The Laird's Captive Wife. Joanna Fulford

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      ‘A man like William won’t bother with such distinctions. Why, he even burned his own men at York.’

      ‘He could not have intended it. No commander in his right mind would destroy his own troops. ’Twas only that the fire burned out of control.’

      ‘He seemed to find it an acceptable level of loss all the same. The man holds life cheap.’

      She shivered, feeling the cold for the first time. By tacit consent they sheathed the swords and retrieved their cloaks from the foot of a tall oak. Then they began to retrace their steps towards the manor. Beneath their feet the snow, already ankle deep, scrunched with each step. It had come early this year and above them a lowering sky gave promise of more.

      As they left the shelter of the trees they paused, seeing movement on the road in the distance. Roused from her thoughts, Ashlynn saw a small group of people heading that way.

      ‘More fugitives from Durham, would you say?’

      Her brother nodded. ‘Aye, most likely.’

      The bitter weather must surely have rendered any journey unthinkable that was not undertaken from strictest necessity. It was a measure of their desperation that the people came anyway. As they drew closer she could see they numbered a dozen in all, men, women and children, their frightened faces pinched with cold. A few pitiful bundles contained all that they had been able to carry when they fled the city. Ashlynn’s compassion woke and, exchanging a swift glance with her brother, she saw the same thought reflected in his expression.

      ‘I’ll take them to the kitchen house,’ she said. ‘They’ll need hot food before continuing their journey.’

      ‘No, I’ll go. You’d best change your clothes before Father sees you.’

      Ashlynn nodded, knowing very well that he was right. She watched for a moment as he went to meet the refugees and then hurried off towards the women’s bower. She had only just reached her chamber when a servant arrived with a message.

      ‘Your father desires your presence, my lady.’

      Ashlynn grimaced, more than ever aware of her unorthodox appearance. Having dismissed the servant, she swiftly divested herself of leggings and tunic, and dressed again in her blue wool gown. Pausing only to tidy her hair and throw a mantle over her shoulders against the chill she made her way to the hall.

      Lord Cyneric had been sitting in his accustomed chair by the fire but hearing her step he looked up, his shrewd blue gaze appraising, surveying her in silence. Then he inclined his head.

      ‘Sit down, Ashlynn.’

      Obediently she took the offered chair opposite and waited, wondering what this meant. For a moment or two he said nothing, his weathered face thoughtful. Almost it was as though he were seeking the right words. His expression was more sombre than usual and for the first time she felt the vague stirrings of unease. Had he found out about the sword practices with Ban? Was she about to be rebuked again for unladylike behaviour? Would her brother get into trouble too? It wouldn’t be the first time, of course. As long as she could remember, their escapades had landed them deep in the mire. Her mind, following that track, was quite unprepared for what came next.

      ‘It is time you were married, Ashlynn.’

      For a moment she was rendered speechless and could only stare at him.

      ‘We live in dangerous times,’ Cyneric continued. ‘For your own protection you must have a husband, and one well able to defend you.’

      She swallowed hard. ‘But I am under your protection, my lord.’

      ‘It may not be enough. The situation is dangerous and getting worse.’ He paused. ‘I would see you safely settled. Heaven knows you’ve had suitors enough. Yet at eight and ten you are unmarried still.’

      Her face grew hot. It was true. By rights she should have been married long since. ‘I never met a man I liked well enough.’

      ‘You have had plenty of time to choose, but you have not done so. Now the circumstances force me to choose for you.’

      Her heart lurched. ‘My lord?’

      ‘The Thane of Burford has asked me for your hand several times already and—’

      ‘Burford!’

      The name brought her out of her chair. In her mind’s eye she could see the man for they had met several times during the celebratory gatherings for Yule and Beltane. Older than her by ten years he was of average height with a stocky frame and, like many Saxons, his colouring was fair. He was unfailingly attentive and courteous yet nothing about that homely, bearded face attracted her in the least.

      Her father fixed her with a piercing gaze. ‘He is much smitten with you, Ashlynn, and it’s my belief he will make you a good husband.’

      She shook her head. ‘I do not love him, my lord.’

      ‘It is not necessary to love your future partner in life, only to respect him. The rest will come later when you know him better.’ He paused. ‘You are a pretty wench, enough to twist any man around your little finger if you wished to.’

      Ashlynn took a deep breath, fighting panic. ‘I don’t want to twist Athelstan round my little finger. I don’t want to get to know him better!’

      She had only ever behaved towards him with the requisite good manners though his interest in her had been clear from the first. She had never encouraged it knowing she could not return the sentiment. The thought of receiving much closer attentions from him was inconceivable.

      ‘Ashlynn, listen to me—’

      ‘No! I am not some chattel to be handed over thus.’

      ‘I would not give you lightly to any man. Athelstan is worthy and he has been most constant in his affection for you. He will treat you well.’

      ‘I will not agree to this.’

      ‘My word is given. You will be married at Yule.’

      The blue eyes widened. Yule was only a few weeks away. ‘No!’

      Lord Cyneric’s jaw tightened but he held his temper in check. ‘There is no time to be lost. Burford’s lands lie further off some five days’ ride, and he has at his command a large force of men under arms. He will protect you.’

      ‘But I—’

      ‘No more argument, Ashlynn. You will marry him and there’s an end. This year our accustomed Yuletide feast will be to celebrate your wedding. Afterwards you will leave with your new husband.’

      ‘My lord, please…’

      ‘Enough. I am the head of this household and I shall be obeyed.’

      If the tone had not been enough to convince her of the futility of further argument one look at that implacable expression was. Ashlynn turned on her heel and ran from the room, ignoring the exclamation that would have demanded her return. Half-blinded by angry tears she had no real idea of where she was going, only of a need to be СКАЧАТЬ