His Captive Lady. Carol Townend

Six

      Erica drifted awake some time in the dead of night, uncertain as to what had woken her. The lamp was smoking, its light was feeble, but there was enough of it to ward off her fear of the dark. Indeed, it was surprising that she had actually slept, for sleep had been elusive since coming to the fens. She had been ill at ease every moment since leaving Whitecliffe, even when among her men, yet sleep had taken her here in the heart of Guthlac’s castle; it was very odd.

      The smoke from the lamp was twisting upwards in a lazy spiral when she became aware that the barrel was no longer blocking the storeroom entrance and the door was ajar. She was alone!

      Heart in her mouth, Erica bolted upright, clutching her cloak to her breast. Soft footsteps approached. The door creaked wide and a tall, broad-shouldered figure stooped to enter.

      ‘Wulf!’ The relief was so intense she almost laughed. ‘Where have you been?’

      ‘Did you think that I had abandoned you?’

      Slowly she shook her head.

      A dark brow lifted; it told her he thought her a very poor liar. ‘You have my cloak, I was cold,’ he said, showing her the blankets he was carrying. ‘Go back to sleep.’ He rolled the barrel back in front of the door.

      ‘I was right to choose you, Wulf Brader,’ she murmured as—wonder of wonders—sleep came to take her a second time.

      Wulf stared into the flickering half-light created by the lamp. God, but these boards were hard as iron and just as cold, he thought, as he tried to find a more comfortable position. The lady considered that she had been right to choose him. Hah! If only she knew what she had chosen. Never mind that she was apparently bedded down with one of Guthlac’s men—how would she react if she knew the whole truth? If she knew that Wulf was a Norman captain? What had she said—that she wished King William in hell? Hell indeed, Wulf thought, wearily scrubbing his face.

      He wished he were a thousand miles away or, at the very least, back at the temporary Norman garrison that had been thrown up at Ely. He wished he had been given another commission, any commission, as long as it did not involve betraying Saxons or meeting a brave and beautiful thane’s daughter who compelled him to help against his better interests.

      Thankfully, with Lady Erica saved from real disparagement, he should be able to report to De Warenne’s man and, with luck, return to the Norman base at Ely. Archers, he had decided, archers would be key to any successful attack on Thane Guthlac.

      Meanwhile Lady Erica lay happily ensconced in his cloak, a small bump in the gloom, her breathing soft and even. Heaven help her, she trusted him. Given the precariousness of her position as the daughter of Guthlac’s sworn enemy, that was nothing short of miraculous. He permitted himself the luxury of savouring that thought. She, a Saxon noblewoman, trusted Saewulf Brader—now there was a novelty. It was too dark for him to make out her features, but they had been engraved on his mind from the moment he had first seen her: that pale, delicate skin, the dark hair, so dark as to be almost the colour of jet, the straight nose, the freckles, the gentle curve of her mouth, the rosy lips. A beauty.

      And brave, too.

      He could imagine how her body would feel if he were to draw her into his arms. She would be warm; she would have long, straight limbs and her skin would be smooth and—

      Enough! The Lady Erica might have reacted with calm courtesy to the fact of his lowly birth, but he had sworn not to touch her. If he did in truth touch her, doubtless her reaction would be quite different. Wulf must not delude himself, he must remember who he was and what he was doing in this noisome fen. He pulled the coarse blanket tightly about him. How those green eyes would fill with scorn if she discovered his real purpose here, if she knew where his true loyalties lay.

      Casting a last look at the figure a few feet away on the floor, Wulf closed his eyes. The lady thought she knew him. In the gloom his lip curled. Lady Erica of Whitecliffe would not exchange the time of day with him if she truly knew him.

      Not only was he a low-born bastard, he was a low-born Norman bastard; if that beautiful bundle of womanhood got wind of that, she would no doubt take to her pretty heels and, bracelets a-jingle, run screeching from the room.

      Willing his muscles to relax—Saints, lying on these boards was a penance—Wulf’s thoughts melted into one another. There was no point worrying what the Lady Erica would think of him once she realised his true role in Guthlac’s entourage; there was no point already beginning to dread the look of hatred that would distort that lovely face.

      He had come to East Anglia to discover the strength of the Saxon resistance; he had come to win favours for himself and make his way in the world. His gut clenched. Yesterday he had not known of Lady Erica of Whitecliffe’s existence. Other men must surely answer to her—other outlaws, perhaps large numbers. Merde. He must find out, it would surely be useful for De Warenne to know. Because of her he had missed the first rendezvous, but, since he had missed it, he might as well make the most of things by discovering what he could about her people, they were rebels, too. That was why he was here; he must focus. And don’t forget about those archers, he reminded himself, think about training for the archers…

      The next morning on the platform outside the hall, Erica splashed her face in icy water from the butt. Wulf stood like a sentry at her side, wreathed in the clouds made by his breath. With a sinking feeling it occurred to her that she would be hard pressed to tell whether he was there for her protection or to prevent her from attempting to escape. It is still wulf-monath, she reminded herself.

      In the bailey below, a long-robed priest was walking towards the wooden chapel, hands folded into the sleeves of his habit against the cold. He vanished inside. Erica eyed the adjacent buildings, one of which was apparently being used as a lock-up for Ailric and Hereward. The hut closest to the chapel had no windows, and guards were posted outside, stamping their feet in the chilly morning. That hut, she thought, that must be where they are.

      The portcullis was firmly lowered and, from Erica’s vantage point on the walkway at the head of the stairs, it was impossible to see whether their boat was moored at the jetty. The lake had iced over during the night, but a navigable passage remained in the centre of the waterway, a slim dark line dividing the frosted surface in two.

      ‘Good morning, my lady.’ Hrothgar’s sneering voice broke into her thoughts. Erica’s stomach lurched.

      Thane Guthlac’s second-in-command was leaning his shoulder on a doorpost, arms folded across his chest, watching her with an unsettling air of expectancy. Nodding at him, conscious of Wulf’s hand hovering over his swordhilt, Erica dabbed her face with the edge of her veil and prepared to push past him.