by McCall, Mary
Barwolf did as Balen instructed. He led her into a huge stone hall lit by hundreds of tallows flickering in enormous cast-iron chandeliers suspended by giant chains. Men and women, arrayed in a rainbow of finery, mingled about the perimeters between large wooden columns that reached to the two-story ceiling. Servants were placing long trestle tables in the center of the chamber for the pending meal. The buzz of conversation declined as curious eyes turned toward her.
She quickly picked out Bernon’s dark features towering above the crowd. Happiness curved her lips as she noticed the gold fighting bear on his tunic. Then she saw the arm wrapped around his sleeve. She narrowed her eyes and scowled, reminding herself not to kill. The least Bernon could have done was give her a chance before he embarrassed her.
Her steps slowed and Balen glanced down. “Smile, little sister,” he whispered through clenched teeth, “and tell me what is wrong before every eye fastened on us sees your rage.”
She sucked in a breath, halted and faced Balen, forcing a tight smile and raising her pointed chin. “I heard he hates women, yet he has a strumpet attached to him now. I’ll not approach him and give him the title until she is gone. As his bride I may deserve no respect, but as The Strangclyf, ‘tis my due.”
Balen cast an irritated frown at Bernon then narrowed his eyes at the woman holding his arm. “Fickle wench,” Balen muttered under his breath. He cleared his throat and glanced back down at his new sister, his face devoid of all expression. “’Tis your due as his bride as well, but ‘tis better to ignore this insult than create a scene.”
Oh Lord, what was she thinking? Bernon would be livid if she caused a spectacle. She knew that. What made her want more than her people needed? Nothing she deserved, she’d warrant. Barwolf gulped and nodded. “Aye, you are right, Balen. ‘Tis also better not to incite his wrath when he is already displeased with my existence.”
“Good girl. Now shoulders back and head high. Remember, you are The Strangclyf and this is your first public meeting with your husband.”
Before he could resume their pace into the hall, she clutched his arm tighter. “Will you stay with me for courage, Balen?”
He smiled down at her. “For as long as you need me and Bernon permits. And for what it is worth, I am pleased to welcome you as my sister.”
~ * ~
Bernon caught the flash of fury in his bride’s eyes as she noticed Lucretia at his side. Barwolf had a lot to learn about being his. He would tolerate no insubordination or dramatics from her.
“I am disappointed, Bernon,” Queen Matilda said from where she stood with William. “I expected her to wear your colors.”
Bernon watched his bride resume her progress toward him on Balen’s arm. He wanted to answer the queen, but honest to God, how could he? His breath was stuck somewhere in his windpipe and wouldn’t move. His bride looked like an elfin fairy princess without wings—an ethereal vision in ice blue and white. Her gown appeared an unusual wrap-around style, double-belted at her tiny waist with wide metal links. Long flowing sleeves fell almost to the floor, and her hem dragged the ground a few inches longer than the court fashion. A matching blue linen scarf encircled her neck, concealing her bruises, and a white gossamer veil draped her short locks. Even among the Saxon nobles, he’d not seen such an elegant garment.
“She means no insult to her husband, my queen,” Geno said, stepping nearer. “With her father dead, she is The Strangclyf, so wears the colors bequeathed to her.”
Queen Matilda appeared somewhat mollified and nodded. Geno turned his attention to the woman clinging to Bernon. “Come, Lucretia. You promised me a wonderful evening and crush me with neglect.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Bernon noticed Lucretia glance his way. He ignored her. He kept his gaze fastened on his bride as Lucretia finally relinquished his arm and went to Geno.
Barwolf halted, removed her hand from Balen’s arm, and then moved until she stood five feet in front of her husband. She took a deep breath then leveled her gaze directly at his chin. “Bernon of Normandy, I stand before you as The Strangclyf. Do you claim me and accept the duties of the title I would bestow?”
“Aye. Come—”
She gasped and cut him off with frantic words. “Do not introduce me to anyone yet, please.”
He glowered down at her desperate expression, wondering what game she played.
She moved closer and whispered, “Though I believe ‘twas his intent, my father never pledged fealty to King William. A Lady Strangclyf may not change allegiance, so I cannot bow before your king until you have the title and tell me I may do so. I would rather not anger a man with King Williams’s great powers.”
Her hushed words carried to the small group around them, and the monarch’s eyes twinkled at her compliment. “Let her proceed, Bernon. I will receive the introduction when she is finished.”
Bernon suppressed a mocking snort and shrugged. “Get on with it.”
Barwolf swallowed and lowered her gaze. “I need to borrow your dagger, please. I still cannot find my blade.”
He removed a pearl-hilted dagger from the sheath on his belt and handed the weapon to her.
“I need to make a small cut in your right palm.”
Holding out his hand, he watched her make a small nick in the heel of his palm. Then she placed the tip of the blade against her palm, closed her eyes, and scrunched her face. That scrunch took on increasingly painful dimensions that worsened as she pressed the blade.
She opened one eye then the other. She looked at her hand, sighed, and tugged on the front of his tunic. He leaned down, and she whispered, “I apologize, Bernon. I am a coward. Would you please cut my hand?”
Accepting the dagger, he grasped the dainty hand she held out to him. Calluses grated against his own and he frowned at her rough, reddened flesh. What in perdition had she been doing with her hands? The boat trip here could account for the rawness, but those calluses had developed over time. He rubbed his thumb over the roughened skin. A tiny gasp slipped from her lips and she trembled as a pink hue highlighted her cheeks. God’s bones, if she blushed this easily from a dispassionate touch, how would she react to the bedding? He sighed and made a small cut in her palm then sheathed his dagger. She didn’t even flinch and he was somehow intrigued that such a coward could not only accomplish that feat but could also guide a boat from Strangclyf to Londontown to save her holding.
After he finished the small cut, she placed her wound over his. “May the blood of my ancestors flow into you, giving you the wisdom of the ages.”
She removed her hand from his, took off the wide metal-link belt and brought forth a large sword that had been hidden in the folds and sleeve of her gown. It bore a jewel-encrusted ebony and gold grip and was monumental in length. She tried slipping the belt around his waist but her breasts pressed against him. He had no time to savor the moment as the blood rushed through his veins. She gasped and dropped the chain then clutched the sword to her chest. “I am sorry, Bernon. I...I...”
At her floundering, Bernon picked up the chain and pulled the end around for her. He would find the time to explore his bride’s passions later…as soon as mortally possible.
She accepted the links with a tremulous smile and secured the sword at his side. “I give you Intrepid, the sword of Strangclyf. With her may you always execute justice with valor.”
She looked up at him then cast a nervous gaze around the hall at the people. A scarlet hue flamed across her cheeks. Returning her gaze to his, she tugged on the front of his tunic. He rolled his eyes and leaned down. She quickly placed a gentle hand on each side of his face and feather-brushed her lips over his. “May my heart temper your might with mercy.” She released his face and muttered, “There now. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Bernon didn’t even try to answer the obviously rhetorical question. He was too surprised by the current that flowed from her lips into his. She had his heart pounding and his palms sweating. Hell, he had ignored the court women t
oo long. That was it. A good lay and he’d be fine.
Taking his right hand, she slipped a ring on his fourth finger. “With this ring I give you the seal of Strangclyf and rightful claim to my title and holdings.” Taking a step backward, she looked in his eyes and spoke in a strong clear voice he hadn’t expected his bride to possess. “Before Almighty God and these witnesses, I say you are The Strangclyf and I am no more.”
His bride reached up and removed the veil from her head and the scarf from her throat then dropped them to the floor. Pulling a cord at her waist, she shrugged off her gown, letting it fall to her feet, revealing a gold kirtle of Norman fashion that complemented his black tunic. Made of chainsil with the same gold and black braid at the shoulders and cuffs, the gown bore a black fighting bear embroidered over her chest. A longer matching braid encircled her midriff and double wrapped her waist, falling low over her hips where a gold agraffe shaped like a fighting bear secured the girdle. A wide black ribbon hid the bruises at her throat and shimmering short locks haloed her head with gold.
Bernon barely had a chance to absorb her appearance before she went down upon her knees, placed her right hand over her heart, and bowed her head. “You are now The Strangclyf and my liege lord. To you I pledge my loyalty, my protection, and my life. May your life be long, peaceful, and prosperous.”
The fairy princess was wearing his colors and giving him her pledge. His chest tightened and he schooled his expression. No pledge from any warrior had ever affected him this way. So why did hers? He extended a hand toward her.
She stared at his hand as if it might bite her then placed her left hand in his. He began pulling her up.
“I forgot something,” she gasped. She knelt again, bowed her head, and placed her right hand over her heart while still clasping his hand. “I promise I will honor you and obey you—at least as well as I’m able. But if I displease you, then I hope you will be patient with me and tell me what I do wrong, so I do not do it again. I do not know you very well yet, but I’ll try to love you if you want me to. I make these vows freely and forever.”
She sprang up and moved to his side with her head bowed and her hands clasped in front of her. Her relieved sigh all but echoed in the hall. At least she knew her place.
“What was that last bit all about?” Bernon asked, approving of her submissive pose.
“’Twas my wedding vows,” she answered without glancing up. “I meant to say them before I made you The Strangclyf, because I have been rather worried that we might not be truly wed. ‘Twas Geno I spoke the words to before, after all.”
Bernon wondered if she always had this tendency to say asinine things? He placed a hand on the small of her back, and guided her around to face William and Matilda. “My liege, my queen, I present my bride, Lady Strangclyf.”
She knelt before the royal couple, keeping her head bowed.
King William smiled. “She is charming, Bernon. The perfect height and your colors suit her. Welcome to my court, Lady Strangclyf.”
She remained silently at the king’s feet, her tiny frame trembling. Leaning forward, William slipped a finger under her chin and nudged up her head. “Why such fright, little lady?”
Barwolf gulped. “Please forgive me, Your Majesty. I am feeling a little overwhelmed and I am terrified I may say or do something that displeases my husband.”
The king gave her cheek a paternal pat. “I am sure you’ll not displease Bernon.”
Her eyes grew wide and a touch of awe laced her lyric tone. “But you do not know me, Your Grace. I have a tendency to ramble when I get nervous. I might start speaking and not stop, which you would surely find a mite tedious. Then Bernon would wish to instruct me, which, I can tell you, I am not looking forward to at all, considering his size. Then there is the fact that—”
Bernon leaned down and hissed between clenched teeth, “Silence yourself, woman!”
She immediately blushed, bowed her head, and clasped her hands in front of her.
He wiped a hand over his face. Mortification would be a mood lift right now.
“Bernon, harness your ire. I find the dear’s candor refreshing.” Matilda frowned at her husband and took hold of his arm. “Do you plan to keep this child on her knees all night, William?”
Placing a hand over his tiny wife’s fingers, William sighed. “You may rise, Lady Strangclyf, and tell me more about the holding you passed on to Bernon. I would hear the truth of the mysteries spoken of the place.”
Barwolf stood and stepped back next to Bernon, keeping her head bowed.
King William glowered at her continued silence.
Bernon considered the notion of tossing his bride over his shoulder, so he could take her to his chamber for a firm lecture. “The king asked you about Strangclyf. You should not keep him waiting.”
Barwolf looked at Bernon then returned her gaze to the ground and shook her head. Twitters and whispers could be heard from jealous court woman who seemed delighted over his bride’s ill-bred display. His peers grinned, some chuckled, apparently finding a source of entertainment in his discomfiture.
“Do you refuse our king to deliberately embarrass me?” Bernon asked in a tight voice, clenching his jaw in amazement at her audacity. What was wrong with her? She raised confused eyes to his. Tears pooled in their depths. God’s teeth, he hated tears. If she cried, he wouldn’t control his temper.
“Is this some kind of test, Bernon,” she whispered. “You ordered me to silence.”
Stunned, he stared at her.
“You see, my friend.” Geno smiled. “Your bride simply complies —obedient to your command.”
Bernon favored his obedient wife with an exasperated look. “You may answer King William.”
Barwolf turned toward the king and her face glowed with animation. “’Tis a grand and bountiful holding, which has protected the southern aspect of Northumbria since the time of Roman rule. We have three lesser holdings that also provide coastal defense. Our army is composed of a full legion of the best warriors in the world divided into fifty-eight centuries of eighty men. The main fortress is impervious to attack from without and may be approached only by water or by passing through a long gorge.”
“I thought you said ‘twas taken by your cousin, little wolf,” Geno said. “How, if ‘tis impervious as you say?”
Barwolf glanced at Geno then cast a quizzical gaze at Bernon.
The king chuckled. “I believe you only gave her permission to speak to me, Bernon.”
“You may speak, milady,” Bernon said, sending a why-me glance toward heaven. Honestly, one would think she had been beaten for disobedience. He frowned at the thought and turned a speculative gaze on her.
“’Twas taken from within after—”
“Your Majesty, excuse the interruption,” a soldier called, approaching the king followed by an armed Saxon. “This messenger has arrived with news of an attack by Earlingsson. The Vikings should land near Norwich by dawn tomorrow.”
Barwolf gasped, stepped behind Bernon, and tugged on his tunic.
“Not now, woman. I would hear this conversation,” he admonished then returned his attention to the dialogue.
“How many ships?” William asked.
“Thirty, Your Majesty,” the Saxon answered. “Each carries about fifty warriors.”
“Bernon, ‘tis not true. The Saxon brings false information,” Barwolf whispered.
Bernon turned and frowned down at her. “What do you mean?”
“The Saxon is Cedd,” Barwolf warned, clutching his arm. “He is the one who took me to the dungeon after my cousin killed my father. He spies for the rebels. The real Viking invasion takes place at Lothair. I sent Aurick to counter it last week.”
Bernon faced the Saxon then drew Barwolf forward and watched the man’s reaction.
Cedd got a glimpse of her and his eyes widened. He stepped back, pulling a dagger and placing the blade against his wrist. Before he could draw blood, Balen seized him from behind and disarmed
him.
“Rack him and get any information you can,” King William barked. Two soldiers escorted a struggling Cedd from the hall amid a drone of excited whispers from the courtiers.
“Clear this hall now,” the king ordered. “Matilda, please remain. Bernon, you and your lady stay. And you too, Geno. You have been to Strangclyf.”
As the hall emptied, the king turned his glower on Barwolf. “When did your cousin kill your father?”
“Three days ago, Sire.”
“Afte never have overpowered the Strangclyf army with...” Her voice faded and a horrified expression crossed her face. “’Twas a trick! I sent most of the warriors because of the numbers the messenger gave me, thus Strangclyf could not defend an attack from within.” She raised a penitent expression to Bernon and wrung her hands. “I am so sorry, Bernon. ‘Tis my fault your holding was taken.”
“What were you doing issuing commands to the warriors?” Bernon asked, incredulity clipping his tone.
Barwolf’s shoulders slumped, and she pressed a small hand against her left ear. “My father gave me the duty after Geno departed. ‘Twas punishment for cutting my hair.”
That was the most absurd thing he had ever heard. If she was trying to make a fool out of him with such tales, she would find out what real punishment was like— just as soon as he figured out how one went about punishing someone the wind could blow over. Honest to God, he was a trainer of warriors, not women. “Could this Aurick be in league with the rebels?”
“Nay. His loyalty is to The Strangclyf and his liege. If I send a message to his scribe, telling him that I am no more, Aurick will immediately seek you out and pledge his fealty. Should you wish, I will do this now if I may have a quill, parchment, and ink.”
“You can write?” King William asked, surprised. ‘Twas a skill few men possessed and she was a mere woman.
A blush tinted her cheeks and she bowed her head embarrassed. “My grandfather insisted I learn a long time ago, so I could keep accounts for my husband’s coffers. Father Marcel took care of other matters until a few years ago when he preached to my father and was dismissed. Now ‘tis also my duty to record all transactions, births, deaths and such, write and read all correspondence, and keep accounts for the decoy coffers. The last was my punishment for letting Padarn keep his lord’s share of his crops two years ago.”