Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment (12 page)

“My lady,” Rangor interrupted from down the table. Tarian and Wulfson both scowled. “For your continued health, it is best you go to Powys.”

Tarian shook her head. “Nay.”

“Rangor is right,” Alewith added.

Tarian pushed away from the table and stood. “This is my home, and I will not be driven from it.” She looked down at Wulfson and said, “Go back to your king and tell him he has no enemy in Tarian of Dunloc. I would give him homage and soldiers should he need them. I pledge my oath.”

Rangor hissed in a long breath. “What if the Marches should be breached by the Normans?”

She cast a weary glance down the table. “I am Saxon and Welsh, uncle, but my king is Norman. What would you have me do?”

“Ally yourself with your blood kin!”

She smiled wryly. “My blood kin are mulch in York and Hastings. My dam cannot bear to hear my name spoken in her presence.” She looked over to Alewith and Brighid. “My guardian and sister of my heart, while they have treated me as one of them, cannot claim blood ties to me.” She looked back at Rangor. “I have no blood kin. I have Draceadon. Do not speak to me again of leaving. I have the will and I have my men. It is all I need to plead my cause.”

She gave Wulfson a sharp glare. “No man, not even your king, will take it from me.”

“There is always the convent,” Thorin interjected, and as the words tumbled from his man’s lips Wulfson felt a chill whip through his bones. It would be a catastrophe for that body and that brain to be sequestered from the world behind the heavy black robes of a nun.

Tarian hissed in a long breath. “Bite your tongue, Viking! God wants nothing to do with me, nor I with him!”

“’Tis blasphemy!” Rangor screeched, his words echoed by Father Dudley.

Tarian clenched her fists and pounded the trestle top. Anger swirled like a storm within her. She felt her skin warm and her eyes start from her head. “
Blasphemy?
My father captured my mother,
an abbess
, then repeatedly raped her for a year. Not even a king’s decree could force him to release her! I am marked as the devil’s spawn! I would find nothing but bone-weary toil to repent for the sins of my father. ’Tis no life for any woman. I will not stand for it!”

She looked at them all, their jaws slack; even Wulfson, it seemed, was shocked. She smiled grimly. “Think what you will. But I will not abide by any of you deciding how I will spend the rest of my life.” She looked down at Wulfson and said, “And should your sword find a resting place in
my heart, be warned: my uncles, though I defy them their invitation now, will not be pleased.”

“You will remain here until I hear from William. His word will be final.” Wulfson stood and spoke to the entire hall. “I am lord here until further notice, and I decree”—he looked pointedly at Morgan, then Rangor—“that the lady will stay under my care until such time I deem it otherwise.”

“Send her to Normandy and allow William to hold her hostage,” Rangor said coming around.

Tarian gasped in shock. “Never!”

“Aye, ’twould solve the problem, Wulf,” Thorin agreed.

“Let William have a tangle with her. He will see to her future,” Rorick agreed.

Panic tore through her. It was the ultimate solution, making the most sense. Everyone would get what they wanted. Everyone but she. Tarian glanced up to Wulfson and found his contemplative stare. “Nay! I will not go to Normandy!”

“Then wed with me now, Tarian. ’Tis not unusual,” Rangor cajoled.

Moving with the speed of a cat, Tarian spun around, drawing her sword, and stood at the ready. “I have told you, repeatedly. I will
never
wed with you!”

When Wulfson said no word, Rangor grew bolder. “I have wealth, Tarian. Combined with Dunloc, we would have more than most kings!”

Defiant to the end, Tarian vigorously shook her head and pressed her sword toward him. “Let us settle this here and now, Rangor.” She gestured toward his sword. “Should you defeat me, I will wed with you. But should I win?”
She smiled grimly. “You will leave here today and never return.”

Rangor grinned from ear to ear and bowed. “’Twould be my pleasure.” He glanced up at Wulfson. “I will not harm her.”

Much to her fury, the Norman nodded and stood back. “Clear the hall,” he commanded.

“Tarian! No!” Brighid cried, as she came around the trestle. Her hip slammed into it and she cried out in pain. Tarian made to move toward her, but stopped when to her utter amazement the one Wulfson called Rhys hurried to her side and with the chivalry of a king helped her to her feet. Forgetting her foster sister, the girl blushed deeply and allowed the handsome knight to assist her. Rhys appeared to be the youngest of the Normans, and the quietest.

Tarian looked up to Wulfson, who scowled. ’Twas his favorite expression, she decided.

“Set her aside and forget her,” Wulfson said in French to the knight. His reward was a stiff glare, but Rhys moved away just the same.

“You, sir knight, have the manners of a boar,” Tarian said.

“And you have the temperament of a wasp,” he replied, then stood back and extended his arm to the now cleared area. “My lady warrior, the floor is yours.”

Sword in hand, Tarian did not wait for Rangor to gather
his poise. She struck without warning, slamming him on his shoulder with the flat of her blade. A collective gasp rippled through the hall, and soon bets were being made.

Rangor was not daunted. He drew his sword and crouched, swinging the blade low to catch her off her feet, but Tarian was more seasoned than that. As the sword edged near her, she jumped, scaling it. As she landed, she whirled and returned the parry, catching Rangor off balance, and in the process she sliced through a leather garter.

He snarled and stood to his full height, and with both hands on the hilt in a hacking motion, he came at her.

Wulfson stood in quiet amazement as he watched the nymph dance and twirl around the Saxon, drawing him close only to have him take a swipe and miss, and herself come around and connect. She was small and nimble and wily as a fox.

Sweat beaded Rangor’s forehead, and though the lady warrior was a bit winded, she was the one who maintained composure.

Rangor was getting sloppy in his zealous frenzy to possess her. And Wulfson could not blame him. As he watched her thrust, strike, and parry with such deadly precision, his blood quickened. He imagined her doing the same thing with him, only with no clothing and no sword.

Rangor’s frustration and now his humiliation took control over his lust for the woman. Wulfson stepped closer to the circle. Rangor rushed Tarian and her leg banged the corner of a trestle. She lost her balance, and Rangor pounced. Wulfson moved to pull her out of harm’s way but was stayed by Thorin’s brawny arm.

Tarian rolled under the trestle and popped up on the other side, kicking Rangor in the backside before he re
alized what she had done. He hit the rushes with a loud thud, and when he rolled over, her foot was on his chest and her blade pressed to the vital vein in his throat.

The hall erupted in cheers and Wulfson felt a sense of relief he had not known he held. He caught Thorin’s sage gaze, and the Viking lowered his arm, and mumbled, “’Tis a shame. Rangor could have spared us more time here.”

Tarian kept her sword pressed to Rangor’s throat. “You have lost, uncle. I expect you to keep your oath to me.” She stepped back, removing the blade from his person. “Begone from here and do not darken my doorstep again. You are no longer welcome.” She sheathed her sword and turned her back on him and looked up at Wulfson. “How was that, milord, for a kitten?”

Wulfson grinned and lightly rubbed his chest where the scar tingled. “Not bad, but then, you fought a puppy.”

Tarian’s eyes sparked in brilliant fury. Heat flared to every point in his body and he could not remember ever having seen such a magnificent sight in his life. She reminded him of the coal-black Barbary mares in Iberia, imported from the deserts in the Holy Lands. Full of fire and majesty. Aye, she would not tame down for just any master. She would require a patient and gentle but firm hand, but before that she would have to trust. He scowled. Trust was one thing he could not give her.

Brighid broke the spell, rushing into her foster sister’s arms, crying as any woman would. As the girl seemed to disintegrate into a puddle of tears, Tarian pulled her along, shushing her, and soon they were gone from the hall.

Rangor stood amongst his men and those of Rhiwallon. “My oath is my oath,” he began to Wulfson. “But by blood right, I have claim to this holding.”

“Take it up with William.”

Rangor made a short bow and said, “I will plead my case in person, and be sure I will inform him of your own lust for the lady.”

Rangor’s words struck Wulfson to the quick, and though it should not have bothered him, for he knew his king had the utmost confidence in him, it nettled him that his lust for the lady warrior was obvious to others. He smiled stiffly and looked around to those who waited for his response. “I am a man, Rangor, and she is a beautiful woman.” He looked to his men and asked, “Is there one among you who would not take a tumble if she but offered?”

Rorick grinned and Thorin chuckled, shaking his head. Stefan stood beside Ioan. They both shook their heads. When Wulfson’s gaze touched on Rhys, the youngest of the knights, whose grin was wide as the fortress doors, he turned back to the irritating lord. “Dogs, all of us! By all means, inform William of this unheard-of affliction.”

Giving Rangor his back, Wulfson spoke to Alewith, who stood silent, his face reddening. Wulfson nodded. “My pardon, sir, but the taunt required an honest explanation.”

Alewith nodded and remained silent.

Wulfson turned his attention to the Welsh captain. “As the lady extended an invitation to you to stay until such time she changes her mind, you may, but your men must go. Seek the hospitality of the hall this night, but to do so you will hand over your weapons.” Before Morgan could respond, he turned to Alewith. “Your men as well.”

Both stepped up, sputtering their anger over such a request.

Wulfson held his hand up for silence. “Should there be any aggression from without
or
within and your services
be required, your men will have their weapons returned. Should we require assistance.”

“’Tis preposterous!” Alewith groused.

“Then feel free to take your men and your daughter and return to Turnsly forthwith. I see no need for your presence here.”

Alewith did not back down. “You have nothing to fear from me, Norman.” He nodded to Wulfson. “If you would indulge an old man who cares for his charge, ’tis why I am here.”

Wulfson chuckled. “You are correct on all accounts.” He sobered and speared the lord with a glare. “Hand over your arms or leave Draceadon.”

Alewith set his jaw, but bowed and withdrew his sword, handing it hilt first to Wulfson, who accepted it. His men followed their lord, the Blood Swords collecting a vast assortment of swords, daggers, and axes. When Wulfson turned to Morgan, the Welshman bowed, clicked his spurs, and stepped back. “I will return to Powys with my men.” He turned then, and strode from the hall, calling to his men to follow.

Wulfson looked across Alewith’s head to Thorin and Rorick, who were close. “We will see the Welsh again, I have no doubt,” Rorick said.

Wulfson nodded. And they would take every precaution.

Alewith excused himself and stalked from the hall, Gareth retreating as well. With the hall cleared of those he could not trust, Wulfson called to the nearest servant, “Bring ale for my men,” then inclined his head toward the table before the cold hearth. “Come, Blood Swords, let us discuss the happenings of this most interesting day.”

Once his men were gathered around, Wulfson told them of the day’s events, being sure not to leave out the very important fact that the marauders he and the lady had disposed of bore Welsh colors, Welsh who were related to the infamous lady warrior.

“You say the lady winged your ear from fifty paces?” Ioan asked, incredulous.

Wulfson fingered the wound, and turned to show them all. “Aye, see for yourself. ’Tis but a nick, as she intended.”

“And she killed the last one standing with her own sword in his back?” Stefan skeptically asked.

“Aye, she hurled it from her horse. ’Twas a perfect throw. It hit the knave right between the shoulders. He went down like a sack of turnips.”

“And you say she took out five with her bow? One arrow to the heart of each of them?” Rorick demanded.

“Aye, I was too busy with my own defense, but when all was done, I counted five with arrows in their chests, and one with a broadsword in his back.”

“I do not believe it!” Rhys shouted. “No woman could perform such a feat!”

Stefan nudged his friend. “Even Thorin with one eye can see she has the skill of a seasoned warrior. Look how she toyed with Rangor.”

At the mention of his name, all eyes turned to the Viking.

Thorin scratched his chin, fingering the crescent-shaped scar they all bore. Wulfson knew the Viking had the mind of a steel trap, and though he sported an eye patch, it did not curb his ferociousness as a warrior. If anything, it made him more aware. “What are you thinking, Thorin?” Rorick asked.

“That this exploit has turned into a quagmire of intrigue. ’Tis unfortunate we could not have arrived one week later. Our troubles would be dead and buried.”

Wulfson fought back a scowl at his words. While his friend spoke the truth, the thought of finding the lady he saw today, the woman who had haunted his dreams the night past, dead was unsettling. She had the vitality of ten men. She was an amazing creature that should be set free, not caged or killed.

“
Jesu
!” he cursed out loud at his thoughts. Five sets of eyes stared at him.

Thorin’s eyes narrowed. “What afflicts you, Wulf? Has the wench gotten under your skin in such short order?”

“Nay,” Wulfson denied, shaking his head. He moved to a safer subject. “I cannot argue the obvious. I find that the longer we stay here, the closer we come to disaster. The Norman Earl of Hereford, William fitz Osborn, has his hands full farther north, and that mad Saxon Earl Edric, though he has pledged his fealty to William, I know he sleeps with the Welsh. There will be more blood shed. Soon.”

“I say we send her packing to William,” Ioan chimed in. All but Wulfson nodded in agreement.

“The Welsh circle like vultures. Keeping the lady here is like dangling fresh meat in front of a hound. It seems she could well be the spark to a terrible clash of Welsh, Saxon, and Norman,” Rhys said.

“William wants no quarrel with them, but should they press the issue they will be set back, and lose much of what they had for the effort. William will seize every hide of land that he can,” Rorick said, then added, “And do not think for one moment Rangor is not running to his Welsh kin before he goes to William.”

Wulfson could not disagree with any word. He looked over to the silent Stefan. “What think you, Stefan?”

“I think we should leave this place, with the lady in tow, and hand her over to William.”

Wulfson shook his head. “He does not want the responsibility. He already has her only surviving uncle as hostage these many years past. The move would make him appear afraid of all things Godwinson. That aside, it would look to the Welsh as if he blinked first. William would rather cut off his sword arm than show any hint of weakness. Nay, Normandy is not the answer.” He paused for effect. “At least—not yet.”

“If we are to stay here, Wulf,” Thorin said, “then we need more men. We have not the numbers. And this crumbling place could not withstand a full-out assault.”

Wulfson stepped back from the hearth and contemplated the situation. “With no delays, Warner should return within the next handful of days. And with him, men.” He looked to his men. “I have sent word to Rohan that he and Manhku should answer the call. And along with them more men.”

Thorin grinned. “The last time I saw du Luc he was more nervous than a lad with his first woman. His lady should give birth by summer’s end.”

Stefan laughed. “I would have wagered my horse and sword when we began this journey together, he of all of us would be the last to be led around like a lamb by a woman.”

They were interrupted when a servant set a tray of full goblets of ale down on the table. Each man grabbed one. Wulfson hoisted his cup and said, “A toast to Rohan and Isabel—may their first child be a strong son!”

A second cup followed, and a third and fourth cup.

Tarian fairly stewed in her chamber. After promising never again to challenge a man to a swordfight, She’d been able to calm Brighid down sufficiently to get her into bed, and now, after rocking her as Edith had done when she was a babe, she watched as Brighid slept fitfully, tangled up in the mass of sheets.

Sensing Tarian’s short-tempered mood, Edith stayed clear of her pacing lady. As did Brighid’s timid maid.

Tarian gave her foster sister a final glance, then stopped suddenly. Emotions she was not aware she possessed clashed in her head and her heart, and those emotions she refused to acknowledge were what caused her such anger.

How dare that Norman step back and allow her to challenge Rangor! What if by some ill chance the baron had bested her? Was she truly
nithing
to the bore? After today?
Jesu
! She had saved his life! And the way he had touched her in the ruins. Heat flushed her cheeks at his remembered touch. He shocked her, to be sure. But would he just hand her over like a used garment? She flung herself into the hard stone window seat and peered out, half expecting to see him standing in the dusky twilight, his hands fisted, staring up at her.

Nay, that would mean she occupied his mind, and it was apparent she did not!

She slammed her fists on the sill. “Argh!”

“Tarian?” Brighid cried out from the great bed. She hurried to the girl, waving off the girl’s maid, who popped out of the corner, and shushed her back to sleep. Once Brighid’s breaths evened, Tarian moved back to the window, and, more controlled, now she peered out. The great forest of
Dunloc spread out before her, straight ahead. To her right, where she could not see from her vantage point, were hides and hides of cultivated land. The soil was rich, and Dunloc had once been a thriving farming community. Some three leagues past the hill, in days past, the town there had teemed with an eclectic array of artisans. Glaziers, copper-and goldsmiths, some of the finest weavers in the land: all had called Dunloc home. The multitude of colors extracted from the soils in nearby hills was in high demand. Aye, the place had potential to become one of the great contributors to the Crown, but Malcor had neglected not only the magnificent fortress Draceadon, but the town and people as well. He preferred his time at the English court, before William, and, after the conquest, the smaller Welsh courts. His largest estate, Briarhurst, farther north and the place where they were to wed, was magnificent. But Malcor had gone to ground here at Draceadon. And here she had been imprisoned, and here she stayed.