Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment (26 page)

The next two days passed in a whirlwind of activity. The energy in Draceadon was palpable as Wulfson made arrangements for his trip to Normandy. His men as well as hers had a sense of hope that Tarian could not share.

On the third night, the night before Wulfson was to depart, Gareth took her aside. “My lady, word has come. The knight Warner has escaped.” Dread took hold of her so tightly she thought she would faint from lack of breath. From his continued scowl, she knew there was more.

“William’s royal messenger was sighted. He comes with a large contingent of knights. It does not bode well for you. We must flee tonight.”

Tarian’s worst nightmare was realized. William was bent on her destruction. She nodded. “Gather the documents and wrap them in a skin, then put them in a leather cask and keep them with you, Gareth. I have sent word to Rangor to meet us just past Dunloc. We will fly west to Powys, where Rhiwallon awaits with men.”

Gareth’s scowl turned ugly. He was solidly opposed to
her marriage to Rangor. “Keep your sharp words to yourself, Gareth. ’Twas either marriage to that ruffian or Wulfson’s death. I would rather live as Lady Lerwick than see Wulfson dead because of my fickleness.”

“When the Norman learns ’twas Rangor who kidnapped you and ordered his torture, there will not be a rock on this island for him to hide beneath.”

Tarian nodded. “He will not come to Wales.”

“Do not be so sure of it.”

Her captain stalked off, and Tarian turned to find Wulfson’s eyes on her across the hall. She smiled and made her way toward him. “Come and sup, milord.”

He did not move when she took his hand and tugged him toward the trestle. “Is all well with your captain?”

She smiled up at him and said, “He worries overmuch. Come, the food is ready.”

As they were seated, and the prayer said, Tarian forced herself to make merry as the others. Hope and anticipation rode the men hard, for in the days since Wulfson’s torture the Blood Swords had slowly allowed her into their inner circle, acknowledging her dedication to their brother, and they had hopes also that if anyone could change William’s mind ’twould be his captain. But try as she might, Tarian could not follow along. Because it mattered not. By then she would be long wed to Rangor, and all would be for naught. Wulfson sensed her mood, and she was grateful when he retired early with her. But once the door was closed behind them, she saw the hot glitter in his eyes.

“Come to me, Tarian, as God created you. Give me all that you have this night, for it may be months before I set eyes on you again.”

She smiled, her blood warming despite her fear of what
the morrow would bring. Slowly she undressed before him, only the low glow of the candlelight exposing her. When she pulled the shift over her head and dropped it to her feet, she heard a sharp hiss of breath from Wulfson. She stared at him, knowing that the passion in his eyes was reflected in hers. He slowly walked toward her, his limp barely noticeable. He pulled off his tunic, then his undertunic. His chest rose and fell with anticipation, and she noted he had regained most of his lost weight. He looked the picture of health—except for the scars that crisscrossed him. He quickly divested himself of the rest of his clothing, letting it fall where it would.

He stopped a hand’s-breadth from her, and stared at her. Her skin warmed and her full breasts quivered beneath his gaze. He reached out a hand to her left breast and laid it upon the high swell of it. She felt her heart lurch against his touch. Her nipples tightened painfully. She closed her eyes, willing his lips there. Hot shards of desire pierced her womb when his hot lips took a nipple into his mouth and he gently suckled her. She leaned against him, her knees not having the strength to support her. His strong arm wrapped around her waist, holding her to him. In complete surrender she offered herself up to him. He hoisted her in his arms and strode to the bed, where he gently laid her down. He was hot and hard for her. She reached up to touch him, and it was his turn to hiss in a harsh breath.

He knelt beside her on the floor and pressed his lips once more to her breasts, then trailed them down to her belly. He splayed his hand across her there and looked up into her eyes and she nearly confessed all to him at that moment. His lips traveled lower to her mons. Her hips rose to him. He pressed his lips to her and she cried out. Dig
ging her fingers into his thick hair, she pressed him more firmly against her. In a wild undulation, her hips rocked to his suckling of her there. She could not forestall the harsh wave of desire that hit her instantaneously, nor the subsequent one when he slid a finger deeply into her. “Wulfson!” she gasped, squeezing her eyes shut as the sublimity of him overwhelmed her.

His lips and hand rode out another shattering climax. Her body undulated wildly beneath him and she knew if he did not fill her soon she would die of want.

He rose above her on the bed, and spread her thighs with his knee. He gathered her up into his arms and watched her as he slowly entered her, inch by sensuous inch. She watched his face harden in passion, his brilliant eyes never wavering from hers. “You are mine, Tarian Godwinson. No man but I will ever have you.”

Emotion welled up with the force of a summer storm. He thrust high into her. “Say you are mine.”

Barely able to speak, so wrought with emotion, she gasped out the words, “I belong only to you.” And it was the truth.

He thrust into her again and again, and she thought she would come apart at the seams. His lips descended on hers in a violent kiss. His arms tightened around her, nearly squeezing the life from her. His hips drove into her with the force of a thunderstorm. His breaths became hoarse and ragged, as if emotion clogged his chest. They hung suspended, their eyes wide in awe, then together they climaxed, and the entire world shifted around them.

For long moments, they held each other as if to let go would mean the end of their world. For Tarian, ’twas reality.

“
Chérie
,” he said softly against her breast, “do not give up hope. Believe in me.”

Her heart swelled so swiftly and so fully she could not breathe. Not trusting her voice, she nodded against his chest, where his heart beat solid and strong. But her resolve held firm despite the crumbling of her heart. For she did not flee because of Warner. Nor did she flee because of her oath to Rangor. She must fly because in her heart of hearts she knew his king wanted her dead and she could not put Wulfson in the position of seeing his oath to his king carried out. ’Twould kill him as he killed her.

She left him soon after. He lay spread-eagled and naked on the bed, his deep, even breaths of hard slumber giving way to her escape. For that was what she did. Escaped. She escaped the pain of his rage when he found her out, and the wrath he would bring down upon her when he learned of her marriage to Rangor. She slipped through the secret door to her chamber where Edie awaited. Together they flew down the other end of the passageway and out to the courtyard, and then beyond to the meadow where Gareth and her men awaited.

“The Normans?” she asked him.

“They sleep like babes.” He smiled grimly and looked past her to Edith. “The entire manor sleeps. Edith’s herbs are strong.”

Tarian nodded. “Then let us fly.”

Wulfson woke to pounding on his door. “Wulfson!” Rorick called. “Warner has returned!”

Wulfson sprang up in the bed and immediately realized that Tarian was gone. He looked to the secret passage and saw the door ajar. Her early departure from their bed could
not override his elation that his friend lived. He hurried to dress, and when he passed Tarian’s door he scowled, seeing Gareth’s empty pallet. Mayhap she was already up and about? When he came down the stairs he found his men groggy but in good spirits. And Warner no worse for the wear.

They clasped hands and gave each other hearty slaps on the back. And before Wulfson could ask, Warner gave him the dour news. “I have been held captive these last weeks. I escaped just three days ago.”

Fury mingled with dread in his gut. “Who?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“They wore Dunloc’s colors. Lady Tarian’s men.”

Rage simmered in his belly. “Give me William’s message.”

Warner shook his head. “They destroyed the document, Wulfson, but William anticipated that. He told me his order.”

The men gathered around. “What does he say?”

“He cautioned you to keep yourself clear of the lady’s black magic, and to see the deed done with most haste. He will not forgive her her murder of Malcor.”

Wulfson sank to the bench beside him. “I sent another missive after you when more details were brought to light. I will await his word.”

Warner sat beside his friend. “He was most adamant, Wulfson. He cared not for her plight. He said he would gladly deal with the Welsh if they were so bold as to cross the border.”

The lookout shouted that riders approached. The men hastened to see a score of knights, and flying above them the red and gold lion standard of William. Dread filled
Wulfson. He could not blame the lady for sidetracking a single man. But she could not stop William’s knights.

The messenger dismounted and walked directly to Wulfson. “Sir Wulfson, a missive from the king.”

Wulfson reached out for it, and he felt as if he would empty his spleen in the dirt. He broke the seal and read Tarian’s death sentence. He screamed out in rage. “
Nay
! This cannot be!” He was not ready to give her up! A deadly silence ensconced the air, and he looked up at his men and read their own pain in their eyes. But they would never know the pain he felt. He turned and stumbled back into the hall, ignoring the commotion behind him.

He kicked a wooden bench, the first thing in his path. He shoved the trestle table next to it out of his way. He hurled several chairs and drew his swords, and in a wild, feral display he reduced several more chairs to splitters.

“Wulfson!” Thorin shouted, coming toward him. Wildly, Wulfson turned on his man. “Nay! Do not come near me!”

He strode to the tapestry adorning the walls and ripped it down. His rage was so complete he could see naught but red. He strode back to where the parchment lay on the floor. He read it again, sure he had misread it the first time. When the same words leapt at him, he screamed his rage again, then sank to the nearest upright bench. He dropped his swords, then the parchment, to the floor, and hung his head in his hands.

“Sir Wulfson!” Rolf gasped, bursting into the hall. “The lady flees to Wales where she has an army awaiting her!”

Wulfson’s head snapped back and his eyes narrowed. “What say you?”

The lad gasped for breath, and pressed his hand to a
large knot on his head. “I overheard her captain Gareth last night. She meets with Rangor: they are to wed.”

“Nay!” Wulfson shouted. “She will not!”

Rolf nodded, his eyes full of sorrow for his master. “Methinks they return with Welsh reinforcements.”

Thorin stepped forward. “It makes sense, the alliance, Wulf. The Welsh are powerful and see the benefit of her bloodline. Wedding with Rangor, she keeps what is hers, gains what is his, and, with the Welsh backing, William will be hard pressed to be rid of her.”

Anger swiftly replaced his anguish, seething hot and deadly in his gut. Thorin shook his head. “She plays the game better than we. She fooled us all.”

Wulfson stood and snarled at his men, “Could you blame her? Warner carried her death warrant!”

For a long moment, Wulfson stood. He could not see, his vision blank. He could not hear or smell; he could not feel anything but twisted fury at the situation and at Tarian. Had she lied to him all this time? Her oath last eve meant nothing, and in his heart of hearts he knew that if she truly loved him as she claimed she would not take up sword against him. He would find out for himself!

Finally, when he was able to see through his angry haze, he said coldly, “Mount up. We ride west to Wales.” He swept past his men and hurried to his chamber, where he methodically donned his battle gear.

Tarian refused to ride beside Rangor. She also refused to see the priest until they were safely in Powys. “He watches you like a dog over a bone,” Gareth grumbled as they broke upon a ridge overlooking the river they had just crossed. ’Twas only another half day’s ride to the border. From be
hind her, Tarian watched a column of Welsh make their way up to them. Rhiwallon had come through with men. She looked across Rangor’s garrison, which included Ednoth. Rangor had no doubt promised him the moon should he side with him against the Normans. Then there were Rhiwallon’s men, and her own. Combined, more than one hundred and fifty strong. Most of them foot soldiers. But. She glanced over to her own garrison. Some fifty strong and all ahorse. Seasoned warriors, all of them. But in her gut she knew they were no match for the Normans. Still, combined with Rangor’s men and those of the Welsh king, they had a chance should they not make it to the border.

“He can drool all he wants, Gareth. But he will not have me until we are safely behind the Welsh curtain.”

She looked east, where Draceadon was but a distant memory, then up to the high rise of the sun and beyond. The hair on the back of her neck rose. There, not too far off, a low dust cloud rose on the horizon. Her heart stuttered in her chest. “Wulfson,” she whispered.

Gareth turned in his saddle, and she watched the color drain from his face. “He comes for you.”

She swallowed hard. “Aye, he comes to do me in.” Reining Silversmith around, she rode hard up the hill.

The scene reminded her of that fateful day almost a year ago at Senlac Hill. The Normans would have to come up at them, thus giving Tarian and her army the advantage. But even more to their advantage was the swift-moving river that separated them. Once the enemy made it through the water, they would then have only a narrow strait on which to regroup before the mound rose at a rolling slope. Despite their advantage, a dark foreboding overcame her. She did not want to die this day; and she could not, despite the bad
blood between them, wish that Wulfson or any of his men, whom she had come to know and respect, should go down either. For the first time since she fled that morn, Tarian questioned her own motives. But as she sat upon her horse and watched the cloud of dust come closer, with terrifying speed, she knew there was no other way.