River of Destiny (20 page)

‘I will bring it up to the hall,’ Eric said at last, ‘and give it to him.’

‘He is asleep. You will have to wait until evening.’

Eric frowned and shook his head. ‘My instructions were to bring it the moment it was finished. If he is asleep then I will wake him.’

‘And the scabbard?’

‘The scabbard, it appears, is none of my business after all. It is to be decorated with runes and magical sigils by the sorcerer himself. He did not want Edith nearby as she is Christian and I cannot ask her to stay away any longer.’

Hrotgar gave a cynical sneer. ‘The last time I looked it seemed to me that you called yourself Christian, my friend, as we all are. He is being over-sensitive if he objects to your wife but not to you. Or is the rumour true, that you worship the old gods now too?’

Eric shook his head. ‘I follow the orders of the Lord Egbert,’ he sighed. ‘Tonight the sword will be gone and,’ he held Hrotgar’s gaze a fraction of a second longer than necessary, ‘Edith returns to my bed.’ He paused for a moment, but still the other man showed no sign that he cared one way or the other. ‘It seems to me that this is all a storm over nothing,’ Eric went on, ‘as it will be his brother or one of his sons, when they are grown, who takes the sword to blood it in battle. Lord Egbert is not likely to see the field of action again.’

Hrotgar frowned uneasily. ‘Come when you wish, then. No doubt he has given orders that you be admitted to his bedside whether one of his men is there by his side, or the Lady Hilda. Christ protect you, my friend.’

He turned and strode out of the workshop. Eric watched him go. He leaned against the wall and stroked his chin. Something had made Hrotgar uncomfortable in his presence; his usual swagger and antagonism were missing. He pulled the covering off the sword and stroked the blade with his finger. ‘So, my beauty, already there is mystery surrounding you, as well as magic.’ He gave a wry smile. Destiny Maker was the finest sword he had ever forged and probably would be the best of his career. It had been from its very inception a special commission, beyond the norm. He shook his head again. Strange, as Lord Edgar had never been a warlike man. He had fought when called to do so, and had displayed his prowess well, but he did not glory in war as some of his friends and relations did. He had not been well, in all probability, for a long time, but he had hidden it behind a brave façade.

Making up his mind, he picked up the cloth and wrapped the sword once more, then carrying it over his shoulder he turned towards the door. The sooner he had delivered it to its destination, the sooner he could go home and into bed with his wife.

Zoë woke with a start and lay staring up at the ceiling in the dark, her heart thudding uncomfortably. She glanced at her side. Ken wasn’t there. Sitting up she looked towards the bathroom but the door was ajar and the light off. She was alone.

Wrapping her dressing gown round her, she tiptoed out onto the landing and stared over the edge of the banister down into the darkness, holding her breath. ‘Hello?’ Her voice sounded reedy in the silence. Scared. ‘Come out. I can see you!’ she tried again, louder this time. ‘Jackson? Jade? I know you’re there.’

Nothing. She reached out for the light switches and flooded the place with light. Nothing. The chairs were all as she and Ken had left them. The doors were locked. So where was Ken? She padded through to his study. It was empty. He was nowhere in the house. The boat? Surely not, in the dark. For the first time in weeks her thoughts turned to Anya, but as quickly she dismissed them. Anya was long gone. She glanced towards the windows again, not for the first time wishing that they had done something about blinds or curtains, and then she looked at her watch. It would soon be morning. Turning out the lights she went to stand at the windows, looking out. There was a slight greyness in the east, a lifting of the night. The Old Forge was in darkness.

She shuddered. So, where was Ken? She felt terribly alone. Miserably she crept back to bed. In minutes she had fallen asleep.

Emily had found a deserted shepherd’s hut at the far side of the estate. Someone, Dan didn’t like to speculate as to who, had brought blankets and pillows there. She didn’t talk to him. Pulling off her hat and veil, she threw them down on a floor littered with dead leaves and sticks and wisps of hay. She tore his shirt back from his shoulders and raked her nails down his chest, reaching up hungrily for his mouth as she groped for his heavy leather belt. ‘Help me, you dolt!’ she snapped as the buckle proved too stiff for her. Her rudeness and his anger combined to have the desired effect. He tore open his trousers and wrenched up her skirts, throwing her to the ground as he pulled off her drawers. They wrestled until he had pinned her down. It was over in seconds.

With a gasp he collapsed across her, exhausted. She lay still, staring up at the roof of the hut, a half-smile on her face as he rolled away from her. ‘Will that do, your ladyship?’ He lay beside her, his arm across his eyes, the chill of sweat cooling on his chest. He heard the quiet whinny from her horse outside.

‘I suppose it will have to.’ She gave a brittle laugh. ‘Though your technique leaves something to be desired.’

‘If I’m not good enough for you –’

‘All you need is practice.’ She sat up and reached for him again. He dodged backwards.

‘I think it’s time I saw what I’m getting for my side of the bargain. Take that dress off.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘No dress, no more action from me, my lady.’

‘It’s not a dress. It’s a habit.’

‘Then take off your habit.’ He folded his arms.

Her face tightened with anger, her eyes flashing dislike. ‘I have no intention of undressing.’

He laughed wryly. ‘It is a little late to worry about your modesty, my lady.’ He kept emphasising the title, not bothering to keep the scorn out of his voice. ‘Go on. Take it off.’

She was like an animal on heat. He had not satisfied her yet and she wanted him so badly he could smell the lust on her. He reached across and ran his hand up her naked thigh, hearing the sharp gasp she gave at his touch. ‘All or nothing, my lady.’

‘I can’t undress without my maid.’ Her voice was tight with resentment.

‘So shall we send for her? Molly, is it not?’

She bared her teeth at him. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘I wasn’t being stupid, my lady. I was endeavouring to make a joke.’ He gave a humourless laugh. ‘Perhaps I should be the one to undress you, though why you can’t undo buttons which run in plain view down your front I cannot imagine.’ He reached forward. She slapped his hand away.

‘Happen I’ll tear off those buttons if I try,’ he said quietly. He did not try to keep the threat out of his voice.

‘If you lay a finger on me I will tell my husband that you raped me.’

He laughed out loud. ‘I think not. All right, have it as you will. Enough. I have horses to shoe.’ He scrambled to his feet.

‘No!’ The anguish in her cry was real. ‘No, wait. You can’t go.’

‘I can’t?’

‘No.’ She rose to her knees and began unbuttoning the jacket of her habit. Standing over her he watched as she pulled it off. Under it she was wearing a white blouse trimmed with a lace jabot at the neck. She tore it off. Beneath it a chemise, and then a short-waisted corset which took what seemed like an age to unfasten, her hands behind her trying to loosen the lacings. He waited, not offering to help, and as it fell away at last, she looked at him defiantly. She had small breasts and a narrow childlike waist. ‘Skirt off, and boots.’ He kept himself under tight control. ‘I want you naked, my lady.’

She gave a loud sigh, but otherwise obeyed him until at last she was standing before him with nothing on. He reached out and stroked her breast. She drew in her breath sharply. ‘That’s better,’ he said quietly. ‘Like training a wild filly.’ He grinned. ‘Perhaps that is enough for the first session. Next time you will be more obedient.’ He turned away and reached for his shirt.

‘Stop! You can’t go!’ she let out a shriek. ‘I want you now, you oaf!’

‘Oh, is that so.’ He glanced back at her. ‘Well, next time –’

He did not get a chance to finish. She flew at him, grabbing his hair, wrenching his face towards hers, seizing one of his hands and clamping it over her breast.

He could not contain himself any longer. ‘Since you ask so nicely …’ He pushed her back on the rugs and threw himself over her. She let out a scream, clawing his back and shoulders. He felt her draw blood. ‘Stop it, you bitch,’ he drove into her again and again, hearing her exultant panting as she clamped her thighs around him. At last, spent, he rolled away again and lay staring up at the roof of the hut. There was a hole in the corner where the ivy had torn its way in and he could see the blue of the sky. He glanced sideways at her. She was lying still, her eyes closed, breathing hard.

Slowly he sat up and started to reach for his clothes. She didn’t move and he realised at last that she had drifted into sleep. He gave a wry smile. Fully dressed, he tiptoed towards the door. Just this once madam was going to have to dress herself and find a way to scramble back on her horse without his aid.

As he strode across the field he was filled with self-
loathing.

Zoë woke with a start. She had been dreaming, the most erotic, frightening dream of a man and a woman making love. They were violent, angry with each other, fuelling their lust with hatred. She lay back on the pillows, realising her own body was aroused, excited in a way she had not felt for years. When Ken and she made love these days it was a dutiful, affectionate, almost automatic response to some unspoken need which occurred less and less frequently. She hugged her arms around herself wistfully as she realised that Ken was still not there and wondered, this time with mounting concern, where he had been all night.

She was in the shower, feeling the water pounding down on her shoulders, streaming down her face, when she realised she could see in her mind’s eye the face of the woman she had dreamed about as clearly as if it was in front of her. The woman had fine-boned delicate features with large grey eyes and curling chestnut hair, which was slipping from its combs as she threw back her head, exposing her throat and breasts to the man who was standing before her. She was angry, arrogant, her eyes hard as stone as she pulled him towards her. Shocked at the power of the sudden vision, Zoë reached out for the tap and turned the water off, standing for a moment dripping, incapable of stepping out of the shower and reaching for her towel. She was astonished to find she was shaking. She could feel the woman’s lust, her greed for the man’s body, her fury that she needed him at all, her shame.

God! Where had that all come from? Groping at last for the towel she wrapped herself in it and walked back into her bedroom, shivering.

She knew what it was, of course. Sex. She needed sex. She could barely remember when she and Ken had last made love; she wasn’t sure if she had wanted him even then. She picked up her hairbrush and stared at herself in the mirror. Did she fancy him any more? No. She wasn’t sure she ever had, not with the intensity of desire that woman had shown. But that woman wasn’t displaying love – if anything it was loathing she felt for the man standing over her. She had been needy, but not for love. Bending over, Zoë began to brush her hair forward over her face, feeling the hard, scratchy strokes of the hairbrush on her head with grim satisfaction. Finished, she reached for her tracksuit and running shoes. A hard pound round the lanes would do her good, stop her thinking.