Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment

by Karin Tabke

  Barely able to speak, so wrought with emotion, she gasped out the words, “I belong only to you.” And it was the truth.

  He thrust into her again and again, and she thought she would come apart at the seams. His lips descended on hers in a violent kiss. His arms tightened around her, nearly squeezing the life from her. His hips drove into her with the force of a thunderstorm. His breaths became hoarse and ragged, as if emotion clogged his chest. They hung suspended, their eyes wide in awe, then together they climaxed, and the entire world shifted around them.

  For long moments, they held each other as if to let go would mean the end of their world. For Tarian, ’twas reality.

  “Chérie,” he said softly against her breast, “do not give up hope. Believe in me.”

  Her heart swelled so swiftly and so fully she could not breathe. Not trusting her voice, she nodded against his chest, where his heart beat solid and strong. But her resolve held firm despite the crumbling of her heart. For she did not flee because of Warner. Nor did she flee because of her oath to Rangor. She must fly because in her heart of hearts she knew his king wanted her dead and she could not put Wulfson in the position of seeing his oath to his king carried out. ’Twould kill him as he killed her.

  She left him soon after. He lay spread-eagled and naked on the bed, his deep, even breaths of hard slumber giving way to her escape. For that was what she did. Escaped. She escaped the pain of his rage when he found her out, and the wrath he would bring down upon her when he learned of her marriage to Rangor. She slipped through the secret door to her chamber where Edie awaited. Together they flew down the other end of the passageway and out to the courtyard, and then beyond to the meadow where Gareth and her men awaited.

  “The Normans?” she asked him.

  “They sleep like babes.” He smiled grimly and looked past her to Edith. “The entire manor sleeps. Edith’s herbs are strong.”

  Tarian nodded. “Then let us fly.”

  Wulfson woke to pounding on his door. “Wulfson!” Rorick called. “Warner has returned!”

  Wulfson sprang up in the bed and immediately realized that Tarian was gone. He looked to the secret passage and saw the door ajar. Her early departure from their bed could not override his elation that his friend lived. He hurried to dress, and when he passed Tarian’s door he scowled, seeing Gareth’s empty pallet. Mayhap she was already up and about? When he came down the stairs he found his men groggy but in good spirits. And Warner no worse for the wear.

  They clasped hands and gave each other hearty slaps on the back. And before Wulfson could ask, Warner gave him the dour news. “I have been held captive these last weeks. I escaped just three days ago.”

  Fury mingled with dread in his gut. “Who?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  “They wore Dunloc’s colors. Lady Tarian’s men.”

  Rage simmered in his belly. “Give me William’s message.”

  Warner shook his head. “They destroyed the document, Wulfson, but William anticipated that. He told me his order.”

  The men gathered around. “What does he say?”

  “He cautioned you to keep yourself clear of the lady’s black magic, and to see the deed done with most haste. He will not forgive her her murder of Malcor.”

  Wulfson sank to the bench beside him. “I sent another missive after you when more details were brought to light. I will await his word.”

  Warner sat beside his friend. “He was most adamant, Wulfson. He cared not for her plight. He said he would gladly deal with the Welsh if they were so bold as to cross the border.”

  The lookout shouted that riders approached. The men hastened to see a score of knights, and flying above them the red and gold lion standard of William. Dread filled Wulfson. He could not blame the lady for sidetracking a single man. But she could not stop William’s knights.

  The messenger dismounted and walked directly to Wulfson. “Sir Wulfson, a missive from the king.”

  Wulfson reached out for it, and he felt as if he would empty his spleen in the dirt. He broke the seal and read Tarian’s death sentence. He screamed out in rage. “Nay! This cannot be!” He was not ready to give her up! A deadly silence ensconced the air, and he looked up at his men and read their own pain in their eyes. But they would never know the pain he felt. He turned and stumbled back into the hall, ignoring the commotion behind him.

  He kicked a wooden bench, the first thing in his path. He shoved the trestle table next to it out of his way. He hurled several chairs and drew his swords, and in a wild, feral display he reduced several more chairs to splitters.

  “Wulfson!” Thorin shouted, coming toward him. Wildly, Wulfson turned on his man. “Nay! Do not come near me!”

  He strode to the tapestry adorning the walls and ripped it down. His rage was so complete he could see naught but red. He strode back to where the parchment lay on the floor. He read it again, sure he had misread it the first time. When the same words leapt at him, he screamed his rage again, then sank to the nearest upright bench. He dropped his swords, then the parchment, to the floor, and hung his head in his hands.

  “Sir Wulfson!” Rolf gasped, bursting into the hall. “The lady flees to Wales where she has an army awaiting her!”

  Wulfson’s head snapped back and his eyes narrowed. “What say you?”

  The lad gasped for breath, and pressed his hand to a large knot on his head. “I overheard her captain Gareth last night. She meets with Rangor: they are to wed.”

  “Nay!” Wulfson shouted. “She will not!”

  Rolf nodded, his eyes full of sorrow for his master. “Methinks they return with Welsh reinforcements.”

  Thorin stepped forward. “It makes sense, the alliance, Wulf. The Welsh are powerful and see the benefit of her bloodline. Wedding with Rangor, she keeps what is hers, gains what is his, and, with the Welsh backing, William will be hard pressed to be rid of her.”

  Anger swiftly replaced his anguish, seething hot and deadly in his gut. Thorin shook his head. “She plays the game better than we. She fooled us all.”

  Wulfson stood and snarled at his men, “Could you blame her? Warner carried her death warrant!”

  For a long moment, Wulfson stood. He could not see, his vision blank. He could not hear or smell; he could not feel anything but twisted fury at the situation and at Tarian. Had she lied to him all this time? Her oath last eve meant nothing, and in his heart of hearts he knew that if she truly loved him as she claimed she would not take up sword against him. He would find out for himself!

  Finally, when he was able to see through his angry haze, he said coldly, “Mount up. We ride west to Wales.” He swept past his men and hurried to his chamber, where he methodically donned his battle gear.

  Tarian refused to ride beside Rangor. She also refused to see the priest until they were safely in Powys. “He watches you like a dog over a bone,” Gareth grumbled as they broke upon a ridge overlooking the river they had just crossed. ’Twas only another half day’s ride to the border. From behind her, Tarian watched a column of Welsh make their way up to them. Rhiwallon had come through with men. She looked across Rangor’s garrison, which included Ednoth. Rangor had no doubt promised him the moon should he side with him against the Normans. Then there were Rhiwallon’s men, and her own. Combined, more than one hundred and fifty strong. Most of them foot soldiers. But. She glanced over to her own garrison. Some fifty strong and all ahorse. Seasoned warriors, all of them. But in her gut she knew they were no match for the Normans. Still, combined with Rangor’s men and those of the Welsh king, they had a chance should they not make it to the border.

  “He can drool all he wants, Gareth. But he will not have me until we are safely behind the Welsh curtain.”

  She looked east, where Draceadon was but a distant memory, then up to the high rise of the sun and beyond. The hair on the back of her neck rose. There, not too far off, a low dust cloud rose on the horizon. Her heart stuttered in her chest. “Wulfson,” she whispered.

&n
bsp; Gareth turned in his saddle, and she watched the color drain from his face. “He comes for you.”

  She swallowed hard. “Aye, he comes to do me in.” Reining Silversmith around, she rode hard up the hill.

  The scene reminded her of that fateful day almost a year ago at Senlac Hill. The Normans would have to come up at them, thus giving Tarian and her army the advantage. But even more to their advantage was the swift-moving river that separated them. Once the enemy made it through the water, they would then have only a narrow strait on which to regroup before the mound rose at a rolling slope. Despite their advantage, a dark foreboding overcame her. She did not want to die this day; and she could not, despite the bad blood between them, wish that Wulfson or any of his men, whom she had come to know and respect, should go down either. For the first time since she fled that morn, Tarian questioned her own motives. But as she sat upon her horse and watched the cloud of dust come closer, with terrifying speed, she knew there was no other way.

  They would stand and fight here, and not be caught on the run.

  She reined Silversmith and rode back to the men. “The Normans come!” Tarian called to Rangor and Ednoth.

  The two men—so much alike—smiled. “Let them!” Rangor called. He maneuvered his horse to face his men. “The Normans approach. We will stand here and fight and rid our land of them once and for all! Bring the archers forward.”

  Tarian sat upon the hill and watched in quiet awe what unfolded before her. Wulfson had at least thirty more knights than she had anticipated. She swallowed hard, her heart tightening as she watched him lead the cavalry to the edge of the water. He urged his mount halfway across, and looked up. She nudged Silversmith down the hill, despite Rangor’s shouts for her to stop. She ignored him.

  She stopped just at the edge of the water. She raised her sword and called to Wulfson, “Return to Normandy!”

  He laughed, the sound caustic and deadly, and urged his mount forward. “’Tis impossible. I am of les morts.”

  She nudged Silversmith forward to the edge of the water. She could see Wulfson clearly. Tarian shook her head at the dense man. How could she make him understand Rangor would kill him this day? And there was nothing left for her to bargain for his life with. “I have done everything to protect you!” she cried out to him.

  “I do not need your protection!”

  “Nor do I need yours! Leave me. Tell your king I will not go to Normandy. I will not marry a Norman, I will not raise up an army against him! But I will protect my child at all costs! Now go!”

  “Nay, Tarian. I asked you to trust me. You gave me your oath that you did. Is this how you honor it?”

  Pain like a band of steel clamped around her chest. “You expect me to stand by whilst you separate my head from my shoulders?”

  “Tarian—”

  “Nay! Do not lie to me! Your man Warner brought word and”—she pointed with her sword to the new contingent of William’s knights behind him—“and by this show of force I know the answer from the second messenger is the same! Do not play me false!” She shook her head, and hot tears blurred her vision. “William wants me dead, Wulfson, and he is the vilest of men to ask you to do the deed.” She straightened in her saddle and set her mind to the matter. “And I love you too much to let you do it, for you would not be able to live with yourself.” She reined Silversmith back, but quietly said, “Let me fall today by any other sword than yours.”

  “Tarian!” Wulfson shouted.

  But she continued to back away. As she did, Rangor drew up beside her. He glared menacingly at Wulfson. “She gave her freedom to save you,” he laughed, and turned to Tarian, “Now he will see you slain for the effort!” He sneered and looked back to Wulfson and spat. “Was he worth it?”

  Tarian gasped, and turned to see Wulfson’s eyes narrow behind his helm. “’Tis a lie! He taunts you! Return to Normandy!” she cried, then spurred Silversmith past Rangor, cringing at his last taunt to Wulfson.

  “Tonight will find her in my bed as my wife, Norman,” Rangor crowed. “We will celebrate your death!”

  Tarian cast a glance over her shoulder to see Wulfson unmoving in the water. He raised his eyes to her for the truth. She could not turn back. There was no future for them. As she crested the hill, a hailstorm of arrows rained down. She spurred Silversmith faster. Rangor raced up behind her.

  “Prepare to engage!” she called. The men came forward, and she turned to watch as Wulfson charged through the river, his men behind him, his battle cry reverberating against the hill.

  The archers would soften the knights before the horses and foot soldiers engaged. But Tarian watched in awed fascination as the knights all formed the tight quadrant, their shields raised in such a fashion that the arrows were hard-pressed to slip through.

  “Foot soldiers!” Tarian yelled, and the Welsh flew down the hill, followed by Ednoth’s men. As they came closer in the water, the archers had a more difficult angle from which to hit true. The clash below was brutal, and she watched in horror and awe as Wulfson and his men hacked their way through the water.

  Rangor took several of his men and moved down along the bank before entering the water to come around on the Norman’s flanks. But the Normans were prepared.

  Tarian could not tear her eyes from Wulfson. Ednoth and several other men on horseback swarmed him. She caught her breath when a blade slammed across his back. He turned with his double swords in hand and hacked off the arm of his closest assailant. But three more replaced him. Her heart pounded high in her throat. She raised her hand and brought it down: the signal for her men to engage. With Gareth by her side, they plunged down the hill and into the fray, her eyes never leaving Wulfson, who literally battled for his life. Ednoth and his men were all over him, and though Wulfson made mincemeat of many, he was outnumbered, and his men were equally engaged.

  As her horse thundered down the hill, a hard rush of emotions tangled dangerously in Tarian’s heart. Her life for Wulfson’s. He had asked her to trust him and she had failed him!

  “Gareth!” she called to her captain. “Pull the men back! All of them!”

  And in that instant she gave herself over to William. Her oath to Rangor meant nothing. For he would see Wulfson dead this day. She would, in exchange for Wulfson’s life, live out her days in Normandy if William would allow her to, for nothing meant more to her than Wulfson’s life. Not even the child she carried.

  As she came charging down the last of the hill and into the water, she saw Wulfson look up. Their gazes caught and held. Her eyes widened as Ednoth’s blade came down on his back. “Noooooooo!” she screamed. “Noooo!”

  Wulfson took the brunt of the blow, and as she spurred Silversmith toward him, Rangor turned, and she realized he knew he had lost her. As she plunged into the water downstream from Wulfson, Rangor turned his horse and charged toward her. “You gave your oath, Tarian!” he shrieked. “His life for your hand!”

  Tarian set her jaw and raised her sword. She would see to Rangor once and for all. Abruptly she reined Silversmith around, and he came full turn. Using her legs and one of the maneuvers Wulfson had taught her, she gave the horse a sharp command and drew up on the reins. The gray reared and came down on Rangor’s horse.

  She twisted in her saddle and raised her sword to plunge it deep into Rangor’s chest, but his horse broke free. Rangor snarled, and with both hands he took up his sword. As his horse turned he used the velocity to bring his sword around.

  “Wulfson!” she cried, and watched in horror as Rangor, both hands grasping the hilt of his sword, struck her in the belly, unseating her. Pain shot throughout her entire body. She heard Wulfson’s enraged snarl, and then cool water encompassed her.

  Twenty-three

  Rage and anguish tore through him like a thousand swords to his gut. Wulfson roared in pain, fury, and desperation. He died the instant Rangor’s blade struck Tarian. But when the water swallowed her up, claiming her for all time, he knew he would rather die than live a day w
ithout her. He spurred the black forward through the throng of men trying desperately to take his life. Seeing the bloodlust in his eyes, Rangor turned tail and fled. But Wulfson had eyes only for Tarian.

  Flinging his helm and swords from him, he leapt from his horse, diving into the chest-high river where she had fallen. Desperately he felt for her in the murky water. Each time he surfaced without her, another piece of his heart broke off. He dove again, his eyes searching desperately for her. His chest swelled with no air, but he would not give up until he found her.

  He surfaced, gasping great gulps of air, then dove again. And again, and again.

  Just as he had no more breath, he touched something hard. His finger grasped it and he pulled it up with him. He cried out, triumphant. Her arm. He pulled her limp form from the water into his arms. Choking on the water, he coughed and spewed the liquid from his lungs. His legs felt like stones. He pulled her up to him, his arm clasped around her waist keeping her face free of the churning water. She hung limp in his arms, her dark hair plastered across her face. He pushed it away, wanting desperately to see her beautiful blue eyes sparkling in mischief at him. Instead, her eyes were closed, her skin white as paste, and her lips blue. He shook her limp body. “Tarian! Open your eyes!” he shouted.

  When she did not respond, he looked to the bank where most of his men had gathered, and trudged through the deep water, her cold limp body hanging in his arms. His chest felt as if it were going to rip open from the excruciating pressure of his emotions. He pressed his lips to her cold ones and breathed his breath into her. He shook her again when she did not respond. He pushed harder for the bank, continuing to breathe his own life breath into her.

  He stumbled, and nearly fell with her in his arms into the cold swirling current. With strength born of desperation, he kept his balance, and when he looked down he nearly dropped her. Blood swirled around her hips. “Nay!” he screamed. He threw his head back and like a wild wounded animal he howled his sorrow to the heavens. He felt hands grasp him and pull him toward the bank. He dropped to his knees with Tarian still in his arms and laid her down on the soft mud.