His Captive Lady (6 page)

Erica's jaw dropped--he could read her so easily? She looked at the pulse beating in his neck and frowned. 'Wulf, I...I do thank you for your help. But I wonder...'

'My lady?'

'It is just that I am not certain why Thane Guthlac gave me to you and not to...to...that other one--his name escapes me.'

'Hrothgar.'

'Yes. Why did he give me to you when you made it clear then that you had no intention of...?' She tried unsuccessfully to hold down a blush and would have turned away, but a light touch brought her face back to his.

'That is easily answered. After tonight, my lady, you will find that your status has changed--no one will believe that you are chaste. It will matter not that I have not touched you, everyone will assume the worst. And because--' his hand fell away and steel entered those blue eyes '--because I am what I am, your disparagement will be the more certain, your fall from grace the more precipitate.'

'How so?' Erica's chest was tight; there was not nearly enough air in this storeroom.

Seeming to sense her discomfort, he eased back a pace, though his eyes remained cold. 'Did you not hear Thane Guthlac and Hrothgar? Not only am I new to the warband and untried in battle, but I...' He gave her a mocking bow. 'Thane Guthlac recalls me from my childhood in Southwark. He knows I am Winifred Brader's illegitimate son, and he has made sure that every man sworn to him knows me for what I am--a bastard, a
low-born
bastard.'

His cheeks had darkened and he was no longer meeting her gaze. Erica did not think it was shame that made him look away.
He imagines he will see scorn and dismissal in my face.
'Wulf?' She made her voice as gentle as she could. 'You could not help the circumstances of your birth.'

'Lady, did you not hear me? My parents' union was un-sanctified. A bastard will share your sleeping quarters this night. That is why Thane Guthlac permitted you to choose me.' He smiled, but his smile was bitter, and her heart ached.

'Your birth does not trouble me,' Erica said, frankly. 'I chose you over...?'

'Hrothgar.'

'Yes, him. Of the two of you, I knew at once who was the man of honour.'

Wulf shook his head and his dark hair gleamed in the lamplight. 'Lady, we are strangers.'

'I know you,' Erica said firmly. 'And you, Wulf Brader, will not hurt me. That tells me all I need to know.'

With a sigh, he stooped for the pallet, dragged it to the space he had cleared and flung his cloak over it. 'Lady, your bed.' Drawing his own russet cloak from the bundle he had brought in with him, he handed it to her.

'And you? Where will you sleep?'

'Here, by the door.'

The spot he indicated was small for a man of his proportions. 'There is little room.' Immediately, Erica blushed, and wished the words unsaid. They sounded almost like an invitation.

'There is room enough.'

Retreating to the pallet, she sank down on it and drew her cloak to her chin. She tried not to look his way. The cloak that she was lying on--
his
cloak--was thick and double lined, but there was no disguising that the mattress under it was thin and lumpy. For a moment Erica felt a longing for the fat, down-filled mattress of her box-bed at Whitecliffe, but she pushed the thought aside, and closed her ears to the harsh rustle of straw as she shifted on her crude bed.

It would be an uncomfortable night, Erica thought, recognising with something approaching astonishment that fear no longer gripped her. Her judgement of this man had been sound--she
could
trust him. He might be illegitimate, but there was no denying that Wulf Brader was an honourable man. Honour, she was fast learning, was not confined solely to the aristocracy.

She raised herself up on an elbow, bracelets jingling. 'Wulf?'

'Mmm?'

He was sitting on the floor, leaning against a barrel, pulling his boots off. Briskly he unbuckled his belt and set his sword close to hand. Erica's stomach lurched as he began unwinding the blue cross-gartering. She had never slept alone with a man. And Wulf's dark, almost sinful good looks, were having a strange effect on her; it would seem that they made improper thoughts leap into her head, unseemly thoughts that an unmarried Saxon lady had no business thinking, particularly since she had barely escaped ravishment at the hands of Hrothgar.

But Erica could not help herself, the thoughts kept coming. Thoughts about what it would be like to kiss such a man, one with penetrating blue eyes and a well-shaped mouth that had softened more than once when he had looked at her, a powerful man with a peculiar hint of sensitivity about him. Erica had never kissed a man, not intimately. Once, Ailric had attempted to steal a kiss in the Christmas before the Normans had come, but he had come to Erica with the reek of the ale-house on his breath and she had pushed him away very quickly. Her position as thane's daughter had spared her other men's attentions.

As Erica watched Wulf Brader prepare for sleep, the disconcerting intimacy of their situation stole her breath, and for a moment she forgot her question. Then she remembered. She was curious about him, his background, and not just what it might be like to share a kiss with him. It was quite ridiculous that she was having carnal thoughts and most unlike her. Still, it had to be better than dwelling on her current plight--hostage to the whim of Guthlac Stigandson.

'Wulf, you say you are but newly recruited--how came you to join Thane Guthlac?'

For a moment it seemed he was not going to respond, then he shifted and said, 'I was brought up in the port of London, near Earl Godwine's house in Southwark. That was where, as a boy, I originally met Thane Guthlac.'

Erica's eyes widened. 'Did you meet King Harold, too?'

Again, Wulf took his time answering. In the hall, the noise was lessening, save for the clatter and bang of trestles and benches as they were pushed back to the wall to make room for sleeping.

'Yes, but I do not like to talk of those days,' he said in a closed voice, and bent over his cross-gartering.

Erica nodded. She understood; she felt the same way herself. She also had met King Harold, both when he was an earl and, later, when he had been king. And, yes, it was indeed painful to recall former times, when a Saxon king sat on the throne of England, and when William of Normandy was but a minor princeling on the other side of the Narrow Sea. 'We all wish King William in hell,' she said. 'What loyal Saxon would not?'

Wulf shot her an impenetrable look and set the leg bindings aside. 'Goodnight, my lady.'

'Goodnight.'

Settling down once more on his cloak, Erica composed herself for sleep.

E
rica drifted awake some time in the dead of night, uncertain as to what had woken her. The lamp was smoking, its light was feeble, but there was enough of it to ward off her fear of the dark. Indeed, it was surprising that she had actually slept, for sleep had been elusive since coming to the fens. She had been ill at ease every moment since leaving Whitecliffe, even when among her men, yet sleep had taken her here in the heart of Guthlac's castle; it was very odd.

The smoke from the lamp was twisting upwards in a lazy spiral when she became aware that the barrel was no longer blocking the storeroom entrance and the door was ajar. She was alone!

Heart in her mouth, Erica bolted upright, clutching her cloak to her breast. Soft footsteps approached. The door creaked wide and a tall, broad-shouldered figure stooped to enter.

'Wulf!' The relief was so intense she almost laughed. 'Where have you been?'

'Did you think that I had abandoned you?'

Slowly she shook her head.

A dark brow lifted; it told her he thought her a very poor liar. 'You have my cloak, I was cold,' he said, showing her the blankets he was carrying. 'Go back to sleep.' He rolled the barrel back in front of the door.

'I was right to choose you, Wulf Brader,' she murmured as--wonder of wonders--sleep came to take her a second time.

Wulf stared into the flickering half-light created by the lamp. God, but these boards were hard as iron and just as cold, he thought, as he tried to find a more comfortable position. The lady considered that she had been right to choose him. Hah! If only she knew what she had chosen. Never mind that she was apparently bedded down with one of Guthlac's men--how would she react if she knew the whole truth? If she knew that Wulf was a Norman captain? What had she said--that she wished King William in hell? Hell indeed, Wulf thought, wearily scrubbing his face.

He wished he were a thousand miles away or, at the very least, back at the temporary Norman garrison that had been thrown up at Ely. He wished he had been given another commission,
any
commission, as long as it did not involve betraying Saxons or meeting a brave and beautiful thane's daughter who compelled him to help against his better interests.

Thankfully, with Lady Erica saved from real disparagement, he should be able to report to De Warenne's man and, with luck, return to the Norman base at Ely. Archers, he had decided, archers would be key to any successful attack on Thane Guthlac.

Meanwhile Lady Erica lay happily ensconced in his cloak, a small bump in the gloom, her breathing soft and even. Heaven help her, she trusted him. Given the precariousness of her position as the daughter of Guthlac's sworn enemy, that was nothing short of miraculous. He permitted himself the luxury of savouring that thought. She, a Saxon noblewoman, trusted Saewulf Brader--now there was a novelty. It was too dark for him to make out her features, but they had been engraved on his mind from the moment he had first seen her: that pale, delicate skin, the dark hair, so dark as to be almost the colour of jet, the straight nose, the freckles, the gentle curve of her mouth, the rosy lips. A beauty.

And brave, too.

He could imagine how her body would feel if he were to draw her into his arms. She would be warm; she would have long, straight limbs and her skin would be smooth and---

Enough! The Lady Erica might have reacted with calm courtesy to the fact of his lowly birth, but he had sworn not to touch her. If he did in truth touch her, doubtless her reaction would be quite different. Wulf must not delude himself, he must remember who he was and what he was doing in this noisome fen. He pulled the coarse blanket tightly about him. How those green eyes would fill with scorn if she discovered his real purpose here, if she knew where his true loyalties lay.

Casting a last look at the figure a few feet away on the floor, Wulf closed his eyes. The lady thought she knew him. In the gloom his lip curled. Lady Erica of Whitecliffe would not exchange the time of day with him if she truly knew him.

Not only was he a low-born bastard, he was a low-born
Norman
bastard; if that beautiful bundle of womanhood got wind of that, she would no doubt take to her pretty heels and, bracelets a-jingle, run screeching from the room.

Willing his muscles to relax--Saints, lying on these boards was a penance--Wulf's thoughts melted into one another. There was no point worrying what the Lady Erica would think of him once she realised his true role in Guthlac's entourage; there was no point already beginning to dread the look of hatred that would distort that lovely face.

He had come to East Anglia to discover the strength of the Saxon resistance; he had come to win favours for himself and make his way in the world. His gut clenched. Yesterday he had not known of Lady Erica of Whitecliffe's existence. Other men must surely answer to her--other outlaws, perhaps large numbers.
Merde.
He must find out, it would surely be useful for De Warenne to know. Because of her he had missed the first rendezvous, but, since he had missed it, he might as well make the most of things by discovering what he could about her people, they were rebels, too. That was why he was here; he must focus. And don't forget about those archers, he reminded himself, think about training for the archers...

The next morning on the platform outside the hall, Erica splashed her face in icy water from the butt. Wulf stood like a sentry at her side, wreathed in the clouds made by his breath. With a sinking feeling it occurred to her that she would be hard pressed to tell whether he was there for her protection or to prevent her from attempting to escape. It is still
wulf-monath
, she reminded herself.

In the bailey below, a long-robed priest was walking towards the wooden chapel, hands folded into the sleeves of his habit against the cold. He vanished inside. Erica eyed the adjacent buildings, one of which was apparently being used as a lock-up for Ailric and Hereward. The hut closest to the chapel had no windows, and guards were posted outside, stamping their feet in the chilly morning. That hut, she thought, that must be where they are.

The portcullis was firmly lowered and, from Erica's vantage point on the walkway at the head of the stairs, it was impossible to see whether their boat was moored at the jetty. The lake had iced over during the night, but a navigable passage remained in the centre of the waterway, a slim dark line dividing the frosted surface in two.

'Good morning, my lady.' Hrothgar's sneering voice broke into her thoughts. Erica's stomach lurched.

Thane Guthlac's second-in-command was leaning his shoulder on a doorpost, arms folded across his chest, watching her with an unsettling air of expectancy. Nodding at him, conscious of Wulf's hand hovering over his swordhilt, Erica dabbed her face with the edge of her veil and prepared to push past him.

Hrothgar shifted to block the hall doorway. 'You may no longer enter.'

'I...I beg your pardon?'

'You cannot return to the hall.' A pause, then, as an insolent afterthought, 'My
lady
.'

'I need to speak with Thane Guthlac.'

'He is busy. Get you into the bailey.'

Erica blinked. 'But...I do not understand. Our agreement...'

'What agreement?'

Gripped by a return of the nausea she felt whenever she stood in close proximity to Hrothgar, Erica swallowed. 'Th...that our people should come to terms. If I...' She shot a sideways glance at Wulf, whose blue eyes were fixed intently on Hrothgar's, and collected herself. 'Guthlac said that once the affront to his mother had been avenged...'

Hrothgar shook his head. 'Thane Guthlac has changed his mind.' Glancing at Wulf, he gave a thin smile. 'Perhaps my lord thought one night with a low-born bastard who had openly claimed he would not touch you was not enough disparagement.'

The nausea rose in Erica's throat and for a moment she could not speak. 'No!
No!
Thane Guthlac said--'

Hrothgar lifted his massive shoulders in a careless shrug. 'He changed his mind.'

Rage took her and she lurched forwards. 'You are loathsome!' Curling her hands into claws, she resisted the urge to rush at him, but Wulf must have read her first impulse, for he caught her arm.

'My lady.' Wulf's voice was calm and restraining, but Erica was not to be restrained.

'I must speak with Guthlac!' She shook Wulf off.

Hrothgar reached behind him and shut the door with a bang. 'I repeat, he will not speak to you.' He jerked his head towards the bailey. 'Go, Erica of Whitecliffe, there will be no collaboration between Thane Eric's housecarls and Guthlac Stigandson's.'

The blood thundered in her ears, her head throbbed. He meant it. She had lost her reputation--oh, Wulf Brader had not laid a finger on her, but it was as he had warned her: Wulf had not had to touch her for her to have been despoiled. When word got out that Lady Erica of Whitecliffe had spent the night closeted in a storeroom with a virile young warrior like Wulf Brader...and add to that the fact of his lowly birth, his
illicit
, lowly birth...

Briefly, she closed her eyes. No man of honour--she managed not to look at the prison hut across the yard--no, not even Ailric, would have her now. Stiffening her spine, reminding herself whose daughter she was, she glared at Hrothgar. 'Do you mean to tell me that what happened last night was for
nothing
?'

'Exactly so, my lady. You made a tactical error when you agreed so easily to your disparagement.'

Erica blinked. 'An error?'

An infuriating smile lifted Hrothgar's lips. 'Let me give you a hint. You should have struggled a little, or perhaps screamed--you weren't seen to suffer enough.'

Erica put her hand to her head. 'This is insane. Hrothgar, step aside. Let me speak to Thane Guthlac.'

'No.'

She darted a glance at Wulf, no, at
Saewulf
Brader. He was no friend of hers if he was complicit with this...this...

It was one thing to agree to be humiliated if it ensured that her warriors could at last unite with Guthlac's against a common enemy; it was one thing to have been humiliated if it brought the rest of her people to safety--but for it to have been for nothing,
nothing
...

She chewed the inside of her cheek. But that, of course, was what Hrothgar was saying. For Guthlac's mother to be truly avenged, Erica's humiliation had to be complete, her degradation absolute. Even though she had not wanted to be degraded, the fact that she had agreed and had
chosen
Wulf, this had in some way diminished Thane Guthlac's act of revenge.

Wulf's face was unreadable, but the knuckles of his hand were white on the hilt of his sword. The tension in the air was palpable--Guthlac's two housecarls had a hearty dislike of one another and made no secret of it. But this was not the moment to dwell on the petty jealousies of Thane Guthlac's housecarls...

She sucked in a breath and repeated her questions. 'Last night was
truly
for nothing, then?'

Hrothgar's smile widened. 'Quick, aren't you?'

'And you knew this, last night?'

At Hrothgar's shrug, she rounded on Wulf. 'And you, what about you? Did you know Thane Guthlac had no intention of honouring our agreement?'

The blue eyes were fastened on Hrothgar, but he answered readily enough. 'I did not know, my lady, but since it has happened, I cannot say I am surprised.'

Staring at his profile as he watched Hrothgar, Erica wished she could believe him. Last night she had thought Wulf honourable. Last night she had thought to end the feud that had blighted her family and Guthlac's for generations. Last night, she acknowledged, she had been a hen-witted fool.

Dragging her cloak from the guard-rail, she flung it on. 'Very well. I shall leave,' she said, making her voice as cold as the wind that blew across the fens.

Hrothgar's eyes were equally cold as, slowly, he shook his head. 'Leave? I do not think so.'

Erica clenched her jaw; her cheeks were hot despite the frost in the air.

'I am come to escort you to the lock-up. Count your blessings, my lady, you are about to join your men.'

Stunned at Hrothgar's--at Guthlac's--perfidy, Erica's feet would not move. 'If I am Thane Guthlac's prisoner,' she managed, 'he is utterly without honour.'

Hrothgar simply stared.

This could not be happening, Erica thought wildly, she could not be held here. If she became Guthlac's prisoner, who would see that Morcar was cared for? And what about Solveig? And Hrolf? 'No, no, I have to return, my people need me!' They needed Ailric and Hereward, too. Without their boldest warriors, her diminished household would not survive the winter. Not when her father's other housecarls were hiding out deep in the fens...

'You should have thought of that before you came visiting. Now you must await my lord's pleasure.'

Hrothgar made to take her arm, but Wulf got there first. '
I
will escort the Lady Erica.'

In a daze, Erica felt firm fingers on her arm, as Wulf led her to the top of the stairs. She looked over her shoulder at Hrothgar. 'My people will not forget this,' she said, trembling with rage.

'Doubtless, they will not. Oh, and, my lady, one further point...'

Erica raised a brow.

'While you are waiting on Thane Guthlac's pleasure, think on this. Your father's death has done you no favours. Your position as leader of his men is untenable. Guthlac bids me ask you what lord worthy of the name would permit a
woman
to dictate terms to him? Think on that, my lady, before you question my lord's honour. Think on that while Thane Guthlac decides your fate.'

Choking down her fury, Erica turned away before she struck him. At the top step she gathered up her skirts and reached for the handrail. Wulf's touch on her elbow was steadying, but she only acknowledged him when they had gained the yard. 'My men?' she asked, in as haughty a tone as she could muster.

'In here, my lady.'

The prison hut was indeed the one next to the chapel.