Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment (25 page)

Ioan returned with water skins and wineskins. Tarian stood back and watched in humble silence as the Blood Swords tended to their fallen brother. They washed the blood from his body. And she cringed at the wounds. While they were not deep, they were many. Stefan pulled a bag of balm from his belt and carefully applied it to the raw flesh. Gently the men rolled Wulfson over and did the same to his back, which thankfully did not appear to have sustained the same severity of damage.

Not once did Wulfson make a sound. And that worried her overmuch. He was in a deep sleep from which nothing but time could wake him.

When his body had been cleaned and the wounds dressed, the men wrapped him in sheets of linen. “Manhku!” Rohan called to the giant. “Help me lift him.”

The African stepped forward, and as if Wulfson were but a babe, the giant lifted him up into his arms, as tenderly as a mother would her child. He turned dark angry eyes on Tarian, and she knew they all blamed her. And they were right. ’Twas Rangor’s greed for her that had driven him to this. She nodded, taking their anger in stride. She would feel no differently.

Manhku carried Wulfson from the room out into the waning sunlight. Thorin mounted his great steed, and between Rohan and Manhku they lifted Wulfson’s damaged body to him. Once secure in the saddle, Thorin slowly turned his horse for Draceadon.

Her strength exhausted, Tarian dragged her feet to Silversmith, and realized she did not have the energy to attempt to mount him. The Blood Swords had all turned away from her, paying her no notice.

Tears welled up again, and she felt as if her life force was gone. She did not care that she had promised her soul to Rangor. Her freedom was a small price to pay for Wulfson’s life. Nay, that his men had turned their backs on her was as much of a blow to her as if Wulfson had done it himself.

She took Silversmith’s reins, and instead of finding something to stand upon, she began to walk behind the knights, feeling as if she truly were
nithing
.

’Twas some time later when she felt several sets of eyes on her. She looked up to find Rohan and Rorick stopped and staring at her. She tried to smile but could not. Rorick dismounted and without a word hoisted her up onto Silversmith’s back. “
Merci
,” she said softly.

Flanked by the two knights, Rorick demanded, “Tell me from the beginning what happened.”

The other knights slowed to hear her tale. And a tale it would be, for she could not tell the truth. Taking a deep breath, Tarian looked at each man, not wavering in her stare. “’Twas the day Wulfson and I took a trip to the pond in the glade. We were packing to return to Draceadon when from the forest came a group of hooded, mounted men.” She swallowed as she relived the shock and horror of be
ing taken from Wulfson. She looked pointedly at Rorick. “’Twas me they were after. One grabbed me as Wulfson went for his sword. I know not what happened to him after that, for I was hit on the head and all went black.”

She pressed her fingertips to the back of her head where the wound still smarted. “How did you escape?” Rorick asked, emphasizing the word
escape
, as if she had walked away as carefree as a maid in May.

She shook her head. “I did not escape. I was released.”

“Why?” Rhys asked.

She looked at the young knight and forced a smile. “They showed me what they did to Wulfson.” She swallowed again as emotion clogged her chest. “I told them I would give them whatever they wanted for his life.”

“And the price?” Ioan demanded.

“My dowry. I told them where to find it at Briarhurst. The leader sent a man and when he returned with it, they gave me a nag of a horse and disappeared. I came to Draceadon as fast as I could.”

“How many were there? Were they Saxon?” Rohan asked.

“Only two that I saw at the structure, but almost a half score who abducted me. The leader spoke English.”

Rohan scowled. “Why would they release you once they had the gold? Why not finish you off?”

Tarian’s heart smacked hard against her chest walls. She shook her head and lied again, and it did not sit well with her, but what else was she to do? She had given her oath, had signed a document that she would marry Rangor. She could not go back on her word. She accepted the price she must pay for Wulfson’s life. “I told the leader that if they did not allow me to return to Draceadon and the Norman
died, there would not be a rock they could climb under to hide in all of England, for
les morts
would hunt them all down and kill them inch by inch.” She looked around to each of the men, and knew her words resonated with them. Rorick and Rohan nodded, and then Rhys and Ioan; but Stefan watched her as if he did not believe a word she said. She stared at him, not giving him more cause to doubt her by looking away. After a long moment, he too nodded.

It took two days of constant battle with the Blood Swords before they relented and allowed her entry to Wulfson’s chamber. She understood their guarded behavior with her, but even they realized the urgency of Wulfson’s coming out of his sleep, and if he would not for them, then he might for her.

She cast them all to the threshold of the room, and instead of Stefan’s horse balms, Tarian insisted on Edie’s balms and poultices. And in just two days’ time, they worked miracles. His skin healed; but his fever did not break, despite the tepid baths she gave him four times a day. Tarian began to be concerned in earnest. ’Twas not natural that he slept so soundly for so long. He had not had any sustenance save the wine she could sponge into his mouth. His body was slowly losing bulk.

With the help of his men who constantly lingered in shifts at the threshold, they rolled him over so that she could tend the wounds on his back. Each time she gently rubbed the healing balm into his raw skin and he moaned
in pain, she moaned with him. How he had survived such torture she did not know, but she thanked God every day that he had.

His men were silent, and she saw the worry and the anger on their faces.

“With Gareth’s help, and the offer of gold to anyone with information on the scourge, we have covered every hide of land from the Welsh border, north to Hereford, and have not seen any persons fitting your description, Lady Tarian,” Rorick said, coming from another hard day’s ride. And she knew they would not.

Feeling uncomfortable with her lies, she broke the tension. “Help me roll him over, Rorick, I need to change the soiled linens.”

The great warrior was as gentle with his friend as she would be with her babe. Their devotion to one another moved her beyond tears. The bond these men shared was truly profound. That they allowed her to tend their leader bespoke their trust in her, and once again shame and guilt assailed her. She pushed it away; her only goal now was to see Wulfson’s health restored. For he was at death’s door because of her.

Tarian bathed him where he lay, and noted that despite Wulfson’s deep sleep and fever his wounds were healing. But once night had fallen, her fears for his life came back with a vengeance. She could not lose him once found! Not now, not like this.

She slid into the bed, gently pressing her cheek to his chest, and took his hand and laid it to her belly. “Your child grows inside me, Wulfson. He will need his father.
I
need his father.” With her head to his chest, she lay silently hoping for a shift in his heartbeat. Though strong, it was dull,
and she thought too much time passed between each beat. “I love you, Wulfson, more than my own life. I will go to Normandy with you. I will follow you to the ends of the earth.” She pressed her lips to his chest. “But you must wake up, Wulfson, you must fight. Your child needs you. I need you. Please wake up and live.”

Throughout the night and into the next day, she made him promises she knew in her heart she could not keep, but she knew of no other way to give him the will to survive: if not for himself, then for his child. She pressed the damp sponge to his lips; she rubbed balm into his cracked lips and knitting wounds. She sang to him, she spun wild tales of the two of them fighting side by side, conquering the world. She spoke earnestly of her love for him, and asked his forgiveness.

His fever broke that night, and his swollen eyes opened. “Dear God, Wulfson, do you see me?” She prayed they had not taken his sight.

She watched him focus and squint. He closed his eyes again, only to slowly open them. His calloused, scarred hand moved to hers, and she let spill the hot tears that had been building for nearly a week. “Wulfson,” she breathed, “you live.”

He nodded and swallowed. She brought the cool damp sponge to his lips and pressed it to his cracked lips. He sucked the wine from it. “You must eat. I have porridge for you.”

His dull eyes looked up at her, and her heart broke all over again. She smoothed his hair from his face and pressed her lips to his forehead. “Wulfson, do not leave me again. You are alive. You will heal.”

He closed his eyes again, and she let him sleep.

She spent the rest of the night watching over him,
smoothing away the vestiges of the fever from his skin. She fell alseep, then, came slowly awake, and realized his breaths were strong and even, his skin cool against her fingertips. She rose up to find his eyelids slowly opening, and her heart sang at the fierceness of his gaze. She smiled and pressed her lips to his. “Welcome back, milord. I have missed you.”

“What happened?” he asked hoarsely.

“I will tell you all just as soon as you sip some broth.”

She helped him sit up in the bed, putting several pillows behind his back, careful not to chafe his tender skin. He winced, but did not show any other sign of discomfort. As she spoon-fed him, she asked, “Do you remember the day at the pond?”

He nodded.

“’Twas as simple as a kidnap. I was the target.”

He stopped her hand and took it in his own. “Were you harmed?” he asked, his voice a low rasp.

“Nay, I told them they would not get a copper should they touch me. I gave them the same threat regarding you.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Wulfson, I nearly died when I saw what they had done to you!”

“How, did you escape?”

She looked down at the bowl in her hand. “I gave them my dowry money. For your life and mine.”

He sat silent for long moments, and she prayed he would not ask more questions. “How? How did you get it to them?”

Her hand shook as she raised the spoon. “There was a casket at Briarhurst. I but gave them the location. Once they returned with it they abandoned us.”

He shook his head and squeezed her hand. “I failed to protect you.”

“Wulfson, there were too many of them, and they had planned well. No man could have fought them off and survived.”

“What of my horse and sword?”

“That black devil returned here, as did Silversmith. He gave your men and mine much cause for alarm. Your sword is secure by the hearth; it awaits only your hand.” She pressed another spoonful of broth to his lips. When the bowl was empty, she said, “Let the broth settle and I will get you something heartier. Now I must tell your men you have come out of the fog. They have been like worried nursemaids, the lot of them.”

When she made to move from the bed, he grabbed her hand and tugged her back. He did not have the strength to pull her all the way down. His eyes rose to hers. “Did I dream it or did you tell me that the child you carry is mine?”

Emotion rose up in her belly. She desperately wanted to tell him the truth. But she could not. He would force her to go to Normandy, and that she would never do. “If it pleases you to think it so, then I do not mind.”

He scowled, and she smiled. “Ah, there it is, the infamous scowl.”

When she moved again, again he stayed her. “Did you tell me you love me?”

Heat flushed her cheeks but that she could not deny. “Aye, Wulfson, with all my heart I love you. Would that it could change things.”

His brow wrinkled in confusion. “Where does that put me?”

She smiled sadly, and touched her fingertips to his lips. “Where you have always been: you will kill me if your king commands it.”

He shook his head. “Nay! It will never be so.”

She shushed him and hurried from the room.

From that moment, Wulfson recovered at a miraculous rate. He was out of the bed and walking slowly around the chamber the next morning, though with a noticeable limp. “They made my bad leg worse,” he told her. But he soldiered through the pain. He ate with the gusto of ten men, and on the second day after he awoke he insisted on dressing and going down to the hall. He was welcomed with wild cheers, not only from his own men but hers as well, and several of the villagers who milled about. That night there was a great feast, and Wulfson called his men to him.

“I leave for Normandy in three days’ time.”

“Nay, Wulfson!” Tarian gasped. “’Tis too early. You must heal completely.”

He scowled. “I appreciate your nursing, Tarian, but I am not a milksop of a boy who needs more coddling. I will be well enough to ride and defend myself in three days. Do not nag me to stay.”

She nodded and bowed her head just slightly, then turned and hurried to her chamber. She knew he would be well enough to ride in three days, but then she would have to pay for his life. So be it. He was alive, and that was all that mattered.

Wulfson fought the urge to give chase to Tarian but he resisted it. His heart weighed heavy with emotion for her, but he would not show weakness for a woman, even one as spectacular as she, in front of his men. Instead, he turned to them with a tight, bitter smile. “I want the bastards who did this to me, and I want them alive. I will ride to the cor
ners of this miserable place until I hunt each of them down and split their bellies open with my own sword.”

Manhku growled low, and said in his broken French, “’Tis too gentle. Burn their eyes out and cut their fingers off one at a time, then their toes, then their hands, then their feet.” He grinned at them all, his sharp teeth glittering. “Hack them to death piece by piece.”

Wulfson smiled and raised his cup, “Manhku, you devil!”

His men drank and they plotted and they planned, but more than that, they celebrated Wulfson’s survival. Long after the torches had been put out, Wulfson made his way up to his chamber. He would apologize to Tarian for his gruffness, but he would also make her understand he was not a child. For the first time since he awoke, he felt the hot surge in his blood for her. But he doubted he had the strength necessary to make love to her.

Wulfson was surprised to see his squire and not Tarian at the threshold of his chamber. The lad smiled and bowed. “Sir Wulfson, I am most happy to see you up and about. You gave us all a great scare.”

Wulfson stopped and gazed at the boy, who was struggling to keep the moisture in his eyes from rolling down his cheeks. He cuffed the boy lightly, and gruffly said, “I too am happy to be up and about.” He looked past him into the empty room. “Where is Lady Tarian?”

“Her chamber, sir. I will fetch her for you. But before I do, I have prepared a bath for you.”

Wulfson shook his head. “Nay, lad, I do not have the stomach to sit in warm water. Mayhap tomorrow. Go fetch the lady, then see to your own needs.”

As the door shut behind the boy, Wulfson slowly moved about the chamber, undressing himself. His body, while
it did not flare with fire, still stung. His leg pained him greatly. The heat where the club had struck him would not subside, though the cool cloths Tarian had pressed to the area had soothed him. He would ask her to do so again when she came to him. Carefully, he sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his thigh.

He heard the creak as the door opened, then closed. “Tarian,” he whispered.

“I am here, milord.”

He looked up into her bright eyes and saw no vestige of hurt. Indeed, she looked about to fight. He smiled. He raised his hand to her and she moved closer to him, but not close enough for contact. “Do not fear for my health,
chérie
. In a few days, the fever will be gone from my leg and the weight of my mail will not cause me any discomfort. I have survived worse.”

She shook her head, her eyes still bright. “How could you survive worse than this? You were at death’s door!”

“Trust me, I survived a year in a Saracen hellhole. I can survive anything a cowardly Saxon metes out.” He patted the bed beside him. “My blood is on fire for you, Tarian, but I fear I have used my strength for the day.”

Instead of sitting beside him, she brought a full pitcher of cool water to the nightstand and dipped linens into it. “Lie back so I can lay the compresses on your thigh.”

Clad only in his braies, he lay back and they both smiled at the rise in his braies. “The day I can no longer rise to you, Tarian, is the day you can bury me.”

She laughed softly and pressed the linens to his skin. “Aye, I fear your heart would long have stopped beating but your cock would still salute. ’Tis a most voracious limb you have there.”

“Aye, when it comes to you, he has a mind of his own.”

Tarian sat down beside him and pressed the palm of her hand to him. Wulfson hissed in a sharp breath. “Thank God they did not touch you there.”

He wrapped his hand around hers and he squeezed. “You make me forget I have no strength.”

She shook her head, her long hair cascading around her shoulders and waist, and pulled her hand from his. “Nay, not this night.” She hovered over him and pressed him back into the pillows. “I do not want to hurt you.”

His arm slid around her waist and he pulled her against him. She did not resist, nor did she engage. “You could never hurt me,” he said softly, kissing her.

She kissed him back and he tasted the wet saltiness of her tears. He pulled back. “Why the tears, Tarian?”

She only shook her head, unanswering. Frustrated by her behavior, Wulfson demanded, “What is wrong, Tarian? I cannot abide your tears!”

She sniffed back a sob and shook her head. “I—I have not recovered from seeing you so tortured. I feared for your life, Wulfson. I was terrified. I would have done anything to save you.”

He pulled her into his arms, and the only pain he felt was the swelling of his heart. He kissed the top of her head and quieted her with soft words. But he did not admit that he too was terrified, for in his gut he knew that William would not relent.