His Captive Lady (2 page)

Wulf was not noble, Wulf was not even legitimate, Wulf was a bastard. A bastard of a commission for a bastard of a man. That had been the unspoken undercurrent in the entire discussion. No highborn knight would even consider such a commission.

Reaching the weapon stack by the door, Wulf picked his sword out of the pile and stood for a moment staring at it. It was a plain sword. With its wooden scabbard and its hilt bound in cowhide, it was the sword of a plain man. It might have a keen edge and Wulf might be able to wield it as well as any knight, but he had no noble family to sponsor him. And there, too, was another reason the Lord of Lewes had selected him to go to the fens. If by chance Wulf were killed, there would be no aristocratic friends calling for vengeance, there would be no noblewomen weeping at his graveside.

Rolling powerful shoulders, Wulf shrugged off his dark thoughts and buckled on his sword. He glanced around the huge hall filled with King William's soldiers. He could not afford to be churlish, not when he was being given his chance. He might not choose to spend the winter in the fens, but the sooner he was gone, the sooner he might return. So, distasteful though this commission might be, he would do his best. As he saw it, those rebels, outlaws, call them what you will, were fighting a lost cause, and the sooner they came to realise that, the sooner the bloodshed could end. The sooner England could be at peace.

If there was one thing that Wulf had learned from his liege lord, it was that peace was not something that happened by chance. No, in the winter of 1067, peace had to be
made
. And if Wulf could play his part in bringing about that peace, and at the same time earn preferment for himself, then so much the better...

East Anglian Fens--January 1068

E
ven when clad in green homespun and a simple matching veil, Erica of Whitecliffe presented a queenly figure. Night had fallen, and she was sitting by the fire in the rough reed-thatched shelter that was her latest refuge. Someone had actually found a chair for her. Incongruously it reminded Erica of a throne, and she was able to prop her chin on her hand and stare into the flames. Ranged about her on stools and benches, hugging close to the hearth, were the men she had chosen as her personal escort.

Ailric, his fair hair tied out of the way with a leather thong, was bent over his sword, sharpening it, and the gentle rasp of a whetstone on steel formed a backdrop to her thoughts, thoughts which went back and forth as she struggled to find a way out of their predicament. Morcar's cough--it was worsening--brought a worried frown to her brow.

Outside the cottage the temperature had plummeted. And it was going to get worse, of that Erica was certain. It was early January; the coldest weather might yet be round the corner.

She was in exile, they were all in exile. And they could not live like this much longer, as that persistent cough was reminding her.

When they had fled her father's hall at Whitecliffe in the south, Erica had prayed it would be a temporary exile, and that soon they would be home again with the world set to rights. But her father was dead and her people divided. Some had insisted on remaining with her while others, almost a hundred warriors, had taken refuge elsewhere in the marshes. When there was the slightest chance of harrying the Normans, the warriors took it. She longed for them to be together once more; she worried about the wives and children left behind in Whitecliffe.

Morcar, one of her father's oldest housecarls, smothered another cough. She held down a sigh. Morcar was too old to be living the life of an outlaw, his chest was weakening. And there was Hrolf, with that leg wound that refused to heal--Hrolf needed good food which she could not give him, and rest and...Daily, Erica prayed to return home. This was no place to live, this was no life. But William of Normandy had fast hold of southern England and was not to be ousted, it would seem.

What could she do?

'The bloodfeud with Thane Guthlac must end,' she said and braced herself for the inevitable barrage of objections.

The whetstone stilled and Ailric spoke up. 'My lady, you are not serious?'

'I have never been more so.'

Ailric's brow furrowed and the moment he set his sword aside, Erica knew she was in for an argument.

'Ailric, look at us. We need to pool our resources with others, we need allies. Our very survival is at stake.'

'The bloodfeud will never end,' Ailric said. 'It is a matter of honour and--'

'The bloodfeud
must
end.'

'There are other ways.'

'No, Ailric, you are wrong! We ran out of choices months ago, but were too blind to see it. The bloodfeud with Guthlac must
end
. I have made my decision.' Erica clenched her fists and stared fiercely round the ring of bearded faces that gleamed in the firelight. Her father's housecarls were loyal, and it went without saying that they would sacrifice their lives for her. As they would have done for her father, had he not died at Hastings. But loyalty had never prevented them from disagreeing with her. Unfortunately.

The fire guttered and an icy draught cut through Erica's cloak while she marshalled her arguments. There were dozens of cracks in the slipshod planking and the fenland wind knew its way into every one of them. Suppressing a shiver lest it be mistaken for weakness--and she would die before one of them thought her weak--Erica dragged her cloak more firmly about her shoulders and drew in a deep breath. Loyal her father's housecarls might be, but that would not put an end to their dissent. She was, after all, a woman, and some of them had difficulty taking orders, even from her. And in the matter of the bloodfeud they were stubborn as mules.

'I am sorry, Ailric.' Erica made her voice hard, trying for that tone that her father had used when he would brook no contradiction. 'But I disagree most strongly. What can we few do from here?' A wave of her hand encompassed not only her personal guard, but also the cruck-framed cottage, pitifully small and stark compared to the luxuries of Whitecliffe Hall. 'On our own we are as nothing, we are but a candle in the wind, we need allies.'

Scowling, Ailric hooked his thumbs round his swordbelt and tossed his blond head; Hereward shifted on his bench and opened his mouth. Erica silenced them with a look.

'We are nothing,' she repeated, frowning through the smoke. 'Think, all of you. Here we have, what, a couple of warriors young enough to be worthy of the name? Hereward, Ailric, yes, you I count as warriors.' She softened her voice before directing her gaze at two of the older faces round the fire. Men with greying hair and scarred, weather-beaten faces, men in their late forties, men who were weak with old age and infirmity. 'But it is time to face reality. Morcar, Siward, you are fine warriors, both of you, but age is no longer on your side. Luck was with you at Hastings, and you know it.'

Siward's grizzled head shook as Erica had known it would. But Morcar simply stroked his beard and lowered his eyes to the leaping flames, misery in his every line. Erica had also noticed the difficulty Morcar had had hoisting himself in and out of the boat as he patrolled the waterways.

'These marshes are not good for a man with stiffness in his joints,' she murmured.

Morcar coloured and muttered into his beard, and that told Erica all she needed to know. Morcar had had enough. Time was when Morcar would have leaped to his feet to deny the slightest weakness, but now, in this bitter fenland winter, he sat by the fire like an old man, muttering about the damp getting into his bones, trying not to cough. At night, they listened to him wheezing in his sleep. Morcar
was
an old man, she realised with a jolt. And if she did not try to protect him, Erica did not know who would.

'If we are to mount a decent campaign against those who took King Harold's throne, we must link up with our warriors and join forces with
other
Saxons. If we do not...' Erica lifted her shoulders. She did not have to finish the sentence, every man around this fire understood what she was saying. They needed allies, if they were to stand a chance of success. But Erica realised it was worse than that, they needed allies, if they were to
survive
.

Ailric nodded tersely at Hereward, who jumped to his feet. 'Lady Erica,' Hereward said, dignifying her with the title that was her due as the only child of a thane. 'Lady Erica, none of us would argue with your plan to join forces with others against the Norman bastard. But
Guthlac
...' Hereward's face distorted and he spat, most eloquently, into the fire before thumping back onto the bench. Some of the fierceness left his expression as he sent her a sad smile. 'This outlaw's life is not for women, my lady. It has addled your brain.' He shook his head and his temple-braids swung with the movement as Erica struggled to muster the tart response that was necessary. Hereward's lip curled. 'Treat with
Guthlac
? If your father had caught wind of such a suggestion, he would have had you in the stocks.'

'On the contrary, my father would have agreed with me. Thane Eric was a warrior, but he was also a practical man. Divided, we Saxons stand little chance of overcoming the Normans. And with our warband depleted and our best warriors deep in hiding...' She shook her head. 'Hereward, we
need
Thane Guthlac. He is the only Saxon with a half-decent force in this area, and if he accepts us as allies, then I can recall the warband and at the least our household will be reunited.' Erica transferred her gaze to the housecarl who, in better times, her father had thought to see her wed. 'Ailric, you said in your last report that you had located Thane Guthlac's camp, that he, too, has taken refuge in East Anglia.'

'Yes, my lady. Guthlac has kept his warband together and his encampment...' His voice trailed off.

'What of it? Where is it?'

Ailric shrugged and a brooch at his shoulder gleamed gold in the firelight. 'It is not so much an encampment, but a castle.'

A ripple of surprise went round some of the men. Erica, too, was startled. Whoever had heard of anyone building a castle in this watery world? But Ailric was nodding.

'A castle, my lady. Oh, to be sure it is a wooden one, it is not built in stone, but it is imposing none the less. Guthlac has had it thrown up on one of the larger islands; there is a palisade, and even a mound, and the main hall is built on that. From the distance you would think it a tower, a wooden tower.'

Erica's forehead puckered as she struggled to imagine it. 'In the Norman style?'

'Very like. It resembles the ones that William of Normandy built in London and Winchester, before he brought in his Frankish stonemasons.'

'And Guthlac has used wood throughout?'

'Aye. It is...' Ailric's eyes lost focus as he recalled the details. 'It is as well built as any I have seen. The palisade looks impenetrable and there are walkways and sentry posts around the tower. It dominates the marshes for miles around.'

Hereward grunted. 'Guthlac always was a prideful fool, to draw attention to himself by such means. Soon every Norman in East Anglia will discover its location. Ailric tells me that by night the place blazes with more lights than King Harold's palace at Bosham ever did.' The housecarl gave Erica a straight look. 'You cannot mean that we should ally ourselves with such as he?'

'Indeed I do.' Erica stiffened her spine. 'Guthlac is our only hope.' She made herself smile at Ailric, and prayed that he would not sense the doubts in her. 'Ailric, you will accompany me, tomorrow at dawn. You will take me to Guthlac's...castle, where we will discuss the terms of an alliance.'

An appalled silence filled the cottage. It was broken only by the popping of willow logs on the fire and the wind combing the reeds outside. And then Hereward and Siward bounced to their feet, the young housecarl and the old, united in their horror at what she was proposing.

'Tomorrow? No, my lady!' This from Hereward.

'Lady,
no
, you
cannot
forget the feud!' This from Siward. His gnarled hand had gone straight to his sword hilt.

Rising to move round the fire, Erica put her hand on Siward's and gently peeled it from his sword. 'The time has come for us to put it to rest.'

'But, my lady!' Hereward was practically spluttering into his beard with outrage. 'The feud is as old as I, older! It was old in my father's time.' Glaring at Erica, his eyes were hard and indignant. 'You cannot simply dance into Guthlac's lair and expect such a feud to be ended. I told you,' he muttered in Siward's direction, 'that to pass Thane Eric's authority on to his daughter was a mistake. The woman does not live who understands the sacred nature of a bloodfeud.'

'Sacred?
Enough!
' Erica made a chopping motion with her hand. Her jaw was as set as the jaw of the young man quivering in front of her, her determination was as grim. It had to be, for this, she was convinced, was the only way forwards. She drew herself up to her full height. 'Hereward, you forget yourself. I know full well the import of the bloodfeud--have I not grown up with it? Did I not lose my cousin to it? I will not waste breath discussing the futility of his death to a fellow Saxon on the very eve of the Norman invasion. I know how you men...' she looked into each and every silent face around the fire and poured scorn into her voice '...do value this...squabble. And squabble it is, however you might choose to glorify it. You say it is a matter of honour.
Honour?
I call it
pathetic
. One of Guthlac's men slighted one of ours, and in revenge one of our men slighted one of their women, on and on and on it goes. Why, this feud stretches back in time so far--'

'Theirs was the first slight,' Siward said confidently.

Erica looked coldly at him. 'Was it? You were there yourself, were you?'

'We...ell, no, my lady, not exactly, but I do remember Maccus telling me that Hrothgar's father--'

'Siward, be silent! This feud between Guthlac's family and mine has run for generations. Be honest, no man living can remember the original slight.'

Solveig, Erica's maid and companion, and the only other woman in their camp, stepped quietly out of the shadows. 'I was told that some years back it re-ignited when Waltheof despoiled Guthlac's mother.'

Erica drew her head back.
That
she had not heard, but it could not be true--surely someone would have said something to her, if such a dreadful thing had indeed happened. 'No,
no
.' There was no one here who might testify to the truth. A distant relation of Erica's, Waltheof had been killed at Hastings alongside her father.

Solveig's soft voice continued. 'Whatever the original cause of the feud, my lady, if such a thing did happen to Thane Guthlac's mother, Thane Guthlac would have little reason to love you.'

Ailric took Erica's hand. 'Solveig is in the right. Erica, if you walk into that...that den--I cannot allow it.'

The wind rattled the reeds outside. Erica looked down her nose at the man she might have married and slowly withdrew her fingers from his clasp. If she was to have her way in this, she must draw on her authority. And she
must
have her way on this, if they were to survive. '
You
cannot allow it? Ailric, who are you to command me?'

Again, Ailric reached for her hand, but she twitched it away, hiding it in her skirts. 'Erica, think.' His voice cracked. 'Do not make me do this. It is not what your father would have wished.'

Turning her back on him, Erica stared into the heart of the fire where the bright flames flickered like pennons. Her skin was icy--why could she not feel the heat? 'Ailric, you forget yourself,' she murmured, for his ears alone. 'I am not your betrothed for you to command me in this manner, I am not your chattel.' Putting strength in her voice, she lifted her head to address the entire company. 'My mind is fixed. Tomorrow at first light, we go to treat with Thane Guthlac.