His Captive Lady (3 page)

'Remember, Guthlac Stigandson is himself a survivor. Like us he is Saxon. Even Thane Guthlac cannot but see the sense in our two parties uniting. Together we will overcome these invaders, our Norman enemies. I declare that the feud between my family and Thane Guthlac's,' she said, ensuring she caught Siward's eye, 'is
ended
. And I will personally geld the man who resurrects it.'

T
hane Guthlac's hall door slammed and the ashes on the clay hearth shifted in the sudden draught. Wulf shivered. A faint light was showing through the crack at the bottom of the door. Dawn. And, since his report for De Warenne's man was ready, it was the last he would see in this hall. Come noon, he would be gone from here, thank God.

Wulf's pallet, as one of Guthlac Stigandson's rawest recruits, had been unforgiving, and his every limb creaked. He might as well have slept on the bare boards. Suppressing a groan, he flung back the cloak he had been using as a blanket and sat up. He had barely slept, partly owing to his position at the draughty end of the hall, and partly because being a spy made for an uneasy night. He glanced regretfully at the dead fire. He would have preferred warmth while he had tossed and turned all night and dreamed...ah...impossible dreams...

Dreams that warded off memories of his half-sister, Marie. Dreams that gave him a position in society, when slights to his family would no longer go unpunished. Dreams of being knighted and of owning a plot of land for which he could do knight service to his lord openly and above-board, instead of having to meet men and smile and talk with them and know that, one day soon, he might have to betray them. He had even dreamed of a lady who stood tall and proud at his side...hah! There was no room for a woman in his life. What fools we are in the middle of the night, Wulf thought, what dreams we dream to block out reality.

While he eased his broad shoulders, working the stiffness from his muscles, it occurred to Wulf that it mattered not whether one sided with Normans or Saxons--in both camps raw recruits invariably got a rough deal. That mattress--Lord.

He groped for his boots. It was a bitter morning; even inside the hall amid so many sleeping men, his breath made smoke. Grimacing, Wulf tossed his hair out of his face; it was not getting any shorter, but neither was it long enough to tie back--in fact, it was a damned nuisance. He wished he could shave, too, but that would have to wait until later. De Warenne had been in the right, his lack of beard had been a point of concern when he had first arrived at the castle. A visit to the barber would definitely
not
have helped. Wulf had been accepted as a rebel purely on account of his childhood links with Southwark. It was his good fortune that Guthlac Stigandson himself remembered him from those days.

Taking up his sword and belt, Wulf moved lightly to the door so as not to disturb anyone fortunate enough to have bagged a softer pallet. The oak door was heavy. Pushing through, he went out onto the platform. The torches on either side of the entrance were guttering, sending up an evil black smoke that the wind whisked away.

Here, where the platform girdled the tower, there was a commanding view of the fens. In full daylight one could see a broad expanse of water--water that at this point was large and wide enough to be known as 'the lake'. The lake was surrounded by low-lying land on all sides, but in this dull predawn light visibility was poor, the colour leached out of everything.

Wulf remembered his first sight of Guthlac's castle as it reared out of the mist. Its sheer size meant that he was bound to stumble across it sooner or later, for the wooden tower and its motte dwarfed the local alder and ash trees. Guthlac might well have fled to the fens from the south, but not even his worst enemy could accuse him of skulking.

A water-butt stood on the walkway immediately outside the main door. As the door latch clicked shut behind him, Wulf found he had not quite shaken off the melancholy that had gripped him from the moment Marie had entered his thoughts. Two years his senior, his half-sister would have been twenty-four had she lived. And her child--Wulf's heart squeezed--her child would have been nine.

Wulf thrust aside the image of Marie; he must not think of her. Lifting the lid of the water-butt, he splashed his face, hissing through his teeth as the icy water hit him. He washed quickly and dried his face on his sleeve. The wind scoured his cheeks. Thank God he was leaving today.

The marshes were still shrouded in gloom, but by the bank beyond the palisade he could make out a thin skin of ice at the base of the reeds. Guthlac's island was fringed with many such reeds. Wulf had made a point of memorising the lie of the land for miles around; it would be of great interest to De Warenne. Farther out, the water was black, shiny and apparently fathomless.

And there, over in the east, a glow--the glow that heralded dawn. Uneasy for no reason he could put a finger on, unless remembering what had happened to Marie had left him out of sorts, Wulf ran a hand round the back of his neck. No, that glow could not be the dawn; that was not the east. That glow...he frowned...it was in the
west
.

Attention sharpening, Wulf reached for his swordbelt, buckled it on, and was off down the walkway, boots ringing loud on the boards. Had the sentries seen? Until he left here, he must be careful to act his part; he must behave precisely as Guthlac and his rebels would expect him to behave.

With a start, the man on watch dozing over his bow snapped upright.
'Sir!'
Beorn, if Wulf remembered his name aright. He had long flaxen hair and he eyed Wulf uncertainly, doubtless wondering if he was to be reprimanded for sleeping at his post.

Wulf pointed out across the fen. 'Is that what I think it is?'

Beorn stared, frowned, and went pale. 'God in Heaven, a boat!'

Wulf's brow furrowed, too. As the darkness lifted, the boat slid closer. A yellow light shone in the prow, the light that moments ago Wulf had mistaken for the rising sun. He shook his head, glancing askance at the sky, a sky that had been determinedly leaden ever since he had arrived in East Anglia. As if the sun would actually shine in this place. This was the fens, a low, flat land where everything was grey and wet and cold and--an icy gust bit into his neck--no doubt snow would soon add to their joys. God grant that once he had delivered his report, De Warenne, who might yet be in Westminster, would have him despatched to London or Lewes, to anywhere but here.

Beorn bit his lip. 'I...I am sorry, sir. I...I will raise the alarm.'

'Do that--I shall stand in for you here.'

'My thanks.' Beorn clattered down the walkway, clearly happy to escape a reprimand. Wulf's nostrils flared. The man had to be thinking that Thane Guthlac's new housecarl was a walkover, but he didn't give a damn what he thought. Wulf was not going to be among these rebels long enough for discipline to become a problem. Come sunset, he would be gone.

The door slammed.

While Wulf waited for the uproar that he would bet his sword was about to ensue, he watched the oars of the approaching boat lift and fall, lift and fall. His eyes narrowed. It was a small craft and it contained two...no, three, people. One of them looked to be female; she wore a russet cloak. Curious, wondering if he had seen this woman elsewhere on the waterways, Wulf strained to make out the colour of her hair. But the woman had her hood up and her hair was hidden. She sat perfectly still, hugging her cloak against the January chill. No great threat there, surely? They might be pedlars working the waterways, though Wulf could not see anything that resembled stock in the bottom of their boat: no barrels, no crates, no bundles of merchandise wrapped in sailcloth.

As the boat glided ever closer, an unnatural quiet held the fen. There was no honking of geese, no men shouting, there was not even the sound of the oars creaking in the rowlocks.

Abruptly, the hall door bounced back on its hinges and Guthlac Stigandson erupted onto the platform. 'Maldred!
Maldred!
' The outlaw wrenched his belly into his swordbelt. 'My helm, boy, and look sharp!' Guthlac's hair was straggling free of its ties, hanging in grey rats' tails, his beard was uncombed and he was so exercised by this intrusion into his territory that his mottled cheeks were turning purple.

Maldred ran up. Guthlac snatched his helm and slapped it on his head. He stomped up to Wulf at the sentry post, golden arm-rings rattling. 'Saewulf? Report, man.'

Wulf waved in the direction of the small craft. 'It is as Beorn has no doubt told you. One boat only, my lord, three passengers, I doubt they present much of a threat.'

Hrothgar, Guthlac's right-hand man, was peering over Guthlac's broad shoulders. Other housecarls crowded behind.

Guthlac elbowed Hrothgar in the ribs. 'Let me breathe, man.'

'My lord.' Hrothgar stepped back, waving to clear a space. His bracelets gleamed in the morning light, valuable gold bracelets that showed he was his lord's most favoured housecarl.

Guthlac's battle-scarred hands grasped the handrail as he scowled down at the water beyond the palisade. 'They must be Saxon,' he muttered. 'No Norman would dare to venture this far into the fens.'

Wulf's stomach tightened, but he kept his expression neutral.

'A woman, eh?' Guthlac's eyebrows rose.

At that moment the breeze strengthened and something fluttered in the stern of the boat. A pennon. Guthlac stiffened. 'That flag, Saewulf...' he frowned, peering in such a way that Wulf realised the outlaw's eyes were not as keen as his '...can you make out the colours, does it bear a device?'

'No device, my lord. There's a blue band above a white ground with green below.'

Guthlac's fingers tightened on the handrail. 'A white ground, you are certain? Is the green straight edged?'

Wulf narrowed his eyes and the pennon lifted in the breeze. The green band met the white ground with a jagged edge. 'No, my lord, it is dancetty.'

Eyes suddenly intense, delight spreading across his face, Guthlac struck the rail with his fist. 'At last, I have her! At least I hope to God I have her...Tell me, is the woman fair or dark?'

Both the question and the febrile excitement struck a jarring note. The little boat was close to the jetty, so close that it was drifting out of their line of sight behind the palisade. 'I couldn't swear, my lord, she has her hood up.'

A grin that was as much grimace as it was grin was spreading across Guthlac's face. Wulf felt a distinct prickle of unease.

'It
is
her. She has come crawling at last! I knew this moment would come when Hrothgar told me one of her men had been sighted in Ely.'

Wulf stared at Guthlac, and wondered why his dead half-sister Marie had chosen this day of all days to walk in and out of his mind. He also wondered why cold sweat was trickling down his back. 'Her?' His sense of unease was growing by the second. The sooner he was out of here, the better.

'Eric's daughter--it must be Lady Erica of Whitecliffe!'

Whirling round, Guthlac elbowed through his housecarls and stormed down the stairway to the bailey, tossing orders as he went. 'Beorn!'

'My lord?'

'Have them lift the portcullis when they have disembarked.'

'They are to enter, sir?' Beorn's voice was more than startled, it was stunned.

'Certainly.' Thane Guthlac's harsh voice floated back to Wulf, still motionless by the sentry post. 'The woman at least.' There was a brief pause as Guthlac leaped the last few steps into the bailey. 'And her men, too, provided they disarm.'

'Yes, my lord.'

Moments later, Wulf stood alone at the watchpoint, frowning. Lady Erica of Whitecliffe? Who the devil was Lady Erica of Whitecliffe?

And then it came to him. Of course! The bloodfeud, the damn bloodfeud.

Wulf had only been in Guthlac's warband for a few days, but already he had heard enough about the bloodfeud to last him a lifetime. For years, Guthlac Stigandson's men had been hurling insults, and worse, far worse, at the men loyal to another Saxon thane. Both thanes had apparently held land attached to his own lord's recently acquired holding in the south, near Lewes. The feud had run for generations.

A cold hand clutched Wulf's gut as he recalled that the last insult had been apparently to Guthlac's own mother. Some of the men who had talked about the bloodfeud had used the word seduction, others had muttered darkly about rape.

And, Lord, there was Marie's face again, swimming into focus in front of him, pale as the ghost it was. Her eyes were glassy with tears.

'Hell,' Wulf muttered, and before he knew it he was striding down the walkway, gesturing for another man to take his place at the watchpoint.

In the bailey, the chapel stood to one side of the portcullis. It was an unpretentious wooden building with a thatched roof and topped with a reed cross. A reception committee was gathering by the door: Thane Guthlac, Hrothgar, Beorn, Maldred, Swein....

That woman, Wulf thought, recalling the slender figure sitting proud and still in the prow, that poor woman. He shook his head, hoping to hell that Lady Erica of Whitecliffe had something damn good up her sleeve. The way that Thane Guthlac's face had twisted every time her name had been mentioned...

More cold sweat broke out on his back. He must remain cool. This woman was a total stranger--what was it to him if she got hurt? And if she was indeed Erica of Whitecliffe, then she should know better than to march into her enemy's stronghold like this, she deserved to get hurt. Wulf could not get involved, particularly since he was on the brink of leaving...

Saints, there was Marie's face again. Shoving his hand through his hair, Wulf tried to eject his half-sister from his thoughts. He succeeded, but not before it came to him, that if someone had helped Marie when she had needed it, she would still be alive.

'Hell.' How in God's name was he supposed to aid the woman when he was here under false colours himself? He had his commission to think of, he must not disappoint De Warenne.

'Problem, Saewulf?' Hrothgar asked, pale eyes watchful.

'Not at all.' Wulf forced a smile and reminded himself of the land that he longed for, of the knighthood that he hoped to win. He must not fail now. Tonight he would be away from here--God willing, he would be on the London road.

Maldred and Swein were applying themselves to the windlass. The portcullis creaked, and Lady Erica of Whitecliffe appeared under the arch. Her two companions stationed themselves either side of her. Gowned in purple beneath her russet cloak, she was tall and dignified, composedly nodding her agreement while her companions were divested of their arms. Men in their late twenties, housecarls by the look of them, Saxon warriors who handed their swords over to Maldred without a murmur. But they did not like it; their eyes and their stance betrayed them.