Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment

At Tarian’s words, Wulf’s arms tightened around her waist. “Nay, you are not.”

“And I am not evil.”

He traced his nose along her cheek. “Nay, you are not.”

“I have feeling as any other woman.”

His fingers swept her breasts, molding them into his hands. She squeezed her eyes shut, reveling in his touch. For so long she had merely existed, never knowing the true meaning of living, not until he touched her.

His eyes blazed in passion; his body was tense. “I have feeling as any other man, Tarian. I want you, here and now. Give yourself to me.”

She hissed in a breath and looked at him. He waited only for her signal to proceed. She felt as if she stood on the edge of a great cliff, and that if she jumped there would be nothing below to catch her but either the craggy rocks or the deep swirling water.

To Liz Kreger, a real-life warrior princess

Again to my family for leaving me alone so that I can do what I love to do so much. To my dear friends Edie Ramer, Josie Brown, Tawny Weber, Poppy Reiffin, Sylvia Day and Sharon Long, you ladies are the wind beneath my wings. Thanks for tolerating me!

I also want to acknowledge my friend Monica McCarty for this story. As many of you know, Monica writes Scottish Highlander stories, which she bases on factual characters. Taking her lead, I dug through the many written pages of historical lady warriors and much to my surprise and delight, I unearthed a story of a Viking lady who was left at the altar. Not one to be humiliated, she mustered an army and forced her bridegroom to the altar, where she subsequently slew him. A woman scorned, indeed!

And I could not have written this wonderful story without the expert guidance of my editor, Lauren McKenna, who holds nothing back in her ever-wise suggestions and demands when it comes to my stories. Thank you for always being honest.

And hubby? You are always my reason for getting up each day. I love you.

Eight mercenary knights, each of them base born, each of them bound by unspeakable torturer in a Saracen prison, each of them branded with the mark of the sword for life. Each of their destinies marked by a woman.

’Twas whispered along the Marches that the demon knights who rode upon black horses donned in black mail wielding black swords would slay any man, woman, or child who dared look upon them. ’Twas whispered that their loyalty was only to the other and no man could split them asunder, nor was there enough gold or silver in the kingdom to buy their oath. ’Twas well known that each of them was touched not by the hand of God but by Lucifer himself.

’Twas also whispered, but only by the bravest of souls, that each Blood Sword was destined to find only one woman in all of Christendom who would bear him and only him sons, and until that one woman was found, he would battle and ravage the land…

May 1st, 1067
Draceadon, Mercia

Ornate sconces burned brightly along the stone walls of the opulent chamber, illuminating it and all of its vivid colors like a gem-encrusted crown. Velvet-appointed furniture a king would envy graced the thick wool rugs, but what caught one’s eye when they walked into the chamber was the enormous bed. Though the heavy curtains of the elaborately carved four-poster were drawn, deep snores from the occupant permeated the lavish chamber, alerting anyone near to a presence.

’Twas her runaway bridegroom, Earl Malcor of Dunloc.

The bile in Lady Tarian’s belly rose. She breathed in slowly and exhaled slower, listening intently, being sure his breaths were of a man in the deep throes of slumber. Her fingers fondled the leather hilt of her broadsword, anxious to see the deed done.

Once her circumspect inventory of the room showed there to be no other escape route but the thick oak portal she had just come through, and that her men were in place, Tarian glanced over to Gareth, her captain of the guard, who held
the earl’s squeamish manservant. His honed sword blade leveled snugly against the servant’s throat. She nodded to her captain before turning back to the shrouded bed.

Despite the encumbrance of her mail, Tarian glided a step closer to the bed. She pressed the tip of her sword into the slitted fabric and slowly pushed it aside. Only the orange blush of a tallow candle and the pale skin of a man’s back glowed within the darkened space.

A knot formed in her belly, not of fear but of revulsion. ’Twas whispered her betrothed preferred to spend his time with squires, not maids. ’Twas also rumored he had commissioned a dungeon in the bowels of the fortress where he “entertained.”

“Malcor, did you think I would not come for you?” Tarian demanded, her husky voice ringing clear in the room.

Most men would have risen in stark surprise and fear. Not so her intended. Without the barest hint of surprise or concern for his well-being, Malcor rolled over and speared her with a malicious glare. The linen sheet rode low on his thighs; and for all that he was a well-muscled man, knowing what she knew of him, the view repulsed her. Tarian set her jaw and stood fast, her motives for her appearance unwavering despite the lewdness of the man who had run like the coward he was.

He stretched and answered lazily, “Did you think, Lady Tarian, that I would care?”

Tarian forced a blithe smile. She did not feel so carefree as her gesture might have indicated, but this man would only see her for the true warrior she was. To show him weakness on any front would find her a victim of the earl’s sadistic nature. Carefully, her gaze held the glittering angry
one of her betrothed. She felt no anger with her guardian for his choice. It was either marriage to Malcor, the perverted Earl of Dunloc, or, more reluctantly, the convent. For no other mortal man would have her to wife.

The cloister did not want her, nor she them. Her Godwinson blood, while a curse, was also her salvation. She was bred to fight, bred to lead, and, despite the sins of her father, bred to breed with the finest blood of Europe, not spend endless days and nights on her knees praying for forgiveness she seriously doubted any god, even one so forgiving as hers, would grant.

So, marriage to the earl it would be. And with God’s blessing a child would be born of their union. Her smile tightened. She required only one thing from this man, and, despite his preference for squires, she would extract it from him at swordpoint if necessary.

“How remiss of me, Malcor, to think a noble such as yourself would hold sacred a betrothal contract. ’Tis well I know up front the character of the man I will marry.”

“There will be no marriage,” he ground out.

Barely perceptibly, she inclined her head toward her betrothed. From behind her a score of armed soldiers fanned out, their swords at the ready. Tarian pressed the honed tip of her own sword, Thyra, to Malcor’s chest. Pale lips pulled back from long yellow teeth.

She could not honestly begrudge him his anger. She was in effect forcing a marriage he did not desire, and she would, at swordpoint, if necessary, force him to perform his husbandly duty. How ironic would it be, then, that she conceive a child of a man who despised women? And she, the daughter of a royal rapist. Was she not following in her
illicit sire’s footsteps? “The sins of the father will repeat in the sins of the daughter.” She had heard the words all her life; now she would breathe truth into the curse.

“We will wed this night, milord, or you will not wake to see the morn.” She looked up to her right, just past her shoulder, and smiled at Gareth, who had handed off the servant to another of her guard. “See that Earl Malcor is a properly dressed groom.”

She turned back to her intended. He might not fear her, which was foolish, for she was well schooled in the art of war, but her guard was a force all of his own to be reckoned with. He would not stand back should Malcor decide to get heavy-handed with her. Tarian grinned up at the enormous man and shrugged, suddenly not caring a whit for what Malcor desired. “Or not, if he doth protest too much.”

“You will regret your action, Lady Tarian. Your guard cannot always be within reach,” Malcor threatened softly.

The edge of steel in his words alerted her. A small ripple of apprehension skittered down her rigid spine as her gaze dropped to his. Stark contempt filled Malcor’s pale blue eyes, and his pallid skin blanched whiter beneath his flame-colored hair. She would find no succor from this man soon to become her husband. She would find only hardship. But with a child and the title of Lady of Dunloc, much could be forgiven. For life in a convent that cringed at the mere mention of her name would drive her mad. She nodded ever so slightly to her intended. “Your own priest awaits us, milord; pray do not dally.”

As she swept regally from the chamber, she said to Gareth, over her shoulder, “And, Sir Captain? Be sure he washes all traces of squires from him. I would see my husband clean in my wedding bed this night.”

“Thou art the devil’s spawn! I will not wed with thee,” screamed Malcor.

“Aye, you will,” Gareth said as he pressed his point with his sword.

“Nay! ’Tis said she is cursed!”

Tarian turned at the door, her sword raised. “Are we not both cursed?”

He stared at her in mute horror.

Stepping back into the chamber, she leveled the blade at her reluctant groom. “Make no mistake, Malcor. This eve will find us both in that bed as man and wife. And should you continue to resist me?” She glanced at Gareth and smiled. “I am not above forcing myself upon you.” She stepped closer. She could see the wild dilation of his pale eyes. “Try now for once to be a man of your word. Honor your vow to me.”

Malcor moved back into the furs. “Nay!
Never
. I will not have the mark of a witch upon me!”

Tarian smiled tolerantly and nodded. “So be it, then. You will not be the first reluctant bridegroom in England.”

A fortnight later, Tarian knelt beside the sapphire-and gold-embroidered pall that covered her dearly departed husband. The priest’s low voice droned one prayer after another. The dull ache in her back throbbed. But ’twas not from the endless hours of kneeling, then standing, only to kneel again. It was from the force of her dead husband’s foot on her back when he’d kicked her from their bed three days past. For him, it had been the last time for all things earthly. Where his soul traveled at this moment she could only guess. And she did not care. There would be no alms to the churls of Dunloc, and there would be no alms to
Hailfox Abbey just down the way for the priests to pray. Nay, Earl Malcor deserved where he was going, and she held no guilt in watching his speedy descent to hell.

Finally Father Dudley’s voice came to an abrupt end. Silently he signaled to the gathered few that prayers were at an end. The body would be taken to a prepared place just outside the chapel doors: as was the custom, neither Tarian nor any others would witness the interment.

She was helped to her knees by her stalwart guard, Gareth. “Milady?” he said softly, awaiting her direction. She smiled up into his concerned eyes. His unwavering devotion to her was her only salvation in these dark days. Had he not been the mouse under the bed since her arrival at Draceadon,
she
would be the one being buried, not Malcor. Her gaze darted across the pew to Lord Rangor, Malcor’s ambitious uncle. His arrival the day before Malcor’s death had been a blessing in disguise. When questioned on the state of their marriage, Malcor had unbelievably confirmed not only that they were wed, but that the relationship was
in facto consume.

Only she, her dead husband, Gareth, and her nurse knew the truth.

Rangor, dressed in rich scarlet-and saffron-colored velvet, with the requisite black armband, gesticulated toward the altar and the dearly departed, then presented his arm to his niece-in-law. “Lady Tarian, do me the honor of accompanying me back to the hall.” It was not a request but a command. And since she was curious as to what he was about, Tarian nodded her head to Gareth and took Rangor’s proffered arm.

As he swept her down the long aisle, then out into the warm spring breeze, her black hair whipped around her
head. She had not bound it as a wedded woman, nor as a widow should. Indeed, she left it down and beribboned. Nor did she wear a widow’s black. She could never be accused of false emotions: the relationship she had with Malcor was not veiled for the sake of propriety. They despised each other. That he was dead was of his own making.

Wordlessly, they approached the stone and wooden fortress known far and wide as Draceadon. Dragon Hill. It was a worthy structure, and one she would call home for many years to come. She chewed her bottom lip and wondered just how she would orchestrate such a maneuver. Whilst she had no chance to produce an heir, the law, as it was, was on her side. But England was a swirling cesspool of intrigue and anarchy: the old ways might not hold sway.

At the threshold of the great hall, Rangor stopped and took her hand into both of his. “My lady, I would have a most private word with you, if I may,” he entreated.

Once again Tarian acquiesced to him. Not because he demanded it, but because she did. He looked past her to where Gareth, along with half of his garrison, stood. A most formidable sight to any man or woman. Always, she was grateful for their presence. “Completely private,” Rangor insisted.

“My man will stand back.”

Rangor’s manservant appeared from inside the hall, as did Ruin, Malcor’s sniveling manservant. Her bile rose. The two were a matched pair: she’d see Ruin gone from Draceadon immediately. Easily, Rangor led her across the wide threshold of Draceadon. No sooner had she stepped into the coolness of the great hall than the heavy doors clanged shut behind her and the bolts were thrown. She whirled around to find a half score of Rangor’s men block
ing her retreat. She turned to Rangor, who stood, too full of himself, beside her.

Gareth’s loud voice called to her from the other side. He was pounding on the door, demanding entrance.

“What is the meaning of this!” she demanded.

Rangor smiled. It held no warmth. “I have a proposition for you, Lady Tarian, one I wish you to think about with no counsel from your man Gareth—or anyone else, for that matter. And I would have your answer now.”

Dread churned in her belly like the crashing waves of the ocean on the jagged rocks of the Welsh coast. She cast a subtle glance around her: Rangor’s men surrounded her on all sides. “Ask me what you will.”

Rangor bowed, then stood erect and faced her. “I propose we visit the priest after my nephew is secured in the ground.”

Tarian frowned. “For what purpose?”

“To wed.”

Tarian gasped. The continued pounding on the door coupled with his shocking proposal rattled her every nerve. Marry Rangor? Never! Inconspicuously her eyes darted around her for the closest weapon. While her jeweled dagger hung from her woven girdle, a sword would better suit what she had in mind. She could wield the weapon as well as any man, yet none was in her reach, and Rangor’s men were many and fully armed.

Her best defense, then, was her shrewd mind. Her initial reaction was to tell the man under no circumstance would she wed him, and she would not. But the game they played must be played with a level head. She was well aware she trod on very thin ice. “I am honored, milord, but I am a widow of only three days. ’Tis not decent to wed so soon.”

Rangor’s smile widened. He bore the same long yellow
teeth as his nephew. Involuntarily, Tarian shivered as she relived the pain of Malcor’s teeth in her back. And though the family resemblance was strong, where Malcor’s skin had been smooth with the barest hint of a beard for a man of four-and-twenty, Rangor, twice his nephew’s age, had the rough freckled skin of one afflicted with the pox. Nor did he have the tall, muscular shape of his nephew. Nay, Rangor reminded her of a spineless eel, and any contact with him on any level was out of the question.

“I promise you, milady, I do not covet boys in my bed. I am a man on every level and would prove a lusty groom.”

Tarian kept her composure, and quickly formed a lie to buy her more time. “Be that as it may, sir, your nephew had no problems in the marriage bed. Indeed, as virile as he was, I should be heavy with child by the New Year.”

Rangor’s smile faded, but he pressed further. “I do not believe you. I know my nephew, and I know he could not stand the sight of a woman.”

“The bloodied linens were produced.”

“Sheep’s blood.”

“Nay!” she denied, shaking her head. “My virgin blood!”

He waved her off. “’Tis of no consequence. I would have us wed by sunset on the morrow.”

“Nay, I cannot.”

“You will,” Rangor pressed.

She stiffened with resolve. “Nay, I
will
not. You cannot force me.”

“You forced Malcor.”

Tarian forced a smile. “I but reminded him of his public and private oath to wed with me.”

“Would you give up title here?” Rangor asked, sweeping his arm out toward the vast hall.