Wulfgar turned to the men and demanded, “Who are you and where are you bound?”
The elder one stepped forward. “I am Gavin, the smith. I was an archer and went to fight with Harold in the North against the Norwegians and there lost my arm.” He turned and gestured to the woman in the cart. “That one is my wife, Miderd, and this other is my widowed sister, Haylan.” He dropped his hand upon the shoulder of the youth beside her. “This one who spoke to you is Haylan’s son, Miles. The other children are mine and the man is my brother, Sanhurst. We are bound to find a new home for ourselves since the Normans have taken ours.”
As the man spoke Wulfgar noticed the pallor of his face and a reddish tinge where the empty sleeve was knotted. His gaze shifted to the younger man who was short of stature but brawny of frame.
“The town of Darkenwald—,” Wulfgar said, considering the two. “Do you know of it?”
“The name is familiar, milord,” the younger man replied cautiously.
“Yea, ‘tis known,” Gavin interrupted. “The old lord who lives there once passed through our burh. Contrary he was. He would have me shoe a horse he purchased for his daughter and would not brook delay since he wished to present it to her on the same day, to celebrate Michaelmas. He boasted that she could ride as well as any man, and she would have had to, milord, for the Barb he purchased was a spirited one.”
Wulfgar’s brow lowered at the memory of Gwyneth’s accusations echoed the man’s words. “Aye, the mare was spirited as is the wench, but ‘tis no matter now. If you are of a mind, you may make your home at Darkenwald. There is need of a smith.”
Gavin peered up at him as the misty rain fell against his face. “You send me to a Saxon shire?”
“The old man is no more,” Wulfgar answered. “I hold the town for William until that time England is his, then the fief shall be mine.” He gestured to Sanhurst. “He will go with me and his duty will be to guard my back. If he does that well, I will return to see your family settled.”
The Saxons exchanged questioning glances among themselves before Gavin stepped forward. “Begging pardon, milord, but we are not looking to serve Normans. We would find a place yet where we can know our own.”
Wulfgar shifted in his saddle and peered at them. “Do you think you will go far when Normans range the countryside?” He looked into the faces of each and saw the uncertainty in them. “I will give you my banner. None of William’s men will harm you if they are shown this.” He gestured to Gavin’s arm. “There is also one at Darkenwald who will see to your wound. She is the old lord’s daughter and wise in the ways of healing. It remains your choice, whether you go or try to find your way to some other town that is still English held, yet I warn you. Every town will be taken, for William is rightful heir to the throne and is determined to have it.”
Gavin stepped back to Sanhurst and they spoke quietly between them for several moments before the younger nodded and approached Wulfgar. He halted before the huge steed and squinted upward as the rain trickled down his face.
“They will go to Darkenwald, my lord, and I with you.”
“ ’Tis well,” Wulfgar replied.
He wheeled the Hun about to where Bowein waited in the cart just behind the archers. With a quick word to the old Saxon, he received a rope from beneath the seat. This he carried back to the wagon where he looped the strand double about a ring set in front bringing the other end around to the high back of his saddle. Urging the Hun forward to the limit of the rope he gestured to the woman who sat holding the reins. She shouted and slapped them and the smaller horses strained once more against their harnesses. Wulfgar’s stallion seemed to know what was required and casting a wary eye backward, took up the slack and leaned his bulk plus several hundred pounds of armor and rider against the cable. His monstrous hooves churned mud and appeared to sink low, but then surged forward in a series of short, powerful lunges. The wagon creaked and with a sucking sound the wheels began to turn, slowly at first, but picking up speed until the vehicle fairly raced up the farther bank. The men of the family slogged through the mud and gave Wulfgar their thanks while the rest of his force joined him. Bowein waited until all were clear, then charged into the muck full apace and with a large destrier pulling the lighter cart came through without a pause.
The delay brought evening upon them and Bowein spoke of a heavy woods nearby that lay in the bend of the river. Wulfgar led his men to that place, bringing his new charges with him, and camp was soon made. Darkness fell and the rain pattered ceaselessly on. Cold winds moaned through the tops of the trees, sending the last few stubborn leaves swirling down through the barren branches. Wulfgar saw misery in the shivering of the children huddled about the fire and hunger in their thin pinched faces as they gnawed the soggy crusts of bread the older woman carefully measured out. He remembered his own distress as a child on being sent from home and the confusion he felt, sitting across a campfire from Sweyn, realizing he could never again return to that place of happy memories where he had known the love of a father who was suddenly not his father at all.
Turning, he bade Bowein bring out a large leg of boar and slice it for the Saxon family and to give them bread more palatable than what they had. Wulfgar knew a warmth in his breast as he watched the bright eyes of the children when they dined on what must have been for them the richest meal in weeks. Thoughtfully he strolled away from them, crossing to the campfire and took a seat beneath a tree. He ignored the coldness of the damp earth and leaning his head back against the trunk, closed his eyes.
In his mind there slowly bloomed a face in the midst of curling red-gold tresses, the violet eyes dark in passion and half closed, the soft, warm lips parted and reaching for his own. His eyes flew open and he stared for a long time into the glowing embers of the fire, reluctant to close them again.
Wulfgar lifted his gaze from the flames and watched Haylan as she approached. Feeling his eyes on her, the woman smiled uncertainly in return and clutched her mantle more tightly about her shoulders against the chill of the evening. Casually Wulfgar wondered how it would be to lead this wench into the density of the forest and spread his cloak for her. She was comely, with dark, curling hair and eyes as black as soot. He might then be able to strike Aislinn from his mind. But much to his own surprise, he found the prospect only mildly interesting. He grew perturbed, for that copper-headed vixen he had left at Darkenwald roused him more in her absence than did this woman here before him or, for that matter, any other he had come across in his wanderings. If she were here, he thought he might be tempted to set her back upon her heels with the rage he felt at the moment. He wanted to make her cry, to suffer for the torment she caused him.
Aaah, women! They knew well how to torture a man, and she was no different, except she knew better than most how to make a man want her. That last night together was branded upon his memory with a sharpness and clarity that made him at times almost think he could feel her against him and smell the soft fragrance of her hair. She had yielded to him with a purpose and now when he was away from her he could see what end she had been about. He wanted to curse her, to call her the bitch she was, yet at the same time he longed to have her beside him that he might reach out and touch her when he cared to. Oh Lord, he hated women, and her he thought most of all because she had cast a spell upon him and now shadowed his every thought.
“You know the English tongue well, milord,” Haylan ventured softly at his continued silence. “Had I not seen your banner I would have thought you one of us.”
Wulfgar grunted in reply and gazed into the fire. For a moment all was still around the camp. Wulfgar’s men sought their rest upon soggy pallets and damp grass and now and then a mumbled curse was heard in the darkness. The children had settled on the rough floor of their wagon and among the pelts and threadbare blankets now rested peacefully.
Haylan cleared her throat and tried again to break into Wulfgar’s moodish musing. “I wish to thank you for your kindness to my son. Miles is as headstron
g as his father was.
“A brave lad,” Wulfgar returned absently. “As your husband must have been.”
“Warring was a game to my husband,” Haylan murmured.
Wulfgar looked at her sharply and wondered if he had detected a note of bitterness in her tone. Haylan met his gaze.
“May I sit, milord?” she asked.
At his nod she took a place closer to the fire.
“I knew this time would come for me when I would be widowed,” she said quietly. “I loved my husband even though he was the choice of my father and I had no say in our marriage. Yet he lived too fiercely and was careless with his life. If not the Normans, someone else would have dealt the blow. Now I am left to fare upon my own or upon my family.” Her glance drew Wulfgar’s. “I am not angry with his memory, milord, only reconciled to his passing.”
Wulfgar sat silent in reply and she smiled, turning her head to the side that she could study him more closely.
“Strange, but you do not act like a Norman either, milord.”
Wulfgar raised a brow at her. “And how do you visualize Normans, madam?”
“I certainly did not expect kindness from them,” she explained.
He laughed shortly in response. “I assure you, madam, I have no forked tail, and horns have not yet grown upon my head. Indeed if you will look closely you will see that we resemble normal men although some tales about would have us more hellish than good reality abides.”
Haylan blushed and stuttered in apologetic tones. “I meant no slander, milord. Indeed we owe you thanks for your assistance and the good provender was most welcomed. ’Tis many months since I last tasted good meat and knew a full belly. Even a fire we have been reluctant to set, afraid it would draw raiders.”
She stretched her hands toward the heat, taking comfort in its warmth. Wulfgar watched this movement and thought of Aislinn’s slender fingers against his chest and the excitement they stirred by their simple touch. Angry with himself for letting his thoughts revert to her, he wondered why his mind should dwell on that vixen when this comely wench here might not object too strenuously to warming his pallet. When he chose to be charming and persuasive, some of the haughtiest and most reluctant damsels had come into his arms sighing and submitting, and this Haylan did not seem overly arrogant. Indeed the way she kept watching him she might welcome his advances, being a young widow and, as she said, reconciled to her husband’s passing. Her words had almost held an invitation for him to take her. Yet as he gazed at her ample bosom and generous hips, he realized his fancy was toward a trimmer figure. It rather amazed him that he should find Haylan lacking when several months ago he would have thought her worth his most zealous attention. Had Aislinn’s uncommon beauty spoiled his desire for other women? At the thought he nearly cursed aloud. He’d be damned before he would play the game of some besotted bridegroom cleaving only to his wife. He’d lay any wench of his choosing.
With that he rose abruptly, startling Haylan, and caught her hand, dragging her to her feet. Her dark eyes were wide as they stared at him in stunned surprise but he inclined his head toward the woods, answering her silently. She resisted his pull with some doubt in her mind, knowing yet not knowing what he intended, but upon entering the darkness of the forest she threw aside her reservations and fled at his side with an abandon that matched his. They found a vine-shrouded oak where the hanging stems formed an arched haven and dry leaves beckoned. He spread his cloak and turning pulled her in his arms to kiss her once, twice, thrice. He held her tightly against him, his arms crushing her while his hands roamed her back. His fierce ardor warmed her and she began to respond with like passion, slipping her arms about his neck and rising on her toes to mold her body against his. They sank together until they rested side by side on the mantle. Haylan was no stranger to the thrusts of a man’s body and knew his mood. Throwing aside her own cloak, she tightened her thighs against his and slid her fingers beneath his chainse to caress the hard-muscled chest. With eager fingers Wulfgar loosened the string that held her peasant blouse at the top, freeing her breasts. Haylan’s breath caught in her throat as he buried his face between the soft mounds and she clasped him fiercely to her, arching her back against him. But in the heat of the moment Wulfgar forgot himself.
“Aislinn. Aislinn,” he muttered hoarsely.
There was a sudden stiffening in the body beneath him and Haylan drew back.
“What did you say?”
Wulfgar stared down at her, realizing the words he had spoken, and against her thigh Haylan felt his desire ebb. His eagerness fled and he rolled off her groaning, with the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes.
“Oh, bitch,” he moaned. “You haunt me even on another’s loins.”
“What say you?” Haylan snapped, sitting up. “Bitch? Bitch, am I? Well and good, then let your prithy Aislinn ease your manhood. Bitch is it! Ohhh!”
She rose in a fury and straightening her clothes left him to whatever thoughts stirred in his addled brain. Wulfgar heard her footsteps stamping back to the camp and in the darkness her footsteps at his own inadequacy. He felt like some untouched lad after failing with his first woman. He drew his knee up and rested an arm upon it staring unseeing into the night. For a long time he sat in his brideless bower and mused on the follies of love-smitten men. Yet he made no admissions even to himself and finally rationalized his reaction as being due to the easy, tranquil life of Darkenwald.
“I’ve grown soft,” he muttered as he snatched up his cloak and brushed the leaves from it.
Still, as he slowly made his way back to the fire, reddish gold hair seemed to brush the back of his mind and the smell of it came from the forest around him. As he lay beneath the cart and pulled his mantle over him he curled his arm as if a head rested on his shoulder and lay half on his side as if a soft, warm body leaned against him. He closed his eyes and against his will his last waking thought was of violet eyes staring into his.
Beneath their wagon Haylan stirred fitfully upon the pallet she shared with Miderd, casting a glance toward the motionless black form under the other cart.
“What ails you, Haylan?” Miderd demanded. “Are there lumps beneath the pallet that you must toss upon it like that? Be still or you will waken the men.”
“Aaah, men!” Haylan groaned. “They all sleep soundly, every last one.”
“What are you talking about? Of course they do. Gavin and Sanhurst have been so for hours. Truly it must be the middle of the night. What plagues you?”
“Miderd?” Haylan began then could not find appropriate words to pose a question. She sighed in frustration and finally spoke after a long pause. “Why are men like they are? Are they never content with one woman?”
Miderd rolled on her back and stared up in the dim light of the campfire toward the bottom of their cart. “Some men are content when they can find the right woman. Others go on ever searching for the thrill of the moment.”
“Which manner of man do you think Wulfgar?” Haylan asked softly.
Miderd shrugged her shoulders. “A Norman like any other, but one we must be loyal to lest we find ourselves at the mercy of some wayward rogue.”
“Do you think him handsome?”
“Haylan, are you daft? We are but peasants and he our lord.”
“Which is he, knave or good knight?”
Miderd sighed. “How can you expect me to know a man’s mind?”
“You are wise, Miderd. Would he likely beat a peasant if that one angered him?”
“Why? Have you done so?”
The younger woman swallowed hard. “I hope not.”
She turned on her side, dismissing Miderd’s questioning gaze and after a long time she finally found the sleep she sought.
The first light of dawn touched upon teardrops of rain still clinging to bare branches, setting them asparkle like precious stones in the morning mist and reflected off the wetness of moss covered rocks. Wulfgar roused from sleep to the hearty aroma of boar’s meat and brew
is. Glancing about the camp he found the women already astir and in the process of preparing a meal for them. He rose from beneath the cart and stretched, taking pleasure in the quietness of the morning hour. Haylan had been eyeing him uncertainly as he slept, wondering how she might fare when he woke, but he seemed generally to have dismissed her from his mind as he stripped down to his chausses and began to wash. As she bent over the warming meat she eyed him obliquely. She could not help but admire his tall, broad-shouldered physique and remembered with clarity the firmness of his rugged body against her own.
Wulfgar had donned his garments and mail hauberk and coif when he came forward with Gowain and Milbourne to sample the food. As she served him, Haylan’s fingers trembled and her cheeks reddened at the thought of their lusty embrace of the night before, but he spoke with Milbourne and chuckled at a jest of Sir Gowain’s and seemed indeed to have forgotten their tryst in the woods.
It was a few moments later when the eldest knight came around to take another piece of meat and Haylan posed a question to him.
“Sir Norman, who is Aislinn?”
Milbourne started in surprise and glanced hurriedly toward Wulfgar then stuttered. “Why she—ahem—she is Lady of Darkenwald.”
He quickly left her as Haylan stood silent, venturing no more inquiries. She was lost in contemplation when Sir Gowain interrupted her thoughts and smiled warmly at her.
“Madame, soldiers oft miss the many comforts of a woman. ’Tis a pleasure to break the fast on these delicious tidbits and gaze at you over them.”
Haylan’s brows drew together in painful thought. “Sir knight, who is Wulfgar? What is he to Darkenwald?”
Gowain’s enthusiasm receded rapidly at her obvious dismissal of his words. “Wulfgar, madam, is Lord of Darkenwald.”
“That’s what I feared,” she breathed in a strained whisper.
Gowain peered at her in some confusion but without further word he strode away, feeling sorely set aback by her interest in another man.
The Wolf and the Dove Page 24
