His Captive Lady (15 page)

But these days his loyalties lay with Normans.
Sighing, Erica rolled on her back and stared at a split in the rafters. It was a riddle, the attraction she felt for this man. But certainly in the months since fleeing Whitecliffe Hall, she had only had three decent nights' sleep and every one of them had been spent in his company.

She had trusted him in Guthlac's castle, when he had saved her from Hrothgar; she had trusted him after he had spirited her away from the castle in the marshes. But on both those occasions she had thought him Saxon. This morning she knew his true colours, she knew he was capable of lying to her and yet--another sidelong glance and she was staring at the line of his nose, at the curve of those finely cut lips, at the overnight growth of beard on his bruised cheeks--and yet...enemy or not, some part of her, some deep instinctive part, trusted him.

Wulf shifted and sighed. His hand moved and she found herself meeting that intense blue gaze.

'Good morning.' He reached out to trail a long finger down her cheek. Heat blossomed within her. 'Cockcrow already?'

'Yes.' Saints, the man even affected her voice, it was croaky as a frog's.

Yawning, Wulf sat up and set about beating the straw from his tunic. 'Hell, I'm tired, I could sleep past noon.'

She had to clear her throat to speak. 'I know that feeling.' Whatever was the matter with her voice? She hoped she had not caught a chill.

Clambering to his feet, Wulf offered her his hand and pulled her up. 'Lady, my duty is to my lord this morning, I would ask you to remain here.'

She lifted her chin. 'In the stable? Is it my prison, then?'

'Prison? Of course not. But...' Retaining her hand, he stepped closer and tugged her to him. When he slid his hands round her waist, Erica found herself holding her breath and angling her lips a little, only a very little, to enable him to...But he simply pressed a swift, irritatingly chaste kiss to her forehead and set her firmly away. 'My lady, will you promise to do as I ask?'

Swallowing down her disappointment, she had wanted that second kiss last night, that
lover's
kiss, as she wanted one this morning. No, she would not allow herself to be disappointed, she was a woman of high birth, and she did not permit herself to give in to feelings sent from the devil, however tempting they were. It was most confusing. Briskly, she shook the dust from her skirts.

'My lady? I need that promise, you must remain here until I return.'

Her hand went out, took his forearm, she could feel the muscle and sinew through his tunic. 'Saewulf--'

'Wulf, remember?'

'Wulf.' He was so tall, his shoulders so wide. And why did she have no breath, was it because she was about to lie? She could
not
remain here, her duty would not permit her. 'I...I promise.'

'I am prepared to fight for you.'

She stared. 'Yes, you said that last night, but...'

He dragged his fingers through his hair, trying to order it. 'In the hall, you did consent to marry me.'

'But your lord refused, and besides...'

'You do not wish to marry me.' His voice was flat. 'You only agreed to save your people.'

Erica said nothing. His blue eyes held hers, his expression so determined that she could not doubt that he wanted to marry her. De Warenne might not have blessed their union, but Wulf FitzRobert wanted to marry her. How he thought he would achieve this in the face of his lord's opposition was a mystery, but...

Erica averted her gaze and stared at a bale of hay. If they were married she would have to...they would have to...this handsome young warrior would have the right to...oh, Heavens. Somehow what she had once coolly contemplated in connection with Ailric seemed another matter entirely with Wulf. There had been no heat that time when Ailric had kissed her, no burning trail where his fingers had touched her, no swooping sensation deep in her core. Ailric would
never
take her breath away. She had even, for the sake of a truce between her people and Guthlac's, been prepared to sacrifice herself to Hrothgar, a man she could never like should she live to be a thousand. But Wulf--the way his eyes seemed to reach into her heart, the way he stole her breath. The thought of permitting him to run those large hands over her naked skin...

Sweet Lord, whatever had possessed her to agree to marry this man? Of course, De Warenne had refused his request and in reality Wulf would not disobey his lord, but what if De Warenne had agreed? In truth, Erica could never have married Wulf. It came to her that the reason she could not marry him had nothing to do with Wulf's Norman blood--no, Erica could not marry Wulf FitzRobert because he made her
feel
.

When Ailric had returned from the tavern with the reek of perfume clinging to his tunic, she had felt nothing save mild exasperation. But if Wulf were to visit the tavern girls? Her gut clenched--she had to admit the thought was upsetting. But why should the thought of Wulf behaving like Ailric upset her? She had only known him a few days. To be sure he had saved her from ravishment, but he had also conspired with her father's enemies against her people, he was a liar and a deceiver.

Nevertheless, he came across as entirely honourable and his lord had complete faith in him as both a tactician and as a man. She swallowed down a sigh. And she had accepted him as wholly Saxon--it seemed her judgement was not reliable where Wulf FitzRobert was concerned.

'So, my lady...' Wulf shook his cloak out with a snap '...remember your promise to remain in the compound?'

'I...I'm sorry?'

He wound the cloak round his shoulders. 'For your safety. Your person will be quite safe here. And should you want for anything, the lad below, the one sleeping in the empty stall, will try to help you. His name is Gil. He has little English, but I have told him it is time he learnt.' He sent her a crooked grin and her heart lurched. 'He thinks I will be knighted and he has a fancy to be a squire. Given my birth, it is unlikely that he is right, but I have told him I would tolerate no squire who could not speak English.'

Erica tipped her head to one side. 'That is your chief ambition, is it not, to be knighted?'

A dark brow arched upward. 'Let us say that it is an ambition I have held for many years, but I am beginning to see I shall never attain it.' He reached for the ring in the trapdoor. 'My lord denied me the reward I really wanted.'

Wulf meant her, she knew he did, but Erica did not believe he wanted her personally. First and foremost, Wulf wanted advancement. And the carnal attraction that had flared between them? That took second place behind his ambitions. As for love--
love
? She was a fool if she thought to find love here. It was only women, she thought, who longed for love; men were warmed by their ambitions. Politics was everything for a man. Ailric had wanted her because she was the daughter of a thane, and Wulf was most likely the same.

'Ask Gil should you want for anything,' he was saying. 'You will have to be patient with his lack of English, but he is a good lad. And, Erica...?'

'Yes?'

Wulf lowered himself through the aperture. 'It would be safer for you if you bear in mind your promise not to leave the garrison.'

Erica watched his dark head disappear as he went down the ladder. It would be safer for her to stay in the garrison? Her foot tapped. Wulf thought her safer among Normans than among her own kind?

His voice reached her, slightly muffled. 'If I do not see you this evening, I will see you in the morning. Gil will fetch light for you, food and water, whatever you need. He will guard your sleep. Farewell, my lady.'

Erica remained motionless while his quick footsteps faded. A horse snuffled, a cock crowed. He was going into battle against her countrymen, a battle in which men would be maimed and killed, yet he spoke as though he were merely going out for a stroll. She did not want him hurt, she did not want
anyone
hurt. Briefly, she closed her eyes. God willing, Wulf would return safely to the garrison, but when he did, she would be long gone.

'I cannot marry you,' she whispered, 'any more than I can accompany you to Winchester as De Warenne commands. I will not submit to being handed over to a Norman master.'

Erica's chest ached. Wulf FitzRobert might owe his allegiance to a Norman lord, but he was a good man and he seemed to hold a peculiar fascination for her. Was this fascination strong enough to make her forget her duty?

Her father's words rang through her brain.
Cut your losses
, his voice said.
Rarely can we have everything we want, so it is vital to learn when to cut your losses. You will not go far wrong if you remember your duty.

In that instant, Erica knew what she must do. Her father was not just a warrior, her father had been a wise leader, too. She had her people to think about--that must take precedence over a promise extracted by a man who was taking part in the campaign against Thane Guthlac.

Erica lingered long enough to give Wulf time to clear the yard. Much as her heart ached, much as she might regret breaking her promise to him, she had to cut him out of her life.

And what of Ailric and Hereward, languishing in Guthlac's lock-up?

She gritted her teeth. More losses she would have to cut? Yes, much as it grieved her, she would have to abandon Ailric and Hereward to their fate. They were but two lives and she had a couple of hundred to consider. There was not only her household, but the rest of her father's warband--the housecarls who had gone deeper into the fens--they must take precedence over Ailric and Hereward. Not to mention their wives and children...

Erica's duty was clear, to get a message to the warband, and the sooner the better, preferably while Wulf and his lord were occupied with Thane Guthlac. No one would have time to take note of her, and Wulf--noble fool--apparently considered her bound by her promise to remain in the garrison.

How hard would it be to give the boy Gil the slip? Biting a finger, she listened to the movements below. There were men speaking Norman French. She heard a cough and a splutter of laughter, she heard troops tramping across cobbles, she heard horses...

Her breath feathered out like mist in the January air. Odd that she had only at this moment noticed the cold. Shivering, she fastened her cloak and attached the pouch containing her father's arm-rings to her belt. It was odd, too, that Wulf had not relieved her of this. Norman law was made for men and surely that meant that her father's gold belonged to De Warenne? Wulf would have been within his rights to have taken it for him; in his rush to arms he must have forgotten.

Opening the pouch and drawing out a couple of bracelets, she slipped them on. She hesitated before drawing out another, and then that, too, she put on. Brow creasing, she retied the drawstring. De Warenne could not have meant her to keep these; Normans were known to be an avaricious breed. And while her knowledge of Norman ways was small, she had heard that their women were not allowed to hold property in their own right. Everything, down to the smallest thimble that 'belonged' to a Norman woman, in truth belonged to the woman's father, and once the woman was married, to her husband.

A cold lump formed in Erica's belly. This was, naturally, why Wulf had asked to marry her; he had seen her father's hoard, he knew her status. As she turned the bracelets on her wrist, her thoughts ran their course. The arm-rings must have slipped Wulf's mind, eclipsed by concerns over the forthcoming battle.

More fool he, because this morning Erica had a use for her father's gold.

M
oving to the trapdoor, Erica peered down. Straw was scattered over the cobbled floor; a horse snickered; hoofs clopped. Better that Wulf had tied her, for she must not consider herself bound by her promise to stay here, any more than she was bound to accompany him to the King's Court at Winchester. It mattered not that she had been thinking the unthinkable, that she could have some liking for the man. She must be realistic. Wulf might be part-Saxon, but he had not hesitated to work against Thane Guthlac. She stared blindly at the stepladder. Had he found it easy to mislead the rebels? Had his conscience bothered him at all? No matter. Wulf's allegiances had led him to lie to her, she could not trust him.

And as for her acceptance of his offer of marriage--that, like the promise she had just made him, had been made while she had been under duress. With unspoken threats hanging over Morcar and Osred, and the further threat that Wulf might reveal to De Warenne that others of her household were loitering in Market Square, Erica would have promised to marry King William himself. She had thought to buy time to win freedom for her people--a noble aim. None the less, guilt twisted within her--she, Lady Erica of Whitecliffe, was about to break her word.

No, she was not. She was cutting her losses exactly as her father would have wished. A promise extracted under duress was not a true promise; it did not have to be honoured. Erica's first duty was to her people; many lives depended on her.

Stiffening her shoulders, she transferred her skirts to one hand and reached for the ladder.
I shall not see Wulf again
, she said in her mind as she climbed down rung by rung.
And I do not care that he will think badly of me.
If she repeated it often enough, it would acquire the ring of truth.
I do not care.

Back on
terra firma
, she moved quietly past the stalls. The boy that Wulf had mentioned was not awake as she had imagined; instead he lay asleep, curled into a ball in the stall nearest the door. Thank the Lord. Giving Gil no more than a glance, she crept past him and paused on the threshold.

It was not yet full day. The sky overhead was clear, but a greyish pall hung over the yard. An army of mailed foot-soldiers filled the garrison courtyard, troop after troop after troop. Blinking at the sight, Erica's heart thudded and for a moment she was unable to move. Forcing her mind past her panic, she looked beyond the soldiers.

The building next to the hall had gouts of smoke billowing from the roof vents. It must be the bake-house; even across the yard the smell of fresh-baked bread was strong enough to make her mouth water. A girl emerged with a tray of loaves and laughingly dodged past an archer with an outstretched hand. When she bore it into the hall, there was one loaf less on her tray.

The sun had edged up over the top of the garrison palisade; it was glancing off the chainmail of men tramping out through the gate. Heavy boots pounded the cobbles, arms clattered. No sooner had the troop passed under the portcullis than another marched in.

Was the entire Norman army stationed in Ely?

The soldiers' breath wreathed about them like smoke, and in Erica's mind the returning troop was transfigured into a metallic dragon, a fire-breathing dragon with a footfall louder than the pounding of Thor's hammer in Valhalla. It was enough to make one fear that the old gods walked again.

Erica leaned against the stable doorpost and shrank into her cloak, trying to watch without being watched. The returning troop broke ranks, and before her eyes the fearsome dragon disintegrated. A foot-soldier removed his helmet, revealing a tousle-haired lad with a face that could have made him the twin of Cadfael; another leaned his spear against the wall of the hall and gestured for a comrade to help him out of his chain shirt. Several headed straight for a water-trough, water sparkled as they splashed it over their faces; others eased their shoulder muscles and made a bee-line for the bake-house. Tired men, men who were aching and hungry, human beings like herself.

Feeling in some way wrong-footed by her observations, Erica turned her father's bracelets on her wrist and sucked in a breath. It ought to be a comfort to learn that many of these Normans were little more than boys, boys like Cadfael. They would not hurt her, especially since she had been placed under the protection of Captain FitzRobert. Boldly, she stepped into the yard.

Pewter-coloured clouds were drifting in from the east, but there was a distinct yellow cast to the sky. Snow? Holding her breath, half-expecting to be challenged, Erica walked steadily towards the building she had marked as the bake-house.

First, she needed supplies.

Second, she would speak with Morcar and Osred.

Once more the guilt rose within her--
he will think badly of you
--it had a bitter taste. Head down, trying not to meet any of the soldiers' eyes, she continued across the yard.

How would Wulf react when he found her gone--would he shrug those broad shoulders and forget her? Would he be angry--would he see her defection as an affront to his pride? Would he try to find her? Not that she cared, she was cutting her losses.

The bake-house door was open and, as Erica approached, a couple of archers in stained leather gambesons emerged. They were cramming steaming hunks of bread into their mouths, moaning in appreciation. It was hard not to smile, but she managed it. The archers fell silent. One gulped down his bread and, wiping his mouth on his leather wrist-guard, gave her a sheepish grin. The other, still chewing, gave her an ironic bow and waved her inside.

Pulse jumping, Erica squeezed past. It was like walking into a warm wall. The baker was pulling a batch of loaves from a brick oven; when he turned her way, her jaw dropped. Saxon--the baker's long hair and beard were styled in the Saxon manner.

His eyes ran her up and down, as he in his turn made his judgement of her. 'Lady?' His face was crimson. Sweat streamed down his face and into his beard, it darkened the neck of his tunic.

Wondering what he thought of her, feeling a blush rise to her cheeks that was in no way connected to the heat in the bake-house, Erica lifted her chin. 'I...I need a couple of loaves, if you please.'

'And who might you be?'

There was no reason to lie. 'Erica of Whitecliffe.'

The baker's gaze sharpened. 'You're the Saxon lady who came in yesterday.'

'I...yes.'

'With Captain FitzRobert.'

'Yes.' Her cheeks burned and she braced herself for a lewd comment about passing the night in the stables with De Warenne's captain, but none was forthcoming. The name FitzRobert carried with it a measure of respect, apparently.

'Help yourself.' Mopping his forehead, he indicated a batch of loaves cooling on a trestle. Erica took two and wrapped them carefully in a piece of sacking. They were deliciously warm.

Feeling the baker's interested gaze boring into her back, Erica mumbled her thanks and hurried out.

Next, for Morcar and Osred. She had a feeling that this would not be quite so simple...

Reaching the prison building, Erica dropped the loaves to one side by the door and approached the guard. She went cold as she looked at him. No boy this, she realised, staring past the metal noseguard of his helmet at eyes that were grey and hard as flints.

'Please, sir,' she said, making deliberate show of playing with one of her father's arm-rings. Pulling it on and off, staring at it to make quite clear to the man what might be his, should he agree to let her past him. On, off, on, off, dangling it in front of him. Remembering to keep up her pretence of understanding no French whatsoever, she made certain to speak in English. 'Please, sir, I should like to speak with the prisoners that were brought in yesterday evening.'

On, off. On, off. The arm-ring gleamed softly in the morning light as she wriggled it between her finger and thumb. The man spoke English, at least enough to realise what she was doing, for the flint-coloured eyes moved from hers to the arm-ring and back again. And while the merchant had not offered her much yesterday, the arm-ring had to be worth a fortune to a common man like him. Normans might not value arm-rings for their artistic worth, but they must have
some
value in mercenary terms...

The guard's helmet hid most of his expression, but his lips tightened. 'No, my lady.' He shook his head. 'You may not pass.'

'Please, sir.'

'No!'

It would be futile to argue, Erica heard it in his tone. A man of stone, the Second Coming would arrive before this one would relent. Like Wulf, he was set on his course. She swallowed down a sigh; there must only be two such men in the entire Norman race, and naturally she had to run up against them both. But for Morcar and Osred's sake, she must try once more. Mentioning Wulf's name had worked like a charm on the baker, perhaps it would here...

'Please, sir, I beg you. Captain FitzRobert--'

But this time Wulf's name was no charm; the flinty eyes stared through her, he didn't even deign to reply.

Erica's shoulders drooped, though his response was hardly surprising. With a grimace she jammed her father's bracelet back over her fist, scooped up the loaves and started walking back to the stables. The guard's eyes bored into her shoulder-blades every step of the way.

At the stable door, she glanced back. The man had been drawn into conversation with a fellow trooper, praise the Saints. Her whole body quivered.

It was time.

With a swift, furtive glance around the compound, Erica took a couple of side-steps, and walked towards the open portcullis and the street beyond.
Be bold
, she told herself, hugging the loaves to her breast,
be bold. No need for guilt. Wulf has no right to hold you to him, not when you gave him your word merely to win time. Think of Solveig and Cadfael, think of Hrolf and the others who need you...

Boldly, she smiled at the guards by the portcullis and sauntered past them into the street. No one attempted to stay her. Immediately she turned left, towards the quays. Ears open, every muscle tensed for the cry that would be her signal to pick up her skirts and fly, she took one casual step, then another. Another.

At a smithy the furnace was glowing like the devil's eye, and the blacksmith was going at it hammer and tongs. Erica passed by without incident. Next came a butcher's stall. A couple of geese hung from the awning, plucked ready for the pot, nearby a black pig was tied to a post, scratching its ear with its hind leg. That, too, she passed without outcry.

Boldly. Boldly. She skirted some horse-dung, slipped on a patch of ice and almost fell.

Ahead, the street was opening out into the market proper; beyond it lay the town palisade and the quays. Freedom! The January air hung heavily in her lungs, her chest felt tight. Erica could hardly breathe, braced as she was for the shout that would tell her that her involvement with Captain Wulf FitzRobert was not after all at an end.

The sky was looking wintrier, a snowstorm was surely brewing and she had much to do before it broke. A wave of weariness swept over her. If only she were not alone. It was most dispiriting, but for the first time since fleeing Lewes, Erica found herself contemplating certain defeat.

There were
so many
Normans--had she set herself an impossible task? She could not back down from it though, not when the others were relying on her. She sighed. Although she had but lately left a garrison that was bursting at the seams with Normans, and although the people of Eel Island were pushing past her--boatmen, hawkers, townsfolk--she had never felt so alone.

Be bold, you are Thane Eric's daughter, your duty cannot be shirked. The fight
must
go on.

Even if you have lost the taste for it?
a demon asked.

Even then.

Erica increased her pace, walking swiftly past a woman pulling hot chestnuts from a brazier, past a man selling wine from a steaming cauldron...

Finally she was standing outside the city boundaries on the Ely dockside, gazing about her, hoping against hope that she would see one or other of her household. Yesterday, she had given them instructions that if she did not return, they were to go deeper into the fens to meet up with her father's warband. Of course she hoped they had obeyed her, but one of them might have waited...

There was a flurry at the water gate that led from the market square onto the docks. A shout. Slowly the gate pushed open and mailed figures came swarming through. Troopers were streaming onto every quay and wharf, long lines of them, like so many silver snakes. There were archers in leather jerkins, their quivers spiky with arrows. Orders rang through the air, jetties groaned. And then, as Erica's gaze ran over a cluster of boatmen, her attention was snared by a particularly tall figure, a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a brown tunic and a cloak the colour of--Wulf?

But, no, it could not be Wulf, Wulf had already set out on his mission for his lord, he would be in chainmail. Another Norman captain was directing a troop towards one of the barges--but he did not have Wulf's height. Yet another was hurrying along a group of archers--this one was too burly. And another...Lord, what
was
she doing, searching for Wulf FitzRobert when she ought to be looking for Cadfael or Solveig?

Hoisting her skirts clear of a mess of eel heads and fishguts on the planking, Erica picked her way down one of the emptier wharves.

A Saxon ferryman in one of the smaller rowing boats smiled her way. The beard protruding from his voluminous hood was black and bushy, his eyes were sharp. 'You need a boat, my lady?'

'Perhaps.' Erica fingered an arm-ring.

The boatman stroked his beard. 'Look no further than Alfred.' He tapped the side of his boat with an oar. 'Finest oak, soundly built. Where do you go, the London road?'

Erica twirled the arm-ring. 'Later, perhaps. But first, I have another destination in mind. I am bound for an inn called the Willow. Do you know it?'

Alfred went very still. 'The one past Wicken Fen, in the west?'