“I lay between you and the sword, cherie. You’ll have to cross me to get it.”
Reaching out, he took her by the arms and drew her against his chest, forcing her head down until her mouth met his. Her lips trembled beneath his flaming kiss and she sought to turn away but he rolled over with her, pressing her down into the pillows.
Aislinn’s eyes came slowly open to view the bright ray from the waning autumn sun which had found its way between the shutters to trace a long path upon the stone floor. Tiny motes of dust glittered as they drifted across the beam of light. Lazily Aislinn remembered when as a child she had sought to trap those motes in her hand while her parents laughed from the bed. Suddenly she came full awake remembering the hours passed and who now shared her parents’ bed with her. Though they lay untouching she felt Wulfgar’s warmth beside her and by his heavy breathing she knew him to be asleep. Carefully she sat up and tried to ease herself from the bed, only to find escape impeded by his hand resting in the curling tresses of her hair. Biting her lip Aislinn gingerly pulled the coppery lengths from beneath him. Her heart gave a sudden lurch when he stirred, thrusting out a knee toward her, but relief flooded through her when she saw that he did not wake.
Aislinn gazed down at him, letting her eyes measure him slowly. His face in repose possessed a boyish charm that disarmed her. She wondered at the mother who had turned him out without feeling remorse and knew such a woman had no heart to soften. Aislinn smiled wryly to herself. How bravely she had once decided to use this Norman to turn enemy against enemy. Yet he had made her waver from her purpose. Instead she was the one caught in a trap between her people and this man. This Wulfgar had played her game better than she. Had he not used her to rouse Kerwick’s anger on more than one occasion, baiting the Saxon by fondling her in his presence?
Oh Lord, that she should fall victim to a man who at every turn of the hand could outwit her. She, Aislinn, who could ride a horse as well as a man and think as fast. Her father had claimed her better than any boy her age. She was bright witted, stubborn to a fault, Erland had bragged with a fond gleam in his eye, and more cunning than any young whelp who sought knighthood from any king. She was half boy, he had laughingly declared. She possessed the face and body of a beautiful temptress while her thoughts were sound and logical.
Aislinn almost laughed aloud and the impulse was strong, for she did not think herself especially clever at the moment. She had wanted to hate Wulfgar and show him that he was just another lowly Norman to her, to be loathed and despised. But the days had passed and his company had become more tolerable and her manner more congenial. Now to her further degradation, she had become his mistress.
The word stung her with its irony. Proud, aloof Aislinn at the beck and call of a Norman.
It took an effort to keep from flinging herself from Wulfgar’s side, for an overwhelming desire to flee from him welled up within her. Instead she eased her body from the bed, shivering as a draft caressed her with icy fingers, and she clenched her teeth tightly to keep them from chattering. The kirtle she had worn lay on the floor in shreds and she dared not risk opening the coffer for a fresh one. The woolen gunna lay draped over the chair by the hearth and going to stand close to the burnt-out fire she yanked the garment on, shuddering slightly as the rough cloth rubbed against her skin.
She donned a pair of soft hide boots and grabbed a wolf skin to wrap about her shoulders then made her way silently from the room. As she crossed the hall Aislinn saw that the dogs were astir but Maida and Kerwick were still huddled on the straw in the corner. If they were awake they gave no sign.
With a low creak of hinges Aislinn pulled open the door and slid outside. There was a chill in the air but the low sun had begun to warm the land. The morning was clear and seemed to have a brittle quality about it as if a sharp sound might shatter the very air. As she crossed the yard Aislmn saw Sweyn with a small group of men on a distant hill riding horses about, working the cold from the great destriers. She desired no companionship and turned in the opposite direction toward the swamp, for she knew of a private place.
In the warm bed Wulfgar stirred half awake, half feeling the thrusts of Aislinn’s soft hips against his loins as she fought with him. In search of that warmth and softness he reached out a hand but found only the empty pillow. With a curse on his lips he shot up from the bed and surveyed the room.
“By damned, she’s gone! That vixen has flown!” His thoughts flew. “Kerwick! Maida! Blast those two and their plans! I’ll wring their skinny necks!”
He leapt from the bed and ran to the stairs stark naked. Looking down toward the corner of the hall, he found them still chained. But where could the wench have gone?
Maida stirred and he retreated hastily to the bedchamber. He hugged himself against the chill of the place and hastened to toss small splinters on the glowing coals and blow up a flame. Upon these he threw sticks and a small log, then stamped around looking for his clothes. In his search he tossed her torn kirtle on the bed without regard for the damage he had done.
A sudden thought rushed across his brain. My lord, she’s gone alone. That little wench has set out by herself.
He hurried now to dress, pulling on woolen chausses, chainse, boots, and a soft leather jerkin. Worry began to gnaw at his mind, for she was slight and helpless enough and if she should come across the path of some maurauding band—The memory of Hilda’s daughter lying dead in the shreds of her clothing flashed to mind, and the thought would not finish itself. He now snatched up his sword and mantle and ran through the hall and out to the stables. He slipped a bridle over the head of that huge roan who had bore him through many battles and throwing the reins over his neck, seized a handful of mane and vaulted to his broad back. He spun the animal out into the brisk air and encountered Sweyn and some of the men returning from working their steeds. A short question determined that none of them had seen the maid that morning. With a touch of his heels, Wulfgar sent the destrier on a wide sweep around the hall seeking some trace of Aislinn’s direction.
“Aaah, there it is,” he sighed with satisfaction. A faint path where her feet had swept the dew from the grass. “But where does it lead?” He glanced up. “Mon Dieu! Directly into the marshes!” The only way he could not follow swiftly on horseback.
The steed daintily picked its way as he guided it along the trail on the ground. Other thoughts crossed his mind as apprehension and doubt began to nibble again around the edges of his consciousness. She might have mistaken her step and even now might be struggling in some bubbling black bog. And then, in a distraught temper she might not be above seeking some deep hole and throwing herself into it. A nagging sense of urgency made him touch his heels to his mount’s flanks and press it into a faster pace.
Aislinn had walked some distance along the winding path which she and the local folk knew well, for she had often trod these ways in search of herbs and roots for her mother to make her potions. With sure memory she found the clear stream with sloping banks and sparkling water. Light shades of mist still hung in the shadows where the sun could not reach. She felt a need to cleanse herself. Wulfgar’s sweat still clung to her and she could smell his scent upon her which brought too many memories to bear of the night gone by.
She threw her garments over a bush and waded shivering into the cold depths of the pool. She caught her breath and gasped but splashed and swam about until the first hard chill had passed. The icy currents cleansed her and sent the blood rushing through her veins. Above her the sky shimmered in the brilliance of after-dawn and the last tradings of fog began to lift from the forest. Water rippled over rocks near the shore, the sound soothing to her troubled spirit, and she reveled in these calming moments. The nightmare of her father’s death, her mother’s beating, and Darkenwald’s fall into Norman hands seemed far away, belonging to another time, another place. Everything here seemed untouched, unspoiled by the wars of man. She could almost imagine herself an innocent again but for Wulfgar. Wulfgar! She could rememb
er well the smallest details about him, his handsome profile, the long, lean fingers which had strength to kill, yet could be gentle and pleasure giving. She quivered at the memory of his encircling arms and her peace was gone. With a sigh she waded out. The water swirled around her slender hips before she glanced up to see Wulfgar astride his stallion, calmly watching her from the bank. But in his eyes some strange emotion dwelt. Was it relief? Or more likely passion at her nudity? A chill breeze swept her wet body and she could not suppress a shudder nor the urge to cross her arms over her breasts.
“Mon seigneur,” she implored. “The air is cold and I left my clothes there on the bank. If you would—”
He seemed not to hear her. His eyes lowered from her gaze and she felt their bold caress against her body like a physical fondling. He urged his destry forward into the water until he stood beside her. For a moment he stared at her and then he reached an arm down to lift her dripping wet to a place in front of him. He doffed the heavy mantle and swung it about her shoulders, carefully covering her and tucking the edges beneath his knees. Shivering Aislinn snuggled close against his warmth. She felt the heat of the beast beneath her and the chill began to leave.
“Did you think I had left you?” she ventured softly.
His only reply was a noncommittal grunt as he turned his mount and touched his heels to its sides.
“But you did come after me.” She leaned her head back against his shoulder that she might look into his face and smiled. “Perhaps I should feel honored you even remembered me after so many others.”
Her remark passed him for a moment until the point of it stung him and he gave her a quick angry glance.
“The others were little more than brief passing affairs, but you are my slave,” he growled. “And you must know by now I always take good care of my property.”
He knew that his words had struck home for her body stiffened against him, and when her voice came again it carried the sharp edge of anger.
“And what price do you place upon me?” she asked. “I cannot break the sod nor tend the swine. At chopping wood, alas, I could not heat the meanest hut, and until last eventide the best you could find of me was mending clothes or tending some minor wound.”
He chuckled lightly at her tone and sighed deeply. “Aaah, but last night! Your softness bodes of much I’ve overlooked and your warmth holds great promise of joyful nights to be. Rest assured, cherie, that I have in mind a task quite worthy of your meager frame, one well suited for your talents.”
“As your paramour?” she snapped and raised her head again to stare at him. “A bastard’s whore? That is what they call me now.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “How better then that I should serve the part?”
She choked off a sob and he could find no comment worthy of speaking, and they rode in brooding silence to the hall. The huge hooves churned the turf and skidded to a halt before Darkenwald. Aislinn wasted no time in hurling herself from the back of the beast, or trying to, for she hung frustrated in the folds of the mantle as it was still tucked firmly beneath Wulfgar’s knees. As her rage mounted Wulfgar laughed and let go with one knee, sending her sprawling naked to the ground between the hooves of the destrier. The well-trained horse stood motionless, for even the slightest brush with those great hooves would have marred her irrepairably. Alslinn scrambled awkwardly to safety and rose to stand with fists clenched in rage. Wulfgar threw back his head and laughed aloud. Finally he gathered up the cloak and tossed it to her.
“Here, clothe yourself, cherie, for surely you’ll catch a chill in this fresh air.”
There was nothing for Aislinn to do but snatch the mantle around her but in the act she surreptitiously cast her gaze about to see what other eyes might have beheld her nakedness. Her fury ebbed somewhat as she saw that no one witnessed her shame.
Now cloaked she tossed her head with arrogance and without waiting for Wulfgar to dismount turned and strode to the postern, catching the garment to her, for within its enormous folds the slightest movement drew drafts of cold air over her already chilled body. She pushed the heavy door open far enough to gain entrance, stepped within and there she stopped, for Wulfgar’s men crowded the hall and with them were some she knew as Ragnor’s mercenaries. She could hear his voice across the room, giving the Normans news of Duke William.
“Soon he will be able to ride again, and he will not let this insult subside. They chose another over him, but these English will soon learn William is not to be denied. He will crush them without mercy and He shall be king.”
His words stirred the men. Their voices grew louder as they discussed the matter among themselves. Aislinn could no longer hear what Ragnor was saying, and wide shoulders and helmets blocked her view, preventing even a glimpse of the knight.
Suddenly the door swung wide and Wulfgar stood behind her. He glanced around in surprise to see his men gathered here, and as the oaken panel came closed, men turned and stepped aside, making a path for them to the stairs. Wulfgar moved his hand almost comfortingly to the small of Aislinn’s back and urged her forward. She saw many eyes take in her damp hair and bare feet and knew that those who observed her must think that she and Wulfgar had only just returned from some cozy woodland tryst.
Aislinn could now see Ragnor standing on the first step of the stairway. Sweyn stood farther up the stairs, watching calmly while Maida crouched beside him, her arms clutched before her holding a tattered garment clasped to her breast. As Wulfgar and Aislinn moved forward, Ragnor turned to meet them. His dark eyes traveled the length of Aislinn’s slender frame, taking in the bare feet and the wet hair. As their gaze met and clashed, his lips parted as if he would have spoken. Instead he turned abruptly away, ignoring her, for any slight he might have given her would only have been too well understood by these men who had witnessed her selection of Wulfgar over him. He continued his tirade and though he spoke to the men his eyes insolently engaged Wulfgar.
“And ‘tis well met I trow, that a strong hand rules best and a conquered heathen works best when oft reminded that he is conquered.” He paused and waited for Wulfgar’s reaction. He found nothing but a tolerant smile as Wulfgar waited for him to finish. “These simple churls must be taught that we are schooled beyond their pagan ken. The soft hand will drop the reins while the iron hand will push the steed where it wills.”
Ragnor folded his arms across his chest almost as if challenging Wulfgar to reply. The men waited for the clash but in the silent room Wulfgar spoke softly.
“Sir de Marte, must I advise you again that my men are soldiers. Would you have me waste them tilling the fields while peasants hang all around on gibbets?”
A commotion stirred in the hall and a red-faced friar pushed his way free of the press of bodies and came forward.
“ ’Tis good,” the wheezing man panted. “Show mercy to your neighbors of Brittany. Blood enough has been spilt to Satan’s Hell. Good Lord,” he cried, clasping his hands together as if in prayer. “Preserve them all. Yea, ‘tis good, my son, to set aside the devil’s work.”
Ragnor turned in sour temper upon the long-robed man of God. “Saxon monk, you shall shortly behold your own end if you prattle further.”
The poor priest paled and withdrew a step, and Ragnor turned again to Wulfgar.
“So, the brave bastard is now the English champion,” he sneered. “You protect these Saxon swine and coddle this English bitch as if she were the Duke’s own sister.”
Wulfgar stood almost relaxed. He shrugged. “These are all my serfs and in serving me, they serve the Duke William. Would you slay even one and serve in their stead to feed the dogs and swine and set the geese about at night?” He raised a questioning brow. “Or would you mayhap serve in the place of any of those others you’ve already slain? Now I would not treat a Norman so, but I am set to wring a tythe for William from this weary land.”
Ragnor’s eyes rested upon Aislinn for a moment and grew warm in ill-concealed desire. He turned to Wulfgar, smiling almost pleasantl
y, and spoke low so that only those nearest heard.
“My family serves me well, Wulfgar. What of yours?”
Ragnor’s smile faded as he heard Wulfgar’s reply.
“My blade, my mail, my horse and yon Viking are my family and they’ve done me more faithful service than you could dream.”
For a moment Ragnor was at a loss, then he looked to Aislinn again. “And what of her, Wulfgar? Will you claim the bastard she spills whether it be yours or mine? And how may you tell whose brat it is?”
The darkening scowl on Wulfgar’s face assured Ragnor that his words had struck home, and his lips curved with mockery.
“What of your family then—your blade, your mail, and the wench’s brat?” He laughed with amusement and reached out to cup Aislinn’s chin in his hand. “We should have a handsome son, my sweet, full of courage and fire. Too bad the bastard will not marry you. He hates women, you know.”
Angrily Aislinn slapped his caressing hand away and stepped to face Wulfgar.
“You are no better than he,” she spat in low tone. “Had I my wits about me I would have fought you to the end of my very strength and torn your flesh asunder rather than yield! You amuse yourself lightly at my expense.”
Wulfgar rubbed his chest and with unseemly humor bade her cease her ranting. “It seems, Aislinn, that your titled duties as to last of strength and my torn flesh have been most sternly dispensed. None but I could witness this, cherie, that it was only greater force of arms that made you yield to me.”
Wulfgar caught her wrist before the hand could strike his face, then twisting slowly drew her close until their lips were all but met. His eyes smiled into hers.
“Should I shout it loud for you?” he whispered. “That you have yielded in this moment but still hope to carry the day?”
“My lord! My lord!” Aislinn sought frantically to turn his attention, for she was most aware that another besides Ragnor watched them closely. “The friar!”
The Wolf and the Dove Page 14