Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment (3 page)

During the long moments that hung heavy before the final breach on the edifice proper, the haze of the late morning
sun, coupled with the weighty silence, hung around them like a sodden woolen mantle. The ominous quiet disturbed Wulfson more than a full-out attack. Rangor, no doubt, had something up his sleeve for their entry into the fortress hall.

Still astride, with shield raised, Wulfson moved off at an angle, so that he could not be seen from inside except by someone close by. “I give you a last chance, Rangor,” he called into the great hall. “Surrender yourself and the Lady Tarian or I will be forced to destroy you.”

“She is dead!” The voice rang shrill…and near. Just inside the great doorway.

“She may be, but I have no proof. Allow me entry so that we may
parle
. William wishes no quarrel with you, sir. He values your allegiance, as well as that of your allies to the west. I have only come to speak to the lady. Once I have, I shall return to my lord and master in Normandy.”

“Give me your oath you will not harm me.”

“I give you my oath I will not harm you, unless I or one of my men should be provoked.”

Long minutes sweated by. Wulfson was becoming increasingly irritated.

“I give you my oath you and your men will not be harassed.”

“Then come forward and present yourself.”

A slight sound not too far off from the great hall caught Wulfson’s attention. From astride Turold, he watched a man, mayhap a few years older than William but not nearly so fit, emerge from the darkened abyss. He wore rich clothing, and his aristocratic lines were well defined. But what set him off more than his garments and bearing was his flaming red hair and his pale blue eyes. He reminded Wulf
son of a wily Icelandic fox. And at that moment he knew that under no circumstance was this man to be trusted.

The noble’s eyes darted to Wulfson, his men, then behind to Gareth, who had come to stand almost even with Wulfson. “I am Rangor, Lord of Dunloc. How may I be of service to my king?”

“You are not lord here!” Gareth said, stepping past Wulfson, whose left arm, sword in hand, shot out to prevent the Dane from moving forward. Under his breath, Wulfson cautioned the guard. “My good man, I respect your anger. But I am in charge here. Stand back.”

Expecting Gareth to immediately comply, which he did, Wulfson turned his attention back to Rangor. In a slow slide, he dismounted, and with both swords in hand he strode toward the haughty noble. Aye, Rangor stood tall and erect. Arrogant. His pale eyes showed barely a hint of fear, but Wulfson did not need to see it in a man’s eyes—he could smell it. Like the great furry beasts who wandered the island using their senses to field their prey, their enemies, and their mates, Wulfson’s instincts were highly honed. Rangor was a man with secrets. And he was afraid.

“Where is Lady Tarian?”

“As I have already told you, she is dead.”

“The body you tossed over the rampart is not that of the lady. Do you have another for me to peruse?”

“Nay. There is no body,” Rangor admitted.

“She lives! I swear it, I would know of her death!” Gareth cried out unable to contain himself. Rangor smiled a slow sadistic smile and coolly regarded the captain of her guard.

“Aye, you would. ’Tis immoral, your lust for her. Had she lived, in nine months’ time we would no doubt see
proof she was not worthy of the title she bore. For I would wager every hide of land I own the wench would spill a blond giant of a child,” Rangor sneered.

“How did the lady perish?” Wulfson demanded.

Rangor focused those inhuman pale eyes back on Wulfson. “She succumbed to a wound she sustained when she killed my nephew. Her body was returned to her guardian Lord Alewith in Turnsly.”

“’Tis a lie,” Gareth hissed.

“
Why
did you lie?” Wulfson softly questioned, not wavering from the knowledge he knew in his gut—as did Gareth—that the lady lived.

Pale blue eyes lifted to the ceiling, then darted left, then right, before returning to Wulfson. “I—I feared my liege would not believe the truth.”

“’Tis not he you should fear, my lord, but me. I come in his name. He gives me the right to not only speak on his behalf but to act.” He stepped a foot closer and pressed both sword tips to Rangor’s chest. “And I deplore a lie. ’Tis akin to treason. Do you know how William deals with traitors?”

Slowly Rangor shook his head. Wulfson noticed the sheen of sweat that glossed his brow. Whilst it was a warm day, moisture hanging over them like a wet blanket, it was cool inside the great fortress.

If looks could have sliced Wulfson in twain, he would have fallen in two even sections to the stone floor, so sharp was Rangor’s gaze. “I do not wish to cause my king or his man undue distress, but before we continue this dance, Sir Wulfson, let me remind you, as you are the king’s guard: my cousin Rhiwallon and his half brother Bleddyn are
Welsh kings in their own right. Both are very protective of their kin.”

Wulfson smiled and moved closer, the sword tips digging deeper still into Rangor’s rich clothing. “Tell your Welsh kings I welcome them in the name of King William to pledge their loyalty. The sooner the better.”

Rangor gasped. “Do you beg for a fight?”

“Nay, I speak only the truth. You will find, milord, that I am a man of few words but quick action. I do not play the coy word games you nobles seem to be so fond of. I call a sheep a sheep: whether black or white, it is still a sheep. Now, tell me where I may find Lady Tarian.”

Rangor set his jaw, but Wulfson read reluctant resignation there. Rangor would find it in his best interest not to make an enemy of the king’s guard. Wulfson nodded, lowered his swords, and inclined his head toward Rangor. “I would have the keys on your belt, sir.”

Ioan, Rorick, and Rhys stepped forward. Instinctively the noble grabbed the keys in his fists, but sense quickly reigned over his impulse. He maneuvered the large circle from the leather-and-chain belt and handed them to Wulfson. “She is below in the dungeon, by now no doubt only a carcass for the rats to feed upon.”

“Pray she is still alive, Lord Rangor. William does not take kindly to his royal subjects being executed without his approval.” And Wulfson wondered why he uttered the words. For if the wench was not dead when he found her, she would be shortly thereafter.

“Gareth, show me the way.”

Leaving three of his men and most of Gareth’s to keep order in the hall, Wulfson and several of his men fol
lowed the hulking Dane, each grabbing a torch from the sconces along the walls. Once past the great hall and the larders, they progressed down a narrow passageway, then made a sharp right turn, and were met with a thick, metal-strapped door. “’Tis down there,” Gareth said, pointing to the door.

Wulfson inserted one key, then another, until the lock ground free. The door opened, and Wulfson preceded them down the slick, narrow steps. The stench that hit him as they descended into the bowels of the fortress would have had a lesser man emptying his guts then and there. He heard several men retch behind him, and knew with a certainty they were Gareth’s. Despite the stench, he and his brother Blood Swords had smelled worse. The stink of death still permeated their dreams, and the mark of the devil branded each and every one of them. Compared to the Saracen prison in which they had spent nearly a year of their lives, this was minor.

Wulfson still had a marked limp, and scars above and below his skin—no thanks to his captors. He held the torch higher, and focused on finding the lady so that he could quickly dispose of her. He had decided he would do the deed swiftly and without witness, once she was discovered. Here within the bowels of the fortress, under cover of darkness, it would be easy enough. Even with Gareth behind him, Wulfson had no compunction. If he had to slay the Dane as well, so be it.

As they assembled in the well of the chamber, Wulfson scanned the stone walls, noting the many sets of manacles that hung from them.

“Malcor found amusement at the expense of pages and squires here,” Gareth said, contempt heavy on every word.

Wulfson snorted in disgust. He knew of men who preferred men, but boys? He could not fathom the notion. Death was too good for the likes of the earl. The lady had done the entire country a service by slicing him ear to ear.

Except for the scurrying rats, the chamber appeared to be empty. Ducking low, torches raised, they spread out and searched each cell, each corner, each crevice, ultimately coming up with no being living or dead. Yet the fresh scent of feces, mingled with the acrid stench of urine, was prevalent.

Filtering back into the center of the chamber, surrounded by the men, Wulfson stood for a long moment, his hand held up for complete silence. And listened.

Heavy silence ensued, broken only by the heavy breathing of the mail-clad knights. Wulfson raised his arm higher. They held their breath, not one of them breathing. A rat squeaked and scurried across Wulfson’s boot. He stood still and listened.

There, from ahead, a small muffled sound. He strode back into the cell directly in front of him and held the torch high. As it was a moment ago, it remained empty now. His eyes scanned the floor, closer this time, and there he saw it. The swath of something heavy and wide had been recently marked across the dirt floor, darker in color than the rest of the dirt. He squatted before a large hewn block of stone, while Ioan peered over his shoulder.

“’Twill take two of us,” Ioan said, then took Wulfson’s torch and handed it to Rhys, along with his own. Rhys moved in, with Gareth pressing closer and holding his torch high. Eerie light flickered in a give-and-take dance along the damp stone. Wulfson grasped the right corner, and Ioan the left. With a mighty heave, they pulled back on
the stone. In a slow ragged scrape, it came toward them. As Wulfson turned it away from him and the torches rose, he stopped all movement.

He grabbed the torch above his head and pressed it toward the hole in the wall, peering closer at the creature inside.

Wulfson’s heart seemed to stop for one inexorable beat. From behind some type of metal device, a helmet with cross bars and what appeared to be a bridle of sorts, glittering eyes the color of the ocean stared at him. From what he could see of her face, it was a muted mass of bruises. His hands reached out to her, and she hissed and spat like a cat being dunked in water.

“My lady…” Gareth whispered from behind him. Wulfson moved closer to her, his gaze catching every detail: a bloody chemise twisted around her waist, the sharp rise and fall of her breasts hardly discernible beneath the combined caked blood and dirt of the floor. Deep purple bruises, along with the crisscross markings of the lash, etched her arms and thighs. His gaze moved back to hers. In quiet amazement and a grudging respect for the woman who had not only survived such torture but still had fight left in her, he could not look away. He raised his right hand to touch her, to see if she were indeed human. The movement elicited another hiss, followed by a clawed hand dig
ging into his gauntlet, halting his movement. He nodded, and withdrew, but not to ease her comfort. His hand slid to the leather-wrapped hilt of his short sword. As his fingers closed around the well-worn grip, he could not tear his eyes from her defiant glare. What kind of woman
was
this?

Slowly he pulled the weapon from the leather sheath, intending to ease her suffering for all time. As the blade slid from the sheath, his eyes dipped, unable to meet hers when he plunged the sword deep into her heart. The fullness of her breasts trembled beneath the dirt and blood that covered her. A fleeting stab of regret pricked at his belly. He ignored it and pressed the tip of the blade to what he knew would be a silky-smooth spot between the full globes. As he moved to press the steel into her heart, he made the mistake of looking into her eyes.

Time halted for the briefest of moments. Transfixed, as if drugged by some potion, Wulfson watched a lone tear track slowly down her cheek, leaving a bloody stream in its wake. And at that precise moment, something deep inside him shifted.

It was also at that same instant that Gareth came undone. “She belongs with me!” he called hoarsely, lunging forward. Wulfson flung his hand back, staying the Dane. From the commotion and scuffle behind him, Wulfson knew the man was contained.

Never breaking eye contact with the specter crouched before him, Wulfson said, “Her fate is not in your hands.” Her eyes narrowed at his words, and her back stiffened. In silent defiance, she dared him to harm her.

“Whatever lies Rangor has spilled to your king I can disprove them!” cried Gareth. “She is not a witch. She is
not a murderess, nor is she an enemy to the Crown! I will stake my life on it!”

“She is what she is, sir captain. I cannot change the facts,” Wulfson answered.

“She is with child! Wouldst you murder a babe as well?” Gareth pleaded.

“I doubt even had she been with child it would have survived the torture.”

“Be not so sure of that, Sir Wulfson,” Rangor said from behind him. At Wulfson’s notice, the noble moved to the doorway, filling the space. “The wench has a penchant for survival. With her herbs and spells, she no doubt extracted Malcor’s seed from his unholy body and nurtures not one heir of Dunloc but a spare as well.”

Grabbing the lady’s hands, Wulfson drew her from the dark hole, hoisting her up to her feet. She cried out, collapsing against him. Not wanting to but having no other choice, Wulfson lifted her up into his arms. She weighed no more than a mite. He turned with her in his arms and faced Rangor, Gareth, and his men.

“It matters not.” The small body in his arms tightened at his words.

“You are wrong, my stubborn Norman,” said Rangor. “Princess Gwladus of Powys is not only my goddaughter, but first cousin of Malcor, and should her cousin’s heir be murdered in cold blood, her father, the mighty warlord King Rhiwallon, will be most unhappy. William will lose more than he can calculate. Add to that the lady’s mother is a Welsh abbess, and very much alive and in the care of Powys. You would tempt the devils for a fight. Should I school you with regard to her royal blood of the North?”

Wulfson scowled. It seemed the lady’s pedigree extended well beyond Godwinson. Which only made her all the more dangerous.

Rangor continued. “Aye, you are wise to listen to reason. The lady is great-grandniece of Canute, which makes her kin to most kings of Scandinavian descent. Like the Vikings, the Welsh are not weak, as are the Saxons. The Marches are thick with fortresses and warriors who will stoop to any measure, including witchcraft, to see their homes and their blood kin protected. With the lady’s death by a Norman hand, and even the suspicion she died carrying the heir of Dunloc, there will be more than the wrath of hell to pay. Does William court more loss so soon?”

“Should the lady spill Malcor’s brat, where does that leave you?” Wulfson demanded.

Rangor smiled. “I intend to have the lady as my wife.”

Tarian struggled in his arms, her strength pitiful. Wulfson tightened his hold, and she grunted in anger, but settled.

“You would wed with the woman who slew your nephew and raise another’s issue?” Wulfson shook his head and sneered. “I think not.”

“You underestimate my affection for the lady.”

Wulfson made the mistake again of looking down at the bloody, dirt-encrusted creature in his arms, and she turned her head to look up at him once again. He found himself speechless. Her eyes sparked in furious rage. She turned her head back toward Rangor, the metal of the head device grinding against Wulfson’s vambraces. “Indeed, is this how a Saxon lord courts his lady love?”

Rangor shook his head. He took a step closer. “She is insolent and thinks herself a man’s equal. She has her own
army! No wife of mine will dress in mail and sit like a man astride a warhorse. Her—punishment, though a bit harsh, is but a way to show her who is lord here. She would have come around, if not to save herself, then the child she may carry. Marriage to me would be the justice I exact for the murder she committed.”

Wulfson contemplated the dilemma. If the loss of life was forgiven by the family, and if the lady carried the heir to Dunloc, blood kin to the Welsh kings, and word got out that William had ordered her slain in cold blood—things would not settle well for his liege, to be sure. For the Welsh had allied with Harold, and were now rumored to be allied with Edric, the wild and unpredictable Saxon Earl of Mercia.

But, he thought, should her womb prove empty, then there would be less cause for alarm. Rangor might think he would wed with her, but William would choose a Norman bride for the new earl and be done with the Lady Tarian. Wulfson nodded. Prudence over haste ruled this day. By an unforeseen twist of fate, the Lady Tarian had managed to buy a few more days on this earth.

He would immediately send word to William, of course. In the meantime? He handed her off to Gareth, who gladly claimed her. Time will tell us if her womb bears fruit.” And as he said those words, Wulfson had the most uneasy feeling that, despite the outcome, his orders would remain the same, for the child, whilst it might be kin to the Welsh kings, would also be kin to a dead king, and that bloodline could not be resurrected under any circumstance.

“Captain, see the lady to her chamber, and her maid secured,” Wulfson directed, then turned to Rangor. “You, milord, are forbidden to see the lady under any circum
stance. Should you do so and be found out, you may consider yourself a prisoner of the realm.”

Not giving the noble a chance to argue the point, Wulfson swept past him, shoving the slighter man aside with a well-placed shoulder. His anger tangled with his frustration over the sudden change of events. He was a knight of William, a warrior, a killer, and here he was to languish, waiting for proof positive that an enemy of the Crown show signs of pregnancy!

“Sir Wulfson!” Gareth called. “The key for the helmet and bridle, please.”

Wulfson growled low, and though wanting no further dalliance with the lady, he would not release the keys to the captain. Wulfson jammed one of the smaller keys on the leather ring he had taken from Rangor into the device, and turned it. The metal scraped, but the lock turned and the split face of the mask popped open. The lady gasped, as if a huge pressure on her skull had been relieved. Deep indentations near her temples and forehead looked angry and red. Wulfson swore under his breath, then took the same key to the wide metal bit strapped around the bottom portion of her head.

As the metal piece clanked against her teeth and then rolled from her mouth, her small sigh of relief tested his resolve. Her lips were swollen, but when she licked them he saw straight white teeth behind them. His gaze met hers, and for the third time since he had laid eyes on her, something deep inside him twisted. Her eyes did not spark fire, but now they had warmed and glittered unnaturally.

“
Merci
,” she said, her voice nothing but a husky rasp. Wulfson clicked his spurs together and nodded, then turned on his heel and nearly ran from the chamber.

Tarian closed her eyes and for the first time since Rangor had thrown her in the dark, dank bowels of Draceadon, she felt a small measure of peace. Gareth’s strong arms supported her frame. Never remotely plump, she was even less now. She could not remember the last time she had eaten. Clean air filled her nostrils as they left the hellhole. Her lids fluttered as the light of day assaulted her. She rolled her head closer into Gareth’s shoulder, but groaned as her temple hit upon the clasp of his mail. Her mouth was numb, her fingers cold, and the rest of her body one massive ache.

Despite her great discomfort, she tried to smile as she remembered Rangor’s frustration with her. The device had been constructed to keep her from raining belittling barbs upon Rangor’s head each time he visited her and failed in his repeated attempts to penetrate her. She had scoffed at his poor endeavors. Like his nephew, he could not muster what was required to keep his rod stiff enough to make her a woman full-blown.

A hard shiver shattered her thoughts. The Norman knight who came to her rescue, only, it seemed to take her life, would have no such problems, she was sure. Aye, even in her condition she recognized a virile man when she saw one.

Despite his virility, he had no honor. Had not Gareth interrupted, the Norman would have sliced her heart wide open and that would have been the end of her. But spared she was, for the moment. And with the reprieve, she would find a way to survive both Rangor and the Norman.

She loosened her body, and settled more securely in Gareth’s strong arms, as her thoughts crashed violently together like warriors on the battlefield.

Wulfson stormed from the dungeon, followed by his men, and Rangor, who nipped at his heels like a terrier, asserting his right to the lady and all that came with her. If the Saxon did not shut his mouth and leave him in peace, Wulfson might yet slay a Saxon noble this day.
Jesu
! He was a knight, a warrior, captain of a great man’s guard—not a nursemaid to mollycoddle these bickering Saxons. As he strode back into the hall, he called for a scribe, and immediately sent word to William of this most annoying hitch in his step.

Against his better judgment, not wanting to be another man down, he had only one option: to hand the message over to Warner’s care. The knight would place it in William’s own hands.

As Warner and his squire took horse and rode south toward the sea, Wulfson called his men, Rangor, and Gareth to him. When the lady’s guard did not appear, Wulfson cursed. “Where is the Dane?”

“No doubt mothering his lady,” Rangor spat contemptuously.

Wulfson glared at the noble. “From the looks of her she will need more than mothering. ’Tis a miracle she survived.” Had he but come the next day, nature would have taken its course, and, like Warner, he would be on the road home to Normandy.

“My intent was never to see her dead, sir, but as I said, to convince her marriage to me would be the better choice. Her only other option would be rightful execution.”

Wulfson cast a disparaging glance at Rangor. He could not blame the lady for holding out. The Saxon was a most unsavory specimen of a man.

A servant brought out several pitchers of mead and
poured for the men. Several more hauled in platters of meats and breads, and set them down on the lord’s table, which had not been cleared from the morning meal. Continuing to stand, Wulfson and his men drank and ate. Once his thirst and hunger were eased, Wulfson cast a wary eye on the Saxon noble. “Where do you call home, Saxon?”

“Lerwick, to the northwest. I have several smaller holdings further up. I am therefore a most worthy bridegroom.”

Wulfson scathed him with a glare, assessing the validity of his words. “What became of your nephew Malcor?”

Rangor’s face paled. “She slit his throat whilst he slept.”

“’Tis a lie!” Gareth boomed, making his way down the narrow passage to the upper floor. “He was fully awake when the deed was done. ’Twas he or she, for he was bent on taking her life! He did not deserve to live after what he did to my lady.”

“’Twas murder!” Rangor shrieked. “She can pay with her life or pay by marriage to me. Either way, she will pay!”

Wulfson held his hand up for silence, and cast his gaze to the Dane. “How fares the lady?”

A storm cloud of emotion gathered upon the hulking Dane’s fair face. “She is alive. Barely.”

Wulfson turned his attention back to Rangor. “A man who mistreats a woman is no man at all.”

Rangor cocked a brow and said arrogantly, “But not one who will slay her outright?”

Wulfson refilled his cup. “There is no honor in cowardly abuse.” When Rangor made to speak again, Wulfson bellowed, “Enough! I will not be nettled by your womanish complaints! Until such time as the lady is well enough to
make an appearance and a midwife has the opportunity to examine her for the signs of pregnancy, there will be no more discussion about her!”

Rangor stood, properly cowed. Wulfson lowered his voice and strode to the head of the lord’s table. He turned and faced the many who had gathered. Though England was overrun with Normans, the invasion and the shire had suffered a great loss of men to battle, and the Norman hammer had not yet infiltrated much to the west. Until now.