His Captive Lady. Carol Townend

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СКАЧАТЬ that showed he was his lord’s most favoured housecarl.

      Guthlac’s battle-scarred hands grasped the handrail as he scowled down at the water beyond the palisade. ‘They must be Saxon,’ he muttered. ‘No Norman would dare to venture this far into the fens.’

      Wulf’s stomach tightened, but he kept his expression neutral.

      ‘A woman, eh?’ Guthlac’s eyebrows rose.

      At that moment the breeze strengthened and something fluttered in the stern of the boat. A pennon. Guthlac stiffened. ‘That flag, Saewulf…’ he frowned, peering in such a way that Wulf realised the outlaw’s eyes were not as keen as his ‘…can you make out the colours, does it bear a device?’

      ‘No device, my lord. There’s a blue band above a white ground with green below.’

      Guthlac’s fingers tightened on the handrail. ‘A white ground, you are certain? Is the green straight edged?’

      Wulf narrowed his eyes and the pennon lifted in the breeze. The green band met the white ground with a jagged edge. ‘No, my lord, it is dancetty.’

      Eyes suddenly intense, delight spreading across his face, Guthlac struck the rail with his fist. ‘At last, I have her! At least I hope to God I have her… Tell me, is the woman fair or dark?’

      Both the question and the febrile excitement struck a jarring note. The little boat was close to the jetty, so close that it was drifting out of their line of sight behind the palisade. ‘I couldn’t swear, my lord, she has her hood up.’

      A grin that was as much grimace as it was grin was spreading across Guthlac’s face. Wulf felt a distinct prickle of unease.

      ‘It is her. She has come crawling at last! I knew this moment would come when Hrothgar told me one of her men had been sighted in Ely.’

      Wulf stared at Guthlac, and wondered why his dead half-sister Marie had chosen this day of all days to walk in and out of his mind. He also wondered why cold sweat was trickling down his back. ‘Her?’ His sense of unease was growing by the second. The sooner he was out of here, the better.

      ‘Eric’s daughter—it must be Lady Erica of Whitecliffe!’

      Whirling round, Guthlac elbowed through his housecarls and stormed down the stairway to the bailey, tossing orders as he went. ‘Beorn!’

      ‘My lord?’

      ‘Have them lift the portcullis when they have disembarked.’

      ‘They are to enter, sir?’ Beorn’s voice was more than startled, it was stunned.

      ‘Certainly.’ Thane Guthlac’s harsh voice floated back to Wulf, still motionless by the sentry post. ‘The woman at least.’ There was a brief pause as Guthlac leaped the last few steps into the bailey. ‘And her men, too, provided they disarm.’

      ‘Yes, my lord.’

      Moments later, Wulf stood alone at the watchpoint, frowning. Lady Erica of Whitecliffe? Who the devil was Lady Erica of Whitecliffe?

      And then it came to him. Of course! The bloodfeud, the damn bloodfeud.

      Wulf had only been in Guthlac’s warband for a few days, but already he had heard enough about the bloodfeud to last him a lifetime. For years, Guthlac Stigandson’s men had been hurling insults, and worse, far worse, at the men loyal to another Saxon thane. Both thanes had apparently held land attached to his own lord’s recently acquired holding in the south, near Lewes. The feud had run for generations.

      A cold hand clutched Wulf’s gut as he recalled that the last insult had been apparently to Guthlac’s own mother. Some of the men who had talked about the bloodfeud had used the word seduction, others had muttered darkly about rape.

      And, Lord, there was Marie’s face again, swimming into focus in front of him, pale as the ghost it was. Her eyes were glassy with tears.

      ‘Hell,’ Wulf muttered, and before he knew it he was striding down the walkway, gesturing for another man to take his place at the watchpoint.

      In the bailey, the chapel stood to one side of the portcullis. It was an unpretentious wooden building with a thatched roof and topped with a reed cross. A reception committee was gathering by the door: Thane Guthlac, Hrothgar, Beorn, Maldred, Swein….

      That woman, Wulf thought, recalling the slender figure sitting proud and still in the prow, that poor woman. He shook his head, hoping to hell that Lady Erica of Whitecliffe had something damn good up her sleeve. The way that Thane Guthlac’s face had twisted every time her name had been mentioned…

      More cold sweat broke out on his back. He must remain cool. This woman was a total stranger—what was it to him if she got hurt? And if she was indeed Erica of Whitecliffe, then she should know better than to march into her enemy’s stronghold like this, she deserved to get hurt. Wulf could not get involved, particularly since he was on the brink of leaving…

      Saints, there was Marie’s face again. Shoving his hand through his hair, Wulf tried to eject his half-sister from his thoughts. He succeeded, but not before it came to him, that if someone had helped Marie when she had needed it, she would still be alive.

      ‘Hell.’ How in God’s name was he supposed to aid the woman when he was here under false colours himself? He had his commission to think of, he must not disappoint De Warenne.

      ‘Problem, Saewulf?’ Hrothgar asked, pale eyes watchful.

      ‘Not at all.’ Wulf forced a smile and reminded himself of the land that he longed for, of the knighthood that he hoped to win. He must not fail now. Tonight he would be away from here—God willing, he would be on the London road.

      Maldred and Swein were applying themselves to the windlass. The portcullis creaked, and Lady Erica of Whitecliffe appeared under the arch. Her two companions stationed themselves either side of her. Gowned in purple beneath her russet cloak, she was tall and dignified, composedly nodding her agreement while her companions were divested of their arms. Men in their late twenties, housecarls by the look of them, Saxon warriors who handed their swords over to Maldred without a murmur. But they did not like it; their eyes and their stance betrayed them.

      Guthlac Stigandson swept the woman a mocking bow. ‘Greetings, Lady Erica.’

      She dipped her head in acknowledgement. ‘Thane Guthlac?’ Her voice was low and even.

      ‘At your service,’ murmured Guthlac.

      Wulf took stock of her. Yes, she was tall, and she had a stately air, and when she flung back the russet hood of her cloak, he bit back a gasp. Close to, with her dark hair gleaming in the growing daylight and with her startling green eyes, Erica of Whitecliffe was beautiful—breathtakingly, radiantly beautiful.

      Lady Erica glanced swiftly round the compound, tipping her head back to take in the tower perched on its mound. Her quick eyes ran over the sentry points, the palisade, the outbuildings, and, finally, lingered on the chapel.

      While she nodded briefly, unsmiling but polite, at each man in the compound, Wulf was disconcertingly aware that his heartbeat was less than steady. She was his very image of beauty. Not that that signified anything. Although when her eyes СКАЧАТЬ