Carol Townend - His Captive Lady

‘Do you reckon the ale will spoil if I shift this? We need elbow space to sleep in.’ He nudged a barrel with the toe of his boot, and, without waiting for her reply, set about moving it to one side. His voice took on the edge of laughter. ‘Guthlac will have me pilloried if I spoil his ale.’

Strong muscles bunched and shifted under his tunic. A tunic that, now Erica had leisure to study it, she saw was simple in design, a brown worsted with no embroidery either at cuff or hem. A straightforward weave, it had once been of a reasonable quality, but it had seen better days. His belt was wide and simple, had no fancy pattern chased into the leather. His chausses were grey. Long boots hid most of his cross-gartering, but she saw a flash of blue. But why did he have no arm-rings?

Erica backed against another barrel to give him room to manoeuvre. Saewulf Brader was, she recognised as she swallowed hard on the lump in her throat, the image of health. He should have won at least a couple of trophies. But his lack of arm-rings was not uppermost in her thoughts. Young men, healthy young men were, in Erica’s admittedly limited experience, not entirely reliable where women were concerned. This she had learnt from listening to Ailric and Hereward. Even when Ailric had hoped to become her betrothed, he had visited the tavern girls by the docks in Lewes.

Until today, Erica had led a sheltered life—her high status had protected her. Physically, at least. Politically, of course, she was far from sheltered. A favoured only daughter, many was the night that she had sat at her father’s board listening to his men; many a time she had joined in their debates. Which was how her father’s housecarls had come to heed her counsel when news had come of Thane Eric’s death. Physically though, she remained naïve. Even though Erica had fled Whitecliffe with her father’s men, and had been living the life of an outlaw ever since, they remained extremely protective of her. Not one of her housecarls would dream of laying a finger on her. Physically, she was as chaste and innocent as a nun in an enclosed order.

Today that had changed. Erica had come to Thane Guthlac to end the bloodfeud. She was the sacrifice and she must personally make reparation for the slight suffered by Guthlac’s mother.

Silently, she stared at Saewulf Brader’s broad back as he worked and wondered what was running through his mind. He might have no arm-rings, but tonight he had been given a trophy. Her. Could she take him at his word? Could she trust him not to…touch her? He was—she must remember—Guthlac Stigandson’s man.

‘Saewulf?’

He ceased rolling a barrel closer to the wall, and glanced across. ‘Hmm?’

‘Wh…what have they done with Ailric?’

‘Locked him up with your other man,’ came the brief answer. Turning away, he continued clearing their sleeping space.

‘Thane Guthlac would not harm them, would he?’

Again the blue eyes met hers. A shrug. ‘I think not.’ He rested an elbow on the barrel. ‘This Ailric,’ he asked quietly, ‘you were to marry him?’

‘I…I…at one time. Not now.’

‘But there is…affection between you?’

Erica twisted her hands together. For her part, she had never felt anything more for Ailric than for any other of her father’s housecarls. Ailric, on the other hand, had been wont to act as though she belonged to him. Not that that had prevented him from visiting those tavern girls with Hereward.

Guthlac’s man smiled, and his expression softened. Erica’s pulse quickened—he was extraordinarily well favoured when he smiled.

‘Ailric certainly appears possessive where you are concerned.’

‘Yes.’

‘He will be angry after tonight.’ A thoughtful look came over him and he sighed. ‘I dare say he will wish to kill me. Such is the nature of a bloodfeud, so it continues, feeding on itself like yeast in a brew-tub.’

Erica bit her lip and glanced at the door. ‘But you said that you would not…that you…you swore you would n-not…’

‘Peace, my lady.’ The blue gaze was steady. ‘I will keep that vow. At dawn you will leave this chamber as pure as you were when you entered it.’

Again he smiled, and again Erica’s heart warmed towards him, for taking care to reassure her. His mouth was beautiful, she thought, disconcerted. One could see more of a man’s expression when he was not hiding behind a beard as was the Saxon fashion. And certainly in Saewulf Brader’s case, the lack of beard was far from unattractive. The curve of his mouth and the shape of his jaw—strong…

Presenting his back to her, he rolled one of the barrels in front of the door, grunting with the effort. ‘And before you object…’ His voice was amused, though how on earth Erica could tell that she could not say. Saewulf Brader was Guthlac’s man, a stranger, yet already she knew when his voice was smiling. ‘Before you object, my lady, I am putting this here to ensure that you may sleep in privacy this night. It is not there to keep you imprisoned.’ Straightening, he dusted his hands on his thighs.

‘Saewulf?’

He came close, so close that she had to tip back her head to look up at him. ‘My friends call me Wulf.’

‘Wulf.’ Erica gave him a shaky smile and broke eye contact. Wulf. It suited him. And, since January was wulf-monath , the month of the wolves, it was fitting somehow. Sweet Lord, but he was tall. Having inherited her father’s height, Erica was unaccustomed to looking up at a man; it made her feel…shy. And Wulf’s proximity in the cramped storeroom made his physical presence seem overpowering. It was not simply his height; it was the width of his shoulders, the intensity of his gaze. If he wanted to, he would have no trouble in forcing her. But, thankfully, he did not appear to have any such intention. Her guardian angel must have been watching over her this night. This particular wolf was not of the ravening sort.

‘Wulf…’ she swallowed ‘…how apt.’ The name Wulf was, however, a timely reminder. Here she was, a lone woman among a pack of wolves, and he was one of them—she must not forget that. However personable Seawulf Brader appeared, she must keep in mind that he was Thane Guthlac’s man.

‘Apt? Oh, I see, of course, you would think that. It is wulf-monath —you must feel you have been flung into a den of them.’

Erica’s jaw dropped—he could read her so easily? She looked at the pulse beating in his neck and frowned. ‘Wulf, I…I do thank you for your help. But I wonder…’

‘My lady?’

‘It is just that I am not certain why Thane Guthlac gave me to you and not to…to…that other one—his name escapes me.’

‘Hrothgar.’

‘Yes. Why did he give me to you when you made it clear then that you had no intention of…?’ She tried unsuccessfully to hold down a blush and would have turned away, but a light touch brought her face back to his.

‘That is easily answered. After tonight, my lady, you will find that your status has changed—no one will believe that you are chaste. It will matter not that I have not touched you, everyone will assume the worst. And because—’ his hand fell away and steel entered those blue eyes ‘—because I am what I am, your disparagement will be the more certain, your fall from grace the more precipitate.’

‘How so?’ Erica’s chest was tight; there was not nearly enough air in this storeroom.

Seeming to sense her discomfort, he eased back a pace, though his eyes remained cold. ‘Did you not hear Thane Guthlac and Hrothgar? Not only am I new to the warband and untried in battle, but I…’ He gave her a mocking bow. ‘Thane Guthlac recalls me from my childhood in Southwark. He knows I am Winifred Brader’s illegitimate son, and he has made sure that every man sworn to him knows me for what I am—a bastard, a low-born bastard.’