Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment

by Karin Tabke

  “Say what is on your minds,” he blustered as he poured himself a full cup of ale. The hall had begun to fill for the evening repast.

  “Pray tell, Wulf, tell us what plagues you,” Rorick said, filling his own empty cup. Wulfson cast a glance to Gareth, who with his men approached.

  “’Tis nothing time away from here will not cure.” He wondered if he spoke the truth.

  The meal awaited only the lady of the manor. Wulfson scowled when long moments later he was informed she had retired for the evening.

  His scowl deepened the next morn when she did not make an appearance, and after three more days of her refusal to preside over her manor, losing his temper at last Wulfson strode up the stairs and burst through her door. The girl Brighid cried out, as did the maid Edith and the other maid. He stepped into the chamber. “Where is she?” he demanded.

  Edith stood, and for a servant she met his eye unwaveringly. “Of whom do you speak, milord?”

  “Lady Tarian! Where is she?”

  Edith smiled. “She is not in the hall?”

  Wulfson’s temples throbbed with the infusion of blood. He stepped closer. “She has not stepped foot in the hall these four days past.” He lowered his voice to menacing. “Where is she?”

  Edith’s brows rose in mock surprise. “I suspect she is out for a ride then, milord.”

  “Unchaperoned?” he demanded, incredulous.

  Edith laughed. “You of all men know she requires no man’s protection.”

  Wulfson spun on his heels and stomped out of the room, down the stairway, out the hall, and to the stable. Her gray was in his stall. His fury mounted. Had she flown? Could he blame her? Would he in her position wait for the death sentence? Though Warner had still not returned, he was not overly worried, since he could be awaiting a suitable tide to cross the channel. Yet Wulfson felt an unease bite and scratch at his belly.

  The unease intensified when Gareth, followed by several of his own men, encountered Wulfson standing furious in the stable. “Where is she?” Wulfson demanded.

  “She is not here?” the guard asked, surprised.

  Wulfson’s eyes narrowed. “Do not play me for a fool as the nurse already has. The lady is not in the manor nor is she here. Her horse eats his morning oats.”

  Color drained from Gareth’s face, and Wulfson knew he did not lie. “She—I have slept at her door each night. I have another man posted during the day. She did not slip past.”

  “And she did not climb from the window either!” Wulfson railed.

  Angrily he strode back to the lady’s chamber. If he had to whip the information from her nurse, he would. But when he arrived, she too had disappeared. Frustration so complete he thought his head would split in half engulfed him. He threw his hands up in frustration and turned on Brighid. “Tell me where she is or I will nail you to the manor doors until you do!”

  The girl screamed, which brought not only Gareth running into the room but her father and several of his men. Wulfson’s jaw was clenched so tightly he thought it would crack into pieces.

  “Leave her be,” Alewith commanded, gathering his daughter into his arms. His eyes blazed in indignation. “She has no hand in what Tarian does.”

  Thorin spoke softly to the girl. “Tell us where she is. Her life is at stake.”

  “Nay, I will not tell you! Her life is more at stake here!” She turned murderous blue eyes on Wulfson.

  Frustration, fury and fear tangled in an ugly battle in his belly. “At the risk of your own life, tell me where she is,” Wulfson menacingly said.

  Alewith pushed her behind him and stood his ground. “Touch her, and there will be hell to pay. She will not give Tarian up.”

  “I have no wish to harm the girl, my lord, but either she tells me the whereabouts of the lady or she will spend time in the dungeon until she does.”

  “Who is the barbaric bastard now, Sir Wulfson?” Tarian asked, striding into the room, her bow and quiver slung over her shoulder.

  Every person in the chamber turned, as a collective sigh of relief escaped them all. But none so much as Wulfson. He would deny to his death that he felt a sense of elation at the sight of her, and it had nothing to do with failing his king. Joy sang in his hard heart. She was a sight to behold, as always. Her cheeks were flushed red and her hair a wild mass around her, festooned with festive ribbons entwined throughout. Her casual dress for the hunt only accentuated everything female about her.

  “You play a dangerous game, milady, not only with your own life but those of others,” Wulfson said, taking a step closer to her. Her violet scent wafted around his nostrils, teasing him and torturing him at the same time. His cock filled, and had he not had an audience he would have given in to the craving he had for her.

  “I do not play at love and war, sir.”

  He forced back a tight smile. “You are no longer permitted to leave this manor unless you are given permission by myself or one of my men.”

  “And should I not?”

  “Then you will revisit the place we first met.”

  Tarian nodded, and turned to the crowd in her chamber. “Would you leave me to a private word with Sir Wulfson?”

  They stood, all of them, including his knights, as if she had just asked them to cut off their right hands. “I would have it done sooner rather than later.” She moved to the door and swept her arm toward the hallway. “Now, please.”

  “My lady—” Gareth started. She raised her hand in a halt position. “The terrible knight has no reason to fear me. I give my word I will not harm a hair on his head.”

  Thorin and Rorick snorted as they strode from the room, and Gareth’s brows shot up. “Go, Gareth.”

  Wulfson’s heart beat in his chest with the velocity of a smith’s hammer. As soon as the door was closed, he was upon her, pressing her into it. “Do not play with me, Tarian,” he ground out. He could not help dipping his head to her hair and breathing in her scent. His blood coursed hotly through him, and he felt his control losing ground against his ravenous hunger for her.

  He knew she felt a similar sensation. Her body warmed beneath his hands. He dug his fingers into her hair, mussing the ribbons, and forced her to look at him. “I am not a lad to be led around by my cock.”

  She pushed him off and strode into the middle of the room. “Nor am I a girl to be toyed with.”

  “Why have you hidden from me these four days past?” He stood stone still, afraid that if he went near her again he would not be able to control his body’s yearning.

  “I have not hidden, I have been unwell.”

  “You lie.”

  “Nay, I do not.” She turned and set her bow and quiver on the chest near the hearth, then whirled around to face him. “What is it you expect of me? To sit here in my chamber and while away the hours as we all await word from your king? Tell me now, did you come here for the sole purpose of taking my life?”

  He could not answer her. By his not answering, she knew.

  “You are not man enough to tell me? But you are man enough to have your way with me? And then have no compunction in slaying me should your master command it?”

  He remained silent.

  She began to pace the floor. “What manner of man are you to do such a terrible thing? Have you no pride? No conviction?”

  He stood silent and took it. He could not answer in his defense. She spoke the truth. And he felt as if he belonged in a cesspit.

  She strode up to him and grabbed his right hand and pressed it her belly. “What if a child grows there? Will you kill an innocent babe?”

  Wulfson pulled his hand from her grasp but she held it tight. “Tell me now, would you, if your king commands you?”

  A sudden rage arose in him, a rage at the situation and a rage that his king would ask such a thing of him, an honorable man. He pushed her back against the wall, his fingers digging into her belly. “I cannot go against my king!”

  She pressed her hands over his. Tears glittered in her eyes.
“’Tis murder, Wulfson. Murder.”

  He extracted his hand and pushed away from her, and as if every demon in hell chased him he ran from the chamber. He called his men to arms and gave Gareth the order not allow the slippery lady from his sight.

  Troubled as he had never been in all his life, Wulfson took his anger, lust, and confusion out on his men. Though they only practiced, he went after each one as if he was his sworn enemy.

  When he drove Rhys to his knees, Thorin and Rorick grabbed Wulfson by his shoulders and drew him away. Wulfson shouted out in fury, shaking them off. Turning on them he stood spent. His fight was gone. He threw his swords to the dirt. “I cannot murder a woman with child.”

  His men shook their heads. He looked at each of them through narrowed eyes. “Tell me you could do it. Tell me and I shall hand over this cursed place to your sole command.”

  He clashed gazes with Thorin, who remained silent, then Rorick, Stefan, Rhys, and finally Ioan.

  “Send her to Normandy,” Thorin said.

  Wulfson bent to pick up his weapons; as he sheathed them he shook his head. “So that some other can do the deed? There must be another way.”

  “I know not what can be done, Wulf,” Stefan said. “Most especially if she carries the earl’s child. The blood of Welsh kings and a Saxon king? Nay, she would be even more of a threat.”

  No option was suitable to keep the lady alive. And with a foreboding dread, Wulfson knew that the minute he laid eyes on Warner he would know what William’s word would be. “Come, let us patrol this miserable place.”

  Tarian watched the knights thunder from the bailey toward Dunloc. Her hand slid to her belly, and she wondered if she were at that moment growing a babe inside her. “’Twill take more than a few days to see if the seed bears fruit, milady,” Edith said from behind her.

  Tarian turned to the nurse and smiled tiredly. “I don’t know what to do, Edie.”

  “I say we fly from here. To Powys, where you will be safe.”

  “And give up Draceadon?”

  “Aye, is your life and that of the child worth this rubble heap?”

  Tarian looked out the window at the stretch of forest and the surrounding land. “What life would I have in Wales? As a hostage?”

  Edith came and stood behind her. She pressed her hands to Tarian’s hair and smoothed the long tresses. “I know it is the last thing that you wish, Tarian, but you should give Rangor more thought.” Tarian stiffened. “Hear me, girl. He is noble, he has strong allies in Edric, he would become earl, he will protect you, and he has the ear of two Welsh kings. He has several bastards to his name and is virile. He would not leave you wanting for children.”

  When Tarian did not answer, Edith continued. “Malcor was evil, and if you could bed with him, then why not with Rangor, who in his twisted way desires you above all women, and who would not harm you?”

  “If I bear the Norman’s child there will be no question to my right here.”

  “Aye, among the Saxons, yes, but the Norman king? All the more reason to see you removed.”

  “I will use my coin to buy more men.”

  Edith let out a long breath. “Let my words simmer in your mind. You will see I am right.”

  Tarian shook her head and continued to stare across her vast estate. But she knew in her gut that Edith, who never spoke a word in haste, spoke the truth.

  She peered at her nurse’s hunched form. Aye, Edith spoke true, but Tarian still had in her hand dice to throw. Her men awaited the interception of Warner, who was no doubt on his return to England from Normandy. Regardless of the king’s decree, time was her ally, and she would hold the knight until such time as Wulfson became unmanageable; then she would trade her life for his man’s. So sure was she that Wulfson would not sacrifice one of his men for her life that she was able to form a different strategy with a clear head, on the slim chance she was wrong.

  The evening meal passed in relative quiet. A heavy hush hung above them, and as much as Alewith and Brighid tried to start conversation, the Normans, as Tarian and her men, were quiet. The servants sensed the mood, and the people from the village who sat at the other end of the hall did as well.

  Greatly troubled, Tarian excused herself and found her bed early. Wulfson followed, retiring to his own chamber shortly after. He felt as if the weight of the nation settled squarely on his shoulders, and he did not have the first thought of how to remedy the ills of this place, and, if he were to admit it, the bruises to his heart. He shucked his clothes, and when Rolf came in with steaming buckets of water, he dismissed the squire and saw to his own bath. He wanted no interaction. Mayhap alone with no chatter he could devise a solution that would satisfy all parties involved. Once clean, he dropped to the bed and stared at the ceiling with his hands locked behind his head. He was no closer to resolution then he had been when he climbed the stairway to his chamber.

  Not since his time in Jubb, the Saracen prison where he and his fellow Blood Swords had forged a life pact and nearly lost their lives, had he been so contemplative.

  He was a man of few words and all action. He had learned early in life not to expect anything from anyone; it only served to disappoint, and disappointment hurt. His men and his horse were his family, and he had never felt the urge for a companion other than them.

  Tarian’s ocean-blue eyes floated in his mind’s eye, her soft laughter and her tenacity. She fascinated him on all levels. His physical reaction to her each time he saw her was as strong and undeniable as the rising sun every morn. He could no more control it than he could the moon and the stars, and in all of his six-and-twenty years of life, nothing had scared him more.

  He slammed his fists into the covers and rolled over to his side. He closed his eyes and wondered, if he prayed to God, would she materialize?

  In a way, she did. In the heavy air of the room, he caught a whiff of rose scent. He grabbed the pillow next to his head, and closing his eyes he brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply. His rod filled, and he groaned as that familiar ache she instilled in him began to grow painful. He was not fooled. The rose perfume did a poor job shielding her natural honey scent. But why? Why had she come to him, a stranger sent to destroy her? Did she think to wheedle her way into his heart? He cursed. She had wheedled her way into his every thought! He cursed again, this time in self-loathing. She had used him well, and had succeeded in her ploys. He was but a way for her to gain control! And he, blind fool of a man, had not seen it coming!

  He threw the pillow from him and sat up in the bed. His eyes traveled the room and stopped at the large tapestry to the right of the bed. He rose and went to it, unhooking the bottom corner, and lifted it.

  Only a stone and wooden wall met his stare. He pressed his hands to a block, and then worked his fingers back and forth, searching for any telltale sign of a latch. His frustration grew when he could not locate a way to what he was sure was a hidden passageway. He grabbed the candle from the table next to the bed and held it down near the floor, and smiled. The imprint of a small foot in the dust gave her away. Now, more determined than ever, he worked the perimeter until finally he heard a small creak. He pushed with both hands as cool air swirled around his feet. He donned his braies and slipped through the opening, following the footprints down a dark passageway to what he knew to be the lord’s chamber.

  For long moments he stood on the other side of the secret door that led to her chamber. He knew she was not alone, that the two maids and her foster sister slept in the room with her. But he could see for sure if the passage was accessible from her chamber. He set the candle down on the floor and found the indentation to spring the door just above a timber. Silently the door opened. He stood still and listened for voices. Only soft snores met him. He pushed wider, then slipped behind the tapestry and into the dimly lit room. The heavy drapes of the bed were pulled back to allow air flow, and Tarian lay on her side facing him in slumber.

  Brighid was all the way over on the other side of the bed. From w
here he stood, he could see she slumbered. The maids were on pallets at the end of the bed, both older and both snoring with their mouths open. He stepped closer to Tarian. He could see her face in the low light of the candlelight. Her brow puckered as if something unpleasant plagued her dreams. Her lips moved as if she murmured a secret. He stepped closer. He ached to touch her. But he did not.

  Long minutes passed. He stood rooted to the floor, his eyes never leaving her. She moaned, and when she slid her hand up to her breast he held his breath. She arched, as if a man’s hand caressed her, soft moans escaping her lips. His blood warmed and the ache to touch her became unbearable.

  “Wulfson,” she breathed his name in her dreams.

  He stepped closer, on the verge of losing all control but he held back; the torment of her being so close yet unable to touch would break him. He stepped back, and as he turned to duck back into the secret passage, he gave the bed one last glance, and froze. Brilliant eyes peered at him through the candlelight. Before he lost all, he ducked into the passageway and closed the door behind him.

  He did not find sleep until the crow of the cock, and it seemed as if only moments had passed when Rolf awoke him.

  “Do you ail, sir?” the squire asked.

  Wulfson grumbled. “Nay, why do you ask?”

  “You are never abed this late.”

  Wulfson rolled to the edge of the bed; his bare feet touched the carpet. He glanced toward the tapestry and his heart stopped. There, embedded in the wall, was an arrow with sapphire and gold feathers. He started to laugh, and Rolf looked at him as if he had gone daft.

  “I could eat the black! See that the servants prepare a feast to break the fast; then we shall wear the shoes down on our horses this day.”