His Captive Lady (5 page)

'Saewulf Brader...' Guthlac released Lady Erica to Hrothgar and reached for his ale '...as you have not been long of our number, I shall once again overlook your questioning me. But let me assure you, the feud between Thane Eric's family and mine is an honourable one. Why, even a man born by the docks in Southwark as you were, must have heard of such bloodfeuds.'

Wulf nodded. 'Indeed, my lord, but surely the honour that is satisfied in harming an innocent young woman is a pretty poor sort of honour.' The image of his sister, pale as she lay on her bier, took form in his mind's eye. No bloodfeud had caused his sister's death, that had been an individual act of violence, one person on another, but in Wulf's mind rape was rape. This woman's tribe might sanction her sacrifice, but he could not. Lady Erica would not suffer hurt tonight, not if he could help it.

Eyes narrowing, Thane Guthlac raised his ale cup. He drank deep, set the cup down with deliberate slowness and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'Aye,
boy
,' he said, managing with one word to emphasise his seniority in both rank and age, 'so you might think. But what say you to the honour that saw one of her father's housecarls abduct my mother and take her against her will?'

Wulf's heart thudded as he realised the enormity of what he was up against. 'One of Thane Eric's men did violate your mother--it is true, then?'

'Just so.' Guthlac's lips thinned and his voice became soft, but no less dangerous. 'Her blood cries out for vengeance, so stand back, Saewulf Brader, let honour be satisfied.'

Somehow Lady Erica was keeping her composure. Tall and stately, she stood with lowered eyes and with only that almost imperceptible quivering of her veil to show the agitation that she must be feeling. Wulf ought to step back, De Warenne would wish it--his commission was of the first importance. But Wulf could not do it. The memory of his dead half-sister had kept him in this place when he should have gone hours ago, and now it drove him on. 'My lord--'

'
He
wants her.' Hrothgar's mouth became ugly. 'That is what this is about--Saewulf fancies the girl himself. What's the matter, Brader, wouldn't Maude oblige last night? Never mind,
boy
,' he sneered. 'Since we are, as my lord has explained, honourable men, I will fight you for her.'

Wulf's mouth went dry. He thought quickly. He did not want to fight Hrothgar, but if he did fight and if he won, he might be able to keep the lady safe. He swallowed; he might be one of the rawest of the housecarls in this place, but he had trained shoulder to shoulder with De Warenne's knights, and his swordplay was strong. Hrothgar had no idea what he was up against. When Wulf had 'enlisted' with the rebels, he had naturally been tested in combat, but he had held back, misliking that these men should know his true measure.

Lady Erica waited, apparently meekly between Wulf and Hrothgar, while Hrothgar held fast to her arm.
Remember why you are here
--Wulf felt the anger rise within him--
remember your commission. You should not be drawing attention to yourself
. But Wulf could not tear his eyes from the large hand crushing the purple cloth of the lady's sleeve and he knew that, whatever the cost, he could not see Erica of Whitecliffe ravished as Marie had been. Clenching his fists, he struggled for control. A hot head would not help him here; he must use his anger, not be used by it.

The lady's head came up and those green eyes fastened on him. There was a slight crease between her brows. Tall Erica of Whitecliffe might be, her height equalled Hrothgar's, but she only reached Wulf's shoulder.

Wulf smiled. She did not return his smile, but her eyes ran over him, assessing him as she would a thoroughbred. Wulf felt oddly naked and hoped he was not flushing. Resigning himself to a hard, bloody fight, he was opening his mouth to accept Hrothgar's challenge, but the lady forestalled him.

'My lord?' Erica darted a swift look under her lashes at the tall young warrior who was apparently prepared to risk life and limb to save her from the attentions of Thane Guthlac's right-hand man. Thane Guthlac had referred to him as Saewulf Brader. He was, as Hrothgar had pointed out, some years Hrothgar's junior. Why, Saewulf Brader might even be younger than herself. His hair was thick and dark and a deal shorter than most of the men's, and while he was not exactly clean-shaven, he wore no beard. Perhaps it was the lack of beard that gave him his youthful appearance. Erica was twenty-four years old, and, if put to it, she would judge Saewulf Brader to be a couple of years younger than her.

Her mind raced. His youthfulness would not necessarily be a disadvantage in combat; he was big and solidly built, with strong muscles that showed clearly beneath that worn brown tunic. His hands were oddly at variance with his calling; they were beautifully shaped for a warrior, long fingered and fine-boned but--Erica frowned--no arm-rings jingled at his wrist. Had he won no prizes for his skill at arms? How odd, when a warrior was so strong he usually had any number of arm-rings...

For a moment their eyes met and her heart stuttered. His eyes were blue, bright and clear as the sky above the South Downs at harvest time, and framed by thick dark lashes. Saewulf Brader, Erica thought somewhat breathlessly, was physical perfection. No, not quite perfection; there were shadows under his eyes that hinted of fatigue, there were lines of tension, too...but, that aside, he was physically perfect--the man looked every inch a lady's champion.

If she could but trust him.

Saewulf was apparently a newcomer to Thane Guthlac's band and he did not hold with the bloodfeud, but did that mean Erica could rely on him? The lack of arm-rings was a worry, too...maybe he was not as adept as he looked.

'Lady Erica, you had something you wished to say?' Guthlac's tone warned her that he was startled at her interference, but Erica took heart from his continuing use of her title. For even if Thane Guthlac was planning to force her to lie with one of his men as his price for ending the bloodfeud, he was still paying lip-service to the courtesies. Provided she showed herself to be amenable, he would not beat her or force her in that way. A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm her.

Provided she was amenable.

Another stolen glance at Saewulf Brader, a briefer one at Hrothgar, whose fingers were gouging holes in her arm and who had roused an immediate and instinctive loathing in her, and Erica had made up her mind. 'Might I choose, my lord?'

Thane Guthlac's brows climbed, and on the benches someone groaned, 'No, my lord, a fight, give us a fight!' Other men, loathe to lose what was speedily becoming the best night's entertainment in years, joined in the chorus. 'A fight! Give us a fight!'

Wrenching herself free of Hrothgar, Erica clasped her hands at her breast. 'Please, my lord, let me choose. What sense in permitting two of your finest to wound themselves? We shall need
every
man in the coming conflict, when we fight as one.' Beside her, the warrior Saewulf shifted, but he said nothing. The warmth of his body was oddly comforting.

Hrothgar snorted. 'My skin is not at risk, my lord. This
boy
is all ambition and no staying power.'

Thane Guthlac exchanged grins with his champion. Ice trickled down Erica's spine--she was certain her request was about to be denied. 'My lord,' she rushed into speech, 'I do not relish the thought of Saxon blood being spilled on my account. If I agree to your terms, why make them fight? The bloodfeud will have ended, your honour will be satisfied, and your men and mine will have new allies against the Normans.'

'Who would you choose?' Thane Guthlac scratched his neck, his tone so casual, so idle, it was nothing less than an insult.

Swallowing down a rush of rage, Erica reached blindly for the brown homespun of Saewulf Brader's tunic. 'This one,' she murmured, praying her instincts were not letting her down. As her fingers curled into the fabric, they closed on hard muscle beneath. 'I would choose this one.'

'H
e is not nobly born, my lady,' Hrothgar hissed in her ear.

Erica shrugged. 'I care not. If I am allowed a choice, I choose this man.'

'Oh, but it is worse than that, my lady.' Hrothgar's lips curled and he shot the young man standing stiffly at Erica's side a disdainful look. 'Brader is a bastard.'

Saewulf Brader's jaw tightened, but he did not refute Hrothgar's accusation.

It certainly was shocking, in a day when to produce a child out of wedlock was deemed one of the greatest sins a woman could commit. Erica's breath caught as it struck her that, after tonight, that might be her fate. She sent another prayer winging heavenward that, whatever happened tonight, she must
not
conceive. And another, that Thane Guthlac would give her to the younger housecarl. Saewulf Brader's birth was nothing set against her desire, her very
strong
desire, that she should
not
be given to Hrothgar.

Dimly, Erica was aware of more muttering down the table, more calls of, 'Let them fight! A fight!'

She kept her gaze pinned on Guthlac Stigandson. 'Please, my lord, for the respect you felt for my father, I ask you in acknowledgement of the respect he had for you. Let me choose.'

Her thoughts moved swiftly.
And now
, she told herself,
no more words, lest you begin to beg
. For she misliked the look of Thane Guthlac's right-hand man. Neither in his words nor his manner did Hrothgar appear to be someone who would consider a woman's feelings. But this other whose tunic she could not seem to release...this younger man who, though low in the pecking order, had spoken up for her. It was little enough to judge a man by, but what else had she to go on? The ridiculous realisation that, even in this hall, on this most hideous of nights, she found Saewulf Brader attractive? Those thickly lashed blue eyes seemed to be the only eyes in the hall to see her, to really see her; his wide shoulders suggested that here was a man strong enough to share her burdens; the fine-boned fingers clenching and unclenching on his swordhilt hinted at a sensitivity she would not have looked for in a warrior loyal to Thane Guthlac.

She must be losing her wits. For even in the midst of her humiliation, she found herself drawn to this Saewulf Brader.

Thane Guthlac was stroking his beard, making much of coming to a decision. Erica swallowed down a bitter taste. She was only too conscious of the men on the benches holding their breath, awaiting his judgement. Her fate, the question of whether she was to be given to Thane Guthlac's champion or his rawest recruit, was little more to most of them than an evening's entertainment. A minstrel or a dancing girl would have been received with like interest and with as little concern.

Biting back a tart response, Erica gripped Saewulf Brader's brown homespun for all she was worth. She lowered her gaze, for, if Guthlac Stigandson saw the anger that must be burning in her eyes, he would surely give her to Hrothgar. She wanted to fly at her father's old enemy, kicking and screaming; she wanted to turn tail and run. But one thing weighed more than her anger at Thane Guthlac--her determination that Morcar, Hrolf and the others should not rot in that noisome cottage. Add to that her hatred of Normans and her vision that the two warbands should unite against those who had stolen her father's lands...

She stood firm, it was all she could do. Erica of Whitecliffe was at the mercy of Thane Guthlac's whim. And to think that the men watching so avidly were fellow Saxons...

Thane Guthlac pushed up her chin. 'Lady Erica, you are a brave woman, you do not weep and wail, you are a daughter a man could be proud of--a peace-weaver.' He waved at Saewulf Brader. 'Take Thane Eric's daughter--this night a true-born lady is yours.'

A sigh rippled round the hall like the wind in the reeds, but Erica barely heard it. She dragged in a breath.

At her side the dark head bowed briefly. 'Thank you, my lord.' Saewulf Brader spoke quietly and without triumph. Her heart warmed to him. Then blue eyes were looking into hers and he offered her his hand. The palm was callused from much swordplay and for a moment she blinked at it. 'Lady Erica?'

Erica managed to release the death grip she had on his tunic and strong fingers closed on hers.

'No!
No!
' Ailric renewed his struggles with his captors, but a sharp elbow to his stomach had him rolling in the rushes, gasping for breath like a landed fish.

Thane Guthlac grinned briefly in Ailric's direction before transferring his attention back to Saewulf Brader. 'You may...rest in the storeroom tonight.'

Saewulf Brader's grip tightened and he led her towards a small door to one side of the hall. Laughter erupted behind them. The blood rushed in Erica's ears.

'My apologies, Hrothgar,' she heard Guthlac say. 'Despite the feud, I find I have some liking for that girl. She is courageous--for a woman.'

Hrothgar let out one of his snorts and signalled for more ale. 'I care not. Truth be told, the wench is too tall for my taste anyway.'

In a daze, in which Erica could not have told whether relief or trepidation held the upper hand, she watched Saewulf Brader's lean fingers reach for the door latch. The storeroom door swung open, a dark space opened out before her, and he gestured her inside. Thane Guthlac's laughing response to Hrothgar, the retching noises Ailric was still making, and the noise and babble in the hall faded.

Blackness, shadows. Erica held down a groan and her steps slowed--she had a hearty mislike of the dark.

The wooden lintel was so low that Saewulf Brader was ducking his head as he followed her in. He glanced frowningly around the ill-lit, cramped space, which was almost entirely taken up with barrels and narrow-necked clay jars, before his gaze ran slowly over her face.

'Dark,' Erica muttered, hugging herself, and hating that he should see this weakness in her. 'Too dark.'

'Wait here, my lady, I will bring light.' The shadows retreated as he opened the door and stepped back into the hall. When he closed it behind him, they advanced again.

Erica stared through the gloom at the rectangular sliver of light around the edge of the storeroom door. Her heartbeat was erratic, her hands were shaking. She curled them into her skirts.

Wait here? Where else might she go? she wondered, wildly. Hysteria was a breath away. Staring at the cracks of light, she strove for calm. He would not hurt her, not this one. Might he hurt her--had she misread him? But, Sweet Mother, how she hated the dark.

In the hall a dog yelped, another snarled. She heard the murmur of voices, muffled by the door, the scrape of a stool leg on the floorboards. She could no longer hear Ailric.

Calm, Erica, calm. He does not seem cruel. He--

The door swung back and a broad-shouldered form stooped to enter--Saewulf Brader with a flickering oil lamp and a bundle. Another, slighter shadow darkened the doorway, and a thin pallet was heaved onto the floor, next to a barrel.

'My thanks, Maldred,' Saewulf Brader said.

The door shut, cutting off another burst of laughter.

He set the lamp on top of the barrel along with a couple of tallow candles. 'We will save those for later.'

Later. Erica's breath froze. Later.

He faced her. Smiled. There was so little room that he was scarcely a foot away from her. He was very tall, this man to whom she had been given, his head almost touching the planked ceiling. And, now that he stood close, Erica could see that he did indeed look young. She clung to the thought that she was most likely his senior, by a couple of years at least. How ridiculous that this thought should give her ease. Saewulf Brader's skin was smooth and his eyes were clear, the blue rimmed by a charcoal-coloured ring. And he was, she realised with a start, examining her with equal attention. Convulsively, she swallowed.

'Do not fear me. You are safe,' he said, softly.

'I...I thank you.' Absurdly, she believed him.

'Do you reckon the ale will spoil if I shift this? We need elbow space to sleep in.' He nudged a barrel with the toe of his boot, and, without waiting for her reply, set about moving it to one side. His voice took on the edge of laughter. 'Guthlac will have me pilloried if I spoil his ale.'

Strong muscles bunched and shifted under his tunic. A tunic that, now Erica had leisure to study it, she saw was simple in design, a brown worsted with no embroidery either at cuff or hem. A straightforward weave, it had once been of a reasonable quality, but it had seen better days. His belt was wide and simple, had no fancy pattern chased into the leather. His chausses were grey. Long boots hid most of his cross-gartering, but she caught a discreet flash of blue. But why did he have no arm-rings?

Erica backed against another barrel to give him room to manoeuvre. Saewulf Brader was, she recognised as she swallowed hard on the lump in her throat, the image of health. He should have won at least a couple of trophies. But his lack of arm-rings was not uppermost in her thoughts. Young men, healthy young men were, in Erica's admittedly limited experience, not entirely reliable where women were concerned. This she had learnt from listening to Ailric and Hereward. Even when Ailric had hoped to become her betrothed, he had visited the tavern girls by the docks in Lewes.

Until today, Erica had led a sheltered life--her high status had protected her. Physically, at least. Politically, of course, she was far from sheltered. A favoured only daughter, many was the night that she had sat at her father's board listening to his men; many a time she had joined in their debates. Which was how her father's housecarls had come to heed her counsel when news had come of Thane Eric's death. Physically though, she remained naive. Even though Erica had fled Whitecliffe with her father's men, and had been living the life of an outlaw ever since, they remained extremely protective of her. Not one of her housecarls would dream of laying a finger on her. Physically, she was as chaste and innocent as a nun in an enclosed order.

Today that had changed. Erica had come to Thane Guthlac to end the bloodfeud. She was the sacrifice and she must personally make reparation for the slight suffered by Guthlac's mother.

Silently, she stared at Saewulf Brader's broad back as he worked and wondered what was running through his mind. He might have no arm-rings, but tonight he
had
been given a trophy. Her. Could she take him at his word? Could she trust him not to...touch her? He was--she must remember--Guthlac Stigandson's man.

'Saewulf?'

He ceased rolling a barrel closer to the wall, and glanced across. 'Hmm?'

'Wh...what have they done with Ailric?'

'Locked him up with your other man,' came the brief answer. Turning away, he continued clearing their sleeping space.

'Thane Guthlac would not harm them, would he?'

Again the blue eyes met hers. A shrug. 'I think not.' He rested an elbow on the barrel. 'This Ailric,' he asked quietly, 'you were to marry him?'

'I...I...at one time. Not now.'

'But there is...affection between you?'

Erica twisted her hands together. For her part, she had never felt anything more for Ailric than for any other of her father's housecarls. Ailric, on the other hand, had been wont to act as though she belonged to him. Not that that had prevented him from visiting those tavern girls with Hereward.

Guthlac's man smiled, and his expression softened. Erica's pulse quickened--he was extraordinarily well favoured when he smiled.

'Ailric certainly appears possessive where you are concerned.'

'Yes.'

'He will be angry after tonight.' A thoughtful look came over him and he sighed. 'I dare say he will wish to kill me. Such is the nature of a bloodfeud, so it continues, feeding on itself like yeast in a brew-tub.'

Erica bit her lip and glanced at the door. 'But you said that you would not...that you...you swore you would n-not...'

'Peace, my lady.' The blue gaze was steady. 'I will keep that vow. At dawn you will leave this chamber as pure as you were when you entered it.'

Again he smiled, and again Erica's heart warmed towards him, for taking care to reassure her. His mouth was beautiful, she thought, disconcerted. One could see more of a man's expression when he was not hiding behind a beard as was the Saxon fashion. And certainly in Saewulf Brader's case, the lack of beard was far from unattractive. The curve of his mouth and the shape of his jaw--strong...

Presenting his back to her, he rolled one of the barrels in front of the door, grunting with the effort. 'And before you object...' His voice was amused, though how on earth Erica could tell that she could not say. Saewulf Brader was Guthlac's man, a stranger, yet already she knew when his voice was smiling. 'Before you object, my lady, I am putting this here to ensure that you may sleep in privacy this night. It is not there to keep you imprisoned.' Straightening, he dusted his hands on his thighs.

'Saewulf?'

He came close, so close that she had to tip back her head to look up at him. 'My friends call me Wulf.'

'Wulf.' Erica gave him a shaky smile and broke eye contact. Wulf. It suited him. And, since January was
wulf-monath
, the month of the wolves, it was fitting somehow. Sweet Lord, but he was tall. Having inherited her father's height, Erica was unaccustomed to looking up at a man; it made her feel...shy. And Wulf's proximity in the cramped storeroom made his physical presence seem overpowering. It was not simply his height; it was the width of his shoulders, the intensity of his gaze. If he wanted to, he would have no trouble in forcing her. But, thankfully, he did not appear to have any such intention. Her guardian angel must have been watching over her this night. This particular wolf was not of the ravening sort.

'Wulf...' she swallowed '...how apt.' The name Wulf was, however, a timely reminder. Here she was, a lone woman among a pack of wolves, and he was one of them--she must not forget that. However personable Seawulf Brader appeared, she must keep in mind that he was Thane Guthlac's man.

'Apt? Oh, I see, of course, you would think that. It is
wulf-monath
--you must feel you have been flung into a den of them.'