Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment

by Karin Tabke

  “Breathe!” he shouted at her. He shook her and pressed against her chest. Her lips turned darker blue before his eyes. He pulled he to him again and threw his head back and cried out, “God! Save her!” He was oblivious to all that happened around him.

  He tore her mail from her small, cold body. Blood stained her chauses. He pressed a shaking hand to her belly, and knew that the child died with her. Like a wolf whose mate had succumbed to hunters, Wulfson screamed his pain and heartbreak. His hands furiously moved across her face and chest as great sobs racked his body. He pulled her face to his and pressed his lips to hers, again and again blowing his life into hers. Still she lay limp. He rolled her over on her side and pushed against her back. Slowly he realized shadows surrounded him. He looked up to find his men surrounding him, their faces drawn and haggard.

  Rohan knelt down beside him and put his hand to his shoulder. “She is gone, Wulfson.”

  “Nay!” he roared and pushed on her back again and again. He pulled her limp form up into his arms and rocked her, pushing the wet hair from her face. “She but sleeps,” he whispered, and pressed his lips again to her cold blue ones.

  He moved his hand to her chest, desperate to feel the beat of her heart.

  “Set her again on her side and thump her back!” Gareth commanded running up to him. He slid down into the mud beside Wulfson. “Rid her chest of the water so that she will breathe!”

  Wulfson rolled her onto her side, and this time he pounded with his fists. When she did not respond, he pounded her back again. Her chest heaved in a sudden convulsion, then she coughed and gagged as water spewed from her. But she did not open her eyes. He pressed his ear to her chest. And there, he felt, barely a whisper of a heartbeat. Hope swelled.

  He shucked his mail and scabbards, then hauled her up to him and stood with her still and limp in his arms. “My horse! Bring me my horse! And find her nurse. Bring her to Draceadon!”

  With Tarian in his arms, he rode like a demon to hell for Draceadon. He refused to think of her not surviving. He would bargain with the devil if he would give her life. When he entered the hall with her in his arms, he strode directly up to his chamber, and there, lovingly, he placed her on his bed. His heart stopped when he saw the fresh blood between her thighs. His gut tightened as if a fist twisted it. Gently he pulled her wet muddy clothes from her body, and just as gently he cleaned her, but the blood did not stop. He wrung his hands, pacing the room, unable to help her.

  When Gareth broke into the room, Wulfson turned snarling at him. “How could you allow her to battle?”

  “She’s a warrior! She was fighting for her life and that of her child! Would you have her do anything different?”

  Wulfson swiped his hand across his face, wanting to lay violent hands on the captain. “She almost died! The child is gone!”

  “Through no fault of yours! At every turn you let her know her life was but William’s whim and you his henchman!”

  Wulfson could not take the truth. “She lied to me!”

  Gareth shook his head in disgust. “Aye, she did, but once again she had no one to defend her.”

  “She had you.”

  Gareth’s head snapped back, and Wulfson saw the pain in the Viking’s blue eyes. He felt the same pain. They had both failed her.

  “I have failed her miserably,” Gareth said slowly. “I indulged her every whim. She is most hard to resist once she has her mind set.”

  “Was her heart set on Rangor?” Wulfson sneered, thinking of the Saxon he would love to finish off.

  Gareth snapped then. Wulfson saw it in his eyes and his face. He strode right up to Wulfson’s face and snarled, “She sacrificed all for you, can you not see it? ’Twas Rangor who held the power over your life. To save it, she agreed to marriage. Today she forsook her life to come to your aid, and in doing so she nearly lost it.” He looked at the small pale form in the bed. “She lost the babe, and may still lose her life.” Gareth stepped to the bed and sat down on the edge, taking her limp hand into his. “There is too much blood,” he choked.

  As the words left Gareth’s mouth, Edith burst into the chamber and flew to her lady’s side. “Move aside and let me tend her!”

  Gareth and Wulfson stood back and watched the nurse poke and prod Tarian. She turned grave eyes to them. “Her brain is asleep. But that is not my concern. The babe is lost, and I fear she will bleed to death.”

  Wulfson knelt down beside Tarian and pressed his hand to her heart. “Tell me what to do.”

  “Her womb is full of blood. Get me linens and straw to soak it up from the bed.”

  He hurried to the task and for long hours he watched Edie tend Tarian. Relief overcame him when he noticed the blood begin to lessen. But still he worried: for such a mite, she had lost so much.

  Wulfson looked down at the small naked form in his bed. He knelt beside her and took her cold hand into his much bigger, much warmer one. If he could give her his own blood he would. “Will she live?” he asked the nurse.

  Edith did not look up from where she sat close by. “If there is no more blood she will. Many women survive miscarriages.”

  “Will she be able to bear other children?”

  Edith looked at him sharply. “Mayhap. Time will tell.” She stood and kneaded Tarian’s belly once more, and both watched for the linens to darken. When they did not, both Edith and Wulfson let out a long sigh. The nurse looked up at him. “Are you angry with her?”

  Wulfson shook his head. “Nay. How could I be? She sacrificed everything for me.”

  “What of your king?”

  Wulfson sighed heavily and stood. “Once he understands she has no desire to take up arms against him and that she does not bear a child of Royal Welsh blood, he will listen.”

  “He will keep her in Normandy.”

  Wulfson nodded. “There is no other way.”

  “I go where she goes.”

  Wulfson nodded, and thought the same thing.

  Twenty-four

  The pain in her womb was gone. The pain in her chest subsided, but the pain in her heart, in her soul still gaped, raw and bloody. She knew the minute she awoke to see Wulfson sitting beside her that their child was lost. She had relived the blow to her belly over and over in her nightmares. She would kill Rangor for that.

  For a long time she watched the Norman knight who had become her heart and soul, her sight and her breath. He looked haggard, as if he had aged a decade. She tried to move her hand to his, but she was too weak.

  “Wulfson…” she croaked, and swallowed, her throat raw.

  He was instantly beside her. Taking her hands, he pressed them to his lips, and she watched in stunned shock as tears filled his eyes. “Chérie, you gave me the scare of my life.”

  She smiled slowly, for it too took strength she did not have. “Wulfson—” She had so much to tell him. So much to ask forgiveness for.

  He pressed his fingers to her lips. “Shhh, there is time to talk later. You need to eat.”

  “Thirsty.”

  He turned to pour her a goblet of watered wine, and helped her sit up to drink it. The liquid worked its warm way down her throat. She lay back in the bed, and it was her turn for tears. “Wulfson, I am so sorry. For everything.”

  He moved to the side of the bed and drew her up into his arms. “Nay, Tarian, you have nothing to be sorry for. The situation was impossible, and you did what you had to survive. I do not fault you that.”

  “Not even my oath to marry Rangor?” He smiled down at her, and she choked back a sob. “He was bent on your death, Wulfson, ’twas my last resort.”

  He kissed her forehead. “Thank you.”

  She moved his hand to her belly. “The child I carried was not Malcor’s, Wulfson.”

  He was still then, and she watched emotions play across his face as her words sank in. “What are you saying?” he softly asked.

  Hot tears welled up in her eyes. “I drugged you, and came to you in the night. I took from you what Malcor
could not give me.”

  He shook his head. “I—I do not understand.”

  She inhaled a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He brushed the tears from her cheek and waited patiently for her to speak. “Malcor could not perform his husbandly duties. ’Twas because of it he went into a fit of rage and nearly killed me. You know what happened to him and why. But when you pulled me from the hole, and there was talk of the possibility of a child and that the child could save my life, I came to you.” Fresh tears erupted, and she grasped his hands to her chest. “Wulfson, your child made me very happy. I mourn for his loss.”

  After long-drawn-out moments, when he finally turned his green eyes to her she saw sadness but no anger. “Rangor will pay with his life for forcing the child from you.”

  She set her jaw. “You will have to stand behind me. I get him first.” She threw her arms around his neck and drew him to her. “Do you forgive me, Wulfson?”

  He drew slightly from her and pressed his lips to her wet cheek. “There is nothing to forgive. I love you, Tarian, and come what may, I will stand by you.”

  His words were more potent then any balm, and finally peace settled over her and she closed her eyes. He loved her.

  He pressed her back into the pillows. “Rest, chérie. I will call for your nurse. She has paced a hole in the hallway.”

  Tarian’s recovery was slow and steady. Her strength came back with each day, and Wulfson watched for the day she smiled and blushed up at him, her impish dimples teasing him.

  His spies told him that Rangor had gathered an army in Wales and was now on the move south. He wanted to wait until Tarian was stronger before they left for Normandy, but time was running out. He had yet to broach the subject with her, but after the evening meal he took his men aside and told them to be prepared to leave the next morn. He also informed Gareth, but asked him not to speak to Tarian on the matter. He would do so himself later that eve.

  He had grown fond of the old Viking and gave credit to him for saving his beloved’s life. For had Gareth not instructed him to pound on her back as he did, he doubted the water would have worked its way up.

  He came upon her as she soaked in the tub. He grinned and motioned to her nurse to be gone from the room. His heart pounded in his chest and his blood quickened. He knew it was too soon for her, but that did not change how he felt.

  “Good eve, milord,” she said softly.

  “Good eve, milady,” he returned. He pulled up a stool and sat beside her. Taking up the sponge, he lathered it and said, “’Twould appear you need assist with your bath.”

  She settled back into the tub and arched her back toward him. His cock filled at the sight of her full, rosy breasts bobbing in the soapy water. “Chérie, you play with fire.”

  “I have longed for you, Wulfson.”

  He bent down and kissed her but when her arms slipped around his neck and drew him more tightly to her, he pulled away. “Nay, Tarian. ’Tis too soon.”

  She sat back into the tub and pouted. He smiled. “I must speak with you on a very important matter.”

  “Normandy?”

  He nodded. “I know of no other way. I—”

  She held up her hand. “You do not need to explain, Wulfson. When I turned on Rangor, I knew that should I survive, the very most I could hope for was that your king would accept me as his hostage. I am prepared to live out the rest of my life in a Norman dungeon.”

  “Nay! You will not reside in a dungeon. ’Twill not be that way!”

  He rose and began to pace the room. But he wondered whom he was trying to convince more, her or him. “Rangor has amassed an army, and he travels south toward us. We leave for Normandy at first light.”

  “I will be ready.”

  As the coast of Normandy broke the horizon, trepidation filled Tarian with the force of a summer storm. Strong arms wrapped around her and brought her up against a hard body. Warm lips pressed to her ear. “Draw on my love for you, Tarian, as your strength, and place your trust in my hands.”

  She smiled and warmed to his touch and his words. “I do trust you, Wulfson. I have from that night in the ruin. ’Tis your king I do not trust.”

  He turned her around to face him. His eyes searched her face. “Then why did you flee me?”

  “I knew what word Warner carried, and I knew of the contingent of knights to come with the second messenger. I would not put you in the position of taking my life.” She smiled and kissed him. “Besides, I have always looked after myself. ’Tis my nature to take matters into my own hands.”

  He grinned and kissed the tip of her nose. “Well, ’tis a habit you will have to break. I am here now.”

  Once they had landed, much to Wulfson’s fury he learned that Rangor of Lerwick had arrived several days before them.

  “The fool,” he said to Thorin. “What does he think to achieve by walking into the lion’s den?”

  He kept the news from Tarian. The travel had taken its toll on her. She did not do well on the water and the roses had gone from her cheeks. He was given some hope when William did not meet them with an armed escort. Indeed, he sent his son Geoffrey to welcome them. The boy was a man now, and would one day inherit Normandy from his father.

  When they entered the castle at Rouen, excitement stirred in Wulfson’s belly. Here was familiar ground. Here William held court, and the most powerful men on the continent came to pay him homage. He was powerful and ruthless, but he was fair. And ’twas that fairness in the man he respected above all others that Wulfson counted on.

  Tarian and Edith were shown to a private solar. William was wily, Tarian thought. He did not want any of the women to make a friendship with her. Out of sight and out of mind. She found the bed comfortable, and the food edible. Almost immediately she called for a bath and as she languished in the hot sudsy water, she forced the tension from her body. Closing her eyes, she let Edie wash her hair with aromatic violet-scented soap. And when she was dried and sitting before a large table with an oval-shaped mirror, she watched Edie methodically brush her long dark hair to dry. She closed her eyes and wished with all her heart that Wulfson would appear and tell her there was no need to see William, but when there was a knock on the chamber door she knew ’twas but wishful thinking.

  Edie took the message: the king requested an audience with her in two candle notches. And so Tarian would do as she had done all her life: rely on herself to see the next day, and to achieve that she would painstakingly prepare. It was her life and a life with Wulfson she fought for, and the Conqueror would find her a most worthy opponent.

  She smiled, despite the nervous tremors in her belly. “Come, Edie, we have work to do!”

  A little more than one candle notch later, she stood before the mirror, resplendent in her finery. A formfitting, deep-sapphire velvet-and-silk kirtle with wide, long sleeves embroidered with rich crimson, gold, and silver threads set off her dark coloring and blue eyes. A golden circlet of a dragon head adorned her head, her hair hung free and wavy down to her waist. She smiled as she slid her broadsword into her ceremonial scabbard of gem-encrusted gold, hammered to a burnished glow and hanging from a gold and leather embroidered girdle. She wore a simple gold necklace with the dragon medallion of Draceadon hanging heavy between her breasts. Thick gold and silver bracelets adorned her arms, and the final touch was her soft leather and silk golden shoes.

  She looked the warrior princess she felt herself to be. She nodded to Edie, who stood back in silent awe. Tears filled the old woman’s eyes. Tarian felt a rush of emotion for her, and shook her head, blinking back her own tears. “Do not, Edie. I cannot take more pressure.”

  The nurse bobbed her head and smiled, smoothing a curl from her cheek. “You are worthy of a king, Tarian. William would be a fool to set you aside.”

  Tarian smiled. “’Tis not a king I fancy, Edie, but a dark knight with a surly disposition.”

  The old woman smiled knowingly.

  It was not much time later when the page arrived. Tari
an cast a glance to the candle. ’Twas still shy of two notches. So, William was impatient to see her, was he? She smiled. No more than she was to meet him.

  Edie opened the door to find an attendant standing to attention. “Lady Tarian, His Highness King William requires your presence in the great hall.” He bowed, and Tarian looked to Edie. The maid grasped her hand and squeezed it.

  “Let us go.”

  The servant shook his head. “Only Lady Tarian.”

  Tarian shook her head and stepped toward the young man. “My nurse comes with me or I do not go.”

  Color blanched from his face. Hastily he bobbed his head and stood back. Both women followed.

  When the door to the great hall opened, Tarian could not help the nervous skitter in her belly. She nodded to Edie, and took a deep breath; then she swept into the richly appointed hall as if she were Queen. She suppressed a smile as a collective gasp went up as she made her entrance.

  She looked directly ahead to William, who sat upon a high dais at the head of the great room, his regal robes signifying who he was to all. To his left was a woman so tiny Tarian thought it must be a child. But on closer inspection she knew it to be his duchess. To William’s right were his knights. Wulfson, whose eyes she could see burned bright for her, Thorin, Rohan, Rorick, Warner, Stefan, Rhys, and Ioan. The only one missing was Manhku. Farther down from the knights stood Gareth. She nodded to the Blood Swords, then to her captain, as she continued to make her way forward. Tarian stiffened as her gaze swept to the left. ’Twas Rangor! And Alewith? Why did he stand with Rangor?

  Tarian stopped at the end of the long aisle to the steps that led to William and peered daringly up at him.