His Captive Lady (12 page)

'My lady?'

At the junction of an alley, she turned and waited for him to catch up.

Wulf gritted his teeth; Osred was breathing down his neck and he had to remind himself that he would likely learn more if they thought he was yet under their control. 'Must your man stand so close?'

'Osred, some space, if you please.'

The man withdrew. Sweat was dewing his upper lip and the worry lines were becoming more pronounced. Osred was in a quake, he knew the recently built garrison was close, and, if he knew, then Erica must also know.

'My lady...' Wulf should not be thinking of her welfare, not when her men had beaten him half to death and she was likely planning some insurgency, but he could not seem to help himself. Yesterday, she had not wanted him executed, a point that pleased him more than it should. And in return for her compassion, Wulf could hardly stand by and watch her court execution. 'You should not be attempting to sell your father's arm-rings in Ely, it is not safe for you here.'

A dark brow arched, green eyes met his steadily. Coldly. 'Is it not?'

'There is a Norman garrison nearby, as I think you are aware.'

'Your point is...?'

'Your father's arm-rings betray you--your loyalties, your lineage. That gold merchant may well be an informer.'

'That, too, I know.'

Wulf felt as though he had walked onto boggy ground and could find no footing. He kept his voice low. 'Why run the risk?'

'Needs must--you would not understand. But I need more supplies. As you know, our ranks are somewhat depleted--'

'Ailric and Hereward,' he murmured, jaw dropping as it dawned on him what she might be about. She wanted to rescue her housecarls! And for that she needed money. Of all the idiotic, hare-brained notions! Loyal to a fault, Lady Erica hoped to mount an attack on Guthlac Stigandson's castle to rescue her men.

'Are you mad?' The words were out before he could stop them. 'Your chances of success are non-existent.'

That mouth, that beautiful, tempting mouth, tightened. 'I do not recall asking for your opinion, Captain FitzRobert. Nor do I recall telling you my plans. You are merely guessing.'

Dumbfounded, Wulf shook his head. What she was planning was nothing less than suicidal. If he were not pretending to be trussed up, he would shake some sense into her. She wanted to sell her father's arm-rings because if she had coins she could hire more men--unless...unless...Another possibility flashed in on him--unless Erica was in a position to call on the other rebels he suspected were hiding elsewhere in the fens...Hrolf--where
had
the man been sent?

If only he could dispense with this pretence and free his hands. Torn between wanting to kiss her--to
kiss
her?--and box her ears, Wulf met her glare for glare. Her eyes shone bright as jewels, her hood had fallen back and her nose was blue with cold. If his hands were free, he would pull her hood up and...

Her mouth was such a distraction. She wanted to rescue her men. Was it simply the bloodfeud, or was it insurrection? Hell.

'My household needs supplies.' She continued. 'We need--'

A harsh command cut into her words, as belatedly, Wulf became aware of the tramping of feet.
That mouth...

'Hold!
Hold!
' A Norman sergeant, fully mailed and with his sword drawn, was bearing down on them. A dozen infantrymen, arms at the ready, were at his heels.

And now the tables were turned, his need for pretence was over.
Jerking his hands free, Wulf flung his cloak out of the way. Erica's face emptied of colour and Wulf's gut clenched.
She is a rebel
, he reminded himself,
an outlaw
.

As the foot-soldiers fanned out around them, Morcar whipped out his sword and stepped in front of his lady. Osred was nearer. Wulf kicked out--thank God they had returned his boots--and Osred's shortsword clattered onto the cobbles.

With a choked cry, Osred darted down the alley. A second later he reappeared, backing into the street at swordpoint before two mailed troopers. Beneath his beard he was as pale as his lady. Spreading his hands in surrender, he was shepherded towards the sergeant. 'Saints have mercy,' he muttered.

They were surrounded. Towards the back of the troop, Wulf saw a grinning face, one he knew. 'Gil!' The boy's grin widened.

'Captain FitzRobert.' The sergeant tipped back his helmet; it was De Warenne's sergeant, Bertram.

'Sergeant, good to see you,' Wulf said, in Norman French. His wrists throbbed. With a glance at Morcar, Wulf shook his head and switched back to English. 'Put up your sword, man. It would be folly to fight, you are hopelessly outmanned.' Morcar glanced at Erica, whose face remained impassive, and Wulf made his voice stern. 'And you imperil your lady.'

Slowly, Morcar lowered his sword.

Wulf jerked his head at Sergeant Bertram and, a heartbeat later, the troopers had both housecarls under restraint.

And Lady Erica? Biting those pretty, distracting lips. Lord, that woman, she was wilful, brave to the point of foolishness...

Sergeant Bertram's eyes had fastened on her pouch, the one into which she had slipped her father's arm-rings. A large hand reached out. 'What's this, then?'

Quickly, Wulf took her arm and drew her, unresisting but with her head averted, out of reach of that hand. 'Leave the lady alone.' Glancing at the back of her head, he drew her firmly up the street in the direction of the garrison. 'Please do accompany me, my lady.'

A man-at-arms was approaching, rope in hand. Wulf dismissed him with a frown. 'I repeat, leave the lady alone, I have her.'

He was rewarded with a brief, black look before she jerked her head away. Her lips were thin and her cheeks were white as snow, but two small spots of colour flared in her cheeks. Then her veil fell forward and her expression was lost to sight. Sergeant Bertram kept pace with them while the troopers escorting Morcar and Osred brought up the rear, boots drumming on the cobbles.

Wulf pitched his voice low, for her ears alone. 'Erica, my lady, please listen. When we reach the garrison, you must follow my lead.'

The veil shifted fractionally in the chill air; it was not much, but it told Wulf she was listening.

'If you value your life, my lady, follow my lead.' He did not know why it should be, but desperation was clawing at Wulf, wreaking havoc with his insides. William De Warenne dealt fairly with those he trusted, but his reputation with his enemies was harsh and uncompromising. Wulf did not like the thought of the Lord of Lewes deciding that Erica of Whitecliffe was his foe. 'My lord can be ruthless with those he considers his enemy.'

'I care not.' Her response was quiet, but chillingly firm.

Tightening his hold, Wulf ignored the curious stares he was receiving from the sergeant, who was no doubt wondering why he was muttering in Saxon to the outlaw whose men had taken him prisoner. He inched his head closer and caught the fresh tang of herbs. 'It is not only your safety that is at issue, my lady. What of Solveig...that boy, Cadfael...what of the others waiting faithfully for you back in the market square? If Guthlac Stigandson would happily have seen a fellow Saxon, a thane's daughter, harmed, then what chance will your maid have in a garrison of Norman soldiers?'

The veil trembled. 'You are a worm, you are beneath contempt.'

'No, my lady, I am warning you, for your own sake and that of your people. Think.' Their gazes locked and ruefully Wulf indicated the bruising on his face, the smudges her men's bindings had made on his wrists. 'I am De Warenne's man, and, like any good lord, he seeks to protect those who swear fealty to him. He will see these, he will draw his own conclusions and he will act accordingly.' Her eyes were like ice, green ice. 'My lady, you are a rebel as far as De Warenne is concerned, an outlaw.'

She jerked at her arm, but Wulf held firm and pressed on relentlessly; he had to, for her sake. 'You know the law as well as I. Anyone who is declared an outlaw is said to bear the wolf's head. You and any one of your people, even Solveig and young Cadfael, could be so judged. And once that has happened, they may be put to death with impunity. No questions need even be asked. No one would be punished for killing them.'

'You hypocrites, that's Saxon law, not Norman!'

Wulf shrugged. 'It will make no odds as far as my lord is concerned. De Warenne has come to these fens to clear them of rebels--'

'We fight for what is rightfully ours!'

The wooden watchtower was looming up ahead; Wulf had little time to get his point across. 'No, my lady, your father and his companions lost everything at Hastings. It was an honourable battle--'

'Honourable!'

'And by refusing to accept Norman rule,' Wulf pressed on relentlessly, 'you and your people have become outlaws and will be dealt with as such. When we march through that portcullis, you have one hope. You
must
trust me and follow my lead.'

Her nostrils flared and they passed through the portcullis. Wulf was unable to judge whether she was prepared to do as he suggested. Trust was fragile at the best of times and the claw that was ripping at his innards was telling him that she had lost her trust of him and would not follow his lead. For the first time in years, he sent up a swift prayer--he prayed that he was wrong.

Erica's thoughts were in chaos. She had scarcely heard a word that Wulf--that
Captain FitzRobert
--had said to her; the only thing she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears.

They had bound Morcar and Osred and were making them walk behind her, that much she did know. Her own hands remained free. Wulf's grip on her arm had not slackened and this, Erica was ashamed to discover, relieved as much as angered her. Nor had he permitted that other Norman, that sergeant, to paw over her father's arm-rings.

Vaguely, she noticed that the garrison stockade was in good repair, wood, but solid, very solid. The teeth on the portcullis were filed to sharp points. How easy, she wondered, would it be to fire it?

Erica wanted to notice everything, but her mind would not obey. When she walked into the yard, her whole body jerked. The place swarmed with soldiers in chainmail, with archers. Aliens. Invaders.
Normans
, like the man at her side. How had she ever thought him Saxon?

Dogs barked; men shouted; steel clanged; and the acrid smell of burnt horn wrinkled Erica's nostrils--a horse was being shod nearby. Several archery butts were being stacked in a cart. Preparations were underway, it seemed. For what? Her heart jumped about in her breast.

Around the yard there were a number of wooden buildings, another of stone, and there, yes, that must be the stable. Horses were being groomed in the winter sunlight. They were huge beasts with chests that were broader than the chests of the oxen that used to plough the peasants' strips by the river in Lewes. Destriers, they called them, warhorses. Terrifyingly huge. Bits jingled, harnesses flashed. And--her breath caught--soldiers, more mailed foot-soldiers. At sea in the midst of so many Normans, Erica shot a look at Wulf...no, at Captain FitzRobert, and struggled to keep the loathing from her face.

'This way, my lady.' He directed her towards the largest of the wooden buildings. It had a double doorway, oak, that was flung wide like a giant mouth. It had huge iron hinges and two sentries guarding the entrance. Erica did not want to go in and she clenched her fists as a chilling thought came to her. Once inside, she would never leave, this hall was a monster, a Norman war monster, and it was about to devour her.

Boot on the threshold, Wulf paused to signal at the troopers who had Morcar and Osred under escort. He gave a swift command in Norman French. With a salute, the troopers bore her men towards the stone building.

Unnerving as it was to hear Wulf speaking French with such fluency, Erica managed, briefly, to marshal her thoughts. 'Where are they going?' Uncurling her fingers, she clutched at his arm. 'What did you tell those soldiers to do to them?'

A broad hand came to rest on hers. In another world, in another time, she might have interpreted the gesture as comforting. 'Do not fear, they will be safe.'

She craned her neck as Morcar and Osred disappeared through a shadowy archway. 'But...but...'

'I repeat, they are safe, they are merely under restraint. They will be fed. They will not be beaten.'

Her cheeks stung and she avoided his gaze. 'I...I did not want you beaten. I did not realise what Morcar and Siward intended, I...' Her voice trailed off. Wulf would never believe her. She was his prisoner and he would think she hoped to soften him. With a sigh, she stiffened her spine and raised her gaze to her hand on the sleeve of his brown homespun, at his broader one covering it. 'What now?'

He gazed at her for a long moment, and ran a finger down her cheek. His touch was light as a feather, but it burned, how it burned. And something in his eyes, in the way he looked into hers, made her breath stop for a moment. Then to her surprise, Wulf released her and stepped back. 'Your part is simple, you must follow my lead. My lord De Warenne is holding council inside.'

With a bow, he offered her his arm and guided her through the wide oak door.

W
illiam De Warenne, Lord of Lewes, the Norman who had been granted vast tracts of King Harold's lands in southern England, was holding court at the head of a wide, rough-hewn table. Erica did not need to have him pointed out to her--De Warenne was every inch the overlord. Ensconced in the central seat between two of his knights, wearing a natural air of command, he looked to be in his early forties. No peacock, his grizzled hair was cropped in the simplest of Norman styles; he was clean-shaven and wearing a stained leather gambeson that had seen hard service.

A couple of troopers were wrestling. Stripped to the waist, their backs gleamed with sweat as they grunted and heaved and scuffed up the rushes. A large crowd was noisily exchanging wagers on the outcome. In a flurry of flailing limbs, the wrestlers rolled and came to an abrupt stop at Wulf's and Erica's feet. The entire hall fell silent.

Erica's stomach tightened as every eye seemed to fix on her. It felt as though these men could tell just by looking that she was Saxon, and a rebel. Did they loathe her as much as she loathed them? It took every ounce of her willpower
not
to shift closer to Wulf.

Wulf frowned. 'Edward, Giles, the hall is no place for fighting, get you into the yard.'

'Yes, Captain.'

'Sorry, sir.'

As Wulf shouldered his way through the dispersing men, De Warenne glanced across. 'FitzRobert, good to see you--a day early, too! And you look...reasonably hale.' As Wulf bowed, his gaze flickered over the bruises on Wulf's face. 'When Gil came running and said he had spotted you under restraint in the market square, I could scarcely credit it.'

De Warenne's accent was alien to Erica, but, since she had some understanding of Norman French, she caught the main gist of his speech.

'It is good to see you, too, my lord.'

Wulf had answered in the same tongue and it was discomposing to hear him speak it with such fluency.
FitzRobert, Captain Wulf FitzRobert.
Erica swallowed down a lump in her throat. She had been stunned to hear that name by the fisherman's hut, but to hear his facility with the language of her enemy...Wulf had been so convincing as a Saxon. She had liked him. Saints, her cheek even felt hot where he had touched it some moments ago...

De Warenne dismissed the knights around his council table. 'My thanks for your reports, we shall finish this later.'

'Aye, my lord.' The knights withdrew, spurs clinking.

'Wine, Captain?'

'Please.'

'Help yourself. And your...companion?' Courteously, De Warenne inclined his head at Erica. 'Would this lady take some wine also?'

'My lady?' Again Wulf's hand was warm on hers, and for an instant his thumb curled round to caress her palm. The pain of betrayal twisted her heart. Did Wulf have to appear so...so solicitous, so caring towards her? She pushed aside her hurt, briskly reminding herself of the need for calm, of the need to remain clear-headed. For the moment it might be wise to keep her knowledge of the French tongue, rudimentary as it was, to herself.

'I...I beg your pardon?'

'Would you care for wine?' Wulf asked, in English. Both his voice and the expression in his eyes were patient.

'Y...yes, please.'

A clay goblet was pressed into her hand. The wine was warm and smelt faintly of cinnamon and cloves, spices so exotic that Erica had not smelt them since she had led her people from Lewes. Slowly, she raised her eyes, forcing herself to look directly at De Warenne. I was fleeing
you
, she thought, struggling to keep her emotions out of her face. Her breath caught and her brows snapped together. Oddly, this Norman lord put her in mind of her father. A shiver ran down her spine.

'My thanks,' she managed, in English.

Nodding briefly, the Lord of Lewes returned his attention to Wulf. 'The report you sent via Gilbert was most timely, FitzRobert. I have been able to incorporate your intelligence into my immediate plans. Guthlac's tenure in that so-called castle of his will be short-lived.'

Understanding enough, Erica stiffened. What did De Warenne mean? Were the Normans about to lay siege to Thane Guthlac, was that the cause of the hustle in the yard? Erica had no reason to love either Guthlac or any of his housecarls, but what about Ailric and Hereward? She wanted them out of their prison. If De Warenne's army was to storm the castle
before
she could help them...how would Normans treat Guthlac's Saxon prisoners?

Wulf's expression was unreadable, as hers must be. Feigning a complete lack of understanding of the conversation, Erica made a play of looking about her.

The garrison hall put her in mind of Guthlac's, save that this one was larger and longer. There was the same smell of recently sawn timbers, and here, too, the smoke winding out from the fire had not had time to blacken the walls. It was a room for soldiers, with few concessions in the way of adornment. There were no tapestries, no wall hangings, just an unremarkable yellow curtain at the back of the hall, dyed, Erica reckoned, with an everyday dye made from birch leaves. Rows of hooks ran the length of the walls, hooks upon which these foreign soldiers had hung a menacing array of arms: swords, battleaxes and lances; bows and quivers; swordbelts; shields...

The knights that De Warenne had dismissed had drifted to a trestle and were engaging in conversation with yet more knights. Soldiers were lounging on benches; others warmed themselves by the fire. Sitting with these, an archer was busily setting arrowheads on shafts with a glue and twine. Judging by the heap of arrows at his side, the archer had been at work for some time. Dear Heaven, Erica thought, if the fens are
already
overrun with Normans, how am I to rescue Ailric and Hereward?

'Gilbert assumed you ran into trouble after he took your report,' De Warenne was saying, gesturing at Wulf's bruises. 'You found more rebels? Another nest of outlaws?'

Wulf ran his hand through his hair. 'I thought so at first, my lord.'

Scarcely daring to breathe, Erica affected a deep interest in a wolfhound scratching at its fleas at De Warenne's feet. Did Wulf suspect that she had sent Hrolf to find her father's warband? He must do.

'You were mistaken?' De Warenne's eyes were on her; she felt them as a brand. Her heart sank. Her people were lost, if Wulf let fall that she had more men at her disposal--her people were lost. Fighting to keep her expression relaxed and untroubled, she felt the tension wind inside her. She wanted to pick up her skirts and run, but that would not help. One of these men would be on her in an instant...

'Indeed, my lord.' Wulf's voice was calm and unhurried; it even had a smile in it. 'I found I misread some of what was happening in Thane Guthlac's hall.'

Cup cradled in his hands, De Warenne propped his hip on the edge of the trestle. 'How so?'

'The Lady Erica was...held there, and at first I could not determine her purpose among Guthlac's men.'

'You took her for a rebel and outlaw also?'

Wulf smiled in her direction and, though his smile was relaxed, Erica sensed an urgent message behind it, he was not as relaxed as he appeared. Like her, he was moved by an emotion he was striving to conceal. 'Yes,' Wulf said. 'However, closer observation revealed my lady as a woman under duress, a woman desperate to save her...household.'

De Warenne's brows snapped together. 'Household? Captain, who is this woman? Describe her circumstances...how many housecarls can she call upon?'

'I did not see many, it is a small household. A couple of ageing men accompany her, one might have been a warrior, but he is well past his prime, as to the other...' Wulf shook his head. 'My lord, you may judge for yourself, they are here under lock and key.'

'I'll look in on them later. What was the lady doing in Guthlac's company?'

Erica gripped the wine cup as though her life depended on it. It was not lost on her that, despite being asked to reveal her full identity, Wulf had not yet done so. Beneath his calm demeanour, there was definitely a nervousness that she could not pin down. It was true that De Warenne was a great lord, a man of enormous power, and talking to De Warenne would intimidate most people, but there was more to it than that, she was sure. Wulf did not appear to be in the least bit intimidated, at least not by his lord, but something was definitely worrying him.

'There was much talk of a bloodfeud between her family and Guthlac Stigandson's,' Wulf said.

'Bloodfeud?'

'Aye, and since she was under some duress at the castle, I did not consider her a risk.'

De Warenne snorted. 'FitzRobert, she is a Saxon, and as such I would always consider her a risk. Good Lord, man, look what they have done to your face! Gilbert said you were largely unmarked when you met him at the rendezvous. Did someone in this...
small
household of hers do that to you?'

Wulf shrugged and shot Erica another unfathomable look; she wished she understood it. 'Ah, that, it was merely a slight misunderstanding. They thought I meant them ill. But I had...other ideas.'

De Warenne's brows snapped together. 'You are not saying there is something between you?'

Reminding herself to continue feigning ignorance of their tongue, Erica gave Wulf what she hoped was a passable smile and bent over her wine cup. Wulf made no answer, but, glancing under her lashes at him, Erica watched with astonishment as his cheeks darkened.

De Warenne let out a bark of laughter. 'A lover's tiff, was it? Some tiff.' Sharp eyes narrowed. 'Who
is
this woman, FitzRobert--what is her name in full?'

Those warm fingers wrapped round hers and Wulf drew her up to De Warenne. 'My lord, this is the Lady Erica of Whitecliffe. And I would ask--'

De Warenne's eyes went to their linked hands and the furrows in his brow deepened. 'Captain FitzRobert, I do not recall giving you permission to do your courting among those in the Saxon aristocracy.'

'My lord, I have not done so, but--'

'Erica of Whitecliffe, you say? And her sire?' De Warenne's voice was cold.

'Thane Eric.'

'Lost at Hastings?'

'As I understand it, my lord. He was a South Saxon. His hall is, if it still stands, at Whitecliffe near your holding in Lewes.'

Pushing away from the table, De Warenne took her by the chin and turned her face this way and that,
examining me as though to draw out my last secret
, Erica thought. With a jolt, she recalled that Thane Guthlac had examined her in like fashion. Then, too, Wulf had stood at her side, but he seemed to be hiding more tension today than he had then, which was odd.

'The Lady Erica's father served Harold Godwineson,' Wulf added.

While De Warenne scrutinised her features, Wulf tightened his hold on her hand. There it was again, that hint of tension in him, like a tightly strung bow. Yet his manner seemed confident; she must be mistaken.

Abruptly, De Warenne released her. 'So I had heard. His lands have been placed in my gift.'

Wulf cleared his throat and the pressure on Erica's hand increased. He began speaking so rapidly that his words were lost on her. 'My lord, please know that I do not have any expectations with regard to her land, but I do have something to ask you...'

'FitzRobert?'

Wulf squared his shoulders. 'When you gave me this commission, you spoke of a reward. I would like to lay claim to it.'

De Warenne frowned. 'Now? In the middle of a campaign?'

'Yes, my lord. I know my timing is poor, but this is the reward I would claim. I do not ask for a knighthood, or lands, or coin. My lord, I would be most grateful if you would give me permission to marry this woman.'

Erica forgot to breathe, for those last words she had understood--Wulf was asking if he could
marry
her? Was he serious? At least his request had stopped De Warenne from asking probing questions about her men. But Wulf could not be serious. His face remained impenetrable, his fingers firmly wrapped around hers.

De Warenne made a dismissive sound. 'A
thane's
daughter? You ask me for the hand of a
thane's
daughter, Captain?' Sharp eyes skimmed Erica's person before resting for an instant on the pouch that hung heavy at her waist. He must guess it contained a portion of her father's gold-hoard. 'This extraordinarily beautiful and
rich
thane's daughter?'

'Yes, my lord, but I would stress that it is only Lady Erica's hand that I am asking for, not her land or her baubles.'

'Just the woman, eh?'

'Just so.'

'You have discussed this with her? She is in agreement?'

Erica wanted to speak, but she bit her tongue, gagged by the chill in De Warenne's voice and the instinct that had warned her to affect ignorance of Norman French.

'My lady...Erica.' Wulf switched to English. His stance as he looked down at her was that of a conqueror, but he was not all arrogance, there remained an almost imperceptible hesitancy about him.

Erica forced a smile, or the ghost of one. Marry him, marry Captain Wulf FitzRobert? Her mind whirled. Who
was
Wulf FitzRobert? The man was an enigma. He was kind, he had saved her from Hrothgar, but he was also a liar who from the first had not been straight with her. He was a warrior, young and strong and as handsome as any she had met; he was a Norman...

The Norman in question murmured, 'And please do not react...badly at my next words.' Blue eyes caught hers. He had such clever eyes; he could make them appear earnest at will, apparently. It was very convincing. There were light flecks in them and they shaded almost to green near the pupil. 'Not only is your life at issue, but please to think about your people, of those we left but an hour since...'

Swallowing, Erica nodded. Solveig, Cadfael...Wulf knew their whereabouts, he knew their faces--must she agree to marry him in order to save them? Was he threatening to turn them over to De Warenne if she did not?

He took a deep breath. 'I am asking my lord for permission to wed you.'

'You want me to m...marry you?' She let her mouth fall open, as though she had only at that moment understood him. Beside them, De Warenne shoved his thumbs in his belt. His expression was dour and Erica was under no illusions, Wulf's request had displeased him. Did De Warenne speak English? Erica had no way of knowing.