His Captive Lady (9 page)

'My thanks.'

With a brusque nod, he spread a blanket across the floor, rolled into his cloak and pointedly stretched out full length with his back to her. He stared at a star the lantern was casting on the hut wall. 'My lady, if I might suggest...?'

She sighed. Rustling noises suggested she was settling down for sleep.

'Keep your boots on this time, my lady--lest we are disturbed.'

'Don't worry, I intend to.'

More rustling. The star on the wall grew faint and the darkness thickened. Wulf sensed rather than felt her body shift close to his. So, she did trust him. He became aware of a softening sensation in the region of his heart and closed his mind against it. Any softening towards Erica of Whitecliffe would be disastrous, given his allegiances. His lord was planning to attack her would-be ally, and he had yet to learn how many rebels answered to her command.

'Wulf?'

A hinge creaked and before his eyes the star on the wall brightened and dimmed, brightened and dimmed; she was toying with the lantern shutter.

'Aye?'

'I know I did not seem so at first, but I am very glad you took me from the chapel. Will you be able to return me to my people?'

'If God wills it.'

'Thank you. Tomorrow, when I can see where we are, I will show you where we are lodged.'

Briefly, Wulf closed his eyes, shutting out the star on the wall. It was almost too easy.
Congratulations, Wulf, she trusts you. You are on the verge of achieving your ambition.
He would not think about the hollow feeling in his stomach. He curled his fingers into his palms.

'Wulf?'

'My lady?'

'It concerns me that Thane Guthlac still holds Ailric and Hereward. How likely is he to take his anger out on them?'

Very likely.
'I cannot say. But it was a choice of freeing either you or them, I could relieve only one of the guards. To have attempted more would have been to court failure. I am sorry I had to leave them behind.'

Clothing rustled. He sensed her turning towards him, and caught a whiff of sage from the soap he had lent her. 'Wulf, why did you do it? Why steal me from under Guthlac's nose?'

Wulf's stomach lurched. He opened his eyes and gazed blindly at the star.
Because I have the layout of Guthlac's hideout fixed in my head and I aim to discover the strength of
your
force. Because I am ambitious. I was not born to rank and position like you, ambition is all I have.
Yet even as that last thought came, he wondered if he were lying to himself.

A week ago Wulf had known exactly where he stood, he had known his place in the world. A week ago everything had been black and white; he had been led by his ambition. Simple. But since meeting Erica, no,
Lady
...hell. He could not fathom it, but she was Erica in his mind. And since meeting her, the ground was shifting under his feet, his priorities were no longer clear. Wulf was beginning to think the unthinkable--perhaps exceeding his orders in order to gain recognition was
not
what he should be doing.

God save him, of all the times to question his priorities, the very moment when preferment was within his grasp was exactly the wrong moment to start.

'Wulf? Did you get me out of there because you disapproved of the bloodfeud?'

'Something like that. Unnecessary bloodshed, endless fighting--it is nothing less than sinful.' That at least was the truth. Wulf did not hold with endless fighting whether it was between Saxon and Saxon, or Saxon and Norman. It impoverished everyone, whatever their rank in life. This was in part why he had attached himself to William De Warenne. His lord was one of the few Normans powerful and ruthless enough to bring peace to his portion of England. Ruthlessness did have its uses. 'Too much blood has been spilled.'

She squeezed his arm, the contact so unexpected that his heart jumped. 'You are a good man, Wulf Brader.'

The lantern shutter squeaked, the star dimmed, and Wulf stared unblinking and tight-jawed into the gloom. If she knew the truth...by her standards, he was about as far from good as it was possible to be. 'Go to sleep.' He had to clear his throat to continue. 'We take to the water at daybreak.'

The hand lifted from his arm.

Wulf lay listening to her movements, her sighs. He could count her every breath. She was not warm enough, he surmised, as she shuffled and fidgeted and pulled at the blankets.

At length, when the rhythm of her breathing told him she was asleep, he turned to face her. With the light turned low he could not see her clearly, but the warmth of her breath caressed his face, so she had not turned away. Heart pounding as it did before a fight, he reached for the lantern and teased open the shutter. Was that what this was then, a fight? And if so, who exactly was he fighting?

A star of light fell on her cheek. Another adorned her hair, her shoulder...

Her cloak had slipped. Gently, he pulled it up. Even here in the shelter, the cold was so sharp he could see his breath and hers, mingling together. She murmured in her sleep and Wulf snatched his hand back. But he continued, head pillowed on his arm, to watch her.

Lady Erica of Whitecliffe. Pure Saxon. A thane's daughter no less. Proud and aristocratic, but she
trusted
him, even knowing as she did of his illicit birth.

A shaft of longing shot through him. She was beautiful, no man could deny that, but it was not her beauty that attracted him most--no, it was her frank acceptance of his birth. It was something Wulf had never looked for in a lady with her bloodlines. He bit his lip. She might accept his humble background, she might even name him honourable because she thought him principled. But once she discovered his Norman allegiances...

He rested his fingers, just the tips, on the braid that was tumbling over her shoulder. Yes, it was soft--he had known it would be. So soft, shining in the lamplight and black as the night outside.

Inhaling, he drew the fragrance of sage soap deep into his lungs. It was mingled with another, more elusive scent which tugged at his senses. A hint of juniper. Of
her
. Again, he inhaled. And then, before he could check himself, he was inching nearer. Quietly, softly.

They were face to face. So close that Wulf could see the dark lashes lying on her cheeks; so close he could count the freckles on her nose; could plant the lightest of kisses--no!
No!
Erica of Whitecliffe was not for him, and never would be. He might consider himself responsible for her, but he must remember it was a temporary responsibility, it would soon be ended. Wulf could not become attached to anyone, not until he had succeeded in fulfilling his ambitions, and even then Lady Erica would remain as far above his touch as the stars that were hiding behind the clouds in the bleak East Anglian skies.

Wulf drew back, confused as to where his thoughts were leading him. She murmured in her sleep. And then she rolled and her limbs entangled with his, her head lolled onto his chest. His breath caught. He made a half-hearted attempt to ease away, but she gave a sleepy protest and pressed closer. They were both wound in their cloaks, but the full softness of her breasts was a forbidden joy, pressing into his side. The pleasure he felt was mingled with pain, and Wulf knew the first stirrings of a desire not only to have, but also to hold.

Her body drew his, irresistibly, as his seemed to draw hers. It sapped his will. Erica is seeking warmth, Wulf told himself. She is asleep and her body is drawn to mine for the warmth. He remembered that she had only recently broken a three-day fast, and it was a simple matter to convince himself that it would be cruel to awaken her and set her away from him.

And from there it was a small step, a very small step, to allowing himself to put his arm round her and draw her close. Better. Much better. A pain he had not known he had been carrying eased.

Turning his nose into her hair, he inhaled that tantalising scent. In this manner Wulf floated towards sleep, a small smile playing about his mouth while he ignored the message his head was giving him:
I am a Norman captain, she is sworn against me.

In a shadowy corner of Wulf's mind, however, a less pleasant thought was biding its time. For the moment he was managing to ignore it, but soon that would be impossible. Erica of Whitecliffe would loathe him when she discovered his real purpose in the fens.

But this night at least, she thought him honourable--a true, loyal Saxon. So. For the moment he would make the most of her approval; he must simply ensure that, when she did discover the truth, he was long gone. Wulf did not want to see the hatred leap into her eyes when she realised that he was on a reconnaissance mission for William De Warenne, Lord of Lewes; he did not want to be around when she learned he was a Norman captain. But in the meantime...

Wulf stroked her hair; her ears were cold. He tugged up the hood of her cloak. In the meantime, he would do his best to keep her warm. A Saxon lady slept in his arms, a gently bred, beautiful woman. A week ago he would not have dreamed it possible. A sigh escaped him; they only had till dawn.

T
he birdcall roused him.

Daybreak. Erica had not moved from Wulf's embrace, but nestled against him fast asleep, her breathing even and unhurried. She felt warm and soft, the most womanly lady in the kingdom, the most comely. Wulf leaned his cheek against her hair and breathed in a complex tangle of scents: woodsmoke from the fire, the tang of sage and, beneath that juniper, the subtle, tantalising fragrance that belonged to her. Erica. Closing his eyes against a futile wave of longing, Wulf let his lips whisper over her cheek. It was beguilingly warm. He set his jaw and carefully turned his head away. A thane's daughter was not for a Norman captain.

The birdcall came again, deep and booming; it was getting nearer. A bittern? Wulf frowned, listening harder, yes, definitely a bittern. It was the signal he had been waiting for.

A greyish light was filtering around the leather door. Unfolding his cloak from about them, he lifted a beringed hand from where it had been resting on his chest and eased away, carefully placing her head on a folded section of blanket. She did not stir; she did not so much as murmur. It astounded him that she could sleep so unguardedly in his arms. She was far too trusting.

The bittern boomed again, closer yet. Wulf tore his gaze from the gentle curve of her cheek; he had better hurry. Lucien of Arques would be waiting to carry his report back to De Warenne's sergeant.

Creeping on his hands and knees to the entrance, praying she would not waken, Wulf pushed past the flap and headed for the fire-pit. The sky was clear, a perfect blue dome, and the sun remained low, hidden beneath the tree-line. It cast long thin shadows, like bars, across the frosty ground.

In the night the ice had taken over yet more of the waterway. If this cold spell lasted, in a couple of days' time, they would have to make skates to get about. Skating was rumoured to be a favoured method of transport in the fens during harsh winters. Before Wulf had come here he had dismissed the rumour as another fairy tale, but, having seen the watery nature of East Anglia for himself, he realised the idea might have merit.

At the fire-pit, there was ice in the bottom of the upturned cauldron and grey ash on the fire. There would be no hot water for Lady Erica that morning; the wood was damp and in daylight Wulf would not take the risk that the smoke might be seen. Their absence from the castle would certainly have been discovered and it was likely that Guthlac had men out searching for them.

He missed a step. Someone was sitting on a fallen tree trunk, but it was not Lucien; another lad sat there, hacking at a stick with his dagger. Wulf gripped his swordhilt. He recognised the boy from De Warenne's entourage, but he had had no dealings with him personally. Name of Gil, he thought. He dimly recalled him working in De Warenne's stables back in London. Gil had something of a reputation for playing tricks on his fellow grooms, which might explain why, at seventeen, he remained a stable-boy.

'Where's Lucien?' Wulf demanded, speaking in Norman French, for to his knowledge Gil could not speak English. His eyes quartered the perimeter of the clearing, ensuring no one else was about.

Gil got to his feet and stuck his dagger in his belt. 'Lucien is sick, Captain.'

'Sick?'

'Badly cured fish--he was puking his heart out all night.'

'I take it De Warenne's sergeant knows you came in his stead?'

The boy's eyes slid away. 'N...not exactly, sir. Lucien was afraid to tell him. "You go, Gil," Lucien said, "you must meet Captain FitzRobert in my place."' The boy shrugged. 'So here I am.'

'Your full name?'

'Blois, sir, Gilbert of Blois. I...I am sorry it is not whom you were expecting, but you may trust your message to me.'

'I hope so.' Wulf saw Gil's eyes flicker to his forehead, to the spot where Erica had near brained him with the chapel candlestick; he must have a bruise.

'You...you...Was there trouble, Captain?'

Ruefully, Wulf fingered his forehead; it was tender and he could feel a small bump. 'Nothing to speak of. A minor encounter with a candlestick.'

'Captain?'

'Never mind.'

'Sir...' the boy stepped forwards, eyes shining '...you will trust me with your message, won't you?'

Recognising ambition in the eager eyes, Wulf knew a pang of fellow-feeling. 'On one condition...'

'Captain?'

'Next time be sure to tell Sergeant Bertram of the change of plan.'

'But he might not have let me come, and I want to--'

'Prove yourself? I know, lad, but you should still have told him, it should have been Bertram's decision, not yours.'

'I am sorry, Captain.' Unexpectedly the boy's eyes lit with a mischievous grin. 'Does De Warenne know you're with her?'

'Her?'

Gil jerked his head in the direction of the fisherman's hut. 'That woman. When I saw you with her, I thought I had best not disturb your slumber.'

Wulf frowned; the thought that the boy had looked in on him and Erica as they had lain sleeping was disconcerting.

'A native, is she?' Eyes gleaming, Gil set about using the whittled stick as a toothpick.

Yes, the boy's manner was clearly why he had been overlooked; it was also the reason why he would continue to be overlooked. Gilbert of Blois might be a hard worker, but his humour bordered on insolence. Yet Wulf's instincts told him that he was honest and might be replied upon.

'Is it true, Captain--' Gil tossed his toothpick aside '--that the women hereabouts have webbed feet?'

'Enough, Gilbert! That is a tale for young children, you should not be believing it.'

'I heard it from my lord Eugene of Medavy.'

It was Wulf's turn to grin. 'Quite so. As I said, a tale for children. Now, if you are prepared to be serious, I will give you my report, otherwise...'

The boy's face lost its smile. 'Captain FitzRobert, believe me, I am all attention. Sergeant Bertram is eager for your report.'

'I know it.' Briefly, Wulf described the rebels' hideout and its location. He made certain he pointed out the castle's most obvious weakness--that it was built entirely of wood. He described Guthlac, too, stressing that pride was his biggest flaw; he estimated the number of warriors Guthlac had at his disposal and, finally, he mentioned Erica's men, Ailric and Hereward, prisoners in Guthlac's lock-up.

'Prisoners,
Saxon
prisoners?' Gil's jaw dropped. 'The outlaw has imprisoned his own countrymen?'

'Aye.'

'How so?'

Thus it was that with a bitter taste in his mouth, Wulf found himself telling Gilbert of Blois about the bloodfeud between Thane Guthlac Stigandson and Thane Eric of Whitecliffe.

Gil shook his head. 'It is most strange,' he said when Wulf had come to a close, 'to find Saxons at odds with one another like this.'

Wulf nodded; it
was
strange, to one unversed in Saxon ways. Even he, half-Saxon as he was, found it hard to comprehend. Tribal rivalries that flared up generation after generation--to a Norman they seemed primitive in the extreme.

'And that woman...' Gilbert nodded his head in the direction of the shelter '...she is involved?'

'She is Thane Eric's daughter.'

Gilbert's brow wrinkled. 'The heiress? And you rescued her? Then you and she--'

Wulf cut Gilbert off with a wave of his hand. 'It is not like that,' he heard himself say. 'Think, lad, her presence here means that Thane Guthlac is not the only Saxon figurehead taking refuge in the fens. Lady Erica has housecarls, too, men who once fought for her father. They come from near our lord's holdings in Lewes.' Wulf paused, aware of a reluctance to say more. Guilt ran its cold fingers down his spine. He felt as though he were committing some great betrayal, when in fact he was merely doing what he had set out to do when he had come to the fens--proving his loyalty to William De Warenne.

He had located Thane Guthlac and he intended to prove he was indispensable by locating Thane Eric's housecarls. He needed to explain that he wanted a couple more days to finish his investigation, but his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth.

'The Lady Erica has more men--other than the ones held by Guthlac?'

Wulf forced the words past his teeth. 'I believe so. She is the reason I did not make the earlier meeting with Lucien.'

'He did wonder. When you didn't show up, Lucien thought you might have been killed, but Sergeant Bertram had faith in you. He told Lucien you knew what you were about and that you
would
make today's rendezvous.'

Wulf grunted. 'Lady Erica arrived at Guthlac's castle on the morning of the first meeting, so I had to make a quick change of plans.'

'And now?'

'I escort the lady back to her men so that I may assess their capabilities. Listen, Gil, this next part is most important. Tell Sergeant Bertram to get the archers to the butts as soon as possible. They are to practise zone-shooting in the Byzantine manner--he will know what I mean. In particular, they are to try for fifty and eighty yards. Ninety, if they can do it. They will need to practise until they can get the distance blindfold. And I mean that, blindfold.'

'Blindfold?'

'Yes. Oh, and they will be shooting fire-arrows, so make certain Bertram musters what is necessary. Now, repeat to me everything I have told you.'

Gil did so. 'Sergeant Bertram will be pleased with this report, Captain. Oh, and Lucien told me to be sure to tell you that De Warenne himself has arrived.'

Wulf's eyebrows rose. When Wulf had left Ely to join Guthlac, he had been aware that De Warenne had ordered the building of a temporary garrison there, and he knew that De Warenne wanted Guthlac dealt with, but he had received no hint that his lord would be joining them. 'De Warenne is in Ely?'

'He arrived yesterday with more infantrymen and archers--they are temporarily stationed at the garrison. Should you need to find it, the garrison is behind the tavern known as the Waterman.'

Thoughtfully, Wulf shook his head. 'I had not thought De Warenne himself would come farther north than London, but I am right glad he has brought more archers--we are going to need them.'

'The King has granted De Warenne lands in the north fens.'

That fitted, King William was no fool. A gift of lands to the north would ensure De Warenne's continuing interest in keeping the marshes clear of rebels. 'Do you return directly to Ely, Gil?'

'Aye.'

'Good. Since De Warenne has arrived, please tell Sergeant Bertram I will assess the strength of Lady Erica's force and report back to my lord directly. At the Ely garrison, you say?'

'Yes, Captain. The stockade has been thrown up at the top end of the high street.'

Wulf nodded his understanding. 'Be certain that either you or Lucien is waiting for me at the Waterman in, let us see, two days' time.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Where's your boat?'

Gilbert looked at a clump of willows. 'Other side of those bushes.' He turned to go. 'See you in two days' time then, Captain.'

Erica was crouching behind a log that was starry with hoarfrost, biting on her knuckles to prevent herself from crying out. She watched, dry-mouthed, as Wulf left the clearing with the Norman boy. She had not heard much, she had been too far away and her understanding of Norman French was poor, but she had heard enough.

Her mind was spinning.
FitzRobert? Wulf FitzRobert?
FitzRobert was a Norman name! No.
No.
This was not happening. Not Wulf! Icy fingers clutched her heart, and she knew her ears had not deceived her. His name was Wulf FitzRobert, not Saewulf Brader as she had been told. Worse, had not that boy named him
Captain
?

Wulf had lied to her, he was Norman, a captain no less. She had awoken to find him nuzzling her cheek, but he was a Norman! Wulf was a spy, and it was most likely he had just told that boy--that
Norman
boy--how to find Guthlac's castle. Chewing on her knuckles, oblivious to the chill clawing at her knees, Erica drew a shaky breath. Wulf was not Guthlac's man then, but William's, King William's. A most unsettling feeling of loyalty towards Thane Guthlac rose within her.

Wulf's real name was FitzRobert--why was this so hard to stomach?--and he answered to a Norman lord, a man called De Warenne. The lord's name rang a bell, but Erica's thoughts were so disordered by what she had heard that she could not place it.

She stared after the warrior who, up until a few moments ago, she had been beginning to trust. Sweet Mother, more than that, she had been beginning to
like
. She had thought him noble to risk angering Guthlac when he spoke out to prevent her disparagement. And when he had dragged her from sanctuary and brought her here, she had thought he might have a liking for her that matched hers for him. She had thought--simpleton!--he had left Guthlac's castle earlier that afternoon to prepare the abandoned hut for her, for
her
. She had not minded when he had kissed her cheek this morning; worse, she had liked it, had been on the verge of a response when he had set her aside.

Erica swallowed; how wrong she had been. Clearly the hut was the base for his spying activities. He had dragged her from Guthlac's lair not for her own well-being, but for his own ends. She set her jaw. Wulf FitzRobert--
Captain
Wulf FitzRobert--was about to learn that he was not the only person capable of lying and cheating.

She glared at the willows behind which Wulf and the boy had vanished. He wanted to escort her to her people, did he? He wanted to learn their whereabouts, more like; he wanted to discover their strengths and weaknesses as he had discovered Guthlac's.

Her lips tightened. Betray her, would he? Well, Wulf FitzRobert, she thought grimly, I will take you back to my people, but your reception will not be exactly as you anticipate...

The sun was hauling itself over the tops of the trees even as she looked, but it was a pale winter sun that brought no warmth. Eyeing the icy margin at the water's edge, Erica shivered, and wondered how long it would be before the whole of East Anglia was one vast web of ice.