Master of Craving

by Karin Tabke

  “He rides with Wulfson for Wales.”

  “He did not say goodbye!” And suddenly she felt all alone.

  “Wulf is anxious to have his lady, and Rhod anxious to announce that your marriage to the Viking took place.”

  “But no word of my forced marriage to the man who slew him?”

  “Not until it benefits me.”

  “Am I just a pawn in your war games?”

  Stefan shook his head as he fought for words to console her, but there were none. “Arian, my heart is yours. That has not changed.”

  “If what you say is true, then you would have considered my feelings. You would not have threatened to slay my brother and you would not have forced me to wed you by hanging my brother’s life over my head.” He opened his mouth to defend himself.

  “How can I trust you with my heart, when on every turn you use force to have your way?”

  “I did not force you last eve.”

  “You stormed into my chamber and my marriage bed demanding first-night rights! And after you threatened everyone in the room, your words to me were sly, and you were patient, but had I not succumbed to your honeyed words you would have stolen from me what you stole from Magnus.”

  “You lie to yourself, my lady. Do not say you did not want me as I wanted you.”

  “I will admit your words convinced me.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  “I regret that I was not stronger in the eyes of my betrothed. Had I been, he would still live.”

  “He was a traitor!”

  “To your king, not to mine!”

  Stefan’s cheek twitched. “Did you love him?”

  “Nay! You know I did not. But I did not hate him either.” Angry tears stung her eyes. “His blood is on my hands. I will never be able to look upon you, Stefan, and know it is not on yours as well.”

  “We will discuss this further, but first there are the assembled lords to address. I bid you stand beside me and at least pretend we are united. For divided we will fall.”

  The tension was so thick when they descended the wide stairway into the hall that Arian feared for their safety. Fury, outrage, and contempt reigned supreme. While Stefan seemed unaffected by it, guilt washed through her. ’Twas because of her Magnus was dead.

  Norman knights stood on one side of the hall, swords drawn, Magnus’s guard on the other, Saxons between. The nobles were quiet, but on their faces, their hatred was plainly painted.

  Stefan guided Arian upon the dais, seeing her to her seat beside the great lord’s chair. Stefan remained standing. Sitting stiffly in the chair, chin high, Arian gazed about the crowded hall. Smoke swirled high in the rafters; the stale smell of ale and wine mixed with that of blood and body odor assaulted her senses. The air was thick and warm. Her gaze trailed down to the place on the floor where Magnus had fallen. The servants had done an admirable job cleaning the area: fresh rushes covered the stains, but still his blood cried out.

  “I am Stefan de Valrey, knight of William and overlord of this shire. Magnus Tryggvason was a traitor to the Crown.” Cries of denial erupted but Stefan continued undaunted, “A traitor who challenged William by challenging me.”

  “What proof do you have?” a voice called out.

  Stefan looked over the crowd to the hall entry, where a gantlet of Norman knights stood at the ready. The doors burst open, and Ioan and Warner dragged in a most defiant and bedraggled Sir Sar. Arian moved to the edge of her chair, and peered questioningly up at Stefan, but he kept focused on the struggling man.

  Ioan thrust him at the base of the dais. “The traitorous Jarl’s messenger.”

  Stefan pointed to the odd little man, who, divested of his noble garb, looked more like a jester. “For those of you who are not familiar with this man, he is known as Sar, steward of Magnus, a most trusted position. And as steward he was privy to all of the Jarl’s interests, including his interest in seeing the Danish king claim the English throne!”

  Arian gasped, shocked at such evidence. She did not believe Magnus to be a traitor, she thought … Sar glared up at Stefan, who continued to scan the gathered crowd. “I share this information for several reasons. First and foremost, as a warning to any of you who may have the same thoughts: let it be known, William will not tolerate treason. Punishment is death.” The crowd thrummed with tension. “Had not Magnus challenged me and paid for the challenge with his life, understand, he would have been hanged.”

  Arian sat stunned, unable to digest Magnus’s hand in any kind of treason.

  “Proof!” another voice shouted.

  Stefan nodded. “Sir Sar was captured just this morn sneaking into his dead master’s chamber.” Stefan reached into his tunic and pulled out a scroll with a broken seal. “ ’Tis the seal of Trygg—a missive Magnus wrote last eve for Sar, his messenger to the Scots.” Stefan unrolled it and held it out for all to see. “ ’Tis word to the Scottish kings and to Sven of Denmark that Lord Magnus, upon his marriage to the Welsh princess, was dispatching his fleet of one hundred ships to Whitby on the Yorkshire coast, with five hundred men to fight, as well as the one hundred he brought here with him.”

  Incredulous gasps echoed through the hall. Arian sat perfectly still. “As I speak to you, what is left of Magnus the Tall is on its way to Whitby. His head upon a pike will be their welcome to England!”

  “ ’Tis barbaric!” Arian hissed.

  Stefan turned cold eyes upon her, but said nothing.

  He looked back to the crowd. “William’s justice is swift and it is mighty. Pledge your fealty to me this day and you pledge it to him. You will see, in time, that William is a fair man to those who are loyal to him.” He looked down at Arian. “As am I fair to those who are loyal to me.” He turned back to the hall. “But also know that I am a man who puts king first, country second.”

  A nervous twitter erupted in the hall. Stefan smiled bitterly. “Should you choose not to pledge your fealty this day, you will not leave here.”

  Outrage erupted, but quickly died down. They may not want to accept William, but they were not complete fools. They valued their lives and their holdings.

  He looked over the sea of faces. Arian followed his gaze. Though they had quieted, she knew they only waited. They would pledge fealty this day because if they did not they would die as traitors. But on the morrow, out of earshot, they would conspire, and one day soon they would take up arms against Stefan. One hundred Normans were no match for the entire shire.

  She nodded as each person, down to the servants, pledged their fealty, first to William, then to Stefan, and finally to her. When each man, woman, and child in the hall and surrounding area had promised to be loyal to the king, Stefan called for a feast of celebration.

  Despite her fatigue, Arian sat quietly amazed. Loud celebrating voices shook the rafters, while music and dance filled the hall. How could they, after the events of the last two days, celebrate? But when she looked closer she noticed ’twas the Normans who celebrated, not the Saxons, though they made a good attempt to pretend. Nay, there were whispers and looks and new alliances being born—none, she would wager, to the Norman’s advantage.

  She leaned to Stefan and said, “Do you really believe they will remain loyal to you?”

  He smiled down at her, and she could see it was forced for appearances. “Not for one heartbeat of time.”

  Arian sat back, thoughtful and weary. Never had she felt such hostility and scorn. She was glad Rhod had ridden out. Trouble brewed, and she did not want her brother caught up in a war that was not his to fight. She looked askance to her husband. Despite her heartache, Arian knew not what to do. So much had changed in the last few days. Yet beneath all of her guilt, frustration, anger, and denial, there in her heart her love for Stefan lurked.

  “My lord,” she softly said, “I am fatigued. I seek my chamber.”

  Stefan stood, extending his arm. The hall rose with her. As he escorted her up the stairway, she felt every eye in the place burning holes in her ba
ck. Stefan pushed open the door. As she walked through, he followed her into the chamber. Jane rose from the chair where she stitched a piece of clothing. “Leave us,” Stefan commanded softly.

  “I have need of her,” Arian said.

  “Your husband will tend you,” Stefan countered.

  “I do not wish your help!” Arian said, striding into the room. When he followed, she spun around and faced him. “Will you force yourself on me, then?”

  He stopped at her words, his brows drawing together in a dark scowl.

  “ ’Tis your way Stefan. If you cannot have what you seek with compliance, you take it. Always you take for your own end! When will you see that you cannot force the world to bow at your feet?”

  “I did not force your love. You gave it freely.”

  “You kidnapped me!”

  “Aye, and I would do it again. In the end we both benefited.”

  “You slew my husband!”

  “He challenged me! He was a traitor to my king and his own people! You would have been a widow regardless.”

  “You gave me your oath, Stefan. You swore to me you would accept my marriage and not look back.”

  His anger mounted on his face. He stepped closer to her, and she could see he fought to keep his hands from her, not to harm but to conquer. “When I gave my oath I did not know the depths of Magnus’s treachery. ’Twas only after we were together that William sent word of his treason. His missive to Sven confirms it.”

  Stefan waved Jane from the chamber. When the door closed behind her, he threw the bolt and turned to Arian. “Will you force yourself upon me now?” she threw at him.

  “Nay, I will not touch you again unless you ask for it. But understand this, wife. I am your husband, I am lord and master here, and you will stand beside me until God strikes one of us dead.”

  “I will not share this chamber with you!”

  “You will.” With those his last words, Stefan stormed from the chamber.

  It was late when she heard the chamber door open, then close. Arian feigned sleep. Moments later, the bed creaked, heavy with her husband’s weight. She felt his eyes upon her back.

  He moved closer to her. She could feel his body heat radiate toward her. The night was warm, and she slept in only a thin linen shift, the covers pulled down to her feet. Despite the warmth of the air and the man beside her, she shivered.

  “Why do you deny me, Arian?” he asked. The quiet anguish in his voice drew a small gasp from her. A sudden wave of emotion crashed through her. Slowly, she turned over to face him. His blue eyes burned bright in the low candlelight. The flickering of the flame cast odd shadows across his handsome scarred face. ’Twas the noble face of a noble man who had to fight for everything in his life.

  “The guilt eats at me, Stefan.”

  “You must let it go, Arian. There is more to Magnus’s plots than you know, and you, my love, were caught up in the middle of it all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Stefan rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes. “Your meeting was no accident. He and Sven of Denmark have been plotting since Hardrada died not far from here almost a year ago. He traveled to Dublin, knowing your sire would be in attendance as well. Your father is rich and respected by the Welsh kings. What better way to ingratiate oneself than marry a Welsh princess and have her great family of the west as ally? Do you remember Dag’s last words before he died?” Arian’s heart began to beat faster in her chest. She thought back to that gruesome day, and though she tried, she could not remember. “He said, ‘the stag runs north.’ He meant that Magnus runs north to that cur Sven. He knew what his uncle was about.”

  Stefan rolled over to face her, and as his words sank in, she began to understand. “Did he think the Welsh would back his plan to invade England?”

  “The northern kings did, as did Rhiwallon and Bleddyn. ’Twas the only reason they agreed to the hostage trade. Without your marriage to Magnus, all would be forfeit. They had no choice.”

  “But they still hold Lady Tarian and your brother Thorin.”

  “Aye, but Wulfson and Rhod ride with news only of your marriage, not of Magnus’s death. By the time they learn the truth, it will be too late.”

  “And what of you, Stefan? A man who wanted no wife. Now you are married to a princess. Will you use my father to your gain?”

  “Arian, I married you because I love you. No other reason.”

  “You forced me to marry you! Do I not have a say in my life?”

  “Your life is with me. You will see in time ’tis for the best.”

  “Nay, Stefan, you do not understand. You say you love me, but you slew my husband after you gave your oath you would not! Then you force my hand. ’Tis not love!”

  “I would give you my life,” he said hotly.

  She grasped his hands. “Give me mine.”

  “Your life?”

  “If you love me, let me go,” she whispered.

  “Let you go?” he asked, stunned.

  “Aye, allow me to return home.” As she said the words, her heart cracked.

  For a long moment, Stefan stared at her. His eyes brightened almost as if tears glittered there, but she knew that that was nonsense.

  “You are my wife!”

  “Only because you forced me! I would have never willingly married you!”

  “Is marriage to me so repulsive?”

  She shook her head, nay, ’twas not how she meant it. She loved him.

  “Because I am a bastard?

  “Nay, for if you do not set me free I will never trust you,” she said softly.

  Slowly he nodded, and rolled from the bed. She rose on her knees. “Where are you going?”

  He drew on his braies, then his chauses. “To find a place to sleep.”

  Stefan strode from the chamber, his mind a swirl of thoughts and emotions. He could not let her go! He would not! She was his wife. He strode back to the hall, which had fallen quiet. He found his men sitting at the lord’s table, huddled together deep in conversation.

  Rorick stood and handed him a horn of ale. Morosely, he accepted it and sat down.

  “What ails you?” Warner asked.

  Stefan looked over at his friend. “Other than these unruly Saxons? I have no clue to the workings of a woman.”

  Rorick laughed and drank; Ioan rolled his eyes and also drank. Rohan slapped him on the back. “There is no greater mystery than what lurks in a woman’s head, brother.”

  “She wishes to return to her father.”

  The men went silent. Then Rohan spoke. “Will you allow it?”

  Stefan shook his head. “She is my wife!” He threw back the horn and drained it. “I cannot bear to let her fly from me.”

  Warner scratched his head. “I am confused, Stefan. I thought she felt for you as you felt for her.”

  “She blames me for Magnus’s death.”

  Ioan laughed, the sound harsh. “Had it not been you, ’twould have been one of us. He was a marked man from the beginning.”

  “I tried to explain that to her, but she is angry at me for shaming her on her wedding night.” Stefan filled his horn again.

  “Women have to know that they have made the decision for themselves, Stefan. She needs to come to you because ’tis what she wants, not what you have forced upon her,” Rohan said wisely.

  “Aye, her words exactly.”

  “Have you consummated your vows?” Rohan asked.

  Slowly Stefan shook his head.

  “Then give her what she wants, brother,” Ioan said.

  “Annul the marriage, and release her completely,” Rohan agreed.

  Stefan’s heart cracked in half at the notion. Pain so fierce that it caused him to catch his breath twisted in his chest. So much so, he caught his hands to his heart and pressed upon it to soothe the pain. But it did no good. His stomach pitched and swelled, and he thought he would vomit. He shook his head, denying what he knew was the right thing to do. If he forced her to stay, she would
grow to hate him; at least now she still cared. But he knew Rohan spoke the truth. Stefan nodded, and stood on unsteady legs. He would do what he must do. And it would kill him.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Moments later, when he strode through the chamber door, he found Arian crying in the big bed. His heart broke more. “Arian,” he softly said, as he approached. She turned red eyes up to him. Her chemise hung open, her full breasts peeking out from beneath the fabric, glistening from her falling tears. He swallowed hard and focused instead on her face.

  Carefully, lest he scare her, he sat down on the edge of the bed beside her. He held out his hand to her; warily she looked at him as if he would bite her.

  “Please, give me your hand.” Tentatively she placed her soft hand into his big callused one. He smiled, and love welled up for her. She was brave and she was beautiful, and she had been through hell with him from the first moment they set eyes upon each other. He loved her more at that moment with such passion and conviction it consumed him. And he owed her her freedom. She deserved it. She was a beautiful bird that if caged would wither and die.

  He brought her hand to his lips and gently kissed it. “I have been selfish, Arian. I have been brutish and I have thought of naught but myself all my life. I have made many mistakes along the way; many I cannot undo. And while you may think our meeting was a mistake because of where it has led us both, I could not disagree more. You have shown me, my love, that I am not dead inside. That I am capable of love. If I could take back any of my time spent with you, I would be selfish and say nay. But I can give you back your life by giving you your freedom.” He turned her hand over in his and kissed the palm of her hand. “I release you, Arian. You are free to return home. I will petition the Pope myself for an annulment. William will stand by it, as he has the Pope’s ear.”

  She crumpled in the bed. Stefan gathered her up into his arms. “Arian, ’tis what you wanted. I give it, freely, but with a heavy heart.”

  She choked back a sob and looked up into his eyes. Hers radiated pain and suffering, and beneath it he knew she still loved him. His heart pained him as well. “I am sorry for causing you shame. I am sorry for Magnus’s death, and I am sorry for forcing the marriage on you. I cannot take back Magnus nor the shame, but I can give you back your life.”