A small sound came from the door, and Aislinn glanced up to see Wulfgar standing inside the portal with legs spread, hands holding his gauntlets and gray eyes regarding her. Her coloring deepened under his perusal, and in distress she wondered what he might have overheard, but she calmed as she remembered the Norman did not understand their language.
She whirled and fled up the stairs, feeling his eyes following her and only knew relief when she was safe behind the chamber door. With a sob she threw herself upon the bed to weep out her torment there, feeling as if all the heartache in the world was her own. Kerwick could not understand her choice, why she had taken the Norman lord. He thought her a slut who groveled at the bastard’s feet and placed herself in his hands to escape a few hardships. She wailed the louder when she thought of that Norman and his scoffing and pummeled her hands into the pelts in sore aggravation, hating him with all her being.
He thinks me here to serve his whimsy, she raged silently. But the wolf has much to learn, for he has not had me yet nor will he ever, not as long as I can outwit his simple Norman logic. Ere that, he will find himself tamed.
So intent was she upon her thoughts, that Aislinn did not hear the chamber door open and close but started violently when Wulfgar spoke.
“You seem intent on flooding the channel with your tears.”
She turned and in one movement threw herself from the bed, glaring at him. She sniffed her woes to silence then turned to him, smoothing her disarranged hair. Her eyes were still red with tears but an angry blush at being so surprised partly concealed this.
“My troubles are many, Lord Wulfgar, but in main they seem to descend from you,” she sneered. “My father slain, my mother abused as a slave, my home looted and my honor brutally stolen. Have I then no cause for tears?”
Wulfgar’s eyes had followed her and now a smile broke his manner. He turned a chair to face her and seated himself, casually slapping his gauntlets against his thighs for a moment while he watched her.
“I concede the tears and cause, so shed them if you must and fear no ill from me. Indeed, I find your fortitude to this moment beyond most women’s. You bear your burdens well.” He laughed lightly. “In fact, misfortune seems to agree with you.” He rose and stepped toward her until she had to raise her chin to meet his gaze. “For in truth, my vixen, you grow more beautiful with each moment.” Then his face hardened. “But even a handsome wench must know her master.” He raised his gauntlets in his hand and dropped them to her feet. “Pick them up and know that as you do so you are mine. Like these gloves you are my possession and no other’s.”
Aislinn’s violet eyes flashed with revolt. “I am not a slave,” she stated haughtily, “nor a glove that I can be worn and then be cast aside without a mere thought.”
His tawny brow raised and his lips curved into a slow, sardonic smile. Still his eyes were like cold steel, smashing down the fortress of her will.
“Can’t you be, damoiselle? I could do it. Yea, I could. I could mount you this moment and ride between your thighs and hence be off about my duties with no thought of you in mind. You rank yourself too highly, for you are indeed a slave.”
“Nay, lord,” Aislinn said quietly but with a soft determination that shook his own resolve. “A slave has passed the choice of death and sees no other road but miserable obedience. If it comes to that and my worth is done to all, I shall not hesitate to seek that haven.”
Wulfgar reached out a wide hand and cupped it beneath her chin, drawing her near and holding her motionless before him. His eyes softened to a stormy gray and his brow knitted for a moment as he could feel her passive resistance.
“Yea,” he murmured softly. “You are no man’s slave I think.” Then he withdrew his hand and turned away in a manner suddenly brusque. “But do not press the point, damoiselle.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “Lest I reconsider and choose to prove the issue.”
Her cheeks reddened under his stare. “And in that moment, lord, what then?” she returned. “Will I be just another wench to pleasure you for a time and then forgotten like your gloves? Has no damsel led you fair and dwelt upon your mind?”
Wulfgar laughed softly. “Oh, they’ve played and spread their skirts. But I’ve taken my ease of them and none has yet stuck in my memory to dwell for any time.”
Aislinn saw victory near and raised her gently curving brows to ape his offhand manner.
“Not even your mother?” she mocked and thought the argument won.
The next moment she quailed in fear. His face darkened; his eyes flashed. And as he trembled in rage she thought a blow would momentarily descend upon her.
“Nay,” he snarled through gritted teeth. “Least of all that noble dame!”
He spun about and with angry strides left the room. Aislinn stood confused. His transformation had been so abrupt that she knew beyond a doubt that his mother would find no love in her bastard son.
Wulfgar stormed out of the hall and strode across the courtyard, setting his face toward the lowering sun and letting the anger drain from him. Suddenly there was a shout from the yard and an arm pointed. Wulfgar looked to the direction indicated and saw a cloud of black smoke billowing upward from beyond the brow of a hill. He roared a command and several men jumped to their mounts as Sweyn and Wulfgar swung up into their saddles. Great hooves tore up the brown autumn turf as they charged away from the hall.
Several moments later they had topped the crest of the hill and were thundering down toward the outlying cottage where a great stack of straw and a small shed smoldered furiously, sending out the dense cloud they had seen. The scene spread before Wulfgar made his hackles raise in anger. Seven or eight bodies lay strewn about the place, among them the two yeomen he had sent as guards. The rest were a ragged bunch and bore the long Norman shafts from the yeoman’s bows. As they neared the hut a crumpled splotch of color became a young girl, brutally abused and now sprawled dead in the shreds of her dress. An old woman, bruised and blacked, crawled from a ditch and fell sobbing at the young girl’s side. Perhaps a dozen men fled on foot across the fields, but what caught Wulfgar’s eye were six mounted riders disappearing into a far copse. He shouted to his men to ride down the ones in the field then with a nod to Sweyn, those two took up the chase of the mounted ones. The great destriers knew their work and their muscles bunched and stretched as they settled into a mile-eating gallop that bore them down rapidly upon their tiring quarry. As they gained ground, Wulfgar drew his sword and raised his voice in a wrathful, wordless war cry. Sweyn’s rumbling bellow sounded in chorus beside him. Two of the riders slowed and turned to face their pursuers. Wulfgar swung beyond their reach to pass them, but Sweyn took them full on his great charger, crashing one to the ground while his ax thudded deep in the chest of the other. A glance behind told Wulfgar that Sweyn was in no danger as he stood and battled the survivor. Wulfgar turned his attention to the four ahead of him. These raiders, thinking the odds with them, also slowed and set themselves to do battle. Again Wulfgar’s spine chilling cry rang in the woods and his great steed never paused in stride but flung itself full weight into the lesser horses. Wulfgar’s sword and shield rang with their blows, then the long blade whined and split one from crown to shoulders leaving him dead in the saddle as his horse stumbled away. The fury of the charge took man and beast through the others. Under the guidance of Wulfgar’s knee the Hun skidded to a halt and spun to the left so that as the great blade swung wide it was given added impetus and crashed through the shield of another to bite deeply into his neck. The man gave a gurgling scream, and Wulfgar raised his foot and kicked the body clear of his blade. The third man lifted his arm to strike a blow, then stared in numb horror at his armless shoulder. The blade returned to end his pain in a short thrust and he fell beneath the thrashing hooves. The last, seeing the fall of his comrades under the flashing steel, turned to flee and caught the raging blade full across his back. The force of the blow sent him head first into the roiling dust.
Swe
yn came to join the fight but found Wulfgar surveying the bloody scene and carefully wiping the blood from the long sword. The Norseman scratched his head at the ragged, unkempt men who littered the ground but who bore the weapons and shields of knights.
“Thieves?” he questioned.
Wulfgar nodded and set his sword again to its sheath. “Aye, and by the looks of them they raked the bloody field at Hastings for their treasures.” With his toe he turned a shield that lay at his feet, presenting its face, which bore an English coat-of-arms. “The scavengers did not even hold their own kind sacred.”
The two warriors gathered the horses and lashed the bodies to them. They led their meager caravan back to the cottage as the sun’s last edge sank below the western horizon. There in the deepening darkness they buried the dead, marking the graves of three with crosses. Eleven of the men in the open field had surrendered without fight. Two had raised their swords and won a very small piece of ground with them.
Wulfgar gave the old woman a horse, small payment for the loss of her daughter, but with a sense of surprise at his generosity she accepted it, wondering at this new lord of Darkenwald.
The thieves were lashed together in a single line with a rope about their necks and their hands tied behind their backs. As the small party wound its way back to Darkenwald the moon rose high above.
Dismounting before the manor, Wulfgar gave commands for his men to secure the thieves and post a guard over them. Dismissing the rest, he made his way into the hall. He paused inside the door, gazing to where Kerwick lay asleep amid the hounds and his brow puckered thoughtfully. With the afterthirst of battle, he crossed the room and poured himself a hearty draught of October ale. As he sampled it, he went to stand above the defeated Saxon. The strong brew warmed his belly and began to ease his tensed muscles, and as his eyes swept the young man he smiled ruefully.
“Methinks you cherish the virtues of the wench overmuch, my English friend,” he murmured. “What has it gotten you but a frayed back?”
His words fell unheeded and he turned away, flexing his sword arm. He drew another large horn of ale to help him on the way to the bedchamber and strode lightly on the stairs. He eased open the door to the room. The light was dim within the chamber, for there was only the low flicker of the fire and one lone candle burning. Wulfgar smiled to himself as he noted the large wooden tub half full of warm water and more steaming in a great caldron on a hook in the fireplace. A trencher of meat, cheese and bread lay warming on the hearth. At least this wench, Aislinn, would serve him a few comforts and as his slave could be taught obedience. His eyes lingered upon her slender form curled in the large chair in front of the hearth and the sleeping face that seemed without flaw. Her hair in the firelight seemed like molten copper and her fair complexion was no less than perfect. Wulfgar stood for some time partaking of the slumbering beauty before him. Her soft lips were parted as she breathed in repose, her cheeks slightly flushed with the warmth of the fire. Her breasts rose and fell against the cloth of her garments, and for a moment all thought of other women was clouded in Wulfgar’s mind. He bent low and with his finger carefully lifted a loose curl from her cheek and brushing it against his lips, inhaled the fresh clean scent of it. He straightened abruptly, for he had mistaken the rousing effect the fragrance would have on him. As he did so, his scabbard clanked against the chair. Aislinn woke with a start of fear but as her eyes fell on him she smiled dreamily and stretched and sighed.
“My lord.”
At the sight of her lithe form unfolding, Wulfgar felt the blood begin to pound in his temples. He retreated to a safe distance and raising the horn of ale, took a long pull in an effort to steady his hand. He began to remove the accoutrements of his profession and set them aside. Sweyn would send a young lad in the morn to clean the filth and grime of battle from them and oil and polish the leather and metal until it shown.
Wearing a light linen chainse and chausses, Wulfgar searched out the horn of ale and turned to Aislinn. She had curled again in the chair, watching the movements of his long, rugged body with something akin to admiration. As his gaze fell to her again, she rose and went to place a new log upon the fire.
“What delays your rest, damoiselle?” he asked curtly. “The hour is late. Was there something you wished of me?”
“My lord demanded a bath to wait him upon his return and I’ve kept the water and his supper warm. ‘Twould not be of much matter which comes first. They both await you.”
He peered at her. “You were not anxious about your own safety with me gone? Do you trust the Normans so much?”
Aislinn faced him, folding her hands behind her back. “I heard that you sent Ragnor on some errand from here, and since I am yours your men stay their distance. They must have a great fear of you.”
Wulfgar grunted, ignoring her jibe. “My hunger would make naught of a full roast boar. Give me food that my bath should be leisured.”
As she turned to obey his words, his gaze was drawn to her slender back. He observed the graceful swing of her hips, remembering too well the sight of her without her garments. She passed close to him in placing his food on the table, and he again noticed her delicate scent, like lavender in May. The victory of the day had sent his spirits soaring, the strong ale warmed him, now the nearness of her and that tantalizing scent sent his blood coursing through his body as never before. She turned and found his intense though somewhat brooding gaze upon her. Even by the flickering light of the fire and the candle, he could discern her heightened color. She seemed to hesitate and as he approached her, she retreated a step. He paused beside her, gazing down into her violet eyes. Reaching out a hand, he placed it upon her breast and felt her heart jump against his palm.
“I can be as gentle as Ragnor,” he murmured huskily.
“My lord, he was not gentle,” she whispered, standing awkwardly beneath his touch, not knowing whether to flee or to fight. His hand did not caress yet rather rested upon her as if he were weary and any slight movement might drain him of strength. His thumb brushed against the peak of her breast.
“What have you there, maid?” he teased. “It interests me.”
Aislinn’s chin lifted a notch. “You have sported with this game before, my lord, and wouldst play me for the fool. I could relate nothing which is not already known, for you have seen me at my barest and know full well what lies beneath my gown.”
“Aaah, you speak coldly, wench. The fire needs warm your blood.”
“I would prefer, my lord, that you cool yours.”
With that Wulfgar threw back his head and his laughter rang in the room. “Oh, I think I will find pleasure here, in and out of bed.”
Aislinn pushed his hand away. “Come sup, my lord. Your food grows cold if you do not.”
“You talk as a wife and I’ve yet to make you my mistress,” he chided.
“I was tutored carefully upon wifely deeds,” Aislinn retorted. “Not those of a paramour. It comes more naturally to me.”
Wulfgar shrugged. “Then think of yourself as my wife if it pleases you, my little Aislinn.”
“I cannot without benefit of a priest,” she returned coldly.
Wulfgar regarded her with amusement still. “And could you then after those few words were spoken?”
“I could, my lord,” she said serenely. “Maids are not oft allowed to select their husbands. You are as any other man except that you are Norman.”
“But you have said you hated me,” he pointed out with mockery.
Aislinn shrugged. “I have known many girls who hated the men they married.”
Wulfgar pressed closer to her side and cocked his head to better gaze down upon her fine profile. His warm breath touched her cheek, yet Aislinn stared straight ahead of her, seeming oblivious to him.
“Ancient men to be propped upon their brides with helping hands?” he perceived. “Tell me true. Was it not old and decrepit men these maids hated?”
“I cannot remember, my lord,” she replied flipp
antly.
Wulfgar chuckled low as he reached to lift a curling tress from her breast, his fingers brushing boldly against that soft place. “I perceive that you do remember, damoiselle. A wench would not whine at having a strong and virile groom to keep her company in bed and pass the winter nights with,” he murmured. “Nor would you find such boredom in my bed.”
Aislinn turned mocking eyes to him. “My lord, do you beg for my hand?”
Wulfgar straightened and peered down at her with raised brows. “What? And have that chain about my neck? Never!”
He stepped away, but she faced him squarely.
“And what of your bastard sons?” she queried. “How do you deal with them?”
He grunted. “So far there have been none.” He regarded her leisurely as a taunting smile lifted a corner of his mouth. “But with you it might be different.”
Aislinn’s cheeks flushed with hot anger. “My gratitude for your warning,” she quipped with sarcasm, no longer cool and composed but aggravated. She hated him because he seemed to enjoy her rage and could raise her wrath at will.
He shrugged “Mayhap you are barren.”
“Oh!” Aislinn choked in unrestrained fury. “ ’Twould please you well, no doubt. No bastards then would you have to claim. But ‘twould be no less wrong to take me without vows spoken between us.”
He laughed and sat at the table. “And you, wifely maid, have the determination of an ox. If I made you my wife, you probably have thoughts that you could soften my hand and save your people. To sacrifice yourself for peasants and family, a great gesture.” His brows drew together sharply. “But I do not value your noble-mindedness.”
“The priest did not come today,” she said, abruptly changing the subject as he turned his attention to his meal. “Did you forget your promise to have him bless the graves?”
“Nay,” Wulfgar replied, chewing his food. “He’s journeyed elsewhere, but upon his return to Cregan my men will hasten him here. In a few days perhaps. Have patience.”
The Wolf and the Dove Page 9
