The Red Wolf's Prize (7 page)

She grew angry at the reminder he had all of Talisand under
his thumb. Yet she remembered his gentleness when he’d kissed her, a kiss she
was trying hard to forget. She remembered the heat of his powerful body when he
held her close. She had wanted him to touch her. Yet she hated her attraction
to the powerful Norman knight for he was her enemy.

And now he was being kind to the boy she loved.

* * *

“Would it be so bad to be the Norman’s wife, to again be the
Lady of Talisand?” Cassie asked softly, looking at Serena with hopeful eyes.
Serena had gone to help her friend in the folding of linens in the back room of
the washing area where they were alone for the moment. “He seems an honorable
knight, even if he is a Norman, and a bit…fearsome. He’s so
tall
. Even
Sir Maurin is nay so tall.”

Serena stared at her friend, disbelieving. “Cassie! That
‘honorable knight’ you find frightening is among the men who killed my father
and our King Harold and ravaged half of England. I cannot believe you would
have me wed one of them. Have you forgotten they have taken our land by force?
Slain thousands of Saxon men
and
women? And now he claims the people of
Talisand as his serfs!”

“Nay, I havna forgotten, but ye canna change the past,
m’lady. Ye must look to the future. I say this as yer friend. The Red Wolf is
the new lord and there be a new king in England who, though he is a Norman,
seems to be staying whether we like it or no. Ye’ll want bairns one day, no?”
Not waiting for Serena’s answer, the handmaiden continued. “Talisand will need
an heir, and it willna come from Steinar as we had thought.”

“I’d not have a Norman heir for Talisand, Cassie.”

“Would a bairn of yers born in England be a Norman?”

Serena pondered her handmaiden’s words. “He’d be at least
half Norman.”

“If the tales we heard be true, there will be many bairns
born in England this year who are only half English. At least ye would have the
status of wife—and a countess. Many of those mothers have no husbands at all
and will bear only Norman bastards.”

“Oh, Cassie. I am still hoping to escape to Scotland and
join Steinar. Rhodri tells me many English have fled across the border, waiting
to fight the Normans. Good and true men who have not surrendered all. He says
it was fear of an uprising that brought the Norman king back from Normandy late
last year. Why should I give in if there is still hope? The Red Wolf’s knights
do not even speak our language!”

“They are making an effort,” insisted Cassie. “Sir Maurin’s
understanding of English has improved much.” Setting down the cloth she was
folding, the handmaiden said wistfully, “He has been verra kind to me.”

Though the Norman knights and men-at-arms were making an
effort to learn the English tongue, mostly to speak to the young women and give
orders to the old thegn’s men, Serena recalled they spent evenings in the hall
drinking Talisand’s ale and telling jokes in their own language. Her knowledge
of the Norman tongue had given her the ability to understand much of what they
said. Many times she had grimaced at their ribald jokes and their slurs against
the Saxons they had defeated in the south. Each night she tried to convince
herself it was England, not Normandy, she was living in.

“I have seen Sir Maurin smile at you, Cassie…would you marry
one of them?”

Cassie looked off into the distance. “I might. I, too, want
bairns, m’lady. Sir Maurin is older than the others, ’tis true, and his face
shows signs of a hard life, but he is a man with a good heart. And though he is
a knight, he does nay seem to mind I am not high born. Besides, there are nay
any others at Talisand left that I would wed.”

“But there are many who would have you as wife, Cassie.”

With the death of many of Talisand’s young men at Hastings,
her lovely handmaiden had fewer choices, though many who remained lusted after
the redhead. That her father was the beefy blacksmith kept them at bay. Serena
wanted to see her friend wed and happy. Raised together, they were more like
sisters than lady and servant. She enjoyed Cassie’s honest bantering. Very much
her mother’s daughter, Cassie freely spoke her mind.

Serena stared at the dust motes in the sunlight pouring in
through the open door while her hands worked independently to fold the drying
cloths. Her mind drifted to the past and to a time when a tall English guard
who worked for her father had captured her interest. For a while, they had
walked the river bank together in the afternoons. He’d even stolen a kiss once.
Oswine was killed at Hastings defending his thegn. Though it had been the love
of a young girl, it might have grown into more in time. Alas, she would never
know.

She thought it was probably inevitable that some of
Talisand’s women would marry Normans. God knew there were widows enough. But if
she were to accept the fate the Norman king had willed for her, it would be a
sign to all she had given up the fight for England and for Talisand. She shook
her head and set her lips in a thin line.
No, I will not do it.

“If ye willna have a Norman, m’lady, even the new lord, what
about young Morcar? When he was still Earl of Northumbria, wasna he one of the
men yer father was considering for yer hand? A most handsome and charming man
to me memory.”

“Aye, Morcar is fair of face and charming, but he has only a
few years more than me.” She was thinking of the Red Wolf who was older and
more virile than the younger Mercian, who she remembered with fondness. The
Mercian had paid several visits to her father before he had gone to fight
against the King of Norway but her father had not promised her hand to him.
Morcar laughed easily and his people loved him, but she did not. Even if she
had wanted to wed him, could she do so when she had been given to the Norman
lord? “And he lost his lands with the coming of the Normans.”

“I often wonder what might have happened,” said Cassie
thoughtfully, “if he and his brother had not been so eager to rid themselves of
King Harold. They held back their men, hoping, I believe, the Normans would
defeat Harold at Hastings. With the men Morcar and his brother could have
called to fight, we might have driven the Normans back into the sea.”

“More important, Cassie, would they fight now?”

“Sir Maurin told me that Morcar and his older brother,
Edwin, still the Earl of Mercia, have submitted to the Norman king.”

“If ‘tis true,” said Serena, “I doubt Edwin is sincere. He
cannot love serving such a one.”

“I suppose ye are right,” Cassie said sadly.

“Even if Morcar were to defy the Norman king,” Serena speculated,
“I cannot imagine him taking me to wife with Talisand given to the Bastard’s
knight. I no longer have a dowry.”

“But he cared for ye, m’lady. I remember the way he looked
at ye.”

“So much has changed,” lamented Serena. “While an English
woman cannot be forced to wed a man she’ll not have, it is not so with the
Normans. The Norman king can force me to accept the Red Wolf if I am
discovered. He has only to consummate the relationship.” The thought caused
Serena to shiver. “Then, too, Morcar is young and impatient. He may have set
his eyes on another.”

“Morcar is a Mercian,” Cassie encouraged. “That has to mean
something. It was his brother Edwin who posed the idea of a match between the
two of ye to yer father. Me mother heard them talking.”

“It was to make me happy my father delayed a betrothal.”

“Yea,” said Cassie, “and to satisfy a lonely man’s heart. Me
mother told me he’d not send ye away before he must.”

Serena had thought little of Morcar in the past months. In
truth, with the coming of the Red Wolf, thoughts of any other man rarely came
to her mind. She had not forgotten the kiss the Norman had stolen. Or the feel
of his hard chest pressed against her breasts. He was a seasoned warrior,
virile and strong. By his sword, the Red Wolf had gained a place of favor with
the Norman king and was admired by his men. He seemed so much more a man than
the young Mercian earl or even Oswine.

The handmaiden’s eyes suddenly grew bright. “What about
Eadric? Yer father liked him well enough. I have heard our men talking about
him. They say he was able to keep his lands in the south since he wasna at
Hastings.”

“I have heard the Normans speak of him in the hall, too,”
said Serena, thinking of the conversation she’d overheard. “They call him
Eadric the Wild since he stays in the woods with his men, fighting some Norman
to the south. The Welsh king supports him, according to Rhodri.” Serena
remembered Eadric, the wealthy Saxon thegn from Shropshire, who had come to
Talisand seeking her hand. A tall warrior with broad shoulders and a full
beard. “Though I cannot imagine Eadric would want to take a bride if he is
living with his men in the woods. And, Cassie, if I were to come out in the
open, as I must to wed Morcar or Eadric, think how the Red Wolf would react. He
would be incensed at losing what he sees as his. Pride would demand he hunt me
down, even if only to hold me prisoner. No, it would not do for me to marry a
Saxon while still in England for I have been given by the Norman king to one of
his own. You see? I must leave and seek my future in Scotland.”

“Yea, I suppose ’tis true. I dinna want ye to go. But it
seems yer only future at Talisand is as the Red Wolf’s bride.”

“I shall never choose to be his wife,” Serena insisted, all
the while shivering at the prospect, whether from anticipation or dread she
could not say.

Geoffroi was just leaving the stables the next day on his way
to the hall, hungry for the midday meal, when he heard the boy Eric shouting to
one of the cottars who had come to the manor to sell his wares. “Dunn, did ye
hear the news? Rhodri has returned to Talisand!”

The cottar looked up from his cart of kettles. “Has he now?
When?”

“A few days ago. He has said he will play for us tonight
after the evening meal. Steward Hunstan told me all who would come are invited.
’Twill be almost like it was ere the Normans came.”

By now Geoffroi knew enough English to understand their
conversation. At his approach, the boy’s face turned scarlet as he realized the
Red Wolf’s man overheard what he was saying. “Eric, are you talking about the
Welsh bard who was here before?”

“Yea, sir.” The boy’s posture relaxed, possibly because he
was grateful not to be scolded.

“I should like to hear this bard entertain us in the hall
this eve. Is there a singer at Talisand who could join him?”

“Well…” he hesitated, “Sarah can sing. She and the bard
often sang together.”

“Indeed? You may tell Sarah her new master would have her
sing with the bard tonight.” Geoff had observed the way Ren looked at the
servant girl. At least her singing would take his mind from the missing Lady
Serena about whom he had brooded overmuch. And some entertainment for the men
would not go amiss. “I will look forward to hearing her myself.”

“I will tell her, sir. Ye willna be disappointed. She has
the voice of an angel!”

* * *

Occupied with plans for the castle all afternoon, Renaud rose
from the trestle table in his chamber, comfortable with his decision. He had
finally chosen the site for the castle, though in truth the location had been
in his mind all along. The same bend in the river that protected Talisand’s
manor would become the source of his castle’s moat. And the motte that would
rise from the yard to form the foundation for the timbered structure would look
down on the manor. From the top of the new
donjon
, he and his men would
have a view of the entire countryside.

A knock sounded, interrupting his musings.

“Enter.”

His chamber door opened and Geoff strolled in. “Are you
still wanting to review the changes to the stables?”

“Aye, I’m long ready.”

“Then I’ve good news. The work is done. Sir Niel awaits your
examination of the new building. I think you will be pleased. There is room for
all the horses and the groom and stable boys.”

“Splendid!” He strode to the door, eager for a chance to
stretch his legs. “We will have need of it as I fear Talisand will have harsh
winters.”

Renaud descended the stairs, Geoff on his heels. Looking
into the hall as they passed, Renaud saw the long tables crowded with knights
and men-at-arms sitting down to the evening meal. He would delay his dinner to
see the new stables.

The smell of freshly cut wood filled Renaud’s nostrils as he
entered the new structure, along with the scent of hay and horse, familiar
smells to a knight.

“This will serve us well,” he said to the young Sir Niel,
standing inside the large open door where he waited for his lord. Niel had been
Renaud’s squire before Mathieu and knighted only a few years before Hastings.
The scar on his jaw was a lasting reminder of his bravery in that battle, but
with his light brown hair and blue eyes, he was still attractive to woman,
mayhap more so.

Fresh hay had already been laid in the stalls and stable
boys were leading in some of the horses. Renaud strolled down the middle aisle,
taking in the new construction that provided more than a dozen timbered
partitions on each side. As he walked along, his gaze drifted up to the second
level where a large hayloft had been added.

“There’s enough room above to house the stable boys,” said
Sir Niel, “and a separate chamber for the groom below.”

Renaud rested his hand on the knight’s shoulder. “The work
appears sound, the structure proof against the cold drafts of winter. The men
have done well.”

“Your knights and their squires are content the horses will
nay freeze come Christmastide, my lord,” said a grinning Sir Niel.

Renaud nodded as Mathieu joined them. “I’ve already brought
your horses in, my lord,” said the squire. “They are fed and groomed and in the
far stalls. We have oats aplenty.”

“Good work, Mathieu. And where is my young page?”

“Polishing your sword and cleaning your shield, and before
that he helped with the horses. He’s a good lad, Jamie is.”

“Aye, he is. See that you both eat. The meal has begun.”
Geoff cast a longing look toward the hall, causing Renaud to add, “And have
Maggie send some food for Sir Geoffroi and me. We will eat here.”

“Yea, sir.” The squire dipped his head and took his slim
body off toward the armory.

Renaud turned to Niel. “You as well. Go eat your supper. The
groom and stable boys can answer any questions we might have.” He wanted the
opportunity to get to know the lads who’d been retained to care for the
knights’ horses.

“It feels like those times we rode with Duke William,” said
Geoff, when some while later, they sat on crates eating their meal.

“Aye, it seems a familiar pastime,” agreed Renaud.

An hour later, Renaud had finished the meal Maggie had sent
him. The rabbit stew had been tasty. And the conversation he and Geoff had
shared with the stable lads had filled him with excitement. He would breed
Belasco, his gray stallion, to some of the English horses for a stronger stable
of horses.

Content the new stable met all his requirements, he stood to
go. “You can release the carpenters to turn their attention to William’s
castle,” he told Geoff. “Come, let us leave the lads to the horses. I have a
craving for a drink.”

“Aye, that would be most welcome.”

Renaud crossed the yard, hearing faint music coming from the
hall. Opening the door he was confronted with a voice from heaven itself. The
hall was dark save for the light from the central hearth and the torches still
burning at the edges of the large rectangular room. He and Geoff stood in the
shadows, listening.

Aethel, who had apparently been watching for him, walked in
their direction carrying tankards of ale. Her brown eyes conveyed the same
invitation Renaud had seen before, but gaining no different reaction from him,
she took her leave. Renaud drank deeply having grown accustomed to the dark
brew and turned his attention to the picture before him.

Sarah sat on a stool in front of the hearth, singing in a
foreign tongue. It might be Welsh as he had heard the language before. Her long
brown plait lay over one shoulder, drawing his attention as she inclined her
head with the song. The light of the fire reflected on her face, rendering her
skin the color of honey. Facing her, on another stool, sat a man with curly
black hair and short-cropped beard. He was clothed in the colors of the forest
over which he’d donned a brown leather jerkin. In his arms he held a small
harp, his fingers moving rapidly over the strings as he plucked a lively tune.

A circle of children sat at their feet, many with chins
resting in their upturned palms, their elbows braced on their crossed legs
while they listened with rapt attention.

Sarah’s voice lifted high then dipped low, sending notes
flowing about the room like magical ribbons of sound. When the man’s tenor
voice joined hers, the two voices entwined like lovers as they smiled at the
children and at each other.

Renaud watched transfixed. The servant girl was more
beautiful, more animated than he had seen her before. Her hand reached out to
caress the cheek of a child. There was love in her eyes.
She will make a
good mother.

Without turning his head, he asked Geoff, “Who is that
singing with Sarah?”

“It must be the Welsh bard, Rhodri. I had heard he arrived
and intended to provide us with entertainment. We were so consumed by the work
on the stables I forgot to mention it. You remember, Ren. He is the one who was
here before at the old lord’s invitation. The boy Eric told me the girl had the
voice of an angel. He was nay wrong.”

“You understand the Welsh tongue—of what do they sing?”

“’Tis a traveling song. She sings of the beauty of the hills
and valleys and the adventure of the road. He joins her, but sings of the love
left behind.”

Renaud could not dismiss the thought that troubled him. What
servant would understand the Welsh tongue well enough to sing it? Had the bard
taught her whilst their heads rested on the same pillow? He frowned. “It seems
the Welshman taught the people more than the bow.”

“‘Tis a bit of talent he has,” said Geoff. “I have never
heard the ballad sung so well.”

Renaud’s eyes narrowed as he continued to gaze at the two
singing, their heads close together like two lovers exchanging endearments. The
Welshman gazed intently at Sarah, and she returned his regard. Clearly they
shared a great affection for each other. So it was not only the old lord’s son
for whom she made room in her heart. Did she also make room for the Welshman in
her bed? Notwithstanding her protests, he wondered if she was a maiden still.
How could a woman so lovely be left alone for so long?

As her voice rose with the song, Sarah smiled at the
children sitting at her feet. He had never seen her smile like that. It was a
dazzling smile. She was beautiful, bewitching—happy. The lovely sound of her
clear voice wrapped around him like a warm cloak, filling him with a sudden
desire to possess her.

Renaud’s body tensed like hard steel when he looked at the
faces of his men. They were enthralled with the English servant girl, whose
skin glowed in the firelight, and whose eyes danced with the song. A wave of
jealousy flowed over him.

When the song ended and another began, Renaud set his face
in firm resolve and turned to Geoff. “Ask the seneschal to send up my bath and
some wine. When the singing ends, have Sarah sent to my room. I would have a
word with her.”

“Aye, Ren. I will see it done.”

Geoff turned to carry out the orders, and Renaud said over
his shoulder, “See that none of the men touch her.”

* * *

Serena paused at the bottom of the stairs leading to the
chambers above…to
his
chamber. It was late and she had never gone to his
chamber at night. But refusing his command would only arouse suspicion. A
servant was bound to obey. Her heart raced and she wiped her damp palms on her
tunic. What did his summons mean?

She had been dismayed when they’d asked her to sing, aware
it would put her in front of the Norman men and remind the people their lady
was still among them. Soon one of them would make the mistake of calling her by
her real name. It had almost happened with the children. Though singing with
Rhodri presented risks, in the end she was glad she had done it for it reminded
her of happier times when she and Rhodri had sung for her father and Steinar,
when such evenings were common at Talisand.

Her father had loved the music of the Welsh bard and had
encouraged the people to embrace the songs Rhodri brought to their hall. The
songs and languages of many cultures had found a place at Talisand. Even the
Norman food and language had been of interest to the old thegn since the time
when King Edward had invited Normans to England. Her family had never seen them
as enemies, not until the Bastard Duke decided to assert his claim to the
throne.

Serena had not seen the Red Wolf in the hall while she and
Rhodri sang; she hoped he had missed the performance. She did not wish to be
the object of the gray eyes that increasingly followed her every movement,
desire reflected in their depths.

Within her, hate warred with reluctant respect. Resistance
warred with desire. Though he was one of the dreaded Normans, he was a fair
master and a defender of women. She was drawn to him, albeit against her will,
whenever he was near. Now summoned to his chamber, her heart leaped within her
chest. What did he intend?

Resigned, she slowly ascended the stairs.

Her knock sounded softly on the wooden door, the door that
had once led to her father’s chamber.

“Come.” At his deep voice, she nearly jumped.

Carefully, she opened the door and stepped inside, closing
it behind her. She scanned the room looking for the tall knight with the
chestnut hair. At first she did not see him but a movement drew her gaze to the
large bathing tub on the floor. He was sitting in the water with his back to
her, his knees drawn up to his chest. The dark rust of his hair captured the
light from the candles causing it to glisten with streaks of amber.

“Please forgive me, my lord. I did not realize you were
bathing.” She turned to leave.

“I would speak with you, Sarah,” he said without turning.
“You can wash my back while we talk.”

Serena’s heart sped. While it was not unusual for the lord
to ask a servant girl to assist with his bathing, her father had never allowed
her to undertake such a task with any of their guests. She did not want to be
close to the man, especially knowing he was naked, but a servant could not
refuse her lord such a request.

“Yea, my lord.”

Taking up the cloth and soap, she knelt behind him, dipped
them both in the water and, working in the soap, began to scrub his back. The
muscles of his broad shoulders rippled as she dipped the soapy cloth in the
water and ran it over his bronzed skin. His was a knight’s body, one that had
wielded a weapon against her people. Despite all that, she wanted to touch him,
to smooth her hand over his muscles and the jagged scar on his shoulder. It
troubled her that the body of her enemy could arouse her senses so.

Her hands continued to work the soap into his skin,
scrubbing with force lest she be lulled into touching him with gentle strokes.
She tried to erase the thoughts that swirled through her mind. She supposed
many women would want such a man.
Aethel had wanted him.
While his men
told ribald jests at the evening meal, some had spoken of the many women who
sought the Red Wolf’s bed. It was easy to see why Aethel had desired him. The
scene she had witnessed that night in his chamber when she had found them
together was still vivid in her mind. Her hand slowed when his right hand
gripped the side of the tub. A jagged scar slashed across the skin of his
wrist. Was it the mark of the beast he had killed?