Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment

by Karin Tabke

  Her long hair had come forward; he brushed it away. “Because I believe to destroy you would be an injustice to us all.”

  Her bright eyes glittered in the candlelight. “You truly believe that?” she softly queried.

  He nodded, set her from his lap, and stood. “Aye, I do. Now, get thee gone from here before I prove how violent a man I can be.”

  She did not hesitate to remove herself from the room. And he was glad of it. His mettle was once more pushed to the brink of no return. He did not know how much longer he could tolerate her so close at hand and him unable to lose himself in her.

  Tarian was almost done with her change of clothes when there was a knock on her door. Edith opened it, and Gareth stood at the threshold. The minute she saw his face she knew that Warner had been detained and that the news was not in her favor. “Come in, Gareth. Close the door and bolt it behind you.”

  He did so, and as he approached she said the words. “The order stands.” It was not a question but a statement of truth. Her guard paled and nodded. “What have you done with the Norman?”

  “Our men have detained him just beyond Wycliffe. He has not been harmed, which is not what I can say for your guard. Two men were lost, one severely wounded, and three left to subdue the knight and his squire. They have a few lumps but will survive.”

  “Wulfson has sent another messenger to William. With more information as well as a stronger plea. I fear his king will be angered he did not carry out his order in the first place and Wulfson will lose favor, and in so doing I have no chance.”

  “Milady,” Edith pleaded, “you must flee to Wales where you will be welcomed, or north to Scotland where no Normans abide.”

  Tarian nodded, and it was not an easy decision she made. Though she must, to survive. God willing, she would return. Her heart longed to stay here. A tight lump formed in her belly. Slowly and painfully it rose to her throat. “Gareth, prepare to leave this place. We begin tonight. Have the men leave quietly two by two so that no suspicions are raised. Edie, see that they are provisioned but not enough to draw question. It will take a few days and then we will muster who is left and flee under the cloak of night.” She chewed her bottom lip. “My lord Alewith should be appraised of the situation. He will announce this eve that he and Brighid will return to Turnsly the day after the morrow. I will ask him for men to meet us just beyond the crossroads to Shrewsbury. From there we will move west, and hope we have enough of a lead on the Normans.”

  “Where will we go?” Edith asked wringing her hands.

  “To Wales; but Edie, you must stay here. The journey is too dangerous for you, and the Normans will follow. Once I am settled I will send for you.”

  “Nay, I go with you!”

  Tarian took her by the shoulders and shook her. “You will stay here! I will not have your death on my hands.” Tarian hugged the old woman to her, emotion running high. “Please, Edie, do not make this more difficult for me.”

  The old woman sobbed in her arms, but nodded her head. “And not a word to anyone, most especially Brighid or Noelth.”

  When Wulfson descended to the hall he found it to be boisterous and hot. Many people crowded inside, most looking for the evening meal. The lady of the manor was too generous with the stores, but after the display in Dunloc several days previous, he could not blame her. The quickest way to buy a man’s loyalty was to fill his belly.

  When the lookout shouted that riders approached, Wulfson’s gut dropped to his feet and dread filled him. ’Twas Warner, and he knew the word would not be good. His men filed out behind him. A smile cracked Wulfson’s face. “Rohan!” he shouted and started for the knight, who, when he spied Wulfson and the other Blood Swords, urged his mount into a canter. The hulking African, Manhku, was at his side.

  When Rohan and Manhku dismounted, the knights laughed and slapped each other on the back. For the first time since December they were as they had been for years together—a most formidable force to be reckoned with.

  “I have a son!” Rohan shouted. “A healthy, lusty son!”

  The men cheered, and more backslapping and congratulating followed. As one they moved into the great hall. “Break open the wine barrels, for tonight we celebrate!” Wulfson called to the servants.

  “How does your lady fare?” Thorin asked, his face nearly split in half with his grin.

  “She is well. The babe came early, but he gave her no trouble. He is a fighter.”

  Stefan slapped him on the back and chortled, “Like his mother!”

  “I have no doubt this time next year you will have another!” Wulfson chuckled, “What did you name the lad?”

  “Geoffrey William Stephen du Luc.”

  “’Tis a most worthy name, my friend,” Wulfson said, more than happy for his comrade.

  Rohan grinned and took off his helm, and tossed it to his redheaded squire.

  Wulfson’s eyes widened. “Russell, you are nearly a man.”

  The lad grinned. “In two years’ time I will have my spurs.”

  “I think not, boy,” Manhku said in his thickly accented French.

  “Manhku, the leg works?” Rorick asked, thrusting goblets of wine into their hands.

  With their goblets full and one in each man’s hand, Wulfson raised his high over his head. “To Rohan du Luc, his new son, and his lady, Isabel!”

  The men cheered and drank.

  Once they were seated together and calmed a bit, Wulfson asked, “What keeps Warner?”

  Rohan scowled. “He is not here? He rode out two days ahead of us.”

  The men looked at each other, perplexed. Then Wulfson spoke, “’Tis not like him to dally, most especially with the message he bears from William.”

  “Aye, he seemed in a hurry to return to you. He lost much time waiting for the tides in Normandy to turn in his favor. He said he had a most urgent message for you.”

  “Did he say what it was?” Rhys asked.

  Rohan shook his head and finished his wine. A servant quickly replenished it. “Nay, he did not, but he did not seem pleased.”

  Rhys caught Wulfson’s scowl. Rohan looked at the men, then back to Wulfson. “What have I ridden into, Wulf?”

  “Drink and eat; then we will apprise you of what is afoot here.”

  Rohan looked to the men, and they all shook their heads.

  “I brought a half score of men with me. All knights, plus four squires, who, while they think they are ready for battle, I would use only as a last resort. What foes do we face?”

  “The Welsh, to name one; the lady of the manor’s uncle, to name another.” Rorick looked about the hall. Several of Lady Tarian’s men looked on, none to happy with the new arrivals. “And the lady’s guard, to name three.”

  “Jesu! You are surrounded by the enemy, and yet you all seem to move comfortably about.”

  “’Tis an uncomfortable truce.”

  “Come tell me of the intrigue of this interesting place. I have been lax these last months. I thirst for a good fight.”

  Wulfson shooed away the servants, and the men drew into a tight circle. “The lady of Dunloc is none other than Sweyn Godwinson’s byblow by a Welsh abbess.”

  “How is that?” Rohan asked, shocked.

  “Some twenty-one years ago, the savage abducted the abbess from her abbey and for a year kept her hostage. Lady Tarian is the result.”

  Rohan shook his head. “’Tis unfortunate.”

  “Aye, so she is the niece of Harold; her dead husband, Earl Malcor, is connected to every damn Welsh king there is; and she may be with child, and that child will be as related to the Welsh as the sire was.”

  Rohan nodded. And as he did, his face stiffened. “William?”

  “Wants all traces of all Godwinsons eliminated.”

  “Jesu! Murder a noblewoman?”

  All the men nodded. “Is she with child?” Rohan asked.

  “Time will tell. But things have become more complicated, and I think William acted in haste. I sent
Warner with a message asking for reconsideration when I learned of her Welsh connections. Rhiwallon of Powys has already sent a train for her. She refused to go.”

  “Does she know why you are here?”

  Wulfson slowly nodded. “When we arrived, she was at death’s door in the dungeon; I was bent then and there to see the deed done, but—”

  “When you meet the lady, you will understand,” Thorin offered.

  Wulfson shook his head. “Nay, it was more than that. Her uncle by marriage, Rangor of Lerwick, extolled her pedigree. He made it sound as if she were with child, and if we harmed it, we would feel the wrath of the Welsh upon us.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “Aye, I believed it then. I believe it more now. I have every reason to suspect the Welsh are mustering a force to take her from here. They have allied themselves with that devil Edric. They want her for all the reasons William does not. And while we all thirst to war, I did not think it prudent to throw William into an all-out war with the Welsh at this time.”

  “Where is she now?” Rohan asked, obviously intrigued.

  Wulfson inclined his head over his shoulder toward the stairway. “Up there, no doubt plotting the easiest way to separate my head from my shoulders.”

  “So Warner carried William’s response?”

  They all nodded. Rohan whistled and shook his head. Then he looked up and his jaw dropped. They all turned as one as Tarian descended into the hall in all her glory, the broadsword strapped to her leather belt.

  Ioan nudged Rohan. “She wields the sword like a man.”

  “And shoots an arrow with more accuracy than all of us combined,” Rhys said.

  “She fought beside Harold at Stamford Bridge and Senlac Hill,” Stefan added.

  “Wulfson,” Rohan said solemnly, “you have my deepest sympathy.”

  Seventeen

  Tarian nearly lost her balance when she descended into the hall and saw the new influx of knights. Could the nightmare her life had become darken even more? She continued into the hot, humid area, and forced a smile when Wulfson and his men, along with the new faces, stood for her.

  Wulfson made to step forward, as if he were to offer his arm, but he hesitated. Instead, Thorin did the honor. Placing her hand upon his brawny forearm, Tarian smiled gracefully up into his handsome face. His long blond hair was as glorious as any woman’s, and his one deep hazel eye saw more than the two eyes of most men. Like his brothers-in-arms, he sported the same crescent-shaped scar on his chin, and as they approached a most handsome knight and a huge ebony giant, she noticed immediately that they too sported the same scar on their chins. More Blood Swords? What bound these men so tightly?

  “Lady Tarian, I present Lord Rohan of Alethorpe, Dunleavy, and Wilshire, and his man, Sir Manhku,” Thorin introduced.

  Tarian extended her hand, and Rohan took it in his. His strength and warmth flooded her senses. He was as enigmatic as the others: there was something different, something special, something dark and unearthly about them all. Collectively they reminded her of demons on horseback. He pressed his lips to her hand as he made a short bow. “I am honored to meet you, Lady Tarian.”

  She returned his gesture with a brief curtsy. “As I you.”

  Manhku cleared his throat and looked to her as if he expected her to rend her hair and run away screaming. Instead she smiled and extended her hand to him, “Sir Manhku? An interesting name.” Awkwardly, he took her hand and pressed his lips to her skin, then dropped her hand and hastily stepped back.

  He nodded and rumbled, “My lady.”

  Tarian laughed, amused by his skittish behavior. “I assure you, sir knight, I do not bite, though I have been known to chop off a head or two.”

  She turned to Wulfson. “Are you such a bore you cannot make the proper introductions?” Before she would allow him to answer, Tarian turned back to Thorin. “Sir Thorin, your noble breeding shows. Would you escort me to the table? I am famished.”

  Her glib flirting was rewarded with a heavy scowl from Wulfson. But she would play the game, so as not to bring any undue attention to herself or her men.

  When Lord Alewith approached with his daughter, Wulfson stood and made the round of introductions. Brighid stared, fascinated by the markings on the African’s face. “’Tis rude to stare, Brighid,” Tarian whispered.

  Brighid shook herself and hastened to beg his pardon. She sat across from him next to her father. The platters were set, and when Wulfson called for a blessing, Alewith spoke up, “Father Dudley was called away to Silsby.”

  “Silsby? But that is a border town, a day and a half ride away. I need him here,” Tarian complained. Of all the witnesses to the will, he was the most important.

  Alewith shook his head. “There was an outbreak; he was called to bless the graves.”

  Tarian looked to Wulfson, who had insisted she keep her seat to his left. “Father Dudley was witness to Malcor’s will. He is not here to give testimony.”

  “There is Edith and the other you mentioned?”

  Tarian’s eyes narrowed as she caught the glare of Ruin as he placed a platter of mutton on one of the lesser tables. She did not trust him. But he would not lie. Not with Father Dudley as witness. “Ruin, Malcor’s manservant, whom I do not trust. He is thick with Rangor. I should have sent him off with him. ’Twas always my intention.”

  “After the meal we will see to the document.”

  Tarian nodded and bent her head to sustenance. She was famished, and worried and fearful her flight would be found out. She caught Gareth’s gaze several times throughout the meal. She ignored the revelry of the knights. She was not interested in their past conquests. She was bent on survival. She wanted the meal over, the will validated, and to return to her chamber to prepare for her escape. But that was not to be.

  The lookout called that someone approached.

  Tarian pushed the trencher from her, surprised at the late visitor. She stood; the men did as well, and they waited.

  A thick thatch of red hair gave the visitor away. At first she thought Rangor had returned, but the shabby clothing said otherwise. ’Twas Malcor’s bastard half brother, Ednoth. For a man who had nothing, he strode into the manor as if he were the rightful lord. On most days his arrogance would not have bothered her, but today, when she felt more vulnerable the she ever had, he got to her. Her hand moved to the hilt of Thyra. Wulfson’s big warm hand covered hers.

  “Easy, my lady, do not show your hand so quickly,” Wulfson softly cautioned.

  She looked up at him, surprised, and found his eyes bright and full of mischief. He nodded his head, so subtly she was not sure that he had. He presented his arm and led her to the lord’s great chair and sat her upon it, then stood to her right and awaited the man who, once he spied her seated in the lord’s chair surrounded by Norman knights, slowed his gait considerably.

  Ednoth stopped before Tarian and made the proper bow to her. “Lady Tarian.”

  For someone whose stomach was a churning mill full of tension, Tarian smiled serenely and nodded her head. “Ednoth. What brings you to Draceadon?”

  He glanced up at Wulfson, who stood casually beside her; then his gaze traveled around the circle of knights behind them. “I have come to stake my claim as rightful heir to all that was Earl Malcor’s.”

  Tarian’s heart pounded against her chest, but in a slow, even voice she asked, “What gives you the right to make the claim?”

  “I am the son of Earl Llewellyn. His sole surviving male heir. All that was his is now mine, by our laws.”

  Tarian nodded. “I hear you, Ednoth, but you forget three vital facts. First and foremost, with some inquiry it has been established that Llewellyn never officially recognized you.” He opened his mouth to argue, but she held her hand up, palm open toward him. “Allow me to finish.”

  He stepped back and nodded, but his pale skin had reddened considerably. “Secondly, it has yet to be confirmed that I carry the heir. But should I not, I have a vali
d will, signed by Earl Malcor, Father Dudley, my woman Edith, and Earl Malcor’s manservant, Ruin. The document states that all that belonged to Earl Malcor would revert to me, his lawful wife, upon his death.”

  “But you murdered him!” Ednoth shouted.

  The hall gasped as one, and Wulfson stepped forward. “It has been established, Ednoth, that the lady’s life was in peril. She did as any person would do. She defended herself. I will hear no more accusations of murder!”

  Ednoth blanched. “I insist the witnesses be brought forward and speak, and as blood brother to Malcor, I demand to see the document!”

  “Ednoth,” Tarian said patiently, “you do not understand. I am under no obligation by law to bring forth any witness or present the document. You have no claim.”

  “’Tis a forgery!” Ruin shouted from the crowd.

  Tarian gasped, and Wulfson inclined his head to Rhys to nab the upstart.

  He dragged Ruin kicking and screeching toward them. Tarian stood. “What lies do you spew now?”

  Ruin’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He looked from Tarian to Gareth, who stood to her left. “She did not murder milord.” He pointed a long bony finger at Gareth. “’Twas him, her guard. He was jealous and could not stand my lord touching her!”

  Gareth stood silent, furious at the outrageous accusation, but Tarian whirled around and stepped down to face Ruin. “You are a liar of the highest order, Ruin. Malcor was as twisted as you, and when he could not rise to the occasion he beat me for it. When he took my own sword and laid it across my throat, I drew his dagger from his belt and slit his throat. Do not put the blame where it does not belong.”

  Tarian turned to Wulfson, then back to the crowd. “Hear the truth. Malcor was perverted, he was twisted to his soul. He gained pleasure by inflicting pain. ’Twas Ruin who made promises to the village boys that if they came to the hall and sat with the earl, they would be handsomely rewarded.”

  She looked up to Wulfson. “Edith will bear witness that Malcor was for once of sound mind when he had the monks draw up the document. Father Dudley will back the claim.” She turned to Gareth. “Take him to the place he enjoyed so well with his master. And let him rethink the truth.”