Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment (11 page)

A storm more ferocious raged in her eyes and face. But he would not be swayed by it. Nay, now he would show her once and for all that if her destiny was to die at his hands then it would be so.

“I saved your life. Does that not count for something?” she demanded.

Wulfson shook his head. “Nay, you nearly cost it.”

She pressed the tip into the thick scar tissue on his chest. “You are a most arrogant man, Wulfson of Trevelyn. Had I not filled those men with my arrows, I would be safely back at Draceadon enjoying an afternoon respite with Brighid.”

“Had I not pulled you from the bowels of that place, you would be dead as we speak.”

She threw her head back and laughed, and it was just the distraction Wulfson needed. He slapped the blade away from his chest, grabbing Tarian’s hand that held it, and squeezed. She cried out in pain but did not release the hilt. She twisted and turned in against him, knocking them both off balance. Wulfson was not used to such a small, slippery foe. He guarded what made him a man as the length of the blade struck downward in their battle over it. He pushed
Tarian back against the wall, and when she hit the timber with a hard thump, Wulfson grabbed the sword from her. He pressed it horizontally across her chest, then shoved her back into the wall, keeping her completely immobile. One wrong turn and the honed blade would slice her open. As it was, the upper edge dug into the tender flesh at the top swell of her right breast. A small drop of blood beaded above the steel where it hovered, then dripped slowly down the side.

“Lady Tarian, you sorely try my patience.”

Her ocean-colored eyes glittered in fury, and he felt a different pain rise up between them. Her eyes widened, and he grinned, despite the most precarious position they found themselves in. “It seems I am a man who not only enjoys watching a woman touch herself but one who likes rough play.” He tossed the sword behind him, where it clattered against the far wall. Before she could move, he dug his fingers into her thick hair and pulled it back so that she could do naught but look him in the eye. “Do you want to continue this charade of cat and mouse, or do you want to lie with me here and now?”

“I would never lie with a Norman!”

Her words did not hurt. Her refusal to lie with him did. “You lay with me last eve. What has changed?”

“You are mad to think I would come to you in the night! I would never do such a thing! I am a widow of just a month.”

His hands moved through her hair, drawing out her long tresses. “Is this the way a widow wears her hair?” He nodded toward her clothing on the floor. “Is that how one who is in mourning dresses?”

Tarian remained mute. Wulfson studied her for a long
time. “Why, after he had agreed, did your husband refuse to marry you?”

If it were possible for her to look more furious than she had moments before, she did. “’Tis no concern of yours.”

His hand slid down her belly and rested just above her mons. He felt her flinch, and resisted the urge to sample her honey. “Are you with child?”

Taking a deep breath, she answered him honestly. “I do not know.” He stood still, watching her for any clue she lied. “Does it matter? If your king decides to see his original order met, the child will die with me.”

Wulfson drew her close, his head dipped; his lips hovered just above hers. “If you are such a resourceful warrior, why do you act as if when the final order comes you will hand me your sword to do the deed?”

She rose up on her toes and pressed her breasts against his bare chest. His muscles tightened. “I would never do such a thing, because I do not think you have it in you to kill an innocent woman and babe.” She nipped his bottom lip and hung onto to it. He jerked his head away, blood beaded on his bottom lip. Tarian laughed. “My husband called me Lilit.”

Wulfson swiped his thumb across his lower lip and saw the blood there. He licked it. “Who is Lilit?”

Tarian laughed again, her voice this time verging close to hysteria. He shook her and she sobered, then looked him hard in the eye. “Lilit was a succubus of the highest order.” His eyes narrowed, and she explained. “Lilit came to warriors in the night, and as she made love to them she sucked their vigor from them, so the next morn they were useless on the battlefield, where they succumbed to their enemy only to be reunited with her in their death.”

“Did Malcor fear you?”

“Indeed, and he had much to fear.”

“Did you slay him?”

“’Twas either he or me. I chose to live.”

Wulfson stepped back from her. “Get dressed. The rain has waned, and I would see us back for the midday meal. I have a great hunger.”

Tarian nodded, and as they dressed she noticed again the growing bloodstain on his leggings. “Your wound will fester if it is not tended.”

“I will see to it.”

As they mounted and turned their horses toward Draceadon, the distant thunder of hooves from the west road leading toward the town of Dunloc met them. Wulfson inclined his head to her to ride behind the ruin, and they hurried to see and not be seen.

A handful of armed soldiers on horseback thundered past the chapel, followed long moments later by at least twoscore foot soldiers. If they could be considered soldiers. They reminded Wulfson more of churls playing at war. The argent lion emblazoned on the sable standard was familiar; he had seen it at Hastings amongst the Saxon army.

“’Tis Rhiwallon,” Tarian said after the train passed.

Wulfson scowled. Between Rangor’s men, Tarian’s guard, and now the Welsh king’s detail, the Blood Swords, though worth five men apiece, had become sorely outnumbered.

“Does the mighty knight fear the Welsh?” Tarian snidely asked.

Wulfson scoffed, turning to her. “Did I fear them earlier in the wood?”

She smiled and shook her head, her long hair swirling around her waist. For the hundredth time that day his blood quickened at the sight of her. Her pluck and exotic beauty gave him pause nearly every time he set his gaze on
her. “Nay, but you must admit, knowing I had your back, there was little to fear.”

Wulfson scoffed again and urged Turold forward. “I will admit for a woman you have a talent with the bow.”

“Hah! I can shoot the eye from a boar at seventy-five paces.”

Wulfson shook his head.

“I can!”

“You would have to prove such prowess to me. But for now let us return to Draceadon and hear what Rhiwallon desires of you.”

“He desires that I go to Powys for his protection.”

Wulfson waited for her to catch up to his pace, then said, “I will not allow it.”

She shrugged. “I have no desire to leave my home.”

Wulfson eyed her sharply. “You are as mysterious to me as any woman I have come across, Lady Tarian.”

“I am many things to many people, sir knight, but there is no mystery to me. I want what every woman wants. A safe home to raise her children.”

“Safety is difficult to guarantee.”

“Especially when there is a price on one’s head.”

“There are no rules on the battlefield.”

She flashed him a smile that stirred his cock. “Aye, of that I am clearly aware.”

“You make light of a serious situation.”

She flashed him another disarming smile and leaned toward him, and said softly, “I will not die by your hand, Sir Wulfson.”

He leaned toward her, catching her deep blue eyes with his. “Never underestimate the enemy. ’Tis the most fatal of flaws.”

He watched the color rise in her cheeks. “Aye, and so I say the same to you. Do not forget it.”

Wulfson sat back in his saddle and contemplated the erect back and proud set of her shoulders. A niggling trepidation clawed at his gut. Here was a foe he had never come face to face with. Nor one he had been trained to defeat. He thought he understood the workings of the fairer sex, but this Saxon witch mystified him. His cock burned with a heat he fought to quell. Lilit, Malcor had called her. Mayhap the earl knew more than most. The warrior princess was a demon, and either he had dreamt of her coming to him or she truly had, and in her demoness form no less. He scowled deeply. He found not only his strength to be tested this day, and had the wounds to prove she had sucked his usual vigor from him. But he had not used his brain to its fullest capacity when he rode off with no helm, gauntlet or company, and was Turold not so expertly trained in the art of war he would not have won the day. He gave the horse an affectionate pat on the neck, and was rewarded with a snort and shaking of his great black head. Aye, Turold, like all the Blood Sword mounts, was of the finest Spanish blood.

His lips twitched in a half-smile. They had left Iberia with more than their lives that fateful day. His mood was quickly soured with the realization that had Tarian not come to him in the night, he would have had more sense about him and been most capable of quelling the Welsh single-handedly, and in shorter order.

His eyes narrowed, and he made the decision right then and there to stay as far from her as humanly possible. She was deadly in her treacherous female form, and, being but a lowly male, he found himself battling his inhuman desire for her.

As they approached Draceadon, Tarian’s excitement grew. Her message to her Welsh kinsman King Rhiwallon had been received. And with the arrival of his messenger and guard, the charade would now commence in full. She held back a gloating smile. The Norman knight had been all too correct in his statement that there were no rules on the battlefield. She of all people understood how the wiles of a woman could confuse a man and make him think more than twice, and not with the head on his shoulders. Even Malcor in his depravity had not been immune to her. He had named her sole heir to all he held. That document alone, should she outwit William and his Blood Swords, would be her salvation.

Aye, she was counting on Rhiwallon’s demand that she come to him in Powys, so that she could refuse. Rangor would plead his case and the Norman would deny them both. But Tarian thought that if she could convince the Norman to give his oath to Rhiwallon, Rangor, and Alewith that no harm would come to her person, and to return to Normandy in return for Rhiwallon’s pledge of alliance, along with that of Rangor and Alewith, surely William would consider such an offer. ’Twas no secret the Welsh held no love for William. But mayhap she could barter an alliance. Because with Rhiwallon would come the kingdom of Powys, and his brother King Bleddyn of Gwynedd, and that combination William would not be able to resist.

Aye, she would tread very carefully. Tarian’s insides churned when she thought of the consequences she would pay should the Norman discover William’s messenger would not be returning anytime soon. Several of her guard awaited his entering Wycliffe Pass just over the hill. He
would not be harmed, but neither would he deliver the king’s answer to Wulfson’s question, unless of course William changed his mind.

“What treachery brews in that head of yours, Lady Tarian?” Wulfson asked, sidling closer to her. So lost in thought was she, she paid him no heed. His leg brushed against hers and she caught his hard stare.

“I but wonder what intrigue awaits us ahead.”

Wulfson’s lips drew into a tight line. “I pray all parties involved understand William’s affection for his Blood Swords, and also his wrath should he find himself without them.”

“Do you fear for your safety, milord knight?”

“Nay, I fear for yours.”

Tarian shook her head. “I do not understand you. One moment you are bent on seeing me planted in the ground, and the next you fear for my safety? Which is it?”

Wulfson ignored her question, and it was as well, for when they turned the bend the fortress Draceadon rose up like its namesake, a giant dark dragon, and spilling out from the bailey more horses and soldiers. Gareth, followed by several Normans, had just broken free and galloped toward them.

“My lady!” Gareth called as he came near, his voice full of relief.

She looked past him to see the tall Viking called Thorin and another knight, Rorick. She could not see their faces behind their black helms, but the tight jaws gave away their ire.

“Wulfson!” Thorin said, reining up to them, “We had given you up for”—his one eye speared Tarian—“lost.”

Wulfson scoffed. “Hardly, my friend. We but waited out the rain under cover. Tell me the mood of the Welsh.”

Rorick snorted, and looked from Tarian to Gareth, then back to the clogged bailey. “’Tis the captain of Rhiwallon’s guard. He would speak only to you. But my guess is he has come for the lady.”

“’Tis best, milady, you go with them,” Gareth said to Tarian.

She stiffened in the saddle. “I will not leave here.”

Gareth eyed the Normans and softly pleaded, “Milady, blood is at stake. For your welfare ’tis best to be gone from here.”

She nudged Silversmith forward. “I will not leave Draceadon to Rangor. ’Tis mine.
He
can go to his cousin!” The big gray sprinted past the knights. Wulfson’s curses behind her, along with those of his men and Gareth, brought a grim smile to Tarian’s lips. She would not be a pawn in this man’s game. She was lady here, and heir or not, lady she would stay!

As they entered the crowded bailey, Wulfson noted that the Welsh were smart enough to know with whom they dealt. They parted as if he were their own king. His men stood outside the great hall, a most fearsome gauntlet. He noted that Tarian’s men, while not standing with the Blood Swords, were yet close enough to them to debate whether they stood together or not. However, Rangor and Alewith stood firmly with the Welsh. Wulfson was not fooled by Gareth’s indecision. Better for Gareth to look as if he stood with the Normans than to look completely at odds with them. Rangor and Alewith were not nearly as clever.

Wulfson scowled and dismounted, handing off the reins to Rolf.

“Sir Morgan, King Rhiwallon’s captain of his guard,
wishes a word with you, Sir Wulfson,” Rangor said, stepping forward, his eyes riveted on Tarian. Wulfson made to step toward her to assist her in her dismount, but was warned off with a sharp glare. Instead, Gareth assisted her. Wulfson stood back and turned to the tall, dark Welshman Morgan.

He approached Wulfson and gave him a curt nod, and said in Welsh, “I am Morgan ap Rhys, and have come with word of my liege, Rhiwallon of Powys. I beg we have a private moment to speak.”

Wulfson nodded and strode away from the throng, keeping close to his men but not close enough for any to overhear.

When he stopped, Morgan stopped beside him. Withdrawing a sealed document from a leather pouch that hung from his waist, he handed it to Wulfson. “Shall I call my scribe?”

Wulfson shook his head. “Nay, I have knowledge of letters.” He broke the wax seal with his thumb and unrolled the parchment and read:

As Wulfson read the command that the Welsh king had no authority to make of William’s vassals, he worked hard to maintain his self-control. The ruler’s audacity astounded him. He wanted the lady in his lair for the same reasons William wanted her dead. And Rhiwallon was wily in his words. While he alluded to an alliance with William should he need it, he would do so only on the condition that Rhiwallon’s enemies were the instigators. What if his own brother should decide to attack? The alliance would bear no water. Aye, it was time to tread very carefully through this bog.

Without giving the Welsh captain even a glance, Wulfson turned to face the gathered throngs comprised of Norman, Saxon, and Welsh. His men stood alert, ready to defend or attack. His eyes caught those of Rorick, who stood closest. The big Scot understood, and moved to stand beside Tarian, while Thorin moved up behind Gareth. Sensing what was about, Rhys, Ioan, and Stefan tightened their stances and soon they were a solid mass of knights, soldiers, and nobles, with a lone woman in the middle. Wulfson cursed under his breath and turned to Morgan. “Let us discuss this matter over the afternoon meal.” It was not a request.

Wulfson swept toward Tarian, and as he passed her he grabbed her arm and pulled her along with him. Gareth made a move. Wulfson dropped her arm and turned. “Give way, Viking.”

Wulfson’s men formed a diamond-shaped barrier around them, and as one they moved into the great hall.

In a mad rush to see the tables set, the servants swarmed like ants, and Wulfson had to admit they were well schooled in their duties. Within a very short time all were seated: Wulfson with Tarian beside him, the Welsh captain to his left, Alewith to Tarian’s right and Rangor relegated further down the table between Thorin and Gareth. Wulfson indicated that the other Blood Swords should sit amongst the Welsh and Saxon soldiers, and keep a sharp eye on them.

The numbers were stacked against them should either faction decide to press the issue with might. Tarian remained quiet and calm, but Wulfson did not expect anything less from her. She was not only beautiful and able to wield a sword and bow like a man, but she was cagey, not one to rush to conclusions or to press an issue before it was ripe. He was sure she was as intrigued as he, and would do her best to maneuver the current climate to her favor.

It occurred to him as he gazed down at her dark head and listened to her husky voice that she would make a most prized wife. Malcor was a fool.

Once the blessing was said, Tarian did not hesitate to ask, “So, Morgan, how fare my uncles Rhiwallon and Bleddyn?”

Wulfson stiffened as he stabbed a piece of roast mutton with his table knife.

The man glanced at Wulfson, who ignored him, and said, “Both are well. My liege Rhiwallon is most anxious for your visit.”

Wulfson waited silently for her response. Mayhap he would not have to be the villain here. “I too look forward to a visit, but I cannot travel at this time.”

Morgan scowled and set his cup aside. “I should despair to bear such news to my liege. It would please him greatly if you returned with me.”

Daintily Tarian plucked a piece of choice meat from the trencher she shared with Wulfson. As she chewed the morsel, she shook her head. “I shall write to my uncle and explain my situation here.”

Morgan scowled, and his body stiffened. “I have been instructed not to return without you, my lady.”

Tarian laughed, the light and melodic sound shooting straight to Wulfson’s groin. “Then by all means make yourself at home here, Sir Morgan.” She looked steadily at him and said in a very low, firm voice, “I will not leave my home. I may be with child and do not wish to travel. The visit will have to wait.”