by Karin Tabke
Rangor’s smile faded, but he pressed further. “I do not believe you. I know my nephew, and I know he could not stand the sight of a woman.”
“The bloodied linens were produced.”
“Sheep’s blood.”
“Nay!” she denied, shaking her head. “My virgin blood!”
He waved her off. “’Tis of no consequence. I would have us wed by sunset on the morrow.”
“Nay, I cannot.”
“You will,” Rangor pressed.
She stiffened with resolve. “Nay, I will not. You cannot force me.”
“You forced Malcor.”
Tarian forced a smile. “I but reminded him of his public and private oath to wed with me.”
“Would you give up title here?” Rangor asked, sweeping his arm out toward the vast hall.
Tarian stood her ground. “My title here is not contingent upon my wedding with you, Rangor.”
“It will be when I inform the king you murdered my nephew.”
Tarian’s defiance cooled. There was that. “Malcor’s death was of his own making.”
Rangor inclined his head toward Ruin. “He says different.”
Tarian narrowed her eyes at the simpering fop. “He lies.” She turned back to the noble, and despite the continued pounding on the door, she spoke calmly and played her hand. “But it matters not. I anticipated your intervention here. I have sent word to Normandy. I would have William decree me Lady here over you. The messenger left the day of Malcor’s death.”
Rangor’s pale face flushed crimson, his cheeks puffed, and his fists opened and closed at his sides. “You will rue the day, Lady Tarian! Draceadon and all that belong to it are mine by right of blood. I will not have a murderess sit upon the dais while my nephew molders in the earth by her hand!” He turned to his guard. “Take her to the dungeon!”
Tarian drew the jeweled dagger from her girdle. Whirling around, she stabbed the closest man to her, then backpedaled to the door that quaked under Gareth’s wrath. The guards pressed close upon her, but she would not go down without a fight. She had whirled around again to attack the next nearest man when her hand was caught from behind. A fist squeezed her fingers until the dagger dropped clattering to the stone floor. Unceremoniously she was hoisted onto a set of wide shoulders. “I will kill you for this, Rangor!” she screamed.
The ignoble stalked toward her. It took three men to subdue her sufficiently. He pressed close to her face but was smart enough to keep away from her teeth. “You have time to change your mind. A fortnight I will give you. Either we wed by the time William’s messenger arrives, or I will inform him you are dead, executed for the murder of my nephew and earl!”
“Be prepared to present my body, Rangor, for I have Malcor’s will. He leaves all to his lawful wife!” She laughed at his stunned face. “And I leave it all to the Abbey at Leominster!”
Rangor blanched. “Where is it?” he whispered.
She spat at him. “You will never find it!”
In a slow swipe, he wiped the spittle from his face. “Enjoy your stay with the rats, milady. I hear they have a taste for human flesh.”
One
May 27th, 1067
Rouen, Normandy
It seems, my good knight, I require your services once again in that troublesome land of mine across the channel,” William said none too happily to Wulfson de Trevelyn, the captain of his elite guard les morts.
Wulfson bowed deeply to his king, who waved him up with an impatient gesture. The Duke of Normandy and recently crowned King of England paced the thick wool carpet of his antechamber. William was dressed in the regal garb of one of his station. Yet his mail was nearby, a constant reminder that nothing had come easy to him, and at heart, he was a true warrior. Wulfson’s king had fought since he was a lad to hold onto one legacy left to him by his father, and had brought an entire country to her knees to claim another promised to him by a dead king.
“I am, as always, my liege, at your service,” Wulfson said.
“It seems conquering an entire nation is not enough to bring down that insufferable Godwinson dynasty.”
Wulfson’s interest had been piqued when he was privately summoned to his sovereign’s antechamber. Now his complete interest was engaged. “Sire?”
William, nearing forty, but still a hearty man, had the strength and agility of a man half his age. His cagey eyes smiled despite his rancor. “Aye, lad, it seems the granddaughter of that blackguard Godwine by his eldest son, the outlaw Sweyn, has managed to not only wed with Malcor the Earl of Dunloc, a most strategic ally to the west, but the bloodthirsty bitch has proceeded to slit the poor fool’s throat whilst in their marriage bed!”
Wulfson whistled in surprise and, he had to admit, awe. He’d heard tales of the Wessex women. Saxon and Viking blood ran hot and deep in their veins. Some, he’d heard, had fought beside their men at Stamford Bridge. They were a lusty, warlike bunch. And he could well relate. His own lust for battle was his life’s blood.
William poured a hearty draught of wine into a golden goblet. He handed it to Wulfson, then poured himself one.
Wulfson accepted the offering and quietly contemplated why he had been called to his liege. William eyed him sharply. Wulfson considered his king’s position in the matter, and mused out loud. “Should the House of Wessex raise its greedy head, who is to say a blood niece to the Usurper with ties to several thrones could not rally an army to claim for her son what is rightly yours?”
William drained his cup and slammed it down on the side table. “She has an army! ’Tis how she brought the earl first to his knees and then to marriage.”
Wulfson chortled. “Hah! Now that is a twist, a lady forcing a man to marriage!”
William began to pace anew and mumbled, “Would that I had a few more such as she here to guard my borders, I would have no reason to toss and turn at night.”
Wulfson bowed to his troubled king. “What would you have me do, sire?”
William turned and faced his captain. “You are among the few in whom I place my complete trust. You and your Blood Swords are also the best at what you do.” William scowled again. “I have received three missives in a week’s time regarding what brews in Mercia. One from the lady herself asking that her claim to Dunloc be validated. The second is from the captain of her guard alerting me to her capture by her uncle by marriage, Rangor of Lerwick. And the third from Lerwick himself, informing me the lady is a witch who cast a spell upon his nephew and then slit his throat, only to lay claim to Dunloc’s holdings. Rangor, of course, now claims the holdings by right of blood, and begs me punish her for murdering his nephew.”
“The lady is a murderess, and a widow without issue. What claim does she have?”
“There is no valid claim by her if what Lerwick says is true, but she claims to have a valid will.” William stopped his agitated pacing and speared Wulfson with a steely glare. “The lady is a thorn in my side that will fester if left untended. Her dastardly deeds aside, any living Godwinson is a threat to England, and so a threat to me. In your capable hands, sir knight, I put her life. See to it she no longer poses a threat to any man.”
Wulfson was about to take another draught of his wine, his arm halted, poised in the air at his king’s words. “But, sire, she is a royal.”
“A royal who murdered an earl!”
Wulfson stood silent, giving his king time to think his request through.
William slammed his fist into his hand. “I know of no other way.”
Wulfson scowled. He had no issue with seeing to his king’s order—but he was not convinced the means would justify the end. Their eyes met, and Wulfson saw only determination in the king’s gray eyes. William rarely changed his mind once it was set. Wulfson clicked his heels together; his spurs jangled.
“Consider the deed done, sire.”
William’s lips drew into a tight line before he spoke. “The fewer who know of your reason for returning to that insufferable isle the better. I
will not have it said King William murders noblewomen, even though the law would support her execution.”
Wulfson nodded. “I will send word ahead, then, to Rohan, for more men.”
William turned, poured himself another cup, and took a long draught. “’Tis a wise move. But there is one more thing. A small hindrance, to be sure.”
Wulfson waited, already anxious to turn his horse’s hooves back onto solid English soil.
“Rangor has arrogantly laid claim to the holding despite his request for my intervention, and he refuses to release the Lady Tarian. Understandably, the lady’s army has laid siege to the manor, refusing any person near it.”
“I shall see them both removed.”
“I do not doubt it, Sir Wulfson. But tread lightly,” William cautioned. “While I care naught what happens to the lady’s army, I want no enemy of Rangor. He has longstanding alliances with the Welsh, who are already causing problems along the border. See the deed done, discreetly, and in proper time, so that I may find a suitable Norman bride for the new master of Dunloc.”
Wulfson bowed to his king, then quickly exited the chamber, his blood quickening in anticipation.
England awaited.
Two
June 6th, 1067
Draceadon, Mercia
“Lord Rangor!” Wulfson called out in clear English, to the huge stone and wooden edifice that was known far and wide as Dragon Hill. While it was well situated upon a sweeping hill, there was no moat, either wet or dry as was popular in France, nor was there a drawbridge. Only a high wall surrounded the structure, with two impressive metal-studded wooden doors shut tightly against any and all predators. The fortress’s tall stone and timber walls and sweeping ramparts were, in Wulfson’s experienced eyes, not unscalable. But damn nigh so. During his many years of warring, he had never found a fortress impenetrable. So long as he was patient, he was always able to find the crack and then exploit it. He had every reason to believe the same strategy would apply here. Time was his ally this day.
For should the errant lord behind the foreboding walls refuse his entreaty, he would then find himself crushed beneath the severe wrath of not only the Blood Swords but the mighty fist of William. “I come in the name of King William. Allow us entry!”
When no answer came forth, and in no mood to dally with the arrogant Saxons, Wulfson raised his right arm. Turold, his mighty black destrier, shifted his weight on his mighty hooves. “Easy, lad,” Wulfson soothed the savage beast.
“Light the arrows!” Wulfson called. He did not need to turn to either his right or his left and see the chore met. His brothers-in-arms, les morts, William’s elite death squad, would notch not one or two, but three arrows in their longbows. In no time the wooden part of the fortress along with the interior buildings would fall; and with that, their entry would be guaranteed. ’Twas no more difficult than his morning visit to the privy.
Seasoned warriors, all of them. The task was complete in less time than it took to blink twice. Wulfson lowered his arm, and the sweet whooshing sound of two dozen flaming arrows arched high over his head, sweet music to his ears. He raised his chin, and from beneath his black conical helmet he watched the arrows arch, come together, then dip as one, and rain unmercifully down upon the resisting people of Draceadon.
Save for the few shrieks and screams from above, he did not expect an immediate return on his assault. He turned slightly in his saddle and looked to his right, where dark knights dressed as he in black mail, their black horses tacked as his in black leather and metal spikes, notched three more arrows. Ioan, Warner, and Stefan; to his left, Rorick, Thorin, and Rhys. The seven of them, minus his comrade Rohan du Luc, had for the last seven years operated as one unit. It seemed strange and oddly discomfiting not to have Rohan at his side. It was like missing a hand or an arm. But the man awaited the birth of his first child, and though he had made a good argument to accompany them, Wulfson had shrugged this endeavor off as something they could do in their sleep.
He was here to dispose of Lady Tarian, an enemy of the state. And a mere woman at that. ’Twould not cause him much effort. Indeed, he expected to be back in Normandy within the fortnight.
He nodded his head, and the arrows took flight a second time, the same high arch lighting up the damp gray sky like a mass of fiery shooting stars.
Once those arrows found home, Wulfson turned to his men. “Notch the skins, aim for the cookhouse chimneys.” ’Twas an old ruse that worked every time it was deployed. Though deadly swordsmen, his men were such expert bowmen as well that they could shoot a thick hide from a quarter-league away and hit their target in the eye. This time, they had simply to shoot up the fortress walls to the crest of the billowing chimney tops. Once the structure caught fire, the flames would spread, and soon, like rats in a flood, the inhabitants would flee for air and meet on the highest ground. By then, Wulfson and his men would have scaled the burned-out walls and be done with it.
Wulfson nearly yawned. ’Twas a squire’s chore.
But before they let the hides fly, a voice called out from atop the forward rampart. “Cease your attack and identify yourselves!”
Wulfson raised his shield. “Show yourself if we are to parle!” he called to the man, being very careful not to come close enough to the edge of the walls that they could be doused by burning pitch or a hailstorm of stones and nails. Thanks to the Lady Tarian’s garrison that he had encountered in the wood just past Dunloc village, Wulfson knew that the fortress, while in looks foreboding, held not the necessary fighting implements. Barely a bow resided within the walls. With most of the men lost, first at Stamford Bridge and then Hastings, there was naught but women and children for the most part to protect the manor and lands. Save for the full stores to hold out in a prolonged siege should there be one, Draceadon was sorely unprepared for any invasion.
Acting as if he had important news for Lady Tarian, Wulfson was able to beguile the captain of her guard into assisting, and the man Gareth was a fount of information.
“You say you are here in the name of William, but who are you?” an articulate voice challenged. Most likely Rangor, the lady’s dearly departed husband’s uncle, certainly not a villein.
“I am Wulfson of Trevelyn, captain of les morts, King William’s private guard. I have a private matter to discuss on his behalf with Lady Tarian.”
A long pause ensued. Wulfson nodded his head, and the hides flew. More time passed, then suddenly billows of dark, churning smoke erupted overhead.
Moments later, the same voice called down to Wulfson. “Inform your king the Lady Tarian is dead.”
“How convenient for Rangor,” Ioan said from beside Wulfson.
“Aye, how convenient indeed.” Wulfson looked up. “Your words will require proof. Open the gates and present her body!” Wulfson called to the rampart. Then he turned to Ioan at his immediate right and said for the ears of the Blood Swords only, “Let us hope he speaks the truth. ’Twould save me the chore.”
Ioan chuckled, the sound ominous. “Should you be unable to perform, Wulf, I have no such problems.”
Wulfson scowled beneath his helmet, his eyes wary. “Nor do I. An enemy of the Crown is an enemy of the Crown, no matter the sex. ’Tis all the same to me.”
As the two men continued their conversation, a body was tossed over the rampart wall. Wulfson was urging his mount to back up when the body of a richly dressed woman landed at Turold’s feet. Ever the veteran of such distractions, the great black stood perfectly still, awaiting only his master’s command.
“’Tis she, now begone!” the voice from above commanded.
Wulfson glanced up at the rampart to see a flash of dark green fabric disappear behind the stone.
“God’s blood!” Ioan said. “The man has no honor!”
“Aye, ’twould appear I may have underestimated the man’s ambition.”
“This body has decayed. ’Tis not a recent death,” Rorick pointed out. “The belly is corrupted.”
Wulfson nodded, his gaze resting on the twisted, broken body before him. Cautiously he dismounted, and bade his Blood Swords be wary. The woman’s neck was at an unnatural angle, but that was not what he suspected had killed her. Dark brown hair covered most of her face. He bent beside her. Though a murderess, the Lady Tarian was a renowned beauty, with raven-colored hair, and eyes, they said, the color of the North Sea. She was also known for her small stature, and this woman, though dark of hair, was long of limb. He brushed the tangled hair from her face. Dark molted skin was pulled tight across thick cheekbones. Her mouth gaped open, dark rotted teeth clenching onto a black swollen tongue. He pushed open an eyelid. Though the pale film of death clouded it, he could plainly see that the natural color of the eye was dark, mayhap brown or black. Certainly not the eye color that the warrior princess was said to possess. He looked further down her broken body to her rough hands. The hands of a villein, not a royal.
Wulfson looked up toward the tower rampart. What kind of fool did Rangor take him for? He stood to his full height, and turned to Gareth, the captain of the lady’s guard. He would be sure.
“Is this your lady?”
The tall Dane walked slowly forward, as though he could not bear to see for himself, and though he wore a helmet, Wulfson could see his face blanch, and fear stood in his eyes. Fool! It was obvious he held more than a sense of duty for the lady. Gareth took one look at the body and let out a long sigh of relief.
“Nay, sir, ’tis not my lady.”
“Step back then, man, and have your men bring forth the rams. I tire of Rangor’s games.”
Once the rams were brought up, it did not take very long for the thick English-oak doors to give way under the combined forces of Wulfson’s men and those of Gareth. Wulfson watched the Dane’s determination to get to his lady, and he gladly allowed him to expend his and his men’s energy. ’Twould serve Wulfson well once inside, for when the man learned his lady would be jumping from one form of prison to permanent exile, there would be yet another battle to stand and deliver.
