by Karin Tabke
She smiled, and her heart swelled for this man who had, ever since she could remember, been her mentor and protector—but more than that, her friend. Edith disapproved of their closeness, but then most people disapproved of Tarian in general, so she never gave the unorthodox relationship with her captain much thought. He was the sole connection to the father she had met on only two occasions, and of whom she had only a vague memory. Sweyn Godwinson, eldest son of the great Godwine, had bidden the Viking who had fostered with her grandfather to swear his oath to always watch over her—since she, like her sire, was an outcast.
Gareth was a man of his word. And though coin had been exchanged, Gareth’s loyalty had long ago transcended both the oath and the coin. He loved his lady, and would lay his life down for her on any given day if she but asked. And, Tarian thought, recently she had not even to ask.
Only because she was so weak and hurt so badly did she allow Edith to cluck around her like a one-winged hen and Gareth to pace like a man just about to become a father for the first time.
She sipped the wine, wincing as it burned her throat. But she must drink, and eat, too, to regain her strength. Even in her weakened state, she could smell a battle brewing around her, and to be the victor she must be strong in heart, mind, and body.
With a gusto she did not particularly feel, Tarian ate. Once her hunger was sated, she demanded, “Tell me all.”
When Edith and Gareth looked at each other and the color drained from her maid’s face, Tarian knew it was bad. “All and now.”
Gareth pulled Malcor’s chair up close to face her on the bed where she had returned. Though her fever was gone and she had fortified her body with food and drink, she was still as weak as a spring lamb.
“The Normans are here,” he said grimly.
Memory sparked. Aye! The black knight! Her nightmare was real! “He came to slay me,” she whispered.
Gareth nodded. Edith slapped his back, and Tarian shook her head. “Edie, did you expect Gareth to tell me anything less than the truth?”
“Nay, but ’tis too much too soon.”
Tarian shook her head and stopped immediately. Her neck was stiff, and the gesture cost her. “Nay, I must know all now, so that I may plan my strategy.”
Gareth frowned. “The Normans are fierce.”
“How fierce?”
He wiped his hand down his short blond beard, smoothing it. A sure sign he was irritated. “In all honesty, I have never come across such worthy warriors. I have watched them from your window. They practice from dawn to dusk. They work as one unit, then as individuals. Every one of them is three times the warrior of one of our men. I cannot even begin to explain to you the intricate moves they put their destriers through. Moves I have never seen. ’Tis amazing to watch.”
Tarian scowled. “You sound smitten.”
Gareth had the decency to color. “Nay, impressed. So much so that I fear we will have to fly from here under the cover of night through the back passageway as soon as you are able, or else face certain death if we stay.”
Tarian stiffened and she winced. “I will not leave Draceadon.”
His blue eyes locked with hers. “His king sent him here to destroy the Godwinson line. You are the surviving child of the eldest son, a slain king’s brother. You pose a great threat, milady. We cannot beat the Normans. I fear he has sent for more of his kind.”
Tarian refused to believe a handful of knights could best her garrison of men. “What are a few more Norman knights?”
“Not any Norman knights. These call themselves Blood Swords. Thorin the Viking tells me there are more.”
“Who is their leader?”
“The one they call Wulfson of Trevelyn.”
Tarian crumpled her brow in thought and ignored the pain. “’Tis a Saxon and a Welsh name—how can he be Norman?”
“I know not. ’Tis not my place to ask.”
“Was he the one who took me from the dungeon?”
“Aye.”
Her entire body tightened, just a little, as she remembered his bold green eyes, and the way she had reacted to him even when she was at death’s door. When he had touched her she had felt his life force spear into her skin, as if lightning had struck, and when in that briefest moment of a heartbeat he had hesitated, the dagger poised but not moving forward, she had seen doubt in his eyes. And something else. Something she had no clue to. “What manner of man is he?” she whispered hoarsely.
“Hard,” Edith answered. “But Gareth would know better than I. I have been here these four days past.”
Tarian looked to her captain. He nodded. “Hard, steadfast to his king. He sees all. Nothing escapes his notice. He does not make hasty judgment.”
Tarian plucked her bottom lip, and winced. It seemed there was not a part of her that did not hurt. So, her home was overrun with demon Normans, and the captain of her guard was ready to throw all they had worked for to those hungry wolves. Her anger rose. “What of Rangor?”
Gareth smiled. “He has managed to nettle the Norman to the point of being relegated to the old armory.”
Tarian smirked. ’Twas too good for him.
“He presses for your hand,” Edith interjected.
“That will never be. I would give up Draceadon before I would lie with him.”
Gareth’s eyes softened. “A babe would solve many of your problems, milady.”
She raised her eyes to him and then looked to Edith. “You both know there is no chance of that.”
“Wed with Rangor and give yourself the advantage over the Norman and his king. He will not harm you if you are wed to the man; his Welsh connections are too strong,” Gareth encouraged her.
“My blood is still Godwinson blood, Gareth. My choice of husband will not change that.” She fought back a yawn, for it pained her. “My strength wanes, and I must think. Let us speak more on the morrow.”
Four
For the first time since she awoke from her fever and learned her home had been overrun with Normans, Tarian was alone. Gareth had much that needed his attention, and he trusted the Norman when he had given his word that his lady would not be disturbed. Edith also had chores to tend to, and when she sent a girl to sit with her, Tarian shooed her from the chamber. She wanted time alone. It was what she preferred, it was what she was accustomed to. It had been so all her life. There had been no children of like nobles to play with as a child; even her foster sister, Brighid, who was younger, was kept from Tarian. Lady Gwen, Brighid’s mother, had made it plain to Tarian that her influence was not welcome on her golden-haired daughter. Tarian smiled.
That did not stop Brighid from seeking her out. And Tarian admitted she cared deeply for the girl several years her junior. She was feisty, and had a mind of her own. But even with the stolen moments with the girl she considered her sister, more oft than not, Tarian spent her time alone. And she felt very alone now. For so long, she’d had to rely on her wits and agility to keep her from harm’s way, and in so relying on those traits she had served to drive the wedge deeper between her and most nobles. She was cursed, marked as she was by a small red birthmark just inside her thigh that resembled a shield. Hence her name. Shield maiden.
She lay quiet, listening to the sounds from the bailey. Life went on at Draceadon, with or without her. That stung. She had great hopes of restoring the fortress to its former glory. It was one of the few stone structures in the area, and though it was the lesser of Malcor’s holdings, it had the most history, and was most strategically positioned high on a hill near the Welsh border. She had immediately fallen for it when she and Gareth came out of the forest below in search of the earl who, it was rumored, hid behind Dragon Hill’s massive stone walls.
Breaching the fortress had been easy. Malcor had underestimated her refusal to live out her days in a convent. Once married, and for the sake of the children she’d hoped she would bear, she had tolerated his perverse attention. A woman of conviction and determination, one who had slain men on battlefields
from York to Hastings, even she, in the short time she had been his wife, had not been able to withstand his violent nature. And so, to survive, she had done what she had to do.
She pressed her hands to her chest and felt the strong beat of her heart, then closed her eyes. A dark, unsettled feeling moved through her, an uncertainty that perhaps she was in a bog from which she might never be free. Her country still licked deep wounds of defeat. It occurred to her that the rules of engagement had drastically changed since her marriage to Malcor, and to get back into the challenge she too would have to improvise to overcome this new threat. And to do so would require not might, but shrewd and subtle maneuvering.
Her eyes flashed open. She would not have what she had worked so hard to gain taken from her merely because Malcor’s repugnant uncle fancied her for his bride. Her days of being under a man’s thumb were over! She had lived with the stigma as the cursed spawn of the devil all her life, and she had shrugged off the sneers and the narrowed glares, along with the hushed conversations of which she was the topic. Mayhap now she would use the curse to her advantage. Let it fly as her standard. And let any who tried to take what was rightfully hers feel the wrath of the devil’s spawn!
Tarian expelled a long breath, wincing as her chest loosened. In her current state of weakness, she could barely fathom the supreme effort it would require to stay a widow, and at the same time keep what she had won.
Once again the feeling of being completely alone overcame her. The thought of spending the rest of her life in the cloister terrified her more than any battle. God terrified her. The nuns terrified her, and of the three abbesses she had met in her travels, the moment she spoke her name the look of shock, horror, then disgust had been enough to turn her away.
So she had found her way with a sword and her guard. It was not a bad life. Her enemies she met face to face. And that was more than she could say of life at court. Her uncle King Harold had been most gracious in his invitation to her to come to Winchester shortly after his coronation. He was a great man, of a great family, a most worthy king. He had allowed her and her men to participate in the rigorous drills in anticipation of William. When word came of Norway’s King Hardrada’s pending invasion, she had joined her liege without hesitation.
Harold proved to be a mighty warrior, and she felt a deep abiding respect for him. Their victory celebration had been short-lived. Less than a month later, her beloved uncle fell at Hastings, and a part of her fell with him.
The Normans were vicious and arrogant. She despised them as much as any Saxon, probably more. They had taken her golden uncle from her, from England, as well as from his brothers, her uncles. In her eyes no man could replace him.
The clear sound of steel clashing against steel roused her from her musings. Hoarse shouts and the neighing of destriers alerted her to activity below. Her blood quickened: ’twas the sound of soldiers. Carefully, she moved so that her legs hung from the side of the bed. Pain pricked her every inch. The wounds from the lash were just beginning to heal, and her muscles that had been pulled taut, then twisted and bound, had begun to loosen up. Her head, though, caused her most discomfort. She could still feel the clasp of metal at her temples and the hard bite of the bit in her mouth.
With shaky legs and the help of several chairs along the way, Tarian made it to the slitted window of her chamber. There was a stone seat she could sit upon, and with only a small effort she could peer clearly down into the side of the bailey, where warriors of old had prepared for battle and where the Norman knights of her present went about their daily training regime.
She watched for nearly a candle notch as they moved through rudimentary maneuvers, suppling their horses as well as themselves. Several of the formations were familiar to her, but most were not. But regardless of what they did, horses and knights alike performed in perfect precision.
Once the warm-ups were complete, the knights settled in for more intricate maneuvers. They paired off facing each other, and one dark-haired knight with a double scabbard strapped to his back, à la florentine, who had caught her eye from the very beginning, called most of the maneuvers and set the pace.
At his sharp command, his horse’s great haunches lowered to the ground, and she watched in amazement as each destrier, bearing the weight of not only the heavy studded tack but of a mailed knight, leaped up and slightly forward, kicking out with its hind legs, only to repeat the maneuver several more times. She had seen similar maneuvers at Hastings, but nothing so expert as this. No wonder these men were William’s elite guard, known as les morts.
The lead knight called for them to halt, and when he turned to face the high walls of Draceadon he looked up. Even though she was sure he could see but her shadowed form from where he sat upon his mount, she could feel the heat of his gaze bore into her.
’Twas he, the one they called Wulfson. Tarian caught her breath and moved back from the window, not realizing she nearly hung out of it. She’d been found out!
Would he demand she present herself? She could not, not yet. She was still too weak, and the visible wounds she suffered at Rangor’s hands had just begun to heal. Her pale skin was a mass of bruises, and her face, an asset, was naught but a mass of cuts and swelling. Nay, when she made her appearance, she would be at her best both on the surface and within. She would need every weapon in her arsenal to deal with the likes of Wulfson of Trevelyn.
His sharp command to resume brought her back to the stone sill. She peeked down and, in womanly appreciation, watched his manly form and the way he maneuvered his horse as easily as if he were but plucking a lyre.
Slowly she backed away from the window. Her legs shook, but not from her injuries.
Wulfson felt her presence long before he spied her watching from above. Her brilliant sea-colored eyes haunted his dreams. She had burrowed under his skin like a flea on a hound, and the irritation was most unpleasant. When he halted in the middle of the maneuvers and looked up, his fellow knights followed his gaze. “She watches and plots against you, Wulf,” Thorin said from beside him.
Wulfson’s blood warmed. “Aye, and she will lose all as her uncle did.”
Thorin laughed and slapped him on the back. “Why do we wait?”
Wulfson scowled. “A precaution only. William will want to consider the Welsh alliance she could bring. Rhiwallon and Bleddyn chomp at the bit to spill more Norman blood.”
“Methinks, my friend, it is just a matter of time before we push the Welsh border west.”
“Aye,” Ioan agreed as he maneuvered his mount around to face the two men. “’Tis a language I should learn, as I wager I will find myself in the arms of a Welsh lass sooner rather than later.”
The men laughed and Wulfson said, “I speak it with great authority. I spent many years in Gwent.”
Rhys, Rorick, and Stefan gathered round, allowing their mounts to blow. Since their arrival, the air hung heavy with unshed raindrops. Today the heat was most oppressive. Black clouds gathered overhead, and a low rumble of far-off thunder rolled toward them. Wulfson cast a wary eye skyward. “This cursed weather will turn us into rusted statues!”
And as the men sat upon their mounts and conversed, by some compulsion all six of them looked up to the vacant window of the lord’s chamber.
“I fear should William give the order to proceed,” Rhys said, “we will be met with more than a slight resistance. We should do the deed stealthily, and whilst the dragon sleeps.”
Wulfson nodded, not feeling particularly good about having to slay a woman. And a noble one still less. He was a man of high conviction, would follow his king through hell, but the idea of being the one responsible for snuffing the fire from those brilliant eyes left him feeling cold and unclean.
Thunder rumbled closer, followed by a shift in the air. It became heavier, an ominous omen of what was to come. Wulfson cursed. “Let us wait out the storm in the hall. I have no desire to rust.”
And so the next days passed. Wulfson and his men were up long before
the crow of the cock getting in what exercise they could in the few bright spots between the sultry storms that seemed to plague the area. The skies would be clear and blue in the morn, and by the midday meal become dark and ominous. Just as ominous were the blue eyes from above, Wulfson knew, that watched him and his men with keen interest. Her presence unnerved him on a most primal level. It was something he could not exactly put a name to, but he knew she was more dangerous then the jagged flashes of lightning that preceded the harsh thunderclaps. For that reason alone, he had not pressed for her to make her appearance.
Tarian spent the days of her recuperating watching and learning, and despite her hatred for all things Norman, she found herself admiring the prowess of the black knight called Wulfson. His commanding presence on the field was undeniable, and to her chagrin she watched Gareth and her own men watch the Normans and then go about their own maneuvers, in an attempt to reenact what they had just observed.
On the tenth day of her convalescence, as Edith prepared her bath, the old woman said, “The Norman is deadly, milady.”
“Of that I am fully aware, Edie.” Tarian moved to the window seat, and was glad to notice, when she tucked her knees beneath her, that the pain was nearly gone. So were most of the bruises. Pink scars still crisscrossed her back and legs, but with the daily balm rubs Edie insisted on—and which in truth were pure heaven—they too were fading. Her heart, though, remained hard and closed. Her determination to hold on to at least Draceadon grew each day as her body healed. Her hatred for Rangor grew in insidious leaps and bounds. At the first opportunity, should he give it, she would see him planted beside his nephew.
“Has the Norman’s man returned with word from William?” Edie asked.
“Nay.”
Tarian smiled. And he would not. Gareth had positioned a handful of men to snag the knight on his return, and hold him until such time Tarian had full control; and with the backing of the Welsh kings, to whom she had sent word for help, she would see the Normans either gone from Draceadon or become a permanent part of the landscape.