Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment

by Karin Tabke

  Gareth seized Ruin, who shrieked like a woman as he was led away. Tarian turned her attention back to Ednoth. “You have no claim. If you persist, I will take my claim to the king. Do not darken my doorstep again, unless you are willing to accept your lot here.”

  His fury was visible, but for the sake of his life, Ednoth gave her a shallow bow and retreated.

  Tarian turned to Wulfson. “If you please, come to my chamber, and I will produce the document.” She looked past him to his men. “Bring them with you.”

  The great chamber was greatly reduced in size, so full of hulking knights. Tarian went to her great chest and lifted the lid, then slid a secret panel to the side. There, rolled up with the earl’s seal unbroken, was a scroll, and she handed it to Wulfson. He took it and moved to a small table where a candelabrum lit the room.

  He glanced to her. “Break the seal and see for yourself,” she said.

  He did so, and as he read, his men gathered round. It was there in Latin, witnessed and marked by Father Dudley, Edith, and Ruin.

  “Where is your maid?” Wulfson asked.

  “I am here, milord,” Edie said, bobbing her head and coming forward. Wulfson pointed to the document and asked, “Which mark is yours?”

  She pointed to the one with a crudely written E. “I learned as a girl the letter my name began with. I have used it only a handful of times in my life. But that is my mark. Father Dudley drew up the document and Father Michael read it to us.” She looked up to Wulfson and continued, “’Twas Earl Malcor’s wish that my lady have it all.”

  “Why? When he was forced to marry her at swordpoint?”

  Edith smiled a sly smile. “Milady reminded him that he would burn in hell for his sins on this earth. He was not all black of heart. He saw the righteousness in doing right by her when he had done so much wrong in such a short time. He begged her for her promise to pay for alms should he die before her.”

  Wulfson raised a brow. “And did she?”

  Edith cackled. “Nay, she never promised him, and none were bought. He was the devil’s spawn, that one. The fires of hell are too good for the damage he’s done.”

  Wulfson turned and looked hard at Tarian. “Why would his manservant lie?”

  She scoffed. “’Tis what he does. He resented me the day I came here. He no longer had control over Malcor. I would not allow the boys to be brought here. Ruin is as twisted as my dead husband.”

  “Are you sure Ednoth was never recognized by Llewellyn?”

  “Malcor never mentioned Ednoth to me. All of the documents pertaining to the earldom are at Briarhurst. ’Tis two days’ hard ride from here.” And as she mentioned the earldom’s seat she formulated her plans. They would go there first and seize the documents, then head west to Wales.

  She looked up to Wulfson. “With your permission, I would dispatch a handful of my men immediately to secure the manor. I fear Rangor may have his own designs on the documents. I should have seen to this earlier.”

  She watched Wulfson contemplate the request. He nodded. “I will send several of my men along for support.”

  Tarian did not dare argue. Not only would this be the perfect excuse to rid Draceadon of her men and have them build up, but it would put several of Wulfson’s men out of the way. She would instruct her men that as soon as the opportunity presented itself, they should disarm the knights and consider them hostages. And the fewer men Wulfson had here, the fewer he would have to come after her.

  “Thank you.”

  Wulfson rolled the parchment up and handed it back to her. “Reseal this.”

  She took it from him. “I shall, but there are two other copies should this one mysteriously disappear.”

  He quirked a brow, not sure if she meant that as a barb. She gifted him with a smile.

  And so the next day as the sun broke the eastern horizon, ten of Tarian’s men rode off with two of the knights Sir Rohan had brought with him. Her men had been instructed to disarm and unseat them, then hold them until she met up with them. By the time she let them go and they returned to Draceadon, she would be long gone.

  Lord Alewith also left Draceadon, much to Brighid’s and, she could tell, Rhys’s unhappiness. But it was for the girl’s best interest. Alewith would meet them in four days’ time at Briarhurst.

  Tarian was as jumpy as a mouse, and found difficulty in acting as if all was normal. Wulfson’s eyes always seemed to be upon her, but when she turned to confront him he was otherwise occupied. She found his patient tutelage in horsemanship disturbing. Too many times when he touched her to show her the proper leg movement or the proper way to rein, his skin touched hers and burned.

  Each time he helped her mount Silversmith, his hands lingered too long on her waist. On the last day before her flight, as she rubbed down the stallion, Wulfson came into the stall and pressed her back into the thick mounds of fresh straw, and begged her.

  “You make me think of nothing but your skin against mine, Tarian. I cannot sleep because you haunt my dreams. Ease this ache I have for you.”

  Her body ached for him as much, but she would not give into her passion for this man. She fought the thing that was between them as viciously as she did her foe on the battlefield. Because she knew that if she gave in to it, it would destroy her.

  He was relentless. On what was to be her last night at Draceadon, Tarian called for a hot bath. As she slid into the velvety water and leaned her head back, closing her eyes, there was a commotion at the door.

  “My lord, my lady is indisposed at the moment!” Edith said sharply.

  “Leave us,” Wulfson said. Tarian gasped, and turned with her arms crossed over her chest to see Wulfson’s predatory eyes piercing her from the threshold. He stepped in, and despite Edith’s cries for him to leave, he pushed her out the door, closed it, then threw the bolt.

  When he turned back to Tarian, he leaned against the thick door, a tight smile twisting his handsome lips. “The torment is beyond my endurance, Tarian. Give me what I seek.”

  She settled back into the tub, and smiled like the vixen she felt herself. “If I do not, will you rape me?” Slowly he shook his head. “Then leave me.”

  He shook his head again and pushed off the door and strode slowly toward her as if he were stalking a wary game bird. She ignored him and went about bathing herself. In a slow seductive motion, she lathered the sponge, and extending her right leg she set her toes to the edge of the tub. Leaning forward, in slow swirls she rubbed in the lather. When she was done with that leg, she washed the other in the same fashion.

  She watched him watch her, and despite her need to torture him, her skin had warmed from more than the water. She sat up and arched her back, raising her arm and lathering it.

  A sharp hiss of air from the knight made her skin flush warmer. She caught his brilliant eyes in the candlelight and smiled. “How does it feel, sir knight, to be so desperate for something you cannot have that it eats away at your innards?”

  “Torturous,” he said thickly.

  She smiled again and slowly stood. His eyes widened to the size of fists. As if she were alone, she lathered her breasts, and hissed in a breath as she ran the soft linen across her nipples. They were full, sensitive, and tight. Wulfson’s eyes narrowed. Slowly she shook her head, then lowered her hands to her belly and then to her thighs.

  “Stop, Tarian,” he whispered hoarsely. “Stop, or I will not be held accountable for my actions.”

  She smiled and reached for the pitcher of clean water, and in a slow pour she let it sluice down her body, washing away the thick, creamy lather. Wulfson stood as still as the walls that surrounded them. She stepped from the tub, only a hand’s-breadth from him, and reached for the folded linen just past him. Her bottom brushed against his thigh, and that was the spark that set him afire. He grabbed her by the hips and brought her naked against him, his hands not moving from where he touched her. Tarian gasped, but did not move. She felt the hot length of him against her back. He was as rigid as s
teel, and she knew he fought a tremendous battle.

  And he was not the only one. Her passion for the man who held her against him equaled his. She leaned back into him, arching her back, and bit her lip to keep from crying out. Her thighs quivered, and she had never wanted anything as much as she did this man at that moment. But she could not. He would keep her abed all through the night, filling her time and time again.

  At the thought a moan did escape her throat.

  “Yield to me, Tarian,” he hoarsely whispered against her ear.

  His warm breath stirred her more.

  “I—I cannot,” she breathed.

  He turned her in his arms and grabbed a hank of her hair, pulling it back and forcing her to make eye contact with him. “Cannot or will not?”

  His other hand slid down her back to her bottom, where his fingers dug into her tender skin, pressing her harder against him. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced away the vision of him taking her, as he had that night almost a month ago, and replaced it with the dream of him plunging his dagger deep into her belly. She stiffened, and felt the hot onslaught of tears in her eyes. She shook her head and choked back a sob.

  “Please, Wulfson, do not make this thing between us more than it can be.”

  His face twisted in anger and passion, but she saw in his eyes that he understood. And that fact realized—knowing he knew as well as she that he could and would be the one to take her life should William insist on it—gave her the strength to move away from him. He let her go, and she wrapped the linen around her damp body.

  “Please go,” she said softly.

  He did without hesitation. When the door thudded closed behind him, Tarian sank to the floor, despair filling every part of her, her heart most especially. It grew so heavy with grief that breathing became difficult. Edith was there now beside her, and moved her into the great bed.

  “’Twill all work out, Tarian,” she soothed stroking her cheek. “He will not kill the mother of his child.” She pressed her thin hand to Tarian’s belly. “In two months’ time you will feel the babe move.”

  Tarian looked up to her nurse with watery eyes. “How do you know I am with child?”

  “’Tis early, I admit, but you are showing the signs.”

  Tarian sat up in bed and shook her head. “I feel no different.”

  Edith smiled. “Don’t you?”

  She shook her head. “Nay, I do not.”

  “Is your fatigue normal? Are your breasts tender to the touch? And for the last two days you have pushed your morning trencher away.” She smiled. “But chiefly, your courses have not come this month.”

  And while the thought of the child should have pleased Tarian, it did not. He had been conceived under the falsest of pretenses, and he would never know the love of his true sire. A heavy fatigue overcame her at that moment, and Tarian gave in to it. “Wake me in four candle notches, Edie. Then we will fly.”

  Wulfson could not sleep. Every sound, every creak, every call of the owl had him on edge. He paced his room, and each time he turned it became smaller and smaller. Each time he looked to the tapestry he longed to slide past it and into Tarian’s chamber. To take her in his arms and make love to her. But she would not have him, and he could not blame her.

  He cursed, he drank more wine than he should have, and when the skin was empty he found himself candle in hand standing behind the secret door to her chamber. He paced back and forth, his lust waging a colossal battle with his better judgment. Finally, he retreated.

  He was up before sunrise, stewing in the hall, pacing amongst his snoring men.

  As he stood staring at the hearth, he suddenly stiffened. He looked about and saw none of Tarian’s men. Gareth had not been asleep across her door. His hackles rose. He flew up the stairway to the lady’s chamber and pushed open the door. “Tarian?” he called. Silence met him. He strode into the room, and her scent infiltrated his senses, but her mail and sword were gone!

  A deep sense of dread filled Wulfson so completely he could scarcely breathe. And it had nothing to do with disappointing his king.

  He turned and fled the room and hurried down the stairway, shouting, “Arise! Arise! To arms! The lady has flown!”

  Tarian rode, literally, for her life. With her men behind her and Gareth at her side, she felt invincible should they run into anyone except Wulfson and his knights. As the sun broke over the eastern horizon, a hard chill bit her deep in her bones. Fear of what he would do to her should he catch up to them before they crossed the Welsh border terrified her. But even knowing what he was capable of did not ease the pain in her heart. Somewhere along the way, despite all that had transpired, she had grown more than fond of the surly knight.

  Her belly churned in a way that made her want to retch. It was not from the babe, but from nerves, and sorrow and regrets. When they broke through the narrow pass that would lead to Briarhurst, the urge to retch overcame her. Not having the stomach to break the fast, Tarian bent over to the right of her saddle and allowed the dry heaves to rack her body.

  “My lady,” Gareth called in the dusk of dawn, “do you ail?”

  Tarian waved him off and shook her head. She spurred Silversmith to move faster. She could feel her captain’s eyes upon her, and shame at her deed encompassed her. He would put the pieces together, and she did not know if she could face him. But she convinced herself the babe was her guarantee that she would retain what Malcor promised her. But most of all, the babe offered her best chance of surviving William’s wrath.

  Stopping only once, they pushed their horses to the limit. By nightfall the beasts were blowing hard, and Tarian knew if they did not get rest soon they would be worthless on the morrow.

  “There is the old Druid monastery several leagues ahead. A stream flows nearby; we will camp there for the night,” Tarian told Gareth.

  When they approached the place, night had long since fallen. Since the monastery was rumored to be haunted by the Druids who were slain there centuries ago, there were rumblings amongst the men. But Tarian ignored them. Though centuries had passed since its abandonment, it was still intact. Some said the forest Druids saw it as a shrine of sorts, and during the dark time ventured from the wood and tended it.

  A large Celtic cross rose ahead, a foreboding sentinel signaling to all who traveled close by that this was sacred ground. Instead of fear, a deep sense of serenity filled Tarian, and she knew she would be safe here.

  The horses were tended to, the men fed, and the lookouts posted. They would be ahorse again long before the first rays of the sun announced the new day. But, tired as she was, Tarian could not find sleep. She tossed and turned on the ground, finding no position comfortable. Strapping on her sword belt, she lit a torch from the low embers of the fire and quietly moved toward the structure. She felt the spirit of the place encompass her and carry her forward, in invitation to explore.

  She pushed open the heavy wooden portal, the hinges creaking under its weight.

  “My lady?” Gareth said from behind her.

  She turned to him and smiled. Worry etched his face. He had aged ten years since their arrival at Draceadon. It felt like a lifetime ago. “Go back to sleep, Gareth, I am only slaking my curiosity. No harm will befall me inside.”

  His lips pursed as if to argue, but he only nodded, and instead of going back to his bedroll he found a seat on a nearby old stone bench. She continued into the building, and that sense of serenity filled her again. She touched the torch to an ancient sconce on the wall and was relieved to see it ignite. She walked further into the place, and could just make out a stone altar at the far end of the room. Several stone benches, like pews, dotted the interior. High windows allowed the soft moonlight in. And though she did not have a relationship with God, she set the torch in an old metal floor sconce and sat down on the bench nearest it. She folded her hands and looked up and closed her eyes, and for the first time since she was a girl, she prayed.

  Her tranquility was disrupted by the hoarse
call to arms from Gareth. The thunder of hooves shook the ground beneath her. She sat perfectly still, and dread filled every part of her body. Gooseflesh erupted across her arms and down her back. Her belly quivered with nervous excitement, and even though she had stood and fought at York and Hastings, for the first time in her life Tarian felt the windy chill of death swirl about her.

  ’Twas Wulfson, and he was not there to complain that she had not said her good-bye.

  Panic grabbed her with sharp claws, shredding at her insides. Fear, anguish, anger, and despair wrestled for dominance. She drew her sword and ran for the door.

  She flung it open to find Gareth blocking her way and a furious Wulfson upon his black steed, his double swords pointed at Gareth’s heart. A quick scan of the camp revealed her men still on the ground where they lay, surrounded by armed knights.

  “You will have to go through me, sir, to get to the lady,” Gareth said, his voice harsh and unwavering.

  Wulfson’s face hardened to stone. “Do not be a fool, captain; we will reduce you and your men to scraps not fit for the hounds. Step aside.”

  “You will have to slay us all! I will not return with you!” Tarian said, trying to step around Gareth, who refused to allow her passage.

  “Lady Tarian, are you willing to sacrifice the lives of your men for what will in the end be a futile battle?”

  “Do you think, Sir Wulfson, we are so cloddish that several of your sacred Blood Swords will not find their end here as well? Is that your wish?”

  He shrugged nonchalantly. “’Tis always a possibility. Now hand over your sword, and you will all live.”

  “Will we? Do you include me? Can you guarantee me my life will be spared?”

  Turold threw his head as if answering for his master. “I can guarantee your life this eve,” Wulfson solemnly answered.

  “But not tomorrow?”