Carol Townend - His Captive Lady

Saewulf Brader’s jaw tightened, but he did not refute Hrothgar’s accusation.

It certainly was shocking, in a day when to produce a child out of wedlock was deemed one of the greatest sins a woman could commit. Erica’s breath caught as it struck her that, after tonight, that might be her fate. She sent another prayer winging heavenward that, whatever happened tonight, she must not conceive. And another, that Thane Guthlac would give her to the younger housecarl. Saewulf Brader’s birth was nothing set against her desire, her very strong desire, that she should not be given to Hrothgar.

Dimly, Erica was aware of more muttering down the table, more calls of, ‘Let them fight! A fight!’

She kept her gaze pinned on Guthlac Stigandson. ‘Please, my lord, for the respect you felt for my father, I ask you in acknowledgement of the respect he had for you. Let me choose.’

Her thoughts moved swiftly. And now , she told herself, no more words, lest you begin to beg . For she misliked the look of Thane Guthlac’s right-hand man. Neither in his words nor his manner did Hrothgar appear to be someone who would consider a woman’s feelings. But this other whose tunic she could not seem to release…this younger man who, though low in the pecking order, had spoken up for her. It was little enough to judge a man by, but what else had she to go on? The ridiculous realisation that, even in this hall, on this most hideous of nights, she found Saewulf Brader attractive? Those thickly lashed blue eyes seemed to be the only eyes in the hall to see her, to really see her; his wide shoulders suggested that here was a man strong enough to share her burdens; the fine-boned fingers clenching and unclenching on his swordhilt hinted at a sensitivity she would not have looked for in a warrior loyal to Thane Guthlac.

She must be losing her wits. For even in the midst of her humiliation, she found herself drawn to this Saewulf Brader.

Thane Guthlac was stroking his beard, making much of coming to a decision. Erica swallowed down a bitter taste. She was only too conscious of the men on the benches holding their breath, awaiting his judgement. Her fate, the question of whether she was to be given to Thane Guthlac’s champion or his rawest recruit, was little more to most of them than an evening’s entertainment. A minstrel or a dancing girl would have been received with like interest and with as little concern.

Biting back a tart response, Erica gripped Saewulf Brader’s brown homespun for all she was worth. She lowered her gaze, for, if Guthlac Stigandson saw the anger that must be burning in her eyes, he would surely give her to Hrothgar. She wanted to fly at her father’s old enemy, kicking and screaming; she wanted to turn tail and run. But one thing weighed more than her anger at Thane Guthlac—her determination that Morcar, Hrolf and the others should not rot in that noisome cottage. Add to that her hatred of Normans and her vision that the two warbands should unite against those who had stolen her father’s lands…

She stood firm, it was all she could do. Erica of Whitecliffe was at the mercy of Thane Guthlac’s whim. And to think that the men watching so avidly were fellow Saxons…

Thane Guthlac pushed up her chin. ‘Lady Erica, you are a brave woman, you do not weep and wail, you are a daughter a man could be proud of—a peace-weaver.’ He waved at Saewulf Brader. ‘Take Thane Eric’s daughter—this night a true-born lady is yours.’

A sigh rippled round the hall like the wind in the reeds, but Erica barely heard it. She dragged in a breath.

At her side the dark head bowed briefly. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ Saewulf Brader spoke quietly and without triumph. Her heart warmed to him. Then blue eyes were looking into hers and he offered her his hand. The palm was callused from much swordplay and for a moment she blinked at it. ‘Lady Erica?’

Erica managed to release the death grip she had on his tunic and strong fingers closed on hers.

‘No! No! ’ Ailric renewed his struggles with his captors, but a sharp elbow to his stomach had him rolling in the rushes, gasping for breath like a landed fish.

Thane Guthlac grinned briefly in Ailric’s direction before transferring his attention back to Saewulf Brader. ‘You may…rest in the storeroom tonight.’

Saewulf Brader’s grip tightened and he led her towards a small door to one side of the hall. Laughter erupted behind them. The blood rushed in Erica’s ears.

‘My apologies, Hrothgar,’ she heard Guthlac say. ‘Despite the feud, I find I have some liking for that girl. She is courageous—for a woman.’

Hrothgar let out one of his snorts and signalled for more ale. ‘I care not. Truth be told, the wench is too tall for my taste anyway.’

In a daze, in which Erica could not have told whether relief or trepidation held the upper hand, she watched Saewulf Brader’s lean fingers reach for the door latch. The storeroom door swung open, a dark space opened out before her, and he gestured her inside. Thane Guthlac’s laughing response to Hrothgar, the retching noises Ailric was still making, and the noise and babble in the hall faded.

Blackness, shadows. Erica held down a groan and her steps slowed—she had a hearty mislike of the dark.

The wooden lintel was so low that Saewulf Brader was ducking his head as he followed her in. He glanced frowningly around the ill-lit, cramped space, which was almost entirely taken up with barrels and narrow-necked clay jars, before his gaze ran slowly over her face.

‘Dark,’ Erica muttered, hugging herself, and hating that he should see this weakness in her. ‘Too dark.’

‘Wait here, my lady, I will bring light.’ The shadows retreated as he opened the door and stepped back into the hall. When he closed it behind him, they advanced again.

Erica stared through the gloom at the rectangular sliver of light around the edge of the storeroom door. Her heartbeat was erratic, her hands were shaking. She curled them into her skirts.

Wait here? Where else might she go? she wondered, wildly. Hysteria was a breath away. Staring at the cracks of light, she strove for calm. He would not hurt her, not this one. Might he hurt her—had she misread him? But, Sweet Mother, how she hated the dark.

In the hall a dog yelped, another snarled. She heard the murmur of voices, muffled by the door, the scrape of a stool leg on the floorboards. She could no longer hear Ailric.

Calm, Erica, calm. He does not seem cruel. He —

The door swung back and a broad-shouldered form stooped to enter—Saewulf Brader with a flickering oil lamp and a bundle. Another, slighter shadow darkened the doorway, and a thin pallet was heaved onto the floor, next to a barrel.

‘My thanks, Maldred,’ Saewulf Brader said.

The door shut, cutting off another burst of laughter.

He set the lamp on top of the barrel along with a couple of tallow candles. ‘We will save those for later.’

Later. Erica’s breath froze. Later.

He faced her. Smiled. There was so little room that he was scarcely a foot away from her. He was very tall, this man to whom she had been given, his head almost touching the planked ceiling. And, now that he stood close, Erica could see that he did indeed look young. She clung to the thought that she was most likely his senior, by a couple of years at least. How ridiculous that this thought should give her ease. Saewulf Brader’s skin was smooth and his eyes were clear, the blue rimmed by a charcoal-coloured ring. And he was, she realised with a start, examining her with equal attention. Convulsively, she swallowed.

‘Do not fear me. You are safe,’ he said, softly.

‘I…I thank you.’ Absurdly, she believed him.