His Captive Lady. Carol Townend
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was lessening, save for the clatter and bang of trestles and benches as they were pushed back to the wall to make room for sleeping.
‘Yes, but I do not like to talk of those days,’ he said in a closed voice, and bent over his cross-gartering.
Erica nodded. She understood; she felt the same way herself. She also had met King Harold, both when he was an earl and, later, when he had been king. And, yes, it was indeed painful to recall former times, when a Saxon king sat on the throne of England, and when William of Normandy was but a minor princeling on the other side of the Narrow Sea. ‘We all wish King William in hell,’ she said. ‘What loyal Saxon would not?’
Wulf shot her an impenetrable look and set the leg bindings aside. ‘Goodnight, my lady.’
‘Goodnight.’
Settling down once more on his cloak, Erica composed herself for sleep.
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