Joining

by Johanna Lindsey

  Guy said no more on that account. Wulfric’s expression had gone sour as he remembered how nigh futile was warfare against the Welsh, who would not meet an army on the field, but would whittle away at it from ambush. Wulfric had lost many of his own men in Wales.

  “All I am saying, Wulf, is that what your wife will bring to us—”

  Wulfric’s stubbornness reared up again to interrupt, “She is not my wife yet.”

  And Guy continued as if he hadn’t heard, though he likewise stressed, “Your wife brings us what is needful at this time. Powerful alliances we have aplenty. All five of your sisters were placed exceedingly well. Land we have aplenty, though once you wed, more can be bought if needful, more castles can be raised, improvements made … Jesu, Wulf, ’tis a fortune she brings us, and that is naught to scoff at, whether ’tis needful or not.”

  Guy took a long draft of his wine before he mentioned the worst of it. “Besides, you have kept her waiting so long that it would now be a serious insult to beg off, now she’s so far past marriageable age—due to your delays. Well, no more. ’Tis time you collect her and have done with it. See that you leave for Dunburh within the week.”

  “Is that an order?” Wulfric asked stiffly.

  “It is if it must be. I will not break the contract, Wulf. Tis too late for that when she is ten and eight now. Will you shame me by doing so?”

  Wulfric could only reply, albeit furiously, “Nay, I’ll fetch her. I’ll even marry her. But whether I’ll live with her remains to be seen.”

  So saying, he stalked from the hall. Guy watched him until he was gone from sight, then turned to stare into the fire in the Great Hearth.

  The hour was late. He’d waited until Anne and her ladies had left the hall before he’d summoned Wulfric. Mayhap he should have enlisted Anne’s support instead.

  Wulfric never argued with his mother, not as he did with Guy. Verily, he seemed to enjoy ceding to her wishes, for he loved her dearly. And Anne was even more eager than Guy to have the marriage done. She was the one who had nagged him to speak with Wulfric ere he found himself another war to run off to. In anticipation of having her own coffers replenished, no doubt. But at least she could have got their son to agree, without seeing how much he hated doing so.

  Guy sighed again, wondering now if he was doing Nigel’s daughter a disservice, forcing his son to marry her.

  Three

  It was a day-and-a-half journey to Dunburh, even accompanied by a score of men-at-arms, as well as several knights. These were not for his own protection, but because they would be escorting a lady and likely her retinue of servants on the return journey. And brigands were rife in John’s realm.

  Some of John’s own barons, having been exiled, had taken their war to the roads, attacking those still in John’s favor. So even if Guy hadn’t insisted on his taking precautions, Wulfric would have done so. He wasn’t going to have his father accuse him of losing the bride-to-be by carelessness—whether he would like to or not.

  The bride-to-be … Just the thought of that scrawny little she-devil had him growling low in his throat. Which made his half brother raise a brow at him in puzzlement.

  They had just broken camp on the second day of the journey, were back on the road and making good time. With so many men to find lodgings for, no easy feat, he had deemed it best just to camp beside the road last eventide. Though he would have to find those lodgings on the return trip, since she was like to insist on sleeping in a bed.

  “You still have not reconciled yourself to this marriage?” Raimund asked him as they rode side by side.

  “Nay, and ’tis as like I never will,” Wulfric admitted. “It feels as if I am bought with coin—an abhorrent feeling to say the least.”

  Raimund snorted. “When our father made the offering, not hers? If ’twere the other way around, then aye, I might agree. But—”

  “Faugh, I would speak of it no more—”

  “Nay, ’tis best you chew on it now, ere you must deal with her directly,” Raimund cautioned. “What truly vexes you about this match, Wulf?”

  Wulfric sighed. “There was naught to like about her when she was a child, but there was much to dislike. I am not hopeful that a few years will have changed her. I fear I will hate my wife.”

  “For certain, ’twould not be the first time that has happened,” Raimund said with a chuckle. “You want to find an agreeable marriage, look to the villeins. They have the choice of mates. Nobles have not that luxury.”

  That was said with such obvious gloating, Wulfric threw a fist at his brother, who let out his laughter now as he dodged the blow. “You needn’t remind me that you chose your own wife, and love her dearly,” Wulfric snarled. “And you are no villein,” he added, grumbling even louder.

  Raimund smiled fondly at his brother, for not many would claim his nobility with the conviction that Wulfric did, since Raimund’s mother had in fact been a villein, putting him in the unenviable position of not being accepted by either villein or noble. But Raimund had been more fortunate than most bastards, for Guy had acknowledged him, had even had him fostered and trained to knighthood, and once knighted, had bestowed on him a small keep that he could call his own.

  Because of that property, he had been able to win the woman of his choice to wife, Sir Richard’s daughter, Eloise. Richard was a landless knight himself in Guy’s household, and so had had little hope of finding a man of property for his only child, and had been delighted by Raimund’s interest. Nay, Raimund did not envy his brother being the earl’s only legitimate son. His was a simple life and he liked it that way. Wulfric’s life was ever like to be much more complicated.

  “How much time has passed since you did first meet her?” Raimund ventured.

  “Nigh a dozen years.”

  Raimund rolled his eyes. “Christ’s Toes, think you she has not changed at all in that time? Not been taught proper behavior suitable to her rank? She’ll be like to beg your forgiveness for whatever caused your dislike—and what did cause it?”

  “She was six, I was ten and three—and aware of who she was to me, even if she was not. I sought her out to meet her, found her in the Dunburh mews with two young lads near her age. She was showing them a large gyrfalcon, claiming it was hers. Had even got the bird onto her arm. It was damn near as big as she was.”

  As he told the tale, it came back to him clearly, that day he’d met his betrothed. She was not clean, looked like she’d been rolling about in the dirt, had smudges all over her piquant face. And long legs she had for her small size, made glaringly apparent because she was not dressed as she should be, but was wearing cross-gartered leggings and a rough tunic very like those of the lads with her.

  He had in fact been hard-pressed to figure out which of the three she was. He had been warned of her attire, though, by those he’d asked for her whereabouts. They thought it a grand joke, the Dunburh castlefolk, that their lord’s daughter went about dressed as she did—by choice.

  Some villeins might dress their daughters so, but only if they had extra male clothes and could not afford female ones. But what female, a lady at that, dressed like a male by choice? She did. And with her long brown hair clubbed back, and the dirt, Wulfric would never have figured out which of the three was she.

  When someone called her name he realized she was holding a huge bird on her arm, and the falcon not even hooded, and his first inclination had been to protect her. She could not realize how dangerous hunting birds were. And she was far too young to be allowed near them. No doubt she had sneaked in there whilst the falconer was away.

  And then he heard her brag to her young, gullible friends, “She’s mine now. She’ll only take food from me.”

  Hers? Wulfric could not contain his snort of disbelief. The sound drew her attention, but no more than her curiosity. She was, after all, too young to realize he’d as much as called her a liar.

  “Who are you?” was all she’d asked him.

  “I am the man you will be wed
ded to once you are old enough for wedding.”

  He could not reason why she would take offense at those words, which were no more than the truth, but she did. Verily, the way her light green eyes had flared and then filled with golden heat, ’twas a powerful rage that had come upon her.

  “She flew into a rage then and called me a liar and a half dozen of the foulest names I’d ever heard,” he told Raimund. “Then ordered me, ordered me, to be gone from her sight.”

  Raimund tried to hold back his laughter, but couldn’t quite manage it. “Jesu, all that from a child that young?”

  “A she-devil that young,” Wulfric replied. “When I did not leave—truly, I was too incredulous to move—her eyes narrowed on me and she lifted her arm just so, enough to send that falcon straight at me. I brought up my hand to hold it off. My mistake. Its beak sunk between my first two knuckles and wouldst not let go.”

  Raimund whistled softly. “’Tis lucky you did not lose one of your fingers.”

  “I lost a big enough chunk of skin to leave a scar when I finally shook it off me, sending it into the wall. I know not if I killed it, but the little witch surely thought I did, for she attacked me immediately, literally pounding on me with her little fists, which would have availed her naught—I was big for my age as you know, and she barely reached my waist in height. But she bit me, and the moment I howled from that, one of her blows landed where I could have wished it had not, bringing me to my knees.”

  Raimund grinned. “Well, since I know you have left a long trail of satisfied wenches since then, I’d say that wound was not serious.”

  Wulfric gave him a fulminating glare. “’Twas not the least humorous, brother. I was in pain, and she was still bearing on me, and now I was down to her level, her blows rained about my head. She nigh poked my eye out. She left numerous scratches about my face.”

  ’Twas worse than that, though he did not like to admit it. But he had been in severe pain from the blow to his groin, was dripping blood from the hole in his hand all over the floor, himself—and her. And she was so swift in her pummeling, a veritable whirlwind, that he could not manage to catch her hands to get her to stop, nor hold her back with his uninjured hand long enough to give him any relief, for she wiggled loose of any hold he got on her.

  He should have clouted her smartly as she deserved, but he’d never hit a child or anyone so much smaller than he, much less a female. But trying to keep from hurting her had only got him injured further. At last he’d had to shove her away, forcefully enough to get her far back from him so he could stumble to his feet and make his escape, which he’d done right quickly.

  Thankfully, he’d never seen her again. He’d made certain of that. He’d hid his wound from his father, but had made his excuses to return to Lord Edward, whom he had been fostered with since he was seven—and where he’d first met and befriended his brother Raimund, who had also been sent to Edward Fitzallen for training. And he’d always made sure he was gone from Shefford Castle whenever Nigel would come to visit with his family, and he never went again to Dunburh with his father.

  “You do realize,” Raimund offered, “that she will not be like that now, that someone would have taken her in hand and taught her how to be a proper lady?”

  “Aye, I know it. She will not flail at me with her fists again—she would not dare. But how do you teach a wench not to be a shrew when she is born a shrew?”

  “Mayhap with sweet words and giving her naught to be shrewish about?”

  Wulfric snorted. “I meant not for me to teach her, but for her to have been taught, which is what I doubt was done. She will appear to be a lady now, I’ve no doubt, but ’twill just be a she-devil dressed up nicely is what I fear. And the first time she narrows those cattish green eyes at me …”

  “You’ll what?”

  Wulfric sighed. “I wish I knew.”

  Four

  “If I remember rightly, we should be at Dunburh Castle within the hour,” Wulfric remarked as he gazed about his surroundings. “’Tis just over that knoll in the distance there. Actually, if we cut through these woods, we will make better time, for the road meanders a bit ere it veers back toward Dunburh.”

  There was a clear path through the woods, where others had no doubt taken the quicker route. This time of the year there were few leaves left on the trees to offer any obstructions, so even though it was a thick woods, the other side could still be seen, enough to note a meadow beyond, and farther, a village.

  “For twelve years he avoids this place, but is now suddenly eager to get there,” Raimund teased.

  “Eager for a warm fire is all,” Wulfric shot back with a quelling look.

  Raimund ignored the look, but could certainly agree a fire would be appreciated. The sky was clear, but the weather had gotten decidedly more chilly about midmorning. They could all use a warm fire—or a little exercise.

  “What say we stay to the road and race the last league?” Raimund suggested.

  Wulfric all but rolled his eyes. “Quickest way to get a castle closed against you is to race toward it, when they know not who you are. Nay, that will not get us to that fire any time soon. We cut through the woods and come up the back side through their village.”

  He didn’t wait for any other suggestions, but turned down the narrow path. The meadow was soon reached, then the village, which they skirted around so as not to cause alarm among the villeins. Though in truth not many were out on such a cold morning so there were no plots to tend this time of year.

  The castle was still a ways off, through another stand of trees, though its towers could be seen above the treetops. There was thicker foliage along the new path, most of it shrubbery turned brown, though there were green pines aplenty, blocking most of the castle from view.

  When they had reached halfway between the castle and village, they heard the clash of arms. It was a sound that made Wulfric smile. He was a man of war, had trained most of his life for it, excelled at it, and so enjoyed making use of what he had learned. Raimund shared the same sentiments, and they grinned at each other before they both spurred their horses forward to round the next bend in the path.

  ’Twas indeed a skirmish they came upon. At first they thought it could have been just practice, but not with so many involved, and a woman in the midst of it.

  There were four mounted men, and about seven more on the ground, counting the woman, but they were all wearing thick winter cloaks, and so joined in the combat, ’twas hard to tell who were the Dunburh folks and who were the attackers. Which was why Wulfric could not just charge forward and start killing indiscriminately.

  He halted his men, but they were not noticed, not soon enough to suit him, so he moved forward to shout, “Who needs help here?”

  Wulfric had to shout it twice, there was so much noise in the clashing of blades. But the second shout got the attention of all, as did the score of men mounted behind him, and for a brief moment there was utter silence as everyone there stared at the new arrivals.

  It was a very brief moment, though, for those four on horseback scattered posthaste, disappearing into the trees on either side of the path. They could have been from Dunburh and running for the castle, thinking the attackers were aided, but ’twas not likely, not when the woman was still there and coming forward to curtsy to him.

  Her cloak opened in the curtsy, revealing rich apparel beneath—a lady then, and a comely one at that, who now had his full attention. She had been terrified, was only just now gaining color back in her face. Her wimple had fallen askew, showing dark sable brown hair, and when she looked up at him now, it was with green eyes so light a hue, they resembled crystal-clear peridots …

  Green eyes? Jesu, was this her? His betrothed, demurely offering her gratitude? Nay, he could not be that lucky. She could not have changed this much, turned into this sweet morsel of womanhood.

  Even her voice was soothingly soft as she said to him, “Your arrival could not have been more timely, my lord, and is much ap
pre—”

  His lady did not get to finish, was shoved rudely aside by a young lad who glared up at Wulfric and shouted, “Do not sit there like a sotted drunkard, go after them! They need capturing!”

  Wulfric stiffened, about as offended as he could ever remember being. The audacious boy could not be more than ten and four, was dressed no better than the meanest villein, which was about all Wulfric noticed about him, since he was in the process of dismounting so he could throttle the fellow.

  But before his leg cleared the saddle, he heard that same derogatory voice grumble, “Incompetents who call themselves knights. You offer help, then do not give it.”

  Wulfric resumed his seat to nudge his horse forward. The stupid boy had not sense enough to run before the horse reached him, waited there defiantly standing his ground, as much as daring Wulfric to do his worst. Wulfric admired bravery, but not stupidity, and the lad had to be a half-wit, to speak so to a mounted knight. Which was the only thing that stayed his hand at the moment—he did not beat children, women, nor idiots who knew no better.

  So he said in a reasonable tone, “You would have preferred to continue as you were—losing the battle? I ended the fray. I offered no more’n that.”

  “You let them escape!” he was accused.

  “I am not a sheriff to chase down brigands, and if you say one more word to me, sirrah, I will have your tongue for my supper.”

  At which point the lady stepped in front of the lad and extended a placating hand toward Wulfric. “Please,” she beseeched him, “no more violence.”

  The boy must be her servant, for her to try to protect him. And Wulfric was so pleased with how she had turned out that he would have deferred any matter to her just then.

  “As you wish, my lady. May I return you to Dunburh? ’Tis my destination.”

  She nodded shyly, but asked, “You are here to see my father?”