His Captive Lady (10 page)

A rustling behind the willows alerted her to Wulf's return. Ducking down, she scrambled back to the hut. Her stomach churned. She must keep her wits about her; not by so much as the flicker of an eyelid would she reveal that she knew Wulf's game.

Affect ignorance, she told herself as she flung herself full length on the blanket and arranged her skirts so that it looked as though she had been sleeping. At the last moment she noticed the hem of her gown was dark with damp and her boots were caked with mud and melting ice. She twitched the blanket over them.

FitzRobert, not Brader. He had lied, Wulf had
lied
. He was sworn to De Warenne. And then it hit her--William de Warenne--of course! The name was familiar because William de Warenne was the great Norman lord who had been granted Lewes and the outlying lands near her beloved Whitecliffe. The sea coast of Wessex would never be the same again.

De Warenne was not a man to cross; rumour had it that even fellow Normans named him ruthless. Erica's temples throbbed. There was a time when both her father and Guthlac had owed fealty to Harold Godwineson for their holdings around Lewes, but in this insane Norman re-working of the world, De Warenne had become their overlord, De Warenne held lands that had once been Earl Harold's.

Wulf crunched across frost-crisped grass.

Erica put a smile on her face. She would hide the hatred in her heart, her anger at his lies. To think that she had thought Guthlac perfidious, she had thought him the one without honour. Set next to Captain Wulf FitzRobert, her father's old enemy was a saint. Why, Wulf FitzRobert wasn't even Saxon! Praying for strength to deceive as she had been deceived, Erica listened as his boots crushed the frozen grasses.

The flap lifted, daylight streamed in.

She yawned and made a show of sitting up, as he hunkered down beside her. 'Why, Wulf!' she said, keeping that smile pinned to her lips. 'Where have you been?' Her lips felt stiff and the smile forced. Could he tell?

'Readying the boat, my lady,' he said, and his returning smile made her heartbeat quicken, even though she knew it was as lying as her own. 'We will leave as soon as you are able. If this east wind persists, the waterways will not be passable for much longer.'

He had a dark bruise on his brow. How had that happened? It had not been visible last night, but then they had not had much light. Erica pursed her lips. She had a vague memory of flailing about with the candlestick in the chapel. She would not mention it, his hurts were nothing to her, he was Norman.
And I am Saxon; there can never be anything but hatred between us.

'My lady, we should be leaving soon.'

His English was perfect, spoken like a native, with no trace of an accent. There was no call to chastise herself for assuming him to be Saxon, but chastise herself she did. She forced another smile.
False, false, false,
her mind screamed, but her heart could not help but notice that he was looking at her mouth, and that for one brief moment he leaned towards her as though, as though...

Mouth dry, she edged back and hastily reached for the tie on her plait. 'Very well, but first, please tell me where you put your comb, I need to borrow it again.'

As Wulf passed her his comb, she made certain her fingers did not touch his. And that was not because she was afraid his touch would make her heart beat fast--no, it was not, it was because she had no wish to touch anyone to whom deceit came so easily.

'My thanks,' she murmured, even as she sent him another counterfeit smile.

You wait, Captain Wulf FitzRobert, when my men get hold of you, you will rue the day you set foot in the fens.

A wave of nausea swept over her, similar to the nausea she had felt at the castle each time Hrothgar had come close. It might be hunger, the result of three days' fasting in the chapel, it might be hate. Yes, the sooner they left this place, the sooner Erica could eat again and the sooner she could get away from Wulf FitzRobert. She was certain to feel better then.

The fens slid past the boat. Bulrushes made a spiky fringe along the edge of the land, like so many spears sticking up through the freezing water. The January sun hung low in the sky. The cold had deepened, and the wind sliced through both the fabric of Erica's cloak and the wool of the blanket that Wulf had given her. She held the edges tightly together and watched some alders slip by. Her stomach was hollow, the feeling of nausea remained.

From time to time, she watched him, covertly, through her lashes. He had discarded his cloak the better to row and his big, warrior's body seemed larger than ever. Strong. Unstoppable. Once or twice she caught his gaze on her. She surmised that her silence puzzled him, which was why, every now and then, she sent him a smile. She longed for this journey to be over. Though he deserved it, she hated having to deceive him, even in a matter as small as a smile.

Ahead, the water divided into two channels. It was a relief to recognise that they were almost at the cottage. 'Take the waterway on the left,' she said.

Nodding, Wulf gripped the oars. He rowed with regular, even strokes and his breath smoked the air between them, but he was not the least bit winded, he inhaled and exhaled steadily, timing each breath to match the dip and pull of the oars. Big though he was, he was not a man to waste his energy; every moment was economical and precise. He was a born warrior, comfortable in that strong body, and it would appear that he had honed it to perfection, had mastered it so it responded instantly to his every command. And, large though he might be--Erica sent him another quick look under her lashes--there was not an ounce of spare flesh to be seen.

'It is not far.' Erica hoped he could not hear the hollowness that had got into her voice. She chewed the inside of her cheek. She did not like what she was about to do, but could see no other way out.

'There!' She pointed and smiled what she hoped was a delighted smile. 'See that cottage, coming into sight around that curve?'

Wulf glanced over one broad shoulder, twisting at the waist. Really, he had a very narrow waist for so tall a man. His sword belt was plain like the rest of his dress, with a simple brass buckle that glinted in the feeble sunlight. His brown tunic was unadorned by even one stitch of embroidery that Erica could see; his undershirt seemed to be of a coarse cream linen. And as for his lack of arm-rings--her breath caught. Of course! It had struck her as odd that a man as strong as Wulf should have won no prizes from his lord, but since Wulf was not Saewulf Brader, but Captain Wulf FitzRobert, everything became clear. It was not the Norman way for a lord to reward his captain with golden arm-rings, Normans gave their men honours or land.

Briefly, Erica studied her finger-rings. Garnets and sapphires winked up at her. She turned the bracelets on her wrist--they were in fact her father's arm-rings, at least some of those that had not been lost at Hastings. The others she could not wear, they were too large, and after William the Bastard had seized King Harold's crown, Erica had been fearful of losing them. Siward had buried them in a box beneath the floor at Whitecliffe Hall. Were they still there? Or had that lord--
his
lord--she fought to keep the scowl off her face--had De Warenne found them?

The boat lurched and scraped on some stones in the shallows; they had reached the jetty by the cottage. Already.

Dry-mouthed and silent, she watched Wulf ship the oars and tie up with that swift efficiency of his. He sent her a smile. Was it her imagination or was there a slight tension about his mouth and his eyes? He vaulted lightly onto the jetty and offered her a hand to help her out.

One, two
, Erica found herself counting.
It is my turn to play the wolf.
Her insides writhed. Smiling, she gripped his hand--warm, his fingers were so warm compared to hers--and stepped onto the jetty. Releasing him, she turned away and walked casually towards the cottage.

Three, four...it
is
the month of the wolves.

No one was in sight, no smoke curled through the thatch, no pigs rooted in the marsh, no hens scratched. The place looked abandoned.

Five, six...when push comes to shove we are all wolves...

He was behind her, walking close, taking long, easy strides. Confident. His hand would be resting on the hilt of his sword. He would be looking about him, and those bright blue eyes would be taking everything in, those spy's eyes...

There was still not a soul to be seen. Above the low-lying land, a straggle of geese flew in a perfect chevron across the blue sky. The cottage door was swinging on its hinges. Silence. There was not a breath to be heard, not a whisper. Throwing him one last smile--yes, that hand was at his swordhilt--Erica lifted her skirts and stepped over the threshold.

A shadow moved. Morcar. They were expected.
Good.

Seven, eight...

Another shadow shifted. Siward. Her men must have set a look-out somewhere on the waterway.

And then, as Wulf stepped over the threshold after her, another, smaller shadow--Cadfael--leaped for the door and slammed it shut.

Erica stopped counting and found her tongue. 'Take him!'

Morcar and Siward might have seen many winters, but they could still move.

Steel hissed as Wulf made to draw his sword.

No room.
The thought flashed in on her, swift as lightning.
He has no room to fight.
And before another thought had time to form, she had stepped up to him and put her hand on his so that he could not finish drawing his sword.

For a moment, a breathless, burning moment, his large warrior's body was pressed to hers, chest to thigh. 'Lady, you hamper me,' he said, tightly, even as the shadowy shape that was Siward lifted a clay jug and brought it down with a crack on the back of his head.

Wulf crumpled at her feet amid a shower of pottery shards.

'I
know,' Erica whispered, closing her eyes against the sight of that long body motionless at her feet. 'I know.' Sick to her core, she turned away.

'My lady!' Solveig flew out of the gloom at the back of the cottage, blond hair flying. 'Where have you been? We feared Thane Guthlac had killed you!'

'I am well, Solveig.'

'And Ailric and Hereward? Where are they? Did Guthlac...?'

'No, no, they are alive.' Erica drew in a steadying breath. 'But we had to leave them behind.'

Osred, another of her father's housecarls, stirred. 'Leave them behind? But...my lady...!'

Erica glanced down at her hands--they were trembling. Feeling oddly detached, she curled her nails into her palms. 'There is much to tell.'

Morcar coughed and nudged Wulf with his boot. 'Perhaps you might begin by telling us who this is? Is he one of Guthlac's?' He began kicking the broken pottery towards the wall.

Torn, Erica hesitated, but in her heart she knew she could not put off this moment. Slowly she shook her head. Snakes were writhing in her belly, snakes that made the bile rise in her throat. 'Not Guthlac's, but William De Warenne's. He's one of his captains.'

Morcar's eyes bulged. 'A
Norman
? Saint Michael save us. How come you are accompanied by a Norman, my lady?'

On the floor, Wulf stirred and his eyelids fluttered.

'Later, Morcar, later.' She waved her hand. 'For pity's sake, remove him, I can bear the sight of him no longer.'

Grunting, Morcar bent to grip Wulf under his armpits. Siward took his feet. With a heave they hoisted him to the doorway. Pausing on the threshold, Morcar lifted a grey-streaked brow. 'An execution, my lady?'

'No!'
A wave of faintness swept over her.

Morcar's eyebrow twitched. 'But we may question him?'

'What?' The room tilted, and everything seemed a long way off, a
very
long way off. 'Question him?' Even her voice sounded distant. 'Yes, of course you may question him, but you are
not
to kill him.'

Siward muttered into his beard, a phrase which she would swear contained the words 'little accident'.

The cottage seemed to be swaying from side to side, Erica shook her head to clear it and put steel in her voice. 'No, Siward, there are to be no "little accidents". If it were not for this man, I would yet be in Guthlac's power. You are
not
to kill him.'

Wulf groaned. Morcar and Siward heaved and grunted and then, thankfully, that well-honed warrior's body was no longer in her sight. The door banged.

Solveig opened a shutter to let in the light and turned to look at her. She took her firmly by the hand. 'Come, my lady, you need to eat and rest, you are chalk white.'

Stumbling, sick to her stomach, Erica surrendered herself into the care of her maidservant and did her best to put thoughts of lying Norman bastards--even finely made ones with thick-lashed blue eyes--right out of her mind.

Wulf sat on earth that the frost had rendered hard as iron, with his legs stretched out in front of him. He had moved beyond pain, otherwise his arms would be killing him for they had been pulled to the point of dislocation before being dragged into the small of his back and bound.

Stripped to the waist, Wulf was tied to an ash tree and the rough bark was gouging holes in his shoulders and arms. He would be cold if he were not in that place beyond pain, for he had been kept under restraint by the tree for so long that his buttocks had lost all feeling. And that had to be a good thing, for when they had brought him out here it had been cold enough to freeze the marrow in his bones.

Lucky for him, then, that he was numb from head to toe. For a while there, while they had been beating him, he thought he might have lost consciousness. With difficulty, he focused on his toes, which were bare since one of her ageing housecarls had taken his boots. Blue toes. Blue from cold or blue from bruising? It was hard to tell much of anything, but in the fading light Wulf thought they looked like bruises. One side of his chest bore the clear imprint of Morcar's boot, the other Siward's. His cheek throbbed, as did his jaw; he was lucky not to have lost any teeth.

Lucky? Wulf shivered and frowned; the cold was getting to him again and his back felt twisted. Maybe he was coming round properly. Wulf didn't want that; he didn't want to feel the cold, the bruises...

Perhaps if he could sleep a while, he could forget the look on her face when she had ordered them to take him. Perhaps he could forget the pain, and the unremitting cold. Merciless it was, like her.

Closing his eyes, Wulf tried to cut out all consciousness of the wind. An east wind with the keenest of edges. Was this how it was to end, on the edge of a marsh in one of the most inhospitable parts of England? So much for his ambition. So much, Wulf thought bitterly, for compassion. For that was what had brought him here, compassion for a brave woman he had not liked to leave in Guthlac's care.

'I can bear the sight of him no longer.'

He took a deep breath and his ribs shrieked a protest. No, be honest, it was not simply compassion that had brought him to this pass, ambition, too, had played its part. He had discharged his duty as far as De Warenne was concerned; he had discovered where Guthlac was based; he had discovered his strength. For most men, Wulf acknowledged ruefully, that would be enough. He had fulfilled his commission and done it well.

But, no, he had to try and go one better. He had wanted to impress the new Lord of Lewes with his initiative. Hence the need to escort Lady Erica back here so he could acquaint himself with the size of her force.

Compassion, ambition and pride then, Wulf thought wearily, trying to blank out a renewed throbbing in his jaw and the pain in his ribs. He was covered in goose-bumps, and his lungs ached with every breath.

He glanced towards the cottage, but there was no sign of her. There was no sign of anyone save the boy, Cadfael, who they had left on guard.

'I am thirsty,' he said, voice a croak.

Cadfael hardly looked his way. 'No water, Siward said, no water, nothing.'

Wulf sighed and flinched. His ribs were practically creaking. A moorhen paddling about in the reeds at the edge of the fen seemed to fade as he tried, unsuccessfully, to look at it. 'No matter,' he said, with a grim attempt at humour. 'It would only be a waste, since I am like to be dead by morning.'

The boy squinted doubtfully at him through the last of the light. And then everything went dark.

'Night is upon us.' Erica glanced across the trestle at Solveig where they were preparing wild duck for the spit. There was barely enough meat, but she and Solveig had been doing their best to bulk out the meal. It was not work that a lady would usually undertake, but ladies who were outlaws soon learned to put their hands to most things. They had stuffed the birds with a mixture of oatmeal, onions and dried herbs, and had just finished trussing them. Erica set aside her skewer. 'I think it will be safe to light the fire if we keep the door closed.'

Nodding, Solveig rose and went to the hearth. Digging into the purse which hung from her girdle, she drew out her flint to strike a light. Like most women, Erica included, Solveig kept the means to make a fire upon her person. It was only sensible at the best of times, and here, out in the wilds, it was a necessity.

'Solveig, did we use the last of the honey?'

'No, my lady, there is a spoonful or two left.'

'Good, we'll use it to make a dressing for these birds.'

The men were out on the marshland somewhere, occupying themselves with tasks that Morcar had little hesitation in informing her were ill suited for housecarls: tasks such as netting more fowl, and fishing. Tasks that were, Erica thought, as she eased the last of the wildfowl onto the spit, nevertheless vital if their diminished household was to thrive. If ladies could cook, housecarls could certainly learn to fish.

She wondered how her other men were faring, the more able-bodied of the warriors who had gone deeper into the fens. Almost a hundred of them were awaiting her command either to emerge and join Guthlac, or to form a rebel alliance of their own. Would they be eating roast duck tonight? She liked to think so; they were survivors. As were they all, she hoped.

The door swung open and Cadfael hurtled into the room.

Solveig dropped the reed seed-head she was using as kindling. 'Cadfael, for pity's sake, were you born in a barn? Can't you see I am trying to get the fire going?'

'Sorry, Solveig.'

The door slammed. Cadfael approached the trestle. 'My lady?'

'Yes?'

'The Norman says he is thirsty.'

Erica set the spit down on a wooden platter. She had been trying not to think about Captain Wulf FitzRobert; the man evoked feelings that were too tangled to unravel. She was grateful that he had saved her from Hrothgar; she was grateful he had got her out of Guthlac's clutches, but his motives for doing so had been far from pure.

Wulf must have freed her in order that she should lead him to her people; the entire time he had been planning to betray her. She misliked the thought and the fact that she had been coming to trust him only compounded matters.
A Norman
, she reminded herself,
a Norman
. What was she to do with him?

'Give him water, then,' she said. 'The jug is over there.'

Cadfael hesitated. 'Siward said not to give him anything, but the prisoner, he...he...'

'Yes?'

'He doesn't look too good. I would not have disturbed you, my lady, but he said he would probably not see the dawn. And I remember you telling Morcar and Siward he was not to be killed.'

Erica's heart sank, but she was puzzled. How long had it been since Wulf had drunk anything--since they had broken their fast at the fisherman's hut that morning? Certainly, he would be thirsty, and she could clearly recall how unpleasant that had been. But surely a sturdy warrior like Wulf could not be in so bad a state, not after a few hours? 'You think I should see him?'

'If you would.'

With a sigh, Erica rinsed her hands in the water bowl. 'Solveig, you will finish here?'

'Of course.'

Snatching her cloak and a wrap from the peg, Erica followed Cadfael outside, carefully shutting the door so Solveig could work on the fire.

Her feet crunched over grass bleached white with frost. The sky was darkening, save for an amber glow above the tree-line, which had a few stringy clouds straggling across it. The clouds turned even as Erica looked to violet and purple. The air was so cold her teeth ached, her nose tingled. She secured the cloak firmly at her neck and swathed her head with her hood and the wrap. Where was he?

There. She almost tripped.
Half-naked?
And, Lord, they had tied him to a tree.

Keeping her skirts clear of the frost, she hurried over. Wulf's head flopped to one side; he looked to be asleep. Sweet Heaven, several more bruises had appeared on his face, his lip was split and blood was streaked down his chin, dried blood. He was filthy and his arms--why, the tightness of his bonds must be cutting off his blood-flow...

'Wulf!' Falling to her knees at his side, she turned his face to hers, wincing as the last rays of the sun revealed the extent of his bruising. Those long eyelashes did not move. 'Wulf?' And his chest, even as the healer in her took note of the mottled marks--a boot--and there, another--even as she was wondering whether his ribs had been cracked, the woman in her could not help but notice his perfect male shape. Beautifully muscled arms, if they were not tied so awkwardly, that broad chest, sprinkled with dark hair, that flat stomach...his feet...
naked
feet? Holy Mary, even his feet were filthy and bruised beneath the mud and the scratches...

'Wulf?' He had yet to respond. Biting her lip, Erica gave his shoulder a careful shake.
'Wulf?'
His flesh was chill to the touch. Unfastening her wrap and cloak, she flung them over him. How long had he been left like this? Blue, the man was blue with cold, and the lack of response meant that he was unconscious, not sleeping.

A movement by the jetty caught her attention; Morcar and Siward were returning from the fens. Setting her teeth, she rocked back on her heels and gestured them over. 'Which of you did this?'

Two sets of eyes, both confused, peered at her through the twilight.

'Did what?' Morcar tossed a brace of fish onto the grass and put his hands on his hips.

'This.' Flicking back the cloak, Erica indicated the marks on Wulf's ribs, the dried blood on his chin.

'My lady?'

Pushing to her feet, she drew herself to her full height and looked Morcar in the eyes. 'You both did it.' Her voice rose. 'I told you not to hurt him!'

Morcar and Siward exchanged glances. Siward stirred first. '
Kill
him, my lady, you told us not to
kill
him.' He spread his hands. 'We have not killed him.'

'Would you have us coddle him, my lady? A Norman captain?'

'No, of course not, but--'

Morcar shrugged. 'You did say we might question him and that is what we have done.'

'You questioned him.'

'Yes, my lady.'

Erica clenched her fists; this was her fault. If she had not been at her wit's end when Wulf had brought her back to the cottage, she would have been more precise in her instructions. Wulf lay at the base of the tree, still as death. She should have thought--of course Morcar and Siward would be...vigorous...in their questioning. If Wulf refused to answer them, as he was bound to, being an honourable man--doubtless Wulf had sworn an oath to his lord in much the same way as a housecarl would bind himself to his thane. And if Wulf refused to answer them, they would resort to force.

'It is war,' she muttered. 'Bloody war. How I wish that it was ended.' Turning back to Wulf, she dropped back on her knees and lightly touched a bruised cheek.

'Yes, this is war.' Siward's hand was at her elbow, urging her up. 'And you should not be seeing this. Go back to the house, my lady.'