by Karin Tabke
Tarian’s eyes sparked in brilliant fury. Heat flared to every point in his body and he could not remember ever having seen such a magnificent sight in his life. She reminded him of the coal-black Barbary mares in Iberia, imported from the deserts in the Holy Lands. Full of fire and majesty. Aye, she would not tame down for just any master. She would require a patient and gentle but firm hand, but before that she would have to trust. He scowled. Trust was one thing he could not give her.
Brighid broke the spell, rushing into her foster sister’s arms, crying as any woman would. As the girl seemed to disintegrate into a puddle of tears, Tarian pulled her along, shushing her, and soon they were gone from the hall.
Rangor stood amongst his men and those of Rhiwallon. “My oath is my oath,” he began to Wulfson. “But by blood right, I have claim to this holding.”
“Take it up with William.”
Rangor made a short bow and said, “I will plead my case in person, and be sure I will inform him of your own lust for the lady.”
Rangor’s words struck Wulfson to the quick, and though it should not have bothered him, for he knew his king had the utmost confidence in him, it nettled him that his lust for the lady warrior was obvious to others. He smiled stiffly and looked around to those who waited for his response. “I am a man, Rangor, and she is a beautiful woman.” He looked to his men and asked, “Is there one among you who would not take a tumble if she but offered?”
Rorick grinned and Thorin chuckled, shaking his head. Stefan stood beside Ioan. They both shook their heads. When Wulfson’s gaze touched on Rhys, the youngest of the knights, whose grin was wide as the fortress doors, he turned back to the irritating lord. “Dogs, all of us! By all means, inform William of this unheard-of affliction.”
Giving Rangor his back, Wulfson spoke to Alewith, who stood silent, his face reddening. Wulfson nodded. “My pardon, sir, but the taunt required an honest explanation.”
Alewith nodded and remained silent.
Wulfson turned his attention to the Welsh captain. “As the lady extended an invitation to you to stay until such time she changes her mind, you may, but your men must go. Seek the hospitality of the hall this night, but to do so you will hand over your weapons.” Before Morgan could respond, he turned to Alewith. “Your men as well.”
Both stepped up, sputtering their anger over such a request.
Wulfson held his hand up for silence. “Should there be any aggression from without or within and your services be required, your men will have their weapons returned. Should we require assistance.”
“’Tis preposterous!” Alewith groused.
“Then feel free to take your men and your daughter and return to Turnsly forthwith. I see no need for your presence here.”
Alewith did not back down. “You have nothing to fear from me, Norman.” He nodded to Wulfson. “If you would indulge an old man who cares for his charge, ’tis why I am here.”
Wulfson chuckled. “You are correct on all accounts.” He sobered and speared the lord with a glare. “Hand over your arms or leave Draceadon.”
Alewith set his jaw, but bowed and withdrew his sword, handing it hilt first to Wulfson, who accepted it. His men followed their lord, the Blood Swords collecting a vast assortment of swords, daggers, and axes. When Wulfson turned to Morgan, the Welshman bowed, clicked his spurs, and stepped back. “I will return to Powys with my men.” He turned then, and strode from the hall, calling to his men to follow.
Wulfson looked across Alewith’s head to Thorin and Rorick, who were close. “We will see the Welsh again, I have no doubt,” Rorick said.
Wulfson nodded. And they would take every precaution.
Alewith excused himself and stalked from the hall, Gareth retreating as well. With the hall cleared of those he could not trust, Wulfson called to the nearest servant, “Bring ale for my men,” then inclined his head toward the table before the cold hearth. “Come, Blood Swords, let us discuss the happenings of this most interesting day.”
Once his men were gathered around, Wulfson told them of the day’s events, being sure not to leave out the very important fact that the marauders he and the lady had disposed of bore Welsh colors, Welsh who were related to the infamous lady warrior.
“You say the lady winged your ear from fifty paces?” Ioan asked, incredulous.
Wulfson fingered the wound, and turned to show them all. “Aye, see for yourself. ’Tis but a nick, as she intended.”
“And she killed the last one standing with her own sword in his back?” Stefan skeptically asked.
“Aye, she hurled it from her horse. ’Twas a perfect throw. It hit the knave right between the shoulders. He went down like a sack of turnips.”
“And you say she took out five with her bow? One arrow to the heart of each of them?” Rorick demanded.
“Aye, I was too busy with my own defense, but when all was done, I counted five with arrows in their chests, and one with a broadsword in his back.”
“I do not believe it!” Rhys shouted. “No woman could perform such a feat!”
Stefan nudged his friend. “Even Thorin with one eye can see she has the skill of a seasoned warrior. Look how she toyed with Rangor.”
At the mention of his name, all eyes turned to the Viking.
Thorin scratched his chin, fingering the crescent-shaped scar they all bore. Wulfson knew the Viking had the mind of a steel trap, and though he sported an eye patch, it did not curb his ferociousness as a warrior. If anything, it made him more aware. “What are you thinking, Thorin?” Rorick asked.
“That this exploit has turned into a quagmire of intrigue. ’Tis unfortunate we could not have arrived one week later. Our troubles would be dead and buried.”
Wulfson fought back a scowl at his words. While his friend spoke the truth, the thought of finding the lady he saw today, the woman who had haunted his dreams the night past, dead was unsettling. She had the vitality of ten men. She was an amazing creature that should be set free, not caged or killed.
“Jesu!” he cursed out loud at his thoughts. Five sets of eyes stared at him.
Thorin’s eyes narrowed. “What afflicts you, Wulf? Has the wench gotten under your skin in such short order?”
“Nay,” Wulfson denied, shaking his head. He moved to a safer subject. “I cannot argue the obvious. I find that the longer we stay here, the closer we come to disaster. The Norman Earl of Hereford, William fitz Osborn, has his hands full farther north, and that mad Saxon Earl Edric, though he has pledged his fealty to William, I know he sleeps with the Welsh. There will be more blood shed. Soon.”
“I say we send her packing to William,” Ioan chimed in. All but Wulfson nodded in agreement.
“The Welsh circle like vultures. Keeping the lady here is like dangling fresh meat in front of a hound. It seems she could well be the spark to a terrible clash of Welsh, Saxon, and Norman,” Rhys said.
“William wants no quarrel with them, but should they press the issue they will be set back, and lose much of what they had for the effort. William will seize every hide of land that he can,” Rorick said, then added, “And do not think for one moment Rangor is not running to his Welsh kin before he goes to William.”
Wulfson could not disagree with any word. He looked over to the silent Stefan. “What think you, Stefan?”
“I think we should leave this place, with the lady in tow, and hand her over to William.”
Wulfson shook his head. “He does not want the responsibility. He already has her only surviving uncle as hostage these many years past. The move would make him appear afraid of all things Godwinson. That aside, it would look to the Welsh as if he blinked first. William would rather cut off his sword arm than show any hint of weakness. Nay, Normandy is not the answer.” He paused for effect. “At least—not yet.”
“If we are to stay here, Wulf,” Thorin said, “then we need more men. We have not the numbers. And this crumbling place could not withstand a full-out assault.”
Wulfson st
epped back from the hearth and contemplated the situation. “With no delays, Warner should return within the next handful of days. And with him, men.” He looked to his men. “I have sent word to Rohan that he and Manhku should answer the call. And along with them more men.”
Thorin grinned. “The last time I saw du Luc he was more nervous than a lad with his first woman. His lady should give birth by summer’s end.”
Stefan laughed. “I would have wagered my horse and sword when we began this journey together, he of all of us would be the last to be led around like a lamb by a woman.”
They were interrupted when a servant set a tray of full goblets of ale down on the table. Each man grabbed one. Wulfson hoisted his cup and said, “A toast to Rohan and Isabel—may their first child be a strong son!”
A second cup followed, and a third and fourth cup.
Tarian fairly stewed in her chamber. After promising never again to challenge a man to a swordfight, She’d been able to calm Brighid down sufficiently to get her into bed, and now, after rocking her as Edith had done when she was a babe, she watched as Brighid slept fitfully, tangled up in the mass of sheets.
Sensing Tarian’s short-tempered mood, Edith stayed clear of her pacing lady. As did Brighid’s timid maid.
Tarian gave her foster sister a final glance, then stopped suddenly. Emotions she was not aware she possessed clashed in her head and her heart, and those emotions she refused to acknowledge were what caused her such anger.
How dare that Norman step back and allow her to challenge Rangor! What if by some ill chance the baron had bested her? Was she truly nithing to the bore? After today? Jesu! She had saved his life! And the way he had touched her in the ruins. Heat flushed her cheeks at his remembered touch. He shocked her, to be sure. But would he just hand her over like a used garment? She flung herself into the hard stone window seat and peered out, half expecting to see him standing in the dusky twilight, his hands fisted, staring up at her.
Nay, that would mean she occupied his mind, and it was apparent she did not!
She slammed her fists on the sill. “Argh!”
“Tarian?” Brighid cried out from the great bed. She hurried to the girl, waving off the girl’s maid, who popped out of the corner, and shushed her back to sleep. Once Brighid’s breaths evened, Tarian moved back to the window, and, more controlled, now she peered out. The great forest of Dunloc spread out before her, straight ahead. To her right, where she could not see from her vantage point, were hides and hides of cultivated land. The soil was rich, and Dunloc had once been a thriving farming community. Some three leagues past the hill, in days past, the town there had teemed with an eclectic array of artisans. Glaziers, copper-and goldsmiths, some of the finest weavers in the land: all had called Dunloc home. The multitude of colors extracted from the soils in nearby hills was in high demand. Aye, the place had potential to become one of the great contributors to the Crown, but Malcor had neglected not only the magnificent fortress Draceadon, but the town and people as well. He preferred his time at the English court, before William, and, after the conquest, the smaller Welsh courts. His largest estate, Briarhurst, farther north and the place where they were to wed, was magnificent. But Malcor had gone to ground here at Draceadon. And here she had been imprisoned, and here she stayed.
As her gaze swept back to the darkening bailey she noted among the torches not only many of Rangor’s men milling about but those of Morgan. She looked further and squinted, and saw Gareth and his men in full gear, and they too appeared as if they were about something.
She hesitated to go below and learn for herself what was about. Though she would enjoy nettling Rangor more than she had, she knew it would not be prudent to do so. He appeared then from the stable, a groom leading his horse, and beside the baron strode Morgan. They appeared to be in deep conversation. In unison they both looked up and caught her staring at them. She scowled but would not back away.
So the two plotted, did they?
“I will be in the hall, Edie, if you should have need of me.”
Before the nurse could utter a word, Tarian strode from the room and down the hall to the sound of Normans making merry. Silently she hurled several ugly epithets toward them and continued down the stairway.
When she breached the last step, every Norman eye in the hall settled on her, their voices trailing off to mute. As one they grinned, and she scowled. What had the chivalrous knight imparted to them? Heat rose in her cheeks.
“Do you gossip like a girl and tell secrets that are not yours to tell?” she demanded of Wulfson as she strode into the hall.
The men grinned wider. So, he had told them of their little tryst, had he? “Do your men make sport of the fact I nearly cut your heart out with nary a stitch on my back?”
When all eyes widened, Tarian flushed hard. “’Tis what you told them, is it not?”
Wulfson grinned and slowly shook his head. “I but extolled your prowess with bow and sword. Would you have me tell them of your other virtues I discovered this day?”
Her jaw dropped. But what she did not expect was to see his men turn scowls upon him. Wulfson raised his hands in mock surrender to them. “She was the one who insisted we disrobe and dry our clothes by the fire. I could do naught but obey.”
She strode toward him and punched him in the chest. He looked at her, stunned that she would accost him thusly. She did not care. “You knave! ’Twas not like that.”
Her hand smarted from the assault, but she would not have these men think her a wanton.
“How was it, then?” he asked boldly.
Her eyes narrowed and she stood her ground. “We were soaked to the skin, and your mail rusted. ’Twas the best way to preserve it. ’Tis not my fault you could not keep your eyes in your head or your hands to yourself!”
Wulfson chuckled and nodded. “I give you that.” He turned to his men. “I assure you, the lady made sure there was no other dalliance.”
Tarian held her breath and wondered why he skirted the entire truth. He turned back to her. “Does that confession please you?”
Hesitantly she nodded. “’Tis enough.” And for some ungodly reason, his preservation of her honor greatly pleased her.
“I saw Rangor and Morgan putting their heads together outside of the stable and their men assembled. What is about?”
“Rangor, as you know, prepares to leave here. Morgan refused to give up his weapons for the duration of his stay, and with no other option open to him and his men, he also is leaving.”
So, ’twas the Normans, her guard, and her guardian’s handful of men. She nodded her head toward the Norman leader. “Nicely done, Sir Wulfson. Nicely done.”
“Would you have them remain armed and take a chance they could spring at any time?”
“Nay, ’twas a compliment, not a mock. I do not overly trust the Welsh.” She looked up into his bright eyes. “Nor do I trust you. Would that I had more men, then you would have been given the same option.”
He threw his head back and laughed, his men joining in. “And thwart William?”
Setting her hands on her hips, she nodded. “Aye, your king cannot at his whim take what is not his.”
“England is his, milady. To ignore that fact is to set yourself up for a hard fall. As you would steer your horse to a specific place, steer your mind to William. He is strong, he is determined, and he will not be denied!”
She moved closer to him, their toes nearly touching. “Neither will I.”
“For a woman who has everything to lose and no way to keep it, Lady Tarian, you boast much,” Thorin said from behind her.
Tarian whirled around. “I do not boast! I but speak the truth. There is no reason for your king to interfere here! I have pledged my oath to him. What more does he want from any Saxon?”
“Guarantees,” Thorin said.
“My oath is not my guarantee?”
Thorin shook his head. “Your uncle gave his oath; he swore it on a relic, and look what followed.”
Tarian laughed at his comparison. “My uncle had no choice but to swear. Had he not, he’d be rotting in the bowels of a castle in Rouen. Do not compare me. The situations are not the same.”
“He would be alive, as would thousands of Norman and English,” Thorin defended.
“I can assure you, sir knight, as one who has spent time in a torturous dungeon, it is no life at all. I would rather die on the battlefield for what I believe than die a slow miserable death at the hand of a barbaric bastard!”
As she spoke, Tarian noticed the faces of each of the men around her close off and harden to hewn edges. Wulfson grabbed her arm and turned her to face him. “William is a bastard, of that there is no challenge, but he is not a Barbarian.”
She yanked her arm from his grasp. “Do you call what he is doing to me now not a form of torture? We await your man for word as to whether I am to die! And if I am with child? He would take that life too?”
Wulfson’s jaw tightened, but Tarian pleaded her case, “Your king, my king, is not a man of compassion. I offer him all and he throws it in my face. I cannot win with him.” She moved away from the men and turned to face them all. “I will not hand over my sword for you to do the deed.” Her eyes touched on every knight in the room. “You too will suffer loss, I guarantee it!”
They stood, the Norman knights facing the lone Saxon woman, and she read in their eyes that they knew she spoke the truth. An impasse. She would lose her life, for they would not defy their king. She smiled then, and laughed when all of them reacted in surprise and stepped back. “Though Rangor swears it, I am not a witch. But I am a warrior, and determined to see my child grow to manhood.”
The knights remained silent. To break the tension, she cast an eye to Wulfson’s leg. “Do you have designs on a particular tree stump?”
“A tree stump?”
“You have not tended your leg.”
Wulfson shook his head, not overly concerned. “Nay, there has been no time with the day’s excitement.”
“Do you have the skill to sew yourself up?” Tarian asked, doubting that, even if he did, he would relish the chore. ’Twas painful no natter who held the needle.