Carol Townend - His Captive Lady

Eyes narrowing, Thane Guthlac raised his ale cup. He drank deep, set the cup down with deliberate slowness and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Aye, boy ,’ he said, managing with one word to emphasise his seniority in both rank and age, ‘so you might think. But what say you to the honour that saw one of her father’s housecarls abduct my mother and take her against her will?’

Wulf’s heart thudded as he realised the enormity of what he was up against. ‘One of Thane Eric’s men did violate your mother—it is true, then?’

‘Just so.’ Guthlac’s lips thinned and his voice became soft, but no less dangerous. ‘Her blood cries out for vengeance, so stand back, Saewulf Brader, let honour be satisfied.’

Somehow Lady Erica was keeping her composure. Tall and stately, she stood with lowered eyes and with only that almost imperceptible quivering of her veil to show the agitation that she must be feeling. Wulf ought to step back, De Warenne would wish it—his commission was of the first importance. But Wulf could not do it. The memory of his dead half-sister had kept him in this place when he should have gone hours ago, and now it drove him on. ‘My lord—’

‘ He wants her.’ Hrothgar’s mouth became ugly. ‘That is what this is about—Saewulf fancies the girl himself. What’s the matter, Brader, wouldn’t Maude oblige last night? Never mind, boy ,’ he sneered. ‘Since we are, as my lord has explained, honourable men, I will fight you for her.’

Wulf’s mouth went dry. He thought quickly. He did not want to fight Hrothgar, but if he did fight and if he won, he might be able to keep the lady safe. He swallowed; he might be one of the rawest of the housecarls in this place, but he had trained shoulder to shoulder with De Warenne’s knights, and his swordplay was strong. Hrothgar had no idea what he was up against. When Wulf had ‘enlisted’ with the rebels, he had naturally been tested in combat, but he had held back, misliking that these men should know his true measure.

Lady Erica waited, apparently meekly between Wulf and Hrothgar, while Hrothgar held fast to her arm. Remember why you are here —Wulf felt the anger rise within him— remember your commission. You should not be drawing attention to yourself . But Wulf could not tear his eyes from the large hand crushing the purple cloth of the lady’s sleeve and he knew that, whatever the cost, he could not see Erica of Whitecliffe ravished as Marie had been. Clenching his fists, he struggled for control. A hot head would not help him here; he must use his anger, not be used by it.

The lady’s head came up and those green eyes fastened on him. There was a slight crease between her brows. Tall Erica of Whitecliffe might be, her height equalled Hrothgar’s, but she only reached Wulf’s shoulder.

Wulf smiled. She did not return his smile, but her eyes ran over him, assessing him as she would a thoroughbred. Wulf felt oddly naked and hoped he was not flushing. Resigning himself to a hard, bloody fight, he was opening his mouth to accept Hrothgar’s challenge, but the lady forestalled him.

‘My lord?’ Erica darted a swift look under her lashes at the tall young warrior who was apparently prepared to risk life and limb to save her from the attentions of Thane Guthlac’s right-hand man. Thane Guthlac had referred to him as Saewulf Brader. He was, as Hrothgar had pointed out, some years Hrothgar’s junior. Why, Saewulf Brader might even be younger than herself. His hair was thick and dark and a deal shorter than most of the men’s, and while he was not exactly clean-shaven, he wore no beard. Perhaps it was the lack of beard that gave him his youthful appearance. Erica was twenty-four years old, and, if put to it, she would judge Saewulf Brader to be a couple of years younger than her.

Her mind raced. His youthfulness would not necessarily be a disadvantage in combat; he was big and solidly built, with strong muscles that showed clearly beneath that worn brown tunic. His hands were oddly at variance with his calling; they were beautifully shaped for a warrior, long fingered and fine-boned but—Erica frowned—no arm-rings jingled at his wrist. Had he won no prizes for his skill at arms? How odd, when a warrior was so strong he usually had any number of arm-rings…

For a moment their eyes met and her heart stuttered. His eyes were blue, bright and clear as the sky above the South Downs at harvest time, and framed by thick dark lashes. Saewulf Brader, Erica thought somewhat breathlessly, was physical perfection. No, not quite perfection; there were shadows under his eyes that hinted of fatigue, there were lines of tension, too…but, that aside, he was physically perfect—the man looked every inch a lady’s champion.

If she could but trust him.

Saewulf was apparently a newcomer to Thane Guthlac’s band and he did not hold with the bloodfeud, but did that mean Erica could rely on him? The lack of arm-rings was a worry, too…maybe he was not as adept as he looked.

‘Lady Erica, you had something you wished to say?’ Guthlac’s tone warned her that he was startled at her interference, but Erica took heart from his continuing use of her title. For even if Thane Guthlac was planning to force her to lie with one of his men as his price for ending the bloodfeud, he was still paying lip-service to the courtesies. Provided she showed herself to be amenable, he would not beat her or force her in that way. A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm her.

Provided she was amenable .

Another stolen glance at Saewulf Brader, a briefer one at Hrothgar, whose fingers were gouging holes in her arm and who had roused an immediate and instinctive loathing in her, and Erica had made up her mind. ‘Might I choose, my lord?’

Thane Guthlac’s brows climbed, and on the benches someone groaned, ‘No, my lord, a fight, give us a fight!’ Other men, loathe to lose what was speedily becoming the best night’s entertainment in years, joined in the chorus. ‘A fight! Give us a fight!’

Wrenching herself free of Hrothgar, Erica clasped her hands at her breast. ‘Please, my lord, let me choose. What sense in permitting two of your finest to wound themselves? We shall need every man in the coming conflict, when we fight as one.’ Beside her, the warrior Saewulf shifted, but he said nothing. The warmth of his body was oddly comforting.

Hrothgar snorted. ‘My skin is not at risk, my lord. This boy is all ambition and no staying power.’

Thane Guthlac exchanged grins with his champion. Ice trickled down Erica’s spine—she was certain her request was about to be denied. ‘My lord,’ she rushed into speech, ‘I do not relish the thought of Saxon blood being spilled on my account. If I agree to your terms, why make them fight? The bloodfeud will have ended, your honour will be satisfied, and your men and mine will have new allies against the Normans.’

‘Who would you choose?’ Thane Guthlac scratched his neck, his tone so casual, so idle, it was nothing less than an insult.

Swallowing down a rush of rage, Erica reached blindly for the brown homespun of Saewulf Brader’s tunic. ‘This one,’ she murmured, praying her instincts were not letting her down. As her fingers curled into the fabric, they closed on hard muscle beneath. ‘I would choose this one.’

Chapter Five

‘He is not nobly born, my lady,’ Hrothgar hissed in her ear.

Erica shrugged. ‘I care not. If I am allowed a choice, I choose this man.’

‘Oh, but it is worse than that, my lady.’ Hrothgar’s lips curled and he shot the young man standing stiffly at Erica’s side a disdainful look. ‘Brader is a bastard.’