The Wolf and the Dove (17 page)

Harlot! Harlot!

She calmed herself and, turning her attention to the window, saw the Normans on a distant hill rehearsing the maneuvers of battle, but she whirled away from the sight, not content to watch them in that display of their trade, knowing many countrymen had found death at their hands.

She bent her attention to arranging the chamber and improving her own appearance. She braided her hair with yellow ribbons and donned a kirtle of soft yellow and a gunna of tawny gold with embroidered trimmings around the long, trailing sleeves. About her hips she placed her girdle of fine wrought metal links and in its sheath her small jeweled dagger, the symbol that she was something more than a slave. A thin-textured snood of silk she placed upon her head. She had never taken such minute care with her dress since Wulfgar’s coming and wondered at his reaction, if he would even notice. Kerwick might muse at her attire and certainly Maida, for this was her best gown, the one she had been saving for her marriage to him. What good would it do her if she could not win that stubborn knight of Normandy?

Darkness had descended when she went down to the hall. The trestle tables had been set up to feed the men but as yet they had not returned. Gwyneth paced the hall and Aislinn noted that she had freshened her hair but still wore the travel stained garment she had arrived in. It seemed an unwise choice to have donned her own finest gown and she wished her mind had not been so set upon Wulfgar that she allowed herself to blunder so badly. But it was too late for afterthoughts.

Gwyneth turned as Aislinn came down the stairs and her eyes swept her from small slippers to the silk snood covering her bright head.

“Well, I see the Normans at least left you a change of garments,” she said with a touch of venom. “But then, I gave naught of my favors to them.”

Aislinn halted in her step, her cheeks flushed with hot anger. She bit back a sharp question as to how Gwyneth had been fortunate to be among the few women of English blood to escape rape by the Normans. No doubt they had honored her as Wulfgar’s sister, but what gave her the right, Aislinn wondered, to ridicule those who had been dishonored? With rigid control she crossed to the hearth where the old man still slept. For a time she stood gazing down at him, letting compassion for this aged Saxon knight wash away the bite of Gwyneth’s words. As Ham came into the hall and approached her she turned.

“Mistress, the food is waiting to be served. What must we do?”

Aislinn smiled. “Poor Ham, you are not used to these hours the Normans keep. The promptness of my father spoiled you.”

Gwyneth spoke firmly as she joined them. “These Normans should be taught something of promptness. Let them have a taste of cold food but I prefer mine hot. Serve me a platter now.”

Aislinn moved her gaze until it rested upon Gwyneth, and she spoke with a calmness she did not necessarily feel. “ ’Tis the custom of this hall, Lady Gwyneth, to wait upon the lord when he has not told us otherwise. I would not discredit my lord with my haste.”

Gwyneth made as if to reply but Ham turned and left them, not questioning Aislinn’s authority. Gwyneth frowned and lifted a brow at the younger girl.

“These serfs should be taught respect.”

“They have always served well,” Aislinn replied in Ham’s defense.

The sound of horses approaching broke the stillness of the evening and Aislinn went to draw open the door. She waited as Wulfgar pulled his stallion to a halt before the steps and swung down. He came to her as his men led the horses away, and for a moment he paused beside her, letting his gaze range the length of her slender frame. With a soft glow in her eyes he murmured:

“You do me honor, cherie. I had not thought your beauty could be enhanced, but I see that perfection can indeed be improved upon.”

Aislinn blushed lightly at his compliment, knowing that Gwyneth listened and observed them carefully. Wulfgar bent to kiss her mouth, his lips parted and eager, but in some confusion Aislinn withdrew and held out a hand toward the other woman.

“Your sister is famished, my lord,” she said quickly. “Will your men be long?”

He lifted a brow sharply. “My lord?! What is this that you’ve forgotten so soon, Aislinn?”

She threw him a pleading look, her cheeks growing warmer now. “You were so long,” she replied, trying to distract him. “We were wondering if we must dine alone.”

Wulfgar grunted, giving her a scowl, and went to warm himself before the hearth, stepping carefully when he saw that the old man slept on. He stood with his back to the heat, his legs spread, his arms folded behind him and his somber stare followed Aislinn as she crossed to the door of the small cooking chamber just off the hall and gave instructions for the meal to be served. She returned, no less observed, and felt tacit disapproval in his gaze.

As Bolsgar stirred Aislinn went to kneel beside him and pressed her hand against his furrowed brow. He was warm to the touch, yet not overly much she decided. She gave him water and then with a satisfied sigh, he lay back upon the pelts again. He glanced around him, first seeing his daughter who had come forward and then Wulfgar who stood silently watching them all. The younger man presented his back to them and touched the toe of his shoe to a slow burning log in the hearth. He drew in a slow breath and looked up to some distant spot.

“You have not told me of my mother, sire. What of her? Is she well?”

The old man seemed to take his time in answering. “A year ago this December she died.”

“I had not heard,” Wulfgar murmured. He remembered her as she appeared when last he saw her, looking much like Gwyneth. He had no trouble recognizing his sister for that memory was etched upon his mind as if he had just seen her hours before staring silently after him as he rode away with Sweyn.

“We sent word of her death to Robert in Normandy,” Bolsgar said.

“I have not seen her brother these past ten years,” Wulfgar returned quietly, thrusting those haunting memories of his mother aside. “Robert always considered me an unwanted burden.”

“He was paid well to care for you. He should have welcomed that.”

Wulfgar snorted derisively. “Yea, it bought him plenty of ale so he could spread the news wide that his sister had cockolded a Saxon and that his nephew was in truth nothing more than a bastard. It seemed to amuse him that no man claimed me as son.”

“You were brought up as a proper-born son. You gained your knighthood,” the old man pointed out.

Wulfgar sighed. “Yea, Robert made me his page and saw me schooled, but only after Sweyn reminded him of his obligations with no less than a threat.”

The old man nodded slowly. “Robert was a frivolous man. I could not have hoped for more, I suppose. ’Tis good I sent Sweyn with you.”

Wulfgar’s features were strained and drawn. “Did you so hate me that you could not bear the sight of me?”

Aislinn lifted her gaze and her heart went out to Wulfgar, for she had never seen him look so miserable. As she glanced at Bolsgar she saw his eyes were brightened with tears but none came and the noble face was unreadable as he stared into the fire.

“For a time I hated you after learning the truth,” Bolsgar sought to explain. “It was a great soreness not to have sired a son like you. I thought you my first born and I had a father’s pride in you. For you I neglected my other son. You rode swifter and raced harder than anyone ever and seemed to have the very secret of life in your veins. I could not take much comfort in the weak, frail boy who came after you. You were my very life’s blood and I loved you more than myself.”

“Until my mother told you I belonged not to you but some Norman she refused to name,” Wulfgar murmured bitterly.

“She thought to set right a wrong. I took more delight in some man’s bastard son than my own children and she could not bear to see them slighted. She was willing to take the shame upon herself to set things aright for them. I could not condemn her for that. Nay, ‘twas my own gall that rose and made me set you from me. You who were the wind at my side, my shadow, my joy—but no son of my loins. I turned my heart to my own son and he grew strong and quick, then in his prime died. Would that I could have died in his place. But I am left to care for a railing maid whose tongue rivals her mother’s.” The old Saxon grew silent and pensive once more, and returned his stare to the flickering flames that warmed them.

Aislinn saw the injustice of it all and felt sympathy for the boy who had been rejected first by the mother and then by the father he had known too well. She wanted to reach out and touch the man now and soothe his hurt. He seemed the more vulnerable, for she had known him only otherwise, always strong, like the unscalable fortress, and she wondered if his heart could ever be reached.

Thoughtfully she rose and went to sit in the great chair before the fire to better consider him.

“We sent you away to your mother’s country, little knowing you would return in this manner.” Bolsgar’s voice was husky as if he struggled for control. “Did you know your brother died upon the hill of Senlac?”

Wulfgar’s head snapped up and he looked hard into the old face. Gwyneth whirled and stepped to them, her eyes flashing.

“Yea, the Norman thieves killed him. They killed my brother!”

Wulfgar turned his attention to her, raising a brow. “Norman thieves? You mean me, of course.”

She lifted her chin. “The thought does seem to fit you, Wulfgar.”

He smiled almost gently. “Be careful, sister. The manners of the defeated must always please the victor. You would do well, woman, to take some hints from my Aislinn.” He came to stand beside the latter’s chair and gazed down at her as she in turn watched him passively. “She plays the vanquished one so well”—his fingers toyed with a heavy coppery braid—“that I sometimes wonder if I’ve really won at all.”

With his words, laughter tugged at the corner of Aislinn’s lips and played around the edges of her eyes, but she gave no other sign and only Wulfgar took note. Idly he brushed a finger across her cheek.

“Yea, sister, you would do well to let the maid give you tutoring.”

Gwyneth trembled with rage as she took a step toward him. Wulfgar turned to face her, lifting a tawny brow in mockery as he watched her lips tighten and her eyes narrow.

“You wish to say something more, Gwyneth?” he inquired.

Her bosom heaved with the wrath she felt. “Yea,” she hissed. “And I say, brother, I wish it had been you who died instead of Falsworth.” She spat the words at him, ignoring Bolsgar’s plea for silence. “How I loathe you and despise the fact we must seek your charity to survive these wretched times.” Gwyneth turned upon Aislinn who sat amazed by the hatred she saw in the woman’s face. “You see fit to hold this wench before us as an example. But look how grand she clothes herself. Not exactly what the tragic women of England are wearing, is it?”

“Be thankful that I still live, sister,” Wulfgar said tersely. “For indeed you would be cast out to make your bed upon the cold earth without me here to give you these few comforts.”

“What is this?” a voice interrupted, and Ragnor approached from the door as men drifted in behind him to settle themselves at the tables. “A family quarrel so soon? Tsk. Tsk.” Ragnor feasted his eyes momentarily upon Aislinn, admiring the sleekness of her figure in the yellow gold of her gown, before he quickly took Gwyneth’s hands in his and drew them to his breast. “Aaah, sweet Gwyneth, has the fierce Wulfgar shown his fangs? Pray pardon his manners, my lady. Or give me leave and I will take him to task for you, for I cannot bear any insult to your grace and beauty.”

Gwyneth smiled stiffly. “ ’Tis natural that a brother finds quicker fault with his sister than would a stranger scarce known.”

“Even if I were a lover full known,” Ragnor murmured huskily with warmth, bending over her hand. “I could never find fault with you.”

Gwyneth pulled away with heightened color. “You take too much upon yourself, sir knight, to imagine that we could ever be lovers.”

Straightening, Ragnor smiled slowly. “Dare I to hope, damoiselle?”

Nervously Gwyneth looked to Wulfgar, who watched them quietly. Taking Aislinn’s hand and pulling her to her feet, he indicated the head table to his sister.

“Let us sup on friendlier terms, Gwyneth. We might as well, since we will be seeing much of one another henceforward.”

Gwyneth whirled abruptly away and allowed Ragnor to take her hand once more and lead her to her chair. As she settled into it he bent toward her, his eyes lightly caressed her.

“You stir my heart and set me aflame. What must I do to gain your kindness? I will be forever your slave.”

“Sir de Marte, you speak boldly,” Gwyneth stammered, her cheeks taking on a rosy hue. “You forget that my true brother was killed by Normans and I have little love for them myself.”

Ragnor slid into the chair beside hers. “But, damoiselle, surely you do not blame all Normans for your brother’s death. We were bound by oath to do as William commanded. If you must hate anyone, then hate the Duke but not me, damoiselle, I pray.”

“My mother was Norman,” Gwyneth murmured softly. “I did not hate her.”

“And you must not hate me,” Ragnor pleaded.

“I do not,” she breathed.

A grin spread across Ragnor’s face, showing flashing white teeth, as he caught her hand. “My lady, you have made me very happy.”

In her confusion Gwyneth turned her attention away and watched Wulfgar assist Aislinn into the chair beside his own. Her eyes grew cold once more and she stared hard at the younger woman, feeling the web of hate twine about her. A bland smile curved her lips.

“You did not tell us you married, brother.”

Wulfgar shook his head. “Married? Nay. Why so?”

Gwyneth’s attention shifted to Aislinn, and her pale eyes glittered.

“Then this Aislinn is no actual kin. I had thought her some prized and valued bride the way you honor her.”

Ragnor snickered and appeared thoroughly amused. He toasted Aislinn casually when she bent a frigid glance upon him, then he leaned close to whisper some amusing anecdote to Gwyneth which prompted her to burst gaily into laughter.