His Captive Lady. Carol Townend

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СКАЧАТЬ had called Ailric could not; on the other side of the trestle, the veins were bulging in his temples as he struggled vainly to wrench free of his guards. The lady looked directly at Wulf, but her green eyes had lost their luster; they were dull as they had not been when she had first walked, head high, through that portcullis. The Lady Erica’s body might be here in this hall, but her mind and her soul had fled. It came to Wulf that already, though hardly a finger had been laid upon her, this woman was being scarred by what was happening.

      But surprised?

      Wulf gritted his teeth. No, the lady had definitely not been ignorant of the revenge that the Saxon leader might demand, she had known. Oh, she could not have been certain of the revenge Guthlac would exact on her, but she had recognised that her ravishment was a distinct possibility.

      She had hoped, perhaps, that Guthlac Stigandson would relent, but she had known the possibilities and—with stunning bravery—she had walked into this stronghold fully prepared to offer herself up so that the bloodfeud might end. She was desperate, so trapped she was prepared to be the sacrificial lamb.

      Stepping carefully round her, Wulf looked directly at Guthlac. The man’s gaze was as cold as fenwater. ‘My lord, I realise I am but a newcomer here, but I am bound to say that, however you dress it, this is not an honourable act.’

      Hrothgar’s lips curled. ‘Woman.’

      Wulf was not about to be distracted by such a crude attempt to draw his fire. ‘My lord?’

      Guthlac sighed. Now that his wife and her ladies had left the hall, some of the tension seemed to have left him. Perhaps all was not lost. Was it possible that the man possessed a shred of decency? Had he been ashamed to sanction such an act before his wife? Guthlac wanted his revenge, to be sure, but perhaps on one level he did not have the stomach for it. He had openly admitted to a grudging respect for the lady’s father…and yet, as leader, he could not back down without impugning his honour.

      The leader of a warband would not want to lose face before his men. And Wulf recalled that it had been Guthlac’s mother who had apparently been—what was the term they had used?—disparaged. Had she really been raped? Dear God, did two wrongs make a right?

      ‘Saewulf Brader…’ Guthlac released Lady Erica to Hrothgar and reached for his ale ‘…as you have not been long of our number, I shall once again overlook your questioning me. But let me assure you, the feud between Thane Eric’s family and mine is an honourable one. Why, even a man born by the docks in Southwark as you were, must have heard of such bloodfeuds.’

      Wulf nodded. ‘Indeed, my lord, but surely the honour that is satisfied in harming an innocent young woman is a pretty poor sort of honour.’ The image of his sister, pale as she lay on her bier, took form in his mind’s eye. No bloodfeud had caused his sister’s death, that had been an individual act of violence, one person on another, but in Wulf’s mind rape was rape. This woman’s tribe might sanction her sacrifice, but he could not. Lady Erica would not suffer hurt tonight, not if he could help it.

      Eyes narrowing, Thane Guthlac raised his ale cup. He drank deep, set the cup down with deliberate slowness and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Aye, boy,’ he said, managing with one word to emphasise his seniority in both rank and age, ‘so you might think. But what say you to the honour that saw one of her father’s housecarls abduct my mother and take her against her will?’

      Wulf’s heart thudded as he realised the enormity of what he was up against. ‘One of Thane Eric’s men did violate your mother—it is true, then?’

      ‘Just so.’ Guthlac’s lips thinned and his voice became soft, but no less dangerous. ‘Her blood cries out for vengeance, so stand back, Saewulf Brader, let honour be satisfied.’

      Somehow Lady Erica was keeping her composure. Tall and stately, she stood with lowered eyes and with only that almost imperceptible quivering of her veil to show the agitation that she must be feeling. Wulf ought to step back, De Warenne would wish it—his commission was of the first importance. But Wulf could not do it. The memory of his dead half-sister had kept him in this place when he should have gone hours ago, and now it drove him on. ‘My lord—’

      ‘He wants her.’ Hrothgar’s mouth became ugly. ‘That is what this is about—Saewulf fancies the girl himself. What’s the matter, Brader, wouldn’t Maude oblige last night? Never mind, boy,’ he sneered. ‘Since we are, as my lord has explained, honourable men, I will fight you for her.’

      Wulf’s mouth went dry. He thought quickly. He did not want to fight Hrothgar, but if he did fight and if he won, he might be able to keep the lady safe. He swallowed; he might be one of the rawest of the housecarls in this place, but he had trained shoulder to shoulder with De Warenne’s knights, and his swordplay was strong. Hrothgar had no idea what he was up against. When Wulf had ‘enlisted’ with the rebels, he had naturally been tested in combat, but he had held back, misliking that these men should know his true measure.

      Lady Erica waited, apparently meekly between Wulf and Hrothgar, while Hrothgar held fast to her arm. Remember why you are here—Wulf felt the anger rise within him—remember your commission. You should not be drawing attention to yourself. But Wulf could not tear his eyes from the large hand crushing the purple cloth of the lady’s sleeve and he knew that, whatever the cost, he could not see Erica of Whitecliffe ravished as Marie had been. Clenching his fists, he struggled for control. A hot head would not help him here; he must use his anger, not be used by it.

      The lady’s head came up and those green eyes fastened on him. There was a slight crease between her brows. Tall Erica of Whitecliffe might be, her height equalled Hrothgar’s, but she only reached Wulf’s shoulder.

      Wulf smiled. She did not return his smile, but her eyes ran over him, assessing him as she would a thoroughbred. Wulf felt oddly naked and hoped he was not flushing. Resigning himself to a hard, bloody fight, he was opening his mouth to accept Hrothgar’s challenge, but the lady forestalled him.

      ‘My lord?’ Erica darted a swift look under her lashes at the tall young warrior who was apparently prepared to risk life and limb to save her from the attentions of Thane Guthlac’s right-hand man. Thane Guthlac had referred to him as Saewulf Brader. He was, as Hrothgar had pointed out, some years Hrothgar’s junior. Why, Saewulf Brader might even be younger than herself. His hair was thick and dark and a deal shorter than most of the men’s, and while he was not exactly clean-shaven, he wore no beard. Perhaps it was the lack of beard that gave him his youthful appearance. Erica was twenty-four years old, and, if put to it, she would judge Saewulf Brader to be a couple of years younger than her.

      Her mind raced. His youthfulness would not necessarily be a disadvantage in combat; he was big and solidly built, with strong muscles that showed clearly beneath that worn brown tunic. His hands were oddly at variance with his calling; they were beautifully shaped for a warrior, long fingered and fine-boned but—Erica frowned—no arm-rings jingled at his wrist. Had he won no prizes for his skill at arms? How odd, when a warrior was so strong he usually had any number of arm-rings…

      For a moment their eyes met and her heart stuttered. His eyes were blue, bright and clear as the sky above the South Downs at harvest time, and framed by thick dark lashes. Saewulf Brader, Erica thought somewhat breathlessly, was physical perfection. No, not quite perfection; there were shadows under his eyes that hinted of fatigue, there were lines of tension, too…but, that aside, he was physically perfect—the man looked every inch a lady’s champion.

      If she could but trust him.

      Saewulf was apparently a newcomer to Thane Guthlac’s band and he did not СКАЧАТЬ