The Wolf and the Dove

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  “I said cease!” he bellowed.

  “Nay!” Gwyneth half sobbed, half shrieked. “The bitch needs be chastened here and now.”

  The Viking approached the thin woman until he stood tall above her and bent his head that he could meet her flashing pale eyes.

  “Hear me well, Lady Gwyneth, for I fear your life may depend upon the care you give my words. My Lord Wulfgar gave this girl over to me to guard against harm in his absence, and that means from woman as well as man. She belongs to him by his word, and he will not tolerate your whipping of her. Unless he speaks otherwise the girl will have my protection, and thus far I have heard no order from him releasing me of my vow to keep her from danger. Wulfgar would not be above breaking you if he returned to find the wench maimed because of you. Therefore I am removing her to safety for your sake as well as hers. Peace be with you, Lady Gwyneth, but I must satisfy my lord’s wishes before considering another’s.”

  With that he brushed past her, giving her no further opportunity to speak, and went to Aislinn. Snatching her mantle from one of the Normans, he spread it about her shivering body. Aislinn’s eyes were brimming with tears as she raised her gaze to his in mute gratitude. She put a hand upon his arm and the great Viking made rumbling noises deep in his throat, embarrassed by this display of softness from a woman. Aislinn spoke no word but moved past him to take Ham’s arm and steered the lad safely away from Gwyneth’s glare back to the hut where the small girl still gasped for breath.

  Aislinn huddled nearer the blazing fire on the hearth, drawing away from the chilled darkness of the hall. She thought upon the day as a hellish nightmare that she was at last waking from. She was thankful for the tiny girl’s improvement. The fever had broken and in a few days the babe would be back to normal. But in those terrifying moments after the first cruel blow of the whip had struck, her mind had not lent itself to any thought other than that of Wulfgar meting out punishment on Kerwick’s helpless form; then her mind had whirled in a vision and she had seen herself lashed to the beams waiting for Wulfgar to deal out his worst, his strong arm raised against her in hatred. A shiver passed through her now as she remembered that frightening apparition. She forced her attention to the task Ham and Kerwick were performing, braiding strips of hide into a bridle for one of the Normans. But she could not forget her own need, her own desire to be comforted and reassured in Wulfgar’s strong arms. Never before in his absence had she longed so deeply to feel the touch of his hands or to have his lips upon hers and to know that she was something more than some wench he had toyed with for a time. If she closed her eyes now she could almost see him before her, his lips curved in a slow smile, his eyes soft and warm in the moments after their lovemaking.

  Oh Lord, she was letting her feelings play havoc with her reason. There was no guarantee he would come back of the same mind as when he left. As Gwyneth had said, he might indeed return to Darkenwald with a wife and where would she be cast? To his men?

  Aislinn shuddered as the icy tendrils of fear crept around her heart. He had declared his hatred of women in simple language. Would he seek to revenge himself upon her because she was of that same unpredictable gender? He might not care how much he hurt her. And what if she were with child? His hatred of her would only grow the more, for he could never know whether it was his own or Ragnor’s.

  Disparaging thoughts thrust upward to rob her of confidence, to steal away the deliciousness of that soft moment when they had clung together just before his departure and he had kissed her tenderly. She had been assured then that he cared, if only slightly. But had she been telling herself another lie? Were they all lies? His kisses? His fierce embraces? Lies to rob her of her sanity?

  She rose from her needlework with a ragged, pensive sigh and stepped away, twisting her hands in mute frustration. What must she do? Should she go away that she might salvage what little pride she had left?

  Kerwick glanced up from his labor and studied the slender figure now turned from him. Her fingers strummed across the strings of a crwth which had lain untouched since the Normans’ coming. The strange chords of music broke the silence in the hall and echoed in the large room.

  The scene seemed a re-enactment of another that he had been witness to many months ago when her father had announced his consent for their marriage. Kerwick had been overjoyed, more so than she, he knew, for when she grew troubled, her father had once told him, she always plucked idly upon the crwth as she had done that night long ago, making an odd melody that sounded eerie in the great hall. She had never learned to play the instrument, preferring instead to be played and sung to by some knight or troubadour. With a clear, lilting voice she could catch the gaiety of their song and enchant all those who listened. Yet it was a weird sound that came to his ears now, as if her soul was crying out for ease.

  He rose to his feet and coming to stand at her side, reached his hand out to take hers in gentle understanding. Aislinn looked up through gathering tears into his compassionate gaze, her lips trembling slightly to show the uncertainty she felt and she heaved a sigh.

  “Oh, Kerwick, I am so weary of this battle that rages between Gwyneth and me. What must I do? Relinquish my place as harlot to the lord and let Gwyneth have her way? If I were to leave, mayhap she would soften and show kindness toward the serfs.”

  “She would but do her worst having a free hand and with no one to call her game,” he replied. “You are the only one in Wulfgar’s absence who can lessen the tide of hate that flows from her. Her father sees little of her cruelty. Sweyn is too busy with the affairs of this hall and Wulfgar’s men to notice the way she truly is. And I,” he laughed. “I am but serf now.”

  “But what can I do to curb her?” Aislinn insisted. “I have no status. I am merely a plaything for a Norman.”

  Kerwick bent to her. “Wulfgar has given you his protection. She can do no harm to you. Wulfgar’s men will know that after today. And Gwyneth knows it, too. You’re safe from her hatred. Sweyn is proof of that. Would you leave the serfs to suffer from her whims when you are the only one who can help them?”

  “You will not let me run from my obligations, will you, Kerwick?” she asked wryly.

  “Nay, no more than you would me.”

  Aislinn laughed suddenly, her mood lightening. “Oh, Kerwick, how vengeful you are.”

  He smiled and spoke in sincerity though his tone was light. “Yea, to be a betrothed scorned does not make for a generous man.”

  Aislinn peered at him askance. “Your wounds have healed quickly, eh, Kerwick? I see no scars.”

  “What wounds you speak of, my lady? Those of my heart? Nay, I conceal them well, ‘tis all, for they yet throb and pain me.” He stared down into the violet depths of her eyes. “You are still beautiful, Aislinn, though you belong to another man.”

  Aislinn made to draw away, nervous at his words, but he tightened his grip on her hand.

  “Nay, be not frightened, Aislinn. I meant no injury. ’Tis only that I seek to make amends.”

  “Amends?” she repeated.

  “Aye. ‘Twas well known I was bent upon my own selfish desires, for I wanted you badly and was not wont to give you up. For my outrageous demands upon you I can only beg in humble apology that you forgive me.”

  Aislinn rose up and pressed a kiss upon his cheek. “We are forever friends, dear Kerwick.”

  A short, satirical laugh broke them apart and they whirled to see Gwyneth leisurely descending the stairs, a smile playing about her lips. From her crouched position in a darkened corner, Maida rose and scurried out of the hall to brave the snowy winds, seeking the safety of her humble cottage well away from this half-Norman shrew.

  Gwyneth paused at the foot of the stairs, her arms akimbo. A soft chuckle escaped her as she considered the two before her.

  “My brother will be interested in hearing that his mistress amuses herself with other men in his absence.” Her pale eyes brightened. “And he will surely hear of it, I swear.”

  Kerwick st
ood with clenched fists and for the first time in his life was greatly tempted to strike a woman. Aislinn smiled with a serenity she was far from feeling.

  “I have no doubt you will tell him, Gwyneth, with your usual care for detail.”

  With that Aislinn passed the now silent Gwyneth and mounted the stairs to seek what comfort she could find in the bedchamber, knowing that she was not completely safe from Gwyneth’s spiteful ways.

  Wulfgar shifted in his saddle as his sharp eyes slowly scanned the countryside. Sharp, chill winds pressed the woolen mantle more closely against his sturdy frame and his cheeks tingled with its icy bite. Dreary skies lent no color to the wintery browns and grays of the forests and fields. Behind him the knights Gowain, Milbourne, and Beaufonte waited with the others under his command, sixteen men-at-arms ever ready with long bows, lances and short swords. In the protection of the trees the covered cart Gwyneth and Bolsgar had arrived with strained up the hill, loaded with food for his men and grain to supplement the forage obtained along the route. An old but sturdy Saxon, Bowein, who had returned from service to Harold to find his home burned and fields ravaged, had welcomed an offer of a new home for his allegiance and now swore at the horses in colorful language that was foreign but not totally unfamiliar to many of the Normans riding alongside.

  Wulfgar’s foresight provided a strong, yet mobile band. He had long studied the ways of an army and chose to mount all his men when it was the wont of most knights and noblemen to mount only themselves while the men-at-arms wielded bows and lighter swords and spears and acted as the footmen of the army. He had seen no future for his men to walk their feet raw on the stony soil of England. Those he took with him he set upon horses and they accompanied him so; they dismounted and acted as men-of-arms when battles raged.

  In the span of weeks Wulfgar had been at Darkenwald, William had had to bide his time, waiting for the strength of his men to return. They had been unable to march for nearly a month due to a malady not unknown in armies, which in this case had spared not even William himself. It made them prone to stay in camp and near a deep trench. Since Wulfgar’s band had not suffered this, he had been flung upon a wide patrol to see no Saxon armies gathered in the south or west. It had usually fallen his lot to ride far from the main body of the army to secure the smaller hamlets, villages, and towns that might gather against the Normans. He did this well and ranging far from the main body his men fared better; their food was of a higher quality and their horses foraged on sweeter turf.

  His position now was well west of London in the heavily wooded hills near the turning point of his sweep. For the most part they had traveled unseen and made their presence as little felt as possible. All seemed quiet about them but as Wulfgar continued to scan the countryside a group of three knights appeared, riding across the hills. Turning, Wulfgar gestured to Milbourne and Gowain and bade the other men to wait yet keep their swords and longbows handy for he knew not what small force might lie and wait in the copse of trees. With these two knights he rode down from the hill toward the three in the vale. A shout brought their attention and as they turned and saw his group, the three couched their lances and displayed their shields, which named them English and thus foes of William. They ranged themselves wide to meet him. When Wulfgar was close enough that the others began to worry, he stopped and waited for a moment, giving them ample time to view his shields and arms.

  “I am Wulfgar of William’s men,” he said in a commanding voice. “By your colors I see you are men of Rockwell. I must bid you yield, for we are set against him as he has not taken an oath for William.”

  The eldest knight of the three faced him squarely and met his challenge with words in kind. “I am Forsgell, and I do not abide this Norman Duke. I have sworn my lance and blade to a loyal Saxon lord and with God’s help we will send invaders from our land. We will have no king but that which we abide.”

  “Then it is battle you have set us to,” Wulfgar replied. He gestured toward his men waiting above. “They will take no part, for you are knights and sworn by the honor of the cross you wear.”

  With his words he whirled the Hun and rode back some paces. Now all gripped their lances tightly and with a shout spurred their horses forward, three against three. The Hun charged, his huge hooves thundering in the turf and his muscles pulsing with his effort. He knew the feel of battle as well as his master. Wulfgar grasped the heaving sides with his knees and leaned into the lance. The elder knight took him full on and the two met with a thundering crash. The first pass was harmless and the horses whirled and set toward each other again as if of one mind. This time the greater weight of Wulfgar made itself felt, for his lance took the shield of the knight and smashed it against his shoulder before his own could touch the Norman. The Saxon’s lance was hurled aside and his shield was swept from him but he held his place in the saddle. His left arm was numb but the horse still answered to his knees. Wulfgar stood away and gave him pause. The man gallantly drew the heavy sword with his good right hand and spurred his horse forward again. Throwing his own lance and shield aside, Wulfgar drew the long, bright blade that had so often held his honor, and without touching the Hun the horse leapt forward. The blades met and rang and now the difference told for the steed upon which he sat held Wulfgar always face on to the other, never being turned, always thrusting forward, pressing his powerful chest against the lesser horse until it stumbled and clawed to keep its footing. Wulfgar’s sword rang upon the other knight’s armor and blade. A blow to the head and now blood trickled slowly from beneath the helm of the Saxon and his arm grew heavy and weary. He shook his head and tried to lift his other arm but it still hung numb against his side. Now it was all he could do to present his blade to Wulfgar and still the great steed pressed and the shining blade sang ever harder, ever heavier against his defense. Wulfgar seized his sword in both hands and with his war cry ringing loud, he brought it down from above in full force. It shattered the other’s blade and sank into his shoulder. The man could no longer lift either arm and could only sit helplessly. Wulfgar drew the Hun back and the man said no word but simply nodded his head. He yielded the day and Wulfgar’s battle was won. He turned to the other forays and they too were quickly solved. Now three knights were taken, stripped of their arms and shields, no longer bound of oath but prisoners to be sent back to William for whatever disposal he might seek of them.

  Thus it was that William was able to march unhindered and without word of his advance proceeding him. Many castles and strongholds awoke on a morning to find that without warning they had been surrounded. The sight of this vast army covering the hills around them and waiting the signal to attack rapidly brought out bargainers to seek the most favorable terms.

  Wulfgar continued to ride. The skies turned gray and heavy and soon the clouds were obscured by a drizzle that sent icy runnels down his neck and chausses. The saddles became wet and it took constant attention to remain well seated. Still, if it brought discomfort the rain also served them in their efforts, for it dampened the high spirits and did not urge his men to sing or shout or even speak. They rode in silence and were doubly alert, for they knew they could be easily surprised from the murk that surrounded them.

  Wulfgar stopped and raised his hand. Ahead of them came the sound of angry cursing. At his signal the men-at-arms dismounted and giving their horses to the pages, quietly strung their bows with hardened willow shafts. The bows, strings, and arrows were well oiled and protected by quiver caps of oiled leather, for Wulfgar was well aware of the dampness that comes with winter on these islands.

  His knights couched lances and moved slowly forward ahead of their supporting footmen. A small stream crossed the path at a low spot and would normally have given no more than a wetting of hooves to travelers, but now it made a mire several yards across and in its middle sat a four wheeled wagon bearing four children and two women. Two men and a strapping youth strained at the muddy wheels while the elder of the women urged a pair of tired punches to greater effort. A
man with his left arm gone, pulled back and cursed until his eyes fell on the four knights with their lances pointing at him. His sudden silence drew the attention of the others and gasps of surprise reached Wulfgar’s ears. He urged the Hun forward and considered the situation for a moment before signaling for his men to relax. There was no threat in these sodden serfs.

  Wulfgar came forward until his lance almost touched the chest of the older man. “I bid you yield, for the day is miserable and not fit for dying.”

  He spoke casually but the tone of his voice carried more menace than his words. The one-armed man gaped and nodded, though his eyes never left the point of the lance. There was a scurry of sound from the wagon and the well-trained destrier turned of his own to meet this possible threat. A small boy struggled to lift a huge broadsword as long as he was tall.

  “I’ll fight you, Norman,” the lad sobbed as he struggled. Hs dark eyes brimmed with tears. “I’Il fight you.”

  “Miles!” gasped the younger woman as she jumped down from the cart. She caught the boy and sought to quiet him but he pulled away and stood bravely facing Wulfgar in the pouring rain.

  “You killed my father,” he boldly stated. “But I’m not afraid to fight you.”

  The tall knight looked into the boy’s eyes, finding some of the fiery courage of his own youth there. Wulfgar swept his lance to the vertical, spreading its banner with his coat of arms upon it and smiled tolerantly.

  “I have no doubt you would, lad. England and William will have good need of spirit such as yours, but at the moment I am heavily enraged on the Duke’s business, so am not free to duel.”

  The woman who held the boy seemed to relax and her gaze bespoke gratitude as she stared up at the Norman knight.