His Captive Lady (16 page)

'I believe so, but I have not been there myself.'

'The Willow's not much of a place for an unaccompanied young...lady.' Alfred tugged at his beard and lowered his voice. 'Full of rebels and outlaws.'

Erica's chin lifted. 'Nevertheless, I need to get there. Will you take me?' She turned her father's bracelet on her wrist.

'I'll drop you off, but I'll not be staying, the place gives me the creeps. And if one of those--' Alfred jerked his head at the foot-soldiers climbing aboard one of the barges '--discovers I've been there, my ferrying days will be over.' He made a slashing gesture across his throat. 'You understand?'

Erica swallowed. 'Perfectly. I don't expect you to stay, simply ferry me to the Willow and this arm-ring will be yours.'

Alfred dipped his head in agreement and offered her his hand.

Erica hesitated; she was ill-prepared for this journey. She needed a dagger, she needed more food. But more Norman soldiers were snaking through the water gate, she dared not. Better she reached the Willow hungry than risk recapture.

'My lady?'

Ice was forming at the margin of the jetty. No time, there was no time, in any case.

'I...I, yes, Alfred, my thanks.'

While Erica settled herself in the boat, Alfred relayed his destination to the ferryman next to him. It was common practice to let your peers know your whereabouts whenever possible and only sensible in these uncertain times. When she looked across, Alfred was paler than he had been a moment before.

'Alfred? Our agreement holds?'

'Yes, my lady, but the job is more risky than I had thought and, what is more, Bran here reckons that snow is on the way. I shall be wanting more than one bracelet, my price is two.'

'Two!'

'Aye.'

She gritted her teeth and glared at the other ferryman, who would not meet her eyes. Alfred had her over a barrel and he knew it. 'Very well, Alfred, Two gold arm-rings.' Pulling one off, she held it out. 'One now and one when we reach the Willow.'

Grunting assent, Alfred pushed her father's arm-ring over his fist and reached for his oars.

With her blue veil and cloak wrapped closely about her, Erica watched the quays and wharves of Ely diminish as they headed out into the waterway. So focused was she on looking out for a tall, particularly broad-shouldered Norman with dark hair that she failed to notice the slight figure of the groom, Gil, as he pelted up to the quayside. Chest heaving, the boy's eyes followed her boat as it nosed out towards the western reaches.

Alfred's nose was red, hers was sure to be the same. Rearranging the folds of her cloak around her feet, wishing for the marten furs that had been left behind in Whitecliffe, Erica wriggled her toes. If only she had had time to stop for more supplies. Frost was nipping her ears and fingertips; she longed for a thicker cloak and her lost gloves.

Alfred was not wearing gloves either; his hands were bound with lengths of fabric, like bandages, dirty bandages. But the cold did not appear to affect him; the boatman was rowing steadily with an even stroke like Wulf's that spoke of years on the water.

Last night Wulf had told her that he had been brought up near the river in Southwark. Blue eyes swam into her mind, dark as they had been after their kiss. She touched her mouth. If she tried, she could almost feel the echo of his lips on hers. No,
no
, she must not think of him; their friendship, such as it was, was impossible.

Alfred was jumpy. While he rowed his head was never still, it craned this way and that as he scoured the frosty margins of the waterways. He was always on the look-out and it was most unnerving. They came to a fork where one of the channels was much wider than the other. Their boat angled into the narrow channel and the wider waterway was soon lost to sight behind a screen of twiggy willows and alders.

The sun did not reach them here, it was dark and shadowy and the trees seemed to stretch towards them, spiky black arms, lightly rimed with white. Goose-bumps feathered over her skin. The bottom of the boat scraped against an obstruction, Alfred was steering the boat towards the bank. They came to a standstill with a bump and he shipped the oars.

Erica frowned. 'Alfred?'

A hand was slapped over Erica's mouth. 'Hush,' he breathed, rolling his eyes at the island screening them from the broader channel. 'Listen.'

Suppressing a grimace, for Alfred's bindings smelt distinctly of garlic, Erica peeled his hand from her mouth and nodded. A lump of ice formed in her belly. Had they been followed?

Alfred reached for a branch to hold the boat in place. A minute passed. A coot called. Another minute. The wind was brushing through the willows, but Erica could hear nothing else. Tossing back her hood, she tipped her head to one side and then she caught it, a soft clunk, faint but distinct. The unmistakeable clunk and squeak of a pair of oars being pulled in their rowlocks.

'Who?' she mouthed, heart all but stopping. 'Normans?'
Wulf must not find her here, Wulf must not find her here.

Alfred put his finger to his lips.

A splash, a mutter. A hissed command and then more silence. Only the wind stroking the willows and the honking of geese flying overhead in long straggling lines.

There was no sun in this murky backwater, nothing but shadows and wind. So little light. The sky was filled with clouds, and then she saw it, the first tiny flake.
Snow!
As more snowflakes landed on her lap, Erica made as if to speak, but Alfred's unsavoury hand clamped over her mouth.

She jerked free and scowled, mouthing, 'What?'

'It is Normans,' he muttered, pointing. 'Look, whatever they were planning in Ely, it's going to happen nearby.'

Out in the main channel on the other side of those trees, shapes were drifting slowly by, boat after boat and barge after barge, laden with silent soldiers. Several barrels were stacked on one and arrow shafts were sticking out of crates in another. Subtle and quiet as ghosts, they slid by, barely visible through the bushes. De Warenne's barges.

They waited in Alfred's little wherry, turning into blocks of ice as snow clouds darkened the sky and the whole of King William's invasion fleet, or so it seemed, glided past on the other side of the island.

At length, Alfred stirred. 'That's it,' he said, blowing out a breath. 'They didn't see us.'

'Saint Swithun be praised.' Erica rubbed her hands together to get the blood going; her fingers wouldn't work. More snowflakes were floating down; those that landed on the island were settling, but those that fell into the black waters vanished in an instant.

Alfred peered intently through the undergrowth. His hands were bunched into fists, Erica could see the pale gleam of his bones. She bit her lip, struck with a sudden fear. Would he abandon her here? Or worse? She fiddled with her father's other arm-rings. His eyes followed the gesture. Saints.

Reaching for his oars, Alfred pushed them away from the bank, rowing into the centre of the narrow waterway. Nose redder than ever, he was hunched in his cloak against the snow, and whenever she tried to catch his gaze, he looked the other way. Oh, Lord.

Had Wulf been on one of those barges? Wulf's reconnaissance meant that he could lead De Warenne straight to the rebel base. Wulf also knew the location of the cottage that Erica and her household had been using, but since he had been with them when they had abandoned it, he would not lead his lord there. No, Wulf would be in the vanguard of those barges, leading them to Guthlac.

Skin crawling, she closed her eyes. Ailric and Hereward! What would happen to them, caught in the middle of a battle, neither on one side nor the other? Would they be given arms and a chance to fight, or would they be slaughtered out of hand?

Cut your losses, you cannot have everything.

A wave of nausea rose within her.
No, Father
, no.
I cannot do this! Not Ailric and Hereward!

It was one thing to heed her father's precepts in theory, but in reality...Erica felt sick, sick to her marrow because the hideous truth was that she could do nothing for Ailric and Hereward, who were as good as dead. Even if she managed to reach the Willow and link up with others in her father's warband, it would be too late for Ailric and Hereward.

Cut your losses, daughter, cut your losses.

'Alfred, do you know Guthlac Stigandson?'

Behind his beard, Alfred's cheeks went the colour of the chalk cliffs near her home at Lewes. 'I know of him.'

'Is his castle nearby?'

Alfred's eyes shifted. 'I'll not be taking you there, my lady...' he threw a wary glance over his shoulder '...not with them in the offing.'

'We're close though, aren't we?' Even as the words left Erica's lips she knew the answer. They
were
close--something about the shape of the alders on the land to their left was familiar. Her mouth went dry. Yes, she knew this place, Wulf had brought her here when he had snatched her from the chapel. A little way past those trees, a little farther inland, there was a fisherman's smokehouse and a crude hurdle shelter....

'The castle
is
nearby!'

Alfred was watching her as though she had sprouted several heads. His face went hard. 'I'll not take you there, not today. Not if you offer me every bauble in your possession.' Pulling strongly on one oar, he turned the boat to face the smokehouse and edged a dagger from his belt.

Erica stared, heart in her throat. She had no dagger of her own, nothing with which to defend herself. The boat lurched over the shallows.

'Out.' Alfred gestured with the dagger. 'Out you get.' Branches of an overhanging willow snagged in her veil as they came to rest by the bank. 'Go on, get out. I don't know what game you are playing, my lady, and I don't want to know, I have a daughter and I plan on seeing her grow up. I won't take you any farther. Out.'

Erica blinked through a flurry of snowflakes. 'But you can't!' Already the snow on the island had filled in the hollows, turning all to white. It was a desolate and inhospitable spot, particularly since Wulf...since she was alone.

The dagger jerked and she flinched back. 'Alfred,
no
. You can't leave me here!'

'Your game's too dangerous. I am but an ordinary man with a wife and child to think about.' The dagger flashed in the last of the light. 'Get on with you.'

'No,
no
.' Erica did not want, she
really
did not want to be left alone here, she would surely freeze to death. 'Alfred, take me to the Willow.
Please.
'

'Out. There's a shelter nearby, make the most of it. Think yourself lucky I don't slit your throat and make off with the rest of your father's valuables.'

Instinctively, Erica's hand went to her pouch. 'You...you knew my father?'

Alfred shook his head and his hood fell back. Snowflakes were catching in his beard. 'Not personally, my lady, but I know enough to guess that he was a thane. Loyal to Harold, was he? Died at Hastings, did he?'

Alfred's tone confused her; it was bitter and scathing, and she could not fathom it. Alfred was Saxon. And these past few years, since William the Bastard had come to England, Erica had held her father's memory close to her heart. Thane Eric's loyalty to King Harold was something to be proud of, his bravery was unquestionable, and yet Alfred...why did he sound so scathing, so cynical?
I am but an ordinary man
, he had said.

Questions were bubbling up in her mind, but before Erica was able to open her mouth, a last sharp movement of Alfred's dagger stilled her tongue. 'Out.'

Gripping the side of the boat with one hand, clutching the bread in its sacking with the other, Erica clambered out of the boat.

D
usk, a thick and silent dusk that was full of snow, Wulf thought, shaking his hood and blinking the stuff from his eyes. He was stationed in one of the barges that De Warenne had commandeered as a troop carrier. The barge was lying in wait near Guthlac's hideout, behind the cover given by a shrubby spit of land on the eastern edge of the lake.

Absently, he brushed more snow from his cloak. This had to be the most difficult military exercise of his career. They were to attack a defended castle, across water--he had told De Warenne that a decoy was essential. This is where the archers came in.

For all that the archers had been practising zone-shooting as he had ordered, it remained a chancy business. In the failing light, they would need every ounce of their skill. Visibility was almost non-existent; to all intents and purposes, they would at the beginning be shooting blind.

While Wulf waited for the bowmen to position themselves, he kept his gaze trained in the direction of the rebel hideout. Two circles glowed in the snow-filled dark. Since he had arrived, there had been no traffic across the lake, no sound from within the palisade. The whole fen was as quiet as the grave.

He grimaced. Perhaps Stigandson was learning circumspection--the blazing torches had vanished. Had he somehow got word of the attack? Only the faintest flicker of light showed in the vicinity of the portcullis. Another glimmer was visible higher up, where Wulf would place the hall door on the mound walkway.

The barge swung sideways, nudged by another. Like his, it was full of shadows, but for an instant a lantern in its prow threw out a beam of light. Someone swore softly and the light was quickly extinguished, but not before Wulf glimpsed the bowmen.

Good, here was his decoy, or part of it. The archers were there to distract those in the castle with fire-arrows and provide cover for the infantry while they forged their way to the jetty. Following his suggestion, more archers had been deployed in the west, on the other side of the island.

A ramp thudded onto the spit of land, and a barrel was levered out--the pitch for the arrows. They weren't about to fire the pitch on board, not if they could avoid it. It rumbled as it rolled down the ramp, like distant thunder. One of the bowmen was minding a coal-filled brazier; he would keep it shielded until the last possible moment.

The snow was settling. Impatiently, Wulf flicked more from his shoulders. He was wearing his sheepskin gloves, but he didn't like fighting in gloves; he would remove them when the attack was sounded.

Snow. He squinted skywards. More snow, hell. As far as chainmail was concerned, snow was as bad a curse as rain. He only had one mailshirt--Gil, who insisted on playing the part of his squire, had better have done a good job with oiling it, he couldn't afford to let it rust. And, sheepskin gloves or no, the cold was gnawing his fingers off; he flexed them to keep them moving. At least Erica was safely ensconced in the garrison, she would not be covered in snow, freezing to death.

Another boat, a small rowing boat that had no place here, knocked the side of the barge as it squeezed in between the troopship and the archers.

'Captain?
Captain!
'

'Gil?' The bottom dropped out of Wulf's stomach. Gil,
here
? Gil was meant to be watching Erica.

A pinprick of light flickered. Wulf signalled to the boy to speak quietly. The snow would muffle sound; hopefully, it would keep the Saxons in their motte ignorant of any threat until the last moment, but he did not want to push his luck. Surprise was a large element of their attack and it had to be successful, De Warenne's continued good favour depended upon it.

'What in hell are you doing here?' Wulf hissed, leaning out to steady the boy's boat.

'I...I am sorry, Captain, but I knew you would want to know. The lady...'

'Yes?'

'Sh...she got out of the garrison and I think she has run away.'

'Run away?' Wulf's heart turned to ice.

'Yes, sir. Leastwise I think so.' Swallowing hard, Gil ploughed on. 'I kept an eye on her like you said. After you had gone, she wandered around the compound, got some bread, tried to see her men. And then she...she just walked out.'

'
Merde.
Couldn't you stop her?'

'No, sir. By the time I realised what she was up to, I couldn't do anything without causing a scene and there were so many of her countrymen about and...' Gil's throat convulsed '...I thought it best not to lose her.'

'Quite right, go on.' Wulf kept his voice low, pleased his voice was calm. Inside his mind was in turmoil. She had broken her promise, she had run away. He flung a glance at the snow-filled night. Where would she go, what would she do?
Hell.
He could throttle Gil for letting her get away. Erica was not safe.
Erica
...

Gil's eyes were fastened on his, large with anxiety. 'I...I'm sorry, sir.'

Wulf shook his head. He would not chastise the boy; he himself was probably more to blame. He had hoped Erica could trust him, but why should she?

Circumstances had conspired against him. He had broken into her sanctuary and forced drink down her throat; he had picked her up like a sack of wheat and thrown her over his shoulder; he was fighting for the Norman cause...the list went on. It had been naive to believe that she would keep her word to him. Truly, she was her father's daughter, Thane Eric's standards were hers. He frowned. The standards Erica of Whitecliffe followed might be flawed, but they were the ones she had grown up with.

Of course! That was why she had been able to walk up to Guthlac and offer herself as a sacrifice. Her father had followed ancient laws, tribal laws. Wulf might think them barbaric, but they were familiar to her; likely she was blind to the injustice of them.

And as for himself, circumstances had forced finesse out of him and he had not given Erica any reason to suppose that he or De Warenne would treat her any better. She probably thought Wulf was as barbaric as Guthlac. He had hoped to prove otherwise. He sighed. 'Gil, the fault does not lie at your door, Lady Erica has a will of her own.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Did she leave Ely?'

'Yes, she hired a small wherry. I knew you'd not want to lose her, so I...I took this boat and followed her.'

'Good lad. And...?'

'FitzRobert!'
De Warenne's voice came over his shoulder.

Biting down a curse, Wulf tore his attention from his would-be squire. He almost laughed aloud. He would never be knighted after this debacle,
never
. To lose the lady he was meant to be escorting to Winchester...hell. 'My lord?'

'Give the order to ready the fire arrows.'

'Yes, my lord.' Swallowing down a curse at the ill timing, Wulf swung back to Gil. 'Bang on that barge three times.'

Gil picked up his oar and did as he was asked. A second later the splintering of wood announced that the head archer was breaking open the pitch. A spark flickered. And then flames were rippling over the surface of the pitch, flames that were visible to Wulf, but were screened from the sight of Guthlac's look-out.

On the spit of land, several dozen spikes shifted, black against the golden glow of the fire, as the archers strung their bows. The acrid smell of warming pitch floated out over the barges and towards the lake.

Wulf tore off his gloves and thrust them into his belt. He must fight, but within him a battle was
already
raging.

Erica!
Every nerve and sinew in his body was screaming at him to jump into Gil's boat and snatch the oars. He wanted to scour East Anglia until he found her. The thought of her out there alone and in the dark--his heart was beating a wild tattoo, one which had nothing to do with the forthcoming battle and everything to do with a certain Saxon noblewoman.

But he could do nothing, not when the attack on Guthlac's castle was finally at hand. He had been charged with seeing this fen purged of rebels and he would fulfil his commission. His entire life he had been waiting to prove himself and the moment was at hand. Wulf ought to feel triumph, but his head was pounding and his temples throbbed...
merde.

'Gil?'

'Captain?'

'Get out of the line of fire, we shall finish this conversation later.' Without waiting to see that Gil had obeyed him, pulled in two by the need to ensure that Erica was safe, Wulf turned to his chief oarsman. 'The men are ready?'

'Yes, Captain.'

'Wait until the archers in the west have loosed their first volley, then row like hell for that jetty.'

'Aye, sir.'

Wulf watched as a cauldron of flaming pitch was swung into position. Much as he wanted to chase after Erica, he had work to do here. Once the cauldron was safely on its tripod, he reached for a lantern and flung back the shutter. 'Ready the bowmen!'

'Aye, Captain!'

'Shoot the moment you can track the arrows from across the lake. Etienne, you command the archers.'

'Captain.'

And then the dark sky above the castle was alive with streaking lights--flights of arrows shot by the archers across the lake. Battle was joined.

Wulf's barge juddered. 'Shields up!'

Roman fashion, his men clicked their shields together over their heads as protection against missiles. On the land behind them, scores of fire arrows were flickering over faces that shone with melting snowflakes. The bowmen's eyes gleamed grim with intent.

Etienne held up his arm. 'Ready, aim...
fire
!'

As the second volley of Norman arrows arched through the night, a cry went up from across the lake. A horn sounded.

Wulf's barge pushed away from the bank and his oarsmen leaned into their oars. As they slid towards the rebel stronghold, the black fenwater burned with reflected fire-arrows, hundreds of gilded ripples, like writhing water snakes.

Erica!
Where the hell was she?

The hours dragged when one was freezing.

Erica was curled up in the fisherman's shelter, teeth chattering. The hem of her skirts had been damp when she had crawled in, most likely it still was, but her legs were dead to her and she could no longer tell. It was pitch black. The starry lantern was at her side, but she had been unable to light it.

Its soft glow would have banished the night to outside the hut, but her fingers had been thumbs, she had dropped the flint and it had bounced away. She couldn't find it in the dark. And it was dark, so very dark in here. Erica had always disliked the dark, but tonight the cold was by far the worst danger. Exhausted, chilled to her marrow, she huddled in a ball and imagined the glow of the lantern, the heat of a real fire. A fire would warm her, it would untie limbs that were hamstrung by cold, it would help her sleep.

What had happened at the castle, what had happened to Wulf? No,
no
, why was this so hard to remember? Wulf was banished from her mind. But Ailric and Hereward had not been banished, what had happened to them?

A twig snapped outside the shelter, breaking into her thoughts. A fox? Her eyes went wide as a shiver shot down her spine. A
wolf
? Saints, no! But this was the month of the wolves, the time when hunger made them lose their fear of men and drove them towards human habitation. Did wolves haunt this watery part of England? She had no idea. Scrabbling frantically in the dark, her frostbitten fingers closed on something--a stick? She gripped it as though her life depended on it.

Black. Everything was so black.
Lord, save me.
She strained her ears.

A footfall came, very soft. Her breath stopped. She swallowed down an extraordinary desire to laugh. She, kill a wolf? With a little stick? If a wolf was prowling about outside, she would probably drop the stick and die of fright.

Something made a crunching noise and her mind filled with images of strong jaws closing on bone. Grasping the stick as best she might, she held it in front like a dagger and stared at the entrance.

Silence.

The leather flap was swept aside and a blast of freezing air hit her in the face. Something came in, but she could see nothing. Breathing, she could hear breathing.

'Erica?'

The stick fell from her grasp and a mad laugh escaped her. 'Wulf?
Wulf!
'

Clothes rustled as he came towards her, and then hard hands clamped down on shoulders. He shook her, shook her so hard that her teeth rattled, but she did not care.

'You
fool
!' His voice was curt and he was breathing heavily as though he had been running. His fingers dug into her flesh like hooks and he smelt...no, he
stank
of smoke. He shook her again and her hood fell back. 'Faithless woman, you swore you would stay at the garrison, you swore you would come to Winchester with me.'

Wulf! Elation filled her and she gave another wild laugh.

Another shake. 'It is not safe for you alone. Don't you realise there is more evil in England than the hatred of a bloodfeud or your hatred of Normans? Not a few months since, Earl Oswulf was slain by robbers.'

'Earl Oswulf? Of Bernicia?'

'The same. You fool, you...' Wulf's grip shifted and a callused hand found her face, rough fingers touched her cheek, her temple and her forehead before sliding down to her neck. At her shiver his voice shed its anger. 'Lord, you stupid woman, you're frozen. Here.' He released her for an instant and a heavy weight settled on her shoulders.

Fur, his fur cloak. Erica hugged it to her, bemused by the strong reaction his arrival had caused in her. Overwhelming relief. Her fears, of the dark, of wild animals, were gone the instant she heard his voice. Even the cold seemed a small thing beside the large, the very important thing--
Wulf had come to find her
. He had been concerned for her.

When she had left the garrison that morning, her first thoughts had been for the warriors awaiting her guidance in the fens. It had occurred to her that Wulf would be angry when he discovered her absence--but concerned?

'You disobeyed me,' he said, voice muffled.