His Captive Lady. Carol Townend

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 sided with Normans or Saxons—in both camps raw recruits invariably got a rough deal. That mattress—Lord.

      He groped for his boots. It was a bitter morning; even inside the hall amid so many sleeping men, his breath made smoke. Grimacing, Wulf tossed his hair out of his face; it was not getting any shorter, but neither was it long enough to tie back—in fact, it was a damned nuisance. He wished he could shave, too, but that would have to wait until later. De Warenne had been in the right, his lack of beard had been a point of concern when he had first arrived at the castle. A visit to the barber would definitely not have helped. Wulf had been accepted as a rebel purely on account of his childhood links with Southwark. It was his good fortune that Guthlac Stigandson himself remembered him from those days.

      Taking up his sword and belt, Wulf moved lightly to the door so as not to disturb anyone fortunate enough to have bagged a softer pallet. The oak door was heavy. Pushing through, he went out onto the platform. The torches on either side of the entrance were guttering, sending up an evil black smoke that the wind whisked away.

      Here, where the platform girdled the tower, there was a commanding view of the fens. In full daylight one could see a broad expanse of water—water that at this point was large and wide enough to be known as ‘the lake’. The lake was surrounded by low-lying land on all sides, but in this dull pre-dawn light visibility was poor, the colour leached out of everything.

      Wulf remembered his first sight of Guthlac’s castle as it reared out of the mist. Its sheer size meant that he was bound to stumble across it sooner or later, for the wooden tower and its motte dwarfed the local alder and ash trees. Guthlac might well have fled to the fens from the south, but not even his worst enemy could accuse him of skulking.

      A water-butt stood on the walkway immediately outside the main door. As the door latch clicked shut behind him, Wulf found he had not quite shaken off the melancholy that had gripped him from the moment Marie had entered his thoughts. Two years his senior, his half-sister would have been twenty-four had she lived. And her child—Wulf’s heart squeezed—her child would have been nine.

      Wulf thrust aside the image of Marie; he must not think of her. Lifting the lid of the water-butt, he splashed his face, hissing through his teeth as the icy water hit him. He washed quickly and dried his face on his sleeve. The wind scoured his cheeks. Thank God he was leaving today.

      The marshes were still shrouded in gloom, but by the bank beyond the palisade he could make out a thin skin of ice at the base of the reeds. Guthlac’s island was fringed with many such reeds. Wulf had made a point of memorising the lie of the land for miles around; it would be of great interest to De Warenne. Farther out, the water was black, shiny and apparently fathomless.

      And there, over in the east, a glow—the glow that heralded dawn. Uneasy for no reason he could put a finger on, unless remembering what had happened to Marie had left him out of sorts, Wulf ran a hand round the back of his neck. No, that glow could not be the dawn; that was not the east. That glow…he frowned…it was in the west.

      Attention sharpening, Wulf reached for his swordbelt, buckled it on, and was off down the walkway, boots ringing loud on the boards. Had the sentries seen? Until he left here, he must be careful to act his part; he must behave precisely as Guthlac and his rebels would expect him to behave.

      With a start, the man on watch dozing over his bow snapped upright. ‘Sir!’ Beorn, if Wulf remembered his name aright. He had long flaxen hair and he eyed Wulf uncertainly, doubtless wondering if he was to be reprimanded for sleeping at his post.

      Wulf pointed out across the fen. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

      Beorn stared, frowned, and went pale. ‘God in Heaven, a boat!’

      Wulf’s brow furrowed, too. As the darkness lifted, the boat slid closer. A yellow light shone in the prow, the light that moments ago Wulf had mistaken for the rising sun. He shook his head, glancing askance at the sky, a sky that had been determinedly leaden ever since he had arrived in East Anglia. As if the sun would actually shine in this place. This was the fens, a low, flat land where everything was grey and wet and cold and—an icy gust bit into his neck—no doubt snow would soon add to their joys. God grant that once he had delivered his report, De Warenne, who might yet be in Westminster, would have him despatched to London or Lewes, to anywhere but here.

      Beorn bit his lip. ‘I…I am sorry, sir. I…I will raise the alarm.’

      ‘Do that—I shall stand in for you here.’

      ‘My thanks.’ Beorn clattered down the walkway, clearly happy to escape a reprimand. Wulf’s nostrils flared. The man had to be thinking that Thane Guthlac’s new housecarl was a walkover, but he didn’t give a damn what he thought. Wulf was not going to be among these rebels long enough for discipline to become a problem. Come sunset, he would be gone.

      The door slammed.

      While Wulf waited for the uproar that he would bet his sword was about to ensue, he watched the oars of the approaching boat lift and fall, lift and fall. His eyes narrowed. It was a small craft and it contained two…no, three, people. One of them looked to be female; she wore a russet cloak. Curious, wondering if he had seen this woman elsewhere on the waterways, Wulf strained to make out the colour of her hair. But the woman had her hood up and her hair was hidden. She sat perfectly still, hugging her cloak against the January chill. No great threat there, surely? They might be pedlars working the waterways, though Wulf could not see anything that resembled stock in the bottom of their boat: no barrels, no crates, no bundles of merchandise wrapped in sailcloth.

      As the boat glided ever closer, an unnatural quiet held the fen. There was no honking of geese, no men shouting, there was not even the sound of the oars creaking in the rowlocks.

      Abruptly, the hall door bounced back on its hinges and Guthlac Stigandson erupted onto the platform. ‘Maldred! Maldred!’ The outlaw wrenched his belly into his swordbelt. ‘My helm, boy, and look sharp!’ Guthlac’s hair was straggling free of its ties, hanging in grey rats’ tails, his beard was uncombed and he was so exercised by this intrusion into his territory that his mottled cheeks were turning purple.

      Maldred ran up. Guthlac snatched his helm and slapped it on his head. He stomped up to Wulf at the sentry post, golden arm-rings rattling. ‘Saewulf? Report, man.’

      Wulf waved in the direction of the small craft. ‘It is as Beorn has no doubt told you. One boat only, my lord, three passengers, I doubt they present much of a threat.’

      Hrothgar, Guthlac’s right-hand man, was peering over Guthlac’s broad shoulders. Other housecarls crowded behind.

      Guthlac elbowed Hrothgar in the ribs. ‘Let me breathe, man.’

      ‘My СКАЧАТЬ