by Karin Tabke
Tarian’s cheeks flamed. Every man, woman, and child in the hall waited for her answer.
“Rangor!” Alewith hissed. “Mind your manners!”
Sword drawn, Wulfson extended his arm, the razor-sharp tip of the blade pointed at Rangor’s heart. The Saxon slowed to a halt several steps from Tarian. Wulfson’s men slowly stood, surrounding the belligerent Saxon and drawing their swords as well. Tarian’s heart beat high in her throat at the deadly display. Her gaze rose to catch Gareth’s, and she read his respect and awe for these knights of William.
“Since the conquest, there is no room here for courtly manners, Alewith,” Rangor sneered. “We hang onto our land by our fingernails.” He turned back to Tarian. “Answer me!”
Tarian remained silent, her face set.
“Tell us, child,” Alewith urged softly.
For him, a man who had been more generous than he needed to be, despite the small fortune that was entrusted to him for the royal byblow, Tarian could never deny Alewith anything. Slowly she shook her head, and lied. “Nay, sir, I have not.”
Rangor threw his hands up and spun halfway away from them. His narrow shoulders hunched over, he seemed to be deep in thought. Then he straightened and whirled around. “It matters not. The midwife explained how inconsistent a woman can be, especially with strife swirling about. There is still time.”
“I see no significance either way, Rangor,” Alewith said, “I have no reason to doubt Tarian and the validity of the will.” He looked up at Wulfson, who still held his sword extended toward Rangor. “Does William uphold our laws and customs, or is he bent on destroying those as well?”
“William is a fair man. He is also loyal to those who are loyal to him.”
Alewith, Rangor, and Tarian stood slack-jawed at the absurd statement. Tarian turned on him. “How can you say such a thing? He killed our king and most of the nobility and untold freemen of this nation. Harold’s brothers, my uncles, along with many of my cousins, fell that day. Your duke had no right to come here: the Witan voted unanimous that Harold should be king!”
Wulfson sheathed his sword—an insult in light of the heated conversation. “William was promised the throne by Edward. That is as binding as a will.” Wulfson’s eyes narrowed. “How would you feel, my lady, should we all at this moment vote to give Rangor this place? Does it make it his? Or does the last will and testament of the former lord hold sway?”
“’Tis not the same,” Tarian defended.
“It is the same, and if you will not do what is best for you”—he looked up and sneered at Rangor—“nor what is best for your illustrious uncle, I am here to see to William’s interests, and so to that end, it will be those that will be best served.”
“I will not be a pawn in any man’s game, not even a king’s!”
Wulfson leaned toward her and warned, “The game has just begun, my lady, and do not for one moment think I crossed that miserable Channel and wore down the hooves of my horse for naught.”
“I will not be forced from my home!”
“That is yet to be determined, but—” His eyes narrowed and a small smile twisted his cruel lips. “If you are with child, your chances of surviving here may improve. If you are not, then seek a husband immediately, for you will need one.”
“I have made a bid for her hand,” Rangor said, stepping forward. Tarian could barely swallow. It had taken every shred of willpower and guts she had to bed with the Norman, but Rangor of Lerwick? His wet lips, pale eyes, pockmarked face, and clammy white skin made him as undesirable to bed as a slippery eel. She would go to the convent before she would lie with him.
“I have told you, I am not interested in marriage with you.” Her eyes narrowed and she fondled the hilt of her sword. “Will you trick me again, Rangor, and throw me down the steps to the dungeon now?”
His face paled to the shade of curdled cream. “Coward,” Alewith hissed. “I did not believe the messenger when he told me such a tale.”
“I meant her no harm. ’Twas only a way to turn her to my wishes,” Rangor defended.
“I would have died before bedding with the likes of you, Rangor,” Tarian spat.
Rangor’s pale eyes iced. “You are nithing, as was your sire. No man will have you!”
Tarian gasped and slapped the Saxon lord. Rangor grabbed her hand and yanked her hard away from the Norman. He turned her around and moved to draw his sword. But Wulfson anticipated the move. With lightning speed, he reached past Tarian and clasped the lord around his throat with both hands. Shaking him loose from Tarian, he lifted Rangor clear off the floor. Rangor’s men came together but the Normans held them back.
“You sorely try my patience, Saxon,” Wulfson gritted.
Gareth strode angrily toward them, his hand on his sword, his face red and blustery. “You are nithing, Rangor,” Gareth seethed, “Say that word again to my lady and I will slit your throat from ear to ear.”
Rangor’s pale eyes bulged out of his head, his feet kicked, his hands frantically grasped at Wulfson’s locked around his neck. He made pitiful noises as Wulfson continued to hold him in the air. Wulfson’s knuckles whitened as they closed tighter around the noble’s neck, and sharp wheezing sounds erupted from the closed throat.
Tarian, along with every other person in the hall, stood in silent awe. The Norman’s great strength and his indifference to the life he was snuffing out was as terrifying as it was shocking.
As a warrior, Tarian recognized a mortal enemy when she saw one, and she knew in her gut that Rangor would go to the ends of the earth to posses Dunloc and her. In that, she should keep silent and let nature take its course; or, as in this case, let the Norman do what Normans do best: kill. But she was also a woman who saw the consequences that would follow in the wake of Rangor’s murder. His Welsh relatives would not only hold the Norman accountable, but word would spread that she’d done nothing to stop it, and therefore she would be an accomplice. And that she could not have. She needed her allies to the west if she were to have any leverage against Norman usurpation. The choice to save Rangor’s life was not made because she was a woman and a nurturer; it was made because she was a woman and a warrior who had no qualms about playing both sides against the middle to hold what was hers by marriage.
When Rangor’s body went limp in the Norman’s hands, Tarian stepped forward and pressed her hand to Wulfson’s. “Please, sir knight, spare him.”
Wulfson’s piercing gaze speared her. “I will give you my oath that should I allow him to live this day, he will be a constant source of irritation to us both.”
Tarian nodded, and pushed against his hand to lower Rangor. “I can handle him.” She smiled at the fearsome knight. “Can you?”
Wulfson’s hands opened and Rangor fell to the floor with a dull thud. Tarian calmly regarded the Norman. His cool gaze and deadly energy sent a chill of fear along the back of her neck and down her spine. When the time came for this man to snuff out her life, he would do it as easily and as indifferently as if he were flicking a flea off his hand.
Ignoring Rangor’s gasping form on the floor, she looked over the gathered throng for Rangor’s manservant, but did not see him. Instead, the whiny Ruin, her late husband’s revolting manservant, hung back like the coward he was behind several other servants. “Ruin, get your carcass over here and see to Lord Rangor.” Tarian looked up at Wulfson and curtsyed. “I have been abed too long, and seek fresh air. If it is permissible, I would see to my horse and exercise him.”
Wulfson stared down at her for a long moment before he extended his arm. “Allow me to escort you.”
Tarian cocked a brow. “Do you not really mean, allow you to walk with me as my jailer?”
He shrugged his great shoulders and smiled a twisted half-smile. “It matters not how you interpret my offer. It stands as it is. Should you refuse, you will while away the hours this day in this smoky hall. The choice is yours.”
She nodded her head ever so slightly, and said, “’Tis obvio
us your mother did not raise you. You have the manners of a boar.”
The color blanched from his face and his lips pulled tight into a harsh line. “’Tis more than I can say for your sire, Lady Tarian.”
She curbed the impulse to slap him as she had slapped Rangor. She did not doubt she would suffer brutally at his hand, and while her mettle was strong, she could not bear the humiliation he would cause her in front of her people. She trod on a winter pond where the ice was parchment-thin, and if she made one false move she might find herself drowning in its icy depths.
“Touché, my lord knight. Never was there a more loving pair than your dam and my sire. May they rest in peace.”
Wulfson cocked a brow. “I never said my dam lived or died.”
Placing her hand back upon his brawny forearm, she softly said, “I could see she was dead to you in your eyes. Whether she is actually in the ground or buried in your heart, she will glean no love from her son.”
Her response did not require an answer, and he offered none. She turned then to face the still stunned crowd. Her eyes touched on Alewith, then on the silent but ever alert Brighid, and finally on her guard, whom she warned off with her gaze. She would test the Norman waters on her terms, and with no intrusion.
“Should I not return in a reasonable amount of time, Gareth, alert the Welsh—and Rangor, should he come to.” While her voice held a serious note, her lips quirked into a small smile when she looked up at the arrogant knight. He stared down at her, a spark of amusement in his dark eyes. If she could not overpower him with sheer force, she would wheedle her way in with guile. She cocked her head toward the great double doors. “Shall we?”
He moved her through the throng that parted like the Red Sea.
Nine
“How is it, Lady Tarian, you came to wield a sword?” Wulfson asked as they came upon the vast stables. They were, Wulfson had noted admiringly from the first day, in better condition than the hall. It was obvious the former lord had a solid eye for horseflesh. The few fleet mares were of fine desert bloodlines. Wulfson thought in passing how well the blood would blend with that of Turold, a great warhorse of Spanish heritage.
He noted the way Tarian’s body went from the slow fluid stride they enjoyed as they left the hall to her abrupt rigidity when he posed the question.
“When one is born the daughter of a great earl by way of the rape of an abbess, one not only does not have God on her side, but she does not have the support of the royal line either. There are three recourses for a woman such as myself. Find a husband, which in my case took all of my twoscore years to locate, because despite my pedigree, the curse comes with me, and even with a king’s ransom I could snare only the most undesirable of spouses. My next option was the convent, when in this case looks at me as the devil’s own spawn and has made it very clear my unholy presence is not welcome within its holy walls; so lastly, I have done what I have done—armed myself with knowledge and a sword. Used what I have to stay alive.” She glanced up at him and said, “It is all about surviving, no?”
He nodded, impressed. “Aye.”
As they entered the long structure they were met with the low nickers of the horses. The odd little man, Abner, who was the stablemaster, scurried forward and bobbed to Tarian and Wulfson. “My lord, my lady?”
“Saddle my black and the lady’s gray.”
Tarian glanced up at Wulfson curiously; he returned the look. “I have admired your stallion’s depth of muscle and Spanish bloodlines. His only vice is his fondness to bite any hand that reaches in to scratch him.”
Tarian grinned. “He is not mean, only discriminating.”
Wulfson grunted. “He has been ridden by a woman too long.” Tarian’s head snapped back, but he flashed her a mesmerizing smile and moved closer to her. “He needs to be ridden by a man to break that ugly streak.”
He checked himself, fighting the urge to take her into his arms. She was as lethal as any plague and a noblewoman to boot. But—he caught a whiff of her violet scent—she made it incredibly difficult to resist….
Heat swirled between them, and as much as Tarian wanted to ignore the man’s pull, she could not. He was as hot-blooded as her stallion, and the image of her riding the man, not the horse, warmed her. “A hand that breaks is a hand that will never earn trust.”
He raised his hand and trailed his knuckles along her cheek, and softly said, “I would never be such a fool as to break a high-strung creature. The ride would lose its appeal.”
Tarian could feel the hard thump of her heart against her chest. It was the same feeling she had had when she stepped onto the battlefield in York against the Vikings, the same exhilarating feeling she had had fighting so close to Harold at Hastings. She rose to the challenge of her enemy, for that was what this man was.
She raised her hand to his cheek, mimicking his gesture, smiling when he flinched. “The stallion shies from the mare?”
He grabbed her hand and opened her palm. He pressed the sensitive skin there to his lips, and, as a stallion would when he mounted a mare, he bit her. She gasped, but instead of shying from him she pressed her palm more firmly into his teeth. Heat sprang up from her thighs to her breasts, and that tingling sensation he had evoked from her body the night past returned. She felt the flicker of her nostrils. Parting her lips, she tilted her head back, exposing the soft skin of her neck, and Wulfson took the bait. He growled low, yanked her hard against him, and sank his teeth into the flesh there. The shock of his touch and the ferocity of it stunned her. Her knees trembled and she felt as if they had turned to soggy willows. He pulled her harder against him to keep her from crumpling at his feet.
His other hand dug into her hair and he pulled her head back, forcing her to expose more of her throat. His lips were searing, his tongue laved her jugular, and she quite honestly thought she would go up in a puff of smoke, her body was so hot. “You, my lady, are a most shameless widow.”
She laughed at his words. Tarian had never cleaved to the rules of society. Why should she, when that same society cast her out as if she were marked with the pox? Breathless, she hung in his arms, not wanting to be the one to retreat. She would match this warrior of William’s step for step, gesture for gesture, and if the time came for her to defend her life against him, she would have no hesitation to draw her sword and fight to the death of one of them.
He raised his head from her, his lips swollen from his assault. Her breasts felt heavy and the churning feeling in her belly would not subside. His eyes had darkened, and he caught her with their intensity. “An oath you want and an oath I’ll give. Use your wiles as you will, Lady Tarian, and I will gladly take what you so boldly offer. But my loyalty is to my king first, my men of the Blood Sword second, my horse and own sword third.”
She laughed again, hoping the sound hid her trepidation. He would see to her death as sure as they were both standing there, regardless of his lust for her. “What is it you think I offer?”
His hand slid from her hair to her neck, then lower, to rest on her left breast. Her heart leapt at the intimate touch. He smiled and rubbed his thumb across the puckered fabric beneath. “This.”
She slowly shook her head and stepped back from him. “Never that.”
“You lie.”
“Nay, I do not. I am a Saxon noblewoman. My uncle was king of this great land, my ancestors kings and queens. I would never lie with a common soldier, and a Norman one least of all.”
Wulfson’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded. “I think mayhap ’tis you who may be in denial.”
“My lord and my lady!” Abner called as he led both destriers into the open area where they stood. “Your mounts are ready.”
Wulfson threw his head back, and his laughter rang to the rafters. Abner stood unsure and looked to his lady for guidance. “’Tis not of concern, Abner, the Norman is addled.”
The groom assisted her to mount, and it bothered Tarian that he should. But she had no choice. She was not of tall-enough stature tha
t she could reach the high stirrup of Silversmith’s saddle. When she was mail-clad, an assist was even more necessary. She scowled at Wulfson, who despite the greater size of his stallion over hers, and his great height and mail-clad weight, effortlessly mounted the black. His green eyes danced in glee. “We will not go far without a guard, and I without my helm.”
When Tarian mounted, the pale skin of her thighs was exposed above the linen chauses she tied just below her knees. Wulfson’s brows shot up. “Would you repeat what Godiva, the former lady of Mercia, was so fondly remembered for?”
Tarian bristled. “This is not Coventry, and whilst I protest your presence, I will do it clad. If you have such a problem with my attire and exposure of skin, do not look.”
He urged his mount forward. “I have no such aversion, but you may find yourself the recipient of unwanted attention.”
She grasped the reins with one hand and fondled the hilt of her sword with the other. “I have no aversion to using this trusted blade to quell a knave’s insult.”
Wulfson laughed again, and his parting shot ranked her beyond her boundary. “Methinks you are but a hissing kitten with only sharp claws to do her bidding. You will find we Norman dogs digest kittens to break the fast.”
She laughed at the image. “If a king had faith in my ability, so should you.”
Wulfson shook his head. “Harold must have been desperate.”
She frowned. “You continue to insult me.”
He turned and looked at her with a cocked brow and an expression that belied her words.
“I will admit, at first my uncle was greatly amused by my claim. But he soon came around when one of his huscarls took liberties with my person, and I set him straight with my sword.” Wulfson’s expression did not change. He did not believe her. “Do not underestimate me, sir knight. It will be your undoing.”
He smiled and nodded. “Consider your dire warning heeded.”
