by Karin Tabke
Deep, familiar laughter from behind her wafted over her like a plague. “How tender that you think of that arrogant Norman before yourself,” Rangor said, stepping in front of her. His pale blue eyes glittered in the low light of the candles on a nearby table.
“What have you done?!” Tarian screamed, immediately regretting the outburst. Sharp shards of pain spiked ruthlessly at her head where she had been struck. She closed her eyes and sucked in a long breath, then slowly exhaled and opened her eyes. The unadorned room tilted right, then left, before righting itself. Rangor as usual was overdressed and bejeweled. His arrogance was nauseating.
“You did not think I would give up so easily, Tarian, did you?”
“Where am I? What have you done with Wulfson?”
Rangor pulled up a rough-hewn chair and placed it a safe distance from her, then sat and faced her. “You are where no one will find you. All traces of our horses have been erased. ’Tis only you, me, and that arrogant bastard you are leman to!”
Tarian flinched at his harsh words. She had been called worse all her life and had shrugged it off. But when the words spewed from Rangor’s mouth, he made what she shared with Wulfson sound dirty.
She fought against the tight ropes that bound her, her fury nearly overcoming her. “Let me go! You have no right!”
Rangor smiled and crossed his legs and peered at his nails as if they were not up to his meticulous standards. He looked over at her, a nasty smile twisting his thin lips. “Oh, I will release you, my sweet, but not until you give your oath to marry me.”
“Never!”
He shrugged and bit at a nail. He spat it to the floor and stood. “’Tis too bad for your lover then. For each day you refuse me, he feels another score of lash stripes on his back.”
“Nay! Do not take your anger at me out on him! He does not deserve it!”
Rangor only shrugged again, and as the door closed behind him Tarian lost all vestiges of control. “Rangor!” she screamed. “Release him!” She pulled and twisted at the ropes, so much so that the chair tipped with her in it. She hit the dirt floor with a hard thud, the breath forced from her chest. She was undeterred. On her side, she scooted with her legs across the room, and then with her feet kicked at the door. “Rangor, I will see you in hell before I marry you!” She kicked the door again and again, screaming at him, until finally her voice was too raw to speak. Her strength gone, she collapsed against the dirt floor, and exhaustion overtook her.
Hot shards of pain speared his arms, his legs, and his chest. He was bound and stretched on his back. After he fought through the white-hot pain, Wulfson’s first thought was of Tarian. He tried to open his eyes but they were swollen shut. He roared his anger and his pain, but only a harsh rasp came forth.
He could not speak, he could not see, and his body felt afire. Then he remembered. The fists to his face, the lash to his back, the blade crisscrossing his chest. He had screamed in agony for so long that his voice was lost.
He tried to swallow but could not; he tried to move his head, but the pain was too excruciating. “Tarian,” he said, but no sound came forth.
A deep chuckle reverberated in the room. “She cannot help you now, Norman,” a male voice he did not recognize said from his left. “She is lost to you forever.”
The words hurt more than the gaping wounds. Wulfson tried once more to force his eyes to open, but like mortar, dried blood caked them shut. He turned his head to face the voice and the movement cost him; angry jolts of pain speared his neck and shoulders. “You will ride my sword to hell,” he hoarsely croaked.
He screamed in silent agony when his torturer struck his bad thigh with a club. White-hot agony tore into him, and then, thankfully, blackness.
Wulfson drifted in and out of consciousness, and each time his mind awoke, his first thoughts were of Tarian. The thought of her enduring what he did was more painful than his actual wounds. Would they rip the babe from her? Would they violate her tender body? Would she pray for death as he did?’
Nay, she would not. She was a warrior, as was he. His resolve galvanized, but he knew he was without food or water, and unless he was somehow freed from the bindings, he would die in this hellhole, blinded by his own blood. From out of nowhere he was struck again, this time on the side of the face. Though he could not see, bright stars burst inside his brain and once more darkness took him away.
Tarian was kicked awake. “Wake up!” Rangor hissed, and he pushed his way past her. He righted the chair, and if Tarian had had the strength she would have torn off his ear. As it was, she was depleted. He pressed a cup to her lips and forced her to drink the watered wine. She coughed and choked but took all she could; she would need her strength.
She shook her head and turned away when she had had enough.
As he had previously, Rangor sat across from her. “Have you had sufficient time to change your mind?”
She shook her head. “I will never marry you.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, but I think you will change your mind.” He rose and pulled his dagger from his belt, and she hissed in a breath and shrank back. But all he did was cut the ropes across her lap and legs. Then he cut those keeping her chest and back secured. But her hands were still tied. He yanked her up with the blade to her belly. “Give me the slightest cause, and I will slice the babe from your belly.”
She hissed in a surprised breath. How did he know? “I have spies everywhere, Tarian. You underestimate me.” He shoved her forward to the door. “Now, I have taken pity on you and your whoreson. Would you like to see him?”
Dread filled her at what she might behold, but she nodded vigorously. He smiled. “Good, I think you will be—surprised.”
He yanked open the door and roughly pushed her through into a dark passageway. It ran long, and, try as she might, she had no clue to her whereabouts. At the end of the long hall was a large studded door. Rangor knocked on it and it opened, and the sight that greeted her nearly killed her.
Wulfson lay naked, save for, his braies, on a rough-hewn trestle table. His arms were pulled high over his head and tied to spikes, as were his legs. But what tormented her the most was the slick blood that covered nearly every inch of him. Lash marks glittered in macabre symmetry across his chest and thighs. The right side of his face was so swollen she could not detect an eye. Emotion flooded her with such a harsh current at the moment that she fell to her knees. Hot tears sprang forth like a spring flood, and her heart twisted so tightly she could not breathe. Her entire body shook at the thought of Wulfson’s death. She could not bear it. He was her one true love on the earth, and if he was gone she had no wish to remain here without him. The revelation made her pain all the more tormenting. She was the cause of his wounds, she would be the cause of his death. She looked up at Rangor. Hate seethed from every inch of her. Despite her bound hands, she managed to stand. She stepped toward him.
“What have you done to him?” she screamed. She turned and made to fly to Wulfson’s side, but was yanked back by Rangor.
“Look closely, Tarian. He hangs to life by a thread.” Rangor nodded to the hooded man standing beside Wulfson. He brought up a club and hit Wulfson’s right thigh. “Nay!” she screamed, pulling hard from Rangor. But he held her fast.
In silent horror she watched Wulfson’s body stiffen. He opened his mouth to scream in pain, but no sound came forth. His pain was her pain, and she could scarce breathe. She retched up the wine she had just drunk, and she felt as if she would die. If she could take some of the pain away she would. The hooded man brought the club down again on Wulfson, and this time his scream was heard.
“Stop this! Stop this now!” Tarian screamed at Rangor. She turned to him, and if she could have, she would have grasped his hands and dropped to her knees and begged him. But her hands were tied behind her back.
“Your oath for marriage,” Rangor softly said,
“I give it! Anything, but spare him his life”
“Do you swear o
n the life of the child you carry?”
“Aye! I swear it! Now release him to me!”
Rangor’s eyes glittered in triumph. “I knew you would see the value to our union.” He turned to the hooded man. “Cut the ropes that bind him; he will not be going anywhere.”
Rangor cut the ropes from Tarian and she rushed to Wulfson. “Dear God, please do not let him die,” she begged. She smoothed trembling fingers across his face and pressed her lips to his. “You will live, Wulfson, as my oath to God I will see you live!”
Rangor grabbed her away. “Come and sign the contract.”
Tarian was given a horse and she flew, pushing the steed to his last breath just as they broke into the meadow below Draceadon. Her heart pounded like a hammer in her chest. The horse dropped beneath her, so hard had she pushed. She jumped clear of him and raced up the hill, screaming for assistance.
Several of Wulfson’s men were mounted and thundered toward her. “Thorin! Rohan! Hurry, Wulfson lies dying!”
Thorin ground to a halt before her and with one arm snatched her up from the ground. So winded was she that she could barely speak. “He is dying! Thorin, we must get to him!”
“Where, Tarian?” he demanded, shaking her. Her head rattled and she nearly fainted.
“Almost a half day’s ride north. Gather linens and balms, get me a fresh horse, and I will take you to him,” she gasped.
Thorin reined his horse and swung him around toward the fortress. Rohan, Ioan, and Rhys joined them, all demanding to know what had happened.
“Wulfson lies gravely wounded. Saddle the horses and gather the men!” Thorin called.
Tarian jumped from the destrier as soon as Thorin slowed at the doors. “Edie!” Tarian screamed, breaking into the hall. “Fetch me linens and balms!”
Out of nowhere the nurse appeared, and hurried to bring her the items. Tarian turned to run back into the courtyard, but was abruptly stopped by a gauntlet of Wulfson’s men. They stood scowling down at her, distrust clearly lining their faces.
“Why do you tarry? Let us fly!”
Thorin shook his head. “First tell us what happened.”
Incredulous, her jaw dropped. “He—we—I—was kidnapped! Wulfson came for me, and they tortured him!” She grabbed Thorin’s hand and pulled him toward the door. “Come, there is no time to waste!”
Edie ran toward her with a full satchel. Tarian grabbed it. “Do not believe me, then! But I am going to back to him. He needs me!” Tears erupted in a shameless flood. “He needs you!”
She rushed from the hall and knew by the pounding of feet that the men followed. Silversmith was already tacked, and for the first time in her life Tarian did not need assistance mounting him. She leapt up to the gray’s back, and before she had the satchel fully wrapped around the pommel and the reins in her hands, she kicked him and they galloped off.
She could not push the gray hard enough. But unlike the horse she had ridden in, Silversmith had great strength and endurance. Anxiety tore through her as she realized she did not remember exactly whence she had come, so intent had she been on reaching the Blood Swords for help. But some instinct inside her guided her back to the small ramshackle structure from which she had fled.
She reined Silversmith to an abrupt halt, and, not waiting for the men to follow, she leaped down and gathered the satchel from the pommel. Pushing open the thick doors, she ran through the small vestibule and down the dark hall to the studded door. She heaved it open and her heart flew high into her throat, terrified she would find her beloved dead.
He was as she had last seen him, bloodied and barely alive upon the trestle. She hurried to him, and as gently as she could, she pressed her ear to his bloody chest. Her heartbeat pounded so loudly in her ears she could not detect his own. Dear God, dear God! Please do not take him from me!
A strong hand grasped her shoulders and gently pulled her away. She looked up through hot tears to see Thorin’s face twisted in anger, and something else. Fear? His men gathered around him, and she watched as Rohan pressed his hand to Wulfson’s mouth. A small smile cracked his lips, and he nodded and looked up. “He breathes.”
Tarian’s knees gave way, and had Thorin not been so close she would have crumpled in relief to the ground.
“Water!” Thorin boomed. Quickly Ioan ran from the room. Rhys threw the ropes that lay on the table aside and pressed his hand to Wulfson’s brow. “He burns with fever.”
Ioan returned with water skins and wineskins. Tarian stood back and watched in humble silence as the Blood Swords tended to their fallen brother. They washed the blood from his body. And she cringed at the wounds. While they were not deep, they were many. Stefan pulled a bag of balm from his belt and carefully applied it to the raw flesh. Gently the men rolled Wulfson over and did the same to his back, which thankfully did not appear to have sustained the same severity of damage.
Not once did Wulfson make a sound. And that worried her overmuch. He was in a deep sleep from which nothing but time could wake him.
When his body had been cleaned and the wounds dressed, the men wrapped him in sheets of linen. “Manhku!” Rohan called to the giant. “Help me lift him.”
The African stepped forward, and as if Wulfson were but a babe, the giant lifted him up into his arms, as tenderly as a mother would her child. He turned dark angry eyes on Tarian, and she knew they all blamed her. And they were right. ’Twas Rangor’s greed for her that had driven him to this. She nodded, taking their anger in stride. She would feel no differently.
Manhku carried Wulfson from the room out into the waning sunlight. Thorin mounted his great steed, and between Rohan and Manhku they lifted Wulfson’s damaged body to him. Once secure in the saddle, Thorin slowly turned his horse for Draceadon.
Her strength exhausted, Tarian dragged her feet to Silversmith, and realized she did not have the energy to attempt to mount him. The Blood Swords had all turned away from her, paying her no notice.
Tears welled up again, and she felt as if her life force was gone. She did not care that she had promised her soul to Rangor. Her freedom was a small price to pay for Wulfson’s life. Nay, that his men had turned their backs on her was as much of a blow to her as if Wulfson had done it himself.
She took Silversmith’s reins, and instead of finding something to stand upon, she began to walk behind the knights, feeling as if she truly were nithing.
’Twas some time later when she felt several sets of eyes on her. She looked up to find Rohan and Rorick stopped and staring at her. She tried to smile but could not. Rorick dismounted and without a word hoisted her up onto Silversmith’s back. “Merci,” she said softly.
Flanked by the two knights, Rorick demanded, “Tell me from the beginning what happened.”
The other knights slowed to hear her tale. And a tale it would be, for she could not tell the truth. Taking a deep breath, Tarian looked at each man, not wavering in her stare. “’Twas the day Wulfson and I took a trip to the pond in the glade. We were packing to return to Draceadon when from the forest came a group of hooded, mounted men.” She swallowed as she relived the shock and horror of being taken from Wulfson. She looked pointedly at Rorick. “’Twas me they were after. One grabbed me as Wulfson went for his sword. I know not what happened to him after that, for I was hit on the head and all went black.”
She pressed her fingertips to the back of her head where the wound still smarted. “How did you escape?” Rorick asked, emphasizing the word escape, as if she had walked away as carefree as a maid in May.
She shook her head. “I did not escape. I was released.”
“Why?” Rhys asked.
She looked at the young knight and forced a smile. “They showed me what they did to Wulfson.” She swallowed again as emotion clogged her chest. “I told them I would give them whatever they wanted for his life.”
“And the price?” Ioan demanded.
“My dowry. I told them where to find it at Briarhurst. The leader sent a man and when he return
ed with it, they gave me a nag of a horse and disappeared. I came to Draceadon as fast as I could.”
“How many were there? Were they Saxon?” Rohan asked.
“Only two that I saw at the structure, but almost a half score who abducted me. The leader spoke English.”
Rohan scowled. “Why would they release you once they had the gold? Why not finish you off?”
Tarian’s heart smacked hard against her chest walls. She shook her head and lied again, and it did not sit well with her, but what else was she to do? She had given her oath, had signed a document that she would marry Rangor. She could not go back on her word. She accepted the price she must pay for Wulfson’s life. “I told the leader that if they did not allow me to return to Draceadon and the Norman died, there would not be a rock they could climb under to hide in all of England, for les morts would hunt them all down and kill them inch by inch.” She looked around to each of the men, and knew her words resonated with them. Rorick and Rohan nodded, and then Rhys and Ioan; but Stefan watched her as if he did not believe a word she said. She stared at him, not giving him more cause to doubt her by looking away. After a long moment, he too nodded.
Twenty-one
It took two days of constant battle with the Blood Swords before they relented and allowed her entry to Wulfson’s chamber. She understood their guarded behavior with her, but even they realized the urgency of Wulfson’s coming out of his sleep, and if he would not for them, then he might for her.
She cast them all to the threshold of the room, and instead of Stefan’s horse balms, Tarian insisted on Edie’s balms and poultices. And in just two days’ time, they worked miracles. His skin healed; but his fever did not break, despite the tepid baths she gave him four times a day. Tarian began to be concerned in earnest. ’Twas not natural that he slept so soundly for so long. He had not had any sustenance save the wine she could sponge into his mouth. His body was slowly losing bulk.
