The Silken Cord (11 page)

Wulfgar studied the man intensely. Jenkin
was large for a Welshman but he was not nearly as big as Wulfgar.
Regardless, Wulfgar had seen Jenkin fight, and knew the man was a
formidable warrior. Only when he looked at Ariana did Jenkin’s
countenance soften.

“You love her,” Wulfgar observed. It wasn’t
a question.

Jenkin didn’t reply, but Wulfgar saw the
truth in the man’s eyes.

Wulfgar smiled with sadness. “It’s a pity,
Welshman, for I like you. It’s been less than year ago that her
father betrothed her to me. Our marriage will unite the border. You
must know that.”

Jenkin’s dark eyes gleamed and he flushed
red with anger. “Your betrothal is broken. You’re a traitor and
unworthy of the princess. You walk around and give orders when
you’re no more than a lowly slave. I’ve allowed it because we need
your help, but don’t push me too far.”

By this point, Jenkin stood toe-to-toe with
Wulfgar. Both men clutched their weapons with whitened
knuckles.

They wanted the same woman.

Once Wulfgar had taken Ariana inside Cynan,
he knew he would be forced to deal with Jenkin. First, Wulfgar must
speak with King Rhys, to seal the alliance. No doubt Rhys would
demand Wulfgar regain his lands and titles before he’d agree to
renew the betrothal, but Wulfgar was determined to do just
that.

“I’ll speak with King Rhys about this, not
his underling.” Wulfgar’s tone sounded chilling.

“He won’t hear your pleas. Because of you,
his people are being slaughtered.”

“That’ll change once I’m Lord of Glyndwr
again,” Wulfgar vowed. “There’ll be peace along our border.”

Jenkin’s eyes widened and he gave a harsh
laugh. “Have you gone daft? You’re an outlaw, now. A slave.”

Wulfgar couldn’t respond, but rage twisted
inside his gut.

“Will you give me your oath not to do
anything to harm the princes or her people?” Jenkin’s biting tone
was unforgiving.

Wulfgar regretted he must be an enemy with
this man. Under different circumstances, they would have been great
friends. Although Wulfgar didn’t like Jenkin, he respected him. But
there would be no friendship as long as Ariana stood between them.
“I’ve already given my oath to the princess. I’ll not make promises
to you.”

Seeming satisfied with this, Jenkin backed
away. Turning, he walked down the hill where Ariana met him in a
flurry. Wulfgar followed, watching as Jenkin leaned his head down
and told her the fate of her aunt and cousin. Her step faltered and
she threw herself against the Welshman. A thin wail of grief tore
from her throat and Jenkin clutched her to his chest, his arms
wrapped around her shaking shoulders.

Jealousy pierced Wulfgar and he took a
shuddering breath. Wild fury made him clench his hands. The urge to
tear them apart and deal Jenkin a deathblow overwhelmed him.
Ariana’s sobs filled the air and his gut tightened. He could hardly
stand her tears. It should be him offering her solace, not Jenkin.
Wulfgar longed to take her into his arms and wipe away her sadness
and keep her safe.

No doubt she’d refuse him if he tried.
Jenkin was her friend and she trusted the Welshman.

Were they also lovers?

Wulfgar’s blood boiled at the thought. He no
longer had a right to feel possessive, but he did. So strong he
could taste it on his tongue and had to look away.

Then, he remembered what Ariana had said to
him about faith in God. If ever Wulfgar needed help, it was now.
Yet he felt abandoned by the Lord. Was it possible God merely
wished to humble him? To bring him to depend on Him for help?

It was a thought Wulfgar didn’t wish to
contemplate, yet he couldn’t help himself.

The men gathered what provisions they could
find. Food, water, and weapons. Arnulf found the gown and cloak
Wulfgar had requested and tried to hand him the blue linen.

“You give them to her,” Wulfgar said.

Fearing what he might say, Wulfgar didn’t
dare go near Ariana right now. He was a Norman, and look what his
people had done. How she must hate him now.

Keeping to himself, he helped the other men
bury the dead in shallow graves. Hammering at the hard ground with
a pick, Wulfgar took out his anger on the earth. He stopped only
long enough to take a drink of water or wipe the sweat from his
brow. Each time he stopped his labors, his gaze searched for
Ariana. He watched as she waded through the fields, picking armfuls
of blue and yellow flowers to put on the graves.

Later that afternoon, Ariana stood beside
her Aunt Frida and little Rhodri’s graves, and stared out to sea.
What was she thinking? Wulfgar wondered.

Her eyes remained dry while Jenkin spoke of
a greater place where all might find peace. Ariana’s back stiffened
as she clenched her hands, her face pale, her eyes hollow. When
Jenkin finished, she knelt beside the burial mounds, her head
tilted to the side as she spoke in Gaelic, her voice soft and
soothing. Her long hair spilled past her face, hiding her profile.
She placed her hands on top of the mounds and smoothed the dirt,
her fingers moving in a loving caress. The scene was so poignant
that Wulfgar closed his eyes for several moments, barely able to
watch.

He would kill Carlinham for this.

With the dead buried, Jenkin took the lead
with Ariana and their men following behind as they traveled over
the thin road leading down the steep hill. Wulfgar and his warriors
brought up the rear, moving in silence, somber and cold. Wulfgar’s
gaze followed Ariana as she plodded along, staring at the ground,
her face ashen, her cheeks tear-stained. She looked small and
forlorn, her hands clutching the clean dress and cloak Arnulf had
found for her against her breast, as if they were a small
child.

Wulfgar’s throat tightened. What could he
say to ease her suffering?

Moving to walk beside her, he held out a
windblown field flower and tried to find words to lessen her
sorrow. “Ariana, I’m sorry for your loss.”

Her gaze swept past the flower but she
didn’t take it. Though her eyes filled with sizzling fury, her
voice was smooth and soft. “You Normans have brought my people
nothing but death and sorrow. If I didn’t need your help to free my
brother, I would want nothing to do with you.”

His throat closed. She hated him.

Brushing past him, she went to join Jenkin,
who had paused to watch this exchange with a dubious frown.

Staring after her, Wulfgar dropped the
flower and hardened his jaw. He looked away and blinked his eyes,
to keep his men from seeing how her words cut him to the core.
Although he couldn’t blame Ariana for being angry, his men had
become outlaws to support his cause. He wouldn’t swoon over a Welsh
princess and have them think he didn’t appreciate their great
sacrifice on his behalf.

Nor could he keep himself from caring about
her.

Nonsense! He did not, would not, care for
this woman. Just as she didn’t care for him.

Hardening his will, he shook his head to
clear such thoughts from his mind, and took a step to follow the
others into the hills.

Whoosh! Thump!

An arrow whizzed past Wulfgar’s head and
struck Cwrig in the thigh, knocking him to the ground. With a cry
of pain, Cwrig rolled, his hand reaching to grasp the shaft of the
arrow, his eyes wide with amazement.

Wulfgar whirled about. A chilling wind
brought the distant sound of many riders and Ariana called a
warning.

“Normans. Edwin’s mercenaries.”

Six men on horseback appeared to the east
and raced toward them. Although there were only six riders,
Wulfgar’s group was outnumbered. The destriers gave the enemy a
strong advantage. The riders wore dark armor and shields emblazoned
with a black dragon. Carlinham’s crest. Armed with swords, spears,
and crossbows, they were no doubt confident of the kill as they
leaned low over their saddles and charged across the fields.

Her eyes wide, Ariana stared with horror at
the riders. They’d dallied too long in burying the dead and now
faced a formidable foe.

“But we are Norman,” Arnulf exclaimed. “Our
own kind wouldn’t attack us.”

Lifting his arms, he walked forward to speak
with the mercenary knights, but Wulfgar called him back. “Nay,
Arnulf. Carlinham’s men won’t care who we are. We’re outlaws and a
threat to Edwin. He would want us all dead.”

Arnulf’s mouth turned grim and he reached
for his sword. “Then, let them come. We’ll have to do something
about that, eh?”

* * *

Ariana noticed Wulfgar fingering the hilt of
his knife, looking at the puny blade with disgust. It would be of
little use in fighting the Normans. Jerking her head toward him,
she spoke to Jenkin. “Give him a decent weapon. We cannot outrun
the riders and must stand and fight.”

Jenkin scowled but tossed Wulfgar a long
pike. Wulfgar caught it with both hands, his fingers tightening
over the smooth shaft.

“If we can’t dismount the riders, we must
kill their horses to bring them down,” Raulf advised as he hefted
his double-headed battle-ax with two hands.

“I sure would like a few of those horses for
us to ride,” Arnulf said. “Let’s see how many men we can kill while
saving the horses.”

The men grinned, silently accepting this
challenge. Ariana couldn’t believe they were enjoying this sport.
The thunder of hooves filled the air and the wind picked up, cold
and biting. Ariana felt a tremor of dread, but pushed it aside,
letting anger replace her fear.

Wulfgar took his position beside the other
men and crouched low in a fighting position. Watching him, Ariana
shivered, remembering his calm violence when he had dispatched the
Vikings on the island. He knew how to handle himself in battle and
she was grateful for the presence of him and his men.

She fingered her daggers. A sword or spear
would be more useful against armed knights on horseback, but she
wasn’t strong enough to heft them. Her gaze scanned the ground for
a stouter weapon. Spying a dead tree branch, she picked it up,
holding it like a club. Glaring at the riders, she locked her jaw
and hardened her will.

Let them come.

“What are you doing?” Wulfgar asked her.
“Get behind us where it’s safe.”

She barely glanced his way. “I’ll fight if I
have to.”

He flashed her a smile, seeming amused by
her determination. “I have no doubt of that.”

The men gathered in front of her and she
glanced at them, both Welsh and Norman, giving thanks she wasn’t
alone.

“Above all else, we must protect the
princess,” Jenkin said. “Austin, take down the lead rider.”

Austin was their best archer and he lifted
his bow and sighted down the shaft, taking careful aim. He let the
arrow fly and it pierced the Norman’s throat, knocking him backward
over the rump of his galloping steed. The man thudded to the ground
as his horse whinnied and swerved to the side.

“We have one horse, if we can chase the
animal down,” Austin crowed with delight.

Jenkin inclined his head toward the low
hills to the east. “Run for that shelter of trees, princess. We’ll
fight and give you time to escape.”

She didn’t move. Her feet seemed frozen. She
couldn’t abandon her men and mouthed a silent prayer for help.

Shouts and screams filled the air as the
warriors met in battle. Ariana watched with repulsion as a rider
swerved toward Wulfgar. Bracing his spear against the ground,
Wulfgar bore down on it, directing the tip. The sharp point impaled
the charging animal’s breast. The horse screamed and reared. Its
hooves slashed the air, thumping hard against Wulfgar’s chest,
knocking him to the ground just as the horse toppled and rolled on
its rider. The beast thrashed until it finally lay still.

“Look out,” Ariana called as another rider
stabbed the ground where Wulfgar lay, barely missing Wulfgar’s
head. Wulfgar rolled, evading another stab, and another.

The rider drew back again, urging his horse
to trample Wulfgar. The Norman drew back his arm, preparing to stab
at Wulfgar once more.

Sprinting toward the horse, Ariana drew back
her club and cracked it against the spear, deflecting the rider’s
blow. The rider gave a furious bellow as her stick shattered and
the animal reared, jostling the man off balance. Clutching madly to
keep his seat, he lost his grip on the spear, giving Wulfgar enough
time to gain his feet. Wulfgar grasped the spear, jerking it away
from the rider. The man tumbled sideways. His foot caught in the
stirrup and his horse panicked, skittering to the side, dragging
the Norman through the grassy fields.

Chaos beat all around with the clash of
steel and screams of rage and pain. Ariana watched as her men
struggled to block the rider’s lethal thrusts. Jenkin pulled one
man from the saddle and he and Arnulf descended on the downed
Norman.

Ariana looked away with disgust. A rider
veered toward her. She could feel the vibration of thundering
hooves. A shiver of doom swept her as she sprang toward the copse
of trees. He was almost upon her! She could hear the grunts of his
horse and imagined the beast’s hot breath against her neck. Her
skin prickled with fear. She could almost feel the cold bite of
steel in her flesh.

Her long skirts hampered her flight and she
stumbled, falling to the ground. She scrambled to her feet and
swerved, barely evading the slashing arc of the rider’s sword.

She willed her legs to move faster.

On the uneven ground, she fell again and
rolled, her hands reaching for her daggers. The rider drew back and
her eyes widened with terror as she looked up at his chilling eyes.
The reach of her arm was not long enough to fight this foe. He
would kill her with little trouble.

“Wulfgar,” she screamed.

And there he was. With a sword. Had she
conjured him in her mind, or had he raced toward her when he saw
she was in danger?