Wolf's Embrace

by Gail Link

  "That your cousin, Rolf O'Dalaigh, has taken Sybelle to his own castle as hostage.'' Hugh's shoulders slumped with his own personal agony. "Christ's blood. I truly never thought he would have the temerity to do this. Duvessa," Hugh turned to her, and in his eyes she saw fear, not for himself, but for his beloved child. "You know your cousin well. Will he harm Sybelle?"

  Duvessa hesitated a moment before answering him. Aye, she knew her cousin. They had both underestimated Rolf's reaction, and now Sybelle was paying for that. "Rolf is a very proud man, Hugh, not unlike you," she said, catching the swift intake of his breath, the tightening of his facial muscles, the flare of his nostrils. "He is not a man who forgives easily, or forgets. Rolf's mother was Welsh, daughter of a royal house. His father's ancestors were kings of Ireland. His heritage is deep-rooted, a part of him. He holds fast to the laws others have long abandoned."

  "What laws?" Hugh demanded.

  "Brehon laws," she said. "Before there was Christianity, before the Normans, we had our own rules. Rolf holds to the ancient customs. He is simply seeking the retribution he believes is his due as head of our family."

  "By stealing my child?"

  "He feels that you have taken me by force, my lord. Sybelle is the enechlawn, the honor-price demanded." Tears welled in her eyes as guilt rose in her heart. Duvessa said quietly, "Forgive me, my lord."

  "What for?"

  Duvessa raised her long-lashed hazel eyes to his. "For not anticipating my cousin's reactions. I should have known."

  Hugh crossed the room, pulling Duvessa into his embrace, cradling her face against his shoulder. "'Tis no fault of yours, wife. 'Tis mine alone."

  "No, Hugh, I never stopped to consider. . . . "

  "Neither did I, Duvessa," he said. He held her close as thoughts of retribution warred with feelings of guilt. His pride in his eldest daughter knew no bounds. Her quick wit and ready intelligence provided him with a companion he could trust. Hugh relied on Sybelle and her judgment more often than he cared to admit. He acknowledged his own supreme arrogance in not thinking through all the consequences of his actions. It had never occurred to him that this Wolf of Killroone would plan and execute such a daring, albeit disastrous move. So intent was he in securing the lovely Duvessa as his bride that he had never stopped to consider all the ramifications. Who would have believed the Irishman would be so daring? Certainly not he, Hugh admitted. Guilt rose like an ache in his gut, uncoiling, twisting its way with fangs of malice into his heart. Because of his own actions, his daughter was held accountable. By God, he thought, not for long! He would call to arms all those who owed him loyalty, make for Ireland, and smash this man who had dared take his Sybelle.

  The last few words hammered their way into his brain like sharp nails. "Take his Sybelle." Sweet Christ, Hugh thought. Had this man actually taken his daughter?

  "Duvessa," he said, barely holding his fear and anger in check. "Do you think he has bedded my daughter?" Hugh couldn't bring himself to utter the word that ate like a canker in his soul: rape.

  "'Twould be Rolf's privilege if he thought the same had been done to me," she said, knowing she could not ease the guilt she shared; nor could she ease her husband's suffering.

  "Then he is a dead man," he said coldly. He looked at the rumpled sheets on the bed, testament to the wild hours spent enjoying his wife's charms. Suddenly, it almost made him sick. His own pleasure bought at the cost of his daughter's honor. Sybelle, his firstborn, his favorite, consigned to servestop it! he told himself. He had to banish the images that rose in his mind, painting ugly scenes of the daughter he loved being used like an ordinary whore to service a man's brutal lust. Better to replace those thoughts with the ways he would exact his revenge. There would be no honorable combat. Hugh smiled cruelly. This Irish lord would pay dearly. Before he was done he would make the bastard beg for death. And beg he would, Hugh vowed as he mentally devised the ways he could make a man think the arms of death a welcome relief from the pain of living.

  "My girls will be arriving here soon," he said, removing Duvessa's clinging arms from his body. "See to whatever arrangements must be made."

  Duvessa watched as Hugh walked from her, methodically pulling clothes from the chest at the foot of the bed, dressing quickly and efficiently. It was as if he pulled an invisible coat of armor around himself.

  "Hugh, we must talk."

  "Why?"

  Duvessa stared at him. "To discover what we must do."

  "I already know what I must do."

  "Hugh, you cannot."

  He stopped at the door. "I can, and I shall, do what I deem necessary to free my daughter."

  Duvessa ran to him, clutching one of his arms. "Perhaps I should return to Ireland, explain what happened to Rolf, and beg him to set Sybelle free."

  Hugh's hand captured hers, gently, forcefully disengaging it from his sleeve as though he couldn't stand the reminder. "You will do no such thing, Duvessa," he stated coldly. "His fate was sealed by his actions. You are my wife now; act the part."

  His words cut her deeply. She watched him walk away, the stiffness in his bearing conveying the bitterness he was feeling.

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  He lay awake, unable to find solace in sleep. He was aware of his wife's body, could smell her scent. He wanted to lose himself in the pleasures of the flesh, immerse himself so deeply in his physical passions that he would find a few moments of respite. Pride held him back. Pride and guilt. As much as he needed to bury his memories with actions, he couldn't. How could he seek, even temporarily, the comfort to be found in lovemaking when his daughter was a captive? Knowing that perhaps at the same moment he was achieving satisfaction, Rolf O'Dalaigh could also be pumping his life seed into his child.

  Already his letter to Edward was on its way to London. His king could not refuse him. Yet, a nagging thought plagued him. Suppose Edward denied his request? He knew Edward Plantagenet wasn't the king he once was. Derran recalled the disaster of the French campaign. Insulted, he'd refused, along with Gloucester, the king's brother, the payment offered by the French king to give up the war with France. Edward hadn't been pleased, he remembered. The Woodville's avaricious influence was too strong. Derran loved his king; he wasn't sure that he liked him. Yet Hugh's was a loyalty bonded by the years. What would he do if Edward denied his call for support? What were his alternatives?

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  Duvessa longed to draw her husband into her arms, to give him the succor she knew he needed. Twice she made to reach out her hand to him; both times she pulled back. When he'd entered their chamber she'd feigned sleep, finding pretense easier to deal with than the stark reality of Hugh's anger. She listened to his breathing, knew that he was as wide awake as she. It was as if there were an imaginary line drawn down the middle of the bed that neither could cross. She was afraid of his rejection, afraid even of speaking for fear of reminding him with her voice of Ireland. She missed the satisfaction, the quiet strength of Hugh's embrace.

  Rolf, she thought, bitterly, why could you not leave well enough alone? Why did you persist in this folly?

  Hugh forbade her getting in touch with Killroone. Duvessa could see no other alternative. If Hugh returned to Ireland seeking vengeance against Rolf, the results could be disastrous. Something might happen to him. She could not, would not, risk losing her husband. Bound as she was to obey his dictates, she knew she must demur in this instance. A way must be found to get a message to Rolf, telling him that she was Hugh's countess, and why they had done what they had done. He would have to understand, and release the Lady Sybelle. And if he'd damaged Sybelle's honor, he must be made to make restitution. Duvessa knew money would not suffice. Her husband would demand more, as was his custom. Perhaps she should suggest to Rolf that it would be wise to take the Lady Sybelle to wife.

  Duvessa smiled secretly. She was sure that if Sybelle shared Rolf's bed, she would insist on marriage. There was no ot
her alternative. On the morrow Duvessa would explain to her husband that one of her ladies wanted to return to Ireland. Naturally Hugh would have to send her back with an escort. Her letter to Rolf would be sent through the woman, whom Duvessa could trust.

  Satisfied, she turned on her side, her eyes seeking her husband's form in the dark. His broad back presented itself to her. She saw the faint traces of her nails on his shoulders, along with the scars caused by numerous battles.

  You and Rolf are more alike that you know, my love. Two sides of the same face. I cannot permit you to destroy each other. There must be another way.

  Chapter 11

  A week had passed since the night of the dinner, a week in which Sybelle tested the limits of the slight freedom she enjoyed, knowing that whatever she did, wherever she went, she was followed. Watchful eyes were always near, surrounding her with the knowledge that there was no escape, no way to return to her own world.

  No longer was the door to her chamber locked. A maid brought her her morning meal, helped her choose her clothes, then, smiling, deferentially, left her alone. Sybelle made her way down the wide stairs that first morning, carefully watching for signs that she would be forbidden, instructed to go back. When none came, she continued, observing the household servants going about their chores. With the faithful Lugh at her side, she explored the home of her captor, finding that she liked the wall-ordered household where work was accomplished with a minimum of fuss.

  Instead of the gawking, leering, or even contemptuous looks she expected to receive from these people, she found instead a welcoming smile, a nodded head, a warm glance, a softly murmured comment. Even though she didn't understand the Gaelic, she interpreted the genuine amicability behind the words.

  On the second day she had sought Tadgh, who gave her a tour of the library, where the history of the O'Dalaigh clan was kept, along with various manuscripts collected by members of the family. Sybelle examined several of the books, gently touching the brightly illuminated pages of one in particular. The work and love evident in this volume were enormous. Colors leapt out of the page, catching the eye, drawing the reader to the secret wonders contained within. One rendering of a dragon was so real she could almost swear she felt the creature's flame-filled breath scorch her hand.

  She communicated her enjoyment to Tadgh, who, watching her closely, seeing how the artist's representations held her interest, decided to show her another volume. Removing a gold key from his writing desk, he unlocked the leather cover. He placed it upon the high fixture, and bade her sit on the covered stool so that she could examine it more carefully.

  Sybelle opened the thick, hand-tooled cover, tracing the detailed workmanship, and gasped in delight at the sheer beauty presented by each page.

  Tadgh observed her silently, waiting for the reaction he knew would come when she came to a specific group of illustrations. The old man kept his own counsel, unless asked by his lord; still, he couldn't allow an opportunity such as this to pass. Roll was aware of the set of paintings that were the primary focus of this book.

  Her lips compressed as she beheld the images before her, rich with texture and color. Depicted on the pages were a woman and a beast, alone in a secluded forest glade. The woman was young, her hair a thick curtain of silk around her slim body, clothed in a white flowing dress. Her eyes betrayed her fear: a few feet from her stood a snarling wolf, a large, deadly creature. The next picture was of the woman extending her hand; the wolf approached tentatively. The last illustration showed the woman kneeling, cradling the beast's head in her lap, her hair falling around its neck like a chain, her left hand stroking the fur.

  Sybelle closed the book with a snap. She thanked the old man, seeing the hint of amusement and fondness in his venerable eyes.

  "You are welcome here any time, Lady Sybelle," he said, giving her hand a pat.

  "I appreciate your kindness, Tadgh, though perhaps not your selection of tales." The wry note in her voice made him smile.

  "As you wish." He pointed to a shelf that contained more volumes. "These are the books that my lord brought back from France. Perhaps they would be more to your liking."

  "Mayhap," she said, "although I would like to learn more about your customs."

  Tagdh nodded his approval, his lined face creased into a smile. "'Twould be my privilege to instruct you, my lady."

  "I would like that," she said. "Could you teach me some of the Irish tongue?" she asked.

  "Aye."

  "Good."

  "When do you wish to begin?"

  "Soon," she replied, walking to the door. Her desire to learn the language stemmed from two sources: boredom and curiosity. Concentrating on Gaelic vocabulary would allow her to focus her mind on an active pastime and, since she was the mistress of Irish estateseven though the Gaelic tongue was almost never heard in her regionit would be a matter of pride with her.

  Later that day she explored the keep, curiosity forcing her out of the castle. It was quite large, providing for a number of people who secured their living from this place. She watched three girls carrying huge loaves of bread from the bake-house into the kitchen quarters. An older woman carried wooden pails of milk, another woman ale. A chubby child of three chased a black-and-white kitten that halted when confronted by the ominous eyes of Lugh.

  Sybelle bent to retrieve the kitten, holding it face high. A tiny paw swiped at her nose. A rueful smile tugged at Sybelle's mouth as she caressed the soft fur. She felt the child tug at her skirt, holding out his arms.

  Sybelle knelt so that she was face to face with the handsome boy.

  "Paidrig," called a voice from the opposite doorway.

  Sybelle handed the kitten back to the boy, touching his silky red hair, following him as he ran to where his mother stood, waiting.

  The woman smiled broadly. Sybelle thought that she was quite lovely; there was an earthy healthiness about her features. In her arms was another red-haired child, a girl.

  ''Good day, my lady," the woman said in English.

  "And to you," Sybelle answered. "You have lovely children."

  "Aye," the woman answered, stepping aside, and indicating that Sybelle was free to enter should she wish to. Sybelle hesitated for a moment before casting aside her qualms and entering the cottage.

  Simple wooden pieces furnished the insidea rough-hewn table and chairs and a stone fireplace that contained a peat fire, over which a pot with the woman's early meal simmered. A large bed was placed against one wall. It rested on wooden supports so that it was above a smaller one.

  "Would you like something, my lady?"

  Sybelle thanked her and said, "No."

  Addressing the woman, who poured a little milk for the kitten into a rough wooden bowl and set it before the fireplace, she asked what was her position in the castle.

  "I am a seamstress, my lady," the woman answered, giving her son a bowl filled with thick venison stew. He ate happily, if somewhat noisily.

  "Show me some of your work," Sybelle requested.

  Placing the infant on the smaller bed, the woman opened a wooden chest, removing several pieces of material. It was an odd assortment: a work of delicate stitchery showing design and talent, a child's pants and shirt, a gown for a child's baptism ceremony. The last piece was made for a man. It was a pale shade of cream linen, sewn with precise stitches. Sybelle examined it carefully. No guildsman in London could have made a finer shirt.

  "Your work is truly beautiful," Sybelle said in a quiet voice, running her hands over the gold threads which decorated the sleeves.

  "Thank you," she responded, picking up the infant girl who had begun to cry. Unfastening the laces of her woolen gown, the woman freed her milk-swollen breasts, putting the child to her flesh.

  Sybelle was mesmerized by the sight of the woman and child. Wet nurses were hired so that a noble lady wouldn't have to be subjected to the demands of a child. But this woman's bond with her babe seemed joyfully exchanged, not a forced labor. The child was content, su
cking happily as her mother crooned to her. She observed that the woman exhibited no shame in the act. What would it feel like, Sybelle wondered, to have a babe draw sustenance from her flesh? In her mind she saw herself sitting before a fire, Alyce leaning over to place an infant into her waiting arms. The child's hair was dark, which startled Sybelle. Then, suddenly, it wasn't a babe that rested his small head at her breast; it was a man whose tongue stroked the aching, engorged nipple.

  Hot color stained her cheeks, and Sybelle turned around, the shirt still clutched in her hands.

  Her father would appreciate this, she thought, trying to restore order to her mind. She was about to ask the price when she realized she had no money with which to purchase the garment.

  "It is for my Lord Rolf's wedding day," said the quiet voice behind her.

  For him, Sybelle thought. Was she never to escape from him, if only for a moment? "Wedding?" she asked, her own voice low. The seamstress's words sank in.

  "Aye," she said, lowering her eyes as Sybelle turned to face her.

  Of course she knows who I am, Sybelle decided, and is afraid to speak. "When is Killroone to wed?"

  "When he finds the right woman," Auliffe replied, his brawny body filling the doorway.

  Sybelle stood back as he walked in. The child ran to the big man, attaching himself to one of the huge legs, throwing his arms about it.

  "And this woman, she will have no say in the choice?" Sybelle asked, not surprised, if his recent actions were a measure.

  "There is always choice, my lady."

  Sybelle's mouth pursed in a bitter movement. "If you think that is so, then 'tis little you know of the world, Auliffe."

  Auliffe realized, belatedly, that he shouldn't have brought up the notion of choice when clearly this lady had none. He was acutely embarrassed and hastened to change the subject.

  Auliffe reached down a thick, beefy hand, and lifted the boy high in the air, carrying him upon his shoulder as he made short work of the distance between himself and the woman on the bed.