Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment (9 page)

“How is it, Lady Tarian, you came to wield a sword?” Wulfson asked as they came upon the vast stables. They were, Wulfson had noted admiringly from the first day, in better condition than the hall. It was obvious the former lord had a solid eye for horseflesh. The few fleet mares were of fine desert bloodlines. Wulfson thought in passing how well the blood would blend with that of Turold, a great warhorse of Spanish heritage.

He noted the way Tarian’s body went from the slow fluid stride they enjoyed as they left the hall to her abrupt rigidity when he posed the question.

“When one is born the daughter of a great earl by way of the rape of an abbess, one not only does not have God on her side, but she does not have the support of the royal line either. There are three recourses for a woman such as myself. Find a husband, which in my case took all of my twoscore years to locate, because despite my pedigree, the curse comes with me, and even with a king’s ransom I could snare only the most undesirable of spouses. My next option
was the convent, when in this case looks at me as the devil’s own spawn and has made it very clear my unholy presence is not welcome within its holy walls; so lastly, I have done what I have done—armed myself with knowledge and a sword. Used what I have to stay alive.” She glanced up at him and said, “It is all about surviving, no?”

He nodded, impressed. “Aye.”

As they entered the long structure they were met with the low nickers of the horses. The odd little man, Abner, who was the stablemaster, scurried forward and bobbed to Tarian and Wulfson. “My lord, my lady?”

“Saddle my black and the lady’s gray.”

Tarian glanced up at Wulfson curiously; he returned the look. “I have admired your stallion’s depth of muscle and Spanish bloodlines. His only vice is his fondness to bite any hand that reaches in to scratch him.”

Tarian grinned. “He is not mean, only discriminating.”

Wulfson grunted. “He has been ridden by a woman too long.” Tarian’s head snapped back, but he flashed her a mesmerizing smile and moved closer to her. “He needs to be ridden by a man to break that ugly streak.”

He checked himself, fighting the urge to take her into his arms. She was as lethal as any plague and a noblewoman to boot. But—he caught a whiff of her violet scent—she made it incredibly difficult to resist….

Heat swirled between them, and as much as Tarian wanted to ignore the man’s pull, she could not. He was as hot-blooded as her stallion, and the image of her riding the man, not the horse, warmed her. “A hand that breaks is a hand that will never earn trust.”

He raised his hand and trailed his knuckles along her
cheek, and softly said, “I would never be such a fool as to break a high-strung creature. The ride would lose its appeal.”

Tarian could feel the hard thump of her heart against her chest. It was the same feeling she had had when she stepped onto the battlefield in York against the Vikings, the same exhilarating feeling she had had fighting so close to Harold at Hastings. She rose to the challenge of her enemy, for that was what this man was.

She raised her hand to his cheek, mimicking his gesture, smiling when he flinched. “The stallion shies from the mare?”

He grabbed her hand and opened her palm. He pressed the sensitive skin there to his lips, and, as a stallion would when he mounted a mare, he bit her. She gasped, but instead of shying from him she pressed her palm more firmly into his teeth. Heat sprang up from her thighs to her breasts, and that tingling sensation he had evoked from her body the night past returned. She felt the flicker of her nostrils. Parting her lips, she tilted her head back, exposing the soft skin of her neck, and Wulfson took the bait. He growled low, yanked her hard against him, and sank his teeth into the flesh there. The shock of his touch and the ferocity of it stunned her. Her knees trembled and she felt as if they had turned to soggy willows. He pulled her harder against him to keep her from crumpling at his feet.

His other hand dug into her hair and he pulled her head back, forcing her to expose more of her throat. His lips were searing, his tongue laved her jugular, and she quite honestly thought she would go up in a puff of smoke, her body was so hot. “You, my lady, are a most shameless widow.”

She laughed at his words. Tarian had never cleaved to
the rules of society. Why should she, when that same society cast her out as if she were marked with the pox? Breathless, she hung in his arms, not wanting to be the one to retreat. She would match this warrior of William’s step for step, gesture for gesture, and if the time came for her to defend her life against him, she would have no hesitation to draw her sword and fight to the death of one of them.

He raised his head from her, his lips swollen from his assault. Her breasts felt heavy and the churning feeling in her belly would not subside. His eyes had darkened, and he caught her with their intensity. “An oath you want and an oath I’ll give. Use your wiles as you will, Lady Tarian, and I will gladly take what you so boldly offer. But my loyalty is to my king first, my men of the Blood Sword second, my horse and own sword third.”

She laughed again, hoping the sound hid her trepidation. He would see to her death as sure as they were both standing there, regardless of his lust for her. “What is it you think I offer?”

His hand slid from her hair to her neck, then lower, to rest on her left breast. Her heart leapt at the intimate touch. He smiled and rubbed his thumb across the puckered fabric beneath. “This.”

She slowly shook her head and stepped back from him. “Never that.”

“You lie.”

“Nay, I do not. I am a Saxon noblewoman. My uncle was king of this great land, my ancestors kings and queens. I would never lie with a common soldier, and a Norman one least of all.”

Wulfson’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded. “I think mayhap ’tis
you
who may be in denial.”

“My lord and my lady!” Abner called as he led both destriers into the open area where they stood. “Your mounts are ready.”

Wulfson threw his head back, and his laughter rang to the rafters. Abner stood unsure and looked to his lady for guidance. “’Tis not of concern, Abner, the Norman is addled.”

The groom assisted her to mount, and it bothered Tarian that he should. But she had no choice. She was not of tall-enough stature that she could reach the high stirrup of Silversmith’s saddle. When she was mail-clad, an assist was even more necessary. She scowled at Wulfson, who despite the greater size of his stallion over hers, and his great height and mail-clad weight, effortlessly mounted the black. His green eyes danced in glee. “We will not go far without a guard, and I without my helm.”

When Tarian mounted, the pale skin of her thighs was exposed above the linen chauses she tied just below her knees. Wulfson’s brows shot up. “Would you repeat what Godiva, the former lady of Mercia, was so fondly remembered for?”

Tarian bristled. “This is not Coventry, and whilst I protest your presence, I will do it clad. If you have such a problem with my attire and exposure of skin, do not look.”

He urged his mount forward. “I have no such aversion, but you may find yourself the recipient of unwanted attention.”

She grasped the reins with one hand and fondled the hilt of her sword with the other. “I have no aversion to using this trusted blade to quell a knave’s insult.”

Wulfson laughed again, and his parting shot ranked her beyond her boundary. “Methinks you are but a hissing kitten with only sharp claws to do her bidding. You will find we Norman dogs digest kittens to break the fast.”

She laughed at the image. “If a king had faith in my ability, so should you.”

Wulfson shook his head. “Harold must have been desperate.”

She frowned. “You continue to insult me.”

He turned and looked at her with a cocked brow and an expression that belied her words.

“I will admit, at first my uncle was greatly amused by my claim. But he soon came around when one of his huscarls took liberties with my person, and I set him straight with my sword.” Wulfson’s expression did not change. He did not believe her. “Do not underestimate me, sir knight. It will be your undoing.”

He smiled and nodded. “Consider your dire warning heeded.”

Wulfson scanned the quiet countryside. He was not comfortable riding without his men, but he would not show his concern to the woman who rode like a man beside him. The movement of the saddle against his groin was becoming a hindrance. He grumbled, and the sound was not lost on the lady.

“Does some injury pain you?” she glibly asked. Her eyes danced with glee, and he knew at that moment she was on to him. He grinned. She intrigued him more than any one person had in his lifetime. She was a lady, true; her manners, speech, schooling, and bloodline screamed it. But she was as exotic and saucy as the spiced meats he had grown to relish during his time in Iberia, before his capture and torture. After their narrow escape, he and his fellow Blood Swords had made haste from that ungodly land to Normandy, where they had serendipitously met up with William.

“Tell, me, sir knight,” Tarian chirped, “are all men guided by the sword between their legs over the sword in their hands?”

Wulfson coughed at her audacious question, but he answered truthfully. “For some, the demon between a man’s legs makes all of his decisions. But for others, such as myself, and my fellow Blood Swords, while we pay heed to it, it does not govern our actions or our decisions.”

“Why do you go by the name of Blood Sword?”

Wulfson stiffened at the question. He was not a man who made much conversation, yet he found himself enjoying his parlance with the widow. But he had never shared his horrific experience with another living soul except with the eight men who survived it with him. “’Tis a name given to a knight who earns his living by the sword.”

She peered at him and seemed to be satisfied with the answer. As they descended along the well-worn road from Draceadon to the rest of the world, the thick copse of trees outlining the forest, the clouds seemed to have darkened threefold. Wulfson cast an eye skyward. “Does it always rain in this place?”

She nodded, and as the road forked Tarian gave the gray his head. They sprinted past Wulfson, who cursed. She shook her head, her long dark hair following her like a dark shield. Wulfson spurred the destrier and the chase was on.

Much to his frustration, he could not catch up. The gray, though a destrier, was lighter and fleeter of foot than his great black. The beast was also not bogged down with mail, and the lady’s weight was that of a mite. When he thundered around a sharp bend in the road, he swore out loud. For the next half-league he could see down it, and Tarian was nowhere in sight. He had been duped! He had
fallen for her guile! Rage infiltrated every inch of him. He would not fail his king!

He pulled up Turold, his mind quickly assessing the situation. If she were ahead, she would be in sight. Since she was not, she must have turned off the road soon after she made its sharp bend. He backed up to where the road turned out and cast his gaze to the ground. The turf was still moist with the last rain and though well traveled, the fresh churn of four large shod hooves darkened it. He looked into the thick copse of trees where the tracks led, and decided that if she could make it through the forest, so could he. And when he got his hands on her he would throttle her and end this futile charade. He smiled grimly. But not before he did what he had wanted to do to her from the moment he laid eyes on her that morn.

Turold burst through the low bramble and maneuvered through the English oak and ash trees. While the forest was thick, it was not as nonnegotiable as he had first thought. Her trail was clear, and so long as he had light and determination he would find her. As he drew deeper into the wood, he reined up Turold and listened. First only the twittering of the birds overhead disturbed the heaviness of the air, then rustles amongst the thickets as small inhabitants scurried to escape some intruder. Then voices. Welsh. Dead ahead, and coming closer. As he sat silent and bent his ear toward them trying to decipher what was said, the sharp hiss of an arrow passed so near to his right ear it nicked the outer tip before finding a home in the oak behind him. He drew his sword, deftly turning toward the direction of the assault, cursing himself again for riding out with no helm or accompaniment.

Soft laughter filtered from the direction of the arrow.
“How is that for a kitten? Sir knight?” the soft husky voice that gave him gooseflesh called to him. His eyes narrowed, and Tarian materialized from the forest, bow in hand, maybe thirty steps ahead of him. Directly across from the voices that continued to come closer.

He put his finger to his lips, drawing her caution. She cocked her head and heard them as well. Instead of the look of stricken panic he would expect from a woman, Tarian smiled and drew another arrow. The soft breeze blew her long hair from her face, exposing the high noble cheekbones, and while she had the honed look of a predator, her femininity was undeniable. And the way she sat half barelegged astride her destrier made a man’s mind wander with thoughts of her straddling him thusly. Wulfson snorted in contempt. ’Twas no wonder she had survived Hastings. The warriors she encountered were no doubt mesmerized by her beauty, giving her the opportunity to strike first, and as deadly accurate as she was with that bow, she must have slain numerous Normans. His blood simmered. She was a banshee disguised as a goddess. But he was not swayed by her wiles.

The voices grew in volume, and just as Wulfson reined Turold to back up into a more discreet spot between two huge oaks, Tarian did the same. Her horse silently reversed, blending into the copse. Wulfson sheathed his long broadsword at his waist, then drew the deadly twin angels of death, Azrael and Sariel.

His fingers grasped the leather-bound hilts, the grips molding perfectly to every contour of his hands. Wulfson could feel the quickening in the stallion’s flanks. As did his master, the warhorse found his true passion in the heat of battle.

The Welsh voices broke the small clearing just ahead. Just as a red hound trotting ahead of them stopped in his tracks and lifted his nose in Wulfson’s direction, alerting the Welsh to his presence, Wulfson struck. He grasped the black’s sides with his thighs, and the great horse broke through the bramble and thickets, shielding them into the clearing and into a half score of armed men.