His Captive Lady. Carol Townend

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      ‘Very like. It resembles the ones that William of Normandy built in London and Winchester, before he brought in his Frankish stonemasons.’

      ‘And Guthlac has used wood throughout?’

      ‘Aye. It is …’ Ailric’s eyes lost focus as he recalled the details. ‘It is as well built as any I have seen. The palisade looks impenetrable and there are walkways and sentry posts around the tower. It dominates the marshes for miles around.’

      Hereward grunted. ‘Guthlac always was a prideful fool, to draw attention to himself by such means. Soon every Norman in East Anglia will discover its location. Ailric tells me that by night the place blazes with more lights than King Harold’s palace at Bosham ever did.’ The housecarl gave Erica a straight look. ‘You cannot mean that we should ally ourselves with such as he?’

      ‘Indeed I do.’ Erica stiffened her spine. ‘Guthlac is our only hope.’ She made herself smile at Ailric, and prayed that he would not sense the doubts in her. ‘Ailric, you will accompany me, tomorrow at dawn. You will take me to Guthlac’s…castle, where we will discuss the terms of an alliance.’

      An appalled silence filled the cottage. It was broken only by the popping of willow logs on the fire and the wind combing the reeds outside. And then Hereward and Siward bounced to their feet, the young housecarl and the old, united in their horror at what she was proposing.

      ‘Tomorrow? No, my lady!’ This from Hereward.

      ‘Lady, no, you cannot forget the feud!’ This from Siward. His gnarled hand had gone straight to his sword hilt.

      Rising to move round the fire, Erica put her hand on Siward’s and gently peeled it from his sword. ‘The time has come for us to put it to rest.’

      ‘But, my lady!’ Hereward was practically spluttering into his beard with outrage. ‘The feud is as old as I, older! It was old in my father’s time.’ Glaring at Erica, his eyes were hard and indignant. ‘You cannot simply dance into Guthlac’s lair and expect such a feud to be ended. I told you,’ he muttered in Siward’s direction, ‘that to pass Thane Eric’s authority on to his daughter was a mistake. The woman does not live who understands the sacred nature of a bloodfeud.’

      ‘Sacred? Enough!’ Erica made a chopping motion with her hand. Her jaw was as set as the jaw of the young man quivering in front of her, her determination was as grim. It had to be, for this, she was convinced, was the only way forwards. She drew herself up to her full height. ‘Hereward, you forget yourself. I know full well the import of the bloodfeud—have I not grown up with it? Did I not lose my cousin to it? I will not waste breath discussing the futility of his death to a fellow Saxon on the very eve of the Norman invasion. I know how you men…’ she looked into each and every silent face around the fire and poured scorn into her voice ‘…do value this…squabble. And squabble it is, however you might choose to glorify it. You say it is a matter of honour. Honour? I call it pathetic. One of Guthlac’s men slighted one of ours, and in revenge one of our men slighted one of their women, on and on and on it goes. Why, this feud stretches back in time so far—’

      ‘Theirs was the first slight,’ Siward said confidently.

      Erica looked coldly at him. ‘Was it? You were there yourself, were you?’

      ‘We…ell, no, my lady, not exactly, but I do remember Maccus telling me that Hrothgar’s father—’

      ‘Siward, be silent! This feud between Guthlac’s family and mine has run for generations. Be honest, no man living can remember the original slight.’

      Solveig, Erica’s maid and companion, and the only other woman in their camp, stepped quietly out of the shadows. ‘I was told that some years back it re-ignited when Waltheof despoiled Guthlac’s mother.’

      Erica drew her head back. That she had not heard, but it could not be true—surely someone would have said something to her, if such a dreadful thing had indeed happened. ‘No, no.’ There was no one here who might testify to the truth. A distant relation of Erica’s, Waltheof had been killed at Hastings alongside her father.

      Solveig’s soft voice continued. ‘Whatever the original cause of the feud, my lady, if such a thing did happen to Thane Guthlac’s mother, Thane Guthlac would have little reason to love you.’

      Ailric took Erica’s hand. ‘Solveig is in the right. Erica, if you walk into that…that den—I cannot allow it.’

      The wind rattled the reeds outside. Erica looked down her nose at the man she might have married and slowly withdrew her fingers from his clasp. If she was to have her way in this, she must draw on her authority. And she must have her way on this, if they were to survive. ‘You cannot allow it? Ailric, who are you to command me?’

      Again, Ailric reached for her hand, but she twitched it away, hiding it in her skirts. ‘Erica, think.’ His voice cracked. ‘Do not make me do this. It is not what your father would have wished.’

      Turning her back on him, Erica stared into the heart of the fire where the bright flames flickered like pennons. Her skin was icy—why could she not feel the heat? ‘Ailric, you forget yourself,’ she murmured, for his ears alone. ‘I am not your betrothed for you to command me in this manner, I am not your chattel.’ Putting strength in her voice, she lifted her head to address the entire company. ‘My mind is fixed. Tomorrow at first light, we go to treat with Thane Guthlac.

      ‘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.’

      Chapter Three

      Thane 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 СКАЧАТЬ