaven face, but failed to warm that fierce gaze. ‘Might is right, lady. And as of this moment, with this sword in my hand, I hold the power here. You do not.’

Rosamund froze on the spot, the implied threat too real to be discounted.

Suddenly, without warning, the point of the sword fell. Thank God! But Rosamund’s relief was short-lived when the knight took a long stride forward to close the space between them. Before she could retreat, she found herself caught within his arm, tightly banding around her waist. Dragged hard against him almost off her feet, breast to breast, thigh against thigh.

If she had been speechless before, now she found herself unable to think, to marshal any thoughts at all. It was all sensation, all awareness of the power of his body, the heat of him, as she was held plastered against him. To see those cold grey eyes, gold-flecked, looking down into hers with what she could only interpret as hatred.

What could she hope for at the hands of this man? For the first time in her life Rosamund de Longspey feared for her safety and her honour.

Dear Reader

Rosamund, my heroine, escapes from her family to take refuge in Clifford Castle, which today is an atmospheric ruin on the bank of the River Wye in the Welsh Marches, not many miles from where I live. A tale is told of a lady who, in medieval times, was besieged there, taken prisoner by a local robber lord and forced to accept his hand in marriage. When the King came to hear of it he descended with an army, punished the lord for his despicable exploit and offered the bride her freedom and a purse of gold. Instead of snatching at the chance, the lady refused the King’s justice and would not be parted from her impetuous husband.

And that, I thought when I read it, is the stuff of romance. I could not resist such a glamorous opportunity. It inspired me to explore the wilful passion between Rosamund and her own robber lord, Gervase Fitz Osbern. I have created for them a difficult path to travel before they can accept that one cannot live without the other, as I am certain the original lovers too experienced. Rosamund has to learn that sometimes a man needs to be seduced into a compromise, without his knowing it, when all the time he thinks that his is the controlling hand. Whilst Gervase, almost too late, realises that military force is not the way to his lover’s heart.

I hope that you enjoy Rosamund and Gervase’s journey of discovery as much as I did writing it.

As for Mills & Boon, I owe them so much—not least that they gave me my first opportunity to write historical romances for my own, and your, pleasure. I know you will join me in wishing them Happy Birthday for their magnificent centenary.

Anne

About the Author

ANNE O’BRIEN was born and has lived for most of her life in Yorkshire. There she taught history, before deciding to fulfil a lifetime ambition to write romantic historical fiction. She won a number of short story competitions until published for the first time by Mills & Boon. As well as writing, she finds time to enjoy gardening, cooking and watercolour painting. She now lives with her husband in an eighteenth-century cottage in the depths of the Welsh Marches.

Recent novels by the same author:

THE RUNAWAY HEIRESS

PURITAN BRIDE

MARRIAGE UNDER SIEGE

THE DISGRACED MARCHIONESS* THE OUTRAGEOUS DEBUTANTE* THE ENIGMATIC RAKE*

*The Faringdon Scandals

Conquering

Knight, Captive Lady

Anne O’Brien

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For George, the hero of all my romances.

Prologue

January 1158—a cold, wet winter four years into the reign of King Henry II.

Clifford Castle—a remote border stronghold in the Welsh Marches.

‘Stop! What in God’s name are you doing?’

‘As you see.’ The unknown knight who commanded the formidable force of soldiers might have been surprised to see the lady, but with barely a flicker of an eye chose to spurn her. Even when she continued to shiver in the bitter wind at the top of the flight of steps leading up from the enclosed space of the bailey to the stone keep. Even though that lady was clearly seething in an enraged whirl of mantle and veil, another lady similarly muffled to the tip of her nose against the elements at her shoulder. The knight proceeded to give brisk, efficient instructions to his men for them to dismount and immediately secure the fortress.

The lady opened her mouth. Shut it, tight-lipped. Eyes of green, clear as glass in an ecclesiastical window and just as sharp, her eyebrows beautifully arched and dark, she surveyed the organized overrunning of her castle in horrified silence. Under her veil the rich red-brown of her hair, a fox’s pelt with gold and russet depths, shining and glowing, as vibrant as the autumn fruit of the chestnut tree, was whipped into a messy tangle by the wind. She paid it no heed. For one of the few occasions in her life she could find no words to express the shock, the sheer fury, that held her motionless. But not for long.

‘What are you doing here? Who are you? Who opened the gates to you?’

‘I am Fitz Osbern.’ He barely took the time to glance in her direction.

The lady narrowed her eyes at the device that fluttered and snapped on the profusion of pennons attached to the soldiers’ lances. A mythical beast, dragon-like with a fierce snarl on its mask of a face, silver on black. Definitely not one she knew. Fitz Osbern—why was he here? As a marauding brigand? A robber lord? There were plenty of those in the March, wild and lawless men, answering to no man, not even to the King. He certainly looked the part. She scowled at the man who had by this time dismounted to stand, one hand fisted on his hip, in her bailey. Equally at the older knight, who had moved in silent support to his side, and the greyhound, as lean and rangy as its master, that loped and dodged with excitement between the horses’ hooves. Fitz Osbern … She pitched her voice above the general racket that had descended on her home. ‘I don’t understand what you are doing here.’

‘Which is a matter of supreme indifference to me, lady.’ Fitz Osbern flung the reins of his dark bay stallion to his young squire. ‘Bryn!’ He snapped his fingers to the hound, bringing him immediately to heel, then made to walk toward the far stabling, still issuing orders to his men in a tone that brooked no disobedience.

But this spurred the lady into action. Who he was or was not was entirely irrelevant. ‘I will not be defied in my own home!’ She covered the distance down the steps and across the bailey in remarkable speed to grasp at a fold of his cloak with bold authority, grimacing at the slick coating of mud and rain that squelched beneath her fingers. ‘You have no right to give orders here!’

‘I have every right.’

He shook her off as if, she thought, she were a troublesome hound puppy, and then had the temerity to turn his back on her—again.

‘This castle is my home—my property, my inheritance.’ Disturbed by the note of dismay that had crept into her voice, the lady snatched at his cloak once more to hold him still. ‘And yet you have the gall to ride in here and—’

The knight came to a halt, so suddenly that she had to step aside or tread on his heels. He rounded on her, dark brows drawn together into a heavy bar, so that she found herself taking a step in retreat, and he surveyed her, up and down, from her muddied shoes to the rich curls escaping the confines of the veil in the brisk wind. ‘Your inheritance, you say? Who are you?’

The lady’s chin rose infinitesimally. ‘I am Rosamund de Longspey.’

‘Longspey?’ The frown deepened, the eyes sharpened. ‘The Longspey heiress? But she’s a child.’

‘She is not.’ Rosamund made an inelegant noise not far short of a snort. ‘I am not.’

The knight eyed her, clearly weighing up the situation. Then lifted his shoulders in careless dismissal. ‘So I see. But no matter.’

The lady squared her shoulders. ‘It matters! This castle is mine.’

‘No, lady. It is not.’ Impatient now, he raised an arm in an expansive gesture to encompass his guards taking up position on the gatehouse, the palisade walk, his horseflesh being accommodated in the inadequate cramped stabling. ‘As it has no doubt become apparent to you, this castle of Clifford is now mine.’

‘Who says?’ Confusion and indignation warred on her face, even a shadow of fear, as Rosamund de Longspey curled her fingers into the dense fur lining of her mantle where he would not see her panic building.

Fitz Osbern looked down his nose at the woman who reached hardly to his shoulder. And what a magnificent nose it was to look down, if the lady was aware of such inconsequential detail when cold grey eyes pinned her to the spot. High-bridged and predatory it was, with more than a touch of the autocratic.

‘I say it is mine. As does this.’ Drawing his sword with ruthless deliberation, he raised it, the tip pointed at the very centre of her breast, although he did not allow it to quite rest there. A feral smile slashed a white gash in the dark, unshaven face, but failed to warm that fierce gaze. ‘Might is right, lady. As of this moment, with this sword in my hand, I hold the power here. You do not.’

Rosamund froze on the spot, her blood ice, the implied threat too real to be discounted.

Suddenly, without warning, the point of the sword fell. Thank God! But Rosamund’s relief was short-lived when the knight took a long stride forward to close the space between them. Before she could retreat, she found herself caught within his arm, tightly banding around her waist. Dragged hard against him almost off her feet, breast to breast, thigh against thigh. If she had been speechless before, now she found herself unable to think, to marshal any thoughts at all. It was all sensation, all awareness of the power of his body, the heat of him as she was held, plastered against him. Never before had she known what it was to be under the physical control of a man.

Barely able to catch a breath, her heart hammered in her breast. Furiously struggling against him did no good at all. She looked up into his face, as dismay transformed into fear to see those cold grey eyes, gold-flecked, looking down into hers with what she could only interpret as hatred.

What could she hope for at the hands of this man? For the first time in her life Rosamund de Longspey feared for her safety and her honour.

Chapter One

January 1158—two weeks earlier.

The troop of soldiers rode smartly north-west out of Gloucester, the promise of a warm homecoming at the Fitz Osbern castle in Monmouth luring them on to get in out of this thrice-damned persistent wind and rain. Unlimited ale and hot food. The soft stroke of a woman’s hand. Even the proximity of hot water would not be sniffed at … They had been on the road for a long time in the worst of weather after a sharp campaign across the Channel to Anjou, where Gervase Fitz Osbern held a number of strategic castles.

Gervase Fitz Osbern set a fierce pace. The Channel crossing had been bad; he shuddered at the memory of being tossed and drenched and vilely ill for twenty-four hours—sea voyaging was not for him—but now they were on firm ground. He raised his head, much as his hound at his heels, scenting the air. Home was within easy distance as he caught the outline of the dark ridge of the Black Mountains through the ever-swirling mist.

But when a group of travellers approached along the road, bringing with them one item of news, it was enough to make Fitz Osbern change his plans.

‘Rumours in the March. The Earl of Salisbury, William de Longspey, is dying.’

It was enough to shorten his breath, to drive a fist into his gut.

‘Do we go on, my lord?’ Watkins, his troop commander, all but nudged him into action as he sat in the rain in the middle of the road, brows drawn into a ferocious frown, his gaze focused on some distant place not altogether pleasant.

Fitz Osbern raised his head, refocused, gathered up his reins and signalled to his men to move off, the decision made. ‘We stop overnight in Hereford.’ The authority of their lord, coupled with the obvious lure of the fleshpots of Hereford, had the desired effect and put a halt to any murmurings of dissent. ‘And in Hereford,’ Gervase Fitz Osbern added, quietly, face settling into stern lines, ‘I shall make it my business to discover William de Longspey’s state of health.’

Meanwhile, some distance away in the prosperous town of Salisbury, Rosamund de Longspey was in a fractious mood. But then, who would not be? Approaching twenty-four years, with no husband on her horizon, no betrothed, and made fatherless for the second time in her life. No matter how good her blood, how attractive her face—and she could not deny that—her future looked less than secure.

So Rosamund, justifiably irritable, joined the family members of the household as they met together on the occasion of the death, from a malingering ague, of William de Longspey, Earl of Salisbury. He was no blood relation of hers, which might account for her lack of grief on this sorrowful occasion, merely a stepfather who had shown brief interest in and even less affection to her as she grew from child to a strikingly attractive young woman. A daughter of the Earl’s wife, Countess Petronilla, from her first marriage to John de Bredwardine, Rosamund had taken her stepfather’s name on her mother’s remarriage, and now had a very personal interest in Earl William’s will. In this room, within the hour, her entire future would be disposed of, with or without her consent.

There were no surprises when Father Benedict, the de Longspey chaplain, presented the terms of the late Earl’s will. His family by his first wife had been well provided for. The de Longspey title and main inheritance in Salisbury, the bulk of the estates scattered throughout the country, passed to Gilbert, the heir, who looked smug. Walter and Elizabeth were not forgotten. The Dowager Countess Petronilla would retain the lands and income from her original dowry. If she chose, she could live in the castle in Salisbury as an honoured guest for the rest of her life. If not, the castle at Lower Broadheath was now hers, a pretty estate in gentle countryside. Earl William had been generous and even-handed.

‘My lord thought that you would perhaps wed again.’ Father Benedict smiled benignly on the widow who showed no hint of tears at her loss.

Lady Petronilla silently inclined her head, but Rosamund was not fooled. If Rosamund read it right, her mother had no intention of seeking another marriage, no matter how wealthy or superficially attractive the lord. She was now free to do as she chose. Two husbands in a lifetime and both of them unsatisfactory, Lady Petronilla had been heard to say in private moments, were quite enough for any woman.

I would just like the chance at one! Rosamund forced her fingers to unclench. For there was one matter here that had not been touched upon.

‘Father Benedict.’ Rosamund fixed her direct gaze on the cleric. ‘What provision has been made for me? I shall at least need land suitable for a dowry.’

‘Ah … Yes, Lady Rosamund …’ Father Benedict cleared his throat. ‘The Earl saw fit to grant three strongholds.’ He nodded at Rosamund with an encouraging smile, entirely false, she decided. ‘Three fortresses,’ he repeated, ‘and the income from the land and manors attached to them. For your own enjoyment and for your dower, Lady Rosamund.’

The fortunate lady raised her brows. ‘And where are these three fortresses, Father Benedict?’ Her voice was low, a little husky, usually with great charm, if not as on this occasion infused with deep suspicion.

‘On the border, my lady.’

‘The Welsh border? Be more exact, if you will, Father.’

The chaplain cleared his throat again with a quick glance toward the new Earl, who nodded in agreement. ‘You have possession of the castles and lands of Clifford, Ewyas Harold and Wigmore in the Welsh Marches, my lady.’

‘As you say—along the very border with Wales.’ Rosamund looked down to where her hands had just re-clenched in her lap, face smoothly unreadable, but her mind clearly engaged. ‘And will these three fortresses attract a husband for me?’

There was a loud guffaw from Earl Gilbert, hastily smothered. Walter did not even bother to hide his grin.

‘There’s no need to concern yourself, Rose,’ Gilbert replied heartily. ‘You’ll not be left destitute and unwed.’ She saw something like naked cunning in her stepbrother’s broad face before he lumbered to his feet and walked across the room to her, to take and pat her hand consolingly. ‘My father was remiss in this. Never fear. I am in the process of arranging all to your comfort, with three such valuable fortresses to attract attention from a suitable husband.’ He chuckled unnervingly. ‘No one will ever say that a de Longspey was left unprovided for.’

Behind Rosamund’s grateful smile, anger simmered. By the time she was alone with her mother in the privacy of the solar, it had become a surge of pure passion.

‘So I am now an heiress! With three castles to my name in the depths of the Welsh Marches, any one of them to be my home! It would be,’ stated Rosamund, green eyes flashing, all attempts to govern her temper abandoned, ‘like being buried alive. I have decided. Nothing will persuade me to go there.’

Rosamund’s decision did not outlive the day. Barely had the mid-day meal been cleared than she was summoned to the new Earl’s private chamber. She eyed him warily. Gilbert, in the magnificence of his father’s accommodation, looked even more pleased with himself if that were possible, and addressed her with obnoxious good humour as soon as she appeared in the doorway.

‘Rose. Some excellent news, as I promised you. This is a day for developments, it seems. Did I not tell you to leave everything in my care? The messenger has arrived.’ He flapped a travel-worn document in her direction. ‘Your marriage. I have in mind a knight who will take you for the castles you hold. It will be a most advantageous match.’ Sure of his argument, he held her gaze at last. ‘You’ve remained unwed far too long.’

Rosamund took a breath, a premonition heavy in her belly. So that was it. Set a trap to catch a prize on the Welsh border as she had suspected. And she was the bait in the trap. Now she knew the reason for Clifford and Ewyas Harold and Wigmore. She breathed out slowly.

‘Who is it?’

‘Ralph de Morgan of Builth. Quite a landowner in that area.’

‘Ralph de Morgan?’ He was a not infrequent visitor to the de Longspey household. The name instantly conjured up an image of the knight. Rosamund’s palms grew damp against the skirts of her robe as that image became a weight on her heart. ‘But he’s older than Lord William was!’ Possibly an exaggeration, she admitted, but not by much.

‘He’s an important man, Rosamund.’ Gilbert leaned forward to make his point, preserving his smile. ‘And newly widowed. He wants a bride who will increase his holdings within England. And for my benefit, he’ll help to hold the March secure. I doubt you’ll do better. He offers a substantial settlement.’

‘I can imagine!’ Who would not to wish to consolidate a connection with the powerful de Longspeys?

‘You have no choice in the matter, dear sister,’ stated the Earl as if he could read the rejection in her mind. ‘It’s arranged. Ralph has agreed and the terms are acceptable. He’ll come next week to renew your acquaintance, as a suitor for a bride.’

Rosamund controlled her reply magnificently. ‘Very well, Gilbert.’

Gilbert eyed the quiescent lady doubtfully. ‘Hear me, Rosamund. You’ll not antagonise him.’

‘No, Gilbert. How could you think it?’ She smiled serenely.

But I would not wager my new jewelled girdle on it!

Escape to Clifford suddenly seemed an object of desire.

One meeting with Ralph de Morgan was enough to convince her of all her fears and to drive Rosamund into open rebellion. In a cloud of resentment she burst into the widowed Countess’s bedchamber, where that lady was supervising her maid Edith in the packing of her possessions for the journey to Lower Broadheath.

‘That’s settled it. I can’t do it.’

Lady Petronilla abandoned the silk mass of the rich green over-gown she was folding. She eyed her daughter with a painful mixture of sympathy and resignation. ‘So I thought when I was presented with marriage, but sometimes, dear child, there’s simply no choice.’ The widow smoothed her dark skirts, her hands quick and restless, then stepped to the chest, which held cups and a flagon of ale. Not over-tall, her figure was well proportioned, her eyes grey-green and aware, her hair fair, untouched by grey, worn in a neat plaited coronet. She moved with capable, energetic movements as she poured and returned to hand a cup to her daughter.

‘No choice? How can there be no choice! Ralph de Morgan,’ Rosamund announced, not mincing her words, ‘is gross and balding. His clothes are rank with heaven only knows what! Did you see? He wiped the sauce from his fingers on his tunic. When his hands last came into contact with warm water I know not. And as for his breath when he kissed my cheek …’ She whirled in a circle, her hair within its ribbon confines flying, and punched the bed hangings with her fist. ‘He’s disgusting!’

‘Ralph is not a pleasant prospect, I agree—but your brothers are determined—’

‘Brothers? They are no blood of mine! I’ve had enough of self-opinionated men telling me what to do and what not to do. What will be good for me and what I would be unwise to consider. I will not do it!’

‘No. Ralph is not an attractive man. So … portly!’

‘Portly? He is fat! I would rather wed the poor ragged creature, filthy and scabbed, who sits daily outside the Cathedral and begs for alms.’

‘No, you wouldn’t. And I don’t think the beggar would actually want you!’ The two ladies considered the dubious prospect for a short moment. ‘But, dearest Rose, you need a husband,’ Petronilla advised. ‘You should have been married years ago.’

‘I know. I agree that there could be advantages. But I want …’ In her mind’s eye Rosamund saw the man of her childhood dreams, lingered over the much-loved image. ‘He must be young. Handsome, of course, fair haired. Gentle and courteous, who will treat me with honour and consideration. A knight who is civilised and cultured, can read and write, and will not harry me into actions I have no wish to take.’ For a moment she lost herself in another improbable outcome. ‘And he must at least have an affection for me,’ she added finally. ‘I do not ask for love, but I have no desire to simply be a hapless pawn in a power struggle.’

‘Hmm. Now there’s a list.’ Lady Petronilla arched her brows, returning to the silk gown that slithered unmanageably under her hands. ‘But does such a paragon exist? A man who would let you have entirely your own way …? Well, I don’t know … And would you be happy if he did?’

Rosamund considered the matter. Marriage had not brought her mother much contentment. Why should her own experience be any different? Of course, there had been that one man … Now there was a memory to stir her to her very soul. Rosamund turned away so that her mother should not read the sudden sharp desire that closed like a hand around her throat.

Her Wild Hawk. Her Fierce Lord.

Gervase Fitz Osbern.

That one man … Some four years since now. The memory of him came easily into Rosamund’s mind, as if it had slid there before, at regular intervals, along a well-worn path. The man who had descended on Salisbury in the foulest of humours to hold a dangerously fraught interview with the Earl. She had never known exactly why. But a bucketful of bad blood had existed between Fitz Osbern and Earl William from the very beginning, obvious in the crackle in the air and the imminent threat of drawn blades as they exchanged views. And the Earl had planned to smooth the waters, to entice this enemy into an alliance. So he had offered Rosamund to him, to lure him into taking a Longspey wife.

She remembered as if it were yesterday being summoned so that the lord might look her over.

But he had not looked her over. He had barely cast an eye in her direction, after that first vicious stare when she had entered the room. He had not even done her the courtesy to appraise her merits as a bride. And after all her mother’s efforts to turn her out at her best, threading emerald ribbons through her braided hair. What an arrogant appraisal it had been before he turned his shoulder, one brief raking glance from head to foot that had all but stripped the clothes from her body. Even now at this distance she re-lived the moment that had brought a rush of unflattering colour to her cheeks and an edge to her temper. Not that he had noticed. The formidable knight was too busy refusing Earl William’s offer to consider her appearance or her feelings at being so summarily rejected. She had been dismissed almost before she had set foot in the room.

You would buy me with a Longspey woman? You’ll not succeed. There’s blood on your hands, my lord, that can’t be washed away by the gift of a simpering Longspey virgin.

The hard-held fury, the harsh menace in his voice. The shame that she had felt as if his rejection of her had been due to some fault of her own. It remained with her still, as did a clear image of the man’s face and stature. He might not have taken more than a passing acknowledgement of her but, no simpering maid at twenty years—and she doubted she had ever been known to simper!—Rosamund’s fascinated stare had been as direct and all-encompassing as his had not.

The Wild Hawk he had become in her dreams, savage and untamed, never knowing the hood or jesses, the leash of the falconer. What a pleasure he had been to look at. Tall and lean with the well-muscled body of a soldier, a lord who would ride and fight, a master of weaponry, although on this occasion he was richly dressed, with embroidered bands at hem and sleeve of his tunic. He might wear a sword, but the leather belt was gilded and jewelled. He had obviously come to make an impression. If she concentrated, even now she could imagine his dark hair, grey eyes, gold-flecked. Eagle features, she remembered. A will of tempered steel. Now, what would it have been like to wed such a man as he?

Barely polite, he had been uncomfortably forthright. I don’t seek a marriage with one of yours. One of his more discreet opinions. But then that one sweep of his hard grey eyes was an insult in itself. All I demand from you, my lord, is the return of my father’s property and recompense for the untimely death of my wife. If she had wed the Wild Hawk, he would not have let her have her own way, that’s for sure. He would order and demand and insist at every turn. Rosamund shivered at the prospect. That would be almost as bad as wedding Ralph de Morgan! Despite her own preoccupations, she found it in her heart to feel pity for the Wild Hawk’s poor dead wife.

Her breath hitched a little. At the last he had, surely against his will, touched her once. As he marched to the door, furiously disappointed, he was forced to pass within an arm’s length of her. He had stopped abruptly, thrust out his hand in command. She had placed hers there.

‘My lady!’

And he had kissed her fingers. Fleetingly. Mouth and hand as cold as his ire was hot. Yet it had burned her, the heat of it slamming her senses. She still recalled it, as if the brand were still there. Imagined in her moments of despair what it would be like to feel the insistent pressure of those lips on hers, the slick knowledge of his tongue, those hands against her breast where her heart pounded for some desired outcome of which she had no experience …

Rosamund blinked away the scene. Well, the outcome of the clash between two such strong-willed men had put paid to any such possibility of the man taking her to his bed. The Wild Hawk hadn’t got the land or the recompense he sought, Earl William had not got his alliance and she hadn’t got a husband. Her unwilling lover had stiffened, his head bent, hair curling like black silk against her wrist. Then he had dropped her hand as if it had scorched him, leaving her without a backward glance. That was the last she heard of him.

And yet, Rosamund had found those strong features haunting her thoughts. Not a handsome man, his features too harsh for pure symmetry, but an arresting one. A powerful man with a dark glamour who would draw the eyes of any woman. A man who would let nothing stand in his way of seizing what he wanted. What would it have been like to have wed that Wild Hawk, to be his and his alone? To have given up her prized virginity to a man who prowled and smouldered and demanded. Four years on and she was still in possession of that prize, and no one valued it—except the despicable Ralph. She would probably take it to her grave. What value then?

‘Rose …’

She blinked again, aware that her mother was beginning to fret under her own fierce and protracted stare. That was all long ago. Now her Hawk was probably as fat and unappetising as Ralph de Morgan, living in some cold secluded castle with a wife and children around his feet. Without doubt, he would have ridden roughshod over her just as much as the de Longspeys, which would not have been to her taste.