The Captive

by Joanne Rock

Two of them did not respond with any speed, their steps slow and unsteady as if they’d spent the day swilling strong mead. It was the same two men for whom Margery had just fetched water. Could the drink have been tainted?

  Or could Margery have tampered with it?

  Treachery is afoot.

  But by the time Gwendolyn shouted a warning to Osbert, it was too late. He’d unlatched the door.

  Snarling Saxon raiders poured into the stronghold with swords drawn and helms masking their features. Erik was nowhere in sight. Osbert fought valiantly, yet fell quickly, as did the only other guard still standing. The befuddled two who’d consumed something tainted did not even have their swords drawn when they were cut down.

  Beside her, the baker’s wife screamed and clung to her leg. The invaders did not hurt the women, they merely stood guard over them the way the Danes had mere moments ago. All except the man that faced her.

  As he tugged off the helm with an ugly boar’s head draped over top of it, Gwendolyn glimpsed a face even more awful.

  Godric, her dead husband’s brother, had come to claim her.

  16

  CAPTIVITY WITH GODRIC bore no resemblance to Gwendolyn’s abduction by Wulf.

  In her mind, Gwen relived those happier days in the woods with Wulf while Godric and his men bound her hands and hobbled her feet before leading her out of the central keep. The rough rope shredded her skin as they yanked it tight. A coarse wool cloth stank of sweat when they gagged her. Stomach roiling in protest as she stumbled down a step, she tried to hear the sounds of the nearby battle for some hint of how Wulf fared. Did he win the day? Would he notice her missing soon, or would he be too engrossed in the fighting to discover she’d been taken?

  Her scalp stung where one of Godric’s men had yanked out a bit of hair while tying her gag. She guessed she had been taken from the inner keep into the small, rear courtyard, but she’d been blindfolded so she could not be sure. The usual landmarks around the keep were hidden behind catapults and extra horses. Everything felt different around her home since the Danes arrived.

  Since Wulf brought her back.

  Her heart ached for him as her captors pushed and shoved her along despite her tripping, awkward pace. Finally, the men shrouded her in a blanket like a corpse. Even her head was covered. There was no concern for her shoes getting wet or her knee becoming injured when they slung her body over a man’s shoulder and—moments later—over a horse’s back. They would surely kill her while transporting her if this spoke of their level of care. The one bright spot in that would be the errant bastards would never see a farthing of her fabled dowry if she did not make the trip alive.

  How could these traitors hide what they did in a keep held by Danes? Was there no one loyal to Wulf to spot this hasty retreat from the inner keep? Perhaps all the battle remained to the south. She supposed that could account for the knaves’ ease in removing her from the central tower.

  In low voices, she heard men discussing which exit to use from the keep. Someone must have helped these Saxons enter from the inside. She guessed Alchere had left behind more supporters than Wulf had guessed, and she kicked herself for not becoming more involved in his questioning of the men who remained. Would she have been able to spot those who would not be loyal to him?

  Or was the widow Margery the only enemy from within? Gwendolyn had known all along she was trouble. Just not how much.

  Blinking away tears of frustration, fear and pain, Gwen feared she would never see Wulf again if Godric succeeded in removing her from the castle. Why hadn’t she wed him when she had the chance? Would that have prevented Godric from taking her? Now, she would never get to tell Wulf that she didn’t need a declaration of undying love to be his wife. That she understood a man of few words didn’t necessarily equal a man of few emotions. That she loved him.

  Her certainty of that fact made her all the more determined to escape Godric. She could not allow Wulf to return from battle only to find another woman had disappeared or—she inhaled a steadying breath—died. Heaven knew, Godric’s men did not treat her like an intended bride. Perhaps he only stole Gwen in revenge against Wulf for besting him a sennight ago.

  A heavy rider climbed on the animal near her. She tried frantically to clutch the horse’s sides when the man whipped the beast’s flank to get it moving, but with her hands tied, the best she could do was steady herself with her elbows. At least they did not move very fast. Judging by the slower, halting way it moved, the animal was a donkey. A plaintive bray quickly confirmed her suspicions. Did that mean she stood a better chance of not cracking open her head if she chose to roll off its back on purpose?

  Because no way in Hades would she depart her home if she had any strength left in her body to fight. She’d nearly escaped the strongest warrior in Christendom on two different occasions; she would not be bested by a brigand bastard like Godric.

  Before she could determine the best direction to heave herself off the animal, however, she heard a familiar voice thick with the accent of the Danes.

  “Someone here knows where she is.” The unleashed fury in Wulf’s raised voice stoked hope inside her. “And if I do not start hearing answers right now, you will lose your chance to tell me forever since I will ask Erik to hack out your tongues with his axe.”

  Gwendolyn closed her eyes under the woolen blanket and let the mixture of relief and fear wash through her. Wulf could not see her. So while it helped to know he was near, he had not yet discovered her hiding place on the back of a donkey.

  And by the sounds of it, the scene was about to become a gruesome one if she didn’t act fast. Godric’s tongue could go, but she rather hoped Wulf would not follow through on the threat with anyone else.

  “Mmpf!” She struggled against the donkey, lifting her chest the little bit she could with her elbows pressed to the animal’s side.

  It was more difficult than expected to move. Still, she wriggled and yelled behind the gag.

  “My lord,” a Saxon voice called out.

  Had someone seen her movements?

  “Thor’s hammer.” Wulf shouted the oath as if he expected his god to come down with that particular weapon aimed at the enemy’s head.

  In no time, she felt the silent slide of the rider’s body next to her as he slumped off the animal to the ground. Huge, blessedly familiar hands lifted her from the haunches, cradling her tenderly. She wanted to smile, knowing who held her, but the twine on her gag bit into the corners of her mouth.

  “I’ve got you.” The gentleness in his voice—so different than his threat to tear out tongues—was further proof of caring from a warrior who had little to say but would go to any lengths to back up what words he did choose.

  He walked a short distance as, around them, the sounds of battle grew more muted. Could Wulf have routed Harold even as he saved her from Godric?

  “Gwendolyn?” He tugged at the blanket, but could not unwind the tight material enough to free her without setting her down.

  “Clear the bench,” he ordered, and she heard metal clank as bodies hurried to do his bidding. More quietly, he spoke just above her ear. “I will never rest until the men who hurt you pay.”

  They were not gentle words, but she understood now that this promise—like the blood oath he’d once made her—was his way of showing her he cared. She had not lost her heart to a man like her father who’d devoted his life to books and words. She’d fallen for a warrior.

  Tenderly, he laid her down on the turf bench and she knew by the soft grass under her back that they were in her mother’s garden. The battle must have spread all over the holding.

  Finally, the smothering blanket eased. Sunlight warmed her face and made her blink. She heard Wulf cursing before she distinguished his face in the slanted light of the setting sun.

  “For the love of Freya, Erik,” he shouted. “Use a smaller knife to cut those bonds. That is my woman’s flesh beneath the rope, not a hare in a trap.”

  Wulf’s hands went to the
gag around her mouth while others sawed away at the ties on her hands and feet. She attempted to remain very, very still, her eyes never leaving Wulf’s face.

  Thank God he was unhurt, though by the rood, he’d been spattered in enough blood to make him appear every inch the terrifying savage.

  “Are you hurt?” Wulf spoke softly to her, his big body crowding her on the bench. He eased away the gag and called for water.

  She settled for shaking her head as she discovered her mouth would not work. Her toes and hands tingled painfully to life as they experienced the flow of blood again.

  All her bonds were free. Her hands shook as she reached for the cup of water that someone brought. Wulf helped Gwendolyn to sit and steadied the vessel for her even as he supported her shoulders. The cool water revived her before she recalled the well might have been tainted.

  “Have we won?” she asked, disoriented that so many of Wulf’s men stood about her when there were still sounds of battle in the distance.

  “Spoken like a Dane.” Wulf smoothed her hair from her face.

  Wincing, she felt the sting of the raw patch on her scalp where one of the brutes had wrenched out her hair.

  Wulf frowned as he examined the injury more closely. Erik approached with a wet cloth that Wulf took from his hands to smooth over Gwendolyn’s face.

  “The battle is mostly won,” Wulf confided, his blue eyes halting on each scratch he discovered. “Godric’s men met Alchere’s and formed an alliance to attack the same day as Harold. But since the Saxons cannot tell a Norseman from a Dane, let alone one Dane from another, they ended up inflicting more harm on Harold’s men that mine.”

  “Serves them all right,” she muttered darkly.

  “After we send them on their way, none of them will ever return,” Wulf vowed, his hand stalling just above the corner of her mouth where she knew a fresh cut bled.

  Why was it the smallest scrapes hurt most of all?

  “After you send them on their way, I have much to tell you,” she confided, taking the cloth from his hands to tend the small wound herself. “I love—”

  “My lord!” a man’s voice boomed through the small rear courtyard, cutting off the most significant declaration of her life.

  Wulf shot to his feet, shoulders tense.

  Scant feet away, a Saxon knight held a chained Dane that Gwendolyn had never seen before. The man’s shoulders spanned nearly as great a width as Wulf’s and his bloodied and mud-spattered garments were heavy with patches of fur and metalwork. Over his chain mail hung a silver brooch outlined in vivid blue stones that must have come from a far-off land. His helm listed to one side as he limped, but the horns on either side of the headpiece had to have come from the biggest boar any man had ever killed.

  “Harold.” Wulf’s pronouncement confirmed Gwendolyn’s only guess.

  “One of your men captured him in battle, but asked me to bring him to you.” The Saxon knight did not sheathe the sword he’d used to prod along the Dane, and he appeared grateful to hand off his sizable prisoner to Erik.

  Gwendolyn held her breath, not knowing what to expect. Would the two warriors battle to the death here? Now? Had she dodged captivity with Godric only to see Wulf cut down or forced to kill a grieving man? Both options were impossible. Both outcomes too horrible to contemplate.

  Not sure what else to do, she reached for the only part of Wulf close enough to touch—his hand—and squeezed.

  WULF HAD NEVER FELT the silent, empathetic touch of a woman so close to a battle.

  That wordless brush of her fingers said more to him than any conversation could have, and he appreciated the humanizing connection at a moment when he wanted every enemy to fall to his knees. Arriving at the inner tower to find his men struck down and her gone, all he had thought of was the wise woman’s warning that he would pay a grave price to defeat Harold. Seeing Gwendolyn wrapped up like a dead body had hacked more years off his life than any encounter with a skilled opponent. Fury flamed hot at all those who played any role in bringing her to harm. Harold had conspired with the Saxons to attack him from all sides, hadn’t he? By rights this king should be groveling for his life.

  Yet Gwendolyn’s steady touch—those soft but strong hands that opened him up to a world of feelings beyond any he’d imagined—helped Wulf to see the aging ruler behind the fierce helm. To see the man who’d lost someone he loved.

  “Are you ready to pay homage to me and put this feud behind us?” Wulf asked, his hand coming to rest on his sword.

  “You have turned into a war machine,” Harold declared, rattling his chained hands as if to remind Wulf he had not been freed to fight. “You rebuffed the combined efforts of three enemies between the course of one sunrise and one sunset.”

  “That is not an answer, old man,” Wulf taunted, refusing to lose focus. He did not think for a moment that Harold respected his war-mongering skills or the stubborn Dane would not have launched a campaign at so great a cost.

  “I would gladly give my life to avenge Hedra. But if I win, I take your Saxon prize for a keepsake.” The warrior cast lustful eyes on Gwendolyn and it was all Wulf could do not to end it then and there—even with his enemy’s hands chained.

  “Do you bait me in the hope I end your life quickly?” He would not allow Gwendolyn to further be harmed.

  “Do I bait you?” Harold lifted a shaggy blond eyebrow that had long ago been bisected by an enemy’s blade. “I thought I merely bartered terms.”

  Wulf said nothing, unwilling to discuss Gwendolyn with his enemy. Perhaps if he kept Harold talking, the battle would be won decisively and there would be naught to do but send him back to Daneland on one of his ships.

  All Wulf wanted was to carry Gwendolyn to his bed and tend her wounds. Care for her until she understood there would never be anyone else for him but her.

  “I have never known the hard-hearted Wulf Geirsson to admit such weakness for a female,” Harold pressed, watching Wulf like a hawk as though it was he who stood in chains and Harold who had all the power here.

  All around them, Wulf’s men gave them room to fight if they chose, while Erik held Harold’s sword and the key to the man’s manacles.

  “She is not your concern.” Wulf wanted the discussion over and Harold gone. He gave the sign to Erik to free his enemy so the battle could begin. “You may have your sword if you wish to claim vengeance, but you will not look upon my woman again.”

  Despite a grievously wounded leg and a legion of men lost, Harold Haaraldson stretched his mouth in what could only be a grin.

  “Nay. I will not look upon her. And I will pay homage to you on your lands. If you allow me to go, I will accept the wergild you paid for Hedra and leave you in peace.”

  Behind Wulf, Gwendolyn gasped. Once again, her gentle hand brushed his arm. And to Wulf’s surprise, he felt unsteady enough that he needed to reach back and hold on to her hand, as well.

  “What trick is this?” He saw Erik step away from the king and knew Harold could take his sword anytime, but he did not move for it.

  “No trick.” Harold waved the sword and Erik aside. “Anger has eaten away at me all year, Wulf. Not just because of Hedra, but because I did not believe you mourned her enough or even loved her the way the misguided girl adored you.”

  Wulf had taken sword blows that stung less than that accusation.

  “You have no right to judge—”

  “Perhaps not.” Harold raised a hand to cut him off. “Either way, I can see now that you are not just a warrior. And now—finally—I can believe that maybe Hedra wounded you as much as you hurt her. Because with my own eyes, I see that you are capable of losing your heart just like any other mortal man. For me, that is enough justice for my sister.”

  The older man had the gall—nay, the iron-clad balls—to turn his back on Wulf and head for the garden gate even though he stood in a thicket of Saxons and enemy Danes.

  Beside him, Gwendolyn squeezed his arm. “Say something,” she urged, her qu
ick-witted tongue always finding words faster.

  Releasing the hilt of his sword Wulf called to him.

  “Where do you think you are going?” He gestured to the thick walls of the fortress all around the courtyard.

  “I am returning to my ships and giving the order to retreat.” Harold turned, holding his weight off his wounded leg. “We will not see one another again in this lifetime, Wulf. You do not need to fear me.”

  He really intended to just sail home. End of story. All because he thought Wulf had a heart and that he’d lost it.

  A cagey opponent, Harold Haaraldson.

  Not having the same facility with words as his Saxon lady, Wulf settled for pounding his chest with his fist. It was an old gesture of respect for the Danes.

  His men followed suit, the crash of hard knuckles on chainmail filling the courtyard.

  Harold closed his hand and repeated the gesture once. Twice. Then he raised his fist as if to rally his army, and stalked off toward the battlements, the setting sun streaking his departure with bright gold and purple.

  An old weight rolled off Wulf’s shoulders. He hadn’t realized how the dark the cloud over him had been until just now when he felt the last of the day’s light on his shoulders and saw Gwendolyn peer up at him with misty eyes.

  “He must be a good king,” she announced in the hush of the aftermath.

  Erik waved the others out of the garden although he remained to stand guard. A good man, that one.

  “He has always been a strong leader,” Wulf agreed, waiting to pull her closer until he saw some sign from her, some sense of how she felt about their future. “You understand now why I did not wish to kill him.”

  Gwendolyn gave him a small smile, clearly careful of the cuts about her mouth. All Wulf could think of was how grateful he was to have her back. Safe. His.

  Or so he fervently hoped. He could have tolerated any defeat today save losing this woman who meant everything to him.

  “Does it hurt overmuch?” He lifted her in his arms, not giving her the option of walking.