His Captive Lady. Carol Townend
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‘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 his back. He must remain cool. This woman was a total stranger—what was it to him if she got hurt? And if she was indeed Erica of Whitecliffe, then she should know better than to march into her enemy’s stronghold like this, she deserved to get hurt. Wulf could not get involved, particularly since he was on the brink of leaving…
Saints, there was Marie’s face again. Shoving his hand through his hair, Wulf tried to eject his half-sister from his thoughts. He succeeded, but not before it came to him, that if someone had helped Marie when she had needed it, she would still be alive.
‘Hell.’ How in God’s name was he supposed to aid the woman when he was here under false colours himself? He had his commission to think of, he must not disappoint De Warenne.
‘Problem, Saewulf?’ Hrothgar asked, pale eyes watchful.
‘Not at all.’ Wulf forced a smile and reminded himself of the land that he longed for, of the knighthood that he hoped to win. He must not fail now. Tonight he would be away from here—God willing, he would be on the London road.
Maldred and Swein were applying themselves to the windlass. The portcullis creaked, and Lady Erica of Whitecliffe appeared under the arch. Her two companions stationed themselves either side of her. Gowned in purple beneath her russet cloak, she was tall and dignified, composedly nodding her agreement while her companions were divested of their arms. Men in their late twenties, housecarls by the look of them, Saxon warriors who handed their swords over to Maldred without a murmur. But they did not like it; their eyes and their stance betrayed them.
Guthlac Stigandson swept the woman a mocking bow. ‘Greetings, Lady Erica.’
She dipped her head in acknowledgement. ‘Thane Guthlac?’ Her voice was low and even.
‘At your service,’ murmured Guthlac.
Wulf took stock of her. Yes, she was tall, and she had a stately air, and when she flung back the russet hood of her cloak, he bit back a gasp. Close to, with her dark hair gleaming in the growing daylight and with her startling green eyes, Erica of Whitecliffe was beautiful—breathtakingly, radiantly beautiful.
Lady Erica glanced swiftly round the compound, tipping her head back to take in the tower perched on its mound. Her quick eyes ran over the sentry points, the palisade, the outbuildings, and, finally, lingered on the chapel.
While she nodded briefly, unsmiling but polite, at each man in the compound, Wulf was disconcertingly aware that his heartbeat was less than steady. She was his very image of beauty. Not that that signified anything. Although when her eyes met his—they were a particular shade of green, which brought to mind the woods near Honfleur on a sunny spring day—Wulf felt a distinct jolt in his belly. She nodded at him and her gaze moved on, to Hrothgar, Beorn, Maldred. He could see by the sudden stillness that gripped Guthlac and his housecarls that they, too, had been struck by her beauty. And who would not be?
The Lady Erica had pale skin, which was clear and unblemished; her brows and eyelashes were dark; she had a straight nose with a scattering of freckles across it; her lips were red and full and tempting and there was not a wrinkle anywhere, not even around those remarkable eyes. Wulf caught the gleam of gold—her cloak fastening was patterned with interlocking snakes. Two thick dark plaits trailed down to her waist, their ends caught in finely wrought golden fillets.
Thane Eric’s daughter must be about his age, perhaps a little older. If pushed, Wulf would say she had been born at about the same time as his half-sister. Those glossy plaits were black as a crow’s wing. Her carriage was proud and straight, and though that cloak hid her bosom, it could not entirely disguise the full curve of her breasts. Briefly Wulf shut his eyes. Thane Eric’s daughter was beautiful enough to steal any man’s breath. He remembered what had happened to Thane Guthlac’s mother, and he feared, he very much feared, that this woman’s beauty was about to be her downfall. Merde. It was not his business. Particularly since De Warenne was awaiting his report.
The rebel leader was giving her another of his mocking bows. ‘You will take refreshment, my lady?’
Regal as a queen, she inclined her head. ‘My thanks.’
Wulf had scarcely set eyes on the woman, yet even as she picked up her purple skirts and made to precede Guthlac into his hall, he knew, without shadow of a doubt, that she understood that Guthlac Stigandson’s courtesy was false. Oh, yes, she knew. Those bright eyes ran swiftly, searchingly, over Guthlac’s features, those white teeth worried her lower lip for an instant, then she straightened, turned her gaze ahead and calmly continued towards the wooden stairway that led up the mound and into the tower.
‘Saewulf?’
Wulf started. ‘My lord?’
‘See to it her men rest here.’
‘My lord, I…’ Wulf thought quickly. He did not want to be stationed down here by the chapel, not if she was going to face Guthlac on her own—the force of his feelings, akin to desperation, confounded him.
Luckily Thane Eric’s daughter had other ideas. Pausing at a landing halfway up the mound stairway, she rested a slender white hand on the handrail. Bracelets to rival Guthlac’s chinked at her wrist, emphasising her high status. Finger-rings glinted. ‘My men, too,’ she said, voice clear as a bell and every inch her father’s daughter. ‘Ailric and Hereward are more in need of refreshment than I; it was they who sat at the oars.’
Wulf glanced questioningly at Guthlac. ‘My lord?’
Impatiently, Guthlac waved them on. ‘Let them come, Saewulf, they are unarmed.’
Pleasantly surprised at Guthlac’s malleability in the face of his enemy’s request, Wulf motioned for the two housecarls to follow their lady.
Chapter Four
The rebels were eating their evening meal, and Wulf was—much against his better judgement for he should be at the rendezvous with Lucien—still in Guthlac’s hall. He peered through the stinking haze of tallow candles towards the head of the trestle and wished he had been party to the negotiations between Thane Guthlac and the Lady Erica. They had talked from dawn to dusk and it was impossible to tell from their manner how they were progressing. Wulf could hear nothing of note over the clatter of knives and the guffaws and the general babble of conversation. He had to get closer…
Meals in this fenland castle were taken very differently to meals in King William’s barrack-hall at Westminster. Here, no weapon stacks bristled with arms by the walls; instead, men wore their arms to table. They sat with their swords jutting out behind them, an ever-present hazard for servers approaching the benches with dishes and ale jugs. The continual bearing of arms by every able-bodied man in the camp reminded Wulf, if reminder were needed, that he was breaking bread with outlaws. To a man they were poised to jump to arms at a moment’s notice. If they suspected that he served another master, a Norman master, a dozen swords would be at his throat.
‘More ale, Saewulf?’
The lad Maldred was at his elbow, jug in hand. Smiling, Wulf nodded and held out his cup, but his attention never wavered from the top of the table. A sense of unease had sat with him since the morning—and it irked him, because he