His Captive Lady (7 page)

And the chapel was barely a yard away.

One short yard
, Erica thought, her heartbeat speeding up. Wulf was not looking at her, he was nodding at the two guards by the prison hut, gesturing at them to unbar the door.

Her mind raced.
One short yard to the chapel. She could claim sanctuary in the chapel! One yard.
Her heart thudded. She held back until Wulf had relaxed his grip on her arm and was waving her into the prison hut.

Quick as lightning, she whirled on her heel and darted in the opposite direction, into the chapel. Two candles burned on the altar, either side of a silver cross. The faint smell of incense lingered in the air, but there was no time to register more. Erica pelted up to the altar, skirting the priest. She glimpsed a gaping jaw and goggling eyes and dodged behind the altar table, chest heaving.

Wide shoulders filled the doorway. Wulf. He strode past the priest, boots loud on the beaten earth floor. Lean warrior's fingers reached past the cross. 'My lady...' his eyes glittered in the candlelight '...you cannot hide here.'

'No violence!' The priest stepped closer. 'No violence, sir!'

Wulf flung him a cold glance. 'None is intended.' He looked back at Erica, and flexed his fingers. 'My lady?'

Erica backed until her shoulders hit the planks of the east wall, and shook her head. 'I will not come, and you cannot force me.'

'No?' Wulf's voice was low and dangerous, his expression hard as granite.

She lifted her chin. 'Sanctuary, I claim sanctuary! Neither you nor Thane Guthlac can evict me from this chapel.'

'My lady...' Again, Wulf reached for her.

She batted his hand away and looked to the priest for support. 'You cannot force me, not now I have claimed sanctuary. Tell him, Father, tell him!'

Tossing back a dark lock of hair, Wulf frowned at the priest. 'Is this true?'

'I...I...yes, yes, indeed it is.' The priest's bald head gleamed. 'No one--not even a king--may violate sanctuary. She may stay here as long as she wishes.'

'My lady, think.' Wulf held that long-fingered hand out, palm up as he had done in Guthlac's hall. 'If you claim sanctuary here, you will be just as much Guthlac's prisoner as you would be in the prison hut.' Blue eyes searched hers. 'The only difference that I can see is that you will be alone. Come, take my hand, let me escort you to the lock-up. At least there you have your men to keep you company.'

Erica shook her head and her veil rippled about her. 'There is another difference,
Saewulf
Brader,' she said, stressing the formal version of his forename to distance him from her. Last night, she had thought there might be a measure of amity between them, but after Guthlac's perfidy, she could not bring herself to use the more familiar version.

'And that is?'

He must realise she would never go with him, for his hand withdrew and he tucked his thumbs into his belt. Erica straightened her shoulders. 'It is an important distinction. Here in sanctuary, I am imprisoned on my terms, not Guthlac's.' She gestured imperiously. 'Go. Tell Thane Guthlac where I am, and be certain to emphasise why I have chosen to claim sanctuary here rather than imprisonment with my housecarls.'

Glancing pointedly about the chapel at the narrow window slits, at the rough-planked walls, Wulf leaned towards her. For a moment Erica imagined she read genuine concern in his expression. 'My lady, please think again, there is barely any light here.'

Erica waved at the altar candles, at the sanctuary flame. 'There is enough.'

'It is bitterly cold and like to snow any day. There is no fire. Nor is there any sanctuary rule that I know of that guarantees you sustenance. There is food and water in the lock-up, but here there will be none. Thane Guthlac will think nothing of starving you out.'

'Let him try.'

'My lady, it is January, you will not last long.'

'Go. Tell Thane Guthlac I have claimed sanctuary. We shall see then if he will speak to me.'

He held her gaze a moment longer before turning to the priest. 'Father, you are certain I may not remove her?'

'Not now she has claimed sanctuary, not unless you want to risk your immortal soul.'

Wulf nodded his understanding, shot one last look at her and headed for the door.

Biting her lip, Erica watched him leave.

The moment the chapel door clicked softly behind him, she shivered. She felt very alone, she felt--how ridiculous--as though she had been abandoned.
Stupid
, she berated herself,
stupid
. She made herself smile at the priest.
Look, you are not alone. And be thankful for the small mercies--there is light in here, there is light.

The priest's eyes were wary.
He looks at me as though I may sprout wings
, she thought.
No, it is far more likely he thinks I will grow a forked tail.
Conscious that her hands and legs were shaking, Erica's eyes fell on a convenient stool by the wall. Dragging it towards her, she collapsed onto it.

'Are you all right, my lady?'

'Yes, thank you. Father, what is your name?'

'Father Agilbert.'

'Father Agilbert. Well, Father, if you do not mind, I will rest here until Thane Guthlac...until...'

'Thane Guthlac is a proud man. He will not appreciate your summons.'

Raising her head, Erica met his gaze straight on. 'Do you know who I am?'

'Aye, you are Lady Erica of Whitecliffe. I know you are well intentioned, but your attempt at reconciliation is doomed.'

She sighed and rested her head against the chapel wall, watching him through half-closed eyelids. 'You should not be saying that, Father Agilbert. For surely that is tantamount to saying that Thane Guthlac will never treat with me and my people, that the bloodfeud will never come to a close.'

'That is what I believe.' Father Agilbert heaved a sigh. 'Much as I might pray otherwise. I think, my lady, that I am a realist where Guthlac Stigandson is concerned.'

'And I am not?'

The priest spread his hands.

'Father, will Thane Guthlac respect sanctuary?'

'I believe so.'

'Thank God.' Erica closed her eyes and leaned her shoulders against the wooden planking. She was Guthlac Stigandson's prisoner, but it was also as she had told Wulf--no,
Saewulf
, his name was
Saewulf
--here in the chapel, she was imprisoned on her terms, not Thane Guthlac's. There was comfort in that thought. True, it was watery gruel, but at that moment watery gruel was all there was.

A
t dusk three days later, Wulf was rowing back across the lake
towards
the rebel castle, cursing the fact that he was not rowing in the opposite direction. He needed to get De Warenne's archers to their practice butts, with all speed. What he was planning would be challenging enough in full daylight, but at night...

As he pulled on the oars, a heron looked across at him from the reed-fringed bank and, wings beating heavily, launched itself clumsily into the air.

Wulf was on borrowed time. Having missed the first meeting with De Warenne's man, Lucien, he had but one chance to make the next. De Warenne wanted the fens cleared of rebels as soon as possible--he would not thank Wulf if his intelligence was delayed. Like a warhorse with the smell of battle in his nostrils, De Warenne was champing at the bit...

That morning Wulf had left the rebel stronghold on Guthlac Stigandson's orders. 'Patrol the waterways, Saewulf,' Guthlac had said. 'Nose around. Keep a sharp eye out for enemy activity.'

Wulf had used the time he should have been patrolling to gather together supplies at a disused fisherman's hut. The hut stood on a small spit of land at the end of one of the lesser-known waterways. Some days earlier, Wulf had stumbled across it by accident, and the hut's relative inaccessibility had made him pick it for the meeting point. Lucien should be there at dawn tomorrow. Wulf could not afford to miss this rendezvous, which meant he must leave the castle soon. Thank God.

Except that--Wulf glowered at the approaching jetty--except that he could not help but wonder how Erica of Whitecliffe was faring in her sanctuary. It was none of his business, but his conscience would not let him rest until he had ensured there was no risk of her suffering the fate of his sister, Marie. And, of course, there was that other matter. What had happened to the rest of Thane Eric's warband? There had to be more than the two housecarls Lady Erica had brought with her--where were the others? It must be possible to use the lady to gain yet more information about them. Guthlac's outlaws were not the only Saxons in the fens who were plotting insurrection. Wulf's brow creased. These were the matters he ought to be considering; politics was his first priority, not the safety of a reckless Saxon noblewoman.

Tying his boat up at the end of a line of other, similar rowboats, Wulf vaulted onto the jetty. Lady Erica's vessel was still there, firmly secured in the middle of the line. Her pennon no longer fluttered in the stern, but, as he walked past towards the portcullis, he glimpsed it lying forlornly across one of the seats. Striding under the portcullis and through the palisade, he greeted the guard. 'Am I the last to return?'

'Aye.'

Outside the chapel, Wulf's pace slowed. Three days. He could not afford to be concerned about her personally, but he had not so much as glimpsed Lady Erica for three days, and as far as he was aware the only person to have spoken to her was the priest. The outlaw Guthlac had, as Wulf had anticipated, refused to treat with her. Not only that, but Erica of Whitecliffe had been forbidden food and drink. Was she cold? She must be.

As he stood rubbing his chin outside the chapel door, it swung open and Father Agilbert emerged. 'Good evening, my son.'

'Good evening, Father. Father...?'

'My son?'

'Lady Erica...is she...?' Wulf stumbled to a halt. What could he ask? Was she cold? Assuredly. Was she hungry? Certainly. But it would be her thirst that would be the worst. In the last three days, Wulf had spent more time than he could spare worrying about her when he should have been concentrating on his commission. The Lady Erica of Whitecliffe was a distraction, one that he ought to ignore, especially given that his time here had run out. Except that...except that...
where was her warband
?

Father Agilbert's mouth curved, and he held open the door. 'You may speak to her, my son. Thane Guthlac has not forbidden her visitors.'

Startled, Wulf met the priest's eyes. Kind eyes, he realised, not pompous and self-righteous, but eyes that were used to looking at human beings and seeing them, frailties and all. 'He has not?'

'Of course, since her two housecarls are under lock and key, no one has in fact been to see her, but...' the priest held the door an inch wider and lowered his voice '...it might help her if you went in, for I do not think she will back down. I fear that in her quiet way Lady Erica is as stubborn as Thane Guthlac. Do try to persuade her to come out. I have failed utterly.'

Nodding, Wulf stepped over the threshold. The latch clicked as the priest left.

Oddly, it felt colder in the chapel than out on the fen. The silence was unnerving, and the place was hung with shadows as what was left of the daylight squeezed through the narrow window-slits. A faint glow lit the east end, where in front of the sanctuary light Father Agilbert had left a couple of rush lights. Her dislike of the dark, he thought, she must have communicated it to him.

But where was she?

Rounding the altar table, Wulf drew up sharply. She was asleep, more beautiful even than his memory had painted her, lying amid an exotic tumble of church vestments and altar cloths. Her veil had been set to one side and her hair was tied in a loose braid--several tendrils had escaped and were curling about her temples. Her cheeks were pale as alabaster, her lips were parted, but her forehead was clear. Her pallor aside, she looked as though she did not have a care in the world.

Curiously reluctant to disturb her slumber and bring her back to reality, Wulf hooked a three-legged stool closer and sank onto it. Leaning his forearms on his knees, he linked his fingers and waited for her to waken. The vestments she was lying on were rich, encrusted with gold and silver embroidery. She has a bed fit for a queen, he thought wryly. She was almost too beautiful. As Wulf watched, something deep within him twisted.

After a time, she stirred, sighed and swallowed. Grimacing, she put her hand to her throat and opened her eyes.

When she saw him she bolted upright, bracelets jingling. 'W...Wulf! That is...I mean...
Saewulf
!' Hand still at her throat, she blinked and swallowed again.

Her throat had to be dry as dust. Three days and not one drop of liquid had passed those pretty lips. 'My lady--'

'Wh...what are you doing here?' she whispered hoarsely. 'I did not think to see you again.'

The thought was not a good one. Wulf caught himself wondering whether she would have wanted to see him again. What foolishness, to allow her to distract him like this...politics, he reminded himself, think of the politics.

'How are you?'

'Parched,' she admitted, continuing to massage her throat.

Wulf had taken a goatskin bottle out on patrol and had some weak ale left. With a swift glance in the direction of the door, he unhooked it from his belt. 'I have watered ale, my lady.' Carefully, he set it down on the floor by her feet. 'Yours, if you wish.'

She looked at it, licked her lips and swallowed. Then she nudged the waterskin back at him with her foot--it was a stockinged foot that peeped out from under the vestments, she had removed her boots and tucked them neatly under the altar. 'No, no, put it away, I must not drink.'

'My lady, you are pale. It is midwinter and you will be weakening fast. Please drink.' He nudged it back.

She shook her head and more of her hair broke free of its braid. Dark silk in gorgeous disarray. His mouth went dry. Was it as soft as it looked? Curling his fingers into his palms, for it was not for a Norman captain to discover the softness of Erica of Whitecliffe's hair, Wulf kept his voice even. 'No one will know, I will not tell.'

'No! If I drink, I will break the rule of sanctuary.'

Wulf's brow creased. 'I am not sure that is so, my lady. I am certain I have heard of friends bringing food and drink to those who have claimed sanctuary. And I have already told you, you might find a friend in me.'

Leaning forward, he took her hand and immediately felt such a
frisson
, he almost dropped it. It went clear to his toes. He frowned. In his entire life, a simple touch like that had never evoked such a response. Distraction indeed.

Their faces were but a foot away from each other. Her eyes were wide and she seemed to have stopped breathing. Wulf was having difficulty himself. She looked at his mouth and heat rushed to his groin. Wulf held down a groan. She was a lady, a Saxon
lady
. He must not think of her in this way. And of all the times to feel lust...Lord. He was disgusted with himself, it was wrong. Wrong woman, wrong time, wrong place...

He shuffled uncomfortably on the stool, and forced himself to concentrate on getting her to drink. In that at least he could be a true friend. 'Let me help you, my lady. Please drink.'

Her mouth was set in a stubborn line. Her eyes flickered briefly to his waterskin. Her throat had to be dry as desert sands, it had to be. Driven by some emotion Wulf could not begin to name, save that the thought that was uppermost in his mind was that Lady Erica
must
drink, he moved without warning.

Dropping to his knees amid the gleaming muddle of altar cloths, he pushed at her so she half-lay against the altar. Brutally, he pinched her nose, so she had no choice but to open her mouth. Her body he held in place with his knee.

Her mouth opened; nails dug into his wrist; and bracelets, warm from her body heat, chinked against his skin. 'Get off me, you oaf! Get off!'

Ruthlessly, he kept her head still, thrust the bottle at her mouth and tipped. The ale ran down her chin, darkening the rich purple of her gown. She spluttered, choked and swallowed; he definitely saw her swallow. He leaned over and tightened his grip. The tiny gold flecks flashed in her eyes. He tipped again.

More spluttering. More choking. More flailing about amid increasingly crumpled vestments.

'Why, you b--'

'Bastard?' Grimly, Wulf lifted one side of his mouth. 'As you say.' Gritting his teeth, he upended the waterskin again.

She swallowed again and again; it was either that or choke. And then, unexpectedly, she capitulated. It was as though, having tasted the watered ale, she could not help herself. Her grip shifted; her nails were no longer tearing the flesh from his wrist; she clutched at the neck of the bottle and drank deeply.

Removing his knee from her belly, Wulf rocked back on his haunches and let out a sigh. It troubled him that he had had to overpower her, but he had got some liquid down her and that was a relief. More of a relief than it ought to be. With a sigh, he pushed his hair out of his face.

She lowered the goat-skin and wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her gown. 'You
are
a bastard to force me,' she said, her voice falling quietly in the dim chapel.

He shrugged. 'It is dangerous to go too long without water.' Reaching out, he plucked the bottle from her fingers. 'It is also dangerous to drink too much at one sitting when you have been fasting. You may have more, later.'

Levering herself up to a sitting position, she leaned against the back of the altar. Three days and no food, she had to be weak.

'Are you dizzy? Faint? Do you have a headache?'

She looked away, jaw set. 'I will not eat when I am in here. Try to force food down me and I swear I will choke.'

'You will need your strength, for your people, perhaps. How can you help them if you are weak? Is that not reason enough to eat?'

Green eyes narrowed. 'Why should you care, Guthlac's man? Your lord made it plain that he will never treat with my father's men, so what possible interest could you have in the welfare of me or my people?'

More than you think, Wulf thought. Your people, though you do not know it, ought to be in the care of my real lord, William De Warenne. And they would be in his care, if they were back where they belonged at your father's holding near Lewes. De Warenne is not the devil you might think him, he looks after his own. But you, my lady, you and your people have become outlaws. And it falls to me to discover their intentions...

Wulf's heart felt like lead. He did not like keeping secrets from this woman; he did not like having to mislead her. Squaring his shoulders, he pushed himself to his feet. Mislead her he must, if he was to carry out his orders for De Warenne. And it was not merely his knighthood that was at stake here, as the mess that the Lady Erica had got herself into was proving so poignantly.

Wulf wanted peace. He wanted an end to the conflict between Saxon and Norman--his mixed blood cried out for it. He looked bleakly at the beautiful, bejewelled woman lying like a pagan queen amid the glitter of gold and silver embroidery, and knew that that was not the sum of his wants.

The bloodfeud had shown him that he also wanted an end to the feuding between Saxon and Saxon. And more than that, he wanted...Wulf turned his gaze away from the slender, well-shaped limbs partially concealed by Father Agilbert's altar cloths and shook his head. There, he could not go. 'This feud--'

Her face grew hard. 'Thane Guthlac will not parley, the matter is out of my hands.'

'You came here to end the bloodfeud. Were your people in full agreement?' Wulf posed the question idly, as if the answer was of little importance, but he found himself holding his breath, waiting for her reply.

'My people will follow my lead.' She waved a dismissive hand. 'But this conversation is pointless, since Thane Guthlac will never end the feud.'

Shivering, she drew an altar cloth over her legs and tucked it about her feet like a blanket. It was green and matched her eyes, green flecked with gold, the Trinity cloth.

Lifting a brow, Wulf set the waterskin at her side, lest she need it later. 'Isn't it sacrilegious?'

'What?'

'To sleep amongst the church vestments.'

'Father Agilbert did not think so, it was he who brought them out of that coffer, he said my cloak was insufficient to ward off the cold.'

Wulf nodded--yes, that fitted, Father Agilbert would want to help her. Damn it, he himself wanted to help her, which was, of course, given his priorities, nigh on impossible. There was something about Lady Erica that made a man want to help, something about that independent, responsible, yet fragile spirit.