His Captive Lady. Carol Townend
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Wulf pointed out across the fen. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
Beorn stared, frowned, and went pale. ‘God in Heaven, a boat!’
Wulf’s brow furrowed, too. As the darkness lifted, the boat slid closer. A yellow light shone in the prow, the light that moments ago Wulf had mistaken for the rising sun. He shook his head, glancing askance at the sky, a sky that had been determinedly leaden ever since he had arrived in East Anglia. As if the sun would actually shine in this place. This was the fens, a low, flat land where everything was grey and wet and cold and—an icy gust bit into his neck—no doubt snow would soon add to their joys. God grant that once he had delivered his report, De Warenne, who might yet be in Westminster, would have him despatched to London or Lewes, to anywhere but here.
Beorn bit his lip. ‘I…I am sorry, sir. I…I will raise the alarm.’
‘Do that—I shall stand in for you here.’
‘My thanks.’ Beorn clattered down the walkway, clearly happy to escape a reprimand. Wulf’s nostrils flared. The man had to be thinking that Thane Guthlac’s new housecarl was a walkover, but he didn’t give a damn what he thought. Wulf was not going to be among these rebels long enough for discipline to become a problem. Come sunset, he would be gone.
The door slammed.
While Wulf waited for the uproar that he would bet his sword was about to ensue, he watched the oars of the approaching boat lift and fall, lift and fall. His eyes narrowed. It was a small craft and it contained two…no, three, people. One of them looked to be female; she wore a russet cloak. Curious, wondering if he had seen this woman elsewhere on the waterways, Wulf strained to make out the colour of her hair. But the woman had her hood up and her hair was hidden. She sat perfectly still, hugging her cloak against the January chill. No great threat there, surely? They might be pedlars working the waterways, though Wulf could not see anything that resembled stock in the bottom of their boat: no barrels, no crates, no bundles of merchandise wrapped in sailcloth.
As the boat glided ever closer, an unnatural quiet held the fen. There was no honking of geese, no men shouting, there was not even the sound of the oars creaking in the rowlocks.
Abruptly, the hall door bounced back on its hinges and Guthlac Stigandson erupted onto the platform. ‘Maldred! Maldred!’ The outlaw wrenched his belly into his swordbelt. ‘My helm, boy, and look sharp!’ Guthlac’s hair was straggling free of its ties, hanging in grey rats’ tails, his beard was uncombed and he was so exercised by this intrusion into his territory that his mottled cheeks were turning purple.
Maldred ran up. Guthlac snatched his helm and slapped it on his head. He stomped up to Wulf at the sentry post, golden arm-rings rattling. ‘Saewulf? Report, man.’
Wulf waved in the direction of the small craft. ‘It is as Beorn has no doubt told you. One boat only, my lord, three passengers, I doubt they present much of a threat.’
Hrothgar, Guthlac’s right-hand man, was peering over Guthlac’s broad shoulders. Other housecarls crowded behind.
Guthlac elbowed Hrothgar in the ribs. ‘Let me breathe, man.’
‘My lord.’ Hrothgar stepped back, waving to clear a space. His bracelets gleamed in the morning light, valuable gold bracelets that showed he was his lord’s most favoured housecarl.
Guthlac’s battle-scarred hands grasped the handrail as he scowled down at the water beyond the palisade. ‘They must be Saxon,’ he muttered. ‘No Norman would dare to venture this far into the fens.’
Wulf’s stomach tightened, but he kept his expression neutral.
‘A woman, eh?’ Guthlac’s eyebrows rose.
At that moment the breeze strengthened and something fluttered in the stern of the boat. A pennon. Guthlac stiffened. ‘That flag, Saewulf…’ he frowned, peering in such a way that Wulf realised the outlaw’s eyes were not as keen as his ‘…can you make out the colours, does it bear a device?’
‘No device, my lord. There’s a blue band above a white ground with green below.’
Guthlac’s fingers tightened on the handrail. ‘A white ground, you are certain? Is the green straight edged?’
Wulf narrowed his eyes and the pennon lifted in the breeze. The green band met the white ground with a jagged edge. ‘No, my lord, it is dancetty.’
Eyes suddenly intense, delight spreading across his face, Guthlac struck the rail with his fist. ‘At last, I have her! At least I hope to God I have her… Tell me, is the woman fair or dark?’
Both the question and the febrile excitement struck a jarring note. The little boat was close to the jetty, so close that it was drifting out of their line of sight behind the palisade. ‘I couldn’t swear, my lord, she has her hood up.’
A grin that was as much grimace as it was grin was spreading across Guthlac’s face. Wulf felt a distinct prickle of unease.
‘It is her. She has come crawling at last! I knew this moment would come when Hrothgar told me one of her men had been sighted in Ely.’
Wulf stared at Guthlac, and wondered why his dead half-sister Marie had chosen this day of all days to walk in and out of his mind. He also wondered why cold sweat was trickling down his back. ‘Her?’ His sense of unease was growing by the second. The sooner he was out of here, the better.
‘Eric’s daughter—it must be Lady Erica of Whitecliffe!’
Whirling round, Guthlac elbowed through his housecarls and stormed down the stairway to the bailey, tossing orders as he went. ‘Beorn!’
‘My lord?’
‘Have them lift the portcullis when they have disembarked.’
‘They are to enter, sir?’ Beorn’s voice was more than startled, it was stunned.
‘Certainly.’ Thane Guthlac’s harsh voice floated back to Wulf, still motionless by the sentry post. ‘The woman at least.’ There was a brief pause as Guthlac leaped the last few steps into the bailey. ‘And her men, too, provided they disarm.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Moments later, Wulf stood alone at the watchpoint, frowning. Lady Erica of Whitecliffe? Who the devil was Lady Erica of Whitecliffe?
And then it came to him. Of course! The bloodfeud, the damn bloodfeud.
Wulf had only been in Guthlac’s warband for a few days, but already he had heard enough about the bloodfeud to last him a lifetime. For years, Guthlac Stigandson’s men had been hurling insults, and worse, far worse, at the men loyal to another Saxon thane. Both thanes had apparently held land attached to his own lord’s recently acquired holding in the south, near Lewes. The feud had run for generations.
A cold hand clutched Wulf’s gut as he recalled that the last insult had been apparently to Guthlac’s own mother. Some of the men who had talked about the bloodfeud had used the word seduction, others had muttered darkly about rape.
And, Lord, there was Marie’s face again, swimming into focus in front of him, pale as the ghost it was. Her eyes were glassy with tears.
‘Hell,’ Wulf muttered, and before he knew it he was striding down the walkway, gesturing for another man to take his place at the watchpoint.
In the bailey, the chapel stood to one side of the portcullis. It was an unpretentious wooden building with a thatched roof and topped with a reed cross. A reception committee was gathering by the door: Thane Guthlac, Hrothgar, Beorn, Maldred, Swein….
That woman, Wulf thought, recalling the slender figure sitting proud and still in the prow, that poor woman. He shook his head, hoping to hell that Lady Erica of Whitecliffe had something damn good up her sleeve. The way that Thane Guthlac’s face had twisted every time her name had been mentioned…
More cold sweat broke out on