Carol Townend - His Captive Lady

‘But, my lady,’ her housecarl protested as, at Guthlac’s nod, two men leaped to restrain him, ‘he means you harm!’

‘Ailric, be still.’

‘Ailric?’ Guthlac Stigandson looked with calculating curiosity at the lady. ‘This man means something to you?’

Ailric strained against his captors. ‘I should hope that I do, Thane Eric said I was to marry Lady Erica before…before…’

‘Before the Norman bastard came and killed him?’

‘Aye!’

A slender, beringed hand came to rest on the outlaw’s sleeve. ‘Thane Guthlac, the feud must end.’

Guthlac ground his teeth, and got heavily to his feet. ‘No, my lady, not yet. The bloodfeud is a matter of honour . Its continuance is as vital to me as the duty a thane owes to his liege lord. Know this: your father was my sworn enemy in the matter of the feud between our families. But he and I fought shoulder to shoulder for Harold at Hastings. And though Thane Eric was my enemy, I honour him. He died an honourable death, fighting for his king.’

‘Then surely, my lord—’ Lady Erica’s steady voice carried clearly to every corner of the hall, a hall that to Wulf’s mind was filled with an increasingly ugly air of expectancy ‘—you could find it in your heart to end this bloodfeud? You honour my father as a warrior, and I know he honoured you in the same way, but—’

‘Silence!’ Guthlac’s fists clenched. He turned to face his wife. ‘And you, woman…’

Lady Hilda’s lips tightened, but she answered meekly, ‘My lord?’

Guthlac jerked his head in the direction of the door. ‘Out! I will see you later, when this business is concluded. Wait for me in our chamber.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

The atmosphere was thick with tension, and was almost suffocating. Wulf’s skin crawled. Whatever Guthlac had planned for this Saxon lady, he doubted she was ready for it. At the edge of his vision, Hrothgar wound his fingers round his swordhilt, bracelets flashing in the candlelight.

Lady Hilda pushed back her stool, dropped a quick curtsy at her lord, and sent Erica of Whitecliffe a pitying look. Waving for her ladies, she scurried with them from the hall.

Guthlac stared coldly at Erica of Whitecliffe, now the only woman present. Gripping her by the arm, he hauled her to her feet. His words were slightly slurred from all the ale. ‘So, daughter of Eric, you are to make reparation for the slight your family did to mine.’

Lady Erica stood, slim and straight as a wand next to Guthlac’s solid bulk. She tossed her white veil out of the way, a veil of so fine a weave that her dark braids were visible beneath the fluttering silk. Her cheeks were pale, her expression composed, but the hem of that veil was trembling. Her composure was a mask; she knew what was likely to happen to her. The bile rose in Wulf’s throat.

‘I will do it,’ Hrothgar said, getting up to seize the lady’s other arm. His mouth twisted. ‘Seeing as you are a married man, my lord.’

One man made a lewd remark. Another spluttered into his ale.

‘My lord!’ Wulf scrambled to his feet. He was not certain, but he feared that the Lady Erica was about to face the same fate as his sister. With his commission, the last thing he needed to do was to draw attention to himself, but he could not stand by and let this happen. ‘You cannot sanction this…it…it would be rape!’

Great green eyes fixed on him, wide and startled— Wulf felt their impact in his core. Then Lady Erica seemed to draw calmness about her person like a cloak and her features went blank. It was as though she had somehow absented herself from the hall.

‘Rape?’ Guthlac Stigandson was shaking his head and several around the board murmured their agreement. ‘Not rape, but reparation, Brader, reparation . Since you have not been long of our number and are unfamiliar with this feud, I will explain. If one of my men disparages Thane Eric’s daughter, then our honour will be satisfied. In view of what was done to my beloved mother, such an act is not rape, it is merely reparation.’

Wulf edged his sword free of its sheath. Hrothgar was watching him like a hawk. ‘No, my lord.’ For his part, Wulf did not take his eyes from Guthlac. Wulf did not want a fight, not here, not over this woman, but in memory of his poor sister, he could not see her hurt. ‘Call it what you like, but if a woman is bedded against her will, it is rape.’

Lady Erica’s bosom heaved. ‘I think, sir, I would be willing—’ her tone was distant, her sang-froid astonishing ‘—if I knew for certain it would finally put an end to the bloodfeud. That is why I am here, to end the bloodfeud.’

Appalled, Wulf stared. She was obviously personally innocent of any wrongdoing and yet she could accept such barbarism? The man she had called Ailric could not; on the other side of the trestle, the veins were bulging in his temples as he struggled vainly to wrench free of his guards. The lady looked directly at Wulf, but her green eyes had lost their luster; they were dull as they had not been when she had first walked, head high, through that portcullis. The Lady Erica’s body might be here in this hall, but her mind and her soul had fled. It came to Wulf that already, though hardly a finger had been laid upon her, this woman was being scarred by what was happening.

But surprised?

Wulf gritted his teeth. No, the lady had definitely not been ignorant of the revenge that the Saxon leader might demand, she had known . Oh, she could not have been certain of the revenge Guthlac would exact on her, but she had recognised that her ravishment was a distinct possibility.

She had hoped, perhaps, that Guthlac Stigandson would relent, but she had known the possibilities and—with stunning bravery—she had walked into this stronghold fully prepared to offer herself up so that the bloodfeud might end. She was desperate, so trapped she was prepared to be the sacrificial lamb.

Stepping carefully round her, Wulf looked directly at Guthlac. The man’s gaze was as cold as fenwater. ‘My lord, I realise I am but a newcomer here, but I am bound to say that, however you dress it, this is not an honourable act.’

Hrothgar’s lips curled. ‘Woman.’

Wulf was not about to be distracted by such a crude attempt to draw his fire. ‘My lord?’

Guthlac sighed. Now that his wife and her ladies had left the hall, some of the tension seemed to have left him. Perhaps all was not lost. Was it possible that the man possessed a shred of decency? Had he been ashamed to sanction such an act before his wife? Guthlac wanted his revenge, to be sure, but perhaps on one level he did not have the stomach for it. He had openly admitted to a grudging respect for the lady’s father…and yet, as leader, he could not back down without impugning his honour.

The leader of a warband would not want to lose face before his men. And Wulf recalled that it had been Guthlac’s mother who had apparently been—what was the term they had used?—disparaged. Had she really been raped? Dear God, did two wrongs make a right?

‘Saewulf Brader…’ Guthlac released Lady Erica to Hrothgar and reached for his ale ‘…as you have not been long of our number, I shall once again overlook your questioning me. But let me assure you, the feud between Thane Eric’s family and mine is an honourable one. Why, even a man born by the docks in Southwark as you were, must have heard of such bloodfeuds.’

Wulf nodded. ‘Indeed, my lord, but surely the honour that is satisfied in harming an innocent young woman is a pretty poor sort of honour.’ The image of his sister, pale as she lay on her bier, took form in his mind’s eye. No bloodfeud had caused his sister’s death, that had been an individual act of violence, one person on another, but in Wulf’s mind rape was rape. This woman’s tribe might sanction her sacrifice, but he could not. Lady Erica would not suffer hurt tonight, not if he could help it.