The Warrior's Runaway Wife

by Denise Lynn

  The food had lasted her only the first two days. On the third night, she’d stolen bread from a cottage window where it had been left on the sill to cool. She’d almost been caught. A man stumbling out of the local inn, barely able to walk a straight line, had seen her swipe the round loaf and took chase. Quicker on her feet, she’d outrun him, only looking back once when she’d heard him shout out in pain as he’d tripped over a tree root. His slurred curses let her know that he’d live, so she’d not stopped.

  The next night she’d not been as lucky at finding anything to eat. So, the following evening she’d joined the gathering outside the gates of a castle and waited for the food scraps that would be tossed their way. She’d managed to nab a sodden, hard bread trencher and a couple of pieces of half-eaten fruit, food that would seem like gifts from heaven to her growling stomach.

  But she recognised the half-dead stare of hunger from a bedraggled child at her side. It had been a part of her own childhood. Without having to think twice, she placed over half of the trencher, along with the fruit, in the small, shaking hands.

  Thus had become her life—a woman alone, on the run, hiding from all who might seek to harm her, or worse, return her to her father. She’d been sick from hunger and exhausted from her non-stop march south. At times, she’d considered giving up her quest for escape. But then an image of the man waiting to become her husband flashed through her mind, lending her enough strength to put one foot in front of the other.

  To her relief, she’d managed, for the most part, to avoid others by keeping off the main roads and staying out of town. But one afternoon, while she’d been leaning against a tree bemoaning her fate, an arrow had whizzed right past her nose to pierce the tree trunk, quivering less than a finger’s width away.

  She’d run wildly through a forest to a narrow, rutted road and kept running until she’d fallen to her knees. Exhausted she’d crawled from the road to hide beneath piles of leaves and underbrush. The sun had been high in the sky when she’d finally woken to find herself hungrier and more tired than she’d been the evening before.

  She’d happened into a good-sized town and quickly found the common well in the centre. That was where Hannah had found her—gulping water from the bucket while sobbing like a spineless fool.

  The good lady had coaxed the story from her—it hadn’t been hard considering her mind was as numb as her body—and she had brought her here, to the brothel above the town’s inn where Hannah and a few other women made their living.

  So far nobody had tried to talk or force her into plying the same trade. They’d simply given her the use of one of their rented rooms while two of them shared another and brought her food and drink.

  Avelyn was more than grateful for their help in her time of need and vowed to herself that she would find a way to repay them some day soon.

  Movement in the street below caught her attention. Three men she’d not seen before walked towards the inn, their booted feet splashing muddy water from the puddles on to the hems of their long, hooded mantles.

  The tallest of the three looked up as if he knew she watched. Avelyn leaned away from the window, hiding from his searching gaze. Something about him and his companions sent worry skipping along her spine. She shivered as the apprehension settled cold in her belly.

  A soft, quick knock on her door drew her away from her troublesome cares. Recognising Hannah’s gentle tap, Avelyn rose to cross the small room and open the door to invite her newfound friend inside.

  The boisterous sounds from the main room below had been loud, but they grew impossibly louder when she pulled open the door. She’d grown accustomed to the jovial laughter and curses of drunken men, but tonight the tone held a tension-filled undercurrent that had not been present before.

  She motioned Hannah inside and quickly closed the door against the troubling voices. From the concerned look on her friend’s face, she, too, felt the tense heaviness in the air. ‘What is wrong?’

  With a roll of her eyes, Hannah headed towards the bed. ‘Let us sit.’

  Avelyn closed the door, then joined the other woman. The foreboding chill from seeing the strangers still lingered and now turned to icy cold pricks of warning with each step she’d taken.

  Again, she asked, ‘What is wrong?’

  Hannah sighed as she looked around the room before saying, ‘You know that Mabel has been unable to be here the last three nights.’

  ‘Yes. She’s been at home with a sick child.’ Avelyn gasped. ‘Did something happen?’

  ‘No. No, the child is getting better. But Edward, a favoured customer of Mabel’s, is below and he demands a woman. If it can’t be Mabel, it must be someone who looks like her.’

  Avelyn frowned. He wanted a whore, what did her looks matter? ‘What difference does the woman’s looks make to him?’

  Hannah patted her arm. ‘Not all men come to us for pleasures of the flesh. Some require nothing more than simple human contact, a hug, a kind word, a caress. This man is old and he lost his wife two years ago. Apparently, she had black hair and a slim body in her youth.’

  Avelyn closed her eyes. Since the others had often remarked that she and Mabel could be sisters, she knew why Hannah had come to her. But to be certain, she looked at the woman and said, ‘What are you asking of me?’

  ‘You are not daft. You know what I’m asking you. I need you to take Mabel’s place this night.’ Before Avelyn could protest, Hannah quickly added, ‘The man is unable to perform, so it is not as if you would need to do anything more than let him hold you.’

  ‘Hold me?’ There had to be more to it than that.

  ‘Well, he’d hold you through the night, in bed, unclothed. He will call you Agnes and might require a kiss or two and sometimes he likes to fumble with Mabel’s breasts, but I swear that is all.’

  That was all? Avelyn blinked. Other than a quick, chaste peck on the cheek, she’d never been kissed by a man before. And she certainly had never let a man see, let alone touch, her naked flesh. What seemed nothing to Hannah was far more than what Avelyn had ever done, or wanted to do, with a man not her husband.

  Hannah broke the lengthening silence. ‘Nobody ever need know and for very little more than your companionship, he will give you enough coins to compensate for what we’ve provided you.’

  The reckoning Avelyn feared might one day come had arrived. She shouldn’t have let Hannah convince her to stay until the rain ceased, no matter the logic behind the woman’s reasoning.

  Now she was faced with paying off a debt and had no means to do so except by surrendering her grandmother’s ring, or doing as Hannah requested. She couldn’t give up the ring—it was all she had left from her mother.

  Avelyn wanted to cry at her lack of options, but forced the useless tears back. As Hannah had said, no one would ever know. As long as even a slender thread of luck remained on her side, she would soon be gone from here—maybe in the morning, if it stopped raining. She could then rush on to Normandy or France and start a new life where nobody knew who she was, or about this night, or that she’d even stayed in this place.

  Except, no matter where she ran, one person would know—she would know and, somehow, she would have to learn how to live with her shame.

  She nodded her agreement, adding, ‘If he tries anything other than what you have stated, I will gut him.’

  Hannah laughed and patted her arm. ‘Rest assured that will not be necessary.’

  * * *

  From his seat in the far corner of the establishment, Elrik watched and waited for the right moment. Two of his men were situated in different corners of the main room, doing the same as he—listening to the conversations of the others.

  Everyone in town seemed to know that the owner of this ale house rented out the upper rooms to women willing to share their favours...for a price.

  There’d been talk of new lady, a young one
with hair the colour of night who had yet to accept a customer. Several of the men present had wagers on who would be the first.

  If his hunch was right, this woman could be the one he sought. The search thus far for Brandr’s daughter hadn’t been easy—it wasn’t as if he could put his nose to the ground like a hound. Instead, snippets of conversations overheard in one place and rumours garnered in another helped to lead him in the right direction. The bits gathered had brought him here.

  He was glad he’d changed his mind about travelling alone. His men had come in handy more than once during this search, as what pieces of gossip he missed, they had overheard.

  Fulke, one of his men, approached and took a seat on the bench behind Elrik. ‘The elderly man who is sitting at the table nearest the fire, where I was, is looking for a black-haired wench for the night. Seems his regular woman isn’t available.’

  Elrik lifted his tankard to his lips, but didn’t drink, instead, he asked softly, ‘Are they going to find him another?’

  ‘The woman in green is heading above to see if one is available.’

  Elrik turned his full attention to the man Fulke spoke of. He was old, bony and from the way his hands shook Elrik wondered how he didn’t spill most of his drink on himself.

  He rose and pretended to shiver, then approached the old man. ‘The fire looks inviting. Mind if I join you?’

  ‘Suit yourself. I won’t be here long.’

  Elrik took a seat and waved the barmaid over. ‘Bring me ale and one for my friend here.’

  The old man squinted at him. ‘Haven’t seen you here afore now.’

  ‘Just passing through.’

  ‘Ah. Decided to enjoy a little soft company for the night?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘What type of wench you looking for?’

  Elrik shrugged. ‘A lusty red-haired one would be to my liking.’

  ‘Not me.’ The man shook his head and a few of the sparse white hairs on his head flopped down over his face. ‘I want one like my Agnes. A little thing with black hair and breasts that’ll fit in my hand.’

  Elrik swallowed his laugh at the man’s bawdy talk. ‘Is your Agnes at home?’ If so, she probably wouldn’t be happy to know where her husband was this night.

  ‘No.’ A heavy sadness fell over the man, setting his lips to droop and making Elrik feel guilty for having ruined the man’s former good mood. ‘She’s been gone these last two springs now.’

  ‘I am sorry. I meant not to trouble you.’

  ‘No trouble. I come here when missing her gets to be too much to bear.’ He leaned over the table and lowered his voice. ‘At times just having a woman’s arms around me while I sleep helps ease the loss.’

  Elrik patted the man’s hand before picking up his tankard. ‘You cared greatly for her.’

  ‘I loved her, lad. That I did.’

  He wasn’t going to debate the misguided notion of marital love with the man. ‘You should find yourself another wife.’

  To Elrik’s surprise, the old man stomped a foot and slapped his knee as he howled with laughter. Wiping tears from his eyes, he said between gasps for breath, ‘Oh, that’s a good one that is. What would I do with a wife at my age?’

  ‘I suppose the same things you did with Agnes.’

  ‘You are younger than you appear, aren’t you?’ The man reached across the table to throw a half-hearted punch at Elrik’s shoulder. ‘Trust me, boy, twenty or thirty years from now you’ll see things differently.’

  Elrik resisted the urge to roll his eyes. ‘You misunderstood me. I meant things like sharing a meal, or a conversation around the fire and a soft warm body to lie against in bed. Nothing more.’

  ‘I’d not bring another woman to Agnes’s bed. No.’

  The woman in the green over-gown came back down the stairs and approached the table. ‘Edward, give her but a few moments to get ready and then you can go up. It’s the room on the end. Just knock, she’ll be waiting.’

  The man turned to the others gathered and raised his mug. ‘You owe me, boys.’

  Elrik knew the man had just won the wager over who would be the first to visit the new woman’s room. Too bad he wasn’t about to let that happen—at least not until he discovered if this woman was Brandr’s daughter or not.

  Needing to get upstairs without drawing unwanted attention, he asked the woman in green, ‘Any of the ladies free at the moment?’

  She looked him up and down and then smiled. ‘For someone like you, they’ll fight over the honour. Do you have any preferences?’

  The old man answered, ‘He likes them red-haired and lusty.’

  ‘That settles it then. The second door on the right will be the one you want. She’s free right now.’

  Elrik rose and shot a glance towards Fulke, giving him the slightest nod in the direction of the stairs. He then took his leave of the old man. ‘I trust you’ll enjoy your evening.’

  ‘As will you, I’m sure.’

  He approached the stairs, pausing by Samuel, his other guard, and gave him the same slight nod towards the stairs. While he was above trying to determine whether this woman was Brandr’s daughter or not, his men would make their way closer to the bottom of the stairs. They would then be near at hand if he ran into any trouble.

  Elrik took the steps two at a time and quickly traversed the length of the corridor, stopping in front of the last door. Careful to keep his knock soft as an old man might, he tapped on the door.

  ‘Enter.’

  He pushed open the door and approached the bed in the dimly lit room. As stiff as a board upon the bed, the young woman had the covers pulled up to her chin. She held fast to the edge of the blankets with a grip that turned her knuckles white. Hair the colour of night was spread out atop the pillow beneath her head. She kept her eyes tightly closed.

  This was no experienced whore. It was only a guess, but he was fairly certain he’d just found Brandr’s missing daughter. He leaned over the bed and whispered, ‘Lady Avelyn, your little adventure is over, get up.’

  Her eyes sprang open at the same time her lips parted. He clamped a hand over her mouth. ‘Do not force me to carry you from here naked. I doubt your father would approve.’

  She shook her head, then wrapped her fingers around his wrist and tugged.

  Elrik lifted his hand slightly, giving her room to talk, but keeping his palm close enough to cover any scream should she decide to do so.

  ‘I am not going home.’

  Had the appearance of her icy-blue eyes not given her identity away, her comment confirmed his suspicion. His guess had been correct—this was indeed Brandr’s daughter. He knelt on the bed and loomed over her. ‘The old man you are waiting for will be up here in mere moments. I am not letting you share a bed with him.’

  If he did anything that witless, King David would be offering up a special serving of wolf’s head—his—on a platter at the next banquet.

  ‘So, either you get up and get dressed or I’ll pull you from the bed and dress you myself.’

  To his amazement, she hesitated as if debating some third option he’d not given her.

  Elrik leaned closer to disabuse her of the idea. ‘It is simple. Get up and dressed on your own, or I will see to both myself. Either way, you are getting out of that bed and you are getting dressed.’

  When she narrowed her eyes at him, he had the feeling that she was preparing to argue. Which was something they had no time for at the moment. He grabbed the blankets and tore them from her grasp.

  She squeaked and crossed her arms against her chest, trying to cover herself.

  ‘Unless you possess a third breast, you have nothing I’ve not seen before.’ He took hold of her wrists. ‘I have no time for your false show of sudden modesty. Get up.’

  ‘I am not a whore.’

  He knew she wa
sn’t. She might be Brandr’s bastard daughter, but he knew that until this unfortunate event, she was far too valuable for him not to have kept a tight control over her upbringing. As the man’s only daughter, there would have been little opportunity for her to have become a whore. But the fact was that he’d found her in bed, naked, in a known brothel and she was going to debate her position? Elrik pulled her up from the bed. ‘We can argue that later. Where are your clothes?’

  She nodded towards the window. He released her, pausing to say, ‘Do not run and do not scream.’

  He then retrieved a chemise and tunic from a bench beneath the window. Pushing the clothing against her chest, he ordered, ‘Get dressed.’

  Instead of doing as he bid, she stood there, holding the clothing, and stared at him. ‘I am not going with you.’

  A twinge of tension started behind his eyes. He hadn’t wanted this mission to begin with. However, he was certain that if he didn’t deliver her to King David, his lands and life would be in grave danger.

  His temples throbbed. David should have sent one of his younger brothers on this task. Either one—Rory or Edan—would have been a better choice than him. At least they had the patience and temperament to deal with women in a much kinder and gentler manner than he.

  His deceased wife had taught him well that women were untrustworthy liars and good for only one thing—the getting of children—and, as in Muriel’s case, sometimes not even that.

  Elrik jerked the clothes out of her hands. After gathering the skirt of the chemise in his hands, he dropped it over her head. Keeping his attention directed at the fabric beneath his fingers instead of the pale smoothness of her skin, or the dips and swells of her comely body, he tugged the chemise down to cover her.

  He then did the same with her tunic, leaving the laces hanging, before pushing her down on to the bed to squat before her and drag the stockings over her feet and legs, then slipped on a pair of soft boots.