Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment (29 page)

August 1067
Draceadon

The sound of tankards pounding the trestle tops, combined with the joyous voices and the succulent scents of a great feast, clogged the air in the great hall.

“To Lady Tarian and Lord Wulfson!” Rorick shouted above the din to the gathered throng of Saxon and Norman alike. He raised his cup high and scores followed. “May they have lusty sons and beautiful daughters, and may my brother Wulfson always return from battle with
all
his swords intact!”

The double meaning was not lost on the merrymakers. Tarian’s smile was so wide it pained her cheeks. She laughed when her husband hoisted her up over his shoulder and twirled with her in the air. Catching her breath, she peered out at the happy crowd from her high perch and bawdily said, “To be sure, so long as the sword between his legs survives, we will remain a happy couple!”

The Blood Swords laughed heartily, as did Tarian, and she was most happy to see many of the sullen villeins who had ventured forth from Dunloc smiling and, for the most
part, content. Since their arrival home and immediate nuptials Tarian had sensed a calm resignation to her as lady and Wulfson as lord here. For William had insisted the charters be signed and affixed with the royal seal, giving legal rights of the earldom to his trusted man and his wife.

But despite the happy occasion for this day, there were dark undercurrents blowing in from the West. Alewith had disappeared, and she knew in her gut he plotted with the Welsh. And that fact saddened her. Having spent some time with William in Rouen, Tarian knew him to be a most determined man. He would not give over a hide of the land he had conquered and held in a choke hold without a fight. And fight he was prepared to do.

Aye, there would be bloodshed on both sides, but in her gut Tarian knew William was here to stay.

“Give her over to me, Wulfson,” Lady Isabel, Rohan’s lady, softly commanded of Tarian’s husband.

Tarian grinned and shook her head, still slung over her husband’s shoulders. He would not give her up so easily. His patience was at its end. He had taken great pains these last weeks not to break his oath to her and his king to keep her chaste until they were wed. He would take her there on the trestle if it were not such an impropriety.

Wulfson scowled but gently brought Tarian down to stand beside him. He bowed shortly to Lady Isabel but said, “I give you precious few minutes before I claim my wife, milady. Make all haste with whatever it is you women do, or you will be witness to what I have dreamed of doing every waking moment these last weeks.”

Isabel blushed but she stood up to him. In her own way, the beautiful lady was as much a warrior as Tarian. And on that front alone they had become instant friends. “Noth
ing you could do, milord, would shock me!” Isabel took Tarian’s hand, and as she led her away Tarian looked for Brighid, whom Alewith had sent to her only days before. There was no missive, just her sister, her maid, and a handful of men. Her gaze caught the girl across the hall, hanging spellbound upon Sir Rhys’s every word and gesture. Tarian scowled and Isabel followed her gaze. “Leave them be, Tarian. I have watched them these last few days; Rhys is an honorable young man. He will not breach your sister.”

Tarian was not so sure. The girl had become too bold. Her infatuation with the handsome knight had grown since they had least seen each other. And it appeared the young knight was as infatuated with the maid. “’Tis not Brighid who should be worried!” Tarian laughed, but did not in truth feel so light of heart. Rhys would break Brighid’s tender heart, for there was much trouble brewing, and Alewith would not sanction a union between the two. Why then had he sent her here? For protection, mayhap? But from who?

A commotion stalled the ladies’ ascent to the lord’s chamber. Tarian and Isabel turned to see a royal messenger elbow his way through the throng.

“Lord Wulfson!” he called. “An urgent missive from the king!”

And just as suddenly, the merriment halted. Wulfson inclined his head to the Blood Swords and to Tarian and Isabel, and as one large group they moved to a more private place in the crowded hall.

“I have dour news,” the messenger began. “Our spies tell us that Earl Edric, along with several Mercer lords, has formed an alliance with Rhiwallon and Bleddyn.”

Tarian gasped, unable to believe it. Strategic negotiations were in motion. “But I only just sent a message to
both kings for a meeting and they agreed with great haste!” Tarian cried, unable to believe they would renege on their word. ’Twas not only an insult to her, the wife of a powerful earl, but to William, as well.

The messenger slowly shook his head. “The alliance has been forged. ’Twill bode ill for England and Normandy.”

Wulfson nodded. “Edric has been a thorn in William fitz Osborn’s side for months; he has his eyes set on Hereford.” He looked to his Blood Swords, who Tarian could see were champing to stand and deliver. Her own blood had warmed at the thought of battle, but trepidation diluted it. She could not bear to lose Wulfson. Her gaze caressed his tall, handsome form and her chest tightened. Nay, she would stand beside him and fight if only to make sure he came home safe.

“I will muster my men to arms,” Wulfson said. He looked pointedly at his wife. “Call your men to arms, milady; our combined strengths will soon be tested.” He stepped to her and slid an arm around her waist and drew her to him. “And I expect with Dunloc allied with Normandy, we will seize the day!” His lips crushed down on hers, taking the breath from her chest; then he hoisted her up into his arms. As he swept her up the stairway, he called to the throng over his shoulder, “Do not disturb me this night, any of you! For you will pay with your life!”

When Wulfson tossed her onto his bed, in what was now the new lord’s chamber, his gaze did not leave her. In a frenzy, he divested himself of his clothing and watched under the soft glow of candlelight the color rise in his wife’s cheeks. It occurred to him that she might be shy, with so much time since the last time they’d met as one.

Disappointment flooded him. “If you are not comfortable, Tarian—”

She rose from the bed like a silvery shadow and floated toward him. His body thrummed and his cock rose so swiftly it hurt. “I will not be comfortable, milord, until you fill me to capacity.”

She pressed her softness against his hardness and on her tiptoes she reached up and snaked her arms around his neck, bringing his lips down to hers. “Make love to me now, Wulfson. Make love to me all night long and into the morning. I have waited all my life for you.”

He gathered her up into his arms and gently he laid her upon the big bed. His heart burned so full and so hot with emotion that he did not trust his voice. When he spoke, his words were low and throaty. “Tarian Godwinson, you are the very air that I breathe. Promise me you will never cast me aside.”

She smiled and unhooked her girdle and cast it away, then untied and removed her deep-sapphire-and-white silk kirtle trimmed with ermine. When she removed the soft linen undertunic and her creamy, smooth skin and rose-tipped nipples popped into view, Wulfson could not contain his passion for her. He pulled her up to him and sank his teeth into the tender flesh. Her lithe body arched into his and he could not wait. In one swift motion he entered her and nearly died of pleasure.

“Wulfson,” she purred, “my heart is yours to possess, and with it I give you my oath: I am yours for eternity.”

And together they became one; and on that night the beginning of a legacy forged in the bowels of a Saracen prison was unleashed.

Pocket Star Books A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2008 by Karin Tabke

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