It's been something amazing to watch them construct a brand new castle within the old fort here at Pevensey. Amazing, and frightening. These Normans are...different from us. I have not yet decided if it is bad or good. Maybe it is simply a matter of being good for them and bad for us.

They are industrious at the very least. And skilled fighters.

Currently, I am sitting outside in the damp fall air, wrapped in one of Deniel's cloaks, watching as he trains his squire. He's noticed that I can write and like to draw, and has kept me supplied in ink and parchment...on the condition that I teach him more of my language. 

He still hasn't explained why he even bothers to learn.

Other than the lessons, Deniel has mostly avoided me, which isn't hard considering that the duke has been sending his knights on raids into the countryside, trying to draw King Harold down to the duke's chosen field of battle. 

Deniel always returns looking vaguely furious.

He doesn't like what they are doing, but he swore fealty to Duke William. The only choices he has now are between murder and dishonor. I am not sure what it says about him that his honor is more important. I have to confess it is not exactly something I can condemn him for.

I cannot understand this man. He deals in blood and death and seems to live mostly in a state of barely repressed fury. But still, he never raises his voice at me. He is infinitely patient in his lessons, more apt to get aggravated with himself than with me. 

Sometimes I catch him watching me with a look of thinly veiled longing, but he has never touched me.

I'm beginning to pick up more of their language as well—I've heard the mutters and the jokes. I know what his comrades think. But they're wrong. Deniel hasn't even suggested that we so much as sleep in the same bed. He's stayed on the ground, wrapped in blankets and cloaks against the creeping chill.

Which only leaves me confused, frankly.

Why would he give anything up for me? Why would he...care for me as he has, expecting nothing in return. Demanding nothing in return. I am here and completely at his mercy. Why hasn't he taken advantage of that?

And this is obviously not complaining. It's just trying to riddle him out. Trying to wrap my mind around any of this.

He's just...kind. Sometimes exceedingly so and I find myself forgetting that I am his prisoner because he treats me like I am simply human.

They're nearly done training. Deniel always stops when his squire begins to get angry, and the boy seems incapable of picking up a blade without descending into that anger. Although, I suppose I cannot blame him. Fighting against an opponent as skilled as Deniel must be frustrating, when it's not outright deadly. 

I can feel the knight's eyes on me. He watches me, when he thinks I'm not paying attention. Sometimes I wonder what he's looking for.

The sun is starting to set. It will be time for dinner soon, which is good. I'm hungry for the first time since Deniel found me, and he eats well. The smell of cooking meat is making my stomach growl.

I'm beginning to fear I've been with these people too long. Six days feels like a small eternity when it's lived like this—in a sort of cocoon. I must confess I find myself watching Deniel as often as he watches me. I am...fascinated by him, and I fear that fascination is turning into something else.

Even when he comes back with the blood of my kinsman on his hands, I find it impossible to hate him. 

This fact only makes me hate myself.

                                                                                 ~~*~~

After dinner, Deniel had his squire saddle his massive warhorse. It surprised me when he asked if I would like to accompany him.

I leapt at the chance to get out of the Norman camp. The constant clamor and stink of so many people packed into such a tight space was starting to drive me mad. 

Deniel led me over to the destrier and mounted in one, smooth motion. He leaned forward, offering a hand. I had rarely ridden a horse and my nerves began to hiss as I stared at the warhorse. But his proffered hand wiggled slightly, catching my attention, and I glanced up to find him smirking.

My pride silenced my anxiety and I took his hand, letting him haul me up behind him. My barely healed shoulder grumbled in annoyance while I settled myself on the massive animal. Deniel clicked his tongue, tapping his heels against the beast's sides. I gasped and wrapped my arms around the knight when the horse lurched forward beneath us.

He wrapped a hand around both of mine where they were locked around his middle, his thumb swiping along the back of my palm.

"Hold tight," he warned before urging his horse into a light canter.

I couldn't help but giggle as people scattered, shouting nasty insults behind him. I thought he might have laughed as well. It didn't take long before we'd left the bustle of camp behind, the horse pounding down the length of the beach.

We passed where Duke William had ordered some of his ships burned, their skeletons black against the twilight sky. We rode until my shoulder was throbbing and we could no longer see the camp. 

It felt like forever before he finally reined in his mount, slowing to a walk, then drawing to a halt. My entire body trembled from the pain and I feared I would slide right off as soon as he let go of me. Deniel twisted in the saddle, throwing a leg over the horse's neck so he could dismount without knocking me from the animal's back.

Then he caught me when I all but fell off the destrier.

He touched my shoulder, searching for any sign that the arrow wound had reopened. When he was satisfied, he stepped back from me and undid his cloak, spreading it over the chilled sand. I cautiously leaned against the horse's mighty shoulder, trying to stop my legs from trembling as I watched Deniel sit and stare out over the sea.

A salty breeze lifted my hair. I closed my eyes, listening to the hiss and crash of waves.

"Would you be joining me?" he asked softly.

He always asked things. The only demand he had made was that I don't venture into the camp without him to accompany me.

"Would you join me," I said. He had asked—again asked—that I correct him when he spoke incorrectly.

Deniel shook his head, blond hair fluttering softly in the breeze. "Would you join me?" he repeated, glancing over his shoulder. After a moment, I nodded and took a seat on the edge of his cloak, making sure to keep quite a bit of space between us.

Neither of us spoke for a long time, instead just watching the dying light gild the waves crashing on the shore. I couldn't stop myself from glancing at him, curious as to why he had brought me out here.

"The ocean is reminding me of home," he finally said, leaning back on his hands and stretching his long legs out in front of him.

"Reminds me."

A smile twitched at his mouth and he nodded.

"In...France?"

"Normandy." He gave me a wry look, like I should have known there was a difference.

I chewed on my bottom lip, considering if I really wanted to know anything more about him. My questions from earlier popped into my mind, convincing me that I did, even as my conscience hesitated.

"Why come here?" I asked, bringing my knees up to my chest.

Deniel shook his head. "Does my reasons matter?"

I didn't bother to correct his grammar. The conversation had somehow taken on a weight that eclipsed such things.

"I would like to know," I finally admitted.

The knight gave me a startled look before sending his gaze back to the ocean. He took a breath. "I am sixth son of a...small? Lord in Normandy. There are no futures for me in Normandy." He scowled. "Duke William promised land and...name? No. Title."

"And that is a good enough reason to come and kill my people?" I asked, incredulous.

"Your soldiers, yes," he said, voice flat. "The Confessor promised Duke William England's throne. I am supposing he has as much...claim as Harold."

I scoffed, raking my fingers through the sand. His honesty struck me, even though I didn't much like his words. "You come to fight soldiers and instead murder farmers?" 

"No," he said quietly. "I talk to them and defend myself when it is called for."

My head whipped toward him, lips parting in shock. He bared his teeth in a snarl at the setting sun. Then he got to his feet and offered a hand, still appearing grim.

"You don't have to believe me if you don't want to," he said, still not looking at me. "War is ugly and my restraint does not earn me friends. But..." His eyes flashed to me. "I would be...bold enough to wish it earning your...thought?"

"Consideration," I whispered.

He nodded. I took his hand, letting him lead me back to the horse.

My mind spun as he helped me up, and continued to churn on the much slower ride back.