Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment (5 page)

Tarian hissed and whirled around. Edith spoke her brazen thoughts! Heat flushed her cheeks. And yet, even as she rejected the idea, she knew it might be the only way. Wide-eyed, she stared at her maid. The old woman smiled. “Do not deny you are attracted to him.”

“He is a Norman!” Tarian tried to refute.

“Aye, and you are too bright to ignore the fact that they are here to stay. Use him to your advantage. He will not slay a woman who carries his child, not even for his king.”

“But! What guarantee do I have that I am fertile?”

“In less than two days’ time you will be ripe to conceive. Take his seed, and a month’s time will tell us if it strikes fertile ground or not. Then keep what is yours.”

Nervously, Tarian gasped. “How do you know my time is ripe?”

Edith took her hand and pulled her toward the tub. “Your time comes every twenty-eight days. Your courses struck the day the Norman dragged you from that hellhole. No one noticed the blood amidst your torn and dirty rags. ’Tis widely known among midwives that most fertile women conceive a fortnight after the first appearance of flow. ’Twill be a fortnight in two nights’ time.”

Tarian stood silent, stunned by the turn of events. Was it the only way? “How—how will I get him to lie with me? He is not dense. He will know what I am about.”

Edith lifted the chemise from Tarian and helped her into the bath. “You forget, sweeting, I am well versed in herbs and potions. My mother was a renowned midwife to noble ladies. A simple balm of rose musk and violet and a few other herbs will put the Norman into a deep sleep, and when you awaken him he will be ravenous for a woman. He will have seed enough to sire a new nation. When he
wakes the next morn, you will be gone, and but a fleeting dream.”

As she sank into the warm water and it softly sloshed against her skin, Tarian dared to think of what his hand would feel like upon her. She shivered hard and wrapped her arms around her knees, bringing them close to her chest. “I dare to hope he is not nearly as violent as Malcor.”

Edith smoothed her hair back from her cheeks and made low soothing sounds. “Malcor is dead, my sweet child. You have nothing to fear from him. He was the devil’s spawn.”

Aye, and the Norman? Heat flared in her veins. He was the devil himself.

“It has been nearly a fortnight!” Wulfson bellowed as he paced the long length of the great hall. Pent-up energy, frustration, and lust for an enigma erupted in an ugly display of temper. “I demand the lady be presented at once!”

He stopped his pacing and faced the great assemblage of men. They were as restless as he. They hungered for battle. They hungered for a woman. The endless days of monotonous exercise and patrols had only served to whet their appetite for real swordplay.

“Sir Wulfson,” Gareth said, coming down from the winding stairway. Wulfson’s eyes traveled past the Dane’s head to the hallway above, to where the witch lay, no doubt concocting spells. “My lady is not yet well enough to make an appearance.”

“
Jesu
! What does it take?”

Gareth stopped several paces from the raging Norman. He shuffled his feet and looked to the matted rushes. “I know not, milord knight.”

Wulfson would know. “Is she with child?”

Gareth’s head shot back, but he answered quickly. “The midwife says it can take months for some women to show the signs of a child.”

“It has been over a month since she lay with Malcor. Surely that is enough time!”

He was itching to put the place behind him.

“I would see for myself as well, Sir Wulfson,” Rangor said, sweeping into the hall with several of his men behind him.

Wulfson narrowed his gaze at the older man. His initial perception had proved to be correct. Rangor of Lerwick skulked about the manor as if he had secrets to hide. His constant righteous diatribes had long since worn Wulfson’s temper thin. On more than one occasion, he had had to be held in check by one of his men, as his fist was on its way into the noble’s mouth. His men taunted him, but they too had had enough of the baron.

“I am sure you
would
like to see for yourself, Rangor, but you will not have the chance. The lady is not a cow to be examined by would-be buyers.”

Ioan scoffed, as did Thorin who stood close by. Wulfson shot them both a glare. His fists opened and closed, and as he looked around the great hall he felt as if it mocked him. They were down to six knights, surrounded by the lady’s well-armed and seasoned garrison and a contingent of Rangor’s men. ’Twas turning into a suicide mission.

His eyes swept the hall and landed on Gareth, who if truth be told did not overly concern him. The man was besotted with his lady. ’Twas unnatural the way he flitted between his garrison and the chamber above. Wulfson scowled. Mayhap there was truth to Rangor’s accusations. The Dane, while past the prime of his life, had plenty left to sire a child or two. Aye, it was whispered he had never
married because he only had eyes for the witch he protected. What spells had she cast on the men about her?

Malcor, a deviant known for his preference for squires, had succumbed to her, as had his uncle who, though a fop in Wulfson’s mind, could be construed by the ladies a virile man,
and
the captain of her guard? No wonder the cloister did not want her. His scowl deepened. Nor did he.

And as of yet Wulfson had not heard back from William on the matter. But he did not expect to hear so soon. In the missive, he had requested more men. He had also sent word to his brother-in-arms, Rohan du Luc, who resided in Alethorp two days’ hard ride to the east.

Once again he paced the hall, debating on forcing the issue: the lady presenting herself or waiting for reinforcements. The warrior in him drew on prudence. No purpose would be served to have the lady dragged from her sickbed. But his cock throbbed with his imagined image of her. In his mind he had created an exotic creature that would only be tamed by his hand.

“God’s blood!” he swore, and turned on his heel, bent on seeing for himself this woman who plagued his every waking moment.

The lookout called that riders approached. Thank the saints! Any interruption would be better than this endless waiting.

He swept out of the hall and called to his Blood Swords to follow. A bedraggled group of men, bearing a standard he did not recognize, made their way up the road and into the bailey. As they approached, Wulfson noted that they were foot soldiers, bearing fresh wounds. Slung over a horse was the body of a servant who bore the yellow and blue colors of the hawk standard.

“’Tis Alewith’s men,” Gareth said, stepping past Wulfson and his men. They followed.

“Who, pray tell, is Alewith?” Wulfson demanded.

“Lady Tarian’s former guardian.”

The soldiers quickly told the tale of how they were ambushed just past Hailfox Abbey, and the attacking thugs had spoken of plundering the monks. “Methinks they were Normans,” one soldier said before he collapsed in the dirt. His comrades were too wounded to assist him.

Wulfson balked at the accusation. Welsh, Saxon, Scot, or even Irish, but not his countrymen. William was adamant in his edict:
There will be no illicit plundering of the Saxons!
’Twould only force them to dig in deeper, and that was the last thing the king wished. He wanted to smooth the transition as much as possible, and harassing the Saxons for no reason was simply not acceptable.

Wulfson turned to the other soldiers. “Were they knights or afoot?”

“Afoot, a score or more,” the one who had collapsed croaked.

“To horse, men!” Wulfson called, his voice high with excitement.

“I will show you the way,” Gareth said, making his way toward the stable.

Vigorously Wulfson shook his head. “And leave your lady prey to Rangor?”

Gareth halted, his skin paling. “Aye, how could I have thought to leave her? I’ll send the smith’s son Barton with you. He can show you the way to the abbey. He grew up not far from here and is familiar with the area.”

The abbey was intact, as were the monks. Wulfson questioned them, and was assured there had been no mishaps that day. Convinced that all was as it should be, he and his men rode through the surrounding countryside, and while they found evidence of a skirmish not far from the abbey, there were no clear tracks.

He wondered at the Saxon’s claims, but the evidence was proof enough they had been attacked. In these times random assaults were not uncommon. And he had firsthand experience of Saxons disguising themselves as Normans or Vikings to plunder their neighbors. ’Twas acts of desperation. Wulfson snorted in disgust. Desperate or not, he would never see the honor in pillaging one’s neighbor.

And so they spent the balance of the day familiarizing themselves with more of the countryside and keeping a sharp eye out for the cowards.

Later that day, when the knights thundered up the hill to Draceadon, Wulfson immediately became suspicious when the lookout did not herald their arrival. All seemed too quiet for such a bustling place. Dread infiltrated him, and he spurred his horse faster.

As they entered the courtyard, Wulfson barely came to a stop before dismounting and hurrying to the great doors. He flung them open, and the sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks.

The hall was completely empty. Eerie silence rested on Wulfson’s shoulders with the weight of his mail. As the Blood Swords followed him in, they too abruptly halted at the emptiness. Wulfson drew both swords and ran to the stairway, his men following, sure he would find
the chamber door to the lady’s room flung wide and her gone.

Instead, he was met with Gareth’s sword. “What goes on here?” Wulfson demanded.

“Stand back, sir, the lady is not to be disturbed,” Gareth warned, standing his ground.

In a great swipe, using both swords as one, Wulfson flung Gareth’s sword from his hands, and a brace of the Dane’s men stepped forward from behind him in battle positions. Wulfson pressed a sword tip to each of their chests, and pinned them to the wall. Rorick maneuvered Gareth in the same fashion, but against the opposite wall. “Do not engage me; you will die for the effort,” Wulfson warned.

Slowly, angrily, the men raised their arms in acquiescence. Wulfson stepped back but held his swords. “Where are the servants, and that yap Rangor and his entourage? The hall is empty.”

Gareth’s face flushed crimson in his anger. Or, Wulfson decided, his sagging pride.

“Nothing is amiss. The servants tend Alewith’s messenger and men. I sent Rangor from the hall under the threat of violence. He is no doubt plotting both our demises amongst the ruins of the tower.”

Wulfson scowled and backed farther away from the chamber door. He pointed to the door with his sword. “The lady?”

“Continues to gain her strength within.”

“What message does Alewith send?”

“That my lord should arrive in time to break the fast on the morrow. He comes to see to the health of his charge, and, my guess is, to take her back to Trent.”

“Trent?”

Gareth nodded. “Aye, of all the places milady has lived, Trent gave her the most hospitality.”

“You make it sound as if she lived a gypsy life.”

Gareth’s lips drew into a tight line. “A gypsy had it easier.”

Wulfson visualized a dark-haired, blue-eyed waif of a girl reaching out for acceptance only to find dirt kicked in her face. His jaw set. ’Twas a scene to which he could well relate. He had spent much of his own youth being tossed back and forth between a blood family that did not want the blight of him on their doorstep and a foster family that had grudgingly, but for a considerable sum, taken him in.

Wulfson sheathed his swords to his back. “Give the lady notice. She is to present herself when her guardian arrives in the morn. Should she fail to do so in a timely manner, I will personally see her brought down.” Gareth opened his mouth to argue. Wulfson stayed him with a raised sword. “Her time is up, captain. We would know her condition.”

Wulfson turned on his heel and strode down the stairway followed by his men, feeling, despite the day’s adventure, more restless than before.

Tarian moved back from the doorway and looked to Edith. “My time is up.”

The old nurse smiled, her wrinkles crinkling deeply around her eyes and mouth. “Nay, sweeting, your time is ripe. Tonight you will visit the Norman, and in the morn, when asked if you are with child, you can give the honest answer of ignorance.”

“But—”

Edith shushed her. “It can take months for some women to show the signs. Many women are not even aware. For others it is immediate. We have time, my love, be patient and trust me.”

This was not an area Tarian was remotely schooled in. Horses, swords, and how to fashion an arrow she knew; of things domestic she did not. “How will I know?”

“You will miss your courses, your breasts will become tender and plumped, and as slight as you are, your belly will swell within two months’ time as your body prepares to grow the babe. You may get the morning sickness, though it can last throughout the day. Your mother, poor thing, spent many a day hovered over a chamber pot.”

Tarian stiffened at the mention of the woman who bore her. No mother was she. She had given birth to her, yes, but then abandoned her in shame. Had Edith not taken Tarian to her sire, who handed her off to one of several successive foster families, she would not be alive. Tarian owed Edie her life. And now, once again, Edie came to her rescue.

“I fear him, Edie, as I have never feared a man or a woman in my life,” she confessed.

“What? The shield maiden fears a simple man?”

Tarian tried to muster a smile, but felt the tremble of her chin. A virgin warrior was she, and though she could meet a man in battle with no fear, the thought of meeting one in bed terrified her. Combined with her fear, her conscience nettled her; she was not one to gain the upper hand by nefarious actions, but she could see no other way out of her dilemma.

Edith caught her trepidation, and took her hands into her own. “The Norman is virile, he is strong, and I suspect he has not had a woman for some time. And he will be anxious, but you must set the pace, as you would with your stallion.” She pulled Tarian away from the window and
deeper into the chamber. “Come, I’ll prepare a rosewater bath, then rub you down with oil.”

“Rose, ’tis not my scent, Edie.”

“Aye, that I well know. You do not want him to smell you out at your first public meeting, do you?”

Tarian smiled slyly, her nervousness fading. “You are a devious woman, Edie.”

The old woman cackled and nodded. “’Tis kept me alive these seventy years.”

After her bath, Tarian admitted, “I would have some of your experience this night, Edie. I know not what to do.”

Edith set about laying out oils and linens. “Nature will guide you.”

Tarian slipped from the bed where she sat. “It did not guide Malcor.”

Edith scoffed. “A man who cannot rise to a woman such as yourself is no man at all.”

“What kind of woman am I?” Tarian asked as she came around and poured a cup of wine from the side table. It did not quell the nervousness in her belly.

“A beauty with no equal, a woman with the brain of a man and the will of a queen. You are a prize among all prizes, Tarian. Never forget it.”

“I am the daughter of a man called
nithing
by his king and his brothers, an outcast of the lowest form. I am no prize.”

Edith caught her breath and turned angry eyes upon her. “
Never
say that word in my presence!”

Tarian stood straight and proud. “The term does not offend me as it once did, Edie. I know my strengths and I know my flaws; I am but a woman trying to make her way
in a man’s world where they make all the rules. What more can I do?”

“Play the game better.”

Tarian smiled. “Aye, and am I not a chessmaster?”

Tired and still frustrated despite the day’s excitement, Wulfson climbed the steps to the well-appointed chamber he’d claimed during his time there. It was the only consolation he would grudgingly concede. He had grown accustomed to the thick mattress on the sturdy bed. Despite his frustration, he had found sleep the moment his head hit the soft downy pillow each night. Though he had offered to share the rich accommodations with them, his men spread out on pallets in the hall. ’Twas best for their safety that way. The old fortress, while simple in construction, had fortifications that few other large dwellings in this land could boast. Unlike most English manor houses, Draceadon resembled more a castle. The place had been a refuge over the last two centuries not only from the warring Welsh, but also from the Norse, and from the bloodthirsty Irish pirates when they skulked inland.