Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment

by Karin Tabke

  “Be not so sure of that, Sir Wulfson,” Rangor said from behind him. At Wulfson’s notice, the noble moved to the doorway, filling the space. “The wench has a penchant for survival. With her herbs and spells, she no doubt extracted Malcor’s seed from his unholy body and nurtures not one heir of Dunloc but a spare as well.”

  Grabbing the lady’s hands, Wulfson drew her from the dark hole, hoisting her up to her feet. She cried out, collapsing against him. Not wanting to but having no other choice, Wulfson lifted her up into his arms. She weighed no more than a mite. He turned with her in his arms and faced Rangor, Gareth, and his men.

  “It matters not.” The small body in his arms tightened at his words.

  “You are wrong, my stubborn Norman,” said Rangor. “Princess Gwladus of Powys is not only my goddaughter, but first cousin of Malcor, and should her cousin’s heir be murdered in cold blood, her father, the mighty warlord King Rhiwallon, will be most unhappy. William will lose more than he can calculate. Add to that the lady’s mother is a Welsh abbess, and very much alive and in the care of Powys. You would tempt the devils for a fight. Should I school you with regard to her royal blood of the North?”

  Wulfson scowled. It seemed the lady’s pedigree extended well beyond Godwinson. Which only made her all the more dangerous.

  Rangor continued. “Aye, you are wise to listen to reason. The lady is great-grandniece of Canute, which makes her kin to most kings of Scandinavian descent. Like the Vikings, the Welsh are not weak, as are the Saxons. The Marches are thick with fortresses and warriors who will stoop to any measure, including witchcraft, to see their homes and their blood kin protected. With the lady’s death by a Norman hand, and even the suspicion she died carrying the heir of Dunloc, there will be more than the wrath of hell to pay. Does William court more loss so soon?”

  “Should the lady spill Malcor’s brat, where does that leave you?” Wulfson demanded.

  Rangor smiled. “I intend to have the lady as my wife.”

  Tarian struggled in his arms, her strength pitiful. Wulfson tightened his hold, and she grunted in anger, but settled.

  “You would wed with the woman who slew your nephew and raise another’s issue?” Wulfson shook his head and sneered. “I think not.”

  “You underestimate my affection for the lady.”

  Wulfson made the mistake again of looking down at the bloody, dirt-encrusted creature in his arms, and she turned her head to look up at him once again. He found himself speechless. Her eyes sparked in furious rage. She turned her head back toward Rangor, the metal of the head device grinding against Wulfson’s vambraces. “Indeed, is this how a Saxon lord courts his lady love?”

  Rangor shook his head. He took a step closer. “She is insolent and thinks herself a man’s equal. She has her own army! No wife of mine will dress in mail and sit like a man astride a warhorse. Her—punishment, though a bit harsh, is but a way to show her who is lord here. She would have come around, if not to save herself, then the child she may carry. Marriage to me would be the justice I exact for the murder she committed.”

  Wulfson contemplated the dilemma. If the loss of life was forgiven by the family, and if the lady carried the heir to Dunloc, blood kin to the Welsh kings, and word got out that William had ordered her slain in cold blood—things would not settle well for his liege, to be sure. For the Welsh had allied with Harold, and were now rumored to be allied with Edric, the wild and unpredictable Saxon Earl of Mercia.

  But, he thought, should her womb prove empty, then there would be less cause for alarm. Rangor might think he would wed with her, but William would choose a Norman bride for the new earl and be done with the Lady Tarian. Wulfson nodded. Prudence over haste ruled this day. By an unforeseen twist of fate, the Lady Tarian had managed to buy a few more days on this earth.

  He would immediately send word to William, of course. In the meantime? He handed her off to Gareth, who gladly claimed her. Time will tell us if her womb bears fruit.” And as he said those words, Wulfson had the most uneasy feeling that, despite the outcome, his orders would remain the same, for the child, whilst it might be kin to the Welsh kings, would also be kin to a dead king, and that bloodline could not be resurrected under any circumstance.

  “Captain, see the lady to her chamber, and her maid secured,” Wulfson directed, then turned to Rangor. “You, milord, are forbidden to see the lady under any circumstance. Should you do so and be found out, you may consider yourself a prisoner of the realm.”

  Not giving the noble a chance to argue the point, Wulfson swept past him, shoving the slighter man aside with a well-placed shoulder. His anger tangled with his frustration over the sudden change of events. He was a knight of William, a warrior, a killer, and here he was to languish, waiting for proof positive that an enemy of the Crown show signs of pregnancy!

  “Sir Wulfson!” Gareth called. “The key for the helmet and bridle, please.”

  Wulfson growled low, and though wanting no further dalliance with the lady, he would not release the keys to the captain. Wulfson jammed one of the smaller keys on the leather ring he had taken from Rangor into the device, and turned it. The metal scraped, but the lock turned and the split face of the mask popped open. The lady gasped, as if a huge pressure on her skull had been relieved. Deep indentations near her temples and forehead looked angry and red. Wulfson swore under his breath, then took the same key to the wide metal bit strapped around the bottom portion of her head.

  As the metal piece clanked against her teeth and then rolled from her mouth, her small sigh of relief tested his resolve. Her lips were swollen, but when she licked them he saw straight white teeth behind them. His gaze met hers, and for the third time since he had laid eyes on her, something deep inside him twisted. Her eyes did not spark fire, but now they had warmed and glittered unnaturally.

  “Merci,” she said, her voice nothing but a husky rasp. Wulfson clicked his spurs together and nodded, then turned on his heel and nearly ran from the chamber.

  Tarian closed her eyes and for the first time since Rangor had thrown her in the dark, dank bowels of Draceadon, she felt a small measure of peace. Gareth’s strong arms supported her frame. Never remotely plump, she was even less now. She could not remember the last time she had eaten. Clean air filled her nostrils as they left the hellhole. Her lids fluttered as the light of day assaulted her. She rolled her head closer into Gareth’s shoulder, but groaned as her temple hit upon the clasp of his mail. Her mouth was numb, her fingers cold, and the rest of her body one massive ache.

  Despite her great discomfort, she tried to smile as she remembered Rangor’s frustration with her. The device had been constructed to keep her from raining belittling barbs upon Rangor’s head each time he visited her and failed in his repeated attempts to penetrate her. She had scoffed at his poor endeavors. Like his nephew, he could not muster what was required to keep his rod stiff enough to make her a woman full-blown.

  A hard shiver shattered her thoughts. The Norman knight who came to her rescue, only, it seemed to take her life, would have no such problems, she was sure. Aye, even in her condition she recognized a virile man when she saw one.

  Despite his virility, he had no honor. Had not Gareth interrupted, the Norman would have sliced her heart wide open and that would have been the end of her. But spared she was, for the moment. And with the reprieve, she would find a way to survive both Rangor and the Norman.

  She loosened her body, and settled more securely in Gareth’s strong arms, as her thoughts crashed violently together like warriors on the battlefield.

  Wulfson stormed from the dungeon, followed by his men, and Rangor, who nipped at his heels like a terrier, asserting his right to the lady and all that came with her. If the Saxon did not shut his mouth and leave him in peace, Wulfson might yet slay a Saxon noble this day. Jesu! He was a knight, a warrior, captain of a great man’s guard—not a nursemaid to mollycoddle these bickering Saxons. As he strode back into the hall, he called for a scribe, and immediatel
y sent word to William of this most annoying hitch in his step.

  Against his better judgment, not wanting to be another man down, he had only one option: to hand the message over to Warner’s care. The knight would place it in William’s own hands.

  As Warner and his squire took horse and rode south toward the sea, Wulfson called his men, Rangor, and Gareth to him. When the lady’s guard did not appear, Wulfson cursed. “Where is the Dane?”

  “No doubt mothering his lady,” Rangor spat contemptuously.

  Wulfson glared at the noble. “From the looks of her she will need more than mothering. ’Tis a miracle she survived.” Had he but come the next day, nature would have taken its course, and, like Warner, he would be on the road home to Normandy.

  “My intent was never to see her dead, sir, but as I said, to convince her marriage to me would be the better choice. Her only other option would be rightful execution.”

  Wulfson cast a disparaging glance at Rangor. He could not blame the lady for holding out. The Saxon was a most unsavory specimen of a man.

  A servant brought out several pitchers of mead and poured for the men. Several more hauled in platters of meats and breads, and set them down on the lord’s table, which had not been cleared from the morning meal. Continuing to stand, Wulfson and his men drank and ate. Once his thirst and hunger were eased, Wulfson cast a wary eye on the Saxon noble. “Where do you call home, Saxon?”

  “Lerwick, to the northwest. I have several smaller holdings further up. I am therefore a most worthy bridegroom.”

  Wulfson scathed him with a glare, assessing the validity of his words. “What became of your nephew Malcor?”

  Rangor’s face paled. “She slit his throat whilst he slept.”

  “’Tis a lie!” Gareth boomed, making his way down the narrow passage to the upper floor. “He was fully awake when the deed was done. ’Twas he or she, for he was bent on taking her life! He did not deserve to live after what he did to my lady.”

  “’Twas murder!” Rangor shrieked. “She can pay with her life or pay by marriage to me. Either way, she will pay!”

  Wulfson held his hand up for silence, and cast his gaze to the Dane. “How fares the lady?”

  A storm cloud of emotion gathered upon the hulking Dane’s fair face. “She is alive. Barely.”

  Wulfson turned his attention back to Rangor. “A man who mistreats a woman is no man at all.”

  Rangor cocked a brow and said arrogantly, “But not one who will slay her outright?”

  Wulfson refilled his cup. “There is no honor in cowardly abuse.” When Rangor made to speak again, Wulfson bellowed, “Enough! I will not be nettled by your womanish complaints! Until such time as the lady is well enough to make an appearance and a midwife has the opportunity to examine her for the signs of pregnancy, there will be no more discussion about her!”

  Rangor stood, properly cowed. Wulfson lowered his voice and strode to the head of the lord’s table. He turned and faced the many who had gathered. Though England was overrun with Normans, the invasion and the shire had suffered a great loss of men to battle, and the Norman hammer had not yet infiltrated much to the west. Until now.

  “To every man, woman, and child who call themselves Saxon and cleave to this shire, until you are informed otherwise, consider me lord and master here. I come in the name of King William to settle a dispute that does not involve any of you. I will tolerate no interference, and should I suspect any nefarious actions, I and my men will strike first and ask questions afterward.”

  He watched anger cloud most of the faces, Rangor’s especially, and continued. “We are not Barbarians, and unless provoked, you will be safe under our guard so long as we reside here. Only you can make life unpleasant for yourselves.”

  Wulfson faced Rangor. “I will tolerate no interference from you especially. Consider that my last warning.” He turned to Gareth and repeated the words. The Dane scowled, and his men closed ranks around him. They were a well-appointed group, but Wulfson had no doubt as to the victor should he and his men clash with this able-bodied guard. There were more camped out in the meadow down the hill, and while the sheer numbers concerned Wulfson, he doubted an attack was forthcoming. But he never underestimated his enemy. Along with word of the lady, Wulfson had asked William for more men. He would be prepared, for he had a feeling deep in his bones that William would be more adamant than ever to see to the lady’s demise. Her Welsh connections coupled with her Godwinson blood made her too attractive to those who would use her to seek the throne.

  A clash was inevitable. And, as always, he would be prepared.

  Darkness. It was the only thing that frightened her. Now it surrounded her, pressing into her with the relentless intensity of a hot iron. Tarian moaned when she tried to open her eyes, the pain of the effort too much to bear. Yet she must! For days her dreams had haunted her. The nights with Malcor and his deviant actions. Like a wagon wheel rolling endlessly down a mountain, the endless days and nights spent in his dungeon of horrors repeated in her mind’s eye. He had lured her down there one day, only to shackle her to the wall and…she squeezed her eyes tighter. Rangor had done the same. The sadistic nature ran true through the line. She moved her body, and cried out as jagged lashes of pain spread like quicksilver down her back and legs. Her limbs felt weighted down and every part of her throbbed.

  “Easy, lass,” a soft voice said from beside her.

  “Edie?” she hoarsely called to her nurse, and even that effort caused her great exertion.

  “Aye, I am here.”

  The heavy heat of the room clogged her throat. Her skin was on fire. A cool damp linen was pressed to her forehead, then her cheeks. The sheet was lifted, and she knew from the soft concussion of the air that she was naked. The cool moistness moved across her body.

  Where was she? “You are safe, milady. Safe from Malcor and safe from Rangor. Gareth sleeps on the floor before your door. Sleep, sweeting, sleep.”

  Tarian gave way to the heat and pain of her body, her muscles relaxing as she let out a long breath. Safe. She was safe.

  More dreams. A devil on a fire-breathing black beast. Black mail, black helm, black heart. She could not escape his brilliant eyes. He had come for her, not to save but to slay!

  Voices whispered close by, but they were not clear. Her name spoken with urgency. Had the black knight come back for her?

  She thrashed in the bed, her body sweating, the room stifling. Her chest expanded for air, she was suffocating. Hands grasping the sheets, her body strained against an imaginary hand pressed into her chest, forcing her down. “The sins of the father will repeat in the sins of the daughter!” Malcor shrieked as he bit her back, his long yellow teeth sinking into her flesh. Tarian screamed, the pain too intense.

  “My lady,” a deep voice soothed. Gareth?

  “Stand back, Viking,” Edith’s old wheezing voice commanded. “’Tis not decent for you to see her thusly.”

  “I have seen more than you could imagine, old woman. I will tend her now. You have been without sleep for three days; go to your pallet. She is safe with me.”

  The voices had drifted away, and with them the nightmares. Tarian lay awake, coherent, unmoving in the bed, and listened. Deep breaths from close by, and soft snores farther off. She still ached, but the heat was gone from her body. Slowly she opened her eyes. The room was dark; only a single candle illuminated it from the side table behind Gareth, who sat hunched chin to chest, softly snoring beside her in Malcor’s great chair.

  She moaned as she tried to brush the hair from her face. He was instantly alert, as was Edith, who for an old woman was quick, and beside her in an instant. Two sets of concerned eyes peered at her. In a most vulnerable moment, hot tears stung Tarian’s eyes. Both Edith and Gareth cracked wide smiles.

  Edith pressed her lips to Tarian’s cheek. “The fever has broken,” she said, relief heavy in her words.

  Tarian closed her eyes and hoarsely whispered, “I am hungry.”

&nb
sp; A deep rumbling sound erupted from Gareth’s chest. Slowly she opened her eyes again. Their gazes caught, and she could not be sure but it appeared her captain’s blue eyes glistened with moisture. She tried to smile, and when she could not, she whispered, “’Twill take more than Malcor and that fop of an uncle of his to break me, Gareth.”

  He nodded and stepped back. “I will get you food.” He turned and hurried from the room.

  Turning her head slowly on the pillow, Tarian watched her nurse pour wine from a skin on the sideboard. “Edie, tell me what happened.”

  The ancient woman, older than anyone Tarian had ever encountered, smiled softly at her over her hunched shoulder. Tarian could never remember Edith without the thick white hair, deep wrinkles, and cheery brown eyes that rarely snapped in anger. Never had she seen Edith lose her composure. She was all things to Tarian: mother, sister, friend, nurse, maid, and confidant. Tarian knew little of Edith’s past, only that she was somehow connected to Tarian’s mother, also called Edith, the former abbess of Leominster. “Let me tend to you, and once you are more comfortable and your belly is full, I will explain all.”

  Some time later, though able to move with only the speed of a turtle, Tarian sank into a cool bath and allowed Edith to gently tend her. Her long hair was washed and patted dry with a thick linen towel. As Tarian slipped on a soft linen chemise, Edith changed the soiled linens of her bed. Gareth entered with a tray laden with what seemed like the contents of the entire kitchen. Close on his heels was a servant with another tray, and behind him yet another, his tray heavy with wineskins and goblets.

  “Gareth,” she said, clearing her throat. She winced at the pain. “You should not do a servant’s chores,” Tarian lightly chided.

  He set the heavy tray on a nearby table, turned to her, and bowed. “Save your voice. You will need it.” He poured her a draught of wine. “Now, do as your faithful servant commands, and drink.”