Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment (24 page)

“Wulfson!” Tarian cried, and hot tears stained her cheeks. Wulfson gathered her tightly into his arms and whispered, “Never fear,
ma chère
, I will always protect you.”

He found his release then, and knew that he would die for her.

Tarian lay for a long time in Wulfson’s arms. His soft snores and steady heartbeat told her he slept. The maelstrom of emotions wreaked havoc inside her heart once more. She was so torn she did not know how to even begin to think her way out of her situation. Her first thought was to protect the child she carried, at all costs. Her wishes and Wulfson’s were second and third. After them, no one and nothing else mattered.

She played a deadly game of chess with a king who had no compunction about erasing his foes. And William saw her bloodline as a foe. A most real threat against his reign, should she choose to exploit it. She could not blame him.
He had killed her beloved uncle. The golden king whom all of England had loved and adored. Gone. Never to return.

She would never come to love or adore William. But she could respect him as her sovereign, and had pledged her loyalty to him. She was not a fool. He was king now, and he would remain so.

Tarian rolled over and pressed her cheek to the man who, in more ways than William, held her life in his hands. Emotion once again stirred so deeply in her that she could barely breathe. And she wondered at the onslaught of it all. She had always kept her feelings buried deep, and as much as she wanted to trust this man, she feared his oath to his king would ultimately trump anything between them.

Mayhap her emotional upheaval was because of the babe. She slid her hand down to her taut belly. Sighing heavily, she looked up to see sleepy green eyes watching her. She rose to him and kissed him, knowing in her gut that their time together was drawing to an end. And that tugged at her heartstrings almost unbearably. But, she decided, she would confess her part in Warner’s absence. At the very least to ease his mind, and at the most to ease hers. And she would make him understand.

When the cock crowed, Tarian slid from the bed and made her way back to her chamber and called for Edie. “Prepare a basket. I wish to take milord knight to the pond for the day. See that Rolf prepares our horses.”

As she came back into his chamber, she smiled and said to Wulfson, who grinned naked from the bed, “Get thee dressed. I have a special place I wish to share with you this day.”

As they rode from Draceadon, the day could not have
been more perfect. Blue skies, puffy white clouds, and the air most temperate. The place she had in mind she had found quite by accident, her second day at Draceadon. She had fled to it several times to get away from Malcor and the stink of perversion that clung to him.

She smiled at Wulfson, who was for once not clad in his mail, but looked most handsome in dark woolen chauses, a smooth green linen undertunic beneath a studded soft leather gambeson. Only his broadsword accompanied him, as did hers. But the pond was secluded and not far, and Edie knew of its location.

“’Tis not much further, milord.” As they rounded the narrow path, a thick copse of trees appeared to block the way, but Silversmith moved easily through it, and there on the other side, just down a velvety green slope, a crystal-clear pond—the recipient of the cool water tumbling from a mountain spring—greeted them. It was private, yet there was just enough of a break in the heavy copse of trees surrounding it to give way to the sunlight.

She smiled back at Wulfson and her blood warmed. She would coax him naked into the water, and encourage him to make love to her on the velvety bank. They would eat and nap and make love. And then she would confess all.

They tied the horses to a nearby tree, and Tarian spread out a thick fur throw. She looked up to find Wulfson watching her with a huge grin splitting his face. “Come here, wench.”

She shook her head, playing the coquette. Stepping backward, she hastily undressed. She laughed as his eyes widened, and when he lunged for her she screamed and ran from him and dove into the cold clear water. When she
surfaced, she scanned the bank for him, expecting him to be there, but there was no sign of him.

Strong arms grabbed her from behind and she screamed again, but this time he silenced her with his lips. Tarian could do naught but wrap her arms around his neck and sink with him into the water. He scooped her up in his arms, strode with her to the bank, and dropped her to the furs, and in the quiet morning sun he made love to her. And she had never felt more cherished.

As they lingered naked on the bank, she fed Wulfson pieces of meat and cheese. They drank wine, and they napped under the warm sun.

Little was said, for no words were necessary. Their bodies spoke for them.

As she lay with her cheek pressed to his chest and traced a lazy finger down his scar, Wulfson cleared his throat, and she immediately stilled.

“Tarian,” he said softly, “I expect Gareth to have returned when we leave here. As you know, I go to Normandy immediately when he is back.”

She nodded, not wanting to look into his eyes, afraid of what she might see. “I ask you to consider going with me.”

She stiffened. She looked up at him then and saw quiet desperation in his eyes. “I—I would never return,” she breathed. He nodded, and she moved away from him. “Nay, Wulfson, I would rather die than be hostage to William. My uncle has been hostage for years.”

He sat up. “It may be the only way.”

She was adamant. “I will never leave England!”

He nodded and drew her into his arms. But she did not want his comfort. She wanted her life back, she wanted her
freedom, she wanted to live in peace with her child and his father. And with crashing realization she knew it was all but a dream.

Wulfson pressed his hand to her belly. It shocked her. He did not care for the child, she knew. “Think of your child, Tarian, if you will not think of yourself.”

She flung his hand away and stood. She pulled her chemise over her head and then her kirtle. “I
do
think of my child! Could you allow your son to be raised in a prison with no hope of freedom? Or worse, that because of his Godwinson blood his life would be in constant jeopardy? Nay! I will never go to Normandy.
Never!”

Wulfson rose and stepped toward her. “I value your life above mine, Tarian! I will not see you dead!”

She whirled around, her fists tight. “Then turn your back.”

He shook his head. “’Tis too late for that.”

They stood several strides apart, each desperate for the other but neither having the answer. She vacillated about whether to tell him the child was his. But she despaired he would force her to Normandy. She desperately wanted to ease his mind about his man Warner, but she feared he would lash out at her. And that she could not bear. He set her above all other women, but her lies would tumble her into the dirt in his eyes. She could not bear it if he thought her
nithing
. Yet she knew she could not keep her secrets from him. Never him.

Slowly he dressed. As he picked up his sword belt, he said to her in a low, meaningful tone, “Tarian, I want you as I have wanted no other woman. But I cannot marry you. I have nothing to give. William will see the advantage of a marriage between you and a Norman noble. Take it, and
live. Take it and give your child a father. Take it, Tarian, for I could not bear to see you live out your days alone as William’s hostage.”

“Wulfson,” she softly said. “I—I have to tell you—”

He pulled her to him and smoothed back her damp hair. “No more words,
chérie
. I ask you once again to put your trust in me. I will find a solution.” He drew her to him then and kissed her. She stopped fighting, for there was no point. It was what it was and she would do what she had to do. And while the doom that loomed ahead of her should have overshadowed her, she did not allow it to. She would take her time with Wulfson while she had it and make the best of it.

She threw her head back and laughed, clasping his neck. “Kind sir, you hold my life in your hands. Take great care with it, for it is the only one I posses.”

He smiled. “’Tis in good hands, milady.”

As they folded the throw and packed the basket, Tarian glanced over to Wulfson to find him warmly watching her. “Stop looking at me thusly, or we may linger here more than we should.”

He grinned and dropped the basket he held, and strode toward her. “I could not get enough of you, Tarian, not in a thousand years.”

Her heart stopped beating as the forest shook like thunder about them. Her eyes widened and she looked to Wulfson, whose face blanched. She started for him when six mounted men, cloaked in black from head to toe, broke through the glade, swords raised, going straight for Wulfson. He saw them when she did. “Run, Tarian, run to the forest!” he shouted, then dropped to the ground. He rolled to his sword and was up and prepared to fight in the blink of an eye.

She stood transfixed, horrified, unwilling to leave him to stand against this unknown enemy. Tarian broke toward him to grab her own sword and stand with him and fight. But she was grabbed up from behind and slung harshly against the rider’s horse’s neck. She screamed frantically, reaching out for Wulfson, who ran toward her shouting for her, and suddenly her sight went black.

Wulfson watched, horrified, as, just as suddenly as the horsemen had erupted into the clearing, so now they disappeared. Hastily he strapped on his sword, vaulted onto Turold’s back, and gave chase.

Desperation clawed at his innards, his mind’s eye replaying over and over the brutal blow to Tarian’s head and then her body going limp. Each man’s face was shrouded by a dark hood, only eye slits giving them away as human. He spurred the black on to a faster pace, crashing through bramble and brush. Limbs tore at his face and stung his arms, ripping his skin. He felt nothing. His heart beat so fast and so furious in his chest that he feared it might burst from him. The tracks turned north away from Draceadon, and he followed as if the demons of hell nipped at his heels. He saw them up ahead; only two riders. The one with Tarian, and another. They did not race from him; instead they looked back, almost as if waiting for him. Turold screamed out in pain as an arrow struck his right wither. Wulfson roared his battle cry, drawing his sword, and the steed lunged forward, faster.

From the forest more riders erupted, coming straight at him, and when he turned to look over his shoulder more followed. Turold slammed into the lesser horses, but the contact was enough to slow his pace. And like a swarm of bees attacking a wasp, they encompassed him, taking him down.

Tarian woke to the stink of vinegar beneath her nose. Her head jerked back and she made to move but found she could not. She was tied to a chair! Wildly she searched the dim room, and her memory came flooding back. “Wulfson!”

Deep, familiar laughter from behind her wafted over her like a plague. “How tender that you think of that arrogant Norman before yourself,” Rangor said, stepping in front of her. His pale blue eyes glittered in the low light of the candles on a nearby table.

“What have you done?!” Tarian screamed, immediately regretting the outburst. Sharp shards of pain spiked ruthlessly at her head where she had been struck. She closed her eyes and sucked in a long breath, then slowly exhaled and opened her eyes. The unadorned room tilted right, then left, before righting itself. Rangor as usual was overdressed and bejeweled. His arrogance was nauseating.

“You did not think I would give up so easily, Tarian, did you?”

“Where am I? What have you done with Wulfson?”

Rangor pulled up a rough-hewn chair and placed it a safe distance from her, then sat and faced her. “You are where no one will find you. All traces of our horses have been erased. ’Tis only you, me, and that arrogant bastard you are leman to!”

Tarian flinched at his harsh words. She had been called worse all her life and had shrugged it off. But when the words spewed from Rangor’s mouth, he made what she shared with Wulfson sound dirty.

She fought against the tight ropes that bound her, her fury nearly overcoming her. “Let me go! You have no right!”

Rangor smiled and crossed his legs and peered at his nails as if they were not up to his meticulous standards. He looked over at her, a nasty smile twisting his thin lips. “Oh, I will release you, my sweet, but not until you give your oath to marry me.”

“Never!”

He shrugged and bit at a nail. He spat it to the floor and stood. “’Tis too bad for your lover then. For each day you refuse me, he feels another score of lash stripes on his back.”

“Nay! Do not take your anger at me out on him! He does not deserve it!”

Rangor only shrugged again, and as the door closed behind him Tarian lost all vestiges of control. “Rangor!” she screamed. “Release him!” She pulled and twisted at the ropes, so much so that the chair tipped with her in it. She hit the dirt floor with a hard thud, the breath forced from her chest. She was undeterred. On her side, she scooted with her legs across the room, and then with her feet kicked at the door. “Rangor, I will see you in hell before I marry you!” She kicked the door again and again, screaming at him, until finally her voice was too raw to speak. Her strength gone, she collapsed against the dirt floor, and exhaustion overtook her.

Hot shards of pain speared his arms, his legs, and his chest.
He was bound and stretched on his back. After he fought through the white-hot pain, Wulfson’s first thought was of Tarian. He tried to open his eyes but they were swollen shut. He roared his anger and his pain, but only a harsh rasp came forth.

He could not speak, he could not see, and his body felt afire. Then he remembered. The fists to his face, the lash to his back, the blade crisscrossing his chest. He had screamed in agony for so long that his voice was lost.

He tried to swallow but could not; he tried to move his head, but the pain was too excruciating. “Tarian,” he said, but no sound came forth.

A deep chuckle reverberated in the room. “She cannot help you now, Norman,” a male voice he did not recognize said from his left. “She is lost to you forever.”

The words hurt more than the gaping wounds. Wulfson tried once more to force his eyes to open, but like mortar, dried blood caked them shut. He turned his head to face the voice and the movement cost him; angry jolts of pain speared his neck and shoulders. “You will ride my sword to hell,” he hoarsely croaked.

He screamed in silent agony when his torturer struck his bad thigh with a club. White-hot agony tore into him, and then, thankfully, blackness.

Wulfson drifted in and out of consciousness, and each time his mind awoke, his first thoughts were of Tarian. The thought of her enduring what he did was more painful than his actual wounds. Would they rip the babe from her? Would they violate her tender body? Would she pray for death as he did?’

Nay, she would not. She was a warrior, as was he. His resolve galvanized, but he knew he was without food or wa
ter, and unless he was somehow freed from the bindings, he would die in this hellhole, blinded by his own blood. From out of nowhere he was struck again, this time on the side of the face. Though he could not see, bright stars burst inside his brain and once more darkness took him away.

Tarian was kicked awake. “Wake up!” Rangor hissed, and he pushed his way past her. He righted the chair, and if Tarian had had the strength she would have torn off his ear. As it was, she was depleted. He pressed a cup to her lips and forced her to drink the watered wine. She coughed and choked but took all she could; she would need her strength.

She shook her head and turned away when she had had enough.

As he had previously, Rangor sat across from her. “Have you had sufficient time to change your mind?”

She shook her head. “I will never marry you.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, but I think you
will
change your mind.” He rose and pulled his dagger from his belt, and she hissed in a breath and shrank back. But all he did was cut the ropes across her lap and legs. Then he cut those keeping her chest and back secured. But her hands were still tied. He yanked her up with the blade to her belly. “Give me the slightest cause, and I will slice the babe from your belly.”

She hissed in a surprised breath. How did he know? “I have spies everywhere, Tarian. You underestimate me.” He shoved her forward to the door. “Now, I have taken pity on you and your whoreson. Would you like to see him?”

Dread filled her at what she might behold, but she nod
ded vigorously. He smiled. “Good, I think you will be—surprised.”

He yanked open the door and roughly pushed her through into a dark passageway. It ran long, and, try as she might, she had no clue to her whereabouts. At the end of the long hall was a large studded door. Rangor knocked on it and it opened, and the sight that greeted her nearly killed her.

Wulfson lay naked, save for, his braies, on a rough-hewn trestle table. His arms were pulled high over his head and tied to spikes, as were his legs. But what tormented her the most was the slick blood that covered nearly every inch of him. Lash marks glittered in macabre symmetry across his chest and thighs. The right side of his face was so swollen she could not detect an eye. Emotion flooded her with such a harsh current at the moment that she fell to her knees. Hot tears sprang forth like a spring flood, and her heart twisted so tightly she could not breathe. Her entire body shook at the thought of Wulfson’s death. She could not bear it. He was her one true love on the earth, and if he was gone she had no wish to remain here without him. The revelation made her pain all the more tormenting. She was the cause of his wounds, she would be the cause of his death. She looked up at Rangor. Hate seethed from every inch of her. Despite her bound hands, she managed to stand. She stepped toward him.

“What have you done to him?” she screamed. She turned and made to fly to Wulfson’s side, but was yanked back by Rangor.

“Look closely, Tarian. He hangs to life by a thread.” Rangor nodded to the hooded man standing beside Wulfson. He brought up a club and hit Wulfson’s right thigh. “Nay!”
she screamed, pulling hard from Rangor. But he held her fast.

In silent horror she watched Wulfson’s body stiffen. He opened his mouth to scream in pain, but no sound came forth. His pain was her pain, and she could scarce breathe. She retched up the wine she had just drunk, and she felt as if she would die. If she could take some of the pain away she would. The hooded man brought the club down again on Wulfson, and this time his scream was heard.

“Stop this! Stop this now!” Tarian screamed at Rangor. She turned to him, and if she could have, she would have grasped his hands and dropped to her knees and begged him. But her hands were tied behind her back.

“Your oath for marriage,” Rangor softly said,

“I give it! Anything, but spare him his life”

“Do you swear on the life of the child you carry?”

“Aye! I swear it! Now release him to me!”

Rangor’s eyes glittered in triumph. “I knew you would see the value to our union.” He turned to the hooded man. “Cut the ropes that bind him; he will not be going anywhere.”

Rangor cut the ropes from Tarian and she rushed to Wulfson. “Dear God, please do not let him die,” she begged. She smoothed trembling fingers across his face and pressed her lips to his. “You will live, Wulfson, as my oath to God I will see you live!”

Rangor grabbed her away. “Come and sign the contract.”

Tarian was given a horse and she flew, pushing the steed to his last breath just as they broke into the meadow below Draceadon. Her heart pounded like a hammer in her chest. The horse dropped beneath her, so hard had she pushed.
She jumped clear of him and raced up the hill, screaming for assistance.

Several of Wulfson’s men were mounted and thundered toward her. “Thorin! Rohan! Hurry, Wulfson lies dying!”

Thorin ground to a halt before her and with one arm snatched her up from the ground. So winded was she that she could barely speak. “He is dying! Thorin, we must get to him!”

“Where, Tarian?” he demanded, shaking her. Her head rattled and she nearly fainted.

“Almost a half day’s ride north. Gather linens and balms, get me a fresh horse, and I will take you to him,” she gasped.

Thorin reined his horse and swung him around toward the fortress. Rohan, Ioan, and Rhys joined them, all demanding to know what had happened.

“Wulfson lies gravely wounded. Saddle the horses and gather the men!” Thorin called.

Tarian jumped from the destrier as soon as Thorin slowed at the doors. “Edie!” Tarian screamed, breaking into the hall. “Fetch me linens and balms!”

Out of nowhere the nurse appeared, and hurried to bring her the items. Tarian turned to run back into the courtyard, but was abruptly stopped by a gauntlet of Wulfson’s men. They stood scowling down at her, distrust clearly lining their faces.

“Why do you tarry? Let us fly!”

Thorin shook his head. “First tell us what happened.”

Incredulous, her jaw dropped. “He—we—I—was kidnapped! Wulfson came for me, and they tortured him!” She grabbed Thorin’s hand and pulled him toward the door. “Come, there is no time to waste!”

Edie ran toward her with a full satchel. Tarian grabbed it. “Do not believe me, then! But I am going to back to him. He needs me!” Tears erupted in a shameless flood. “He needs
you
!”

She rushed from the hall and knew by the pounding of feet that the men followed. Silversmith was already tacked, and for the first time in her life Tarian did not need assistance mounting him. She leapt up to the gray’s back, and before she had the satchel fully wrapped around the pommel and the reins in her hands, she kicked him and they galloped off.

She could not push the gray hard enough. But unlike the horse she had ridden in, Silversmith had great strength and endurance. Anxiety tore through her as she realized she did not remember exactly whence she had come, so intent had she been on reaching the Blood Swords for help. But some instinct inside her guided her back to the small ramshackle structure from which she had fled.

She reined Silversmith to an abrupt halt, and, not waiting for the men to follow, she leaped down and gathered the satchel from the pommel. Pushing open the thick doors, she ran through the small vestibule and down the dark hall to the studded door. She heaved it open and her heart flew high into her throat, terrified she would find her beloved dead.

He was as she had last seen him, bloodied and barely alive upon the trestle. She hurried to him, and as gently as she could, she pressed her ear to his bloody chest. Her heartbeat pounded so loudly in her ears she could not detect his own.
Dear God, dear God! Please do not take him from me!

A strong hand grasped her shoulders and gently pulled her away. She looked up through hot tears to see Thorin’s
face twisted in anger, and something else. Fear? His men gathered around him, and she watched as Rohan pressed his hand to Wulfson’s mouth. A small smile cracked his lips, and he nodded and looked up. “He breathes.”

Tarian’s knees gave way, and had Thorin not been so close she would have crumpled in relief to the ground.

“Water!” Thorin boomed. Quickly Ioan ran from the room. Rhys threw the ropes that lay on the table aside and pressed his hand to Wulfson’s brow. “He burns with fever.”