Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment (16 page)

She shook her head. “Nay, they do not. Morgan has returned to Powys, and Rangor is on his way to Winchester.”

Wulfson’s jaw dropped. “How do you know this?”

“I pay my spies well.” When he did not speak, she continued, “Do not underestimate me, sir. My life and estates are at stake. Do you think I have sat idly by allowing the fates to determine the course of my life?”

“Lady Tarian,” Rhys said from down the table, “I for one would have no aversion to your riding with us. Indeed, I am eager to see you in action. I find Wulfson’s tall tales of your prowess a bit too much to swallow.”

“Did you not witness her handling of Rangor?” Brighid asked, incredulous, from across the table. Tarian smiled at the girl, who she knew held a soft spot for the handsome young knight.

“Mayhap I could teach you how to wield a sword,” Rhys said smiling, and without breaking his gaze with Brighid, he speared a piece of meat with his knife and chewed meaningfully. Brighid pinkened, and Alewith cleared his throat.

Tarian smiled up at Wulfson, who glared daggers at his man. Tarian pressed her hand to his, and he flinched. “’Tis just a hand, sir, no need to fluster.”

He pressed his thigh to hers and turned heated eyes toward her. “You play with fire, Tarian, do not push me. I am at my limit.”

She threw her head back and laughed. “Then a vigorous day in the saddle is what is in order!”

“More like a cold swim in yonder pond,” he grumbled under his breath.

Tarian refused to give way to his morose mood. “It can be arranged. The water is clear and clean, and most refreshing after a day in this insufferable heat.”

Wulfson’s dark eyes burned into her. He lowered his lips to her ear. “Is that an invitation?”

His warm breath caressed her cheeks, and Tarian felt her weakness for him encompass her like a warm blanket on a cold winter’s eve. “The pond is there for anyone’s pleasure.”

“Do you swim?”

“Well enough. I suppose you are an expert.”

He grinned, his humor restored. “Normandy has vast white beaches, where we train the horses in the salt water. ’Tis good for their legs. The sand builds muscle and stamina. After a long day, the water is a welcome respite. With the deadly tides, if one is not a strong swimmer one may drown.”

“Is your country beautiful?

“Aye. And the weather is more welcoming.”

“’Tis an unnaturally hot spring, with more rain than normal. Do you find the area so loathsome?”

He stared at her for a long moment. “Nay. Quite the contrary. I find the landscape and the local sights pleasing.” His gaze held hers, and she felt a fluttering in her belly.

“Do you have a lady love awaiting your return?”

Color drained from Wulfson’s face and he recoiled. “Nay! I am a bachelor for life.”

“Do you not want children and a spouse to assist you with your estate?”

“To have either, a wife is required.”

“What is so wrong with a wife?”

Wulfson turned to his meal. “I do not want a mewling nag nettling me at my every turn. I am a knight of William. My place is where he sends me.”

Tarian stiffened. “Your perception of a wife is muddied by those who take no pride in their wifely place.”

“What of you, Tarian? Do you wish to marry again?”

She smiled. “Nay, I do not want a mewling nagging husband nettling me at my every turn.”

He laughed, but his face settled into a more serious mode. “I know not how this will end, but if I were you, I would seek a high-ranking husband, preferably a Norman noble, and give him sons as soon as possible.”

“Why a Norman?”

“Because Saxons are losing their estates at an alarming rate. As you are aware, William has no great trust for them. ’Twould be wisest to blend your blood.”

Tarian considered his words, and realized he spoke true. Rangor was not the answer.

“Do you have a worthy Norman noble in mind?”

Wulfson scowled heavily, and turned away from her. “Nay.”

The meal concluded with light chatter and banter, but Wulfson’s words had struck a chord with her. A Norman noble? ’Twas so obvious, why had she not thought of it? She did not know if she could stomach marriage to a Norman. Her eyes cast a sideways glance to the Norman knight
she had been more intimate with than most wedded couples. If she could respond to him, mayhap there was hope. She sighed heavily.

Events were spinning out of her control, and she was beginning to feel she might not succeed. She pushed away from the table and stood. The knights, along with every other man seated, rose. Tarian bowed her head toward Wulfson. “I will meet you and your men shortly in the courtyard.” She turned away from him before he could argue. “Gareth, see that my horse is battle-dressed.”

Wulfson was not about to wait for the lady. His men ribbed him for giving in; he blamed Rhys. As they mounted, he paused in mid-movement and watched amazed the small form fully mailed and helmed striding toward them with the obvious gait of a woman. His men too stopped all action, and watched in stunned shock as she made her way toward them. Her long black hair swirled down her back and around her waist, giving away to any doubters the sex of the person under the mail. Her mail was shiny silver, as was her helm, from which a jaunty yellow plume bounced with each step. Her broadsword, strapped to a leather belt, hung from her narrow waist; her bow was slung across her back, and her quiverful of arrows hung from her right hand. She looked every bit a warrior and carried herself with the smooth grace of one.

“In all my years I have never seen a woman in mail,” Thorin said, slowly whistling.

“William should use her as his standard bearer; the en
emy would be too stunned to engage,” Ioan said, a chuckle in his voice.

“God’s blood!” Wulfson cursed. “She
is
a distraction. How can you men condone this? She will get us killed!”

His men grinned, and for the sheer sake of the novelty, and to also bait Wulfson, they did not discourage her. Gareth tossed her up into the saddle as he had no doubt done one hundred times before. His familiarity with the lady warrior stung Wulfson. He swiped it away as he would a buzzing bee.

She reined the gray up and spurred him forward. When she was several strides past them she pulled back on the reins and looked to the six knights, who sat unmoving upon their destriers in open shock.

“Come, lads, let us stir up trouble this day. I have a yearning for a fight!” Tarian called to them, then spurred her horse.

“
Jesu
! She is mad!” Wulfson grumbled. He turned to his men and threatened, “And I am daft to allow this! If she gets herself in trouble do not look to me to extract her. She is your worry!” He reined the black around and thundered after her vanishing form, his men close on his heels.

They settled into a short two-abreast phalanx, with Tarian breaking formation in the middle. ’Twas not what Wulfson had intended but it just naturally fell that way. He and Thorin, who bore the king’s standard, rode point, Tarian behind them. Rhys paired with Rorick, and Stefan and Ioan brought up the rear. In that formation she could easily be surrounded by them in a quick square.

“The village of Dunloc is three leagues past the left fork in the road,” Tarian called to Wulfson. He nodded, already knowing the exact location of the town. They continued
in silence, the normal conversation and camaraderie of his men absent. He knew their silence stemmed not only from Tarian’s presence but because they were acutely aware of how close to the Welsh border they were. Remaining silent but alert would keep them alive.

They made the bend in the road and continued at a brisk pace, the horses and the men feeling their morning oats. And Wulfson had to admit, the combination of the powerful thrusts of the formidable steed beneath him, Williams’s standard flying arrogantly in the air beside him, and knowing the most beautiful woman in the kingdom rode behind him stroked his ego to considerable girth. Aye, he felt as if he were the conquering hero of the land.

As the small town rose up to the left ahead of them, Wulfson reined his horse in that direction, and slowed. They had deliberately avoided the village since the first patrol more than a fortnight ago, finding no warmth from the sullen villagers. Not that Wulfson had an aversion to sullen Saxons, but he was not wont to engage in battle with women and old men who had only brooms and scythes as weapons. ’Twas no contest, and he considered it needless slaughter. So they avoided the place. But today the sun shone bright in the blue skies and he had a curiosity about the town, so he had allowed the venture. He also admitted he wanted to test the waters as to the inhabitants’ mood toward the lady who had slain their earl.

From the minute the first villagers set eyes on them, Wulfson had a bad feeling. Hatred sparked like fire from their eyes and they were not bashful in their contempt. And though the place bustled with activity, it had the downtrodden edge of squalor. Several structures were burned out and
others had no roofs; the few that did were in a sorry state of repair.

“Malcor’s neglect is obvious,” Tarian said to Wulfson. Several villeins overheard and stared at her, their jaws agape. “He gave these people no consideration. He thought them backward.”

“We are not backward churls! We are artisans!” a woman shrieked from behind them. Wulfson stiffened.

“Silence, Lady Tarian,” Wulfson warned. He watched the eyes of several bystanders widen. He silently cursed. Word would spread like wildfire.

Once they came upon the small town square along the main merchant street, Wulfson slowed his pace, bunching up his men to a tighter formation.

“Why do you slow?” Tarian asked.

“Silence,” Wulfson said, his tone hard and low.

“’Tis the witch of Draceadon!” someone shouted from the gathering crowd.

“The one upon the gray!”

“Murderess!” A hailstorm of shouts erupted.

Wulfson swore again, and immediately shields went up, his men forming a protective square around Tarian. As one unit, in the same direction as she had watched from her window, they moved forward and to the side out of harm’s way. Confused by the close proximity of the horses and the manner in which they moved, Silversmith pranced and worried at the bit. “Steady, lad,” Tarian soothed, “Steady.”

A missile of rotten fruit hit Tarian in the back of her helm. Before she could react, it was followed by rocks and chunks of wood and anything else the villagers could hurl.
The crude weapons bounced off the men’s shields but several struck Tarian.

Her heart raced, not with excitement but in anger and frustration, and also in sadness. These were her people and they did not want her! Would she ever fit in anywhere?

“Bastard of a rapist! Begone. Take your Norman pigs with you!”

Within, Tarian cringed, but on the outside she kept her poise, her back straight, her eyes forward, her hand steady. She’d heard the insults all her life; she had learned to deal with them. Most of the time they did not hurt, but today they struck deep. Here she was, in a place she’d thought would welcome her, only to find once again she was not wanted. The sins of the father. Would her life ever run smooth?

As the missiles continued to make their way not only to her but to the knights, Tarian glanced to Rhys on her left. He, as the others, did not appear overly worried. He did not look her way but kept focused on the growing mob. “Steady, my lady,” he softly cautioned, “Keep the pace and do not break from the formation.”

She nodded, and felt a sense of power amongst these men she had never experienced. They were so well trained, their skills honed to lethal; she knew that no matter what the villagers did, she would come to no harm under the protection of these men. And with that knowledge she threw her shoulders back more, lifted her chin, her gaze sweeping those around her, meeting their eyes, and defying any one of them to challenge her right to be there.

The sharp hiss of an arrow narrowly missed her head but with a solid thunk found a home in Silversmith’s neck. The horse shrieked in pain and reared, his front hooves
digging into the back of Wulfson’s black. The destrier did not flinch, but Silversmith came awkwardly down, and she could feel the stallion’s panic. Expertly she maneuvered him, calling to him to calm. He reared again. Tarian kept a steady hand on the reins but when another arrow whizzed past, this time sinking into the thick leather of Wulfson’s saddle, the gray threw his head and took the bit. Panicked, he bolted, forcing his way between Wulfson’s horse and Rhys’s steed, nearly climbing over the great horses to be gone from the attack. Wulfson grabbed her right rein as Silversmith slammed against him, but the gray would have none of it. He whipped his head around, then threw it again, and the reins yanked free from Tarian’s hands. Tarian grabbed the high pommel for balance, for once the stallion had broken free of the formation, at a full-out crazed gallop the gray stumbled his way through the square, and as the mobs drew closer around him raising their brooms and forks, he reared again. Though Tarian held on, she battled for control, and finding the reins she pulled him up. But he took the bit again, and under a sudden barrage of rotten fruit, vegetables, and stones the horse screamed in fear, bucking and rearing in his panic to be rid of the attackers. The crazed mob pushed closer, until bodies pressed against her legs and her horse stood quivering in stark terror.

A brawny arm reached up from the motley group and dragged her from the saddle. Silversmith bolted from the crowd. But Tarian was prepared to fight and as she went down she drew her sword. And though she landed on her back in the dirt, she had wits enough to plunge upward in short shallow jabs, and find flesh. A man screamed in pain, and as more hands reached for her, tearing off her plumed
helm and a gauntlet, she thrust up and hacked until most backed off and made way for her.

She could barely see from her vantage point that Wulfson and his men circled the mob, forcing them closer and closer together into an immobile bunch, at the same time herding them away from her. Swinging around the flank, Wulfson came around, and as he passed her, she reached up and he grabbed her by the arm, hoisting her up behind him. She landed with a loud whoosh behind him on the black’s hindquarters, but she would take it over being the center of the mob’s angry attention. Quickly the villagers were sufficiently quelled and Wulfson, with both swords drawn, pointed them at the red-haired giant who appeared to be the ringleader.

“Cease your attack at once or prepare to meet your maker!” he shouted. Turold stood perfectly still, the angry swell of churls having no effect on him. Yet Tarian could feel the tight bunch of his haunches beneath her ready to attack should his master but give him the signal. “I hold authority here under the proclamation of King William. Defy me, you defy him! He deals harshly with traitors, as do I. Further action against me or my knights will constitute an act of treason!”

“The bastard is not the king of our choosing!” a woman shouted. A turnip flew from the crowd, hitting Thorin in the chest. He did not flinch.

“Give us the witch so that we may burn her!”

“
Murderess!”

Anger swirled savagely and quickly rose to a height she had never experienced, and with it Tarian could no longer hold her tongue. “Silence, all of you!” she shouted from where she sat. “You know not of what you speak! You call
me a witch when your lord Malcor was a deviate!” She looked past Wulfson’s shoulder to the crowd. “How many of your sons did he drag up the hill? How many of them never returned?”

Stunned silence answered her. “You call
me
a witch? What then was
he
?”

She slid off Turold’s back. She heard Wulfson’s sharp curse for her to return but she ignored it, and strode into the crowd. He moved to grab her arm, but she flung him off. Angrily she faced the people she hoped to serve and in return be served by. “I am not your enemy. I am your emancipator. I did not slay the earl in cold blood; I fought for my life against him in that dungeon of horrors. ’Twas him or me, and I chose to live!”

She moved toward the big red-haired man. “What manner of man are you to attack a Saxon noblewoman?”

His hauntingly familiar pale eyes narrowed, and he looked past Tarian to the knights behind her. “What kind of men are
those
?” he defied, pointing his crude club at the knights. “’Tis whispered they have come to finish off Dunloc and take it for themselves.”

“That, my good fellow, remains to be seen.”

She moved further into the crowd. “Earl Malcor neglected Dunloc: I know, I see it. This place is a shambles. And while I find your loyalty to him admirable, it will be different now. Despite his deviance, he knew the value of giving me, his widow, title here.” She stepped up onto an overturned cart, and now could look over the sea of faces. Anger, frustration, and fear met her head-on. “I am your lady now, not the Normans, or Rangor.” She extended her arms and hands palms up, and pleaded, “I but ask that you give me a chance to bring prosperity back to Dunloc.”

Blank stares answered her plea. “Who is reeve here?”

“Dead at Stamford Bridge!”

“No one has replaced him?”

The redheaded man raised his club. “I am Ednoth, bastard half brother of Malcor. I am leader here.”

Tarian nodded. “I pray the family resemblance is only skin-deep, Ednoth.”

His eyes widened before narrowing. “Do not insult me with your accusations.”

“Then return the favor.”

He subtly nodded his head. “There are deep wounds here. They will not heal overnight.” He looked past her to the knights, who kept swords pointed and at the ready.

“Aye, sir, England still bleeds.” She turned back to Wulfson, who watched only the crowd. “Let us part now, and when there is a more temperate climate, we will speak of building our future here.” She looked up to Wulfson, who sheathed his left-handed sword and extended the hand to her. He hoisted her up again and she settled behind him.

She looked over the crowd. While their mood had subsided, there was still much open hatred in their eyes for her and the men she rode with. She could not blame them. She would feel the same too, and a few promises from a woman of her background would do little to settle their restlessness.

With nothing more to be said, in amazing precision, without a word spoken, the six destriers backed up as one at an angle, completely extricating themselves from the villagers, who wisely parted for the great horses to pass. It was not until they were clearly out of missile range that they turned their steeds on their hind legs in unison and galloped toward Draceadon. As they set upon the road, not one word was spoken. But she could feel the anger tense in Wulfson’s body.

She wanted to deny that the incident was her fault, but she could not, for the truth was obvious. Silversmith, as seasoned as he was, was not accustomed to the other horses and the tight formations. The arrow in his neck had been the catalyst. He had much to learn, as did she, in the art of war. Tarian feared for the horse’s welfare, but knew he would return to the place where he was fed. Resigned to her part in the melée, Tarian did not engage any of the men in conversation. Indeed, so focused were they on their surroundings they probably forgot her existence. She let out a long breath and tried to relax, but could not. The ride back to Draceadon was long, uncomfortable, and silent.