The Wolf and the Dove (15 page)

“Did you think I had left you?” she ventured softly.

His only reply was a noncommittal grunt as he turned his mount and touched his heels to its sides.

“But you did come after me.” She leaned her head back against his shoulder that she might look into his face and smiled. “Perhaps I should feel honored you even remembered me after so many others.”

Her remark passed him for a moment until the point of it stung him and he gave her a quick angry glance.

“The others were little more than brief passing affairs, but you are my slave,” he growled. “And you must know by now I always take good care of my property.”

He knew that his words had struck home for her body stiffened against him, and when her voice came again it carried the sharp edge of anger.

“And what price do you place upon me?” she asked. “I cannot break the sod nor tend the swine. At chopping wood, alas, I could not heat the meanest hut, and until last eventide the best you could find of me was mending clothes or tending some minor wound.”

He chuckled lightly at her tone and sighed deeply. “Aaah, but last night! Your softness bodes of much I’ve overlooked and your warmth holds great promise of joyful nights to be. Rest assured, cherie, that I have in mind a task quite worthy of your meager frame, one well suited for your talents.”

“As your paramour?” she snapped and raised her head again to stare at him. “A bastard’s whore? That is what they call me now.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “How better then that I should serve the part?”

She choked off a sob and he could find no comment worthy of speaking, and they rode in brooding silence to the hall. The huge hooves churned the turf and skidded to a halt before Darkenwald. Aislinn wasted no time in hurling herself from the back of the beast, or trying to, for she hung frustrated in the folds of the mantle as it was still tucked firmly beneath Wulfgar’s knees. As her rage mounted Wulfgar laughed and let go with one knee, sending her sprawling naked to the ground between the hooves of the destrier. The well-trained horse stood motionless, for even the slightest brush with those great hooves would have marred her irrepairably. Alslinn scrambled awkwardly to safety and rose to stand with fists clenched in rage. Wulfgar threw back his head and laughed aloud. Finally he gathered up the cloak and tossed it to her.

“Here, clothe yourself, cherie, for surely you’ll catch a chill in this fresh air.”

There was nothing for Aislinn to do but snatch the mantle around her but in the act she surreptitiously cast her gaze about to see what other eyes might have beheld her nakedness. Her fury ebbed somewhat as she saw that no one witnessed her shame.

Now cloaked she tossed her head with arrogance and without waiting for Wulfgar to dismount turned and strode to the postern, catching the garment to her, for within its enormous folds the slightest movement drew drafts of cold air over her already chilled body. She pushed the heavy door open far enough to gain entrance, stepped within and there she stopped, for Wulfgar’s men crowded the hall and with them were some she knew as Ragnor’s mercenaries. She could hear his voice across the room, giving the Normans news of Duke William.

“Soon he will be able to ride again, and he will not let this insult subside. They chose another over him, but these English will soon learn William is not to be denied. He will crush them without mercy and He
shall
be king.”

His words stirred the men. Their voices grew louder as they discussed the matter among themselves. Aislinn could no longer hear what Ragnor was saying, and wide shoulders and helmets blocked her view, preventing even a glimpse of the knight.

Suddenly the door swung wide and Wulfgar stood behind her. He glanced around in surprise to see his men gathered here, and as the oaken panel came closed, men turned and stepped aside, making a path for them to the stairs. Wulfgar moved his hand almost comfortingly to the small of Aislinn’s back and urged her forward. She saw many eyes take in her damp hair and bare feet and knew that those who observed her must think that she and Wulfgar had only just returned from some cozy woodland tryst.

Aislinn could now see Ragnor standing on the first step of the stairway. Sweyn stood farther up the stairs, watching calmly while Maida crouched beside him, her arms clutched before her holding a tattered garment clasped to her breast. As Wulfgar and Aislinn moved forward, Ragnor turned to meet them. His dark eyes traveled the length of Aislinn’s slender frame, taking in the bare feet and the wet hair. As their gaze met and clashed, his lips parted as if he would have spoken. Instead he turned abruptly away, ignoring her, for any slight he might have given her would only have been too well understood by these men who had witnessed her selection of Wulfgar over him. He continued his tirade and though he spoke to the men his eyes insolently engaged Wulfgar.

“And ‘tis well met I trow, that a strong hand rules best and a conquered heathen works best when oft reminded that he is conquered.” He paused and waited for Wulfgar’s reaction. He found nothing but a tolerant smile as Wulfgar waited for him to finish. “These simple churls must be taught that we are schooled beyond their pagan ken. The soft hand will drop the reins while the iron hand will push the steed where it wills.”

Ragnor folded his arms across his chest almost as if challenging Wulfgar to reply. The men waited for the clash but in the silent room Wulfgar spoke softly.

“Sir de Marte, must I advise you again that my men are soldiers. Would you have me waste them tilling the fields while peasants hang all around on gibbets?”

A commotion stirred in the hall and a red-faced friar pushed his way free of the press of bodies and came forward.

“ ’Tis good,” the wheezing man panted. “Show mercy to your neighbors of Brittany. Blood enough has been spilt to Satan’s Hell. Good Lord,” he cried, clasping his hands together as if in prayer. “Preserve them all. Yea, ‘tis good, my son, to set aside the devil’s work.”

Ragnor turned in sour temper upon the long-robed man of God. “Saxon monk, you shall shortly behold your own end if you prattle further.”

The poor priest paled and withdrew a step, and Ragnor turned again to Wulfgar.

“So, the brave bastard is now the English champion,” he sneered. “You protect these Saxon swine and coddle this English bitch as if she were the Duke’s own sister.”

Wulfgar stood almost relaxed. He shrugged. “These are all my serfs and in serving me, they serve the Duke William. Would you slay even one and serve in their stead to feed the dogs and swine and set the geese about at night?” He raised a questioning brow. “Or would you mayhap serve in the place of any of those others you’ve already slain? Now I would not treat a Norman so, but I am set to wring a tythe for William from this weary land.”

Ragnor’s eyes rested upon Aislinn for a moment and grew warm in ill-concealed desire. He turned to Wulfgar, smiling almost pleasantly, and spoke low so that only those nearest heard.

“My family serves me well, Wulfgar. What of yours?”

Ragnor’s smile faded as he heard Wulfgar’s reply.

“My blade, my mail, my horse and yon Viking are my family and they’ve done me more faithful service than you could dream.”

For a moment Ragnor was at a loss, then he looked to Aislinn again. “And what of her, Wulfgar? Will you claim the bastard she spills whether it be yours or mine? And how may you tell whose brat it is?”

The darkening scowl on Wulfgar’s face assured Ragnor that his words had struck home, and his lips curved with mockery.

“What of your family then—your blade, your mail, and the wench’s brat?” He laughed with amusement and reached out to cup Aislinn’s chin in his hand. “We should have a handsome son, my sweet, full of courage and fire. Too bad the bastard will not marry you. He hates women, you know.”

Angrily Aislinn slapped his caressing hand away and stepped to face Wulfgar.

“You are no better than he,” she spat in low tone. “Had I my wits about me I would have fought you to the end of my very strength and torn your flesh asunder rather than yield! You amuse yourself lightly at my expense.”

Wulfgar rubbed his chest and with unseemly humor bade her cease her ranting. “It seems, Aislinn, that your titled duties as to last of strength and my torn flesh have been most sternly dispensed. None but I could witness this, cherie, that it was only greater force of arms that made you yield to me.”

Wulfgar caught her wrist before the hand could strike his face, then twisting slowly drew her close until their lips were all but met. His eyes smiled into hers.

“Should I shout it loud for you?” he whispered. “That you have yielded in this moment but still hope to carry the day?”

“My lord! My lord!” Aislinn sought frantically to turn his attention, for she was most aware that another besides Ragnor watched them closely. “The friar!”

Amid shouts of encouragement from his men there rose a troubled voice.

“Ahem! My lord—Sir Wulfgar. We have not met before but I am Friar Dunley. And you have asked me here.” As Wulfgar turned to him he continued in a rush of words. “I have come to bless the graves, but ‘tis obvious to me that other needs are sorely wanting. The affairs of God in this good town are not well met. ‘Twould seem that many of the maids were sorely set upon and even some were married. So ‘tis wholely grievous, my lord, the church can not afford to view these matters lightly, nor yield without atonement made to those unfairly taken. I deem it wise to offer coins in goodly sum to the husbands and betrothed to those where wedlock vows were promised or accomplished.”

Wulfgar cocked an eyebrow and half smiled at the man as he pressed the issue further.

“And then, my lord, to those yet unbetrothed I bid those men who did the deed should carry the maid to wedlock—”

“Hold, father,” Wulfgar admonished, holding up his hand to stem the flow of words. “It seems to me that a tidy sum of money offered to the swains of those whose unwilling favors were roughly taken would reduce the fair and tender ones to the level of whore, and what man would sell the virtue of his lady fair? A tidy sum, indeed, when all of England lies with aching thighs. ‘Twould beggar the richest crown to pay the due. And I am none of those but only a poor knight and cannot meet the tally were I to deem it a worthy notion. As to the course of wedlock for the rest, I see them soldiers one and all.” He gestured to his men. “They are a goodly sort to fight a war but not the kind a maid would seek to share a hearth. All would go with the next call to arms and some would stay upon the field of battle to leave the wench with brats aplenty hanging to her skirts with no way to feed them but to ply her wares upon the street and thusly set aside a good intent to end no better than before. Nay, good priest, I say let them ply their plight as it falls today. What good, will in time surely come. What evil, most has been already done, and from my hand can hardly be undone.”

“But, my lord.” The friar would not be gainsaid. “What of yourself? You are landed now and privy to the Duke. Surely you will not leave this poor wretched girl to suffer for unkindly acts which were no fault of hers. You are bound by your very oath of knighthood to protect the fairer gender. Do I stand assured that you will take her at the least to wife?”

Wulfgar scowled as Ragnor threw back his head and guffawed his delight.

“Nay, father, neither that,” he said. “My knighthood binds me not to that extent. And then of course I am a bastard and I cannot ask tender ears to share the brunt of slurs and oafish jests from those of brutish wit.” He looked pointedly to Ragnor. “It has been my lot in life to see the cruelest stabs and deepest wounds are given by the shrewish tongues of that same sex that prides itself on tender hearts and gentle manners and mother’s love. I bare no special spot for women’s weepings nor do I seek to yield them more than they deserve. Nay, chide me not, for I am hard in this concern.”

With that he turned his back but the friar halted him with further speech.

“Lord Wulfgar, if you will not wed her, then at least set her free. Her betrothed will yet accept her as she is.”

He turned to indicate Kerwick who stood quietly nearby and found the younger man’s eyes resting dolefully upon the girl.

“Nay! I will leave none of that!” Wulfgar roared and whirled again upon the friar. Openly struggling, he regained his composure. He spoke with a lower voice but with a hardness that could not be denied.

“I am lord and master here. Everything you see is mine. Do not trespass needlessly upon my good will. Go tend your graves as I have bid you come but leave the other matters to me.”

The good friar knew when to stop. With a sigh he mumbled a prayer, made a sign and left, with the men following. Aislinn did not dare aggravate Wulfgar and even Ragnor was strangely subdued. Sweyn stood as always, silent.

The graves were blessed and Aislinn returned to the bedchamber to seek some privacy. Instead she found Wulfgar staring moodily out the window upon the far horizons. In his hand he held the contents of the packet Ragnor had given him as the priest spoke his prayers over the graves. Sweyn stood before the hearth with an arm braced above it and with the toe of his shoe idly nudged loose embers back into the fire. They glanced around as she entered and mumbling an awkward apology, Aislinn made to withdraw again, but Wulfgar shook his head.

“Nay, there is no need. Come in. We are finished.”

Hesitantly Aislinn entered and closed the door behind her, feeling the weight of both men’s eyes upon her. She blushed lightly as they continued to stare and turned her back to them when Wulfgar spoke to Sweyn.

“I will leave it in your hands.”

“Yea, sire,” came the reply. “I will watch and guard.”

“Then I can rest assured, knowing so.”

“It will seem strange, Wulfgar, after these many years—We have always fought well together.”

“Aye, but there is duty and I must be certain the matter is in safe hands. Hopefully it will not be for long.”

“They are stubborn people, these English.”

Wulfgar sighed. “Yea, but the Duke is more so.”

Sweyn nodded in agreement and then took his leave. Aislinn continued picking up the pieces of the drinking horn she had shattered against the door the night before and set them aside, avoiding Wulfgar’s gaze. She glanced around for her torn kirtle, in hopes she could with some skill mend it to a useful state, for she did not have many gowns left. But her efforts proved fruitless, for it could not be found.

“My lord,” she said, her lovely brow knitted in her confusion. “Have you set eyes upon my kirtle this morn? I know it was here.”

“I laid it on the bed,” he replied.

Aislinn turned, knowing it was futile to look again. She shrugged, throwing aside the pillows.

“It is nowhere, seigneur.”

“Perhaps Hlynn removed it,” he offered without much interest in the matter.

“Nay, she would not enter here without your permission. She is frightened of you.”

“The garment will turn up somewhere,” he said, rather irritably. “Put it from your mind.”

“I have not many,” Aislinn complained. “And no money to buy more linen. The wool is rough against the skin without the softness of a kirtle. And you have already said you will spare no coins for my clothing.”

“Cease your prattle, wench. You sound as the other nags who beg for a fat purse to tide them over.”

For a brief moment Aislinn’s chin trembled, and she turned her back to him to hide this weakness that was utterly strange and foreign to her. Crying for a torn kirtle when all England was laid waste. But was it for her kirtle she wept or for herself? She, strong, willful and determined, now weakened and brought low by a man who loathed women and just this very moment compared her to the unsavory trollops who trudged the camps of the armies.

Aislinn swallowed back the tears and lifted her chin. “My lord, I beg naught from you. I only seek to keep what is mine as you are wont to do.”

She busied herself tidying the room without further speech, willing herself to shrug away the low humor she had fallen into. When finally she glanced at Wulfgar, she was halted by the brooding gray eyes that held her. She looked questioningly at him.

“Monseigneur?” she murmured. “Am I to stand unjustly condemned of some monstrous deed that I have no recognition of doing? Truly, I did not ask you to purchase me clothing. Yet you stare at me as if you wished to see me flogged. Do you hate me so much, my lord?”

“Hate you?” Wulfgar snorted. “And why should I hate you, damoiselle, when you are the very measure of any man’s desire?”

Her mind flew, skimming over the details of their conversation spoken a few moments before and could find no cause for his dark and grim countenance. Then the memory of Ragnor’s words hit her with an impact that nearly knocked the breath from her.

“Do you fear that I may carry another man’s child, m’lord?” she asked boldly and watched his eyes grow stormy gray. “You must find it difficult to bear the thought that I might be carrying your child already and that you will never be certain it is yours.”

In annoyance he growled. “Be silent.”

“Nay, sire.” She stubbornly shook her head and the tousled, unkempt curls danced about her shoulders. “I would know the truth now. What if I am with child? Will you speak the vows with me to save an innocent from the fate you have suffered?”

“Nay. You heard my answer to the priest,” Wulfgar replied.

She swallowed hard. “I would know one thing more, if you will be generous,” she managed. “What assurance have you that you have not already gotten some wee bastard from your loins? Were your women barren as you perhaps hoped I would be?” She saw his scowl deepen and knew her answer. She wanted to laugh and at the same time cry. “You would enjoy me better if I were like your other women, wouldn’t you?” She came to stand close in front of him and gazed up into his stony face. The lines of her jaw were tense with the effort she made to appear calm. “I desperately hope that I am barren, for I do not think your child would please me.”

He winced at her words and stood obstinately silent until a thought stung him. He pulled her roughly before him and his scowl grew ominous as he searched. her face.

“Whether it pleases you or no, Aislinn, do not think that honor is righted by sacrificing yourself. I’ve heard tales of women ending their lives because they could not bear their shame. But ‘tis foolishness to me.”

“Foolishness?” Aislinn smiled softly and knew that she taunted him. “I think it a worthy notion.”

Wulfgar shook her hard until her teeth rattled and her head threatened to snap from the slim throat that supported it.

“So help me, wench, I will have you chained to my side to be assured you do nothing foolish.”

Aislinn jerked from him and her stare was piercing though tears blurred her vision. “Never fear, noble lord. I hold life very precious. If I am with child, then I will surely bear the babe some months hence, whether you claim it or no.”

Relief flooded his features. “ ’Tis well, I would not have your death on my conscience.”

“Pray, who would then be your whore?” she retorted bitterly.

“Aislinn,” he said in warning tone. “Soften your words. I grow tired of being pricked by them.”

“Indeed, my lord? I would not think such a fearsome knight could be afraid of a mere girl’s tongue.”

“You let blood with yours,” he flung.

“I pray forgiveness, sire.” She feigned a humble appearance. “Does my lord suffer much from it?”

“M’lord! M’lord!” he mimicked, ignoring her gibe. “I have told you my name. Are you set against using it?”

Aislinn lifted her chin proudly. “I am your slave. Would you have a slave speak so familiarly with you?”

“I command it of you, Aislinn.” He bowed gallantly as if she were some regal queen.

She nodded briefly. “Then as you command—Wulfgar.”

He came to her and taking her by the shoulders, held her still. His hard gaze bore into her.

“You choose to be a slave at your convenience, but I will it otherwise. As long as I have spilled my seed I will make the most of it.”

His mouth crushed down upon hers, smothering angry words, and forced her lips apart in a fierce, hungry kiss. Aislinn’s mind tumbled in its own confusion as she struggled briefly to pull away, but his arms folded tightly about her in a merciless grip that would not permit her to move. His lips left hers and pressed hotly against her throat. Aislinn could feel the heavy pressure of his loins against her own and saw herself surrendering to his masterful embrace. Desperately she fought for control.

“My lor—Wulfgar! You hurt me!” she gasped breathlessly. His mouth covered her face and throat with raging kisses. As his lips met hers again she moaned and tore her mouth free. “Loose me,” she demanded, now more furious with herself than with him because she could not still the wakening desires in her own body. “Loose me now, I say.”

“Nay,” he murmured thickly, bending her backwards over his arm. Her breath caught in her throat as his mouth touched her breast and his searing breath seemed to burn through her garment. His hand slipped under her knees and he lifted her up within his arms. Amid her heated protests he carried her to the bed and there, laying her down, began to undress her. He spread her hair upon the wolf pelts until it flowed like silk across them and as he stood back and removed his own garments, his devouring gaze ranged the length of her splendid beauty.

“ ’Tis not decent!” Aislinn gasped in outraged modesty. The color of her cheeks deepened, for in the revealing light of day their bodies seemed to brand their nakedness upon the very image of her mind. She saw him as she had never seen him before, a bronze-skinned warrior that could have stepped from a tale of pagan lore, a beautiful, marvelous being, to be captured and tamed if possible that one might keep it by one’s side. She exclaimed, “The sun is high up!”

Wulfgar chuckled and fell on the bed beside her. “That has little to do with it.” He met her gaze and smiled into her eyes. “At least there shall be no more secrets between us.”

Aislinn’s coloring mounted high to ride her cheeks and set them aflame. There was admiration in Wulfgar’s stare as he swept his hand over her body, making her tremble under his light caress, and he marveled at the velvety texture of her soft skin.

There was no stopping him, for Aislinn felt his determination in the pressure of his hands upon her, insistent, eager. But she was just as resolved to lay completely passive under him. In his own good time he took his pleasure, and it was only after he withdrew that he showed any sign of displeasure with her. He lay on his side for a moment with a frown creasing his brow. Aislinn dared not smile her triumph but returned his gaze with a coldness that mirrored her lack of response.

“It occurs to me, cherie,” he murmured softly, tracing a finger between her breasts. “That you resist not me but yourself, and I would wager the time will come when I will but touch you and you will beg my favors.”

Aislinn gave no sign that she heard but continued to stare at him. He sighed somewhat pensively and rose and picked up his garments. As he turned to gaze at her, letting his eyes move admiringly along the path of her slender legs, Aislinn sat up, snatching a pelt over her nakedness. She threw him a sullen look and he shrugged and laughed and under her watchful eye began to dress. When he stood clothed, he bent and swept her garments from the floor and handed them to her. As she took them she glanced toward the door as if in invitation for him to leave, but he shook his head and a corner of his mouth slowly lifted into a smile.

“Nay, I’m not going—yet. You’ll have to get used to me, my lovely Aislinn, for I will not be denied my pleasures by your modesty.”

Aislinn glared at him and rising defiantly, dropped the pelt to the floor. With natural grace she moved past him to stand before the hearth and was unaware of the glint of passion that returned rapidly to his gray eyes as she walked before him in the glory of her unadorned beauty. Before the fire she faced him and met his stare and for a second glimpsed some of the bewilderment at his own emotions in his face.

Suddenly from without there came a shout that strangers approached Darkenwald, and Wulfgar turned as if relieved by the interruption. Belting on his sword, he hurried from the room. Thinking that perhaps more of Erland’s men were returning from battle, Aislinn now hastened to dress. Slipping into her kirtle and gunna, she left the chamber, throwing her hair absently over her shoulder. She fled down the stairs and met Ragnor as he was crossing the hall. He blocked her path and as she tried to step around him, he moved again to halt her flight. She gave him a withering look.

“Shall I call for aid or will you let me pass?” she demanded in brittle tones. She could see Wulfgar standing just outside the hall waiting for the strangers’ approach. “Did not Wulfgar warn you before to leave me be and did you not suffer some embarrassment for your last handling of me?”

“Some day I will kill him for that,” he murmured, but he shrugged and smiled, reaching out to pull a coppery tress from over her shoulder. “I brave death and shame to be near you, my little Saxon wench, as you can see.”

Aislinn tugged at her hair, but he would not release it.

“And if you had your way, no doubt you’d string me up on a gibbet when you tired of me,” she retorted sarcastically.

He chuckled at her anger. “Never you, dove, Never would I treat you so harshly.”

“I am a Saxon,” she pointed out. “Why not?”

“Because you happen to be a very beautiful one.” He laid the bright curl against her breast, his fingers lingering as they brushed against her. “I see he entertains himself well. Your cheeks are still flushed.”

Her coloring deepening, Aislinn tried again to brush past him but he caught her arm.

“Do not hurry,” he murmured.

“Let me go!” Aislinn demanded in low, raging tones.

“Will you not send me away with a kind word?”

Aislinn raised her brows in question. “Do you go again? How soon?”