His Captive Lady (11 page)

Erica jerked her arm free and refused to move. She was unable to prevent the scorn from colouring her voice. 'Not women's business, Siward?'

'Quite so, my lady.'

Erica glared. Siward and Morcar were her father's most loyal housecarls and for herself, she had never known a sharp word from either of them. Yet now...with their handiwork lying bloodied and broken at her feet...a memory stirred. In her mind she heard Thane Guthlac dismissing his wife, Lady Hilda, along with her ladies prior to making his announcement concerning her disparagement. Then, too, the women had been sent away.

War, she thought, bloodfeuds, they make monsters of us all: of the men for dismissing us, and of the women for allowing themselves to be dismissed. Erica frowned. She did not know how, but she would put a stop to this. It had to be wrong when good men, men like Morcar and Siward, were driven to beating an unarmed man--one who was--she shot Wulf another glance--trussed up as tightly as the wildfowl that she and Solveig had been preparing for their supper. God help us, she thought, there must be some way to stop this destruction of good men from continuing, there
must
be...

'No, Siward,' she said, pleased to hear the strength in her tone. 'I will not be dismissed.'

'But, my lady--'

'Enough!' She laid a careful palm on Wulf's chest. 'This man did save me from Guthlac.'

Morcar made an exasperated noise. 'That man--' his voice was dry as dust '--is a Norman captain. He would see us hang sooner than save us.'

Erica swallowed. It was true, Wulf was Norman. He had lied to her, he had pretended to have frequented Godwineson's hall in Southwark, and she did question his motives in bringing her back to her camp, but...She glanced at the bruised cheek, at the dark lashes that shielded those blue eyes. 'This I know, but there is no tampering with the fact that Guthlac would have had Hrothgar
rape
me, and this man prevented it--at some personal risk, given his true allegiances. It cannot have been easy for him among Guthlac's men--'

'You excuse him?'

'No, Morcar, I do not. But he did get me away from there.'

'My lady, the man is sent to spy on us!'

Erica clenched her fists and rose. 'He saved me from rape. In any case, you have disarmed him, he does not look to be much of a threat. Where is his tunic, and what of his cloak and boots?'

'Gave them to Hrolf.'

'Hrolf will have to give them back.' Erica looked pointedly at Wulf. 'Loose him.'

'My lady?'

'So help me, Morcar, you will untie this man from that tree and bring him inside. And listen carefully--make sure you do not harm so much as another hair on his head.'

'I mislike this, my lady.'

It was a man's voice, Wulf decided, keeping his eyes shut, feigning unconsciousness. The voice sounded like Morcar, one of the brutes who had done his best to stove in his ribs with his boot. The one with the cough.

Wulf had recovered his senses some minutes ago, while rough hands had been heaving him into the warmth, depositing him by a fire. He had to have been carried inside the cottage; the flames were toasting him along his right-hand side. He could smell smoke and hear the crackle and spit of a fire largely made up with damp willow.

The rough hands left him and were replaced by other, softer hands that felt for the pulse on his wrist before sliding away to linger for a moment on his fingers. Realising it might be politic to continue feigning unconsciousness, Wulf kept his eyes closed. The gentle hands bared his chest and he heard the jingle of bracelets.

Lady Erica. Regret and longing shivered through him. He ignored them, as he had taught himself to do, long ago; there was no place for either here.

The faint tang of sage lingered in the air, of juniper. Yes, he was certain it was she. He heard water--a cloth being wrung out? Yes. He almost winced, but managed to control himself as a damp cloth feathered over his face. She was washing him.

Washing
him? The bracelets clinked. Careful fingers probed his biceps; his shoulders; his chest. They hit a particularly tender spot and he sucked in a breath.

'I think he wakes.'

Yes, it was Erica. Not moving a muscle, Wulf allowed her to turn his face to one side, presumably to take stock of his hurts. Light fingers feathered across his cheekbone, and again, more painful than the bruises, longing twisted his insides. So gentle, she handled him so gently. Wulf could not remember the last time someone had...He caught himself, mid-thought.
Merde
, this would not do...

Someone, a man, cleared his throat. 'My lady, you must let me bind him again, he might do you an injury.'

He heard a soft sigh and the fingers lifted from his cheekbone. More water was being wrung out. Wulf caught the pungent smell of other herbs--a medicinal salve? And, behind that smell was another, one which brought saliva rushing into his mouth. Roast meat. Onions. Fresh bread. Lord. He fought the urge to swallow.

The careful fingers took his chin and a delicate stroking began. The medicinal smell intensified--she must be applying salve to his bruises. On its heels came the tempting aroma of roast duck. Wulf swallowed convulsively, it was that or choke on his saliva; he must be hungrier than he had thought.

'My lady?' It was the housecarl Morcar; his voice was closer than before and his tone was decidedly impatient.

'Hmm?'

'The Norman must be bound.'

'What?' Those careful fingers stroked over his cheekbones, fluttered over his mouth. Wulf repressed the ridiculous urge to kiss them, and held himself still.

'My lady, he must be bound.'

'Oh.' A sigh. 'Yes, Morcar, that is probably wise. But not so cruelly as before.'

And then the ungentle hands were back, taking his feet and arms and in moments ropes were gnawing his ankles, his wrists.

The gentle hands withdrew. Something warm--his cloak?--was draped over him. 'He sleeps,' Erica said, and a rustling of skirts told Wulf that she was getting up. He sensed her looking down at him.

'For the moment.' Siward's harsh voice cut in. 'Come, my lady, you must eat. You may as well enjoy what little there is while it is hot.'

'We shall have to move on again.' Her voice faded as she moved away. A bench scraped the floor; Wulf heard the clatter of knives and the thump of a serving dish as it landed on the trestle. 'I do not know exactly what he told his compatriot, but he may have told him about our band.'

So that was it, that was why she had thrown him to her men--Wulf had suspected something of the kind. He had had plenty of time to wonder, when they had been putting the boot in. Erica must have overheard him talking to Gil.

How much had she heard?

'We cannot remain here,' she was saying.

'Exactly my thoughts,' Morcar agreed. 'Ale, my lady?'

'Please. We leave in the morning.'

'And where do we go?'

Again Wulf felt the weight of her gaze upon him. 'We go where they least expect us.'

'Where's that?'

'Ely.'

'But the Normans are building a garrison at Ely!'

'Exactly.'

Someone, Morcar at a guess, laughed. 'Hiding in plain sight, eh? Yes, I like it.'

Conversation halted. There came the sounds of knives scraping platters and of ale being poured, of the pop and crackle of the fire. The smell of the duck was so good it had Wulf's stomach growling.

'What about our friend over there?'

'He comes with us,' she murmured.

'That's baggage I'd rather not take along, my lady, especially if Normans are trying to establish a base at Ely. He'll betray us if he can. Best finish him off here.'

A thud, as of a clay goblet being thumped down on the trestle. 'No, Siward, think!' Her voice was sharp. 'The Norman is our prisoner and as such he will be our surety, our guarantee of safety.'

The Norman.
Well, that's what he was, half of him, at any rate. But Wulf did not have to like the way she said it. When he had got her out of Guthlac's clutches, he had begun to feel responsible for her and an unpalatable thought had gripped him. What if he had saved her from Hrothgar only to find she was destined for the same treatment elsewhere? He had caught himself wondering how to ensure that she never fell into uncaring hands. However, since she had placed him under guard, such worries had become irrelevant. The harshness in her tone was nothing to him, nothing.

Wulf continued to affect unconsciousness until the talk had moved on to practical matters. Then, when the girl Solveig was asking Erica whether they would be taking their cooking pots with them, he decided the time had come for him to waken.

He groaned and slowly opened his eyes, and the soldier in him peered past the fire, assessing the company in a moment. Erica of Whitecliffe's people. There were not many, a dozen all told, huddled round the trestle. A couple of tallow candles lit the faces of a few tired old men, well past fighting age. Three young boys. Erica and the girl had their backs to the fire; neither was wearing a veil. Wulf could not see that any of them represented much of a threat to the Norman state.

She
must
have other men...housecarls who would respond if she made the call to arms. Wulf was becoming more certain by the hour that this was indeed the case. He was also beginning to question whether he had it in him to tell his lord about Lady Erica and her supporters. Time was when he would not have hesitated, but...Wulf clenched his jaw.

His duty was clear, but he did not want her harmed.

Neither she nor her people had heard him, so Wulf groaned again, more loudly. This time, Erica's head swung round and at once she left the trestle, skirts sweeping the beaten dirt floor. She had changed her gown for a blue one, which was much more serviceable than the one she had worn when attempting to treat with Guthlac. She had also removed most of her jewellery, but a bracelet or two caught the light as she came towards him. She still moved like a queen.

Drawing up a stool, she sat by him, a dark, glossy plait hanging over her shoulder. Her eyes glowed in the firelight. 'So,
Saewulf Brader
, you are awake.' Her voice was hard and she had no smile for him either.
Fool--how could she have, when she suspects you of betraying her?
'Are you hungry?'

'My lady, you'll not give that swine our food?' Siward said.

She silenced Siward with a raised brow and turned back to Wulf. 'Hungry?'

Wulf cleared his throat. 'Thirsty, mostly.'

Erica gestured at the girl. 'Some ale, if you please, Solveig. And bring that platter of meat I had set aside.'

Green eyes watched as the girl set a cup to his lips and tipped ale into his mouth. She said nothing. What was there to say? And then Erica took the platter and the girl returned to her place at the table.

Wulf let Erica feed him, tearing pieces of duck from the bone and putting them between his lips with her fingers, babying him because he was bound. The meat was honey-sweet and fragrant with herbs. Like her, he said nothing, simply chewed and swallowed in silence while beside them the fire hissed and spat.

When he had finished, he nodded his thanks and let her drop a blanket over his cloak. Still he held his tongue.

He lay by the fire and watched as her household settled themselves for sleep. Erica was sharing a pallet with her maid. Wulf did not want to remember the night just past, when he had been free and she had slept trustfully in his arms. Instead, he set himself to wondering where Morcar had put his sword and how he might get it back.

T
hey had several rowing boats. After they had broken their fast, the entire household abandoned the cottage and used them to reach Ely--Eel Island.

Wulf's hands were still firmly bound behind him, and his companion in the boat, a spindle of a man named Osred, yanked Wulf's hood up so high he could hardly see out. In truth, this was a mercy that Wulf had not looked for because the hood kept the wind off his ears, though Wulf doubted that Osred had been motivated by compassion. The man wanted Wulf's face concealed, lest a Norman sympathiser recognise him.

Wulf took his place in a wintry dazzle of sun, thankful for the fur-lining to his cloak, for the cold went bone deep. Facing forwards as he was, and under Osred's gimlet eyes, Wulf had little chance to observe Lady Erica who, in a blue veil and cloak, occupied one of the boats behind them with her maid, Solveig.

Hrolf, the man with a limp who had initially taken his belongings, had been sent down a different channel. Why? Was Hrolf being dispatched with messages to other men? To the housecarls who Wulf suspected were awaiting the call to arms? Wulf twisted his head, keen to observe the man's direction. West--Hrolf was travelling west along a rapidly freezing waterway. Damn, there were no obvious landmarks, just a pair of swans and the usual border of leafless shrubs decorating the banks.

Hrolf had--with marked reluctance--returned Wulf's boots and most of his clothing, but the air was sharp and, despite his cloak, Wulf was hard pressed not to shiver. He had not had sight of his gloves, his money pouch or, more importantly, his sword. As Osred strained at the oars, it occurred to Wulf they would have done better to have given them to him. The exercise would have worked off some of the stiffness caused by his beating; it would have heated his blood. Osred was making heavy weather of it.

As was his habit, Wulf continued to take note of his surroundings, peering surreptitiously under the edge of his hood. The sky was bright and clear. To the west, in the direction Hrolf had taken, a hawk was hovering over a clump of alder whose branches were fat with frost, while, to the north, ahead, a larger island loomed. It was low-lying and flat like most of the islands in these marshes. Directly above it, the blue sky was scarred with trailing charcoal lines--the smoke from countless fires.

Ely.

Wulf's heart lifted. Would he catch sight of Gil or Lucien? It was possible. Osred's attention might waver for a moment and...he might be able to get a message to De Warenne. Flexing fingers that were so cold they had become thumbs, Wulf strained at his bonds, but they held fast as they had known they would. The housecarl Morcar knew how to restrain a man. What Wulf needed was an implement of some kind, something sharp...

They approached the landing stages with their breath making clouds in the clear air and Wulf eyeing the oak palisade that marched around the island. It had been reinforced in the past few days, the fresh stakes showed up paler than the old. Because land on the Isle of Ely was scarce, the docks were located
outside
the palisade and the jetties radiated out into the fen like the spokes of a wheel jutting out from the hub.

Today there was much traffic: a flotilla of rowing boats and coracles, a couple of ancient dugouts, as well as some larger vessels, the clinker-built dragon ships of the Northmen. These had curved prows in the shape of swans' necks and sea snakes. Their sails were furled. There was a sense of bustle, of urgency even, as though the people rushing to and fro along the jetties sensed that the waterways were about to freeze, and that this might be the last time for some days that the ways would be navigable.

By the town gates, a brace of Norman guards, mailcoats a-gleam, were stationed at the head of the docks. Leaf-shaped shields were propped against the palisade; conical steel helmets bounced the sun back at him.

Seeing the direction of his gaze, Osred's eyes narrowed. Wulf caught a gut-tightening flash of steel as Osred jerked his shortsword. 'One word from you, and this will meet your liver.'

Wulf nodded his understanding.

As their boat gained the jetty, Osred flung a rope over a bollard and tied up. He gestured at Wulf to get out. With the boat lurching and with his hands fast behind him, Wulf struggled to keep his balance. Carefully, he hauled himself ashore, yesterday's bruises protesting at every move. Naturally, since his hands were concealed by his cloak, it was odds on that neither the people on the quays nor the guards at the gates would be aware that he was under restraint.

Erica's boat was next at the jetty. A blue veil fluttered, but he heard no jingle of bracelets. She had put off her queenly finery for this foray into Norman territory. And, naturally, she was not using her father's standard either; the white pennon with the blue sky and green sea was, in any case, lying at the bottom of her other boat, the one that had been left behind at Guthlac's stronghold.

Gaining the palisade, their party passed through the water gate and onto the cobbled market square. Several stalls were up, despite the cold. Fish, cured meat, leather, cheese, a metalworker....

Something sharp, that was what he needed.

Wulf's pulse quickened and he was eyeing a particularly fine dagger--
what the hell had they done with his sword?
--when a prick in the ribs brought his gaze back to Osred.

'No tricks, mind,' Osred said, urging him across the cobbles towards the high street.

Morcar and Lady Erica were following them, but the others were apparently remaining in the square. Siward, Cadfael and Solveig were huddled with the rest of her household by the wall of one of the abbey buildings. They must have agreed to meet up later, when Erica's business was concluded.

Osred's forehead was wrinkled with worry lines. 'My lady?'

'Mmm?' She was chewing on her lower lip, her eyes preoccupied. What was she about?

Something sharp, he must find something sharp.

'Are you sure you want
him
--' Osred gestured with his shortsword and Wulf received another sting in the ribs '--to come along?'

'He stays where I can see him.'

'He might signal to his friends.'

'Nevertheless, Osred, he comes with us. Make sure his hood stays up.'

Osred gave a grudging nod and twitched at Wulf's hood, obscuring almost all of Wulf's vision.

With the market square at their backs and the wooden abbey on their left, a narrow street lay ahead, running up a slight incline. Wulf knew where he was. According to Gil, the Norman garrison lay on the high ground at the top end of Ely's high street, and the tavern that Gil had spoken of, the Waterman, stood facing them at the junction. As they approached it, Wulf dragged his steps.

Out of the corner of his eye, Wulf saw smoke rising through the tavern's roof vents, an open door, the fireglow within. People were moving about inside. He heard laughter, he even heard a snatch of Norman French, but he was careful to keep his expression neutral as though he had heard nothing. He managed another sidelong glance, in the hope of seeing Gil or Lucien, but he could only make out dark shapes, shadowy figures silhouetted against the fire.

And then he noticed it, a square-edged nail protruding from one of the shutters. It was exactly what he needed. His heart thudded.

Another jab in his side. This, also, was exactly what he needed. Letting out a yelp as though Osred had blooded him, Wulf stumbled, contriving to fall against the shutter. Desperately he scrabbled behind him to get his cloak out of the way. His wrist hit the nail. Sharp, smith-hammered edges dug into his skin. Good.
Exactly
what he needed. He gave a violent jerk with his arms so the rough edge of the nail would saw into the rope. Focusing all his strength into this small movement, he repeated the gesture. And again. He had loosened the nail, but the tension in the rope was altering...

'Get a move on.' The look in Osred's eyes was derisive, but Wulf did not care. 'I barely touched you.'

Wulf's fingers closed on the nail and he wrenched it free. Lady Erica and Morcar had taken the lead, they were walking on ahead past a blind man begging at the corner. She tossed the man a coin.

'Bless you, bless you!'

She strode on, Morcar pinned to her side. As Wulf quickened his pace to follow them, the rope began to part. In a moment he would be free, but he had to know what she was doing. Erica of Whitecliffe did not lack for courage, he'd give her that. What could be worth the risk of her, a known Saxon outlaw, being caught so near a Norman garrison? He could only think of one thing...

She continued for another hundred yards before stopping outside a workshop where she rapped on the door. Wulf's bonds loosened. He almost betrayed himself by dropping the nail. Gripping it firmly, he maintained his captive's stance with his hands firmly behind his back. He kept his head down and edged towards her, winning another sting from Osred, which he ignored.

Several bolts snapped back. When the door opened and Erica slipped inside, Wulf followed swiftly on Morcar's heels. The man was wheezing; the cold had clearly got to his lungs.

'Shut the door!' someone barked. Osred leaped to obey.

It was a gold merchant's, had to be, there were enough bolts on that door to keep out the Viking hordes. Against the walls lay strongbox after strongbox, each kept in place by thick iron bands buried in the stone floor. A quick assessment revealed that the shop walls had been also strengthened with heavy oak beams and extra planking. With the door and shutters closed, the interior was dim, lit by a couple of lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Imported, Wulf saw, noting the costly glass fittings, the clear glow of the flame.

The merchant stood behind a table covered in dark cloth, a bearded man at either elbow. In thick leather gambesons, with their belts bristling with arms, they looked burly enough to repel King William's entire personal guard. Wulf's eyebrows rose. This shop was more secure than the Saxon mint had been at Westminster.

Lady Erica fumbled in her skirts and brought out her bracelets--the arm-rings that had belonged to her father. She laid them reverently on the cloth where they gleamed softly in the lamplight.

Wulf saw her swallow as she regarded them. It was clear that she found the idea of selling Thane Eric's arm-rings abhorrent; some large, unknown purpose was forcing it upon her. Her reluctance to see them go was evident in the way her slender fingers lingered on one fashioned like a double-headed dragon. Jewelled eyes glowed red like the heart of a furnace.

What would it be like to feel those fingers moving on him in a like manner?

Frowning, Wulf sucked in a breath. He should be pondering on her purpose, not allowing her to distract him. But, Lord, she was such a distraction. And if she was doing what he suspected she was doing, someone ought to stop her. The woman needed looking after, she was yet again putting herself at risk. But for whom?

Her throat worked as her gaze met the merchant's. 'I am told you are a fair man.'

The gold merchant inclined his head.

'I would be grateful if you would let me know the value of these.'

The man's eyes sharpened. 'You selling?'

'If the price is right.'

The merchant ran his hands over the arm-rings, picked one up, held it to the light. Picked up another. Bit it. Stroked his beard. 'There is not much call for these nowadays.'

'But they are pure gold! Look, this inlay is garnet, and here, sapphire, and these...' eyes moist, she ran a delicate fingertip over the eyes of the dragon '...these are rubies.'

The gold merchant nodded, lips tightening, and Wulf knew that she was not going to get her price.

'Lady, you do not have to tell me my trade. Nowadays...' the man sucked air through his teeth '...such baubles are considered old-fashioned, some would say barbaric.'

Morcar's eyes kindled. 'Barbaric?'

The merchant took a hasty step back. 'So some would say. Normans, you see.' He lifted his shoulders and gave a regretful smile. 'They have the money and not many have the taste for them. It is as I said, lady, there are dozens of arm-rings going begging and no buyers.'

She lifted her chin. 'Still, they are pure gold, that has to have value.'

The merchant named a price, a price that even Wulf could see was a quarter of their worth.

She blinked. 'So little?' She took a deep breath and, gathering up the arm-rings, slid them into the pouch at her belt. 'My thanks, but I do not think I shall sell them today.'

Inclining her head, she waited for Osred to open the door before striding into the sunlit street. Her blue veil fluttered, her cloak swayed from her shoulders; she was walking towards the Norman garrison. Wulf's mind raced. Was she aware that every step was taking her closer to danger? She must be. What was she doing, hunting out another gold merchant? Someone ought to take her in hand before she walked into real trouble. What would happen to her if she were captured? Would Erica, like the other Saxon heiresses, be sold to the highest bidder? Would she be given to one of De Warenne's loyal knights? He frowned after the blue cloak. If he could get out of this with honour, he had been promised a reward...What would De Warenne's reaction be if he asked for Erica for himself? What would her reaction be? He shook his head. Madness. But...there was no harm in asking. He would take careful note of her reaction. He had not saved her from Hrothgar in order to plague her with his own unwanted lusts.

He watched her marching on up the street, straight into danger. If a Norman found her with so much gold on her person, she would be taken in for questioning, at best. The gold revealed her status, a Saxon noblewoman, and Saxon noblewomen had lost more than their menfolk at Hastings. Erica of Whitecliffe might not know it, but with the coming of the Conqueror, women had lost the right to dispose of either their lands or their person. Lady Erica had become subject to Norman law and her person belonged to the King, to dispose of as he willed.

And, at worst...Wulf did not like to think of the worst that might happen if she were caught, and they discovered that she was a rebel. If that happened, robbery or rape would be the least of it; she could be executed, no questions asked.