Читать книгу His Captive Lady - Carol Townend, Carol Townend - Страница 11

Chapter Five

‘He is not nobly born, my lady,’ Hrothgar hissed in her ear.

Erica shrugged. ‘I care not. If I am allowed a choice, I choose this man.’

‘Oh, but it is worse than that, my lady.’ Hrothgar’s lips curled and he shot the young man standing stiffly at Erica’s side a disdainful look. ‘Brader is a bastard.’

Saewulf Brader’s jaw tightened, but he did not refute Hrothgar’s accusation.

It certainly was shocking, in a day when to produce a child out of wedlock was deemed one of the greatest sins a woman could commit. Erica’s breath caught as it struck her that, after tonight, that might be her fate. She sent another prayer winging heavenward that, whatever happened tonight, she must not conceive. And another, that Thane Guthlac would give her to the younger housecarl. Saewulf Brader’s birth was nothing set against her desire, her very strong desire, that she should not be given to Hrothgar.

Dimly, Erica was aware of more muttering down the table, more calls of, ‘Let them fight! A fight!’

She kept her gaze pinned on Guthlac Stigandson. ‘Please, my lord, for the respect you felt for my father, I ask you in acknowledgement of the respect he had for you. Let me choose.’

Her thoughts moved swiftly. And now, she told herself, no more words, lest you begin to beg. For she misliked the look of Thane Guthlac’s right-hand man. Neither in his words nor his manner did Hrothgar appear to be someone who would consider a woman’s feelings. But this other whose tunic she could not seem to release…this younger man who, though low in the pecking order, had spoken up for her. It was little enough to judge a man by, but what else had she to go on? The ridiculous realisation that, even in this hall, on this most hideous of nights, she found Saewulf Brader attractive? Those thickly lashed blue eyes seemed to be the only eyes in the hall to see her, to really see her; his wide shoulders suggested that here was a man strong enough to share her burdens; the fine-boned fingers clenching and unclenching on his swordhilt hinted at a sensitivity she would not have looked for in a warrior loyal to Thane Guthlac.

She must be losing her wits. For even in the midst of her humiliation, she found herself drawn to this Saewulf Brader.

Thane Guthlac was stroking his beard, making much of coming to a decision. Erica swallowed down a bitter taste. She was only too conscious of the men on the benches holding their breath, awaiting his judgement. Her fate, the question of whether she was to be given to Thane Guthlac’s champion or his rawest recruit, was little more to most of them than an evening’s entertainment. A minstrel or a dancing girl would have been received with like interest and with as little concern.

Biting back a tart response, Erica gripped Saewulf Brader’s brown homespun for all she was worth. She lowered her gaze, for, if Guthlac Stigandson saw the anger that must be burning in her eyes, he would surely give her to Hrothgar. She wanted to fly at her father’s old enemy, kicking and screaming; she wanted to turn tail and run. But one thing weighed more than her anger at Thane Guthlac—her determination that Morcar, Hrolf and the others should not rot in that noisome cottage. Add to that her hatred of Normans and her vision that the two warbands should unite against those who had stolen her father’s lands…

She stood firm, it was all she could do. Erica of Whitecliffe was at the mercy of Thane Guthlac’s whim. And to think that the men watching so avidly were fellow Saxons…

Thane Guthlac pushed up her chin. ‘Lady Erica, you are a brave woman, you do not weep and wail, you are a daughter a man could be proud of—a peace-weaver.’ He waved at Saewulf Brader. ‘Take Thane Eric’s daughter—this night a true-born lady is yours.’

A sigh rippled round the hall like the wind in the reeds, but Erica barely heard it. She dragged in a breath.

At her side the dark head bowed briefly. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ Saewulf Brader spoke quietly and without triumph. Her heart warmed to him. Then blue eyes were looking into hers and he offered her his hand. The palm was callused from much swordplay and for a moment she blinked at it. ‘Lady Erica?’

Erica managed to release the death grip she had on his tunic and strong fingers closed on hers.

‘No! No!’ Ailric renewed his struggles with his captors, but a sharp elbow to his stomach had him rolling in the rushes, gasping for breath like a landed fish.

Thane Guthlac grinned briefly in Ailric’s direction before transferring his attention back to Saewulf Brader. ‘You may…rest in the storeroom tonight.’

Saewulf Brader’s grip tightened and he led her towards a small door to one side of the hall. Laughter erupted behind them. The blood rushed in Erica’s ears.

‘My apologies, Hrothgar,’ she heard Guthlac say. ‘Despite the feud, I find I have some liking for that girl. She is courageous—for a woman.’

Hrothgar let out one of his snorts and signalled for more ale. ‘I care not. Truth be told, the wench is too tall for my taste anyway.’

In a daze, in which Erica could not have told whether relief or trepidation held the upper hand, she watched Saewulf Brader’s lean fingers reach for the door latch. The storeroom door swung open, a dark space opened out before her, and he gestured her inside. Thane Guthlac’s laughing response to Hrothgar, the retching noises Ailric was still making, and the noise and babble in the hall faded.

Blackness, shadows. Erica held down a groan and her steps slowed—she had a hearty mislike of the dark.

The wooden lintel was so low that Saewulf Brader was ducking his head as he followed her in. He glanced frowningly around the ill-lit, cramped space, which was almost entirely taken up with barrels and narrow-necked clay jars, before his gaze ran slowly over her face.

‘Dark,’ Erica muttered, hugging herself, and hating that he should see this weakness in her. ‘Too dark.’

‘Wait here, my lady, I will bring light.’ The shadows retreated as he opened the door and stepped back into the hall. When he closed it behind him, they advanced again.

Erica stared through the gloom at the rectangular sliver of light around the edge of the storeroom door. Her heartbeat was erratic, her hands were shaking. She curled them into her skirts.

Wait here? Where else might she go? she wondered, wildly. Hysteria was a breath away. Staring at the cracks of light, she strove for calm. He would not hurt her, not this one. Might he hurt her—had she misread him? But, Sweet Mother, how she hated the dark.

In the hall a dog yelped, another snarled. She heard the murmur of voices, muffled by the door, the scrape of a stool leg on the floorboards. She could no longer hear Ailric.

Calm, Erica, calm. He does not seem cruel. He—

The door swung back and a broad-shouldered form stooped to enter—Saewulf Brader with a flickering oil lamp and a bundle. Another, slighter shadow darkened the doorway, and a thin pallet was heaved onto the floor, next to a barrel.

‘My thanks, Maldred,’ Saewulf Brader said.

The door shut, cutting off another burst of laughter.

He set the lamp on top of the barrel along with a couple of tallow candles. ‘We will save those for later.’

Later. Erica’s breath froze. Later.

He faced her. Smiled. There was so little room that he was scarcely a foot away from her. He was very tall, this man to whom she had been given, his head almost touching the planked ceiling. And, now that he stood close, Erica could see that he did indeed look young. She clung to the thought that she was most likely his senior, by a couple of years at least. How ridiculous that this thought should give her ease. Saewulf Brader’s skin was smooth and his eyes were clear, the blue rimmed by a charcoal-coloured ring. And he was, she realised with a start, examining her with equal attention. Convulsively, she swallowed.

‘Do not fear me. You are safe,’ he said, softly.

‘I…I thank you.’ Absurdly, she believed him.

‘Do you reckon the ale will spoil if I shift this? We need elbow space to sleep in.’ He nudged a barrel with the toe of his boot, and, without waiting for her reply, set about moving it to one side. His voice took on the edge of laughter. ‘Guthlac will have me pilloried if I spoil his ale.’

Strong muscles bunched and shifted under his tunic. A tunic that, now Erica had leisure to study it, she saw was simple in design, a brown worsted with no embroidery either at cuff or hem. A straightforward weave, it had once been of a reasonable quality, but it had seen better days. His belt was wide and simple, had no fancy pattern chased into the leather. His chausses were grey. Long boots hid most of his cross-gartering, but she saw a flash of blue. But why did he have no arm-rings?

Erica backed against another barrel to give him room to manoeuvre. Saewulf Brader was, she recognised as she swallowed hard on the lump in her throat, the image of health. He should have won at least a couple of trophies. But his lack of arm-rings was not uppermost in her thoughts. Young men, healthy young men were, in Erica’s admittedly limited experience, not entirely reliable where women were concerned. This she had learnt from listening to Ailric and Hereward. Even when Ailric had hoped to become her betrothed, he had visited the tavern girls by the docks in Lewes.

Until today, Erica had led a sheltered life—her high status had protected her. Physically, at least. Politically, of course, she was far from sheltered. A favoured only daughter, many was the night that she had sat at her father’s board listening to his men; many a time she had joined in their debates. Which was how her father’s housecarls had come to heed her counsel when news had come of Thane Eric’s death. Physically though, she remained naïve. Even though Erica had fled Whitecliffe with her father’s men, and had been living the life of an outlaw ever since, they remained extremely protective of her. Not one of her housecarls would dream of laying a finger on her. Physically, she was as chaste and innocent as a nun in an enclosed order.

Today that had changed. Erica had come to Thane Guthlac to end the bloodfeud. She was the sacrifice and she must personally make reparation for the slight suffered by Guthlac’s mother.

Silently, she stared at Saewulf Brader’s broad back as he worked and wondered what was running through his mind. He might have no arm-rings, but tonight he had been given a trophy. Her. Could she take him at his word? Could she trust him not to…touch her? He was—she must remember—Guthlac Stigandson’s man.

‘Saewulf?’

He ceased rolling a barrel closer to the wall, and glanced across. ‘Hmm?’

‘Wh…what have they done with Ailric?’

‘Locked him up with your other man,’ came the brief answer. Turning away, he continued clearing their sleeping space.

‘Thane Guthlac would not harm them, would he?’

Again the blue eyes met hers. A shrug. ‘I think not.’ He rested an elbow on the barrel. ‘This Ailric,’ he asked quietly, ‘you were to marry him?’

‘I…I…at one time. Not now.’

‘But there is…affection between you?’

Erica twisted her hands together. For her part, she had never felt anything more for Ailric than for any other of her father’s housecarls. Ailric, on the other hand, had been wont to act as though she belonged to him. Not that that had prevented him from visiting those tavern girls with Hereward.

Guthlac’s man smiled, and his expression softened. Erica’s pulse quickened—he was extraordinarily well favoured when he smiled.

‘Ailric certainly appears possessive where you are concerned.’

‘Yes.’

‘He will be angry after tonight.’ A thoughtful look came over him and he sighed. ‘I dare say he will wish to kill me. Such is the nature of a bloodfeud, so it continues, feeding on itself like yeast in a brew-tub.’

Erica bit her lip and glanced at the door. ‘But you said that you would not…that you…you swore you would n-not…’

‘Peace, my lady.’ The blue gaze was steady. ‘I will keep that vow. At dawn you will leave this chamber as pure as you were when you entered it.’

Again he smiled, and again Erica’s heart warmed towards him, for taking care to reassure her. His mouth was beautiful, she thought, disconcerted. One could see more of a man’s expression when he was not hiding behind a beard as was the Saxon fashion. And certainly in Saewulf Brader’s case, the lack of beard was far from unattractive. The curve of his mouth and the shape of his jaw—strong…

Presenting his back to her, he rolled one of the barrels in front of the door, grunting with the effort. ‘And before you object…’ His voice was amused, though how on earth Erica could tell that she could not say. Saewulf Brader was Guthlac’s man, a stranger, yet already she knew when his voice was smiling. ‘Before you object, my lady, I am putting this here to ensure that you may sleep in privacy this night. It is not there to keep you imprisoned.’ Straightening, he dusted his hands on his thighs.

‘Saewulf?’

He came close, so close that she had to tip back her head to look up at him. ‘My friends call me Wulf.’

‘Wulf.’ Erica gave him a shaky smile and broke eye contact. Wulf. It suited him. And, since January was wulf-monath, the month of the wolves, it was fitting somehow. Sweet Lord, but he was tall. Having inherited her father’s height, Erica was unaccustomed to looking up at a man; it made her feel…shy. And Wulf’s proximity in the cramped storeroom made his physical presence seem overpowering. It was not simply his height; it was the width of his shoulders, the intensity of his gaze. If he wanted to, he would have no trouble in forcing her. But, thankfully, he did not appear to have any such intention. Her guardian angel must have been watching over her this night. This particular wolf was not of the ravening sort.

‘Wulf…’ she swallowed ‘…how apt.’ The name Wulf was, however, a timely reminder. Here she was, a lone woman among a pack of wolves, and he was one of them—she must not forget that. However personable Seawulf Brader appeared, she must keep in mind that he was Thane Guthlac’s man.

‘Apt? Oh, I see, of course, you would think that. It is wulf-monath—you must feel you have been flung into a den of them.’

Erica’s jaw dropped—he could read her so easily? She looked at the pulse beating in his neck and frowned. ‘Wulf, I…I do thank you for your help. But I wonder…’

‘My lady?’

‘It is just that I am not certain why Thane Guthlac gave me to you and not to…to…that other one—his name escapes me.’

‘Hrothgar.’

‘Yes. Why did he give me to you when you made it clear then that you had no intention of…?’ She tried unsuccessfully to hold down a blush and would have turned away, but a light touch brought her face back to his.

‘That is easily answered. After tonight, my lady, you will find that your status has changed—no one will believe that you are chaste. It will matter not that I have not touched you, everyone will assume the worst. And because—’ his hand fell away and steel entered those blue eyes ‘—because I am what I am, your disparagement will be the more certain, your fall from grace the more precipitate.’

‘How so?’ Erica’s chest was tight; there was not nearly enough air in this storeroom.

Seeming to sense her discomfort, he eased back a pace, though his eyes remained cold. ‘Did you not hear Thane Guthlac and Hrothgar? Not only am I new to the warband and untried in battle, but I…’ He gave her a mocking bow. ‘Thane Guthlac recalls me from my childhood in Southwark. He knows I am Winifred Brader’s illegitimate son, and he has made sure that every man sworn to him knows me for what I am—a bastard, a low-born bastard.’

His cheeks had darkened and he was no longer meeting her gaze. Erica did not think it was shame that made him look away. He imagines he will see scorn and dismissal in my face. ‘Wulf?’ She made her voice as gentle as she could. ‘You could not help the circumstances of your birth.’

‘Lady, did you not hear me? My parents’ union was unsanctified. A bastard will share your sleeping quarters this night. That is why Thane Guthlac permitted you to choose me.’ He smiled, but his smile was bitter, and her heart ached.

‘Your birth does not trouble me,’ Erica said, frankly. ‘I chose you over…?’

‘Hrothgar.’

‘Yes, him. Of the two of you, I knew at once who was the man of honour.’

Wulf shook his head and his dark hair gleamed in the lamplight. ‘Lady, we are strangers.’

‘I know you,’ Erica said firmly. ‘And you, Wulf Brader, will not hurt me. That tells me all I need to know.’

With a sigh, he stooped for the pallet, dragged it to the space he had cleared and flung his cloak over it. ‘Lady, your bed.’ Drawing his own russet cloak from the bundle he had brought in with him, he handed it to her.

‘And you? Where will you sleep?’

‘Here, by the door.’

The spot he indicated was small for a man of his proportions. ‘There is little room.’ Immediately, Erica blushed, and wished the words unsaid. They sounded almost like an invitation.

‘There is room enough.’

Retreating to the pallet, she sank down on it and drew her cloak to her chin. She tried not to look his way. The cloak that she was lying on—his cloak—was thick and double lined, but there was no disguising that the mattress under it was thin and lumpy. For a moment Erica felt a longing for the fat, down-filled mattress of her box-bed at Whitecliffe, but she pushed the thought aside, and closed her ears to the harsh rustle of straw as she shifted on her crude bed.

It would be an uncomfortable night, Erica thought, recognising with something approaching astonishment that fear no longer gripped her. Her judgement of this man had been sound—she could trust him. He might be illegitimate, but there was no denying that Wulf Brader was an honourable man. Honour, she was fast learning, was not confined solely to the aristocracy.

She raised herself up on an elbow, bracelets jingling. ‘Wulf?’

‘Mmm?’

He was sitting on the floor, leaning against a barrel, pulling his boots off. Briskly he unbuckled his belt and set his sword close to hand. Erica’s stomach lurched as he began unwinding the blue cross-gartering. She had never slept alone with a man. And Wulf’s dark, almost sinful good looks, were having a strange effect on her; it would seem that they made improper thoughts leap into her head, unseemly thoughts that an unmarried Saxon lady had no business thinking, particularly since she had barely escaped ravishment at the hands of Hrothgar.

But Erica could not help herself, the thoughts kept coming. Thoughts about what it would be like to kiss such a man, one with penetrating blue eyes and a well-shaped mouth that had softened more than once when he had looked at her, a powerful man with a peculiar hint of sensitivity about him. Erica had never kissed a man, not intimately. Once, Ailric had attempted to steal a kiss in the Christmas before the Normans had come, but he had come to Erica with the reek of the ale-house on his breath and she had pushed him away very quickly. Her position as thane’s daughter had spared her other men’s attentions.

As Erica watched Wulf Brader prepare for sleep, the disconcerting intimacy of their situation stole her breath, and for a moment she forgot her question. Then she remembered. She was curious about him, his background, and not just what it might be like to share a kiss with him. It was quite ridiculous that she was having carnal thoughts and most unlike her. Still, it had to be better than dwelling on her current plight—hostage to the whim of Guthlac Stigandson.

‘Wulf, you say you are but newly recruited—how came you to join Thane Guthlac?’

For a moment it seemed he was not going to respond, then he shifted and said, ‘I was brought up in the port of London, near Earl Godwine’s house in Southwark. That was where, as a boy, I originally met Thane Guthlac.’

Erica’s eyes widened. ‘Did you meet King Harold, too?’

Again, Wulf took his time answering. In the hall, the noise was lessening, save for the clatter and bang of trestles and benches as they were pushed back to the wall to make room for sleeping.

‘Yes, but I do not like to talk of those days,’ he said in a closed voice, and bent over his cross-gartering.

Erica nodded. She understood; she felt the same way herself. She also had met King Harold, both when he was an earl and, later, when he had been king. And, yes, it was indeed painful to recall former times, when a Saxon king sat on the throne of England, and when William of Normandy was but a minor princeling on the other side of the Narrow Sea. ‘We all wish King William in hell,’ she said. ‘What loyal Saxon would not?’

Wulf shot her an impenetrable look and set the leg bindings aside. ‘Goodnight, my lady.’

‘Goodnight.’

Settling down once more on his cloak, Erica composed herself for sleep.