His Captive Lady. Carol Townend

have never been more so.’

      Ailric’s brow furrowed and the moment he set his sword aside, Erica knew she was in for an argument.

      ‘Ailric, look at us. We need to pool our resources with others, we need allies. Our very survival is at stake.’

      ‘The bloodfeud will never end,’ Ailric said. ‘It is a matter of honour and—’

      ‘The bloodfeud must end.’

      ‘There are other ways.’

      ‘No, Ailric, you are wrong! We ran out of choices months ago, but were too blind to see it. The bloodfeud with Guthlac must end. I have made my decision.’ Erica clenched her fists and stared fiercely round the ring of bearded faces that gleamed in the firelight. Her father’s housecarls were loyal, and it went without saying that they would sacrifice their lives for her. As they would have done for her father, had he not died at Hastings. But loyalty had never prevented them from disagreeing with her. Unfortunately.

      The fire guttered and an icy draught cut through Erica’s cloak while she marshalled her arguments. There were dozens of cracks in the slipshod planking and the fenland wind knew its way into every one of them. Suppressing a shiver lest it be mistaken for weakness—and she would die before one of them thought her weak— Erica dragged her cloak more firmly about her shoulders and drew in a deep breath. Loyal her father’s housecarls might be, but that would not put an end to their dissent. She was, after all, a woman, and some of them had difficulty taking orders, even from her. And in the matter of the bloodfeud they were stubborn as mules.

      ‘I am sorry, Ailric.’ Erica made her voice hard, trying for that tone that her father had used when he would brook no contradiction. ‘But I disagree most strongly. What can we few do from here?’ A wave of her hand encompassed not only her personal guard, but also the cruck-framed cottage, pitifully small and stark compared to the luxuries of Whitecliffe Hall. ‘On our own we are as nothing, we are but a candle in the wind, we need allies.’

      Scowling, Ailric hooked his thumbs round his swordbelt and tossed his blond head; Hereward shifted on his bench and opened his mouth. Erica silenced them with a look.

      ‘We are nothing,’ she repeated, frowning through the smoke. ‘Think, all of you. Here we have, what, a couple of warriors young enough to be worthy of the name? Hereward, Ailric, yes, you I count as warriors.’ She softened her voice before directing her gaze at two of the older faces round the fire. Men with greying hair and scarred, weather-beaten faces, men in their late forties, men who were weak with old age and infirmity. ‘But it is time to face reality. Morcar, Siward, you are fine warriors, both of you, but age is no longer on your side. Luck was with you at Hastings, and you know it.’

      Siward’s grizzled head shook as Erica had known it would. But Morcar simply stroked his beard and lowered his eyes to the leaping flames, misery in his every line. Erica had also noticed the difficulty Morcar had had hoisting himself in and out of the boat as he patrolled the waterways.

      ‘These marshes are not good for a man with stiffness in his joints,’ she murmured.

      Morcar coloured and muttered into his beard, and that told Erica all she needed to know. Morcar had had enough. Time was when Morcar would have leaped to his feet to deny the slightest weakness, but now, in this bitter fenland winter, he sat by the fire like an old man, muttering about the damp getting into his bones, trying not to cough. At night, they listened to him wheezing in his sleep. Morcar was an old man, she realised with a jolt. And if she did not try to protect him, Erica did not know who would.

      ‘If we are to mount a decent campaign against those who took King Harold’s throne, we must link up with our warriors and join forces with other Saxons. If we do not …’ Erica lifted her shoulders. She did not have to finish the sentence, every man around this fire understood what she was saying. They needed allies, if they were to stand a chance of success. But Erica realised it was worse than that, they needed allies, if they were to survive.

      Ailric nodded tersely at Hereward, who jumped to his feet. ‘Lady Erica,’ Hereward said, dignifying her with the title that was her due as the only child of a thane. ‘Lady Erica, none of us would argue with your plan to join forces with others against the Norman bastard. But Guthlac …’ Hereward’s face distorted and he spat, most eloquently, into the fire before thumping back onto the bench. Some of the fierceness left his expression as he sent her a sad smile. ‘This outlaw’s life is not for women, my lady. It has addled your brain.’ He shook his head and his temple-braids swung with the movement as Erica struggled to muster the tart response that was necessary. Hereward’s lip curled. ‘Treat with Guthlac? If your father had caught wind of such a suggestion, he would have had you in the stocks.’

      ‘On the contrary, my father would have agreed with me. Thane Eric was a warrior, but he was also a practical man. Divided, we Saxons stand little chance of overcoming the Normans. And with our warband depleted and our best warriors deep in hiding …’ She shook her head. ‘Hereward, we need Thane Guthlac. He is the only Saxon with a half-decent force in this area, and if he accepts us as allies, then I can recall the warband and at the least our household will be reunited.’ Erica transferred her gaze to the housecarl who, in better times, her father had thought to see her wed. ‘Ailric, you said in your last report that you had located Thane Guthlac’s camp, that he, too, has taken refuge in East Anglia.’

      ‘Yes, my lady. Guthlac has kept his warband together and his encampment …’ His voice trailed off.

      ‘What of it? Where is it?’

      Ailric shrugged and a brooch at his shoulder gleamed gold in the firelight. ‘It is not so much an encampment, but a castle.’

      A ripple of surprise went round some of the men. Erica, too, was startled. Whoever had heard of anyone building a castle in this watery world? But Ailric was nodding.

      ‘A castle, my lady. Oh, to be sure it is a wooden one, it is not built in stone, but it is imposing none the less. Guthlac has had it thrown up on one of the larger islands; there is a palisade, and even a mound, and the main hall is built on that. From the distance you would think it a tower, a wooden tower.’

      Erica’s forehead puckered as she struggled to imagine it. ‘In the Norman style?’

      ‘Very like. It resembles the ones that William of Normandy built in London and Winchester, before he brought in his Frankish stonemasons.’

      ‘And Guthlac has used wood throughout?’

      ‘Aye. It is …’ Ailric’s eyes lost focus as he recalled the details. ‘It is as well built as any I have seen. The palisade looks impenetrable and there are walkways and sentry posts around the tower. It dominates the marshes for miles around.’

      Hereward grunted. ‘Guthlac always was a prideful fool, to draw attention to himself by such means. Soon every Norman in East Anglia will discover its location. Ailric tells me that by night the place blazes with more lights than King Harold’s palace at Bosham ever did.’ The housecarl gave Erica a straight look. ‘You cannot mean that we should ally ourselves with such as he?’

      ‘Indeed I do.’ Erica stiffened her spine. ‘Guthlac is our only hope.’ She made herself smile at Ailric, and prayed that he would not sense the doubts in her. ‘Ailric, you will accompany me, tomorrow at dawn. You will take me to Guthlac’s…castle, where we will discuss the terms of an alliance.’

      An appalled silence filled the cottage. It was broken only by the popping of willow logs on the fire and the wind combing the reeds outside. And then Hereward and Siward bounced to their feet, the young housecarl and the old, united in their horror at what she was proposing.

      ‘Tomorrow? No, my lady!’ This from Hereward.

      ‘Lady, no, you cannot forget the feud!’ This from Siward. His gnarled hand had gone straight to his sword hilt.

      Rising to move round the fire, Erica put her hand on Siward’s and gently peeled it from his sword.