by Karin Tabke
As they approached Draceadon, Tarian’s excitement grew. Her message to her Welsh kinsman King Rhiwallon had been received. And with the arrival of his messenger and guard, the charade would now commence in full. She held back a gloating smile. The Norman knight had been all too correct in his statement that there were no rules on the battlefield. She of all people understood how the wiles of a woman could confuse a man and make him think more than twice, and not with the head on his shoulders. Even Malcor in his depravity had not been immune to her. He had named her sole heir to all he held. That document alone, should she outwit William and his Blood Swords, would be her salvation.
Aye, she was counting on Rhiwallon’s demand that she come to him in Powys, so that she could refuse. Rangor would plead his case and the Norman would deny them both. But Tarian thought that if she could convince the Norman to give his oath to Rhiwallon, Rangor, and Alewith that no harm would come to her person, and to return to Normandy in return for Rhiwallon’s pledge of alliance, along with that of Rangor and Alewith, surely William would consider such an offer. ’Twas no secret the Welsh held no love for William. But mayhap she could barter an alliance. Because with Rhiwallon would come the kingdom of Powys, and his brother King Bleddyn of Gwynedd, and that combination William would not be able to resist.
Aye, she would tread very carefully. Tarian’s insides churned when she thought of the consequences she would pay should the Norman discover William’s messenger would not be returning anytime soon. Several of her guard awaited his entering Wycliffe Pass just over the hill. He would not be harmed, but neither would he deliver the king’s answer to Wulfson’s question, unless of course William changed his mind.
“What treachery brews in that head of yours, Lady Tarian?” Wulfson asked, sidling closer to her. So lost in thought was she, she paid him no heed. His leg brushed against hers and she caught his hard stare.
“I but wonder what intrigue awaits us ahead.”
Wulfson’s lips drew into a tight line. “I pray all parties involved understand William’s affection for his Blood Swords, and also his wrath should he find himself without them.”
“Do you fear for your safety, milord knight?”
“Nay, I fear for yours.”
Tarian shook her head. “I do not understand you. One moment you are bent on seeing me planted in the ground, and the next you fear for my safety? Which is it?”
Wulfson ignored her question, and it was as well, for when they turned the bend the fortress Draceadon rose up like its namesake, a giant dark dragon, and spilling out from the bailey more horses and soldiers. Gareth, followed by several Normans, had just broken free and galloped toward them.
“My lady!” Gareth called as he came near, his voice full of relief.
She looked past him to see the tall Viking called Thorin and another knight, Rorick. She could not see their faces behind their black helms, but the tight jaws gave away their ire.
“Wulfson!” Thorin said, reining up to them, “We had given you up for”—his one eye speared Tarian—“lost.”
Wulfson scoffed. “Hardly, my friend. We but waited out the rain under cover. Tell me the mood of the Welsh.”
Rorick snorted, and looked from Tarian to Gareth, then back to the clogged bailey. “’Tis the captain of Rhiwallon’s guard. He would speak only to you. But my guess is he has come for the lady.”
“’Tis best, milady, you go with them,” Gareth said to Tarian.
She stiffened in the saddle. “I will not leave here.”
Gareth eyed the Normans and softly pleaded, “Milady, blood is at stake. For your welfare ’tis best to be gone from here.”
She nudged Silversmith forward. “I will not leave Draceadon to Rangor. ’Tis mine. He can go to his cousin!” The big gray sprinted past the knights. Wulfson’s curses behind her, along with those of his men and Gareth, brought a grim smile to Tarian’s lips. She would not be a pawn in this man’s game. She was lady here, and heir or not, lady she would stay!
As they entered the crowded bailey, Wulfson noted that the Welsh were smart enough to know with whom they dealt. They parted as if he were their own king. His men stood outside the great hall, a most fearsome gauntlet. He noted that Tarian’s men, while not standing with the Blood Swords, were yet close enough to them to debate whether they stood together or not. However, Rangor and Alewith stood firmly with the Welsh. Wulfson was not fooled by Gareth’s indecision. Better for Gareth to look as if he stood with the Normans than to look completely at odds with them. Rangor and Alewith were not nearly as clever.
Wulfson scowled and dismounted, handing off the reins to Rolf.
“Sir Morgan, King Rhiwallon’s captain of his guard, wishes a word with you, Sir Wulfson,” Rangor said, stepping forward, his eyes riveted on Tarian. Wulfson made to step toward her to assist her in her dismount, but was warned off with a sharp glare. Instead, Gareth assisted her. Wulfson stood back and turned to the tall, dark Welshman Morgan.
He approached Wulfson and gave him a curt nod, and said in Welsh, “I am Morgan ap Rhys, and have come with word of my liege, Rhiwallon of Powys. I beg we have a private moment to speak.”
Wulfson nodded and strode away from the throng, keeping close to his men but not close enough for any to overhear.
When he stopped, Morgan stopped beside him. Withdrawing a sealed document from a leather pouch that hung from his waist, he handed it to Wulfson. “Shall I call my scribe?”
Wulfson shook his head. “Nay, I have knowledge of letters.” He broke the wax seal with his thumb and unrolled the parchment and read:
“Greetings, Sir, I pray this missive finds your master, William King of England and Duke of Normandy, well. I trust also my cousin by marriage to my late blood cousin Malcor, Lady Tarian of Dunloc, is well, for her good health is of the utmost importance to not only myself, Rhiwallon King of Powys, but also to my brother Bleddyn King of Gwynedd. We have such affection for the lady that we beseech you to entrust her to the care of Sir Morgan and his guard to return forthwith to Powys. In return for your obedience, I pledge my assistance to William against my enemies should he find himself in need of it along the Welsh borders. We will also give you escort as far south as Colford, and sufficient gold to see you return to Normandy a wealthy man. I also ask that you instruct my cousin Rangor of Lerwick to secure Draceadon for the lady’s eventual return to her home.
By my command, Rhiwallon.”
As Wulfson read the command that the Welsh king had no authority to make of William’s vassals, he worked hard to maintain his self-control. The ruler’s audacity astounded him. He wanted the lady in his lair for the same reasons William wanted her dead. And Rhiwallon was wily in his words. While he alluded to an alliance with William should he need it, he would do so only on the condition that Rhiwallon’s enemies were the instigators. What if his own brother should decide to attack? The alliance would bear no water. Aye, it was time to tread very carefully through this bog.
Without giving the Welsh captain even a glance, Wulfson turned to face the gathered throngs comprised of Norman, Saxon, and Welsh. His men stood alert, ready to defend or attack. His eyes caught those of Rorick, who stood closest. The big Scot understood, and moved to stand beside Tarian, while Thorin moved up behind Gareth. Sensing what was about, Rhys, Ioan, and Stefan tightened their stances and soon they were a solid mass of knights, soldiers, and nobles, with a lone woman in the middle. Wulfson cursed under his breath and turned to Morgan. “Let us discuss this matter over the afternoon meal.” It was not a request.
Wulfson swept toward Tarian, and as he passed her he grabbed her arm and pulled her along with him. Gareth made a move. Wulfson dropped her arm and turned. “Give way, Viking.”
Wulfson’s men formed a diamond-shaped barrier around them, and as one they moved into the great hall.
In a mad rush to see the tables set, the servants swarmed like ants, and Wulfson had to admit they were well schooled in their duties. Within a very short time all were seated: W
ulfson with Tarian beside him, the Welsh captain to his left, Alewith to Tarian’s right and Rangor relegated further down the table between Thorin and Gareth. Wulfson indicated that the other Blood Swords should sit amongst the Welsh and Saxon soldiers, and keep a sharp eye on them.
The numbers were stacked against them should either faction decide to press the issue with might. Tarian remained quiet and calm, but Wulfson did not expect anything less from her. She was not only beautiful and able to wield a sword and bow like a man, but she was cagey, not one to rush to conclusions or to press an issue before it was ripe. He was sure she was as intrigued as he, and would do her best to maneuver the current climate to her favor.
It occurred to him as he gazed down at her dark head and listened to her husky voice that she would make a most prized wife. Malcor was a fool.
Once the blessing was said, Tarian did not hesitate to ask, “So, Morgan, how fare my uncles Rhiwallon and Bleddyn?”
Wulfson stiffened as he stabbed a piece of roast mutton with his table knife.
The man glanced at Wulfson, who ignored him, and said, “Both are well. My liege Rhiwallon is most anxious for your visit.”
Wulfson waited silently for her response. Mayhap he would not have to be the villain here. “I too look forward to a visit, but I cannot travel at this time.”
Morgan scowled and set his cup aside. “I should despair to bear such news to my liege. It would please him greatly if you returned with me.”
Daintily Tarian plucked a piece of choice meat from the trencher she shared with Wulfson. As she chewed the morsel, she shook her head. “I shall write to my uncle and explain my situation here.”
Morgan scowled, and his body stiffened. “I have been instructed not to return without you, my lady.”
Tarian laughed, the light and melodic sound shooting straight to Wulfson’s groin. “Then by all means make yourself at home here, Sir Morgan.” She looked steadily at him and said in a very low, firm voice, “I will not leave my home. I may be with child and do not wish to travel. The visit will have to wait.”
“My lady,” Rangor interrupted from down the table. Tarian and Wulfson both scowled. “For your continued health, it is best you go to Powys.”
Tarian shook her head. “Nay.”
“Rangor is right,” Alewith added.
Tarian pushed away from the table and stood. “This is my home, and I will not be driven from it.” She looked down at Wulfson and said, “Go back to your king and tell him he has no enemy in Tarian of Dunloc. I would give him homage and soldiers should he need them. I pledge my oath.”
Rangor hissed in a long breath. “What if the Marches should be breached by the Normans?”
She cast a weary glance down the table. “I am Saxon and Welsh, uncle, but my king is Norman. What would you have me do?”
“Ally yourself with your blood kin!”
She smiled wryly. “My blood kin are mulch in York and Hastings. My dam cannot bear to hear my name spoken in her presence.” She looked over to Alewith and Brighid. “My guardian and sister of my heart, while they have treated me as one of them, cannot claim blood ties to me.” She looked back at Rangor. “I have no blood kin. I have Draceadon. Do not speak to me again of leaving. I have the will and I have my men. It is all I need to plead my cause.”
She gave Wulfson a sharp glare. “No man, not even your king, will take it from me.”
“There is always the convent,” Thorin interjected, and as the words tumbled from his man’s lips Wulfson felt a chill whip through his bones. It would be a catastrophe for that body and that brain to be sequestered from the world behind the heavy black robes of a nun.
Tarian hissed in a long breath. “Bite your tongue, Viking! God wants nothing to do with me, nor I with him!”
“’Tis blasphemy!” Rangor screeched, his words echoed by Father Dudley.
Tarian clenched her fists and pounded the trestle top. Anger swirled like a storm within her. She felt her skin warm and her eyes start from her head. “Blasphemy? My father captured my mother, an abbess, then repeatedly raped her for a year. Not even a king’s decree could force him to release her! I am marked as the devil’s spawn! I would find nothing but bone-weary toil to repent for the sins of my father. ’Tis no life for any woman. I will not stand for it!”
She looked at them all, their jaws slack; even Wulfson, it seemed, was shocked. She smiled grimly. “Think what you will. But I will not abide by any of you deciding how I will spend the rest of my life.” She looked down at Wulfson and said, “And should your sword find a resting place in my heart, be warned: my uncles, though I defy them their invitation now, will not be pleased.”
“You will remain here until I hear from William. His word will be final.” Wulfson stood and spoke to the entire hall. “I am lord here until further notice, and I decree”—he looked pointedly at Morgan, then Rangor—“that the lady will stay under my care until such time I deem it otherwise.”
“Send her to Normandy and allow William to hold her hostage,” Rangor said coming around.
Tarian gasped in shock. “Never!”
“Aye, ’twould solve the problem, Wulf,” Thorin agreed.
“Let William have a tangle with her. He will see to her future,” Rorick agreed.
Panic tore through her. It was the ultimate solution, making the most sense. Everyone would get what they wanted. Everyone but she. Tarian glanced up to Wulfson and found his contemplative stare. “Nay! I will not go to Normandy!”
“Then wed with me now, Tarian. ’Tis not unusual,” Rangor cajoled.
Moving with the speed of a cat, Tarian spun around, drawing her sword, and stood at the ready. “I have told you, repeatedly. I will never wed with you!”
When Wulfson said no word, Rangor grew bolder. “I have wealth, Tarian. Combined with Dunloc, we would have more than most kings!”
Defiant to the end, Tarian vigorously shook her head and pressed her sword toward him. “Let us settle this here and now, Rangor.” She gestured toward his sword. “Should you defeat me, I will wed with you. But should I win?” She smiled grimly. “You will leave here today and never return.”
Rangor grinned from ear to ear and bowed. “’Twould be my pleasure.” He glanced up at Wulfson. “I will not harm her.”
Much to her fury, the Norman nodded and stood back. “Clear the hall,” he commanded.
Twelve
“Tarian! No!” Brighid cried, as she came around the trestle. Her hip slammed into it and she cried out in pain. Tarian made to move toward her, but stopped when to her utter amazement the one Wulfson called Rhys hurried to her side and with the chivalry of a king helped her to her feet. Forgetting her foster sister, the girl blushed deeply and allowed the handsome knight to assist her. Rhys appeared to be the youngest of the Normans, and the quietest.
Tarian looked up to Wulfson, who scowled. ’Twas his favorite expression, she decided.
“Set her aside and forget her,” Wulfson said in French to the knight. His reward was a stiff glare, but Rhys moved away just the same.
“You, sir knight, have the manners of a boar,” Tarian said.
“And you have the temperament of a wasp,” he replied, then stood back and extended his arm to the now cleared area. “My lady warrior, the floor is yours.”
Sword in hand, Tarian did not wait for Rangor to gather his poise. She struck without warning, slamming him on his shoulder with the flat of her blade. A collective gasp rippled through the hall, and soon bets were being made.
Rangor was not daunted. He drew his sword and crouched, swinging the blade low to catch her off her feet, but Tarian was more seasoned than that. As the sword edged near her, she jumped, scaling it. As she landed, she whirled and returned the parry, catching Rangor off balance, and in the process she sliced through a leather garter.
He snarled and stood to his full height, and with both hands on the hilt in a hacking motion, he came at her.
Wulfson stood in quiet amazement as he watched
the nymph dance and twirl around the Saxon, drawing him close only to have him take a swipe and miss, and herself come around and connect. She was small and nimble and wily as a fox.
Sweat beaded Rangor’s forehead, and though the lady warrior was a bit winded, she was the one who maintained composure.
Rangor was getting sloppy in his zealous frenzy to possess her. And Wulfson could not blame him. As he watched her thrust, strike, and parry with such deadly precision, his blood quickened. He imagined her doing the same thing with him, only with no clothing and no sword.
Rangor’s frustration and now his humiliation took control over his lust for the woman. Wulfson stepped closer to the circle. Rangor rushed Tarian and her leg banged the corner of a trestle. She lost her balance, and Rangor pounced. Wulfson moved to pull her out of harm’s way but was stayed by Thorin’s brawny arm.
Tarian rolled under the trestle and popped up on the other side, kicking Rangor in the backside before he realized what she had done. He hit the rushes with a loud thud, and when he rolled over, her foot was on his chest and her blade pressed to the vital vein in his throat.
The hall erupted in cheers and Wulfson felt a sense of relief he had not known he held. He caught Thorin’s sage gaze, and the Viking lowered his arm, and mumbled, “’Tis a shame. Rangor could have spared us more time here.”
Tarian kept her sword pressed to Rangor’s throat. “You have lost, uncle. I expect you to keep your oath to me.” She stepped back, removing the blade from his person. “Begone from here and do not darken my doorstep again. You are no longer welcome.” She sheathed her sword and turned her back on him and looked up at Wulfson. “How was that, milord, for a kitten?”
Wulfson grinned and lightly rubbed his chest where the scar tingled. “Not bad, but then, you fought a puppy.”