His Captive Lady. Carol Townend

at her made him uneasy. So startling was Lady Erica’s beauty that he found her hard to look on, and he did not wish her to think that he was ogling. Not that any of the outlaws seemed to hold with such scruples; both Hrothgar and Beorn had been openly drooling ever since she had stepped into the bailey.

      Her gown was an unusual shade of violet, with silver embroidery at the neck and hem. The silken side lacings were designed to emphasise a figure that was as fine as her features. Lady Erica had a high bosom, a narrow waist, and gently curving hips. That gown, Wulf thought, with that hint of purple, could have been the gown of an empress. Her white silk veil must have been imported from some exotic land in the east, Byzantium most likely. Wulf frowned as he looked at the gold bracelets winking on those slender wrists, at her finger-rings. Purple was worn by royalty; the bracelets and rings were worth a fortune—following Saxon custom, she was wearing her status the same way a man wore armour when he went into battle. In her finery, she looked like a queen.

      Just then, the man next to Hrothgar rose and headed for the door that led to the privies. A moment later Wulf had taken his place, nodding to Hrothgar as he eased onto the bench. Better, he thought, much better; at last he might hear something of interest.

      The bloodfeud was none of his business, yet Wulf feared for the lady’s well-being. She and Guthlac had been dancing round each other since she had arrived, so why had no conclusion been reached? Guthlac Stigandson did not strike Wulf as a patient man, quite the opposite, in fact. Why, the day before yesterday, Guthlac had had a body-servant beaten to within an inch of his life for laying out the wrong tunic; a serving wench had seen the flat of his hand for accidentally spilling some wine in Lady Hilda’s lap. What was the key point in these drawn-out negotiations?

      The rebel leader hated Lady Erica. Wulf could see it in his eyes; he could see it in the over-polite way Guthlac handed her a piece of fish on the end of his knife, apeing the fine manners of a courtier in King William’s palace at Westminster, when all the while his face was set like stone.

      So, Wulf thought, swallowing down some ale, why the delay? Why spend hours dancing around the lady and her demands? She wanted her men—outlaws like these, Wulf reminded himself—to enter into an alliance with Thane Guthlac. It made sense in military terms, but Wulf did not think that Guthlac had the first intention of forging an alliance with Erica of Whitecliffe. Guthlac’s eyes glittered with loathing; they were hard as glass in the flare of the torches. He was toying with her and she knew it.

      The fish was settling uncomfortably in Wulf’s stomach. Guthlac’s eyes were warning him that the feud between his housecarls and Lady Erica’s was far from dead; the man was biding his time.

      And Hrothgar? Eyeing the lady’s bosom. Lord, the entire warband was eyeing her body.

      Erica of Whitecliffe leaned forwards and murmured at Guthlac’s wife. Lady Hilda gave a weak smile of acknowledgement, but a sharp look from her husband had her ducking her head to pick at the fish on her trencher.

      Wulf’s sense of frustration grew. Thane Guthlac sat like a king at the head of his hall, downing measure after measure of ale, offering the lady yet another portion of fish, of eel. And all the while, Wulf’s indigestion got worse. What the hell was Guthlac waiting for?

      Tired of waiting for Guthlac to end the game, tired of wishing his stomach was not in knots and of wishing that William de Warenne had sent him anywhere but to this bleak corner of England, Wulf was glowering into a candle flame when a scraping of stools and benches told him the meal was over.

      His stomach cramped. Lady Erica’s face was white as snow and she was staring at Guthlac as though he had sprouted horns. Into the sudden hush, her voice came clear. ‘You cannot mean it.’

      Guthlac’s smile was empty. ‘I assure you, I do.’

      ‘No, my lord, this feuding must end!’

      Guthlac thrust his face into hers. ‘Easy for you to say, my dear, since you have been foolish enough to put yourself in this position. But would you have spoken up, I wonder, before my mother was…disparaged?’

      Never had Wulf sat through a silence so profound in a hall full of men who had just eaten and drunk their fill. He was not sure he understood what Guthlac was talking about but, dimly recalling the mutterings of rape, he had his suspicions. No one so much as breathed.

      One of the lady’s men lurched towards her, desperation in his eyes as his hand went to the hilt of his sword—the sword that was not there because he had been disarmed.

      The lady held him back with a calm, ‘Ailric, no.’

      ‘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