Master of Craving

by Karin Tabke

  “Do you desire me?” Arian asked.

  Stefan choked. “What kind of question is that?”

  “One that requires an honest answer.”

  He nodded. “Aye, I desire you.”

  “Why? Because I am handy?”

  He smiled and touched her hair. The soft thickness felt like spun silk beneath his callused fingertips. His blood, already heated, quickened. “Because you are brave, and passionate, and beautiful.”

  “What if I were not brave, or passionate.” She yanked her hair from his grasp. “What if my face were that of a hag but I had this body. Would you still desire me?”

  “I would desire your body.”

  “What is the difference?”

  He smiled slowly. “A man can find release between any willing thighs.”

  “Is it the same for women?”

  “I know of some women who soften only for one man’s touch.”

  She peered at him hard, and slowly said, “ ’Tis where I am confused. My betrothed’s kisses were warm and tender. I did not mind them. But you?” She pressed her hand to his chest, and his heart slammed against it. “You do something else to me entirely. It distresses me that your touch evokes wantonness from me when my betrothed’s does not.”

  Contents

  Dedication

  Legend

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Copyright

  To Rhianna and David:

  May your deep love for each other conquer all.

  I love you both with all my heart.

  THE BLOOD SWORD

  LEGACY

  Eight mercenary knights, each of them base-born, each of them bound by unspeakable torture in a Saracen prison, each of them branded with the mark of the sword for life. Each of their destinies marked by a woman.

  ’Twas whispered along the Marches that the demon knights who rode upon black horses donned in black mail wielding black swords would slay any man, woman, or child who dared look upon them. ’Twas whispered their loyalty was only to the other and no man could split them asunder, nor was there enough gold or silver in the kingdom to buy their oath. ’Twas well known each of them was touched not by the hand of God but by Lucifer himself.

  ’Twas also whispered, but only by the bravest of souls, that each Blood Sword was destined to find only one woman in all of Christendom who would bear him and only him sons, and until that one woman was found, he would battle and ravage the land …

  … but the darkest secret whispered was that there was one amongst them whose violent craving for the one woman he could not have would be the spark that would set an entire region on fire, and nearly bring down a kingdom, with the aftermath to be felt for the next thousand years …

  PROLOGUE

  1047, Dinefwr Castle, Carmarthenshire, West Wales

  “Push, milady, push!” Jane the royal nurse urged. Princess Branwen gritted and bore down with all her might, praying to the Goddess and to her Lord Jesus Christ that this time she would see a live child come for all her labor.

  “I see a head as crimson as the Beltane fires!” No sooner had the words left Jane’s mouth than the lusty squall of a babe filled the small, stuffy chamber. Another painful contraction gripped Branwen as she forced the child from her body. “ ’Tis a princess!” Jane cried.

  Branwen collapsed back into the straw mattress, and though she had prayed endlessly for a son, she could not hold back a smile of satisfaction. “Let me see, Jane, show me my daughter,” Branwen said softly, her strength, after three days of hard labor, nearly depleted. She held out her trembling arms for the squalling child, barely able to manage the gesture, but was glad for the effort when the mite of an infant lay in her arms.

  Branwen peered down at the fiery thatch of hair atop the most angelic face she had ever beheld. The babe quieted the instant Branwen took her from the nurse. With her fingertips, gently she smoothed away the blood and caul from the babe’s eyes, and was rewarded with a calm, penetrating stare. She gasped, and her heart filled even more. She glanced up at the nurse, ignoring the frown lines furrowing her brow. “An old soul, Jane. She has been here before.” Branwen gazed back at her daughter, and pride filled her so completely she felt overwhelmed with emotion. The hot sting of tears blurred her vision. Though the babe was not a son, Hylcon would be so proud of her. After so much heartache, they had finally been blessed with a live child.

  Jane clucked her response. Ignoring the child, the nurse pursed her lips as if she had just sipped vinegar. “One more push, milady, to rid your body of the afterbirth.”

  Barely able to muster the strength, Branwen bore down, and, almost as forcefully as the delivery of the child, she felt the afterbirth leave her. She sank back into the damp pillows and hugged her child close, pressing a kiss to the warm forehead. Closing her eyes, satisfied with her chore, she laid the child to her breast and took several deep breaths.

  Without a word, Jane pressed her sturdy hands to her lady’s belly and began to knead. Slowly Branwen opened her eyes and peered down at the creation in her arms. So enthralled with her beautiful daughter was Branwen, she did not give much concern to the continual flow of blood from between her thighs. ’Twould pass. It always did.

  Branwen glanced up at the nurse from her daughter, who rooted at her breast. Perspiration beaded the servant’s brow as she continued to massage Branwen.

  When she refused to look up and meet her gaze, a tremor of fear iced Branwen’s sultry skin. “Jane?” she whispered, her arms trembling, almost dropping the babe.

  The midwife slowly looked up from her task, concern lacing the deep lines around her dark brown eyes, and by it Branwen knew a prickle of fear so chilling that she choked back a breath. In that moment of clarity, Branwen’s entire life, a life full of love and laughter and goodness, spun in a slow endless circle before her eyes, and she knew with a sinking realization that she would not see her daughter other than this one time.

  “Call my husband,” Branwen whispered. At her command, the ancient tiring woman assisting Jane hurried from the chamber.

  Branwen pressed the child tightly to her, then closed her eyes, praying once again to the Goddess, for the old ways still lived in the heart and souls of the Welsh Celts. She prayed the Goddess would protect her daughter, and give her to a man who loved her above all others. A man who would sacrifice all for her; a man who would protect her as her own dear Hylcon had protected her.

  Jane worked feverishly, her experienced hands kneading Branwen as she would a round of dough. Branwen felt no pain. How could she with such a perfect gift in her arms? Closing her eyes, she tightened her arms around the mewling piece of humanity. Her chest tightened with the combined excitement of love and the jarring pain of despair, of knowing that all that she held dear was lost and there was nothing but a divine intervention that could stay it. She expelled a long tired breath, and with each wave of blood that flowed from her body, Branwen felt her strength ebb.

  “Branwen!” Hylcon called as he burst into the birthing room, rushing to her side. Turning her head toward her husband, Branwen managed the barest hint of a smile. Fear twisted his noble features. Did he sense her end?

  “My love, I have given you a daughter.”


  He grasped her hands wrapped around the babe, his wide silver eyes giving no acknowledgment of their child. He had, since the day they first met, had eyes only for her. Her heart twisted in bittersweet pain. Prince Hylcon, every maid’s dream. He was so handsome, a mighty warrior and a good husband. A most worthy prince to their people.

  “My love,” he whispered. Then, ever so gently, with his fingertips, he pushed the tendrils of her hair from her damp brow. “Do not speak, you will need your strength for later.”

  “My apologies, my lord, for not giving you a son.”

  Vehemently he shook his head and gently pressed his lips to hers. Just a brush, just enough to remind her he put her above all women. “Next time, Bran, next time.”

  She could not tell him there would be no next time. But she saw the fear in his eyes when he burst into the room. Aye, he would mourn her passing, and for that she had some satisfaction. Not because she wished him pain, but because she was the source of it. For their love was uncommon. It had grown from just a tiny seed, when they met for the first time on their wedding day some nine years past, into a blossoming garden. But he would need to take another wife.

  She caught a sob, as her chest tightened. She had failed him miserably as a wife. While he had given her all, she in return could only, after six stillborn daughters, give him a live daughter and one that would take her life. She choked back another sob, wishing with all her heart ’twas she who could give him his heart’s desire. But it was not to be.

  “My love,” she softly said, “take our daughter, call her Arianrhod after the moon goddess, and give her all that you would have given me.”

  Shaking his head, Hylcon dropped to his knees beside her, still refusing to look upon the child. He pressed his big hands to hers again, his silvery eyes not looking anywhere but at her, his wife whom she knew he loved more than his own life. “Do not leave me, Bran, I forbid it!”

  With what little strength she still possessed, Branwen held her ground. She loved her husband with all her heart, but she would not take the chance that he would cast their child aside in anger at losing his wife. “Swear it, Hylcon,” she breathed. “Swear you will not cast her aside.” Her eyes beseeched his, and it was not until he nodded that she felt peace. She smiled and closed her eyes. “I will await you at the gates, my love. Take your time, for our daughter will need you. Give her only to the man of her choosing. And make him swear he holds her life more precious than his own.” She slowly exhaled, and barely audibly whispered, “Then come to me.”

  “Nay!” he roared. “Do not leave me!”

  But it was too late.

  ONE

  August 1067, Battle of Hereford, England

  Thick air settled like a sodden mantle upon the rising heat of the summer morning. The dusty blue sky above hung low and heavy, promising rain. Great black buzzards sat patiently high up in the oak and ash trees, as if summoned by the banshees to come and collect the dead. And there would be many souls to collect this day.

  From where Stefan de Valrey sat upon his mighty warhorse Fallon, he had a clear view of the valley below, the forest that edged it, and the Black Mountains that rose behind it like great slumbering giants. Behind him rose the gray stone of Hereford Castle, not yet complete. Before him, a respectable showing of soldiers worked feverishly, fortifying the castle defenses. Behind the castle walls, a greater force stood, several garrisons of ready Norman soldiers, and surrounding them, high upon the ramparts, hundreds of seasoned archers.

  Far off in the distance, a sea of standards mingled in a tapestry of colors, as both Welsh and Saxon, unified against Normandy, marched in a steady cadence straight toward them. Though they were leagues away, their intention was clear. Like a swarm of locusts, they burned a wide swath of destruction behind them. Their destination: Hereford Castle.

  But they would be hard-pressed to breach the stalwart fortress and the seasoned knights who waited behind the stone walls. Of that Stefan was sure. ’Twas for that simple reason he and his men were summoned by William fitz Osbern, the Norman Earl of Hereford. He had insisted that his cousin the king, William the Conqueror, send his most highly trained guard, les morts, to fight beside him against the defiant Saxon, Earl Edric, and the two Welsh kings, Rhiwallon and Bleddyn, who came with hopes of slaying Normans, plundering the countryside and sending a message to Normandy that they would never submit.

  Stefan’s lip curled in a snarl. Fools! All of them! The Conqueror could not be defeated! The Welsh would regret their decision to ally with Edric. William dealt harshly with any man who thwarted him. Stefan checked his anger as his wrath mounted. For he learned years ago never to go into battle any way but completely composed. It had kept him alive all of his eight and twenty years; it would keep him alive this day.

  In a silent salute, he touched his mailed fingertips to his helm and nodded ever so slightly toward the encroaching horde. A worthy opponent, no doubt. But there was no doubt in Stefan’s mind who would be the victor at the end of the day. And the day, but a handful of hours old, promised a worthy exchange. Even now, despite the vastness of yonder army, and the activity that accompanied them, it was eerily quiet. ’Twas a sensation Stefan relished: the deadly calm before all hell broke lose.

  “The Welsh and Saxons grow bolder each day!” Stefan called to his brother Blood Swords. His eyes narrowed beneath his helm as he turned to his left. Rohan, Warner, and Thorin, the bastard son of the late Norse king Harald Hardrada, nodded in unison, their narrowed gazes focused where his had just been. Stefan looked to his right, to Ioan, Wulfson, Rorick, and Rhys, their faces mirroring his own. Each of them sat astride a great black warhorse, each of them mailed in black, each of them weaponed with bow, arrow, sword, and lance, and Thorin, as always, fondled the handle of his great battle-ax, Beowulf.

  Stefan himself fondled the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword. Aye, many would die upon its honed edges this day. Instead of apprehension, excitement filled him as it always did before battle. ’Twas what drove him, ’twas his life, his purpose. He was not a gentle man, but then, neither was war gentle, nor the men beside him he called brother. All warriors at heart, they would die as they lived, by the sword.

  He turned his attention back to the oncoming force. Most men would have realized they were outnumbered and fled across the drawbridge, calling for the portcullis to be dropped and prepared for a siege, but not Stefan, nor his brothers-in-arms. His gaze swept just ahead to the wall of Norman soldiers, then over his right shoulder to the high ramparts of Hereford Castle, to the archers who stood at the ready. Fitz Osbern himself would command from above, while Stefan had been given the command of the knights. When the enemy was within the longest range of the archers, a hailstorm of arrows would rain upon them. Once they had been softened, the archers would adjust and continue their barrage into the forest, whilst the foot soldiers marched forward flanked by a wall of steel and horseflesh. Then, and only when the heat of battle reached its zenith, hell’s fury would be unleashed when the Blood Swords gave the command to their destriers to engage. Once afield, any living soul that crossed their path would pray for a quick and painless death.

  It was a familiar routine, and one Stefan enjoyed immensely, for when it was the Blood Swords’ turn, they faced what was left of the enemy’s elite, and though there were none more fearsome than they, Stefan never felt good about slaying an ill-matched opponent. So, he was content to await his turn.

  Fallon tossed his head, champing on his bit. Stefan patted the great horse on the side of the neck. “Patience, lad, we shall play soon enough.”

  “Richard is a fool of an overlord here.” Warner seethed, “His heavy hand has brought this upon us today.”

  “Aye,” Stefan agreed. “His greed has set this war into motion. Had fitz Osbern paid more attention to his ambitious vassal, we would not be in such a precarious position.”

  “Despite Richard’s arrogance,” Rohan rumbled, “Edric is a madman to thwart William! He will lose all.”
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br />   “More hides for William to take for his loyal vassals, eh, Stefan?” Wulfson asked.

  Stefan’s heart thudded in excitement against his chest at the mention of land. He nodded. “You and Rohan have done well for yourselves. ’Tis land we all seek, Wulf. With mine, I will breed the finest horses in Christendom!”

  “Hah!” Rorick chortled. “What of a wife?”

  Stefan scowled. He preferred the company of his horses over women. Horses were loyal to their master. Women were not. He’d learned the lesson well as a young man, from a noblewoman who had not only given her body to him but pledged her undying love and then her troth, only to take it back at his sire’s refusal to acknowledge him. The day she married a wealthy Saxon noble had been the day he sold his sword to the highest bidder and swore that the day he took a wife it would be on his terms alone. “Nay, I am not like Wulf and Rohan, I prefer my solitude. And well you know I have no trust for the fairer of the sexes.”

  Rorick reached over and slapped him on the back. “Aye, I feel your pain, brother. But you must admit, there is no sweeter ride than between the soft thighs of a maid.”

  Stefan smiled: a rare gesture. “Agreed.” He focused back on the gathering army below and scowled. His heart continued to thud against his chest, but not because of thoughts of a soft ride on a fair damsel. “More swarm.”

  “Look.” Thorin pointed toward the western horizon and the great billows of black smoke that rose up into the thick air behind the encroaching army. A sultry breeze rose up and caressed Stefan’s cheek, like a woman after a robust session of lovemaking. He grunted at the thought.

  “They are scourging all of Herefordshire,” Wulfson muttered.

  Stefan nodded, and leveled his lance. “Aye, and they will pay handsomely for the privilege.” He turned his horse and gestured for his men to follow. “If we are to beat the Welsh we must do more than soften them with arrows and charge them in the open. If we wait for them to come close to the castle walls, by their sheer numbers they can pin us and hold us at a gross disadvantage. A siege is not in our best interest. We must find a way to destroy them en masse before they reach the outer limits of the castle grounds.”