Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment

by Karin Tabke

  Wulfson scanned the quiet countryside. He was not comfortable riding without his men, but he would not show his concern to the woman who rode like a man beside him. The movement of the saddle against his groin was becoming a hindrance. He grumbled, and the sound was not lost on the lady.

  “Does some injury pain you?” she glibly asked. Her eyes danced with glee, and he knew at that moment she was on to him. He grinned. She intrigued him more than any one person had in his lifetime. She was a lady, true; her manners, speech, schooling, and bloodline screamed it. But she was as exotic and saucy as the spiced meats he had grown to relish during his time in Iberia, before his capture and torture. After their narrow escape, he and his fellow Blood Swords had made haste from that ungodly land to Normandy, where they had serendipitously met up with William.

  “Tell, me, sir knight,” Tarian chirped, “are all men guided by the sword between their legs over the sword in their hands?”

  Wulfson coughed at her audacious question, but he answered truthfully. “For some, the demon between a man’s legs makes all of his decisions. But for others, such as myself, and my fellow Blood Swords, while we pay heed to it, it does not govern our actions or our decisions.”

  “Why do you go by the name of Blood Sword?”

  Wulfson stiffened at the question. He was not a man who made much conversation, yet he found himself enjoying his parlance with the widow. But he had never shared his horrific experience with another living soul except with the eight men who survived it with him. “’Tis a name given to a knight who earns his living by the sword.”

  She peered at him and seemed to be satisfied with the answer. As they descended along the well-worn road from Draceadon to the rest of the world, the thick copse of trees outlining the forest, the clouds seemed to have darkened threefold. Wulfson cast an eye skyward. “Does it always rain in this place?”

  She nodded, and as the road forked Tarian gave the gray his head. They sprinted past Wulfson, who cursed. She shook her head, her long dark hair following her like a dark shield. Wulfson spurred the destrier and the chase was on.

  Much to his frustration, he could not catch up. The gray, though a destrier, was lighter and fleeter of foot than his great black. The beast was also not bogged down with mail, and the lady’s weight was that of a mite. When he thundered around a sharp bend in the road, he swore out loud. For the next half-league he could see down it, and Tarian was nowhere in sight. He had been duped! He had fallen for her guile! Rage infiltrated every inch of him. He would not fail his king!

  He pulled up Turold, his mind quickly assessing the situation. If she were ahead, she would be in sight. Since she was not, she must have turned off the road soon after she made its sharp bend. He backed up to where the road turned out and cast his gaze to the ground. The turf was still moist with the last rain and though well traveled, the fresh churn of four large shod hooves darkened it. He looked into the thick copse of trees where the tracks led, and decided that if she could make it through the forest, so could he. And when he got his hands on her he would throttle her and end this futile charade. He smiled grimly. But not before he did what he had wanted to do to her from the moment he laid eyes on her that morn.

  Turold burst through the low bramble and maneuvered through the English oak and ash trees. While the forest was thick, it was not as nonnegotiable as he had first thought. Her trail was clear, and so long as he had light and determination he would find her. As he drew deeper into the wood, he reined up Turold and listened. First only the twittering of the birds overhead disturbed the heaviness of the air, then rustles amongst the thickets as small inhabitants scurried to escape some intruder. Then voices. Welsh. Dead ahead, and coming closer. As he sat silent and bent his ear toward them trying to decipher what was said, the sharp hiss of an arrow passed so near to his right ear it nicked the outer tip before finding a home in the oak behind him. He drew his sword, deftly turning toward the direction of the assault, cursing himself again for riding out with no helm or accompaniment.

  Soft laughter filtered from the direction of the arrow. “How is that for a kitten? Sir knight?” the soft husky voice that gave him gooseflesh called to him. His eyes narrowed, and Tarian materialized from the forest, bow in hand, maybe thirty steps ahead of him. Directly across from the voices that continued to come closer.

  He put his finger to his lips, drawing her caution. She cocked her head and heard them as well. Instead of the look of stricken panic he would expect from a woman, Tarian smiled and drew another arrow. The soft breeze blew her long hair from her face, exposing the high noble cheekbones, and while she had the honed look of a predator, her femininity was undeniable. And the way she sat half barelegged astride her destrier made a man’s mind wander with thoughts of her straddling him thusly. Wulfson snorted in contempt. ’Twas no wonder she had survived Hastings. The warriors she encountered were no doubt mesmerized by her beauty, giving her the opportunity to strike first, and as deadly accurate as she was with that bow, she must have slain numerous Normans. His blood simmered. She was a banshee disguised as a goddess. But he was not swayed by her wiles.

  The voices grew in volume, and just as Wulfson reined Turold to back up into a more discreet spot between two huge oaks, Tarian did the same. Her horse silently reversed, blending into the copse. Wulfson sheathed his long broadsword at his waist, then drew the deadly twin angels of death, Azrael and Sariel.

  His fingers grasped the leather-bound hilts, the grips molding perfectly to every contour of his hands. Wulfson could feel the quickening in the stallion’s flanks. As did his master, the warhorse found his true passion in the heat of battle.

  The Welsh voices broke the small clearing just ahead. Just as a red hound trotting ahead of them stopped in his tracks and lifted his nose in Wulfson’s direction, alerting the Welsh to his presence, Wulfson struck. He grasped the black’s sides with his thighs, and the great horse broke through the bramble and thickets, shielding them into the clearing and into a half score of armed men.

  Sword in each hand, Wulfson urged the destrier forward, his mighty battle cry shaking the birds from the trees, the great horse’s large razor-sharp hooves clearing the way. Though surprised, the men quickly rallied and formed a loose circle around the lone knight. Unperturbed, Wulfson pressed upon the man nearest to him, and in one wide arc of his right arm, he separated the man’s head from his shoulders, his silent scream of terror lost forever. A sharp prick of pain in his shoulder did not deter Wulfson, and he pressed through the gauntlet, both swords meeting flesh and bone in a sickening cadence. He broke clear of the mangled circle and spun back around to reenter it. Using his legs to direct Turold, he gave the destrier the command to rear up on his hindquarters, and when he came down Wulfson sliced the air, then the flesh on either side of him. Agonized screams filled the heavy air; it only served to spur Wulfson on. He was in that place where everything around him narrowed down to survival, his vision focused completely on his enemy. The horse rose up again, and this time did a half pirouette, keeping the foot soldiers from his master. But the great horse had to come down sooner or later, and laden with weight of his mailed master, he came down sooner, and into the thick of the fight. The men swarmed Wulfson, despite his hacking off their body parts. As they pressed, Wulfson shifted his weight in the saddle, and in a low voice commanded his mount, “Capriole.” Turold rose on his haunches and leapt forward and kicked out with his hind legs. The man behind him screamed in pain. “À nouveau.” The great horse repeated the movement; it was enough to push them back, but they swarmed again. Turold fought to keep the men at bay, but they were too numerous and well weaponed.

  Twice Wulfson found his body breached. But the thrill of the fight overrode any pain associated with the wounds. He would tend to them later. Tunnel-visioned, he not only maneuvered himself around their attackers but one by one he slowly divested them of their limbs. As Wulfson swung around in his saddle to finish off the last of them, he noticed several bodies he had not touched lyi
ng on their backs, eyes staring skyward, with arrows piercing their chests.

  In just that heartbeat of time, the last of the Welsh rushed him. Wulfson turned and brought both swords together as one to slice the man in half, but he never came close enough. His attacker’s body jerked forward then backward; his dark eyes widened in surprise. He folded to his knees, then fell face-first in the damp soil at the destrier’s hooves, a broadsword buried deep in his back.

  Wulfson looked up to see Lady Tarian coming toward him still astride and barely winded. A deep pall of clouds settled over the thick wood. A jagged flash of lightning ripped across the gray sky, followed by a sharp crash of thunder just above them. Neither Tarian nor Wulfson acknowledged it. Both sat on their horses, each staring at the other.

  Breathing heavily, blood soaking his blades, his arms and legs, Wulfson scanned the carnage. Half of the men were dead by his sword, the other half by arrows. He looked up, and caught the heated gaze of the warrior princess. She did not seem to have even broken a sweat. Calmly she sat upon her stallion, her quiver empty, her bow snugly put away in the leather sheath just behind the high pommel of her saddle.

  She pointed to the dead men. “’Tis well, milord, that I came to your rescue, or your blood would soak the ground, not that of these errant Welsh.”

  “Why did you flee in the first place?” he demanded.

  She threw him a smile over her shoulder. “To prove that I could.”

  “I will take better care next time.”

  Tarian dismounted, and made her way to her sword. She pulled it from the dead man and bent to wipe his blood on his undertunic. Once the blade shone again, she sheathed it. Without looking up at Wulfson, she moved around the dead, stepping over them and lifting their cloaks and tunics. “’Tis ignoble for a knight of the realm to scavenge,” Wulfson said scornfully.

  Tarian cocked her head back and gazed at him through narrowed eyes. “I am not a knight of the realm, sir, and while it may appear I am looking for trinkets, I assure you I am not.” She bent down to one man and lifted his tunic to reveal a blue wren on a sable field. “’Tis what I seek. My godfather’s blazon. He will not be pleased with me.”

  Wulfson intently watched her from his saddle. “And who, pray tell, is your godfather?”

  “Lord Orwain, Queen Hear’s half brother.”

  “Queen Hear?”

  “King Rhiwallon’s wife.”

  Wulfson scowled. The Welsh were getting bold. Lightning blazed across the blackening sky, the following thunder closer than before. Wulfson looked skyward. “We will be soaked if we do not find shelter soon, and I have no desire to see rust upon my mail. Do you know a place close by where we can wait out this storm?”

  Tarian grinned and nodded. She walked back to the gray, and Wulfson watched in amusement as she made one attempt to mount the big horse. He urged Turold toward the pair, and had he been a lesser man her arrow-sharp glare would have stopped him. But Wulfson of Trevelyn was unlike any other man. He dismounted, and when he did, he felt the first pang of pain from the fresh wound to his leg. Jagged shards shot up his groin. He didn’t look down; the wound didn’t matter now, though it would have to be ministered to. He grabbed Tarian up into his arms, and nearly tossed her atop the high back of the gray.

  He grinned as he caught a quick view of the dark down that shielded her pink nether lips. His cock swelled at the vision, and though his bloodlust for battle had subsided, the sight he had just been gifted churned up another passion altogether.

  Tarian drew as much of her skirts down her legs as she could, all the while holding him with a furious glare. Wulfson stared her down and grinned. “I was not sure there for a moment if you were but a pretty squire. I am assured now you are nothing of the sort.”

  Tarian kicked the gray, startling him, and she moved past Wulfson and deeper into the wood. Wulfson hurried to mount the black, but felt the strength ebbing from his right leg. ’Twas the same leg that Ocba the devil of a Saracen had put in a wooden vise for amusement one day. Wulfson had passed out from the unbearable pain of it. When he awoke, he had been chained back up against the wall; the only way he could keep his arms from dislocating was to stand on his good left leg. Any pressure on his right sent him into fits of agony. He still walked with a decided limp, but the pain was bearable. It only ached, it seemed, when the winters were overly cold and wet.

  Lightning lit up the darkened sky with the intensity of the fiery star he had witnessed with his own eyes the year before. It was followed by an ear-shattering clap of thunder, and then the heavens opened and rain poured from the sky.

  Wulfson cursed, and urged the black to follow the gray.

  Ten

  While he lost sight of Tarian more than once in the onslaught of rain, Wulfson was able to follow the well-marked tracks of the gray. They had turned back in the direction of Draceadon, but he was not overly concerned. They were close enough that if he wanted to make a run for it they could be within the fortress by the high sun of the day. But he was meticulous when it came to his equipment, and his mail was a most prized possession, given to him by his king just before they departed last year for Hastings. William’s own armorer, Gilbert fitz Hugh, had created the unique black mail. Only les morts, William’s elite guard, had the honor of wearing the masterpieces. And Wulfson, along with his Blood Swords, took great pains to preserve the gift. It was not only elaborate but constructed with such expert craftsmanship; the tightly welded piece had repelled many an arrow and sword when other mail would have allowed passage.

  He was glad to see Tarian’s gray tied up under a lean-to attached to an old stone dwelling. Wulfson scowled. From where he stood, he could detect no roof. Indeed, the architecture looked unfamiliar. The small cross-shaped holes that served as windows in the crumbling ruin gave the structure away. While his liege was a devout Catholic, Wulfson, having lived through hell, was not sure any god would treat his people suchly. He had no great faith, nor any great fear.

  He tied the black next to the gray, and as he entered the dim confines of the crumbling edifice he stiffened, his hand wrapping around the hilt of his sword. Always wary when he entered a room, he scrutinized the woman across the hewn stone floor who had managed to start a small fire in the hearth. He didn’t cast an eye northward, but surmised there was a roof since where she stood was dry, though thick green moss grew along the north wall of the room, and branches from the outer foliage grew through breaks in the crumbling mortar. The space, though open, was stifling. But his eyes came back to rest on the nymph standing in only a damp green garment by the flickering flames. His blood warmed at the sight, and once again he cursed his weakness.

  “Is it your aim to drive us out of here with more heat?”

  Tarian looked up at him and smiled, and he immediately went on the defensive. It was not any smile. Nay, her smile was that of a woman who thought herself very much in control of herself and the man she was bent on destroying.

  “I am soaked to the bone, and if you are as worried about your mail as you say, then you will strip and come close and dry it as quickly as you can with the aid of the fire.”

  Wulfson nodded, and noted her kirtle and chauses hanging over a chair back to dry near the fire. He also noted the way her damp garment clung to her womanly curves. “’Twas my intention.”

  “Of course it was.”

  He unhooked his scabbards and set them to the side, but kept them close. He eyed Tarian warily as she approached him. Her damp clothing clung to her curves so strictly that though the room fairly steamed, the very noticeable outline of her nipples was undeniable. His rod filled more. “I am not incapable of undressing myself.”

  Tarian snickered and stepped closer. “Do you fear my touch, sir?”

  Wulfson grinned and pulled his hauberk off, and then his mail leggings.

  Tarian fought to keep her breathing at its normal pace, but when he removed his gambeson and stood only in his undertunic, braies, and linen chauses, she could not help but admire
his form. When he pulled off his undertunic, she caught her breath. The sight of the sword burned into his chest in the light of day was more gruesome than it had been by candlelight. The pain he must have endured, and survived it—commendable. She resisted the urge to reach out and smooth her fingertips across the red scar, as if somehow that would relieve him of pain long endured. Her eyes traveled past his muscled chest and lower to his flat belly, then, out of womanly curiosity, to his groin. She blushed. The full rise in his braies could not be ignored. Yet her gaze traveled lower to the ragged slash in his chauses. The crimson stain on his thigh alerted her. Her gaze rose to his and she caught her breath. His nostrils flared and his deep green eyes burned like molten emeralds. His jaw was set and his lips thinned in tension.

  “If you do not wish to be ravaged by me at this time, madame, I suggest you stand back.”

  Tarian swallowed and nodded, but moved back toward the fire.

  She watched in quiet fascination as he sat down on a short bench next to the hearth and painstakingly rubbed the water from his mail with his undertunic. The crimson spot on his lower thigh deepened in color and volume.

  “How came you by the scar on your chest?” she asked.

  He stopped the rubbing motion and cast a hard glare. “A reminder of who I am.”

  “Who are you?” she breathlessly asked.

  “A bastard knight of the bastard king, who kills on command.”

  “You make it sound so noble.”

  Wulfson eyed her cryptically, but kept at his chore. “It is.”

  Tarian stood, and slowly began to pace the small area. “You came to kill me, did you not?”

  When he did not answer her, she spun around and came closer to him. “’Tis because I am a Godwinson?” Wulfson looked up, his eyes clear, hiding nothing. “What does your king fear? That I will raise up an army in the name of my uncle and seize the throne of England?”