Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment (17 page)

As they broke into the small valley lying before the great fortress, Gareth with a handful of her men came thundering out from the bailey. When they saw the contingent of knights, they slowed.

Tarian saw the worry in Gareth’s eyes before she heard it in his voice. “Your horse, milady, he took an arrow? Are you injured?” he asked as he saw her mounted behind Wulfson, his eyes looking up and down her body for any injury.

Wulfson snorted. “The lady’s only injury is to her mind to think she possesed the skill to ride with us. She will not again. She was nearly killed and she put my men in peril.”

“The villagers of Dunloc swarmed us. Silversmith took an arrow, and he panicked,” she said softly.

Gareth nodded and reined his horse around. As they approached the long road up to Draceadon, churls stood silent in the fields, watching them pass. Tarian smiled, hoping to allay their fears, but was rewarded with stony gazes. A cold realization filled her. Despite Malcor’s deviance, he had been the lord here, as had been his father before him and his father before him, all the way back to Alfred the
Great, and these people resented not only the Normans but her as well, both strangers.

As they entered the bailey, more Draceadon churls stood and stared. There were no smiles, no welcoming cheers, only sullen resignation and distrust. She was the devil’s handmaiden, cavorting with the demon Normans. Her audacious behavior was coming around to bite her in the tail. These people did not want a warrior princess who set out with the invaders; they wanted a levelheaded leader who looked and acted the part.

Tarian wrestled with who she was and what she needed to be. Her hoyden life was all she knew. And while she might have lost much by being shunned, the silver lining to her life was that she had unprecedented freedom. Nothing was expected of her except to behave shamelessly. The realization stunned her. Fighting was all she knew. Fighting for her place in the world, fighting for respect, and now? Fighting to survive. But if she conformed, she would lose her freedom.

To be lady here she would still have to fight, but if she were to win the war she would need to reassess her tactics. Her mind raced, and she wondered how prudent it would be for her to search out a Norman noble to husband. The people here did not trust her as it was: to bring in a Norman, a man who would have no sympathy for anything Saxon, would only serve to widen the gap. She sighed heavily.
Was
Rangor the answer? She shivered uncontrollably despite the heat she felt under her mail. Rangor was loathsome, and she did not believe she had it in her to lie with him. But more than that, she would lose her freedom, for he would be a demanding husband.

As they ascended the well-worn road to Draceadon,
Tarian had no option but to grab Wulfson’s waist to keep from sliding off the rump of the great horse. If Wulfson had been rigid before, now he was as stiff as hewn steel. She smiled. He might desire her, this Norman knight, but he did not care for her overmuch. ’Twas unfortunate, because she found she liked him quite well.

When they came to halt at the stable, Tarian did not wait for assistance to dismount. She slid off the left side of the destrier and hurried to Silversmith, who stood tied to a post blowing hotly, his haunches and withers wet and quivering. Thankfully the arrow was not imbedded in the meaty part of his neck but clean through up near his mane. Shucking her one gauntlet, Tarian broke the arrow off at the crest near the feather fletching, and with a reassuring hand on his neck she spoke softly to him as she grasped the arrowhead toward her and pulled the shaft through.

She inspected the wound, and though it could take a stitch or two, she knew the stallion would not stand for it.

Wulfson angrily approached, yanking off his helm and tossing it to Rolf. “As you well know, an ill-trained horse can cause his master’s death.”

She looked up into his stormy green eyes and nodded. “Once he is healed, I wish you to teach us both your moves. I have never seen anything so beautiful.”

Wulfson’s brows rose almost into his hairline. “My horses and men have trained for years. It does not come overnight.”

“I am a patient student and willing to work hard.”

He stood for a long moment unspeaking, and she held her breath, praying he would not deny her. Instead he asked, “Are you hurt?”

She blinked. “What?”

“From your fall and attack. Are you harmed?”

“Nay, I managed to keep them at bay with my sword.”

“’Twas foolish my allowance of you traveling with us this day.”

“Nay, ’twas a lesson I needed to learn, Sir Wulfson.”

He quirked a brow.

“The people of this shire. I had no idea how deep their hatred for me ran. I know where I stand with them and know what I must do to gain their trust.”

“Tarian—”

She shook her head and pressed her fingers to his lips. He stiffened. “Do not say it, Wulfson. I am Tarian of Dunloc. As you said before you took me, your king is not a fool. He has more to gain with me alive than dead. He will see it.”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her closer to him. “He is not here. He does not fully understand the situation.”

“Then, as the captain of his guard, see that he is fully apprised.”

She stepped back and drew her sword, placing it across her chest. “Sir Wulfson, I put my life squarely in your hands. See to it you do not fail me.”

She turned then and led her horse away.

“She has a way of getting under a man’s skin, eh, Wulfson?” Rorick said from behind him.

He would not deny it. “I know in my gut what she says is true. But will William see it?”

Rorick slapped him on the back of his shoulder. “As the lass said, bring him around.”

Wulfson looked at his friend and shook his head. “You know as well as I that once William has his mind set there is no changing it.”

“I would not give a king’s ransom to be in your boots, my friend. You have lust in your eye for the lady, and I cannot blame you, but I caution you. Do not drink too often from the well. You must limit it, or you may find yourself afloat in it.”

Wulfson could not argue the wisdom. “Aye, I will heed your advice.”

Wulfson handed Turold over to Rolf to cool him down, and proceeded to the stable, where he knew the lady tended her own horse. She was on the other side of the structure, cooling the beast down. Wulfson stood back and watched the way she softly spoke to the stallion, and the way the horse’s ears twitched back and forth, as if he understood her words. His body warmed beneath his mail, and he felt his cock stir. She infuriated him. He had nearly leapt off Turold when she went down in the mob. Foolish woman! She frustrated him. The way she thrust and parried with his lust had him constantly on edge. He had never met a woman who invaded his waking moments as well as his dreams. But mostly she amazed him. She was intelligent, beautiful, fiery, and passionate; and as he, she had learned to survive in a world that shunned them. That she had survived
and
thrived was an amazing feat.

At the end of the long aisle of the stable, she brought the cooled horse in and cross-tied him, then began to rub him down. Disappearing into the nearest stall, which was vacant, several long moments later she emerged sans her mail.

An invisible hand on his back pushed Wulfson toward her. He did not resist it. As he approached, the gray threw his head over his left wither, and Tarian soothed him. She stood on a stool, and appeared to be dressing the wound.

“He sees you as a threat, sir, please stand back,” Tarian softly commanded.

Wulfson slowed his gait, then came to a stop several paces from them. “The first and most important lesson a proper warhorse must learn is to trust his master,” he said quietly.

He could not help but drink in the vision before him. The late-afternoon sun broke through the slatted roof, its golden rays surrounding her, illuminating her long hair that hung around her shoulders and her back in thick luxuriant swirls. He had never seen hair so rich and thick, or so black. The Norman women were fairer of skin and tall. This girl was petite and lithe as a reed, but with womanly curves.

“He does trust me,” she said as softly.

Wulfson began to remove his mail. He did it slowly and quietly so as not to agitate the horse. Rolf would see to the cleaning. When he stood in his linen chauses, boots and gambeson he moved slowly toward them. “Horses will react one of two ways when threatened. Flight or fight. Most fly. A true warrior steed will stand and fight, but only if he has confidence in his master.”

Tarian looked over Silversmith’s withers to Wulfson. “Are you implying my horse had no confidence in me?”

“He would not have resorted to hysterics if he did.”

Her brows creased together, and she seemed to ponder his words. “How then do I gain my horse’s confidence?”

“By being firm, consistent, and not sending mixed signals. You must also regularly train him in situations where he would have the natural urge to bolt, then stay him with your expertise, and show him there is no danger, until it becomes second nature for you both. He must feel your confidence and strength. If he does not, then he will fly.”

Wulfson stood across from Tarian, the horse separating them. He slid a hand down the gray’s thick neck, lightly touching the spot where the arrow struck. “’Tis not a bad wound. What balm do you use?”

“A concoction of Abner’s. He swears by it.”

“Stefan is our horsemaster. He has more vials and pouches of balms and salves than a midwife. I would have you take a look. His father has a great stud outside of Rouen, and he is well versed in all things equine.”

“His father?”

“Foster. The comte d’Everaux, Stefan’s birth father, has made no claim.”

“How is he so sure then?”

“He looks a mirror image. There is no denying who his sire is.”

“What of
your
sire? Do you resemble him?”

Wulfson’s jaw tightened. “I have seen him only a handful of times in my life, the last time upon my return to Normandy after the conquest. He seeks favor with William through me.”

“Has your king rewarded him?”

“
Our
king sent him packing just before I returned to England.”

“What of your mother, Wulfson? What did she do that was so heartless you cannot forgive her?’

At the question his entire body stiffened. Long-suppressed anger surfaced. He had never discussed his mother with anyone, not even the Blood Swords. No one dared ask. But when he looked into Tarian’s ocean-blue eyes he did not see scorn or contempt: he saw only a woman quietly questioning his feelings.
Feelings!
Bah! He bit back a sharp retort. Instead, because he did not want to set her
running from him, he answered her honestly. “She took her life shortly after my birth. It was better than living with the blight of a half-Saxon bastard.”

“I am sorry, Wulfson.”

“Do not pity me.”

“I do not. I only regret you did not have the love of a mother to nurture you.” She smiled softly and ministered to her horse. “My mother, even if she had wished to die, would never have taken her own life. ’Tis a mortal sin against God. She feared hell more than the humiliation of me.”

“Do you visit her?’

Tarian shook her head and bent over the gray’s neck, giving the wound her complete attention. “Nay. I traveled to Powys, several years ago, to meet with her. She refused to see me. And as you are aware, my sire is dead.”

“Aye, I know.” And Wulfson wondered at the man who had sired such a woman. Sweyn Godwinson had never given the laws of man any respect. “Is there any truth to the rumor he is Canute’s son?”

Tarian’s head snapped back, and her eyes narrowed. “Nay! Just another lie of his! He was born a rebel and he died as he lived, in shame!”

She shook her head so violently her hair spilled across Silversmith’s neck. Wulfson could not resist reaching out and touching the thick shiny strands. He moved closer and gently pulled her toward him. “Your sire was a fool, madame, your dam too proud, and your dead husband the biggest fool of all.”

She nearly hung over the gray’s neck, and as he brought her closer she resisted. “’Tis true, all of it, but if the stars had not aligned as they had, I would not have the freedom I have and relish this day.”

He nodded, understanding completely. “Aye, when an outcast, the rules of polite society do not apply.”

She licked her lips and Wulfson’s blood quickened at the sight. “Aye, society expects us to break with tradition and decorum.” She smiled and leaned across the horse and pressed her lips just a breath away from his. “And because of it, we have greater freedom than our most esteemed legitimate peers.”

“Is that why you agreed to wed with Malcor?”

She stiffened, and tried to pull away, but he held her captive.

Grudgingly she answered. “Aye, he was the key to the marriage cage. He in his perverse way was as much an outcast as myself. His deviance was expected. And because of it, people shied away from him.” She smiled grimly. “Because he had no use for women, my freedom was guaranteed. ’Tis why I will never marry Rangor, or a man like him. He would insist on asserting himself as my husband true, and that I could not abide.”

“What of William? He is a feudal lord, Tarian. He demands homage, loyalty, and the acceptance from all of his subjects that his word is the final word.”

She smiled and leaned closer to him, her impish dimples teasing him. “I would pay homage to my king, so long as he pledged his loyalty to me.”

Wulfson shook his head at the audacity of her demands. For one who was at William’s mercy, she demanded from him what he demanded from all of his subjects. And despite it, Wulfson realized it was the same for him. If his king did not respect him and remain loyal to those who served him with their lives, Wulfson would wander off in search of a more worthy king.

He searched her clear eyes, and found righteous truth there. Once again he thought how foolish his king would be if he were to destroy this woman on the grounds of her bloodline. And he knew in his gut that Warner would bring word to move forward. And just as certainly, Wulfson knew he would have to go to Normandy and plead the lady’s case in person. That notion settled his mind, but not his heart.