The Wolf and the Dove (61 page)

Silence reigned once more. It was broken only by the nervous stamping of the other two horses that stood tethered in the square. Aislinn held her breath as she strained to hear some sound of Wulfgar’s presence, then from the darkness behind her she heard her husband’s voice rise tauntingly.

“Ragnor, thief of Darkenwald. Come and taste my blade! Will! your black heart forever war on women and children? Come out now and fight a man.”

Aislinn’s heart pounded in her ears.

“Wulfgar!” Ragnor’s call echoed in the night. “Show yourself and I will do likewise, bastard. Let me know that you are not at my back.”

Aislinn heard a gasp of surprise from Ragnor as Wulfgar seemed to raise from the ground at the upland of the square like a spectre, shaggy and menacing in the blackness of the night. He drew the long blade from the scabbard and shook it over his head.

“Come out, thief!” His voice rang clear and he began to trot forward. “Come and meet my steel, or must I turn the very rocks in search of you?”

In answer Ragnor’s destrier thundered out of the dark beyond the fire. Aislinn screamed in terror for in the small space it seemed he came at her. She fought her bonds until her wrists bled but swallowed any other outcry, fearing more that it would distract Wulfgar.

Ragnor swung a chained mace with long deadly spikes as he charged at his enemy. He must do the slaying while weight of arms made the difference. Wulfgar waited until the mace swung high for the stroke then dived to the right, across the path of the horse. The spiked ball whistled through the air where he had been. Wulfgar struck on his shoulder on the ground and rolled, then as the destrier swept past him he swung his sword at its heels. The edge took the tendons just above the rear fetlock and the beast screamed in pain as he stumbled and crashed to the ground, unable to stand.

Ragnor threw himself clear and turned with the mace in his hand. It was not a weapon to be used against a skilled swordsman and he hurled it at his adversary, Wulfgar easily avoided it but it gave Ragnor a chance to draw his sword and set himself for battle. His eyes flashed in hatred as he faced the other and he gained confidence in seeing that Wulfgar was unarmored and bore only the long broadsword. Any touch of his blade would scar and maim. A warrior once lamed was worthless and Ragnor held a brief vision of the great Wulfgar begging in the streets. He laughed and braced his shield against his shoulder as he closed to combat. Ragnor swung but Wulfgar moved swiftly away and left a wide gash ringing on the edge of the dark knight’s shield.

Ragnor could only stand feet planted and take the brunt of the two-handed blows on his shield and strike when Wulfgar closed with him. Wulfgar kept up a constant rain of steel, more to harass than damage. The weight of the armor and shield began to tell on his opponent. As on the tourney field Ragnor could find no opening in the front his antagonist presented him. He felt the same sickness in his gut and knew this was no joust but a battle to the death. He slowed, sweltering in the sweat beneath the mail and leather. Wulfgar reached the shield and took his sword in both hands. Now they met toe to toe and still Ragnor’s blade was ever met to Wulfgar’s and went no further.

Ragnor saw that Wulfgar was suffering under the strain as well as he. Wulfgar wore no armor and thus must meet every blow with a parry and still seek to punish his enemy. He stepped back before Ragnor’s renewed attack which struck at the momentarily exposed leg. The blow was partly blocked but still laid open the legging and the boot beneath, drawing blood. Ragnor roared his success and raised his sword high as Wulfgar fell to one knee. Aislinn cringed in terror for her husband, but Wulfgar saw Ragnor’s intent. Still crouching, he laid his sword flatside along his shoulder to turn the chopping stroke away and send it into the ground, half numbing the other’s arm. Wulfgar’s vest and tunic were cut through by the force upon his own blade and blood streamed from his shoulder, yet he struck in return and Ragnor staggered back, his arm severed to the bone.

Ragnor shrieked, clutching his arm and leapt across the fire. He snarled in frustration then paled as he saw Wulfgar approach him with the long blade ready. He looked death in the eye and fled.

He ran to the doorway in the standing wall and there stopped short, seeming to pause. A rattling gasp came from his throat and he grasped the doorway to brace himself. Aislinn looked questioningly to Wulfgar who waited, prepared to do further battle. He stepped to her quickly and cut her free, keeping an eye on that one by the stone portal.

Ragnor leaned against the wall and slowly turned to face them, his mouth gaping in surprise. Their gazes followed his as he stared down to where the jeweled hilt of Aislinn’s dagger stood out from his left breast. The long, narrow blade had slid neatly between the links of his mail and plunged deep. Grasping it with his good hand, he pulled it from him and a gush of blood followed to run down his chest. He lifted his eyes to them in stunned disbelief.

“She’s slain me, the bitch.”

His knees crumpled slowly and he pitched forward onto his face and lay still. A movement in the darkness behind him drew their attention and Gwyneth staggered from the shadows. An ugly bruise swelled on her temple and stood stark against her pale ashen face as she gazed down at Ragnor’s form. It was a macabre mask she turned to them. A slim trickle of blood ran from her ear and another from her nose. Her eyes were blank and the sad pathos of her seemed to plead their forgiveness.

“He said he loved me and took all I could give, then he cast me aside like some dirty—”

She sobbed and took a step toward them but stumbled and fell to lay still weeping in wretched misery. Aislinn flew to her and cradled the flaxen head upon her lap.

“Oh, Aislinn, I’ve been a fool,” Gwyneth sighed as her eyes found the other’s. “I listened to naught but my own vanity and desires. Forgive me, for I baited you cruelly in my lust to have some worthy post and honors. ‘Twas never mine to possess. What is a bastard’s lot?”

Wulfgar came to stand near her feet and gaze upon his sister. She lifted her eyes to him and smiled lamely as if at some wry jest.

“I could not bear the thought of walking in your stead and taking the world’s abuse, though you tutored them well on the merits of honoring a bastard.” She coughed and a red spittle came to her lips. “Our mother spoke to hurt your father and began an endless lie, Wulfgar.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “On her deathbed she pleaded that I should bear you the news and set all aright, but I could not. I was a coward. So now you will finally learn.” She opened her eyes and gazed at him once more. “ ’Tis no bastard you be, Wulfgar, but true son of Bolsgar.” She smiled at his lifted brows. “Aye, ‘twas I and our brother, long dead, who should have borne your title. Falsworth and I were sired by her lover when Bolsgar roamed the lands to do battle for the king. Forgive me, Wulfgar.

She coughed again.

“Oh Lord, forgive my sins. Forgive my—” With a long sigh she relaxed and gave up her life.

Wulfgar knelt and watched in thoughtful silence as Aislinn carefully wiped the blood and grime from Gwyneth’s at last serene face. When he spoke, his voice was soft and husky.

“I hope she has found her peace. Be it known that I forgive her. Most of the sin belonged to our mother and in her twisted vengeance she tortured us all.”

Aislinn’s voice came sharper. “I will forgive her only if we can set this one thing aright. She gave our son to some haggard crone, one who begged among the ruins of a town.”

Wulfgar rose, his face twisting in anger. He went to where the two remaining horses stood and seized a saddle from the ground, but suddenly calmed, remembering the scavaging gulls which would come with the dawn. He could not bear the thought of his sister’s bones lying bleached and naked on the sand. Replacing the saddle, he turned to Aislinn and sighed.

“One more night will make no difference.”

He spread pelts upon the ground away from the two who lay near the portal and drawing Aislinn down with him, pulled the mantles tightly about them against the chill winds that sighed among the tumbled stones. Aislinn lay with her head upon his shoulder and took comfort in his strong arms that encircled her and held her secure against him. In their exhaustion they found sleep.

The first hint of dawn broke the eastern haze to find them awake and while Aislinn prepared food Wulfgar scraped two shallow graves in the hard packed sand. He buried Ragnor with his saddle, shield and sword and Gwyneth with her hands clasping the small dagger that formed a cross upon her breast and the fur lined cloak shrouding her thin frame. The graves were filled and Wulfgar labored hard to place slabs of heavy stone above each one to keep them safe from wolves. He stood for a long time searching for words but found none. At last he turned away and now hurrying saddled the horses. They eased their hunger, and lifting Aislinn onto her steed and swinging into the saddle of the other, Wulfgar led the way, splashing across the shallowing bar.

They rode with no thought for themselves, urging their mounts along the road at their fastest pace until they reached the tumbled ruins. They beat among them well, finding a crude hut of leaning planks and boards yet the ashes were cold and the pallet stripped. There was no trace of the path the old woman took leaving the town. They swung wider, stopping at every village and though some knew of the hag, none had seen her on the roads.

The second day wore out and darkness threatened and they stood, having come full circle once again, amid the ruins of the hamlet. Aislinn groaned her despair and sank slowly to the ground sobbing in abject defeat. Wulfgar bent and tenderly raised her to her feet, wrapping her in the shelter of his sturdy arms. Her cries were muffled against his pelts as he gently brushed her hair away from her ear and kissed her there. Of all the trials Aislinn had known this was the one that broke her. She had no more spirit, no will or drive. She was robbed of strength and simply hung in his arms, sobbing her sorrow against his chest. It was a long while until the tears would come no more. Her chest ached with the weeping and her throat was raw. Wulfgar lifted her gently in his arms and bore her to the shallow shelter of a broken wall where he sat her down. He labored until he had a small fire to drive away the chill of the lowering night. The sky to the west was stained red as blood but faded and arched above their heads with
a deep blue, and as he gazed up Wulfgar saw cold bright stars appear one by one. It seemed he could almost touch them. He glanced down at Aislinn where she sat dumbly staring into the fire. Kneeling, he took her hands in his and would have given her of his own strength if he could. She turned violet eyes to him and there was nothing in them but the empty agony of her loss.

“My son, Wulfgar,” she moaned. “I want my son.”

A racking dry sob shook her shoulders and he sat beside her, drawing her across his lap until she lay cradled in his arms. He stared into the fire for a long time and his voice was low and tender as he spoke.

“I know little of love, Aislinn, but much of things lost. A mother’s tenderness I could never win. A father’s love was torn from my aching arms. I have hoarded my love with a miser’s zeal and now it all burns within me here.”

He looked into the eyes that watched him carefully now. His gray ones were light with the open innocence of a youth. He smoothed a coppery curl from her cheek.

“First love,” he whispered softly. “Heart’s love, do not betray me. Take what I would give and make it part of you as it is all of me. Bear my love within you full time as you did with the child then with a glad cry bring it forth and we shall share it ever more. I offer you my life, my love, my arm, my sword, my eye, my heart. Take them all. Spare not the least portion. If you cast it away then I am dead and shall wander the moors howling like a mindless beast.”

Aislinn smiled now and he kissed her lips with tenderness.

“There will be other sons, perhaps a daughter, and none shall doubt the sire.”

Aislinn threw her arms about his neck and with a low sob, murmured, “I love you, Wulfgar. Hold me tight. Hold me for all time.”

He whispered softly in her ear, “I love you, Aislinn. Drink of my love. Let it be your strength.”

She drew back and lay against his arm, caressing his cheek.

“Let us go,” she said, half pleading. “I cannot stay here another night. Let us go home to Darkenwald. I have a need to feel my own things around me.”

“Aye,” he agreed and with the word he rose and began to scatter the fire.

As she neared the horses, Aislinn grinned ruefully and rubbed her bruised posterior. “I shall never again enjoy a ride as much as of old,” she mused.

Wulfgar stopped and considered her thoughtfully. “There is a craft I spied while quenching my thirst. Aye, ‘twould ease your plight considerably. Come, ‘tis but a short way.”

Taking her hand and leading the horses, he led her to a nearby copse of willows. Parting the hanging branches he showed her where beneath them lay a boat, a long and narrow craft hewn from a single trunk. He bowed graciously.

“Your royal barge, milady.” At her puzzled frown, he grinned. “This stream joins the one that sweeps the marsh near Darkenwald.”

Her relief at not having to take to the saddle again was complete as she lifted her gaze to him. He nodded and turned the horses loose to wander where they would, placing the trappings and gear in the prow of the boat. He seated Aislinn in the middle where she could lay back comfortably against the saddle and tucked her mantle around her. Pushing the craft into the water, he stepped in and seated himself near the stern, then lifting the short paddle, steered it into the swift current.

Time ceased to be. Aislinn slept for a while then woke briefly, feeling the even thrusts that drove the boat onward She stared upward at willows that waved against the sky as if sobbing their anguish to the world. She watched stars drift through the gaunt, barren branches of an oak and the moon rise blood red, then golden, paling as it tore itself free from the breast of the moor. She drifted again into restless slumber. Thus through the night it was. For her a snatch of sleep, a moment of waking and Wulfgar ever driving the boat along the winding stream.