His Captive Lady (13 page)

'Yes, I am asking you to marry me. Erica...my lady, please smile at my lord, accept my proposal.'

Her throat was so dry she could not get the words out at first. 'F...for the sake of my people? You will do your best for them?'

A small crease appeared between his eyebrows. 'Of course, but know that I am asking above all for your sake. Marry me and I will do my best to see to your people's safety.
All
your people.' Wulf shifted, and for a few moments was a shield between her and his lord. Erica found herself staring at the dark rim defining his eyes as he lowered his voice. 'My lady, I want to help you, but this is a long shot, a very long shot. De Warenne is not inclined to agree because of my birth.'

'You are not a fit mate for a thane's daughter,' she said, speaking the words that he expected to hear, not the ones that she believed.

Wulf's mouth thinned. 'Quite so. But given that you have fallen into the care of Normans, your person may be disposed of as my lord wishes. He could give you to anyone, but he owes me some recompense for my services and, believe me, it would go better for you and for your people if you accepted me. I am working for peace. Besides...' he lowered his voice further, and his lips twisted '...you were already given to me by Guthlac, so you know I would not hurt you.'

Erica thought quickly. Wulf had not drawn his lord's attention back to her father's arm-rings, but doubtless one of them would relieve her of the pouch, should she accept him. According to Norman law, that would be their right. And despite Wulf's fine words, that would be why he had asked for her hand. He wanted her for herself? He wanted to save her people? Was it likely? 'And what of the others--will you hurt them?'

'Others, my lady?'

She lifted her chin, angry at her careless wording. It seemed to have brought that tension in him back to the surface, as if Wulf did indeed suspect that more of her father's warband had survived Hastings. 'I mean Ailric and Hereward, naturally. What else might I mean?'

His nostrils flared. 'Agree to marry me, my lady, and I swear I will do my utmost to see to their safety.'

Erica had no course but to believe him. Trembling, she reached for the bruised and stubble-darkened face and, rising on her toes, pressed a brief kiss to his cheek. 'I agree, Captain FitzRobert. If your lord permits it, I will marry you.'

Triumph flared in the clever blue eyes and when he about-faced and grinned at his lord, it struck her that she must have imagined that brief hesitancy of manner. At this moment there was little of the supplicant about him--a tall, well-muscled young warrior stood boldly before one of Normandy's most powerful lords. Wulf himself did not have a noble bone in his body, but he faced his
seigneur
with a straight back and a proud set to his head.

Wulf's nobility lay in his heart.
Where had that thought come from? She could not be certain of it. Doubt fought with hope; she could only pray it was true. If it were not true, she had just made the biggest mistake of her life.

'Yes, my lord, Lady Erica is in agreement.'

Originally, when Wulf had accepted his commission in the fens, he had hoped to be knighted as a reward for his services. He had surprised himself with this request. It was not a sensible request, particularly as his commission was not yet completed, but he found himself holding Erica of Whitecliffe's hand in the garrison hall at Ely and waiting with bated breath for his lord's reply. What demon had prompted him to risk not only his lord's anger, but also the wreckage of years of gruelling work and careful planning? There must be more of the Saxon in him than he realised; he really did not want to see her people die. Neither did he want to see her handed over to someone else, particularly after her humiliations in Guthlac's hall.

'First things first, FitzRobert.' De Warenne gave him a brief and abstracted smile. 'Be assured I have noted your request to marry the Lady Erica. As to my answer, there is much to be resolved before a
suitable
husband may be found her.'

'But, my lord--'

De Warenne made a dismissive gesture. '
Enough!
I have been patient. You have served me well, Captain, but you overreach yourself. The question of Lady Erica's marriage will wait until we have strengthened our position in the fens. Tomorrow our winter campaign begins in earnest. We engage with Guthlac Stigandson. Fix your mind on that, if you please, you will be needed.'

Wulf dipped his head. 'Of course, my lord.'

Thoughtfully, De Warenne ran his gaze over Erica. 'Comely, isn't she? Quite a prize, in fact.'

'My lord?'

De Warenne ran his hand round the back of his neck. 'When we have done with Stigandson, I want you to see that she reaches the King's Court at Winchester. It is vital she reaches there chastely and safely. And note this, FitzRobert, I am trusting you to fulfil this commission as earnestly as you have always fulfilled your other commissions.'

'Yes, my lord.'

'The question of Lady Erica's marriage will be settled in Winchester.'

Wulf blinked. 'By the King, my lord? Is not her father's land in
your
gift?'

De Warenne shot him a sharp look. 'I thought you were not interested in the lady's land, Captain?'

'I would take the lady alone, if it pleases you.'

'It does
not
please me.'

It was a frank and outright rejection--had he really expected otherwise? Wulf gripped Erica's hand, astounded by the wave of disappointment that crashed over him.
She was not to be his, she could be taken away and handed over to a stranger, she was not to be his.
He clenched his teeth to hold back a barrage of objections that would do him no service. Realising he was frowning, he forced his face into neutrality. He had only offered for the woman in order to distract De Warenne from questioning the motives behind that morning's visit to Ely. He should not be feeling like this.

But, Lord, how the regrets were piling up, a confused, messy heap of them. There was the regret that he was, as Erica herself had been swift to point out, not a fit mate for a thane's daughter. Any marriage between them would be unequal. This was doubtless De Warenne's chief objection. There was the regret that, in order to save her and her supporters from an uncertain fate, he had been prepared to risk his knightly ambition and damn himself as a lovesick fool in his lord's eyes. There was the worry that perhaps his desire to save her had not been entirely led by chivalry. He shot her a swift, sidelong glance--she was chewing her lip, that too-kissable lower lip, that
distracting
lower lip. A stab of yearning streaked through him. Worst of all, he wanted her.
Merde.

He lifted her fingers to his lips, eyes seeking hers. 'I will not abandon you,' he muttered in English. 'After the battle I am to escort you to the Winchester Court.'

Even as he sought to reassure her, Wulf was kicking himself for asking for her hand. When he had come to the fens the last thing he had wanted to do was to saddle himself with a wife, however beautiful. He had come to win honours--perhaps a knighthood, perhaps some land. But a wife...too soon, it was too soon for him. When he had established himself, then perhaps he might look for a wife. But by then it would be too late for him to look towards Erica of Whitecliffe.

He shook his head, but he could not clear it of the image of Erica standing alone and defiant in Guthlac's hall, facing the cruelty of her countrymen in order to secure a decent future for her father's household. He had not been able to stand by then, he had had to help her, in memory of his sister, Marie.

So, he had succeeded in getting Erica away from Guthlac, but for what? Here in Ely she was at the mercy of his lord, who could and would marry her where he willed. It was no easier to stomach the thought of her being forced to marry a stranger than it had been to stomach her being 'slighted' by Hrothgar. It was galling, the effect Erica of Whitecliffe had on him. She made him do things that put a lifetime's planning in jeopardy...

An expectant silence told Wulf that his lord had spoken and was looking to him for an answer. 'I...I am sorry, my lord, what was that?'

'Your sword, Captain, you seem to have mislaid it. I may not have granted your request to marry, but I can supply you with a decent sword. I was asking you if you would care to choose another.'

'I...I...' Wulf pulled himself together. 'My thanks, I would indeed.'

'Come, then.' De Warenne jerked his head towards the yellow screen at the back of the hall. 'I have one that is perfect for a man of your height and weight.'

'And Lady Erica?'

'Morgan will keep an eye on her.
Morgan!
'

One of the sentries stuck his head through the door. 'My lord?'

'See to it this woman doesn't wander off, will you? And guard her well, she is not to come to harm.'

'Yes, my lord.'

Erica's temples began to throb--she was to be abandoned in a Norman barrack-hall? She stood frozen as Wulf lightly touched the back of her hand. She couldn't seem to tear her eyes from him and his touch sparked off a painful twist inside of her. He would forget about her; he was, after all, a man, and once he got talking tactics with his lord...

'I will return,' Wulf said, even as he followed De Warenne to the yellow curtain. 'We are to attack tomorrow, my lord?'

Curtain rings clattered and the two men vanished from sight, but De Warenne's reply floated back to her. 'Aye, tomorrow. I hear you have great plans for the archers?'

'Aye, my lord. In London I met a man but lately back from Italy, he had made a study of the tactics used by Byzantine archers.'

'Zone-shooting, yes, I have heard of it. But...a night attack, FitzRobert, are you certain?' Their voices were fading, but Erica caught the incredulity in De Warenne's tone.

'I think it will work. But tell me, my lord, will you attempt negotiation first?'

Erica strained to hear De Warenne's reply, but at that moment the group of wrestlers, the wrestling over presumably, burst back into the hall. Effacing herself as well as she might, a Saxon in the heart of enemy territory, Erica found a stool by the fire and wished she were invisible.

Time dragged while Wulf was in conference with his lord. The archer's heap of arrows grew and, at close quarters, his gluepot stank. The trestles were put up, supper was served and eaten, and then the trestles were removed once more. The guard, Morgan, did not forget his orders; he brought her a platter of unidentifiable salted meats, but Erica's appetite was weak. She huddled by the fire, oblivious of its warmth, desperate that no one should address her. She was, however, unable to ignore the curious glances that were shot in her direction when the soldiers began rolling out their mattresses and bedding.

Though Erica's body was still, her thoughts ran in many directions.

Where was Wulf? Had he forgotten about her? He had promised to return, but when would that be? De Warenne obviously had need of him. And De Warenne had commanded Wulf to escort her to Winchester, if she had understood him aright. Winchester, the old Saxon capital, where this Christmas past a
Norman
king had held his court. Winchester, where a husband would be found for her, a
Norman
husband, one she would loathe with every fibre of her being. The smell of the glue was making her feel quite ill.

Wulf, where are you? Do you expect me to sleep in this place?

'My lady?' Wulf's voice broke into her thoughts as though she had conjured him. The tension fell away. He was striding towards her in a clean grey tunic as simple in design as his brown one had been. His chausses were black, with blue cross-gartering, and he had a bundle under one arm and a sword strapped to his side. This sword was of another order altogether than his old one, the one she had let Hrolf keep. Metal gleamed on the hilt and scabbard where silver banding bound the leather in a criss-cross pattern. His lord might not have granted his request to marry her, but he had certainly favoured Wulf in the giving of this sword. Its quality was such that even her father would have been proud to own it.

Wulf reached for her hand and curled his fingers round hers. She had returned the pressure before she thought to check herself. He had shaved, and with his cheeks clear of stubble she had the impression she was looking at a stranger. A handsome stranger with bruises on his face. He gave her a courtly bow and her cheeks burned as they had done when he had touched her. She felt...shy.

'I have found us accommodation, but there will be no feather bed, I am afraid.' Wulf led her past the watching eyes and out into a barrack-yard where torchlight gleamed on frost and their breath turned to white clouds in an instant. His smile was rueful. 'But it is at least reasonably private and you ought to know by now that I cannot provide you with feather beds.'

He was leading her to the stables, Erica realised, lifting her skirts to hurry across the cobbles. She ought to be insulted. Her old self, Lady Erica of Whitecliffe, daughter of Thane Eric, probably would have been insulted, but she had felt bereft in the barrack-hall, and she was pleased--no, she was honest enough to admit she was more than pleased to see him. She glanced down at their interlinked hands. When he had pushed through that yellow curtain and taken her hand so firmly, so
openly
, it had been as though he had been declaring that she was his. She frowned. Wulf's allegiance was to a Norman lord, one who had denied his suit; she ought to feel insulted by so public and defiant a declaration, but she only felt relief that he had returned for her. How could that be? Of course, she herself had had first-hand knowledge that Wulf would not hurt her. And while his lord had denied him his suit, De Warenne clearly thought Wulf honourable enough to be entrusted with her safety while they travelled to Winchester.

They entered the stable and, taking a lantern from a hook by the door, Wulf pointed to a ladder. 'Up you go.'

Erica raised a brow. 'A hayloft?'

He grinned. 'I did warn you. It's the best I can do, if you want privacy.'