Читать книгу His Captive Lady - Carol Townend, Carol Townend - Страница 10

Chapter Four

The rebels were eating their evening meal, and Wulf was—much against his better judgement for he should be at the rendezvous with Lucien—still in Guthlac’s hall. He peered through the stinking haze of tallow candles towards the head of the trestle and wished he had been party to the negotiations between Thane Guthlac and the Lady Erica. They had talked from dawn to dusk and it was impossible to tell from their manner how they were progressing. Wulf could hear nothing of note over the clatter of knives and the guffaws and the general babble of conversation. He had to get closer…

Meals in this fenland castle were taken very differently to meals in King William’s barrack-hall at Westminster. Here, no weapon stacks bristled with arms by the walls; instead, men wore their arms to table. They sat with their swords jutting out behind them, an ever-present hazard for servers approaching the benches with dishes and ale jugs. The continual bearing of arms by every able-bodied man in the camp reminded Wulf, if reminder were needed, that he was breaking bread with outlaws. To a man they were poised to jump to arms at a moment’s notice. If they suspected that he served another master, a Norman master, a dozen swords would be at his throat.

‘More ale, Saewulf?’

The lad Maldred was at his elbow, jug in hand. Smiling, Wulf nodded and held out his cup, but his attention never wavered from the top of the table. A sense of unease had sat with him since the morning—and it irked him, because he knew it was not connected with the Saxon outlaws and his commission for De Warenne. Rather, it was centred on Lady Erica.

Wulf should have met De Warenne’s man this afternoon. With every moment he lingered here, the risk of discovery grew. But he could not leave, not yet, because the lady… Merde! Thank God he had thought to arrange a second, fall-back meeting a few days hence. That one he would not miss.

Lady Erica was hemmed in on the one hand by the rebel Guthlac and on the other by Hrothgar. Guthlac’s wife Lady Hilda sat close by, but Wulf had yet to see the two women exchange words with each other. Like the other men, Guthlac and Hrothgar were wearing their arms; indeed, Hrothgar sat so close to Lady Erica that Wulf wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the scabbard of his dagger was digging into her side.

The only men not wearing arms were the lady’s housecarls. They were glowering from a side-table, under guard but uncowed. Their eyes barely left their mistress for a moment, as if by watching her they could protect her. Wulf followed their gaze, even though looking at her made him uneasy. So startling was Lady Erica’s beauty that he found her hard to look on, and he did not wish her to think that he was ogling. Not that any of the outlaws seemed to hold with such scruples; both Hrothgar and Beorn had been openly drooling ever since she had stepped into the bailey.

Her gown was an unusual shade of violet, with silver embroidery at the neck and hem. The silken side lacings were designed to emphasise a figure that was as fine as her features. Lady Erica had a high bosom, a narrow waist, and gently curving hips. That gown, Wulf thought, with that hint of purple, could have been the gown of an empress. Her white silk veil must have been imported from some exotic land in the east, Byzantium most likely. Wulf frowned as he looked at the gold bracelets winking on those slender wrists, at her finger-rings. Purple was worn by royalty; the bracelets and rings were worth a fortune—following Saxon custom, she was wearing her status the same way a man wore armour when he went into battle. In her finery, she looked like a queen.

Just then, the man next to Hrothgar rose and headed for the door that led to the privies. A moment later Wulf had taken his place, nodding to Hrothgar as he eased onto the bench. Better, he thought, much better; at last he might hear something of interest.

The bloodfeud was none of his business, yet Wulf feared for the lady’s well-being. She and Guthlac had been dancing round each other since she had arrived, so why had no conclusion been reached? Guthlac Stigandson did not strike Wulf as a patient man, quite the opposite, in fact. Why, the day before yesterday, Guthlac had had a body-servant beaten to within an inch of his life for laying out the wrong tunic; a serving wench had seen the flat of his hand for accidentally spilling some wine in Lady Hilda’s lap. What was the key point in these drawn-out negotiations?

The rebel leader hated Lady Erica. Wulf could see it in his eyes; he could see it in the over-polite way Guthlac handed her a piece of fish on the end of his knife, apeing the fine manners of a courtier in King William’s palace at Westminster, when all the while his face was set like stone.

So, Wulf thought, swallowing down some ale, why the delay? Why spend hours dancing around the lady and her demands? She wanted her men—outlaws like these, Wulf reminded himself—to enter into an alliance with Thane Guthlac. It made sense in military terms, but Wulf did not think that Guthlac had the first intention of forging an alliance with Erica of Whitecliffe. Guthlac’s eyes glittered with loathing; they were hard as glass in the flare of the torches. He was toying with her and she knew it.

The fish was settling uncomfortably in Wulf’s stomach. Guthlac’s eyes were warning him that the feud between his housecarls and Lady Erica’s was far from dead; the man was biding his time.

And Hrothgar? Eyeing the lady’s bosom. Lord, the entire warband was eyeing her body.

Erica of Whitecliffe leaned forwards and murmured at Guthlac’s wife. Lady Hilda gave a weak smile of acknowledgement, but a sharp look from her husband had her ducking her head to pick at the fish on her trencher.

Wulf’s sense of frustration grew. Thane Guthlac sat like a king at the head of his hall, downing measure after measure of ale, offering the lady yet another portion of fish, of eel. And all the while, Wulf’s indigestion got worse. What the hell was Guthlac waiting for?

Tired of waiting for Guthlac to end the game, tired of wishing his stomach was not in knots and of wishing that William de Warenne had sent him anywhere but to this bleak corner of England, Wulf was glowering into a candle flame when a scraping of stools and benches told him the meal was over.

His stomach cramped. Lady Erica’s face was white as snow and she was staring at Guthlac as though he had sprouted horns. Into the sudden hush, her voice came clear. ‘You cannot mean it.’

Guthlac’s smile was empty. ‘I assure you, I do.’

‘No, my lord, this feuding must end!’

Guthlac thrust his face into hers. ‘Easy for you to say, my dear, since you have been foolish enough to put yourself in this position. But would you have spoken up, I wonder, before my mother was…disparaged?’

Never had Wulf sat through a silence so profound in a hall full of men who had just eaten and drunk their fill. He was not sure he understood what Guthlac was talking about but, dimly recalling the mutterings of rape, he had his suspicions. No one so much as breathed.

One of the lady’s men lurched towards her, desperation in his eyes as his hand went to the hilt of his sword—the sword that was not there because he had been disarmed.

The lady held him back with a calm, ‘Ailric, no.’

‘But, my lady,’ her housecarl protested as, at Guthlac’s nod, two men leaped to restrain him, ‘he means you harm!’

‘Ailric, be still.’

‘Ailric?’ Guthlac Stigandson looked with calculating curiosity at the lady. ‘This man means something to you?’

Ailric strained against his captors. ‘I should hope that I do, Thane Eric said I was to marry Lady Erica before…before…’

‘Before the Norman bastard came and killed him?’

‘Aye!’

A slender, beringed hand came to rest on the outlaw’s sleeve. ‘Thane Guthlac, the feud must end.’

Guthlac ground his teeth, and got heavily to his feet. ‘No, my lady, not yet. The bloodfeud is a matter of honour. Its continuance is as vital to me as the duty a thane owes to his liege lord. Know this: your father was my sworn enemy in the matter of the feud between our families. But he and I fought shoulder to shoulder for Harold at Hastings. And though Thane Eric was my enemy, I honour him. He died an honourable death, fighting for his king.’

‘Then surely, my lord—’ Lady Erica’s steady voice carried clearly to every corner of the hall, a hall that to Wulf’s mind was filled with an increasingly ugly air of expectancy ‘—you could find it in your heart to end this bloodfeud? You honour my father as a warrior, and I know he honoured you in the same way, but—’

‘Silence!’ Guthlac’s fists clenched. He turned to face his wife. ‘And you, woman…’

Lady Hilda’s lips tightened, but she answered meekly, ‘My lord?’

Guthlac jerked his head in the direction of the door. ‘Out! I will see you later, when this business is concluded. Wait for me in our chamber.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

The atmosphere was thick with tension, and was almost suffocating. Wulf’s skin crawled. Whatever Guthlac had planned for this Saxon lady, he doubted she was ready for it. At the edge of his vision, Hrothgar wound his fingers round his swordhilt, bracelets flashing in the candlelight.

Lady Hilda pushed back her stool, dropped a quick curtsy at her lord, and sent Erica of Whitecliffe a pitying look. Waving for her ladies, she scurried with them from the hall.

Guthlac stared coldly at Erica of Whitecliffe, now the only woman present. Gripping her by the arm, he hauled her to her feet. His words were slightly slurred from all the ale. ‘So, daughter of Eric, you are to make reparation for the slight your family did to mine.’

Lady Erica stood, slim and straight as a wand next to Guthlac’s solid bulk. She tossed her white veil out of the way, a veil of so fine a weave that her dark braids were visible beneath the fluttering silk. Her cheeks were pale, her expression composed, but the hem of that veil was trembling. Her composure was a mask; she knew what was likely to happen to her. The bile rose in Wulf’s throat.

‘I will do it,’ Hrothgar said, getting up to seize the lady’s other arm. His mouth twisted. ‘Seeing as you are a married man, my lord.’

One man made a lewd remark. Another spluttered into his ale.

‘My lord!’ Wulf scrambled to his feet. He was not certain, but he feared that the Lady Erica was about to face the same fate as his sister. With his commission, the last thing he needed to do was to draw attention to himself, but he could not stand by and let this happen. ‘You cannot sanction this…it…it would be rape!’

Great green eyes fixed on him, wide and startled— Wulf felt their impact in his core. Then Lady Erica seemed to draw calmness about her person like a cloak and her features went blank. It was as though she had somehow absented herself from the hall.

‘Rape?’ Guthlac Stigandson was shaking his head and several around the board murmured their agreement. ‘Not rape, but reparation, Brader, reparation. Since you have not been long of our number and are unfamiliar with this feud, I will explain. If one of my men disparages Thane Eric’s daughter, then our honour will be satisfied. In view of what was done to my beloved mother, such an act is not rape, it is merely reparation.’

Wulf edged his sword free of its sheath. Hrothgar was watching him like a hawk. ‘No, my lord.’ For his part, Wulf did not take his eyes from Guthlac. Wulf did not want a fight, not here, not over this woman, but in memory of his poor sister, he could not see her hurt. ‘Call it what you like, but if a woman is bedded against her will, it is rape.’

Lady Erica’s bosom heaved. ‘I think, sir, I would be willing—’ her tone was distant, her sang-froid astonishing ‘—if I knew for certain it would finally put an end to the bloodfeud. That is why I am here, to end the bloodfeud.’

Appalled, Wulf stared. She was obviously personally innocent of any wrongdoing and yet she could accept such barbarism? The man she had called Ailric could not; on the other side of the trestle, the veins were bulging in his temples as he struggled vainly to wrench free of his guards. The lady looked directly at Wulf, but her green eyes had lost their luster; they were dull as they had not been when she had first walked, head high, through that portcullis. The Lady Erica’s body might be here in this hall, but her mind and her soul had fled. It came to Wulf that already, though hardly a finger had been laid upon her, this woman was being scarred by what was happening.

But surprised?

Wulf gritted his teeth. No, the lady had definitely not been ignorant of the revenge that the Saxon leader might demand, she had known. Oh, she could not have been certain of the revenge Guthlac would exact on her, but she had recognised that her ravishment was a distinct possibility.

She had hoped, perhaps, that Guthlac Stigandson would relent, but she had known the possibilities and—with stunning bravery—she had walked into this stronghold fully prepared to offer herself up so that the bloodfeud might end. She was desperate, so trapped she was prepared to be the sacrificial lamb.

Stepping carefully round her, Wulf looked directly at Guthlac. The man’s gaze was as cold as fenwater. ‘My lord, I realise I am but a newcomer here, but I am bound to say that, however you dress it, this is not an honourable act.’

Hrothgar’s lips curled. ‘Woman.’

Wulf was not about to be distracted by such a crude attempt to draw his fire. ‘My lord?’

Guthlac sighed. Now that his wife and her ladies had left the hall, some of the tension seemed to have left him. Perhaps all was not lost. Was it possible that the man possessed a shred of decency? Had he been ashamed to sanction such an act before his wife? Guthlac wanted his revenge, to be sure, but perhaps on one level he did not have the stomach for it. He had openly admitted to a grudging respect for the lady’s father…and yet, as leader, he could not back down without impugning his honour.

The leader of a warband would not want to lose face before his men. And Wulf recalled that it had been Guthlac’s mother who had apparently been—what was the term they had used?—disparaged. Had she really been raped? Dear God, did two wrongs make a right?

‘Saewulf Brader…’ Guthlac released Lady Erica to Hrothgar and reached for his ale ‘…as you have not been long of our number, I shall once again overlook your questioning me. But let me assure you, the feud between Thane Eric’s family and mine is an honourable one. Why, even a man born by the docks in Southwark as you were, must have heard of such bloodfeuds.’

Wulf nodded. ‘Indeed, my lord, but surely the honour that is satisfied in harming an innocent young woman is a pretty poor sort of honour.’ The image of his sister, pale as she lay on her bier, took form in his mind’s eye. No bloodfeud had caused his sister’s death, that had been an individual act of violence, one person on another, but in Wulf’s mind rape was rape. This woman’s tribe might sanction her sacrifice, but he could not. Lady Erica would not suffer hurt tonight, not if he could help it.

Eyes narrowing, Thane Guthlac raised his ale cup. He drank deep, set the cup down with deliberate slowness and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Aye, boy,’ he said, managing with one word to emphasise his seniority in both rank and age, ‘so you might think. But what say you to the honour that saw one of her father’s housecarls abduct my mother and take her against her will?’

Wulf’s heart thudded as he realised the enormity of what he was up against. ‘One of Thane Eric’s men did violate your mother—it is true, then?’

‘Just so.’ Guthlac’s lips thinned and his voice became soft, but no less dangerous. ‘Her blood cries out for vengeance, so stand back, Saewulf Brader, let honour be satisfied.’

Somehow Lady Erica was keeping her composure. Tall and stately, she stood with lowered eyes and with only that almost imperceptible quivering of her veil to show the agitation that she must be feeling. Wulf ought to step back, De Warenne would wish it—his commission was of the first importance. But Wulf could not do it. The memory of his dead half-sister had kept him in this place when he should have gone hours ago, and now it drove him on. ‘My lord—’

‘He wants her.’ Hrothgar’s mouth became ugly. ‘That is what this is about—Saewulf fancies the girl himself. What’s the matter, Brader, wouldn’t Maude oblige last night? Never mind, boy,’ he sneered. ‘Since we are, as my lord has explained, honourable men, I will fight you for her.’

Wulf’s mouth went dry. He thought quickly. He did not want to fight Hrothgar, but if he did fight and if he won, he might be able to keep the lady safe. He swallowed; he might be one of the rawest of the housecarls in this place, but he had trained shoulder to shoulder with De Warenne’s knights, and his swordplay was strong. Hrothgar had no idea what he was up against. When Wulf had ‘enlisted’ with the rebels, he had naturally been tested in combat, but he had held back, misliking that these men should know his true measure.

Lady Erica waited, apparently meekly between Wulf and Hrothgar, while Hrothgar held fast to her arm. Remember why you are here—Wulf felt the anger rise within him—remember your commission. You should not be drawing attention to yourself. But Wulf could not tear his eyes from the large hand crushing the purple cloth of the lady’s sleeve and he knew that, whatever the cost, he could not see Erica of Whitecliffe ravished as Marie had been. Clenching his fists, he struggled for control. A hot head would not help him here; he must use his anger, not be used by it.

The lady’s head came up and those green eyes fastened on him. There was a slight crease between her brows. Tall Erica of Whitecliffe might be, her height equalled Hrothgar’s, but she only reached Wulf’s shoulder.

Wulf smiled. She did not return his smile, but her eyes ran over him, assessing him as she would a thoroughbred. Wulf felt oddly naked and hoped he was not flushing. Resigning himself to a hard, bloody fight, he was opening his mouth to accept Hrothgar’s challenge, but the lady forestalled him.

‘My lord?’ Erica darted a swift look under her lashes at the tall young warrior who was apparently prepared to risk life and limb to save her from the attentions of Thane Guthlac’s right-hand man. Thane Guthlac had referred to him as Saewulf Brader. He was, as Hrothgar had pointed out, some years Hrothgar’s junior. Why, Saewulf Brader might even be younger than herself. His hair was thick and dark and a deal shorter than most of the men’s, and while he was not exactly clean-shaven, he wore no beard. Perhaps it was the lack of beard that gave him his youthful appearance. Erica was twenty-four years old, and, if put to it, she would judge Saewulf Brader to be a couple of years younger than her.

Her mind raced. His youthfulness would not necessarily be a disadvantage in combat; he was big and solidly built, with strong muscles that showed clearly beneath that worn brown tunic. His hands were oddly at variance with his calling; they were beautifully shaped for a warrior, long fingered and fine-boned but—Erica frowned—no arm-rings jingled at his wrist. Had he won no prizes for his skill at arms? How odd, when a warrior was so strong he usually had any number of arm-rings…

For a moment their eyes met and her heart stuttered. His eyes were blue, bright and clear as the sky above the South Downs at harvest time, and framed by thick dark lashes. Saewulf Brader, Erica thought somewhat breathlessly, was physical perfection. No, not quite perfection; there were shadows under his eyes that hinted of fatigue, there were lines of tension, too…but, that aside, he was physically perfect—the man looked every inch a lady’s champion.

If she could but trust him.

Saewulf was apparently a newcomer to Thane Guthlac’s band and he did not hold with the bloodfeud, but did that mean Erica could rely on him? The lack of arm-rings was a worry, too…maybe he was not as adept as he looked.

‘Lady Erica, you had something you wished to say?’ Guthlac’s tone warned her that he was startled at her interference, but Erica took heart from his continuing use of her title. For even if Thane Guthlac was planning to force her to lie with one of his men as his price for ending the bloodfeud, he was still paying lip-service to the courtesies. Provided she showed herself to be amenable, he would not beat her or force her in that way. A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm her.

Provided she was amenable.

Another stolen glance at Saewulf Brader, a briefer one at Hrothgar, whose fingers were gouging holes in her arm and who had roused an immediate and instinctive loathing in her, and Erica had made up her mind. ‘Might I choose, my lord?’

Thane Guthlac’s brows climbed, and on the benches someone groaned, ‘No, my lord, a fight, give us a fight!’ Other men, loathe to lose what was speedily becoming the best night’s entertainment in years, joined in the chorus. ‘A fight! Give us a fight!’

Wrenching herself free of Hrothgar, Erica clasped her hands at her breast. ‘Please, my lord, let me choose. What sense in permitting two of your finest to wound themselves? We shall need every man in the coming conflict, when we fight as one.’ Beside her, the warrior Saewulf shifted, but he said nothing. The warmth of his body was oddly comforting.

Hrothgar snorted. ‘My skin is not at risk, my lord. This boy is all ambition and no staying power.’

Thane Guthlac exchanged grins with his champion. Ice trickled down Erica’s spine—she was certain her request was about to be denied. ‘My lord,’ she rushed into speech, ‘I do not relish the thought of Saxon blood being spilled on my account. If I agree to your terms, why make them fight? The bloodfeud will have ended, your honour will be satisfied, and your men and mine will have new allies against the Normans.’

‘Who would you choose?’ Thane Guthlac scratched his neck, his tone so casual, so idle, it was nothing less than an insult.

Swallowing down a rush of rage, Erica reached blindly for the brown homespun of Saewulf Brader’s tunic. ‘This one,’ she murmured, praying her instincts were not letting her down. As her fingers curled into the fabric, they closed on hard muscle beneath. ‘I would choose this one.’