Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment

by Karin Tabke

  Some time later, Wulfson and his men set out to Dunloc. As when they entered the town previously, they were met with surly stares and taunts, but this time no attack. The churls were subdued but wary. Wulfson understood their resentment. But he did not coddle them. He believed with his heart and soul that William was the rightful king, and he would to his last breath defend the throne.

  He stopped in the square, and from atop his horse he called to the townsfolk, “I am Wulfson de Trevelyn, knight of William. I come in search of my knight Warner de Conde. I offer gold for information of his whereabouts.”

  He stared down the group that had gathered. “I also offer death to anyone here who has done him wrong.”

  The crowd mumbled and grumbled. They would not meet his stare, but stood quietly milling about, not sure how to respond. He continued, “Understand that any attack on any of my men is an attack on William. Neither he nor I will stand back. Come to Draceadon with your information and I guarantee your safety and the gold. I seek only my man.”

  He spurred Turold, and his men followed. They spent the day alerting each hamlet to the offer for word on Warner and the reward of gold. Upon their return to Draceadon, Wulfson sent forth messengers to villages and hamlets along what would have been Warner’s return route from Alethorpe. He was confident that, if there was information to be had, gold would change more than a few loyalties.

  Tired and disheartened, the men infused the great hall with a dark mood. The sun had long since sunk beyond the western horizon and few people were about. Despite his worry over Warner, Wulfson felt a different tension fill him. His loins were heavy, and the ride had done nothing to quell his hunger for the woman who had come to torment his every waking moment. He took a long draught of wine and demolished a platter of roasted venison, but his hunger was not sated. His gaze swept up toward the stairway and his blood quickened.

  “She is like a fever you cannot shake,” Rohan said, coming to sit beside him.

  Wulfson nodded, then shook his head. “She is in my blood, Rohan, I cannot shake her.”

  Rohan nudged him with his elbow. “Go to her and savor the time you have. I will keep the men occupied and remind them that even our mighty king has his weakness in his Mathilda.”

  Wulfson raised his gaze to Rohan’s. “Aye, Tarian is my weakness, and I fear she will be my demise.”

  Rohan smiled, his lips twisting in sour humor. “Your duty is to your king first. I know you will make the right decision should the time come.”

  Wulfson threw back another goblet of wine. “Aye, and it will kill me to do so.” With heavy heart and dragging feet, Wulfson left his men to their dark mood and strode up the stairway as if he were meeting the gallows. His heart and gut and mind twisted in a wild frantic battle over duty and propriety. He no more knew what to do then than he had that morn.

  He scowled when he found his bath prepared but no Rolf waiting by. A small movement from the bed caught his eye, and his blood heated.

  “Good eve, milord,” Tarian said, sauntering slowly toward him. “I have missed you these last hours. Why have you dallied?”

  His body quickened, and he could not wait to shuck his clothes and press her into the sheets. But when he broke toward her she stayed him with a raised hand.

  “Nay, you will bathe first, as I know you and your men do not care for the day’s grime to stay with you. Come and let me assist you.”

  He tried to catch her to him, but she was nimble and moved away.

  As he settled into the hot soapy water, he asked, “How dost thou fare?”

  She took up the sponge and lathered it. She smiled softly and caught his intense gaze. “Better. Edie made a soothing balm. It seems to have some effect. She says in time the sickness will pass.”

  Wulfson could offer no response: In his heart of hearts it tore him up that she carried Malcor’s child.

  She pressed cool fingers to his brow and smoothed away his frown. “What troubles you?” she asked softly.

  He grabbed her fingers and brought them to his lips. “I fear for your health. ’Tis all.”

  She smiled gently, and the gesture tugged at his heartstrings. He wondered, if things were different, if he could raise another man’s child. When he thought of Malcor and the perverseness of him, his gut twisted that such an insidious seed as his would have struck fertile ground in such an amazing woman. ’Twas not right. And in his gut he knew each time he looked at the child he would see the father, and in so doing not give the child what it needed. And shame filled him. He had thought he was a better man than that.

  “Edie says women who have the sickness tend to have stronger babes. If that is true, my son will be conqueror of the world.”

  Wulfson scowled, and she caught it. “The child displeases you?” she asked.

  He could not tell a lie. “The thought of Malcor’s brat growing inside you displeases me. Yes.”

  She sat on the bench next to him and began to lather the scar on his chest. “Would that it was yours, would you be likewise displeased?”

  His head shot back and he looked at her with narrowed eyes. “’Twould be bastard, and a bastard would not please me. I have nothing to offer a child, Tarian. I have no land, no place to call home except where I find my pallet each night. I have no parental skills. I have my horse and my swords. ’Tis not enough to rear a child.” He smiled then, and took her hand and brushed his lips across her fingertips. “But should I ever wish for a child, I would have none other than you as his mother.”

  He watched tears form and spill down her cheeks. He reached for her, but she shook her head and moved away from him. He rose from the tub and went to her. Taking her into his arms, he pressed his lips to the top of her head. “My pardon if my honesty has offended you.”

  She shook her head against his chest and looked up to him. He could barely detect the color of her eyes, her tears were so thick. “Nay, Wulfson, no offense. Your confidence in me as the mother of your child was not expected.”

  “How could you not see it?”

  She breathed back a sigh and smiled through her tears. “No one has thought me worthy of anything, and yet you stand here and say only I would be worthy enough to bear your child. I am honored.”

  He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her. When he moved back, he had the urge to take her up on her suggestion they fly to Scotland. There, unharassed, he could keep her belly full of sons. But he knew he could not. He released her and stepped back. “Come see to my bath so that we can”—he grinned—“sport.”

  He was not even dry when he swooped her up into his arms and tossed her onto his bed. He ripped her chemise from her body, and the sight of her full rosy breasts sent him into a sexual spiral. Sliding his hand up to her slender waist, he pulled her to him, her back arching and her breasts spearing the cool evening air. He gorged himself on the supple mounds. Her short gasps and the way her hands clawed at his back told him that he pleasured her well. As always with her, he could not get inside her fast enough. He never wanted to linger and savor her body, not until after that first desperate thrust where he came undone.

  In one hot fell swoop he entered her. Their bodies rose and hung suspended as they each savored the feel, the sensation, the exquisite union they would never find in another.

  And then the sweet wild undulation as nature intended. The give-and-take of making love.

  “Wulfson!” Tarian cried, and hot tears stained her cheeks. Wulfson gathered her tightly into his arms and whispered, “Never fear, ma chère, I will always protect you.”

  He found his release then, and knew that he would die for her.

  Tarian lay for a long time in Wulfson’s arms. His soft snores and steady heartbeat told her he slept. The maelstrom of emotions wreaked havoc inside her heart once more. She was so torn she did not know how to even begin to think her way out of her situation. Her first thought was to protect the child she carried, at all costs. Her wishes and Wulfson’s were second and third. After them, no one and nothi
ng else mattered.

  She played a deadly game of chess with a king who had no compunction about erasing his foes. And William saw her bloodline as a foe. A most real threat against his reign, should she choose to exploit it. She could not blame him. He had killed her beloved uncle. The golden king whom all of England had loved and adored. Gone. Never to return.

  She would never come to love or adore William. But she could respect him as her sovereign, and had pledged her loyalty to him. She was not a fool. He was king now, and he would remain so.

  Tarian rolled over and pressed her cheek to the man who, in more ways than William, held her life in his hands. Emotion once again stirred so deeply in her that she could barely breathe. And she wondered at the onslaught of it all. She had always kept her feelings buried deep, and as much as she wanted to trust this man, she feared his oath to his king would ultimately trump anything between them.

  Mayhap her emotional upheaval was because of the babe. She slid her hand down to her taut belly. Sighing heavily, she looked up to see sleepy green eyes watching her. She rose to him and kissed him, knowing in her gut that their time together was drawing to an end. And that tugged at her heartstrings almost unbearably. But, she decided, she would confess her part in Warner’s absence. At the very least to ease his mind, and at the most to ease hers. And she would make him understand.

  When the cock crowed, Tarian slid from the bed and made her way back to her chamber and called for Edie. “Prepare a basket. I wish to take milord knight to the pond for the day. See that Rolf prepares our horses.”

  As she came back into his chamber, she smiled and said to Wulfson, who grinned naked from the bed, “Get thee dressed. I have a special place I wish to share with you this day.”

  As they rode from Draceadon, the day could not have been more perfect. Blue skies, puffy white clouds, and the air most temperate. The place she had in mind she had found quite by accident, her second day at Draceadon. She had fled to it several times to get away from Malcor and the stink of perversion that clung to him.

  She smiled at Wulfson, who was for once not clad in his mail, but looked most handsome in dark woolen chauses, a smooth green linen undertunic beneath a studded soft leather gambeson. Only his broadsword accompanied him, as did hers. But the pond was secluded and not far, and Edie knew of its location.

  “’Tis not much further, milord.” As they rounded the narrow path, a thick copse of trees appeared to block the way, but Silversmith moved easily through it, and there on the other side, just down a velvety green slope, a crystal-clear pond—the recipient of the cool water tumbling from a mountain spring—greeted them. It was private, yet there was just enough of a break in the heavy copse of trees surrounding it to give way to the sunlight.

  She smiled back at Wulfson and her blood warmed. She would coax him naked into the water, and encourage him to make love to her on the velvety bank. They would eat and nap and make love. And then she would confess all.

  They tied the horses to a nearby tree, and Tarian spread out a thick fur throw. She looked up to find Wulfson watching her with a huge grin splitting his face. “Come here, wench.”

  She shook her head, playing the coquette. Stepping backward, she hastily undressed. She laughed as his eyes widened, and when he lunged for her she screamed and ran from him and dove into the cold clear water. When she surfaced, she scanned the bank for him, expecting him to be there, but there was no sign of him.

  Strong arms grabbed her from behind and she screamed again, but this time he silenced her with his lips. Tarian could do naught but wrap her arms around his neck and sink with him into the water. He scooped her up in his arms, strode with her to the bank, and dropped her to the furs, and in the quiet morning sun he made love to her. And she had never felt more cherished.

  As they lingered naked on the bank, she fed Wulfson pieces of meat and cheese. They drank wine, and they napped under the warm sun.

  Little was said, for no words were necessary. Their bodies spoke for them.

  As she lay with her cheek pressed to his chest and traced a lazy finger down his scar, Wulfson cleared his throat, and she immediately stilled.

  “Tarian,” he said softly, “I expect Gareth to have returned when we leave here. As you know, I go to Normandy immediately when he is back.”

  She nodded, not wanting to look into his eyes, afraid of what she might see. “I ask you to consider going with me.”

  She stiffened. She looked up at him then and saw quiet desperation in his eyes. “I—I would never return,” she breathed. He nodded, and she moved away from him. “Nay, Wulfson, I would rather die than be hostage to William. My uncle has been hostage for years.”

  He sat up. “It may be the only way.”

  She was adamant. “I will never leave England!”

  He nodded and drew her into his arms. But she did not want his comfort. She wanted her life back, she wanted her freedom, she wanted to live in peace with her child and his father. And with crashing realization she knew it was all but a dream.

  Wulfson pressed his hand to her belly. It shocked her. He did not care for the child, she knew. “Think of your child, Tarian, if you will not think of yourself.”

  She flung his hand away and stood. She pulled her chemise over her head and then her kirtle. “I do think of my child! Could you allow your son to be raised in a prison with no hope of freedom? Or worse, that because of his Godwinson blood his life would be in constant jeopardy? Nay! I will never go to Normandy. Never!”

  Wulfson rose and stepped toward her. “I value your life above mine, Tarian! I will not see you dead!”

  She whirled around, her fists tight. “Then turn your back.”

  He shook his head. “’Tis too late for that.”

  They stood several strides apart, each desperate for the other but neither having the answer. She vacillated about whether to tell him the child was his. But she despaired he would force her to Normandy. She desperately wanted to ease his mind about his man Warner, but she feared he would lash out at her. And that she could not bear. He set her above all other women, but her lies would tumble her into the dirt in his eyes. She could not bear it if he thought her nithing. Yet she knew she could not keep her secrets from him. Never him.

  Slowly he dressed. As he picked up his sword belt, he said to her in a low, meaningful tone, “Tarian, I want you as I have wanted no other woman. But I cannot marry you. I have nothing to give. William will see the advantage of a marriage between you and a Norman noble. Take it, and live. Take it and give your child a father. Take it, Tarian, for I could not bear to see you live out your days alone as William’s hostage.”

  “Wulfson,” she softly said. “I—I have to tell you—”

  He pulled her to him and smoothed back her damp hair. “No more words, chérie. I ask you once again to put your trust in me. I will find a solution.” He drew her to him then and kissed her. She stopped fighting, for there was no point. It was what it was and she would do what she had to do. And while the doom that loomed ahead of her should have overshadowed her, she did not allow it to. She would take her time with Wulfson while she had it and make the best of it.

  She threw her head back and laughed, clasping his neck. “Kind sir, you hold my life in your hands. Take great care with it, for it is the only one I posses.”

  He smiled. “’Tis in good hands, milady.”

  As they folded the throw and packed the basket, Tarian glanced over to Wulfson to find him warmly watching her. “Stop looking at me thusly, or we may linger here more than we should.”

  He grinned and dropped the basket he held, and strode toward her. “I could not get enough of you, Tarian, not in a thousand years.”

  Her heart stopped beating as the forest shook like thunder about them. Her eyes widened and she looked to Wulfson, whose face blanched. She started for him when six mounted men, cloaked in black from head to toe, broke through the glade, swords raised, going straight for Wulfson. He saw them when she did. “Run, Tarian, r
un to the forest!” he shouted, then dropped to the ground. He rolled to his sword and was up and prepared to fight in the blink of an eye.

  She stood transfixed, horrified, unwilling to leave him to stand against this unknown enemy. Tarian broke toward him to grab her own sword and stand with him and fight. But she was grabbed up from behind and slung harshly against the rider’s horse’s neck. She screamed frantically, reaching out for Wulfson, who ran toward her shouting for her, and suddenly her sight went black.

  Twenty

  Wulfson watched, horrified, as, just as suddenly as the horsemen had erupted into the clearing, so now they disappeared. Hastily he strapped on his sword, vaulted onto Turold’s back, and gave chase.

  Desperation clawed at his innards, his mind’s eye replaying over and over the brutal blow to Tarian’s head and then her body going limp. Each man’s face was shrouded by a dark hood, only eye slits giving them away as human. He spurred the black on to a faster pace, crashing through bramble and brush. Limbs tore at his face and stung his arms, ripping his skin. He felt nothing. His heart beat so fast and so furious in his chest that he feared it might burst from him. The tracks turned north away from Draceadon, and he followed as if the demons of hell nipped at his heels. He saw them up ahead; only two riders. The one with Tarian, and another. They did not race from him; instead they looked back, almost as if waiting for him. Turold screamed out in pain as an arrow struck his right wither. Wulfson roared his battle cry, drawing his sword, and the steed lunged forward, faster.

  From the forest more riders erupted, coming straight at him, and when he turned to look over his shoulder more followed. Turold slammed into the lesser horses, but the contact was enough to slow his pace. And like a swarm of bees attacking a wasp, they encompassed him, taking him down.

  Tarian woke to the stink of vinegar beneath her nose. Her head jerked back and she made to move but found she could not. She was tied to a chair! Wildly she searched the dim room, and her memory came flooding back. “Wulfson!”