The Wolf and the Dove

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  “I cannot,” she breathed. She glanced down at his lean, brown hand near her breast and closed her eyes tightly. “Whenever I look at you, I remember the misery you brought, not only to myself but to others. No cleansing can wash the blood I see upon your hands.”

  “ ’Tis a soldier’s way and Wulfgar is no less guilty. Have you thought of the Saxons he has slain? Fate was unkind to let it be your father my sword felled.”

  His gaze tasted the beauty of her delicate features, the fragile eyelids lowered now and fringed thickly with black. Her fair skin shone of vibrant youth with the slight blush of pink at her cheeks and the full bloom of that hue upon her soft lips. His chest ached with the turmoil she awoke in him. If she could only realize how she tortured him, she’d allow him to ease his sufferings.

  Aislinn raised her eyes to his and murmured low, “Who knows my heart in truth, save God, Sir Ragnor, yet I would say it cannot soften here lest some great miracle transpired to win it anew. Wulfgar has claimed me and I am his. My affections would sooner fall to him—”

  Ragnor’s face darkened and he gritted his teeth. “You speak that whelp’s name. What is he that I am not? A bastard, nameless, wandering about battlefields hither and yon, fighting another’s war for a clutch of gold, nothing more. I am this while he is not. A knight of a well-born family often privy to the Duke. I could take you to court and lead you there upon my hand.”

  Ragnor raised his hand as if offering it to her, but Aislinn shook her head and stepped away, presenting her back to him.

  “I cannot. If Wulfgar cared for me naught but a whit, I am his chattel and must do his bidding. He would never let me fly.” Turning back, she relaxed against the tree again and smiled as she reached out a finger to gently touch his outstretched hand. “But take heart, Ragnor, the Lady Gwyneth finds you most handsome and would no doubt gladly do thy will should you but speak the word.”

  “You mock me,” Ragnor groaned. “A scrawny hen beside the whitest dove! Surely you mock me.” He seized her hand before she could withdraw and the mere touch of her sent the blood pounding in his head. “Aislinn, have mercy. Do not let me faint so for want of you. Do not torment me so.” He remembered the soft, white swell of her breasts and his gaze grew warm as he yearned to view them again. “Give me one soft word, Aislinn. Let me know that I can hope.”

  “Nay, I cannot,” she gasped, twisting her hand to draw it from his grasp and failing. Panic began to rise in her. She saw his eyes and where they wandered and needed no seer to guess his intent. He began to draw her closer to him and though she fought his strength she came ever nearer. “Nay, I beg of you. Do not!”

  His hand grasped her elbow and he sought to place a kiss upon her neck as his free arm slid behind her narrow waist.

  “My dove, don’t fight me. I am mad for you,” he murmured against her ear.

  “Nay!” She twisted away. Her hand found the hilt of the small dagger and snatched it from its sheath and held it threateningly before her. “Nay, not again, Ragnor! Never!”

  Ragnor laughed. “Ha, the wench has spirit yet.”

  His long fingers reached out quickly, seizing her hand and squeezed it cruelly until she cried out and the blade dropped. He caught his hand in her hair and twisting her arm behind her, drew her to him until he could feel her soft breasts against his chest and her thighs pressed hard to his.

  “I’ll sample this bird again,” he chuckled and kissed her, bruising her lips in his fierce passion.

  With a strength born of desperation Aislinn flung herself away, falling back against the oak. She faced him, her bosom heaving with her fear and anger, and he stepped toward her with an easy laugh. There was a whisper of sound and with a solid thunk a great war ax seemed to sprout from the trunk less than a hand’s breadth from Ragnor’s face. He turned with a jerk and a coldness gripped his belly as he saw Sweyn standing some ten paces from them. The Viking stood with bow unstrung and slung across his back and at his feet a quarry of doves and a brace of hare lay. Aislinn darted toward Sweyn and the safety he offered but for the first time Ragnor saw that the Viking now stood unarmed, his bow useless for the moment and the ax embedded in the tree. His sword flashed from its scabbard as he leapt to halt Aislinn’s flight. She gave a shriek as he came at her and stepped away from his outstretched hand. She spun behind the huge Norseman and in the flash of a moment Sweyn had retrieved the ax by the leather thong tied about its handle and braced himself for attack. The great war ax was balanced and ready on his shoulder, its spike and finely honed edge gleaming dully as it caught the light of the sun. It seemed to be a mute harbinger of death.

  Ragnor skidded to a halt several paces from Sweyn, his face contorted with rage at being so thwarted at his game. He meant to strike with his broadsword and hew the man down where he stood, so violent was his anger and frustration, but something in the Viking’s pose brought a memory to mind of a day when the soldiers were in the thick of battle and an enemy threatened Wulfgar’s back. The sickening sight of that ax burying itself deep in that foe’s head remained ever with him as a warning. Anger fled from him and he knew full well the cold, close breath of death upon him. He calmed himself, and sheathing his sword, carefully spread his hands from his sides that the Viking should not mistake his moves. They stood so, facing each other for a long moment. A rumble rose in the Norseman’s chest and a slow smile twisted his lips and brightened his blue eyes.

  “Take heed, Norman,” he said softly. “My Lord Wulfgar bade me guard this woman and I guard well. Should I split a Frenchy pate or two in the course, ‘twould not grieve me greatly.”

  Ragnor chose his words, but spoke with venom in each syllable. “Heed yourself, you white-haired heathen. This matter will be finished someday hence and fate willing, I will yet bloody my sword between your maiden-fair locks.”

  “Aye, Ragnor.” The Viking’s grin spread wider. “My back lies fair to thy will but this friend,” he hefted the ax lightly, “sees quite well to my other sides and loves to kiss those who would test their steel upon my skull. Would you care to meet her?” he asked, presenting the edge of the huge blade. “Mademoiselle Death.”

  Aislinn stepped from behind Sweyn and laid her hand upon his mighty arm as she looked coldly at the Norman. “Seek your pleasures from some other source, Ragnor. Begone with you and let the matter rest.”

  “I go, but I’ll be back,” Ragnor warned.

  With that he turned on his heels and left them. When Aislinn returned to the hall a few moments later, she found Gwyneth nervously pacing the hall. One look at the woman’s face told her that something displeased her. She turned on Aislinn with a feral gleam in her pale eyes.

  “What happened with you and Ragnor?” she demanded. “I would know now, you Saxon slut!”

  Anger brightened Aislinn’s violet eyes but she only shrugged and replied, “Nothing that would interest you, Gwyneth.”

  “He came from the woods where you were. Did you throw yourself upon him again?”

  “Again?” Aislinn said, raising a brow at the woman. “You are surely daft if you think I would ever make the slightest advance toward that knave.”

  “He made love to you before!” Gwyneth choked, rage and jealousy cutting into her as if they were rough cords lashed about her. “You are not content to have my brother hanging to your skirt. You must have every man you meet panting after you.”

  Aislinn spoked slowly in barely controlled wrath. “Ragnor never made love to me in the way you seem to think he did. He raped me brutally and there is a difference. He murdered my father and reduced my mother to what she is now. In all of your imagination, Gwyneth, how can you think that I could ever desire him?”

  “He has more to offer than my brother. He is gentle born and has a family of importance.”

  Aislinn laughed distainfully. “I care for neither. Your brother is more a man than Ragnor could ever hope to be. If it is in your heart to have him, however, seek him with my good blessings. You deserve each other.”

&nb
sp; With that Aislinn swept around, leaving Gwyneth raging furiously and mounted the stairs to her chamber.

  Although he had spared his cousin, Ragnor had mercilessly booted the archers awake, and now the group thundered across the low rolling hills toward the coast road that led to Hastings. Ragnor took the lead as the pace slowed and even Vachel lagged back with the men to avoid his obviously sour temper. Questioning glances were exchanged and answered with empty shrugs as none could name the cause of his ire. As the miles were worn away his mood grew blacker and occasional curses drifted back to the men behind. Ragnor’s lack of sleep did nothing to soften his failure to win over Aislinn and his thoughts raged on. Wulfgar must have rewarded her handsomely for her favor, for of a surety that baseborn knight had no social graces. He had never partaken of the refined banter that took place during lighter moments at the genteel court. If it was true what Vachel said of Wulfgar; he had found the most highborn ladies worth but a brief play, discarding them when they had filled his temporary need. Yet he must have chosen well, for Ragnor knew of none that sought to avenge her rejection.

  Bah! What hold the bastard had upon his women! Ragnor snarled at the thought. If Wulfgar would only fail in a foray and Aislinn be brought to see her folly, he might still salvage an estate from this war. Schemes flew through his head and were rejected apace as he could foresee their failure.

  Vachel heard sighs of relief when the fortifications of Hastings came into view and the masts of the ships could be seen in the harbor beyond. A good night’s sleep was on the minds of all and once the letters were delivered a bellyful of meat and a good draught of ale would hasten it to hand.

  Ragnor turned to face the man who hailed him from afar and recognized the awkward gait of his uncle, Cedric de Marte, as the man crossed the sandy beach toward him.

  “Ho, Ragnor, finally I have caught you. What are you, in a daze? Did you not hear me calling before?”

  Cedric’s reddened face and his puffing breath bespoke his exertion.

  “I have matters on my mind,” Ragnor replied.

  “So Vachel has said,” Cedric said. “But he would not speak of what.”

  “They are of a private nature,” Ragnor retorted.

  “Private?” Cedric’s dark eyes pierced his nephew’s scowl. “What is so private that it keeps you from gaining lands from William?”

  Ragnor sneered. “So Vachel told you that, too.”

  “He was reluctant to spill the news, but he managed finally to be truthful. He is too loyal to you, Ragnor. You will lead him astray.”

  Ragnor laughed but without humor. “He has wits of his own. He can leave my side whenever he desires.”

  “He chooses not, but it does not make it right the paths where you lead him. His welfare is mine since his father died.”

  “What plagues you, uncle? Is it the women he beds or the bastards he collects?”

  Cedric raised a grayed brow. “Your father is hardly delighted with your scatterings of seed.”

  Ragnor grunted. “They grow more numerous in his head.”

  “You young lads have much to learn of honor,” Cedric said. “In my youth if I dared touch a maiden’s hand I was sorely chastened. Now you think nothing of crawling between their thighs. What is it, a woman that besets you?”

  Ragnor turned away sharply. “When have I ever worried over a woman?”

  “That time comes in every man’s life.”

  “It has yet to come in mine,” Ragnor gritted.

  “What of this girl Vachel speaks of, this Aislinn?”

  The younger man’s eyes burned with wrath as he bent his gaze upon the uncle. “She is nothing. A Saxon wench, that is all.”

  His temper soaring also, Cedric jabbed his finger against his nephew’s chest. “Now let me warn you, you carefree swain, you are not here to add more wenches to your conquests but to gain lands and reward to extend the family’s holdings. Forget the bitch and concentrate on what we outfitted you for.”

  Ragnor thrust his hand away. “Your similarity to my father increases with each day’s passing, Cedric,” he sneered. “But you needn’t fear. I’ll yet have all that is due me.”

  The sun was rising over France as the four urged their mounts up the steep roads away from Hastings. Ragnor rode again in the van, his mood little improved from the day before. His rancor made him kick his steed into a lope, and the animal, being well rested and fed, ground the miles beneath his drumming hooves. This time they took the inland road to avoid the chance that a band of raiders might lurk along the route, awaiting their return.

  They passed the day in silence, riding hard, and set a meager camp to meet their needs throughout the night. The weather was mild and they rested well and were up again at dawn and on their way. The sun had mounted high above and thrust bright fingers through a thickening layer of clouds when they topped a rise and saw far out before them a goodly band of riders. They quickly took to shadow and waited for some hint of the arms this band displayed. They watched as the men before them drew together in conference then after a while divided in three. Now a shaft of sunlight crept across the group and there before them Ragnor saw the colors he knew were Wulfgar’s. The other three beside him would have made themselves known but Ragnor halted them. A plan took form in his mind. He bade the two archers ride on to William with news of his coming and of the letters he bore, saying also that he and Vachel had paused to bring word of Wulfgar. When they had gone Ragnor turned to his cousin and spoke with a smile on his lips.

  “Let us see if we cannot assure that yonder soldier has a busy afternoon.”

  Vachel returned a puzzled frown to Ragnor’s words and to his relief the knight continued.

  “There is a Saxon shire just ahead as yet unbowed and still leaning toward an English king.” He laughed. “I know they will not cherish a Norman knight, for when last I passed the place they chased me far afield,” He paused pointing toward the men below where two of the divisions rode off to either side and the third, headed by Wulfgar’s banner, dallied along. “See there,” he bade his cousin. “As I know Wulfgar he sends the others out in force to block the roads beyond the town then he will approach and demand its surrender. If the English flee they will be trapped in the open. If they attack Wulfgar they will be struck from behind by the others.”

  Now he grinned at Vachel like a great gray fox teaching his cub the hunt.

  “But let us change the plan. If we approach the town within its sight and seem to dally along we may draw out some stout-hearted folk eager to gain themselves a bounty of two Norman knights. Then we would lead them into Wulfgar’s band before he clears the glade.”

  Ragnor laughed in glee at the thought of Wulfgar’s scheme gone awry, but Vachel seemed in doubt.

  “My hatred of the English overrides the contempt I feel for the bastard,” Vachel returned. “I would not see our own misused by these Saxons.”

  “It can do no harm.” Ragnor shrugged. “Wulfgar will surely slay the fools. ‘Twill only teach him what it means to be attacked by these Saxon swine and how easy it is to kill them. Let him meet the scythe and staff and set his blade to their stubborn skulls, then he may know that we did but defend ourselves at Darkenwald and acted in the best manner there.”

  Vachel finally ceded to the prank and the two made haste to ride around Wulfgar. As Ragnor planned, when they came close and seemed to watch upon the town, some score came out with spear and staff and bow and seeing the Normans’ retreat, pursued them across the open fields. Ragnor and Vachel seemed to wander as if unsure of the way to flee, leading the townfolk on until they drew them along the road into the heavy forest beyond the fields. Once there they rode swiftly ahead, leaving a trail for the pursuit to follow. On rounding a bend, they left the path and posted to a nearby hill to watch what followed. They saw the townfolk round the bend and pause to listen. Hearing Wulfgar’s approach, the English took to the brush and trees that grew close beside the way.

  Ragnor gazed ponderingly toward the road a
nd spoke as if he now doubted his own wisdom with this game.

  “It seems this goes astray, Vachel. They set a trap for Wulfgar, but I am torn. I fear for the safety of our own two yeomen. Will you ride to them, Vachel, and guard them on their way while I go to Wulfgar and warn him of the trap?”

  Vachel shrugged away his reluctance to see a few Normans slain by Saxon hand and leaned forward in his saddle peering toward the bend in the road.

  “Will you, cousin? That would seem foolish to me.” He turned to face Ragnor and they both chuckled in mutual glee. “Let me bide here until they have taken Wulfgar from his saddle, then I will leave to do your bidding.”

  Ragnor nodded and they moved to a deeper glade to watch the unfolding scene below.

  Wulfgar’s small force rode along the path that wound its way through the trees, drawing them nearer to Kevonshire. Gowain and Beaufonte had been sent on ahead to take their positions around the town, and Sir Milbourne rode at Wulfgar’s flank with the three yeomen following. As usual, Sanhurst brought up the rear, keeping his distance from Wulfgar. He seemed to hold the Norman in fearsome awe and was reluctant to come within a staff’s length of him, though he had been supplied with short sword and spear to guard the knight’s back.

  They crossed a small glade and re-entered the deep shade, watchful yet relaxed as they rode. A doe fled their path and quails leapt from the wayside with a flutter of wings. The Hun seemed to grow nervous and pranced and worried at his bit, yet Wulfgar thought the horse only sensed the excitement of the coming fray. Then, approaching a curve in the path, the beast snorted and skidded to a halt. Wulfgar knew the manner and stood in the saddle clawing for his sword as he shouted a warning to those behind him. In the next instant the road was filled with shouting Saxons swinging whatever weapon they could bring to bear. The Hun’s hooves lashed out and Wulfgar struck with his sword before a blow from behind stretched him out across the neck of his steed. He knew he was falling. His sword slipped from his fingers. The world turned gray and it seemed with a feather soft bump he hit the ground. The gray world darkened until only a single point of light was left, then it too went out.