His Captive Lady. Carol Townend

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СКАЧАТЬ spy. Ignoring the sudden griping in his belly, reminding himself of that knighthood that had been his goal for more years than he could count, Wulf straightened his shoulders. ‘What is it you would have me do, my lord?’

      ‘You must pose as Saxon. It should prove easy enough—you speak the language like a native.’

      ‘I am a native,’ Wulf said softly, ‘at least, half of me is.’

      ‘Ah, yes, your mother, I recall. You were brought up not far from here, were you not?’

      ‘Aye, in Southwark.’

      De Warenne’s gaze sharpened. ‘The Godwinesons had a hall in Southwark.’

      ‘I know it well, or I did.’

      De Warenne reached for his wine. ‘Not a plank standing,’ he said, oblivious that his words evoked yet more conflicting feelings in Wulf’s chest.

      Wulf remembered playing in that hall as a young boy. He had even met King Harold long ago, when Harold had been but a young earl. And this man, this man sitting at the trestle in the new king’s barracks with the map of Harold Godwineson’s kingdom unrolled before him, now held title to a large slice of Harold’s lands around Lewes. Lord, Wulf thought, how the wheels do turn.

      ‘So, FitzRobert,’ De Warenne was saying, ‘these Saxon rebels—you are to track them to their lair in these marshes. Infiltrate their band. Our sources speak of a leader known as Thane Guthlac. An outlaw now, of course, as are those who ally themselves with him. Word has it that this Guthlac has built up a sizeable force, but so far none of our men have managed to come back with precise numbers.’ Wearily, his seigneur scrubbed his cheeks. ‘Nor can we pinpoint the location of his camp. Which is damned odd, since one of my scouts reported hearing a rumour that the man had built a castle out there.’

      Wulf’s brows rose. ‘A castle in the fens? That seems unlikely.’

      ‘Nevertheless, that is the rumour.’ De Warenne took up the wine jug and filled a couple of glasses. Taking one, he slid the other towards Wulf. ‘Take a seat, Captain, we still have to discuss the question of your name. I hardly think that FitzRobert is suited to a Saxon.’

      Wulf groped for the bench, trying to will away the knot that was forming in his belly. Finally he was being offered the chance that he had longed for, but where was the elation, the triumph that he had expected to feel? ‘I am to be a spy.’

      ‘Locate Thane Guthlac’s encampment. Worm your way inside, we need to know how much of a threat they pose. It could be that there are just a few stragglers hiding out with him—we have no idea and we must know. Now, about your name—’

      ‘I could use my other name, my lord.’

      ‘Other name?’

      ‘Saewulf Brader.’

      For a moment his lord gazed blankly at him, before understanding lit his eyes. ‘Oh, I take it Brader was your mother’s name? You used it before your father had you brought to Normandy?’

      ‘Yes, my lord.’

      ‘Saewulf Brader,’ De Warenne repeated, slowly examining Wulf’s features. ‘Yes, that will do, it has an authentic ring to it. Don’t bother to get your hair cut either, it will help you look the part. And, if I were you, I might consider growing a beard. Damned hairy, these Saxons.’

      Wulf took a sip of the wine. It was rich and sweet, smoother by far than that served lower down the hall. ‘No, my lord, I do not think a beard is for me, I have grown accustomed to the Norman fashion.’

      De Warenne raised a brow. ‘You will raise their suspicions.’

      Wulf grinned. ‘I could say I ran into some Normans and cut my beard off to disguise myself.’

      ‘Suit yourself. I leave the details to you.’ De Warenne met Wulf’s gaze directly. ‘Do a good job, Captain, and I won’t forget. There will be preferment for you.’

      ‘Thank you, my lord.’ Understanding that he was being dismissed, Wulf rose. ‘When do you want me to leave?’

      ‘As soon as you can. Oh, and one thing more …’

      ‘My lord?’

      ‘You have a horse?’

      ‘Aye.’ Not that his lord would call his poor Melody a horse; Wulf was a long way from affording a knight’s destrier. One day, perhaps …

      ‘You will have to leave him behind.’

      Wulf nodded. A horse might also raise suspicions, since Saxons did not use them as much as Normans. But, in any case, from what Wulf had heard, horses and fenland did not sound compatible.

      ‘Put him in the stables here in the charge of my groom. I’ll see he knows to take care of him.’ De Warenne picked up a pouch and lobbed it towards him. ‘Here, this will help buy anything you might need.’

      ‘Thank you, my lord.’

      Tossing back his wine, Wulf turned to go. His mind was spinning. Finally, he was being given the chance that he burned for! He would not have chosen to spy on his former countrymen—in truth, his commission was far from pleasant. Some might call it a dirty task. Certainly it was not a task for a noble Norman. And this was, of course, exactly why it had been given to him. De Warenne and the Count of Médavy could flatter him all they wished by referring to his aptitude, to his fluency in English, to the length of his hair, but Wulf knew the real reason he had been chosen.

      Wulf was not noble, Wulf was not even legitimate, Wulf was a bastard. A bastard of a commission for a bastard of a man. That had been the unspoken undercurrent in the entire discussion. No highborn knight would even consider such a commission.

      Reaching the weapon stack by the door, Wulf picked his sword out of the pile and stood for a moment staring at it. It was a plain sword. With its wooden scabbard and its hilt bound in cowhide, it was the sword of a plain man. It might have a keen edge and Wulf might be able to wield it as well as any knight, but he had no noble family to sponsor him. And there, too, was another reason the Lord of Lewes had selected him to go to the fens. If by chance Wulf were killed, there would be no aristocratic friends calling for vengeance, there would be no noblewomen weeping at his graveside.

      Rolling powerful shoulders, Wulf shrugged off his dark thoughts and buckled on his sword. He glanced around the huge hall filled with King William’s soldiers. He could not afford to be churlish, not when he was being given his chance. He might not choose to spend the winter in the fens, but the sooner he was gone, the sooner he might return. So, distasteful though this commission might be, he would do his best. As he saw it, those rebels, outlaws, call them what you will, were fighting a lost cause, and the sooner they came to realise that, the sooner the bloodshed could end. The sooner England could be at peace.

      If there was one thing that Wulf had learned from his liege lord, it was that peace was not something that happened by chance. No, in the winter of 1067, peace had to be made. And if Wulf could play his part in bringing about that peace, and at the same time earn preferment for himself, then so much the better …

      Chapter Two

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