His Captive Lady. Carol Townend
Читать онлайн книгу.
cup and lifted it to his lips. He took no more than a sip; he wanted a sober head on him when his lord called him over.
Perhaps, if he were lucky, he would be granted a commission in those southern lands so recently acquired. Two days, Wulf thought, for two interminable days he had been whiling away the time here, kicking his heels while the commanders discussed tactics and jostled for power and position.
A lock of dark hair fell over Wulf’s eyes; impatiently, he shoved it back. He must get his hair trimmed, it had grown so much he looked more Saxon than Norman, and the last thing he wanted was for the lord of Lewes to think he was favouring the Saxon half of his heritage.
‘Captain!’
Wulf’s blue eyes narrowed and his fingers tightened on his wine cup. His heart thudded—De Warenne was looking directly at him. At last!
‘My lord?’ Setting his cup down, Wulf rose and approached the high table.
‘FitzRobert, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Wulf stood, feet planted squarely apart, and waited.
‘FitzRobert.’ De Warenne unrolled one of the maps and weighed it down with a jug and a candlestick. ‘Take a look at this, and tell me what you see.’
Ignoring the curious gazes of the other men sitting in council with De Warenne, Wulf peered at the candlelit parchment. Thankfully, he had made it his business to interpret maps; it was lettering he struggled with.
‘It is England.’ Leaning in, Wulf put his finger on the spot which he knew represented London. ‘We are about here, my lord. See where the river is marked? And here, this is where Lewes lies.’
‘Excellent. Now show me Normandy.’
‘Normandy?’ Wulf blinked. ‘This map is not large enough to show Normandy, my lord. If it were, it would lie down here, somewhere past the Narrow Sea.’ He indicated a knot-hole on the table, a couple of inches below where the parchment ended.
Nodding, De Warenne smiled and lifted a meaningful brow at one of his companions, Count Eugène of Médavy. ‘I repeat, Captain FitzRobert is the man for this job.’
‘Hmm.’ Eugène of Médavy scrutinised Wulf with a soldier’s eye, noting his height and how much weight he carried, assessing the strength and width of his shoulders. Wulf knew without vanity, for it was a fact, that by that measure he would not fall short. He had been born with a large, healthy body, and years of training had made it the body of a warrior. He was big, but he carried muscle rather than excess flesh. As a warrior Wulf did not disappoint, but the Saxon blood in his veins was quite another matter, never mind the shame of his illegitimate birth…
To Wulf’s astonishment, the Count began addressing him in English. ‘Captain, have you any knowledge of this land to the north of London?’ The Count’s accent was thick, but his English was intelligible, which was rare, very rare, in a Norman lord.
Hastily, Wulf closed his mouth and looked where Count Eugène’s blunt finger was pointing. East Anglia. ‘That’s marshland,’ Wulf said, replying in English, for this was doubtless some kind of test. A frisson of excitement ran through him. The fens might not exactly be the South Downs, but if they could bring him the preferment he sought, he would learn to love them. ‘Here is Ely, my lord,’ he continued in English. ‘I have not been there, but I have been told that there is more water thereabouts than land. The fens are criss-crossed with waterways rather than roads, and the fen folk use boats to travel from one place to another.’
‘The wenches there have webbed feet,’ Count Eugène said, on a laugh. ‘And people use poles to vault from island to island.’
Wulf shrugged; he, too, had heard the tales, but he doubted that half of them were true. ‘Perhaps.’
The Count watched him, a small smile playing about his mouth, and Wulf’s heartbeat speeded up. Giving one last glance at Wulf’s over-long hair, the Count of Médavy grinned at De Warenne and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Captain FitzRobert certainly has the looks, William, and he speaks the language like a native. He could well be our man, but he will have to be quick-witted, because he will not have long to learn the lie of the land.’ Picking up his gauntlets, Eugène of Médavy nodded at Wulf and sauntered to the door. Without turning, he snapped his fingers and the brindled hound detached itself from the shadows with its bone, and trotted after him. The Count’s voice floated back. ‘I shall leave it to you to arrange, De Warenne, since the King was making noises about granting you more lands there.’
A general scraping of benches announced that the other noblemen took this as their signal to leave, but Wulf scarcely noticed. His attention was all for his liege lord, though he fought to keep the eagerness from his expression. ‘I can be of service, my lord?’ At last. At last.
‘Aye, I think that you can. FitzRobert—’ De Warenne broke off, scowling.
‘My lord?’
‘Merde, you cannot use that name, we shall have to give you another.’
Some of Wulf’s elation began to drain away. ‘What, precisely, is my commission?’ He kept his expression blank and reminded himself of a lesson he had learned years ago—if he wanted to avoid disappointment, he should not expect too much. Likely he was being given this commission because it was too distasteful for a Norman nobleman to consider. Wulf set his jaw. Well, he was not proud, he was not noble. But he was ambitious and he would do whatever his lord asked, provided it brought him advancement.
‘Saxon outlaws have been reported hiding out in the fens,’ De Warenne told him. ‘We need good intelligence as to their number and strength. Any threat to our King’s rule must be eliminated.’
A spy. Ignoring the sudden griping in his belly, reminding himself of that knighthood that had been his goal for more years than he could count, Wulf straightened his shoulders. ‘What is it you would have me do, my lord?’
‘You must pose as Saxon. It should prove easy enough—you speak the language like a native.’
‘I am a native,’ Wulf said softly, ‘at least, half of me is.’
‘Ah, yes, your mother, I recall. You were brought up not far from here, were you not?’
‘Aye, in Southwark.’
De Warenne’s gaze sharpened. ‘The Godwinesons had a hall in Southwark.’
‘I know it well, or I did.’
De Warenne reached for his wine. ‘Not a plank standing,’ he said, oblivious that his words evoked yet more conflicting feelings in Wulf’s chest.
Wulf remembered playing in that hall as a young boy. He had even met King Harold long ago, when Harold had been but a young earl. And this man, this man sitting at the trestle in the new king’s barracks with the map of Harold Godwineson’s kingdom unrolled before him, now held title to a large slice of Harold’s lands around Lewes. Lord, Wulf thought, how the wheels do turn.
‘So, FitzRobert,’ De Warenne was saying, ‘these Saxon rebels—you are to track them to their lair in these marshes. Infiltrate their band. Our sources speak of a leader known as Thane Guthlac. An outlaw now, of course, as are those who ally themselves with him. Word has it that this Guthlac has built up a sizeable force, but so far none of our men have managed to come back with precise numbers.’ Wearily, his seigneur scrubbed his cheeks. ‘Nor can we pinpoint the location of his camp. Which is damned odd, since one of my scouts reported hearing a rumour that the man had built a castle out there.’
Wulf’s brows rose. ‘A castle in the fens? That seems unlikely.’
‘Nevertheless, that is the rumour.’ De Warenne took up the wine jug and filled a couple of glasses. Taking one, he slid the other towards Wulf. ‘Take a seat, Captain, we still have to discuss the question of your name. I hardly think that FitzRobert is suited to a Saxon.’
Wulf groped for the bench, trying to