His Captive Lady (18 page)

'Because the ice in the middle was about to give way and I...I could not let you fall through.'

He gazed at her, a line between his brows and said nothing.

'Wulf, it's deep there, you might have
drowned
.'

He gave her an unexpected smile and his face transfigured. So handsome. Erica's chest seized up and it was not because Wulf had winded her, it was because she wanted to slide her fingers back in his hair and draw him to her. She wanted...no, no, she must remember, she was a lady, a
lady
.

'You, sweet Saxon, are coming with me to Winchester, but first we had better find dry clothing. There's a tavern not far from here, they will have something.'

A tavern? Would this be the Willow? Erica wondered, hoping he could not read her thoughts. But Wulf must have gleaned something from her expression, because he shot her a sharp look, asking, 'Will you betray me?'

'What?'

'At the inn. It will be full of fen-folk--will you give me away?'

She lifted her nose, despising herself for her weakness, but knowing that she could not betray him. She had hated it when Morcar and Siward had beaten him, neither had she been able to countenance the thought of him falling through the ice. But she was not about to admit as much, not to his face.

Those blue eyes stared at her, those wide shoulders lifted. 'We shall have to see, won't we?'

It took them over an hour to reach the inn. An hour in which the sky turned dismal and dropped more snow onto the fens. They skated most of the way, hugging the banks with Wulf holding her hand. He insisted she wore his gloves, but even through the sheepskin his grip was like a vice.

He has learned two lessons, Erica realised, one, to keep firm hold of her, and two, not to venture far from the margins. If the ice broke again, they would not drown.

Her lungs ached, partly from the exercise and partly from the piercing cold. And though Wulf drove her without mercy, her feet were numb, she could not keep going much longer. What would he do if she keeled over? A faint smile lifted the edges of her mouth. Would he sling her over his shoulders again? The man was as strong as an ox. A flurry of snow slapped her in the face and her cheeks stung. So, there was life in her yet.

The landscape passed in a haze of white, of bone-aching cold. Leaden skies and a biting wind. Even her eyeballs ached. She fixed her gaze on the pack slung across Wulf's shoulders. She had no pack herself, but his fur-lined cloak was a dead weight on her back and she could carry it no farther. She was on the point of shrugging it off when he turned his head.

'We're almost there. Look!' He pointed.

Erica peered through the snow. A pall of grey smoke hung over a long wooden building. The tavern! By the door, a flock of geese had congregated to peck at scraps. Boats were drawn up at the moorings, frozen in place. As they skated past the jetty to the bank, Erica glanced surreptitiously at the image on the signboard. A white swan. Her heart sank; her message to the housecarls would be very much delayed.

The White Swan was filled with fen-folk caught out by the weather, but once they had removed their skates, Wulf commanded a place by the fire.

'My lady is in need of warm dry clothing and a hot meal,' Wulf said, digging in his pouch for money. Would Erica betray him as a Norman captain? He could not be sure. She looked to be in no fit state to stand, never mind think of betrayal. He nudged her closer to the fire. Her hair was bedraggled, her teeth were chattering, but somehow she stood tall in her blue cloak and that wreckage of a gown, while the snow melted at her feet. As was her wont, she maintained her dignity.

Some few minutes later, Erica had been escorted behind a curtain by the innkeeper's wife and had re-emerged clothed in simple homespun and with her hair braided into two tidy plaits, which hung over her shoulders. She wore no veil--the innkeeper's wife probably did not have a spare one. The gown was a muddy green in colour and the wool was assuredly coarser than she was used to wearing, but she made no complaint that Wulf heard. She looked warmer and at least the gown would be dry.

With a smile, the innkeeper's wife waved them to a table where they could sit with their backs to the fire. She served them steaming bowls of pea-and-bacon broth with chunks of wholewheat bread generously slathered with butter. They were given creamy cheese and wrinkled apples and mugs of ale.

Since the space by the fire had been booked for the night, Wulf bribed the innkeeper to let him have the box-bed. There was only one and it was set into one of the gable ends. It had thick curtains to keep out the drafts.

Erica's eyes brightened when she saw it. 'It is like my bed at Whitecliffe,' she said, sending him the first genuine smile since they had come to the inn.

In truth, the box-bed was a simple affair; with a mattress set on the floor in what was little more than a stall. It was short and narrow and was scarcely big enough for a child, let alone a tall woman like Erica. Wulf doubted that it was filled with down as her bed in Whitecliffe must surely have been but, small though the bed was, it did not prevent an unholy image flashing into Wulf's mind, of her limbs tangling with his in just such a bed, a longer one, of course, with a much wider mattress...

'Rest, my lady.' Swallowing hard, Wulf gestured her inside.

She ducked in and crawled onto the bed without as much as a murmur; there wasn't enough height for her to stand. The curtains closed. Wulf dragged up a stool and sat as near as he could.

A moment later the curtain opened and he caught the faint scent of meadowsweet from the mattress mingled with juniper. She was kneeling on the bed, twirling her bracelets. 'Wulf?'

'My lady?'

'Wh...where do you sleep?' she asked, heightened colour on her cheeks.

He grinned and pointed to the floor in front of the box-bed. 'Close to hand, lest you should need me.'

Her lips twitched, it was the merest suggestion of a smile, but it warmed his heart. She leaned towards him, keeping her voice low. 'Lest I should try to escape again, you mean?'

Mon Dieu
, her mouth, when she smiled like that--he had the devil's own job keeping his hands to himself.
Chastely and safely
, he reminded himself. But then unluckily for his good intentions, Wulf noticed that
her
eyes were on his mouth and he found himself leaning towards her. She did not back away; indeed, it seemed to him she was lifting her mouth to his, begging for a kiss. Her eyes, they were so dark...

He dipped his head and their lips met. Soft as thistledown. His fingers curled round the back of her neck as one of her hands came to rest in the centre of his chest.

One kiss, a chaste one, little more than a peck.

Another, and Wulf's teeth caught at her lower lip.

And then, even more unfortunately for Wulf's good intentions, she gave a sensual murmur that had his belly clenching.
Pull back, Wulf, pull back.
Gentle fingers were tracing a meandering path up and over his cheekbones. His face burned. She touched him so gently. And now, he held down a groan, now she was playing with his hair.

Chastely be damned.
Drawing in a lungful of air, for he could scarcely breathe, he set his arm about her waist and pulled her properly against him.

Her lips parted. His tongue was dancing with hers and she...she was definitely not helping. He heard another of those breathy little murmurs. Her body was pushing against his chest, she was clinging to his shoulders and in a moment she would have him off this stool...for the feel of her breasts, soft and full through the wool of his tunic, was melting his bones.

His manhood throbbed, and though Wulf should be remembering his promise to De Warenne, he held her to him, he pressed himself against her, wringing another of those bone-melting moans out of her and...

Lord, he wanted nothing more than to tear that gown from her back and fall with her into the softness of that mattress and...

At the fire, someone barked out a laugh. A woman tittered. Flushing, Wulf sucked in air and pulled back. Dimly he heard someone mutter an obscenity.

Erica's cheeks were pink and one of her plaits was no longer sleek in its braid. Wulf had no recollection of disordering it. Her eyes were soft, glowing in the firelight. In short, she looked like a girl who had been soundly kissed.

'We must not do this.' Wulf shoved his hand through his hair. It felt as untidy as hers. Lord.

'No, no, of course not.' She frowned.

She was trying to look disapproving. It made him want to kiss her again.

'It is not chaste,' he said.

'Or ladylike.' Her frown deepened.

Struggling with an urge to kiss the frown from her face, Wulf withdrew his hand from her waist and eased back. Thank God the length of his tunic hid the fact that he was very much aroused.

Her eyes flickered downwards for an instant. Cheeks aglow, she was struggling for composure. She had to know, the witch, how much he desired her. 'You said that before, I think. Chastity is important to you?'

Wulf gritted his teeth and kept his voice low. 'As you well know, my lord--' he could not mention De Warenne's name out loud in this place '--my lord charged me with bringing you chastely to Winchester, chastely and with due respect.'

A brow twitched and green eyes gleamed with light reflected from the fire. She was such a trial.

J
ust five days later, Erica found herself approaching Winchester on horseback. In an age when most people travelled on foot, it had been a whirlwind journey. No sooner had morning broken at the inn than Gil had appeared; Wulf must have arranged for him to meet them after the razing of Guthlac's castle.

Wulf's purse had been deep enough to buy not only the green gown and some gloves from the innkeeper's wife, but also to hire horses and a few other essentials.

'The London road,' Wulf had told her. 'We can reach it easily from here.'

And so had begun their journey. Wulf rode at her side and Gil brought up the rear. It was hard riding, especially for a woman not fully recovered from her fast and the rigours--not that Erica would admit this to herself--of a life on the run. She rode astride, simply because it was easier.

London passed in a haze of exhaustion. Busy streets, and the cobbled ones were slippery with ice. Icicles fringed the horse troughs; there were frozen pails in the stables. Blue fingers. Red noses.

They rested at night in the common room of an inn and Erica had been too weary to notice its name. She found herself flanked on her right hand by Wulf and on her left by Gil. By rights she should sleep among women, but having Wulf and Gil close to hand did not feel like an impropriety. How could it? She felt far safer with Wulf and Gil than she would with complete strangers, even if they were women. And in any case, Erica suspected that, were she to complain, she might find herself quartered in King William's garrison at Westminster.

Erica rose when shaken awake and hauled herself up, ready for another never-ending day in the saddle. Somewhere in London they paused for Wulf to exchange one of the hired horses for his own, a gelding called Melody. It was a sweet name for such a big-boned animal. Melody had a thick black winter coat, and Erica soon discovered he was a gentle creature, with none of the aggressive tendencies she associated with Norman warhorses.

She had stared when she had seen him, allowing him to snuffle gently in her ear, his breath the only warmth in the stable.

'What a beautiful horse,' she had exclaimed. 'And how delicate his manners.'

Wulf threw Melody's saddle on his back, and lifted a dark brow. 'You are surprised I have a beautiful horse?'

She had shrugged. 'It was just that I expected something more...'

'Warlike?'

'Exactly.'

Wulf yanked Melody's girth. 'Melody is not a destrier, my lady. Trained destriers are far too rare a commodity for an ordinary captain.'

She had laid a hand on his arm. 'Perhaps your lord will give you a warhorse.'

Wulf shook her off and Erica wrapped her arms about her middle. Since they had left the fens Wulf's manner towards her had been cold; it was as though he was deliberately keeping himself at arm's length. He glanced at her, gaze so impersonal you would never believe they had slept in each other's arms, and kissed.

'It is not likely.' He patted Melody's neck. 'In any case, I am grown accustomed to Melody.'

And so it continued day after interminable day: rising at dawn, climbing into the saddle, riding through a dazzling white landscape on roads that were barely passable, past trees with branches that were furry with frost. But they rode on doggedly, forcing Erica to conclude that Wulf had tired of her company and was eager to be rid of her.

She guessed that he was leaning more and more towards the Norman half of his heritage. It would make sense, particularly since the whole of England seemed to be firmly under the thumb of William of Normandy. It had already occurred to her that it could not have been easy for Wulf in Guthlac's hall, he must have felt torn. Yet feeling torn had not prevented him from delivering his report to William De Warenne. There was a definite streak of ruthlessness in Captain Wulf FitzRobert.

As they neared Winchester, the town that had once been the central seat of power for the Saxon kings, Wulf sent Erica a sidelong glance. Her cloak flowed about her like a blue sea but he could not see her face for the fall of her hood. Her hardihood astonished him. Wulf had yet to hear one word of complaint fall from her lips. He wondered at the demon that had goaded him into driving their relentless pace, but he could not help himself.

Their kiss at the White Swan had set him on this course. He had realised then that he must distance himself from her, at least until he was more certain of his ground. She was simply too beautiful, too much of a temptation. A distraction. He stole another glance at her profile, which was all he could see of her, that perfect profile. But, in truth, Wulf did not have to look at the woman in order to ache for her; blindfold, he knew her features. That wide brow, clear and unlined, those dark eyelashes that set off eyes as green and bright as any he had seen. Mercifully, today her hair was out of sight beneath her veil and hood.

Momentarily, Wulf closed his eyes. One plait today--this morning he had watched her braid it. One plait, soft, dark and glossy and thick as his wrist. He knew its scent--that hint of juniper; he knew its texture--like silk.

Setting his jaw, Wulf glared in front of him. The time was not ripe. His heart contracted. Slowly ahead of them, a grey wall rose out of the snow, a wall that had been built by Romans in another age. Winchester City.

'Look, Wulf!' A gloved hand pointed, her face turned to his. 'Winchester?'

'Aye, nearly there.'

Her cheeks lost colour and she bit her lip. Wulf had no difficulty reading her. She did not want to reach Winchester. She longed to communicate with her men, back in the fens. If only she would trust him...

'Wulf?'

He grunted.

'Will...will De Warenne be there?'

'He will join us in a few days.'

'And what of your king?'

Your
king, Wulf noted,
your
king.

'I do not know. Erica...' As the city walls loomed, Wulf reached for her reins and looped them round the pommel of his saddle. 'Erica, I am sorry...' His voice trailed off and for a moment he lost himself in her eyes. What could he say? That he was sorry he had been ill tempered, that he had no choice but to keep his distance, it was that or ravish the woman and break his oath to his lord. He could not let her in on his plans, which might not, in any case, succeed.

'Wulf?'

He shook his head; the tension that had been building during this journey was reaching unbearable levels. This was torture. 'Winchester,' he managed, stupidly, 'we have arrived.'

To have to escort her to the heart of Wessex, to have to stand by while she was wedded to a stranger...When Wulf had left East Anglia he had realised that this was one commission he might not fulfil. He smiled grimly. Today he was in no doubt.

He could not do it; he would break ranks rather than lose her. Erica liked him. He took comfort from the fact that out there on the ice in that freezing East Anglian bog, she had turned back and let him recapture her rather than see him fall through the ice. And her kisses, innocent kisses, which none the less betrayed her liking for him. He would not lose her. Naturally, he would do his best to win her with De Warenne's blessing, but if necessary he would marry her without it.

'Erica?'

That clear brow wrinkled. 'Wulf, are you well? You look very...strange.'

Wulf focused on the city gates and urged Melody into a trot. Clearing his throat, he directed the horses towards the guards standing sentry at the gates. 'I am quite well, my lady, I thank you.'

The Winchester garrison stables had once been the Saxon palace. When King William's men had first taken the town, they had seized the building for their headquarters, but now a stone castle was being built at the top of the hill and the Saxon mead-hall had been given over to the horses. Such was conquest.

They rode past the cathedral and up to the stable yard. In the winter sunlight, Erica's features were drawn. She was chewing the finger of one glove, a hunted, desperate look in her eyes. Glancing about him, Wulf knew the reason. A squadron of Norman knights and their squires were dismounting in the old palace courtyard, the air was full of the jingle of bits and the clatter of hoofs. At their backs, a troop of soldiers in chainmail were using the cathedral close as their drill yard; their presence in this ancient Saxon stronghold must be hateful to Saxon eyes. To top it all, Norman French was coming at them from every direction.

'Wulf FitzRobert!'

Recognising the voice as one he knew well, Wulf flung a distracted smile in the knight's direction. It was the garrison commander. 'Sir Richard.' He pulled Erica's horse closer and their knees bumped. It was probably a weakness in him, but it was not one he could ignore, and while he might not confide in her yet, he wanted to reassure her. 'Erica? My lady?'

She removed the glove from her mouth. 'Where are you taking me?' Her voice was little more than a whisper.

If she would but trust me
, he thought, hating to see that pinched look on her face. The castle loured over the entire town and Wulf gestured up the hill towards it.

The work of Frankish masons brought by King William across the Narrow Sea, one of the round towers had recently been completed. Unfinished though it was, the castle already looked impenetrable. It was a magnificent replacement for the wooden motte and bailey that had been flung up in the early days of Norman rule. The new towers were a visual reminder that King William's authority was here to stay.

Frosted scaffolding criss-crossed the unfinished walls, but today the snow-covered walkways were empty of workmen. The weather made it too dangerous to work on high slippery timbers, and anyway, the mortar would crack rather than set.

Erica swallowed. 'You take me into that.'

'Yes.'

'Do...do you leave me there?'

Yes
, insisted a voice inside him, you do leave her there. Wulf found himself taking her hand. 'I have duties to attend to.' His chest ached. It was harder than he had thought it would be, keeping his plans to himself.

Releasing her, he led them at a jouncing trot through the cathedral close, where a stream of pilgrims was winding around the troops, heading for Saint Swithun's shrine in the Minster. Whichever king sits on the throne, Wulf thought, there will always be pilgrims heading for the shrine. So it had been in the days of King Alfred, so it would be in the future.

Erica had not seen Captain Wulf FitzRobert for a whole week.

Once the horses had been safely stabled, he had marched her through the castle bailey and into one of the towers. He had pushed her through a door at the top of a winding stair. The ladies' bower. And before Erica knew it, she was listening to Wulf's footsteps retreating down the stairs.

The ladies' bower seemed to be the domain of one Rozenn Silvester, a Frankish woman. Rozenn was dark eyed and pretty--a seamstress charged as far as Erica could understand with ordering the wall-hangings for King William's castle. Rozenn had insisted that Erica called her Rose, but, for all Rose's warmth, communication was not easy. Rose was Breton rather than Norman, and her French was delivered with an accent Erica found hard to interpret. Rose had little English.

'I am learning, you understand,' Rose had said, taking Erica's hand and leading her to a window seat, which was almost entirely buried beneath several bolts of cloth.

The shutters were open and the window was glazed with glass, real glass. Erica had never seen a glazed window before. Through it she could see rooks being tossed hither and thither by a gusty wind, yet no wind reached the solar. It was a marvel.

To one side of the room a trestle table had a wide canvas spread out upon it, along with several sticks of charcoal. There were scissors and shears of varying sizes and half-a-dozen hanks of coloured wool. There was even the luxury of a couple of lighted braziers to draw the chill from the air. 'But it is not--how do you say?--it is not...'

'Easy?'

'Exactement! C'est trop difficile--oh, je m'excuse!'
And Rose had laughed, brown eyes crinkling at the corners.

Erica--for all that this woman had come in the train of the invaders--liked her immediately.

Rose pushed Erica onto a cushion and tugged one of the fabrics out from the bottom of the pile. A blue worsted, woven from the softest clippings, it was as smooth as silk. 'You like?'

'Yes, it is very pretty.'

'It is not...not...urgh, my English! It is not itchy and it is very warm.'

'I can see that.'

It was only when Rose had held the material up to Erica's face and went on to offer fabric after fabric up for her approval that Erica realised what was happening.

'These...these are all for me?' she had asked, staring at the growing mountain of fabrics which seemed to be in the process of being transferred from the window seat to her feet.

'
Mais
,
oui
. But, of course. You cannot go to your marriage in this.' Rose's nose wrinkled as she plucked at the muddy green gown that had once belonged to the innkeeper's wife at the White Swan.

'M...my marriage?'

Rose had blinked at her. '
Oui
, you agreed to marry, did you not? And I hear it is soon, very soon. Lord De Warenne will be anxious that your tenants have a leader who answers to him.'

Erica looked away as a wave of nausea took her. What could she say? At the Ely garrison she had agreed to marry Wulf FitzRobert, but William De Warenne had not granted his permission for such a match. She was to marry someone 'fitting'. She stared out of the glazed window, fiddling with her bracelets, blind to the rooks hurling themselves about in the wind outside, deaf to the sizzle of a damp coal in one of the braziers.
I hear it is soon, very soon.
Her eyes stung.

And then some other ladies, Norman ladies, came chattering into the solar, and any chance of private talk was ended. Sick at heart, Erica kept her head high and allowed Rozenn Silvester to take her measure so that the new gowns might be made for her marriage.

In this way a week passed, January was about to turn into February. Outside, in the garths and orchards of England, buds would be forming under the frost. Candlemas was almost upon them.