The Wolf and the Dove

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  She drew back and lay against his arm, caressing his cheek.

  “Let us go,” she said, half pleading. “I cannot stay here another night. Let us go home to Darkenwald. I have a need to feel my own things around me.”

  “Aye,” he agreed and with the word he rose and began to scatter the fire.

  As she neared the horses, Aislinn grinned ruefully and rubbed her bruised posterior. “I shall never again enjoy a ride as much as of old,” she mused.

  Wulfgar stopped and considered her thoughtfully. “There is a craft I spied while quenching my thirst. Aye, ‘twould ease your plight considerably. Come, ‘tis but a short way.”

  Taking her hand and leading the horses, he led her to a nearby copse of willows. Parting the hanging branches he showed her where beneath them lay a boat, a long and narrow craft hewn from a single trunk. He bowed graciously.

  “Your royal barge, milady.” At her puzzled frown, he grinned. “This stream joins the one that sweeps the marsh near Darkenwald.”

  Her relief at not having to take to the saddle again was complete as she lifted her gaze to him. He nodded and turned the horses loose to wander where they would, placing the trappings and gear in the prow of the boat. He seated Aislinn in the middle where she could lay back comfortably against the saddle and tucked her mantle around her. Pushing the craft into the water, he stepped in and seated himself near the stern, then lifting the short paddle, steered it into the swift current.

  Time ceased to be. Aislinn slept for a while then woke briefly, feeling the even thrusts that drove the boat onward She stared upward at willows that waved against the sky as if sobbing their anguish to the world. She watched stars drift through the gaunt, barren branches of an oak and the moon rise blood red, then golden, paling as it tore itself free from the breast of the moor. She drifted again into restless slumber. Thus through the night it was. For her a snatch of sleep, a moment of waking and Wulfgar ever driving the boat along the winding stream.

  Wulfgar’s mind was blank. The son he had just begun to love was lost from him now and he might never again see that bright tousled hair or hear that cheery gurgle. His thoughts began to churn and against that labor he lifted his arms, dipping the paddle again and again until the ache drove some of the pain from his brain.

  The first gray light of dawn outlined a friendly oak on a well known hill, a sleepy town then the great hall looming black in the midst of it and on a further rise the near completed castle of Darkenwald. The boat grated on the sand and Wulfgar stepped into the water to drag it ashore. He returned and taking Aislinn in his arms, carried her to where her feet could touch the dry leafy bed of the shore. He led through the trees, holding her hand behind him on the narrow way. The path was familiar to him now. It had been another November morn, a little warmer perhaps, that had seen him on the back of the Hun, searching out the unknown trail leading through the woods and copse and finally to a fair maid bathing in a cold stream. So time did fly, with joy mending the wounds, or the hurt wrenching the gaiety from their hearts.

  Aislinn sighed and lifted a sad and weary gaze to the growing light of dawn, holding an empty ache within her. They neared the manor and Wulfgar held the portal open as she entered then stepped in behind her.

  They stopped and stared about them for a moment in confusion, stunned by the light and noise of the place. No one it seemed was missing. Bolsgar and Sweyn were loudly debating with Gowain and Milbourne; and Kerwick, sitting in a chair by the hearth, was carefully tended by Haylan. His leg and head bore bandages but his spirits seemed high. When his eyes met Haylan’s there was a mutual softening. And in a dark corner with her back to the rest, sat Maida, giving no recognition of the arrivals.

  The entire scene was completely out of place for a hall that should have been hushed and in mourning, especially at this early hour. Both Aislinn and Wulfgar were unwilling to break the easy mood of the place with the dark news they bore yet approached closer to the hearth until Bolsgar spied them and with a jovial greeting came up from his chair.

  “So, you are finally here,” he chortled. “Good! Good! The watchers saw you coming from the tower.” He turned his gaze to Aislinn and with a quick perusal, formed his own conclusions. “Well, daughter, I see that smitten knave did you no harm.” He peered at Wulfgar as he lifted a questioning brow. “Did you kill him, I hope? I’ve grown to favor this lass’s company and would take it much amiss if that dandy would threaten her again.”

  Wulfgar shook his head negatively and before he could explain Sweyn jumped to his feet.

  “What is this?” the Viking roared. “Can I not leave you foundling youths to perform a simple deed?” His laughter rumbled in his throat and he gave Bolsgar a hearty clap on the back that left him at a loss for breath. “ ’Twould seem we two must take up the chase and see this matter finished. Mayhap this time you’ll not find an excuse to delay you.”

  Wulfgar glanced from one to the other, unable to correct the two as Sweyn’s comment roused another question in his mind.

  “Aye,” Bolsgar returned with jovial sarcasm. “And I would not trust you to lend a hand in the slaying as you seem to have a penchant against sparing me any labors.”

  Sweyn hooted. “Why, you old Saxon warhorse. Could you not see my hands were full already keeping that rutting stud from those flimsy mares Ragnor let loose? When I passed you on the road, I could do naught but wave a hand.”

  The Norseman turned to Wulfgar and explained.

  “I camped at night and the Hun awoke me in the cold morn with his nose in my face.” He chuckled, glancing briefly at Hlynn who stirred a brewis at the hearth, and continued loudly. “Why, I dreamt at first ‘twas some fair young lass who nuzzled me, then that stinking stallion snorted down my neck and it seemed the only thing to do was ride him back behind those other steeds I found along the way.” Sweyn guffawed. “They all turned out to be mares and that braying mule of yours, Wulfgar, nearly killed me in his zeal, especially when I came across that dapple-gray of Lady Aislinn’s.” He gestured toward Bolsgar. “Now this ornery Saxon claims I deserted him when he was in dire need.”

  “A lame excuse,” Bolsgar grunted. “You could see ‘twas I the more burdened.”

  Wulfgar gazed questioningly at his father. “What pressed you so sorely?”

  The old man shrugged. “ ’Twas a bit of baggage you left behind.”

  Sweyn interrupted, giving no regard for Wulfgar’s puzzlement. “But what happened to that knave, Ragnor? Did he escape to the northern climes with Gwyneth?”

  Wulfgar shook his head again. “Nay,” he murmured. “They did each other in.”

  Bolsgar shook his head sadly and his voice grew husky as he spoke. “Aaah, Gwyneth, poor lass. Perhaps she’s at peace now.” He sniffed and wiped his sleeve across his face.

  A brief mourning silence held the room and Aislinn leaned wearily against Wulfgar who drew her close with an arm about her shoulders. She felt the warmth of home yet it fell lacking. There was an emptiness in her that did not fit with the gaiety and laughter that had greeted them. Her eyes roamed about, noting Haylan and Kerwick to close companionship, Miderd and Hlynn laboring at the kettles to prepare the morning meal and Maida, still huddled in her corner.

  Sweyn coughed, breaking the quiet. “We buried good Beaufonte.”

  Gowain rose from his chair, nodding. “Aye, we did. But the three of us and the Friar were poorly met to keep the Viking from laying him in a boat and setting a torch to it.”

  “Forsooth,” Milbourne chuckled. “We did see our friend laid to rest, but Sweyn’s manner of mourning has put us all to rout.”

  “Yea,” Bolsgar agreed. “In truth, it has lowered by no small amount the supply of ale and wine for the winter’s chill.”

  “ ’Twas to honor a valued friend,” Wulfgar murmured. He looked to Sweyn. “Rest the day, for tomorrow we must be upon the roads again with Gowain and Milbourne to search out an old woman with a withered arm.”

  “Why need you that old crone?�
�� Bolsgar inquired. “She’ll rob ye blind.”

  Wulfgar gazed at the elder in some surprise. “Do you know of her?” he demanded in anxious tones and he became aware that Aislinn’s attention had perked up with his father’s words. Was it too much to hope Bolsgar could lead them to the old hag and mayhaps to the babe also?

  “I had dealings with her,” Bolsgar replied. “She sold me a bit of baggage upon my urging and it took some haggling, for she was set on the piece and would not easily come around. But with a handful of silver and a show of my blade, I managed to best the bargain.”

  Wulfgar peered at him suspiciously. “Of what baggage do you speak?”

  Bolsgar called over his shoulder. “Maida!”

  “Yea!” That one answered as if piqued at being so rudely summoned.

  “Fetch the baggage here! We must teach these two not to cast aside their baggage so carelessly. Yea, fetch me my grandson!”

  Aislinn’s head snapped up and Wulfgar turned a surprised gaze on his father. Maida rose and faced them, holding a bundled form in her arms. At sight of the tiny head adorned with coppery curls, Aislinn gave a happy shriek, tears flooding her eyes, and ran to her mother to snatch the babe from her arms. Cuddling him close against her, she whirled around in an ecstatic circle as everyone looked on with broad smiles. Wulfgar laughed as Bryce let out a squall of protest at being so heartily squeezed.

  “My love, take care. He cannot bear so much loving.”

  “Oh, Wulfgar! Wulfgar!” she cried gayly, coming to him, and she found no better words to speak.

  Wulfgar smiled down at her tenderly and then feeling as if a great burden had been lifted from his chest, he took the lad from his mother’s arms, swinging him up in the air to Bryce’s delight. He squealed in glee and chuckled but Maida clucked as if she were a mother hen.

  “That youngling will rue the day at having a sire such as you. Go gently with my grandchild.”

  Wulfgar looked at her, doubting her sanity, and held Bryce more carefully, yet he saw in Maida a new found firmness of mind and body and glimpsed a beauty he had never noted before. The scars on her face had faded and a healthy glow replaced them.. He knew that in her youth she would have rivaled Aislinn to behold.

  “What is it that assures you that I’m his sire?” he asked.

  “Of course he’s your son,” Bolsgar broke in. “Just as you are my son.”

  Wulfgar raised a questioning brow to him, but the old man reached out a finger and pulled Bryce’s swaddling down to reveal a reddish mark upon his buttock. “ ’Tis a birthmark of mine—if you will accept my word since I will not display it for your eyes. As I brought the babe back home there came a need to change his britches. As soon as I saw the mark I knew you were my son and he your son.”

  Wulfgar seemed bewildered. “But I have no such mark.”

  Bolsgar shrugged. “Neither did my father, but his father bore it, as well as the grandsons of each so marked.”

  “Gwyneth gave the news to me that I am your true son,” Wulfgar murmured. “And our mother gave Gwyneth the tidings on her deathbed that she and Falsworth were sired by another.”

  Bolsgar sighed deeply. “Perhaps if I had left your mother less in my venturing after war, she might have been content. Now it seems I failed you all sadly.”

  Wulfgar clasped his shoulder and smiled. “I have gained a father but lost William’s sympathy. Still, the trade is one of wealth unknown.”

  In Wulfgar’s arms Bryce gazed wonderingly about, chewing on a small fist, his eyes wide with curiosity. Maida crooned as she reached out to pet him then looked askance to his father.

  “There was never any doubt he came by your seed, WuIfgar. Can you not tell a virgin when you’ve laid one?”

  “What is this?” Wulfgar demanded. “Have you gone daft again, woman? Ragnor—”

  Maida cackled and turned to peer at her daughter. “This one wielded well what Ragnor could not raise, eh, daughter? And that crowing Norman cock claimed what he never had.”

  “Mother,” Aislinn pleaded.

  Maida lifted a small packet hanging from her girdle and waggled it before her daughter’s eyes. “Know you this?”

  Aislinn gazed for a moment at the small bag, feeling a bit perplexed, then suddenly she giggled.

  “Oh, mother, how could you have dared?”

  Her laughter drew a confused frown from Wulfgar.

  “Aislinn, what is it she bears there?” he asked.

  “A sleeping herb, my love,” Aislinn smiled, with adoring eyes turned to him.

  “Aye, ‘tis true!” Maida agreed. “The night she and Ragnor would have bedded I slipped a potion in the wine. For him! Just for him! But he made Aislinn drink of it too. I was in the room and he did not know. He sought to take her. He tore her clothes and cast the shreds aside.” She gestured up the stairs. “He fell upon her—on the bed,” Maida cackled gleefully. “But before his body met his will they both did fall into sound sleep and there they rested thus entwined until I roused her with the morning’s light and we did fly.” She shrugged. “I would have killed him, had I not feared his men would then fall upon my daughter and kill her.”

  Wulfgar continued to scowl at the woman. “There would have been other signs.”

  “I took the proof away,” Maida laughed, her eyes asparkle. “Her torn kirtle of your night on her with the virgin’s stains still on it.”

  “Mother!” Aislinn interrupted, her voice of a sudden angry and questioning. “Why did you let me go these many months adoubting?”

  Maida turned to her and raised her chin proudly, showing a shadow of the beauty she once bore and had passed to Aislinn. “Because he was a Norman and you would have flown to him to tell the news.” She shrugged her thin shoulders again. “Now he is only half Norman and the other part Saxon.”

  Wulfgar threw back his head and relented to the hearty laughter that swelled within him. After a while he managed to calm a bit and muttered:

  “Poor Ragnor, he never knew.”

  Aislinn came into his beckoning arm and as Maida took the babe from him, Wulfgar drew his wife in the circle of his embrace. His eyes swept the hall and he felt the warmth and friendliness of the place which Aislinn had always known. His gaze took in the knights, Milbourne and Gowain, who had fought by his side in the thickest of battles; Sweyn, who had brought him up from his youth; Bolsgar, a father restored; Maida; Miderd; Hlynn; Ham; his man Sanhurst; Haylan and Kerwick, friends all. He smiled as he stared at the latter two then chuckled.

  “You have my leave to marry the widow, Kerwick. The castle will be completed in a few days and we shall have a feast and festivities. ‘Twould be a joyous time to wed.”

  Kerwick threw a glance at Haylan and grinned. “Aye, lord, if I can rise and be about by then.”

  Haylan dipped to Wulfgar and Aislinn. “He will be about,” she assured them, her dark eyes twinkling. “Or he will have a deeper wound than now.”

  With an easy laugh, Wulfgar pulled Aislinn along with him to the portal and drew her outside into the crisp morning air. She shivered slightly as a cool breeze stirred beneath her cloak and he hugged her close against his side to share his warmth. They strolled together across the courtyard in the direction of the castle. As he pulled her beneath the branches of an ancient oak, he grinned and enfolded her within his embrace, leaning back against the trunk of the mighty tree. He pressed a kiss upon her cheek and another further down against her throat.

  “I never thought I would love a woman as much as I love you,” he sighed. “You hold my world in the palm of your hand.”

  Aislinn laughed as she rubbed her face in the wolf fur of his vest. “ ’Tis time you came around.”

  She turned in his arms, lying back against him and gazed toward the castle which rose like a great towering sentry to guard the land.

  “ ’Twill be a safe place for our sons,” Wulfgar murmured against her hair.

  “Yea, our many sons,” she breathed, then she pointed to where a wind vane ha
d been mounted on the highest tower of the castle. “Look!”

  A huge iron wolf had been fashioned by Gavin’s hammer and swung with the morning breeze as if seeking some scent of prey. Wulfgar watched it for a time.

  “Let that beast search out the winds of war,” he said softly. “I have found my peace here in you. I go no more to wander in the wood and seek battle. I am Wulfgar of Darkenwald.”

  He turned her in his arms and their two shadows were joined as one in the new sun’s light.

  Darkenwald had found a place for all.

  About the Author

  Kathleen E. Woodiwiss wrote the very first historical romance novel in 1972 —The Flame and the Flower created a genre and made Ms. Woodiwiss one of the world’s most popular writers, with 36 million books in print. In celebration of Ms. Woodiwiss’s new novel, The Reluctant Suitor (2003), PerfectBound is publishing Ms. Woodiwiss’s classic backlist, including the complete Birmingham Family Saga: The Flame and the Flower; The Elusive Flame; A Season Beyond a Kiss. Also available are Ms. Woodiwiss’s Ashes in the Wind; Come Love a Stranger; Forever in Your Embrace; Petals on the River; A Rose in Winter; Shanna; So Worthy My Love; The Wolf and the Dove.

  NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  KATHLEEN E. WOODIWISS

  “A LEGEND. . .

  THE QUEEN OF HISTORICAL ROMANCE.”

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  “A PHENOMENON”

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  “WOODIWISS REIGNS!”

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  “THE FIRST LADY OF THE GENRE.”

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  “LIVE AND BREATHE THE WORLD

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  Works by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

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