Medieval Wolfe Boxed Set: A De Wolfe Connected World Collection of Victorian and Medieval Tales

by Alexa Aston

  “The Scots leader! He is gone.”

  At the outcry from one of the soldiers of the patrol, Elrik groaned and tore his mouth from the bare flesh beneath Yrsa’s chin. Forcibly dragging his lust-numbed brain from the brink, he drew his sword, seeking any threat.

  He sensed naught, but the soldier who called spoke truth. A sweeping glance in all directions revealed no sign of the Scot. By the saints! That man truly vexed him. Still, he had to admit the timing of Dugald’s escape was fortunate, for it stopped him from taking his lovemaking with Yrsa too far.

  The patrol Second leapt to his feet. “Ansgot! Gui! Guard the horses and those three Scots. The rest of you, spread out. Find him, but return by noontide if you do not.”

  As the soldiers scattered, Elrik hurried Yrsa back to the camp.

  The Second held up the ropes that had bound Dugald. “They are sliced cleanly through. The bricon carried a hidden blade.”

  He sounded disgusted as well he might, but then, neither had the Scots found Betek’s hidden knife and they should have.

  The Second left to join the search.

  Elrik, keeping one eye on Yrsa and the other on the open land around them, silently cursed. He or Betek, as the most experienced of the warriors, should have searched the Scots. They knew all the tricks and would have discovered Dugald’s weapon. Aye, their intervention might have insulted the two young Norman leaders, but next time, insult be scourged. Today, the knights’ luck had held. They learned, and no one died from their mistake.

  Not that he could say so much to William or Hersin. He too, bore fault. To lose all sense of one’s surroundings as he had while making love to Yrsa was a fool’s game. The Scot, a man who made no secret of lusting after his woman, had already once crept upon him unnoticed. A master at hiding in plain sight, he slipped away just as easily. The soldiers might not locate him but did he choose, he could find them.

  Nor could Yrsa bear blame for his failure. Faith, they were not even alone. Holding her, caressing her in this open place exposed her not simply to threat but to possible scorn from the men. He knew better, but by the vow, the sweetness of her eager surrender and the hungry fire in her response rendered him as blind and deaf with desire as a youth experiencing his first woman…and he but kissed her. If that simple embrace laid bare the extent of their passion when love play barely commenced, how would it be when he loved her as fully as he desired?

  He shuddered as his body responded to the mere thought.

  “Elrik!” Betek appeared over the crest of the hill. He paused to stare around the campsite. “Where are the soldiers?”

  William and Hersin, supporting a third man, presumably Sir Estienne de Wolfe, between them, came closely behind. No others appeared in tow. Likely, the two Scots guarding Sir Estienne put up a fight and died.

  “Dugald got away,” he said. “They search.”

  William aided Sir Estienne to a sitting position across from the horses. The rescued man appeared battered and bloodied but moved, albeit stiffly, under his own volition. He would survive.

  Hersin spoke in a terse, rapid-fire undertone with Ansgot and Gui.

  Betek halted, gaping, in front of Elrik. “Dugald escaped? With you on watch?”

  Heat flooded his cheeks and spread to his ears. “I was…occupied.”

  “Occu—” His friend’s eyes widened as he slowly angled his head. “Well.” A leisurely, irritating smile curved his mouth and mirth glinted from his eyes.

  Yrsa fidgeted, her face pink.

  Betek flicked his gaze to her and back to him. “Never, Elrik, have I known you ‘occupied’ in a situation calling for vigilance.” His grin widened. “I suppose I could point out,” and he glanced at Yrsa again, “’tis not as if there were not provocation, or plenty of others to keep an eye on the man. ’Tis my thought none can hold you entirely to blame.” He chuckled. “’Twould seem you are human after all, my friend.”

  He laughed. Then started to guffaw. By the time he turned to walk away, he nigh howled.

  Elrik’s comment came in Dutch, short and succinct. Yrsa looked at him, uncomprehending. Just as well. “Mayhap you should find a comfortable place to settle, if such a place exists. I suspect we will stay here a short while.”

  As it turned out, Elrik’s little while meant most of the day. At noontide, Yrsa got a fire going and shared out the remnants of last eve’s meal with those now back in camp. Three stragglers had not yet come in from their search, but of those who had, none found so much as a footprint in the dirt.

  “The Scot might as well have wished himself to Din Eidyn,” Hersin said. “Unless one of the three returns with him or news of him, ’twill be necessary to widen our search, but methinks he got clean away. We will not find him soon.” He turned to William. “We need meat. ’Twould be best to hunt now, while we wait.”

  “We will go.” Betek nodded to Elrik. “With two of us, it should not take long.”

  Elrik crossed to Yrsa. “Stay nigh the camp. Go nowhere without escort.”

  She nodded and they left, crossbows in hand.

  The day wore on. Two of the three soldiers came back. From their gestures in conversation with Sir Hersin, they brought no news.

  She grew bored and restless with it. The soldiers occupied their time with tending their weapons, playing games or catching up on naps, but she had naught to do but wait.

  The horizon beckoned. What new vista awaited them on the other side of the next high ridge? She wanted to pack and go. Lurching to her feet, she determined to walk circles around the camp, if naught else, until she wore the fidgets out. When it came time to get back on the horses, at least she would be glad to ride.

  Sir Hersin eyed her for a time as she strode briskly, skirting the camp, but soon lost interest. So long as she remained in sight, he would have no concerns. She tramped some time before becoming aware of a personal need. One of the problems with open moorland such as they now traversed included a lack of privacy. At previous campsites, trees or outcroppings of rock provided cover. Here, no shelters were available so she must figure something else.

  Back the way they came a shallow trough, or gully, zigzagged across the plateau. The horses had jumped it earlier that day. ’Twas within plain sight of the camp, but deep enough to serve her purpose.

  Making her way over, she scrambled to the bottom. She walked from her entry point to where several tufts of tall upland grass grew close together at the rim, providing complete privacy, and dealt with the business at hand.

  Not until she tried to climb out did she realize her mistake. The trough had nigh vertical sides and crumbly edges, and the place she descended appeared steeper than she could manage. She could not hope to get out, at least not at this spot.

  Faith, now what should she do? She bit her lower lip. The camp sat in plain sight, but none of the men looked her way. Must she call for help? They would think her a lackwit.

  Nay. She got in. Certainly, she could find her own way out. She clambered along the trough until it angled sharply. There. A little distance beyond the curve, several rocks of varying heights jutted around one very large boulder. They would serve as stair steps back onto the plateau. She climbed the lowest two and reached to grab a tuft of grass for balance. A faint scuffle sounded. Agony erupted in her head, splintering her thoughts. She plunged into blackness.

  Elrik grunted as he shifted the gutted carcass of the red deer hind that lay draped over his shoulders. ’Twas long after midday and the camp lay directly ahead. He blew a breath, glad to see it. When he accidentally flushed the large animal from its hiding place, he reacted instinctively to bring it down. Had he time to think first, he might have decided against it. Even with the terrain less rugged than some they crossed in recent days, lugging the hind over the distance from where he shot it went from merely laborious to grueling by the time the camp came into sight.

  While he trudged, he considered his conversation with Yrsa. His thoughts ricocheted between seething with rage that those who should h
ave protected her had instead hurt her and wondering exactly how a man went about providing a home for a woman’s heart. He wanted to talk to her, to reassure her he would never abandon her.

  A yell went up as the soldiers spied his prize. He dumped the carcass onto the ground.

  “A fine catch,” Sir Hersin said. “I expected naught but hares or a lucky shot at plover or grouse.”

  He ordered one of his men to skin and butcher the animal in preparation for cooking.

  Elrik glanced around. “Where is Yrsa?”

  Hersin looked up from where he bent to watch the work on the deer. He grinned. “Methinks she is bored. She trudges a trench in the ground, circling the camp.” He glanced around, then straightened to look again. “She walked right there.” He pointed to their back trail. “I saw her go in that direction.”

  Elrik pivoted in a circle, but she was not within view. Ice slid down his spine. ’Twas unlike her not to stay within sight of the camp. He called her name but got no answer.

  “She was here but moments ago.” Hersin insisted. “She cannot have gone far. Mayhap, she but needed privacy. Besides, where could she go we could not spot her? One can see for leagues in every direction.”

  “Where could Dugald go that we could not see him?”

  Hersin inhaled sharply as the truth of that observation hit him. He turned to his men. “Everyone up. Spread out. Every man except Ansgot and Gui…and while you seek, look also for Mernoc. He is the only one not returned.”

  “Yrsa!” Elrik jogged in the direction Hersin pointed, his gaze taking in everything. He quickly found what he looked for, a clear, small print in soft earth. It pointed toward a zigzagging gully, most likely a watercourse during rainy spells. It split the plateau. He ran toward it. Could she have fallen in?

  He reached the rim, fearful she might lie unconscious at the bottom, but more so of not finding her. He searched for sign and soon came upon the evidence of her presence. So, she had sought privacy for her need, but where did she go from there?

  The gully had vertical banks. Once inside, the edge height would about reach her breasts. She might have had difficulty climbing out and gone in search of an easier exit. He hastened along the rim until a group of boulders came into view, aligned just so to create a simple escape.

  Crimson splotches painted the rocks, not many, but the sight stopped him cold. Terror assaulted him such as he never knew, not when first his mother and then Heiga died and left him alone when he was but eight summers. Nay, not in the midst of the most deadly of battles. It clawed an agonizing path through his brain. He fought it, fought the paralysis it created in his thoughts. Yrsa needed him, needed his sharpest focus, his best reasoning and judgment.

  He turned. “Here!”

  She must yet live, else what became of her body? Had someone taken her, or had she become injured in some way and wandered off in a daze?

  The others came at a run. He jumped into the trough to examine the ground around the rocks and found a large boot mark imprinted at the base of the boulder. So, someone took her. He touched the red blotches. Sticky. Whatever happened occurred as recently as Sir Hersin believed.

  “Elrik!”

  The tension twisting his insides eased the littlest bit. Betek had come. He was no longer alone.

  “She came here,” he said, “but if I read this track aright, so did someone else.” He met his friend’s gaze. “He took her.”

  The words stirred the tumultuous jumble of fear and wrath within him, a mix so strong he nigh choked on it. How, when, had the dainty Norse female gained so strong a hold on his heart?

  “Elrik, they cannot have gotten far, not with him carrying her.”

  “I agree,” Hersin said. He bent close to the ground on the other side of the group of boulders. “He must have been hiding here all along. Yrsa literally walked into him.” He rose to examine the rim of the trough and then pointed with his chin. “He went down this gully, but—” He paused, frowning. “There is something here I understand not. Go, Elrik, but watch the rim. ’Tis possible he lifted her out and carried her in a different direction. When my men return, we will come behind and search more closely.”

  Elrik nodded and set out with Betek, hasting along the uneven verge. Some distance beyond the boulders the gully angled in another turn to the northwest. From there, it descended in a straight line until it opened onto the floor of the next valley. It dead-ended at a tree-lined watercourse wide and deep enough to call a river.

  He turned in every direction, searching. He saw naught but water and trees, heard naught but the song of nature.

  She was gone.

  He had heard men speak in whispers of their hearts plummeting into their guts, but not until this moment did he know of what they meant. His heart beat with slow, sick pressure somewhere around his naval.

  Betek’s hand fell upon his shoulder. “We will find her. I swear it upon all I hold holy.”

  “You hold naught holy.”

  Betek snorted. “Then I swear by my name. Look you. ’Tis not long until evening. He had no supplies, so the likelihood is high he would stay nigh the river. I will search upstream. You search down. We will hunt for half a league and then return to wait for the others whether we find aught or nay. Then decisions must be made. Will you accept this wisdom?”

  He answered not. Someone took Yrsa from him. How would he live if he never saw her again? Worse, if he found her, but not alive.

  He stared at the water swirling past his feet and fought the scorching, mindless surge of his wrath. Something deep within hardened. His focus sharpened.

  If it took forever, he would find the son-of-a-whore who took her and slowly kill him. He knew of ways to keep a man screaming until he had left no breath, to keep him begging for the release of death until he had left no strength, until he could do naught but endure, caught in endless torment between life and death.

  “Elrik?”

  “I will accept your wisdom.”

  He started downstream.

  Chapter Eight

  Yrsa woke to blackness and silence. Her head throbbed. Her mouth felt as if the wool of all the sheep pastured outside Jorvick were stuffed inside. What had happened?

  She tried to sit up, only to cry out when pain speared the back of her eyeballs. She waited until the agony eased to a bearable level before lifting a hand to touch her forehead.

  Recall slowly returned, but consisted mostly of vague, bewildering images of pain, men’s voices and the sensation of being carried.

  The first distinct recollection surfaced, a memory of the heat of desire, for her, lurking within an intense gray gaze flecked with gold.

  Elrik!

  The remembrance broached a dam. Her mind flooded with images. The deadly edge of Elrik’s sword slicing toward her neck. The confusion in the gray eyes when he checked his swing. His grin when he dragged her along the cloister. The warmth and safety of his arms clasping her close through the frosty nights. His impatience with her countless questions and arrogance in ordering her about.

  Scots. Normans. A knight in need of rescue. Conveniently placed boulders in a gully.

  She remembered it all. She remembered…Dugald. But Dugald had gone, escaped. Why would he linger nearby to risk recapture? Someone else then. Outlaws mayhap, or other soldiers.

  Foolish to speculate until she had more information.

  At least she still lived and was not bound. A thick, clean-smelling pallet cushioned her body, so her captor had some degree of basic charity. Aye, and someone had cared for the wound on her head. She winced as she outlined the lump. The air was cold—she felt the chill on her cheeks—but a covering of fur provided warmth. For now at least, it appeared no one meant her to suffer or had abandoned her to die, alone in this dark place.

  It must be night but if so, she should see stars or discern outlines. She had her eyes open wide, but might as well be blind. She shivered as memory of her dream returned, the vision of endless, suffocating dark. Coils of panic slither
ed around the edges of her thoughts, but she had faced great dread before. With effort, it could be held at bay.

  What more could she glean from her senses? Ignoring the ache in her head and the foreboding in her heart, she focused on smell.

  Dust. Cold. Not musty, exactly, like old clothing lying too long in a chest, but dry.

  What of hearing? Aye, silence all around but not necessarily quiet. Water dripped, the intermittent patter nigh drowned by a continuous rumble neither close nor far distant, as if a stream rushed past beyond the other side of the wall.

  Mayhap she was inside a windowless structure with a stream nearby. The pallet and fur argued in favor of that conclusion.

  No matter. Elrik would find her. He would take her from here.

  The effort to understand her situation took a toll in pain. The pounding in her head increased, as did a need to sleep. She yielded.

  They held a council of war.

  Elrik returned to the starting point of their search along the riverbank. Wisps of fog formed as night approached and the air cooled.

  Betek waited. Neither of them had located which direction Yrsa’s captor took. The man moved like a ghost.

  Nor had the Normans caught up with them.

  Vexed by the troop’s tardiness, Elrik paced the riverbank, snarling imprecations. “Where are those cankerous fools? We need the horses.” He glanced at the sky. Dark clouds gathered and threatened rain. “I wish to cover as much ground as possible before dark, but we begin to lose the light.”

  Betek, usually the less even-tempered one, shrugged. “They know the stakes. They will have good reason. Besides, we know not which direction to take.”

  “I have already decided to go west, downstream. My heart says he moves in that direction. I will follow my instincts, which also say Dugald has taken her. The man wants her. His men are now dead, else captive, though he appears to have no wish to exchange prisoners. Thus he has no reason to remain nearby, yet where does he go? He cannot travel fast carrying her.” His temper stretched to snapping point. “We must be away if we wish to catch them quickly. Where are the Normans?”