Книга - His Captive Lady

His Captive Lady
Carol Townend


Captured by the warrior! Lady Erica had tried to bring peace to her people so that they could join forces against the Normans. Instead she became captive to the Saxon warrior, Saewulf Brader! Wulf was, in truth, a Norman captain, spying on the enemy.Chaste yet fearless, Lady Erica wasn’t part of his plan. Her beauty was as disarming as it was captivating, but Wulf knew that once she discovered his deception their fragile bond of trust would be destroyed… Wessex Weddings Normans and Saxons, conflict and desire




‘We will save those for later.’



Later. Erica’s breath froze. Later.



He faced her. Smiled. There was so little room that he was scarcely a foot away from her. He was very tall, this man to whom she had been given. His head almost touched the planked ceiling. Saewulf Brader’s skin was smooth and his eyes were clear. And he was, she realised with a start, examining her with equal attention. Convulsively, she swallowed.



‘Do not fear me. You are safe,’ he said softly.



‘I… I thank you.’ Absurdly, she believed him.



Strong muscles bunched and shifted under his tunic. Saewulf Brader was the image of health. Young men, healthy young men, were, in Erica’s admittedly limited experience, not entirely reliable where women were concerned. Until today Erica had led a sheltered life. Her high status had protected her. Physically, at least. Physically, she was as chaste and innocent as a nun in an enclosed order.



Silently, she stared at Saewulf Brader’s broad back as he worked, and wondered what was running through his mind. Tonight he had been given a trophy. Her. Could she take him at his word? Could she trust him not to… touch her?


Carol Townend has been making up stories since she was a child. Whenever she comes across a tumbledown building, be it castle or cottage, she can’t help conjuring up the lives of the people who once lived there. Her Yorkshire forebears were friendly with the Brontë sisters. Perhaps their influence lingers…



Carol’s love of ancient and medieval history took her to London University, where she read History, and her first novel (published by Mills & Boon) won the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s New Writers’ Award. Currently she lives near Kew Gardens, with her husband and daughter. Visit her website at www.caroltownend.co. uk



Recent novels by the same author:



THE NOVICE BRIDE

AN HONOURABLE ROGUE


Praise for



CAROL TOWNEND



THE NOVICE BRIDE ‘THE NOVICE BRIDE is sweet, tantalising, frustrating, seductively all-consuming, deliciously provocative… I can’t go on enough about this story’s virtues. Read this book. You’ll fall in love a hundred times over.’ —Romance Junkies



‘From the very first words, this story

snatches the reader from present day, willingly

pulling hearts and minds back to the time of the

Norman conquest. Culture clash, merciless invaders,

innocence lost and freedom captured—all wonderfully

highlighted in this mesmerising novel.’

—Romance Reader at Heart



AN HONOURABLE ROGUE ‘Ms Townend’s impeccable attention to detail and lush, vivid images bring this time period to life.’ —Romance Reader at Heart



‘Anyone who wants to read a very satisfying and heartwarming

historical romance will not go wrong with

AN HONOURABLE ROGUE by Carol Townend.’

—CataRomance




HIS CAPTIVE LADY


Carol Townend




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Author Note


In the eleventh century heraldry was in its infancy— the devices of the various noble houses did not start to develop properly until the second quarter of the twelfth century. However, flags and pennons may be seen on the Bayeux Tapestry. They were used in the Battle of Hastings to convey signals as well as to reveal identity. Thane Eric of Whitecliffe’s battle pennon is similar to these.


Many thanks are due to my editor, Joanne, for herthoughtful (and always tactfully phrased!) suggestions.She is worth her weight in gold.


Chapter One






Westminster—December 1067



Captain Wulf FitzRobert sat waiting on a stool by the fire in the middle of King William’s cavernous new barrack-hall. Waiting, waiting. It was an exercise in patience, he told himself, but even so, he was unable to keep his keen blue eyes from straying to the top table where the great lords were in conference. He was hungry for his next commission.

The freshly whitewashed walls around him displayed a formidable array of shields and lances, which winked in the fitful candlelight. Thick beams arched above Wulf’s head, beams that had been cut so recently that he could smell sawn timbers, could see the marks of the adze. While Wulf kicked his heels and mastered his impatience, a troop of foot soldiers tramped in and headed for the wine jugs.

Glancing down at the worn brown tunic that stretched across his broad chest, at the shabby and barely serviceable grey hose that barely covered his long legs, Wulf noticed a rip in the weave and grimaced. His clothing needed to be replaced and he could ill afford it. Advancement, that was what he craved, more advancement.

Under the high table two wolfhounds—a grey and a brindle—were snarling over possession of a bone. Wulf’s mouth twisted. So it was with those lower in the ranks, he thought, lifting his gaze once again to the noblemen and commanders clustered around the board; that is what we are reduced to, fighting over scraps dropped by those above.

Parchments were scattered across the tabletop—aps, most likely. Wulf knew what the lords were about: they were busy slicing up lands won in the recent conflict. Estates that had once belonged to Saxon noblemen were being parcelled out among King William’s most loyal supporters. Campaigns for suppressing rebellion were being planned; offers were being made for the most wealthy of the Saxon widows and heiresses.

Just then, the brindle hound lunged amid a flurry of growling and snapping. The grey yelped and dropped the bone and in a moment it was all over. The brindle darted into the shadows with the bone fast in its jaws, while the loser slunk away, tail between its legs.

Was time running out for him? Wulf thought. England had only so much land; there were only so many titles. If he did not get a decent commission, there might be nothing left to win, neither land nor title nor heiress. Not that Wulf had ambitions for an heiress—no, the shadow over his birth meant he could not look so high. He was illegitimate. But lands and a knighthood, yes, he certainly had ambitions for those. And with no noble family to sponsor him, Wulf must shift for himself.

The lords had wine cups at their elbows. Of delicate imported glass, they were a world away from the clay goblet Wulf had warming by the fire. As well as the maps, there were several jugs of sweet red wine on the high table; wine that Wulf knew had only that morning been shipped in from Normandy. Briefly, Wulf spared a thought for the merchant willing to risk his ship to a winter crossing, but then this was King William’s hall, so doubtless the man and his crew would have been well rewarded. Wulf propped his chin on his hand. Rewarded as he hoped to be, when he was given a good chance to prove himself…

One lord in particular held Wulf’s gaze: William De Warenne, his liege lord. As one of the King’s most trusted commanders, De Warenne had recently been granted estates on the coast south of London, near a place called Lewes. Wulf had heard that his lord was also in the running for more land, land in the remote east of England, somewhere in the fens. Wulf had never set foot in the fens, nor did he want to. If what he had heard was true, the fen country was marshy and waterlogged even in high summer. And at this time of year, in midwinter, the fens would be frozen solid.

Wulf wound lean fingers round the clay cup and lifted it to his lips. He took no more than a sip; he wanted a sober head on him when his lord called him over.

Perhaps, if he were lucky, he would be granted a commission in those southern lands so recently acquired. Two days, Wulf thought, for two interminable days he had been whiling away the time here, kicking his heels while the commanders discussed tactics and jostled for power and position.

A lock of dark hair fell over Wulf’s eyes; impatiently, he shoved it back. He must get his hair trimmed, it had grown so much he looked more Saxon than Norman, and the last thing he wanted was for the lord of Lewes to think he was favouring the Saxon half of his heritage.

‘Captain!’

Wulf’s blue eyes narrowed and his fingers tightened on his wine cup. His heart thudded—De Warenne was looking directly at him. At last!

‘My lord?’ Setting his cup down, Wulf rose and approached the high table.

‘FitzRobert, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Wulf stood, feet planted squarely apart, and waited.

‘FitzRobert.’ De Warenne unrolled one of the maps and weighed it down with a jug and a candlestick. ‘Take a look at this, and tell me what you see.’

Ignoring the curious gazes of the other men sitting in council with De Warenne, Wulf peered at the candlelit parchment. Thankfully, he had made it his business to interpret maps; it was lettering he struggled with.

‘It is England.’ Leaning in, Wulf put his finger on the spot which he knew represented London. ‘We are about here, my lord. See where the river is marked? And here, this is where Lewes lies.’

‘Excellent. Now show me Normandy.’

‘Normandy?’ Wulf blinked. ‘This map is not large enough to show Normandy, my lord. If it were, it would lie down here, somewhere past the Narrow Sea.’ He indicated a knot-hole on the table, a couple of inches below where the parchment ended.

Nodding, De Warenne smiled and lifted a meaningful brow at one of his companions, Count Eugène of Médavy. ‘I repeat, Captain FitzRobert is the man for this job.’

‘Hmm.’ Eugène of Médavy scrutinised Wulf with a soldier’s eye, noting his height and how much weight he carried, assessing the strength and width of his shoulders. Wulf knew without vanity, for it was a fact, that by that measure he would not fall short. He had been born with a large, healthy body, and years of training had made it the body of a warrior. He was big, but he carried muscle rather than excess flesh. As a warrior Wulf did not disappoint, but the Saxon blood in his veins was quite another matter, never mind the shame of his illegitimate birth…

To Wulf’s astonishment, the Count began addressing him in English. ‘Captain, have you any knowledge of this land to the north of London?’ The Count’s accent was thick, but his English was intelligible, which was rare, very rare, in a Norman lord.

Hastily, Wulf closed his mouth and looked where Count Eugène’s blunt finger was pointing. East Anglia. ‘That’s marshland,’ Wulf said, replying in English, for this was doubtless some kind of test. A frisson of excitement ran through him. The fens might not exactly be the South Downs, but if they could bring him the preferment he sought, he would learn to love them. ‘Here is Ely, my lord,’ he continued in English. ‘I have not been there, but I have been told that there is more water thereabouts than land. The fens are criss-crossed with waterways rather than roads, and the fen folk use boats to travel from one place to another.’

‘The wenches there have webbed feet,’ Count Eugène said, on a laugh. ‘And people use poles to vault from island to island.’

Wulf shrugged; he, too, had heard the tales, but he doubted that half of them were true. ‘Perhaps.’

The Count watched him, a small smile playing about his mouth, and Wulf’s heartbeat speeded up. Giving one last glance at Wulf’s over-long hair, the Count of Médavy grinned at De Warenne and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Captain FitzRobert certainly has the looks, William, and he speaks the language like a native. He could well be our man, but he will have to be quick-witted, because he will not have long to learn the lie of the land.’ Picking up his gauntlets, Eugène of Médavy nodded at Wulf and sauntered to the door. Without turning, he snapped his fingers and the brindled hound detached itself from the shadows with its bone, and trotted after him. The Count’s voice floated back. ‘I shall leave it to you to arrange, De Warenne, since the King was making noises about granting you more lands there.’

A general scraping of benches announced that the other noblemen took this as their signal to leave, but Wulf scarcely noticed. His attention was all for his liege lord, though he fought to keep the eagerness from his expression. ‘I can be of service, my lord?’ At last. At last.

‘Aye, I think that you can. FitzRobert—’ De Warenne broke off, scowling.

‘My lord?’

‘Merde, you cannot use that name, we shall have to give you another.’

Some of Wulf’s elation began to drain away. ‘What, precisely, is my commission?’ He kept his expression blank and reminded himself of a lesson he had learned years ago—if he wanted to avoid disappointment, he should not expect too much. Likely he was being given this commission because it was too distasteful for a Norman nobleman to consider. Wulf set his jaw. Well, he was not proud, he was not noble. But he was ambitious and he would do whatever his lord asked, provided it brought him advancement.

‘Saxon outlaws have been reported hiding out in the fens,’ De Warenne told him. ‘We need good intelligence as to their number and strength. Any threat to our King’s rule must be eliminated.’

A spy. Ignoring the sudden griping in his belly, reminding himself of that knighthood that had been his goal for more years than he could count, Wulf straightened his shoulders. ‘What is it you would have me do, my lord?’

‘You must pose as Saxon. It should prove easy enough—you speak the language like a native.’

‘I am a native,’ Wulf said softly, ‘at least, half of me is.’

‘Ah, yes, your mother, I recall. You were brought up not far from here, were you not?’

‘Aye, in Southwark.’

De Warenne’s gaze sharpened. ‘The Godwinesons had a hall in Southwark.’

‘I know it well, or I did.’

De Warenne reached for his wine. ‘Not a plank standing,’ he said, oblivious that his words evoked yet more conflicting feelings in Wulf’s chest.

Wulf remembered playing in that hall as a young boy. He had even met King Harold long ago, when Harold had been but a young earl. And this man, this man sitting at the trestle in the new king’s barracks with the map of Harold Godwineson’s kingdom unrolled before him, now held title to a large slice of Harold’s lands around Lewes. Lord, Wulf thought, how the wheels do turn.

‘So, FitzRobert,’ De Warenne was saying, ‘these Saxon rebels—you are to track them to their lair in these marshes. Infiltrate their band. Our sources speak of a leader known as Thane Guthlac. An outlaw now, of course, as are those who ally themselves with him. Word has it that this Guthlac has built up a sizeable force, but so far none of our men have managed to come back with precise numbers.’ Wearily, his seigneur scrubbed his cheeks. ‘Nor can we pinpoint the location of his camp. Which is damned odd, since one of my scouts reported hearing a rumour that the man had built a castle out there.’

Wulf’s brows rose. ‘A castle in the fens? That seems unlikely.’

‘Nevertheless, that is the rumour.’ De Warenne took up the wine jug and filled a couple of glasses. Taking one, he slid the other towards Wulf. ‘Take a seat, Captain, we still have to discuss the question of your name. I hardly think that FitzRobert is suited to a Saxon.’

Wulf groped for the bench, trying to will away the knot that was forming in his belly. Finally he was being offered the chance that he had longed for, but where was the elation, the triumph that he had expected to feel? ‘I am to be a spy.’

‘Locate Thane Guthlac’s encampment. Worm your way inside, we need to know how much of a threat they pose. It could be that there are just a few stragglers hiding out with him—we have no idea and we must know. Now, about your name—’

‘I could use my other name, my lord.’

‘Other name?’

‘Saewulf Brader.’

For a moment his lord gazed blankly at him, before understanding lit his eyes. ‘Oh, I take it Brader was your mother’s name? You used it before your father had you brought to Normandy?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Saewulf Brader,’ De Warenne repeated, slowly examining Wulf’s features. ‘Yes, that will do, it has an authentic ring to it. Don’t bother to get your hair cut either, it will help you look the part. And, if I were you, I might consider growing a beard. Damned hairy, these Saxons.’

Wulf took a sip of the wine. It was rich and sweet, smoother by far than that served lower down the hall. ‘No, my lord, I do not think a beard is for me, I have grown accustomed to the Norman fashion.’

De Warenne raised a brow. ‘You will raise their suspicions.’

Wulf grinned. ‘I could say I ran into some Normans and cut my beard off to disguise myself.’

‘Suit yourself. I leave the details to you.’ De Warenne met Wulf’s gaze directly. ‘Do a good job, Captain, and I won’t forget. There will be preferment for you.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ Understanding that he was being dismissed, Wulf rose. ‘When do you want me to leave?’

‘As soon as you can. Oh, and one thing more …’

‘My lord?’

‘You have a horse?’

‘Aye.’ Not that his lord would call his poor Melody a horse; Wulf was a long way from affording a knight’s destrier. One day, perhaps …

‘You will have to leave him behind.’

Wulf nodded. A horse might also raise suspicions, since Saxons did not use them as much as Normans. But, in any case, from what Wulf had heard, horses and fenland did not sound compatible.

‘Put him in the stables here in the charge of my groom. I’ll see he knows to take care of him.’ De Warenne picked up a pouch and lobbed it towards him. ‘Here, this will help buy anything you might need.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

Tossing back his wine, Wulf turned to go. His mind was spinning. Finally, he was being given the chance that he burned for! He would not have chosen to spy on his former countrymen—in truth, his commission was far from pleasant. Some might call it a dirty task. Certainly it was not a task for a noble Norman. And this was, of course, exactly why it had been given to him. De Warenne and the Count of Médavy could flatter him all they wished by referring to his aptitude, to his fluency in English, to the length of his hair, but Wulf knew the real reason he had been chosen.

Wulf was not noble, Wulf was not even legitimate, Wulf was a bastard. A bastard of a commission for a bastard of a man. That had been the unspoken undercurrent in the entire discussion. No highborn knight would even consider such a commission.

Reaching the weapon stack by the door, Wulf picked his sword out of the pile and stood for a moment staring at it. It was a plain sword. With its wooden scabbard and its hilt bound in cowhide, it was the sword of a plain man. It might have a keen edge and Wulf might be able to wield it as well as any knight, but he had no noble family to sponsor him. And there, too, was another reason the Lord of Lewes had selected him to go to the fens. If by chance Wulf were killed, there would be no aristocratic friends calling for vengeance, there would be no noblewomen weeping at his graveside.

Rolling powerful shoulders, Wulf shrugged off his dark thoughts and buckled on his sword. He glanced around the huge hall filled with King William’s soldiers. He could not afford to be churlish, not when he was being given his chance. He might not choose to spend the winter in the fens, but the sooner he was gone, the sooner he might return. So, distasteful though this commission might be, he would do his best. As he saw it, those rebels, outlaws, call them what you will, were fighting a lost cause, and the sooner they came to realise that, the sooner the bloodshed could end. The sooner England could be at peace.

If there was one thing that Wulf had learned from his liege lord, it was that peace was not something that happened by chance. No, in the winter of 1067, peace had to be made. And if Wulf could play his part in bringing about that peace, and at the same time earn preferment for himself, then so much the better …


Chapter Two






East Anglian Fens—January 1068



Even when clad in green homespun and a simple matching veil, Erica of Whitecliffe presented a queenly figure. Night had fallen, and she was sitting by the fire in the rough reed-thatched shelter that was her latest refuge. Someone had actually found a chair for her. Incongruously it reminded Erica of a throne, and she was able to prop her chin on her hand and stare into the flames. Ranged about her on stools and benches, hugging close to the hearth, were the men she had chosen as her personal escort.

Ailric, his fair hair tied out of the way with a leather thong, was bent over his sword, sharpening it, and the gentle rasp of a whetstone on steel formed a backdrop to her thoughts, thoughts which went back and forth as she struggled to find a way out of their predicament. Morcar’s cough—it was worsening—brought a worried frown to her brow.



Outside the cottage the temperature had plummeted. And it was going to get worse, of that Erica was certain. It was early January; the coldest weather might yet be round the corner.

She was in exile, they were all in exile. And they could not live like this much longer, as that persistent cough was reminding her.

When they had fled her father’s hall at Whitecliffe in the south, Erica had prayed it would be a temporary exile, and that soon they would be home again with the world set to rights. But her father was dead and her people divided. Some had insisted on remaining with her while others, almost a hundred warriors, had taken refuge elsewhere in the marshes. When there was the slightest chance of harrying the Normans, the warriors took it. She longed for them to be together once more; she worried about the wives and children left behind in Whitecliffe.

Morcar, one of her father’s oldest housecarls, smothered another cough. She held down a sigh. Morcar was too old to be living the life of an outlaw, his chest was weakening. And there was Hrolf, with that leg wound that refused to heal—Hrolf needed good food which she could not give him, and rest and … Daily, Erica prayed to return home. This was no place to live, this was no life. But William of Normandy had fast hold of southern England and was not to be ousted, it would seem.

What could she do?

‘The bloodfeud with Thane Guthlac must end,’ she said and braced herself for the inevitable barrage of objections.

The whetstone stilled and Ailric spoke up. ‘My lady, you are not serious?’



‘I have never been more so.’

Ailric’s brow furrowed and the moment he set his sword aside, Erica knew she was in for an argument.

‘Ailric, look at us. We need to pool our resources with others, we need allies. Our very survival is at stake.’

‘The bloodfeud will never end,’ Ailric said. ‘It is a matter of honour and—’

‘The bloodfeud must end.’

‘There are other ways.’

‘No, Ailric, you are wrong! We ran out of choices months ago, but were too blind to see it. The bloodfeud with Guthlac must end. I have made my decision.’ Erica clenched her fists and stared fiercely round the ring of bearded faces that gleamed in the firelight. Her father’s housecarls were loyal, and it went without saying that they would sacrifice their lives for her. As they would have done for her father, had he not died at Hastings. But loyalty had never prevented them from disagreeing with her. Unfortunately.

The fire guttered and an icy draught cut through Erica’s cloak while she marshalled her arguments. There were dozens of cracks in the slipshod planking and the fenland wind knew its way into every one of them. Suppressing a shiver lest it be mistaken for weakness—and she would die before one of them thought her weak— Erica dragged her cloak more firmly about her shoulders and drew in a deep breath. Loyal her father’s housecarls might be, but that would not put an end to their dissent. She was, after all, a woman, and some of them had difficulty taking orders, even from her. And in the matter of the bloodfeud they were stubborn as mules.

‘I am sorry, Ailric.’ Erica made her voice hard, trying for that tone that her father had used when he would brook no contradiction. ‘But I disagree most strongly. What can we few do from here?’ A wave of her hand encompassed not only her personal guard, but also the cruck-framed cottage, pitifully small and stark compared to the luxuries of Whitecliffe Hall. ‘On our own we are as nothing, we are but a candle in the wind, we need allies.’

Scowling, Ailric hooked his thumbs round his swordbelt and tossed his blond head; Hereward shifted on his bench and opened his mouth. Erica silenced them with a look.

‘We are nothing,’ she repeated, frowning through the smoke. ‘Think, all of you. Here we have, what, a couple of warriors young enough to be worthy of the name? Hereward, Ailric, yes, you I count as warriors.’ She softened her voice before directing her gaze at two of the older faces round the fire. Men with greying hair and scarred, weather-beaten faces, men in their late forties, men who were weak with old age and infirmity. ‘But it is time to face reality. Morcar, Siward, you are fine warriors, both of you, but age is no longer on your side. Luck was with you at Hastings, and you know it.’

Siward’s grizzled head shook as Erica had known it would. But Morcar simply stroked his beard and lowered his eyes to the leaping flames, misery in his every line. Erica had also noticed the difficulty Morcar had had hoisting himself in and out of the boat as he patrolled the waterways.

‘These marshes are not good for a man with stiffness in his joints,’ she murmured.

Morcar coloured and muttered into his beard, and that told Erica all she needed to know. Morcar had had enough. Time was when Morcar would have leaped to his feet to deny the slightest weakness, but now, in this bitter fenland winter, he sat by the fire like an old man, muttering about the damp getting into his bones, trying not to cough. At night, they listened to him wheezing in his sleep. Morcar was an old man, she realised with a jolt. And if she did not try to protect him, Erica did not know who would.

‘If we are to mount a decent campaign against those who took King Harold’s throne, we must link up with our warriors and join forces with other Saxons. If we do not …’ Erica lifted her shoulders. She did not have to finish the sentence, every man around this fire understood what she was saying. They needed allies, if they were to stand a chance of success. But Erica realised it was worse than that, they needed allies, if they were to survive.

Ailric nodded tersely at Hereward, who jumped to his feet. ‘Lady Erica,’ Hereward said, dignifying her with the title that was her due as the only child of a thane. ‘Lady Erica, none of us would argue with your plan to join forces with others against the Norman bastard. But Guthlac …’ Hereward’s face distorted and he spat, most eloquently, into the fire before thumping back onto the bench. Some of the fierceness left his expression as he sent her a sad smile. ‘This outlaw’s life is not for women, my lady. It has addled your brain.’ He shook his head and his temple-braids swung with the movement as Erica struggled to muster the tart response that was necessary. Hereward’s lip curled. ‘Treat with Guthlac? If your father had caught wind of such a suggestion, he would have had you in the stocks.’



‘On the contrary, my father would have agreed with me. Thane Eric was a warrior, but he was also a practical man. Divided, we Saxons stand little chance of overcoming the Normans. And with our warband depleted and our best warriors deep in hiding …’ She shook her head. ‘Hereward, we need Thane Guthlac. He is the only Saxon with a half-decent force in this area, and if he accepts us as allies, then I can recall the warband and at the least our household will be reunited.’ Erica transferred her gaze to the housecarl who, in better times, her father had thought to see her wed. ‘Ailric, you said in your last report that you had located Thane Guthlac’s camp, that he, too, has taken refuge in East Anglia.’

‘Yes, my lady. Guthlac has kept his warband together and his encampment …’ His voice trailed off.

‘What of it? Where is it?’

Ailric shrugged and a brooch at his shoulder gleamed gold in the firelight. ‘It is not so much an encampment, but a castle.’

A ripple of surprise went round some of the men. Erica, too, was startled. Whoever had heard of anyone building a castle in this watery world? But Ailric was nodding.

‘A castle, my lady. Oh, to be sure it is a wooden one, it is not built in stone, but it is imposing none the less. Guthlac has had it thrown up on one of the larger islands; there is a palisade, and even a mound, and the main hall is built on that. From the distance you would think it a tower, a wooden tower.’

Erica’s forehead puckered as she struggled to imagine it. ‘In the Norman style?’

‘Very like. It resembles the ones that William of Normandy built in London and Winchester, before he brought in his Frankish stonemasons.’

‘And Guthlac has used wood throughout?’

‘Aye. It is …’ Ailric’s eyes lost focus as he recalled the details. ‘It is as well built as any I have seen. The palisade looks impenetrable and there are walkways and sentry posts around the tower. It dominates the marshes for miles around.’

Hereward grunted. ‘Guthlac always was a prideful fool, to draw attention to himself by such means. Soon every Norman in East Anglia will discover its location. Ailric tells me that by night the place blazes with more lights than King Harold’s palace at Bosham ever did.’ The housecarl gave Erica a straight look. ‘You cannot mean that we should ally ourselves with such as he?’

‘Indeed I do.’ Erica stiffened her spine. ‘Guthlac is our only hope.’ She made herself smile at Ailric, and prayed that he would not sense the doubts in her. ‘Ailric, you will accompany me, tomorrow at dawn. You will take me to Guthlac’s…castle, where we will discuss the terms of an alliance.’

An appalled silence filled the cottage. It was broken only by the popping of willow logs on the fire and the wind combing the reeds outside. And then Hereward and Siward bounced to their feet, the young housecarl and the old, united in their horror at what she was proposing.

‘Tomorrow? No, my lady!’ This from Hereward.

‘Lady, no, you cannot forget the feud!’ This from Siward. His gnarled hand had gone straight to his sword hilt.

Rising to move round the fire, Erica put her hand on Siward’s and gently peeled it from his sword. ‘The time has come for us to put it to rest.’

‘But, my lady!’ Hereward was practically spluttering into his beard with outrage. ‘The feud is as old as I, older! It was old in my father’s time.’ Glaring at Erica, his eyes were hard and indignant. ‘You cannot simply dance into Guthlac’s lair and expect such a feud to be ended. I told you,’ he muttered in Siward’s direction, ‘that to pass Thane Eric’s authority on to his daughter was a mistake. The woman does not live who understands the sacred nature of a bloodfeud.’

‘Sacred? Enough!’ Erica made a chopping motion with her hand. Her jaw was as set as the jaw of the young man quivering in front of her, her determination was as grim. It had to be, for this, she was convinced, was the only way forwards. She drew herself up to her full height. ‘Hereward, you forget yourself. I know full well the import of the bloodfeud—have I not grown up with it? Did I not lose my cousin to it? I will not waste breath discussing the futility of his death to a fellow Saxon on the very eve of the Norman invasion. I know how you men…’ she looked into each and every silent face around the fire and poured scorn into her voice ‘…do value this…squabble. And squabble it is, however you might choose to glorify it. You say it is a matter of honour. Honour? I call it pathetic. One of Guthlac’s men slighted one of ours, and in revenge one of our men slighted one of their women, on and on and on it goes. Why, this feud stretches back in time so far—’

‘Theirs was the first slight,’ Siward said confidently.

Erica looked coldly at him. ‘Was it? You were there yourself, were you?’



‘We…ell, no, my lady, not exactly, but I do remember Maccus telling me that Hrothgar’s father—’

‘Siward, be silent! This feud between Guthlac’s family and mine has run for generations. Be honest, no man living can remember the original slight.’

Solveig, Erica’s maid and companion, and the only other woman in their camp, stepped quietly out of the shadows. ‘I was told that some years back it re-ignited when Waltheof despoiled Guthlac’s mother.’

Erica drew her head back. That she had not heard, but it could not be true—surely someone would have said something to her, if such a dreadful thing had indeed happened. ‘No, no.’ There was no one here who might testify to the truth. A distant relation of Erica’s, Waltheof had been killed at Hastings alongside her father.

Solveig’s soft voice continued. ‘Whatever the original cause of the feud, my lady, if such a thing did happen to Thane Guthlac’s mother, Thane Guthlac would have little reason to love you.’

Ailric took Erica’s hand. ‘Solveig is in the right. Erica, if you walk into that…that den—I cannot allow it.’

The wind rattled the reeds outside. Erica looked down her nose at the man she might have married and slowly withdrew her fingers from his clasp. If she was to have her way in this, she must draw on her authority. And she must have her way on this, if they were to survive. ‘You cannot allow it? Ailric, who are you to command me?’

Again, Ailric reached for her hand, but she twitched it away, hiding it in her skirts. ‘Erica, think.’ His voice cracked. ‘Do not make me do this. It is not what your father would have wished.’



Turning her back on him, Erica stared into the heart of the fire where the bright flames flickered like pennons. Her skin was icy—why could she not feel the heat? ‘Ailric, you forget yourself,’ she murmured, for his ears alone. ‘I am not your betrothed for you to command me in this manner, I am not your chattel.’ Putting strength in her voice, she lifted her head to address the entire company. ‘My mind is fixed. Tomorrow at first light, we go to treat with Thane Guthlac.

‘Remember, Guthlac Stigandson is himself a survivor. Like us he is Saxon. Even Thane Guthlac cannot but see the sense in our two parties uniting. Together we will overcome these invaders, our Norman enemies. I declare that the feud between my family and Thane Guthlac’s,’ she said, ensuring she caught Siward’s eye, ‘is ended. And I will personally geld the man who resurrects it.’


Chapter Three






Thane Guthlac’s hall door slammed and the ashes on the clay hearth shifted in the sudden draught. Wulf shivered. A faint light was showing through the crack at the bottom of the door. Dawn. And, since his report for De Warenne’s man was ready, it was the last he would see in this hall. Come noon, he would be gone from here, thank God.

Wulf’s pallet, as one of Guthlac Stigandson’s rawest recruits, had been unforgiving, and his every limb creaked. He might as well have slept on the bare boards. Suppressing a groan, he flung back the cloak he had been using as a blanket and sat up. He had barely slept, partly owing to his position at the draughty end of the hall, and partly because being a spy made for an uneasy night. He glanced regretfully at the dead fire. He would have preferred warmth while he had tossed and turned all night and dreamed…ah…impossible dreams…

Dreams that warded off memories of his half-sister, Marie. Dreams that gave him a position in society, when slights to his family would no longer go unpunished. Dreams of being knighted and of owning a plot of land for which he could do knight service to his lord openly and above-board, instead of having to meet men and smile and talk with them and know that, one day soon, he might have to betray them. He had even dreamed of a lady who stood tall and proud at his side…hah! There was no room for a woman in his life. What fools we are in the middle of the night, Wulf thought, what dreams we dream to block out reality.

While he eased his broad shoulders, working the stiffness from his muscles, it occurred to Wulf that it mattered not whether one sided with Normans or Saxons—in both camps raw recruits invariably got a rough deal. That mattress—Lord.

He groped for his boots. It was a bitter morning; even inside the hall amid so many sleeping men, his breath made smoke. Grimacing, Wulf tossed his hair out of his face; it was not getting any shorter, but neither was it long enough to tie back—in fact, it was a damned nuisance. He wished he could shave, too, but that would have to wait until later. De Warenne had been in the right, his lack of beard had been a point of concern when he had first arrived at the castle. A visit to the barber would definitely not have helped. Wulf had been accepted as a rebel purely on account of his childhood links with Southwark. It was his good fortune that Guthlac Stigandson himself remembered him from those days.

Taking up his sword and belt, Wulf moved lightly to the door so as not to disturb anyone fortunate enough to have bagged a softer pallet. The oak door was heavy. Pushing through, he went out onto the platform. The torches on either side of the entrance were guttering, sending up an evil black smoke that the wind whisked away.

Here, where the platform girdled the tower, there was a commanding view of the fens. In full daylight one could see a broad expanse of water—water that at this point was large and wide enough to be known as ‘the lake’. The lake was surrounded by low-lying land on all sides, but in this dull pre-dawn light visibility was poor, the colour leached out of everything.

Wulf remembered his first sight of Guthlac’s castle as it reared out of the mist. Its sheer size meant that he was bound to stumble across it sooner or later, for the wooden tower and its motte dwarfed the local alder and ash trees. Guthlac might well have fled to the fens from the south, but not even his worst enemy could accuse him of skulking.

A water-butt stood on the walkway immediately outside the main door. As the door latch clicked shut behind him, Wulf found he had not quite shaken off the melancholy that had gripped him from the moment Marie had entered his thoughts. Two years his senior, his half-sister would have been twenty-four had she lived. And her child—Wulf’s heart squeezed—her child would have been nine.

Wulf thrust aside the image of Marie; he must not think of her. Lifting the lid of the water-butt, he splashed his face, hissing through his teeth as the icy water hit him. He washed quickly and dried his face on his sleeve. The wind scoured his cheeks. Thank God he was leaving today.

The marshes were still shrouded in gloom, but by the bank beyond the palisade he could make out a thin skin of ice at the base of the reeds. Guthlac’s island was fringed with many such reeds. Wulf had made a point of memorising the lie of the land for miles around; it would be of great interest to De Warenne. Farther out, the water was black, shiny and apparently fathomless.

And there, over in the east, a glow—the glow that heralded dawn. Uneasy for no reason he could put a finger on, unless remembering what had happened to Marie had left him out of sorts, Wulf ran a hand round the back of his neck. No, that glow could not be the dawn; that was not the east. That glow…he frowned…it was in the west.

Attention sharpening, Wulf reached for his swordbelt, buckled it on, and was off down the walkway, boots ringing loud on the boards. Had the sentries seen? Until he left here, he must be careful to act his part; he must behave precisely as Guthlac and his rebels would expect him to behave.

With a start, the man on watch dozing over his bow snapped upright. ‘Sir!’ Beorn, if Wulf remembered his name aright. He had long flaxen hair and he eyed Wulf uncertainly, doubtless wondering if he was to be reprimanded for sleeping at his post.

Wulf pointed out across the fen. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

Beorn stared, frowned, and went pale. ‘God in Heaven, a boat!’

Wulf’s brow furrowed, too. As the darkness lifted, the boat slid closer. A yellow light shone in the prow, the light that moments ago Wulf had mistaken for the rising sun. He shook his head, glancing askance at the sky, a sky that had been determinedly leaden ever since he had arrived in East Anglia. As if the sun would actually shine in this place. This was the fens, a low, flat land where everything was grey and wet and cold and—an icy gust bit into his neck—no doubt snow would soon add to their joys. God grant that once he had delivered his report, De Warenne, who might yet be in Westminster, would have him despatched to London or Lewes, to anywhere but here.

Beorn bit his lip. ‘I…I am sorry, sir. I…I will raise the alarm.’

‘Do that—I shall stand in for you here.’

‘My thanks.’ Beorn clattered down the walkway, clearly happy to escape a reprimand. Wulf’s nostrils flared. The man had to be thinking that Thane Guthlac’s new housecarl was a walkover, but he didn’t give a damn what he thought. Wulf was not going to be among these rebels long enough for discipline to become a problem. Come sunset, he would be gone.

The door slammed.

While Wulf waited for the uproar that he would bet his sword was about to ensue, he watched the oars of the approaching boat lift and fall, lift and fall. His eyes narrowed. It was a small craft and it contained two…no, three, people. One of them looked to be female; she wore a russet cloak. Curious, wondering if he had seen this woman elsewhere on the waterways, Wulf strained to make out the colour of her hair. But the woman had her hood up and her hair was hidden. She sat perfectly still, hugging her cloak against the January chill. No great threat there, surely? They might be pedlars working the waterways, though Wulf could not see anything that resembled stock in the bottom of their boat: no barrels, no crates, no bundles of merchandise wrapped in sailcloth.

As the boat glided ever closer, an unnatural quiet held the fen. There was no honking of geese, no men shouting, there was not even the sound of the oars creaking in the rowlocks.

Abruptly, the hall door bounced back on its hinges and Guthlac Stigandson erupted onto the platform. ‘Maldred! Maldred!’ The outlaw wrenched his belly into his swordbelt. ‘My helm, boy, and look sharp!’ Guthlac’s hair was straggling free of its ties, hanging in grey rats’ tails, his beard was uncombed and he was so exercised by this intrusion into his territory that his mottled cheeks were turning purple.

Maldred ran up. Guthlac snatched his helm and slapped it on his head. He stomped up to Wulf at the sentry post, golden arm-rings rattling. ‘Saewulf? Report, man.’

Wulf waved in the direction of the small craft. ‘It is as Beorn has no doubt told you. One boat only, my lord, three passengers, I doubt they present much of a threat.’

Hrothgar, Guthlac’s right-hand man, was peering over Guthlac’s broad shoulders. Other housecarls crowded behind.

Guthlac elbowed Hrothgar in the ribs. ‘Let me breathe, man.’

‘My lord.’ Hrothgar stepped back, waving to clear a space. His bracelets gleamed in the morning light, valuable gold bracelets that showed he was his lord’s most favoured housecarl.

Guthlac’s battle-scarred hands grasped the handrail as he scowled down at the water beyond the palisade. ‘They must be Saxon,’ he muttered. ‘No Norman would dare to venture this far into the fens.’

Wulf’s stomach tightened, but he kept his expression neutral.

‘A woman, eh?’ Guthlac’s eyebrows rose.

At that moment the breeze strengthened and something fluttered in the stern of the boat. A pennon. Guthlac stiffened. ‘That flag, Saewulf…’ he frowned, peering in such a way that Wulf realised the outlaw’s eyes were not as keen as his ‘…can you make out the colours, does it bear a device?’

‘No device, my lord. There’s a blue band above a white ground with green below.’

Guthlac’s fingers tightened on the handrail. ‘A white ground, you are certain? Is the green straight edged?’

Wulf narrowed his eyes and the pennon lifted in the breeze. The green band met the white ground with a jagged edge. ‘No, my lord, it is dancetty.’

Eyes suddenly intense, delight spreading across his face, Guthlac struck the rail with his fist. ‘At last, I have her! At least I hope to God I have her… Tell me, is the woman fair or dark?’

Both the question and the febrile excitement struck a jarring note. The little boat was close to the jetty, so close that it was drifting out of their line of sight behind the palisade. ‘I couldn’t swear, my lord, she has her hood up.’

A grin that was as much grimace as it was grin was spreading across Guthlac’s face. Wulf felt a distinct prickle of unease.

‘It is her. She has come crawling at last! I knew this moment would come when Hrothgar told me one of her men had been sighted in Ely.’



Wulf stared at Guthlac, and wondered why his dead half-sister Marie had chosen this day of all days to walk in and out of his mind. He also wondered why cold sweat was trickling down his back. ‘Her?’ His sense of unease was growing by the second. The sooner he was out of here, the better.

‘Eric’s daughter—it must be Lady Erica of Whitecliffe!’

Whirling round, Guthlac elbowed through his housecarls and stormed down the stairway to the bailey, tossing orders as he went. ‘Beorn!’

‘My lord?’

‘Have them lift the portcullis when they have disembarked.’

‘They are to enter, sir?’ Beorn’s voice was more than startled, it was stunned.

‘Certainly.’ Thane Guthlac’s harsh voice floated back to Wulf, still motionless by the sentry post. ‘The woman at least.’ There was a brief pause as Guthlac leaped the last few steps into the bailey. ‘And her men, too, provided they disarm.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Moments later, Wulf stood alone at the watchpoint, frowning. Lady Erica of Whitecliffe? Who the devil was Lady Erica of Whitecliffe?

And then it came to him. Of course! The bloodfeud, the damn bloodfeud.

Wulf had only been in Guthlac’s warband for a few days, but already he had heard enough about the bloodfeud to last him a lifetime. For years, Guthlac Stigandson’s men had been hurling insults, and worse, far worse, at the men loyal to another Saxon thane. Both thanes had apparently held land attached to his own lord’s recently acquired holding in the south, near Lewes. The feud had run for generations.

A cold hand clutched Wulf’s gut as he recalled that the last insult had been apparently to Guthlac’s own mother. Some of the men who had talked about the bloodfeud had used the word seduction, others had muttered darkly about rape.

And, Lord, there was Marie’s face again, swimming into focus in front of him, pale as the ghost it was. Her eyes were glassy with tears.

‘Hell,’ Wulf muttered, and before he knew it he was striding down the walkway, gesturing for another man to take his place at the watchpoint.

In the bailey, the chapel stood to one side of the portcullis. It was an unpretentious wooden building with a thatched roof and topped with a reed cross. A reception committee was gathering by the door: Thane Guthlac, Hrothgar, Beorn, Maldred, Swein….

That woman, Wulf thought, recalling the slender figure sitting proud and still in the prow, that poor woman. He shook his head, hoping to hell that Lady Erica of Whitecliffe had something damn good up her sleeve. The way that Thane Guthlac’s face had twisted every time her name had been mentioned…

More cold sweat broke out on his back. He must remain cool. This woman was a total stranger—what was it to him if she got hurt? And if she was indeed Erica of Whitecliffe, then she should know better than to march into her enemy’s stronghold like this, she deserved to get hurt. Wulf could not get involved, particularly since he was on the brink of leaving…



Saints, there was Marie’s face again. Shoving his hand through his hair, Wulf tried to eject his half-sister from his thoughts. He succeeded, but not before it came to him, that if someone had helped Marie when she had needed it, she would still be alive.

‘Hell.’ How in God’s name was he supposed to aid the woman when he was here under false colours himself? He had his commission to think of, he must not disappoint De Warenne.

‘Problem, Saewulf?’ Hrothgar asked, pale eyes watchful.

‘Not at all.’ Wulf forced a smile and reminded himself of the land that he longed for, of the knighthood that he hoped to win. He must not fail now. Tonight he would be away from here—God willing, he would be on the London road.

Maldred and Swein were applying themselves to the windlass. The portcullis creaked, and Lady Erica of Whitecliffe appeared under the arch. Her two companions stationed themselves either side of her. Gowned in purple beneath her russet cloak, she was tall and dignified, composedly nodding her agreement while her companions were divested of their arms. Men in their late twenties, housecarls by the look of them, Saxon warriors who handed their swords over to Maldred without a murmur. But they did not like it; their eyes and their stance betrayed them.

Guthlac Stigandson swept the woman a mocking bow. ‘Greetings, Lady Erica.’

She dipped her head in acknowledgement. ‘Thane Guthlac?’ Her voice was low and even.

‘At your service,’ murmured Guthlac.



Wulf took stock of her. Yes, she was tall, and she had a stately air, and when she flung back the russet hood of her cloak, he bit back a gasp. Close to, with her dark hair gleaming in the growing daylight and with her startling green eyes, Erica of Whitecliffe was beautiful—breathtakingly, radiantly beautiful.

Lady Erica glanced swiftly round the compound, tipping her head back to take in the tower perched on its mound. Her quick eyes ran over the sentry points, the palisade, the outbuildings, and, finally, lingered on the chapel.

While she nodded briefly, unsmiling but polite, at each man in the compound, Wulf was disconcertingly aware that his heartbeat was less than steady. She was his very image of beauty. Not that that signified anything. Although when her eyes met his—they were a particular shade of green, which brought to mind the woods near Honfleur on a sunny spring day—Wulf felt a distinct jolt in his belly. She nodded at him and her gaze moved on, to Hrothgar, Beorn, Maldred. He could see by the sudden stillness that gripped Guthlac and his housecarls that they, too, had been struck by her beauty. And who would not be?

The Lady Erica had pale skin, which was clear and unblemished; her brows and eyelashes were dark; she had a straight nose with a scattering of freckles across it; her lips were red and full and tempting and there was not a wrinkle anywhere, not even around those remarkable eyes. Wulf caught the gleam of gold—her cloak fastening was patterned with interlocking snakes. Two thick dark plaits trailed down to her waist, their ends caught in finely wrought golden fillets.



Thane Eric’s daughter must be about his age, perhaps a little older. If pushed, Wulf would say she had been born at about the same time as his half-sister. Those glossy plaits were black as a crow’s wing. Her carriage was proud and straight, and though that cloak hid her bosom, it could not entirely disguise the full curve of her breasts. Briefly Wulf shut his eyes. Thane Eric’s daughter was beautiful enough to steal any man’s breath. He remembered what had happened to Thane Guthlac’s mother, and he feared, he very much feared, that this woman’s beauty was about to be her downfall. Merde. It was not his business. Particularly since De Warenne was awaiting his report.

The rebel leader was giving her another of his mocking bows. ‘You will take refreshment, my lady?’

Regal as a queen, she inclined her head. ‘My thanks.’

Wulf had scarcely set eyes on the woman, yet even as she picked up her purple skirts and made to precede Guthlac into his hall, he knew, without shadow of a doubt, that she understood that Guthlac Stigandson’s courtesy was false. Oh, yes, she knew. Those bright eyes ran swiftly, searchingly, over Guthlac’s features, those white teeth worried her lower lip for an instant, then she straightened, turned her gaze ahead and calmly continued towards the wooden stairway that led up the mound and into the tower.

‘Saewulf?’

Wulf started. ‘My lord?’

‘See to it her men rest here.’

‘My lord, I…’ Wulf thought quickly. He did not want to be stationed down here by the chapel, not if she was going to face Guthlac on her own—the force of his feelings, akin to desperation, confounded him.



Luckily Thane Eric’s daughter had other ideas. Pausing at a landing halfway up the mound stairway, she rested a slender white hand on the handrail. Bracelets to rival Guthlac’s chinked at her wrist, emphasising her high status. Finger-rings glinted. ‘My men, too,’ she said, voice clear as a bell and every inch her father’s daughter. ‘Ailric and Hereward are more in need of refreshment than I; it was they who sat at the oars.’

Wulf glanced questioningly at Guthlac. ‘My lord?’

Impatiently, Guthlac waved them on. ‘Let them come, Saewulf, they are unarmed.’

Pleasantly surprised at Guthlac’s malleability in the face of his enemy’s request, Wulf motioned for the two housecarls to follow their lady.


Chapter Four






The rebels were eating their evening meal, and Wulf was—much against his better judgement for he should be at the rendezvous with Lucien—still in Guthlac’s hall. He peered through the stinking haze of tallow candles towards the head of the trestle and wished he had been party to the negotiations between Thane Guthlac and the Lady Erica. They had talked from dawn to dusk and it was impossible to tell from their manner how they were progressing. Wulf could hear nothing of note over the clatter of knives and the guffaws and the general babble of conversation. He had to get closer…

Meals in this fenland castle were taken very differently to meals in King William’s barrack-hall at Westminster. Here, no weapon stacks bristled with arms by the walls; instead, men wore their arms to table. They sat with their swords jutting out behind them, an ever-present hazard for servers approaching the benches with dishes and ale jugs. The continual bearing of arms by every able-bodied man in the camp reminded Wulf, if reminder were needed, that he was breaking bread with outlaws. To a man they were poised to jump to arms at a moment’s notice. If they suspected that he served another master, a Norman master, a dozen swords would be at his throat.

‘More ale, Saewulf?’

The lad Maldred was at his elbow, jug in hand. Smiling, Wulf nodded and held out his cup, but his attention never wavered from the top of the table. A sense of unease had sat with him since the morning—and it irked him, because he knew it was not connected with the Saxon outlaws and his commission for De Warenne. Rather, it was centred on Lady Erica.

Wulf should have met De Warenne’s man this afternoon. With every moment he lingered here, the risk of discovery grew. But he could not leave, not yet, because the lady… Merde! Thank God he had thought to arrange a second, fall-back meeting a few days hence. That one he would not miss.

Lady Erica was hemmed in on the one hand by the rebel Guthlac and on the other by Hrothgar. Guthlac’s wife Lady Hilda sat close by, but Wulf had yet to see the two women exchange words with each other. Like the other men, Guthlac and Hrothgar were wearing their arms; indeed, Hrothgar sat so close to Lady Erica that Wulf wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the scabbard of his dagger was digging into her side.

The only men not wearing arms were the lady’s housecarls. They were glowering from a side-table, under guard but uncowed. Their eyes barely left their mistress for a moment, as if by watching her they could protect her. Wulf followed their gaze, even though looking at her made him uneasy. So startling was Lady Erica’s beauty that he found her hard to look on, and he did not wish her to think that he was ogling. Not that any of the outlaws seemed to hold with such scruples; both Hrothgar and Beorn had been openly drooling ever since she had stepped into the bailey.

Her gown was an unusual shade of violet, with silver embroidery at the neck and hem. The silken side lacings were designed to emphasise a figure that was as fine as her features. Lady Erica had a high bosom, a narrow waist, and gently curving hips. That gown, Wulf thought, with that hint of purple, could have been the gown of an empress. Her white silk veil must have been imported from some exotic land in the east, Byzantium most likely. Wulf frowned as he looked at the gold bracelets winking on those slender wrists, at her finger-rings. Purple was worn by royalty; the bracelets and rings were worth a fortune—following Saxon custom, she was wearing her status the same way a man wore armour when he went into battle. In her finery, she looked like a queen.

Just then, the man next to Hrothgar rose and headed for the door that led to the privies. A moment later Wulf had taken his place, nodding to Hrothgar as he eased onto the bench. Better, he thought, much better; at last he might hear something of interest.

The bloodfeud was none of his business, yet Wulf feared for the lady’s well-being. She and Guthlac had been dancing round each other since she had arrived, so why had no conclusion been reached? Guthlac Stigandson did not strike Wulf as a patient man, quite the opposite, in fact. Why, the day before yesterday, Guthlac had had a body-servant beaten to within an inch of his life for laying out the wrong tunic; a serving wench had seen the flat of his hand for accidentally spilling some wine in Lady Hilda’s lap. What was the key point in these drawn-out negotiations?

The rebel leader hated Lady Erica. Wulf could see it in his eyes; he could see it in the over-polite way Guthlac handed her a piece of fish on the end of his knife, apeing the fine manners of a courtier in King William’s palace at Westminster, when all the while his face was set like stone.

So, Wulf thought, swallowing down some ale, why the delay? Why spend hours dancing around the lady and her demands? She wanted her men—outlaws like these, Wulf reminded himself—to enter into an alliance with Thane Guthlac. It made sense in military terms, but Wulf did not think that Guthlac had the first intention of forging an alliance with Erica of Whitecliffe. Guthlac’s eyes glittered with loathing; they were hard as glass in the flare of the torches. He was toying with her and she knew it.

The fish was settling uncomfortably in Wulf’s stomach. Guthlac’s eyes were warning him that the feud between his housecarls and Lady Erica’s was far from dead; the man was biding his time.

And Hrothgar? Eyeing the lady’s bosom. Lord, the entire warband was eyeing her body.

Erica of Whitecliffe leaned forwards and murmured at Guthlac’s wife. Lady Hilda gave a weak smile of acknowledgement, but a sharp look from her husband had her ducking her head to pick at the fish on her trencher.

Wulf’s sense of frustration grew. Thane Guthlac sat like a king at the head of his hall, downing measure after measure of ale, offering the lady yet another portion of fish, of eel. And all the while, Wulf’s indigestion got worse. What the hell was Guthlac waiting for?

Tired of waiting for Guthlac to end the game, tired of wishing his stomach was not in knots and of wishing that William de Warenne had sent him anywhere but to this bleak corner of England, Wulf was glowering into a candle flame when a scraping of stools and benches told him the meal was over.

His stomach cramped. Lady Erica’s face was white as snow and she was staring at Guthlac as though he had sprouted horns. Into the sudden hush, her voice came clear. ‘You cannot mean it.’

Guthlac’s smile was empty. ‘I assure you, I do.’

‘No, my lord, this feuding must end!’

Guthlac thrust his face into hers. ‘Easy for you to say, my dear, since you have been foolish enough to put yourself in this position. But would you have spoken up, I wonder, before my mother was…disparaged?’

Never had Wulf sat through a silence so profound in a hall full of men who had just eaten and drunk their fill. He was not sure he understood what Guthlac was talking about but, dimly recalling the mutterings of rape, he had his suspicions. No one so much as breathed.

One of the lady’s men lurched towards her, desperation in his eyes as his hand went to the hilt of his sword—the sword that was not there because he had been disarmed.

The lady held him back with a calm, ‘Ailric, no.’

‘But, my lady,’ her housecarl protested as, at Guthlac’s nod, two men leaped to restrain him, ‘he means you harm!’



‘Ailric, be still.’

‘Ailric?’ Guthlac Stigandson looked with calculating curiosity at the lady. ‘This man means something to you?’

Ailric strained against his captors. ‘I should hope that I do, Thane Eric said I was to marry Lady Erica before…before…’

‘Before the Norman bastard came and killed him?’

‘Aye!’

A slender, beringed hand came to rest on the outlaw’s sleeve. ‘Thane Guthlac, the feud must end.’

Guthlac ground his teeth, and got heavily to his feet. ‘No, my lady, not yet. The bloodfeud is a matter of honour. Its continuance is as vital to me as the duty a thane owes to his liege lord. Know this: your father was my sworn enemy in the matter of the feud between our families. But he and I fought shoulder to shoulder for Harold at Hastings. And though Thane Eric was my enemy, I honour him. He died an honourable death, fighting for his king.’

‘Then surely, my lord—’ Lady Erica’s steady voice carried clearly to every corner of the hall, a hall that to Wulf’s mind was filled with an increasingly ugly air of expectancy ‘—you could find it in your heart to end this bloodfeud? You honour my father as a warrior, and I know he honoured you in the same way, but—’

‘Silence!’ Guthlac’s fists clenched. He turned to face his wife. ‘And you, woman…’

Lady Hilda’s lips tightened, but she answered meekly, ‘My lord?’

Guthlac jerked his head in the direction of the door. ‘Out! I will see you later, when this business is concluded. Wait for me in our chamber.’



‘Yes, my lord.’

The atmosphere was thick with tension, and was almost suffocating. Wulf’s skin crawled. Whatever Guthlac had planned for this Saxon lady, he doubted she was ready for it. At the edge of his vision, Hrothgar wound his fingers round his swordhilt, bracelets flashing in the candlelight.

Lady Hilda pushed back her stool, dropped a quick curtsy at her lord, and sent Erica of Whitecliffe a pitying look. Waving for her ladies, she scurried with them from the hall.

Guthlac stared coldly at Erica of Whitecliffe, now the only woman present. Gripping her by the arm, he hauled her to her feet. His words were slightly slurred from all the ale. ‘So, daughter of Eric, you are to make reparation for the slight your family did to mine.’

Lady Erica stood, slim and straight as a wand next to Guthlac’s solid bulk. She tossed her white veil out of the way, a veil of so fine a weave that her dark braids were visible beneath the fluttering silk. Her cheeks were pale, her expression composed, but the hem of that veil was trembling. Her composure was a mask; she knew what was likely to happen to her. The bile rose in Wulf’s throat.

‘I will do it,’ Hrothgar said, getting up to seize the lady’s other arm. His mouth twisted. ‘Seeing as you are a married man, my lord.’

One man made a lewd remark. Another spluttered into his ale.

‘My lord!’ Wulf scrambled to his feet. He was not certain, but he feared that the Lady Erica was about to face the same fate as his sister. With his commission, the last thing he needed to do was to draw attention to himself, but he could not stand by and let this happen. ‘You cannot sanction this…it…it would be rape!’

Great green eyes fixed on him, wide and startled— Wulf felt their impact in his core. Then Lady Erica seemed to draw calmness about her person like a cloak and her features went blank. It was as though she had somehow absented herself from the hall.

‘Rape?’ Guthlac Stigandson was shaking his head and several around the board murmured their agreement. ‘Not rape, but reparation, Brader, reparation. Since you have not been long of our number and are unfamiliar with this feud, I will explain. If one of my men disparages Thane Eric’s daughter, then our honour will be satisfied. In view of what was done to my beloved mother, such an act is not rape, it is merely reparation.’

Wulf edged his sword free of its sheath. Hrothgar was watching him like a hawk. ‘No, my lord.’ For his part, Wulf did not take his eyes from Guthlac. Wulf did not want a fight, not here, not over this woman, but in memory of his poor sister, he could not see her hurt. ‘Call it what you like, but if a woman is bedded against her will, it is rape.’

Lady Erica’s bosom heaved. ‘I think, sir, I would be willing—’ her tone was distant, her sang-froid astonishing ‘—if I knew for certain it would finally put an end to the bloodfeud. That is why I am here, to end the bloodfeud.’

Appalled, Wulf stared. She was obviously personally innocent of any wrongdoing and yet she could accept such barbarism? The man she had called Ailric could not; on the other side of the trestle, the veins were bulging in his temples as he struggled vainly to wrench free of his guards. The lady looked directly at Wulf, but her green eyes had lost their luster; they were dull as they had not been when she had first walked, head high, through that portcullis. The Lady Erica’s body might be here in this hall, but her mind and her soul had fled. It came to Wulf that already, though hardly a finger had been laid upon her, this woman was being scarred by what was happening.

But surprised?

Wulf gritted his teeth. No, the lady had definitely not been ignorant of the revenge that the Saxon leader might demand, she had known. Oh, she could not have been certain of the revenge Guthlac would exact on her, but she had recognised that her ravishment was a distinct possibility.

She had hoped, perhaps, that Guthlac Stigandson would relent, but she had known the possibilities and—with stunning bravery—she had walked into this stronghold fully prepared to offer herself up so that the bloodfeud might end. She was desperate, so trapped she was prepared to be the sacrificial lamb.

Stepping carefully round her, Wulf looked directly at Guthlac. The man’s gaze was as cold as fenwater. ‘My lord, I realise I am but a newcomer here, but I am bound to say that, however you dress it, this is not an honourable act.’

Hrothgar’s lips curled. ‘Woman.’

Wulf was not about to be distracted by such a crude attempt to draw his fire. ‘My lord?’

Guthlac sighed. Now that his wife and her ladies had left the hall, some of the tension seemed to have left him. Perhaps all was not lost. Was it possible that the man possessed a shred of decency? Had he been ashamed to sanction such an act before his wife? Guthlac wanted his revenge, to be sure, but perhaps on one level he did not have the stomach for it. He had openly admitted to a grudging respect for the lady’s father…and yet, as leader, he could not back down without impugning his honour.

The leader of a warband would not want to lose face before his men. And Wulf recalled that it had been Guthlac’s mother who had apparently been—what was the term they had used?—disparaged. Had she really been raped? Dear God, did two wrongs make a right?

‘Saewulf Brader…’ Guthlac released Lady Erica to Hrothgar and reached for his ale ‘…as you have not been long of our number, I shall once again overlook your questioning me. But let me assure you, the feud between Thane Eric’s family and mine is an honourable one. Why, even a man born by the docks in Southwark as you were, must have heard of such bloodfeuds.’

Wulf nodded. ‘Indeed, my lord, but surely the honour that is satisfied in harming an innocent young woman is a pretty poor sort of honour.’ The image of his sister, pale as she lay on her bier, took form in his mind’s eye. No bloodfeud had caused his sister’s death, that had been an individual act of violence, one person on another, but in Wulf’s mind rape was rape. This woman’s tribe might sanction her sacrifice, but he could not. Lady Erica would not suffer hurt tonight, not if he could help it.

Eyes narrowing, Thane Guthlac raised his ale cup. He drank deep, set the cup down with deliberate slowness and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Aye, boy,’ he said, managing with one word to emphasise his seniority in both rank and age, ‘so you might think. But what say you to the honour that saw one of her father’s housecarls abduct my mother and take her against her will?’

Wulf’s heart thudded as he realised the enormity of what he was up against. ‘One of Thane Eric’s men did violate your mother—it is true, then?’

‘Just so.’ Guthlac’s lips thinned and his voice became soft, but no less dangerous. ‘Her blood cries out for vengeance, so stand back, Saewulf Brader, let honour be satisfied.’

Somehow Lady Erica was keeping her composure. Tall and stately, she stood with lowered eyes and with only that almost imperceptible quivering of her veil to show the agitation that she must be feeling. Wulf ought to step back, De Warenne would wish it—his commission was of the first importance. But Wulf could not do it. The memory of his dead half-sister had kept him in this place when he should have gone hours ago, and now it drove him on. ‘My lord—’

‘He wants her.’ Hrothgar’s mouth became ugly. ‘That is what this is about—Saewulf fancies the girl himself. What’s the matter, Brader, wouldn’t Maude oblige last night? Never mind, boy,’ he sneered. ‘Since we are, as my lord has explained, honourable men, I will fight you for her.’

Wulf’s mouth went dry. He thought quickly. He did not want to fight Hrothgar, but if he did fight and if he won, he might be able to keep the lady safe. He swallowed; he might be one of the rawest of the housecarls in this place, but he had trained shoulder to shoulder with De Warenne’s knights, and his swordplay was strong. Hrothgar had no idea what he was up against. When Wulf had ‘enlisted’ with the rebels, he had naturally been tested in combat, but he had held back, misliking that these men should know his true measure.

Lady Erica waited, apparently meekly between Wulf and Hrothgar, while Hrothgar held fast to her arm. Remember why you are here—Wulf felt the anger rise within him—remember your commission. You shouldnot be drawing attention to yourself. But Wulf could not tear his eyes from the large hand crushing the purple cloth of the lady’s sleeve and he knew that, whatever the cost, he could not see Erica of Whitecliffe ravished as Marie had been. Clenching his fists, he struggled for control. A hot head would not help him here; he must use his anger, not be used by it.

The lady’s head came up and those green eyes fastened on him. There was a slight crease between her brows. Tall Erica of Whitecliffe might be, her height equalled Hrothgar’s, but she only reached Wulf’s shoulder.

Wulf smiled. She did not return his smile, but her eyes ran over him, assessing him as she would a thoroughbred. Wulf felt oddly naked and hoped he was not flushing. Resigning himself to a hard, bloody fight, he was opening his mouth to accept Hrothgar’s challenge, but the lady forestalled him.

‘My lord?’ Erica darted a swift look under her lashes at the tall young warrior who was apparently prepared to risk life and limb to save her from the attentions of Thane Guthlac’s right-hand man. Thane Guthlac had referred to him as Saewulf Brader. He was, as Hrothgar had pointed out, some years Hrothgar’s junior. Why, Saewulf Brader might even be younger than herself. His hair was thick and dark and a deal shorter than most of the men’s, and while he was not exactly clean-shaven, he wore no beard. Perhaps it was the lack of beard that gave him his youthful appearance. Erica was twenty-four years old, and, if put to it, she would judge Saewulf Brader to be a couple of years younger than her.

Her mind raced. His youthfulness would not necessarily be a disadvantage in combat; he was big and solidly built, with strong muscles that showed clearly beneath that worn brown tunic. His hands were oddly at variance with his calling; they were beautifully shaped for a warrior, long fingered and fine-boned but—Erica frowned—no arm-rings jingled at his wrist. Had he won no prizes for his skill at arms? How odd, when a warrior was so strong he usually had any number of arm-rings…

For a moment their eyes met and her heart stuttered. His eyes were blue, bright and clear as the sky above the South Downs at harvest time, and framed by thick dark lashes. Saewulf Brader, Erica thought somewhat breathlessly, was physical perfection. No, not quite perfection; there were shadows under his eyes that hinted of fatigue, there were lines of tension, too…but, that aside, he was physically perfect—the man looked every inch a lady’s champion.

If she could but trust him.

Saewulf was apparently a newcomer to Thane Guthlac’s band and he did not hold with the bloodfeud, but did that mean Erica could rely on him? The lack of arm-rings was a worry, too…maybe he was not as adept as he looked.

‘Lady Erica, you had something you wished to say?’ Guthlac’s tone warned her that he was startled at her interference, but Erica took heart from his continuing use of her title. For even if Thane Guthlac was planning to force her to lie with one of his men as his price for ending the bloodfeud, he was still paying lip-service to the courtesies. Provided she showed herself to be amenable, he would not beat her or force her in that way. A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm her.

Provided she was amenable.

Another stolen glance at Saewulf Brader, a briefer one at Hrothgar, whose fingers were gouging holes in her arm and who had roused an immediate and instinctive loathing in her, and Erica had made up her mind. ‘Might I choose, my lord?’

Thane Guthlac’s brows climbed, and on the benches someone groaned, ‘No, my lord, a fight, give us a fight!’ Other men, loathe to lose what was speedily becoming the best night’s entertainment in years, joined in the chorus. ‘A fight! Give us a fight!’

Wrenching herself free of Hrothgar, Erica clasped her hands at her breast. ‘Please, my lord, let me choose. What sense in permitting two of your finest to wound themselves? We shall need every man in the coming conflict, when we fight as one.’ Beside her, the warrior Saewulf shifted, but he said nothing. The warmth of his body was oddly comforting.

Hrothgar snorted. ‘My skin is not at risk, my lord. This boy is all ambition and no staying power.’

Thane Guthlac exchanged grins with his champion. Ice trickled down Erica’s spine—she was certain her request was about to be denied. ‘My lord,’ she rushed into speech, ‘I do not relish the thought of Saxon blood being spilled on my account. If I agree to your terms, why make them fight? The bloodfeud will have ended, your honour will be satisfied, and your men and mine will have new allies against the Normans.’

‘Who would you choose?’ Thane Guthlac scratched his neck, his tone so casual, so idle, it was nothing less than an insult.

Swallowing down a rush of rage, Erica reached blindly for the brown homespun of Saewulf Brader’s tunic. ‘This one,’ she murmured, praying her instincts were not letting her down. As her fingers curled into the fabric, they closed on hard muscle beneath. ‘I would choose this one.’


Chapter Five






‘He is not nobly born, my lady,’ Hrothgar hissed in her ear.

Erica shrugged. ‘I care not. If I am allowed a choice, I choose this man.’

‘Oh, but it is worse than that, my lady.’ Hrothgar’s lips curled and he shot the young man standing stiffly at Erica’s side a disdainful look. ‘Brader is a bastard.’

Saewulf Brader’s jaw tightened, but he did not refute Hrothgar’s accusation.

It certainly was shocking, in a day when to produce a child out of wedlock was deemed one of the greatest sins a woman could commit. Erica’s breath caught as it struck her that, after tonight, that might be her fate. She sent another prayer winging heavenward that, whatever happened tonight, she must not conceive. And another, that Thane Guthlac would give her to the younger housecarl. Saewulf Brader’s birth was nothing set against her desire, her very strong desire, that she should not be given to Hrothgar.



Dimly, Erica was aware of more muttering down the table, more calls of, ‘Let them fight! A fight!’

She kept her gaze pinned on Guthlac Stigandson. ‘Please, my lord, for the respect you felt for my father, I ask you in acknowledgement of the respect he had for you. Let me choose.’

Her thoughts moved swiftly. And now, she told herself, no more words, lest you begin to beg. For she misliked the look of Thane Guthlac’s right-hand man. Neither in his words nor his manner did Hrothgar appear to be someone who would consider a woman’s feelings. But this other whose tunic she could not seem to release…this younger man who, though low in the pecking order, had spoken up for her. It was little enough to judge a man by, but what else had she to go on? The ridiculous realisation that, even in this hall, on this most hideous of nights, she found Saewulf Brader attractive? Those thickly lashed blue eyes seemed to be the only eyes in the hall to see her, to really see her; his wide shoulders suggested that here was a man strong enough to share her burdens; the fine-boned fingers clenching and unclenching on his swordhilt hinted at a sensitivity she would not have looked for in a warrior loyal to Thane Guthlac.

She must be losing her wits. For even in the midst of her humiliation, she found herself drawn to this Saewulf Brader.

Thane Guthlac was stroking his beard, making much of coming to a decision. Erica swallowed down a bitter taste. She was only too conscious of the men on the benches holding their breath, awaiting his judgement. Her fate, the question of whether she was to be given to Thane Guthlac’s champion or his rawest recruit, was little more to most of them than an evening’s entertainment. A minstrel or a dancing girl would have been received with like interest and with as little concern.

Biting back a tart response, Erica gripped Saewulf Brader’s brown homespun for all she was worth. She lowered her gaze, for, if Guthlac Stigandson saw the anger that must be burning in her eyes, he would surely give her to Hrothgar. She wanted to fly at her father’s old enemy, kicking and screaming; she wanted to turn tail and run. But one thing weighed more than her anger at Thane Guthlac—her determination that Morcar, Hrolf and the others should not rot in that noisome cottage. Add to that her hatred of Normans and her vision that the two warbands should unite against those who had stolen her father’s lands…

She stood firm, it was all she could do. Erica of Whitecliffe was at the mercy of Thane Guthlac’s whim. And to think that the men watching so avidly were fellow Saxons…

Thane Guthlac pushed up her chin. ‘Lady Erica, you are a brave woman, you do not weep and wail, you are a daughter a man could be proud of—a peace-weaver.’ He waved at Saewulf Brader. ‘Take Thane Eric’s daughter—this night a true-born lady is yours.’

A sigh rippled round the hall like the wind in the reeds, but Erica barely heard it. She dragged in a breath.

At her side the dark head bowed briefly. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ Saewulf Brader spoke quietly and without triumph. Her heart warmed to him. Then blue eyes were looking into hers and he offered her his hand. The palm was callused from much swordplay and for a moment she blinked at it. ‘Lady Erica?’



Erica managed to release the death grip she had on his tunic and strong fingers closed on hers.

‘No! No!’ Ailric renewed his struggles with his captors, but a sharp elbow to his stomach had him rolling in the rushes, gasping for breath like a landed fish.

Thane Guthlac grinned briefly in Ailric’s direction before transferring his attention back to Saewulf Brader. ‘You may…rest in the storeroom tonight.’

Saewulf Brader’s grip tightened and he led her towards a small door to one side of the hall. Laughter erupted behind them. The blood rushed in Erica’s ears.

‘My apologies, Hrothgar,’ she heard Guthlac say. ‘Despite the feud, I find I have some liking for that girl. She is courageous—for a woman.’

Hrothgar let out one of his snorts and signalled for more ale. ‘I care not. Truth be told, the wench is too tall for my taste anyway.’

In a daze, in which Erica could not have told whether relief or trepidation held the upper hand, she watched Saewulf Brader’s lean fingers reach for the door latch. The storeroom door swung open, a dark space opened out before her, and he gestured her inside. Thane Guthlac’s laughing response to Hrothgar, the retching noises Ailric was still making, and the noise and babble in the hall faded.

Blackness, shadows. Erica held down a groan and her steps slowed—she had a hearty mislike of the dark.

The wooden lintel was so low that Saewulf Brader was ducking his head as he followed her in. He glanced frowningly around the ill-lit, cramped space, which was almost entirely taken up with barrels and narrow-necked clay jars, before his gaze ran slowly over her face.



‘Dark,’ Erica muttered, hugging herself, and hating that he should see this weakness in her. ‘Too dark.’

‘Wait here, my lady, I will bring light.’ The shadows retreated as he opened the door and stepped back into the hall. When he closed it behind him, they advanced again.

Erica stared through the gloom at the rectangular sliver of light around the edge of the storeroom door. Her heartbeat was erratic, her hands were shaking. She curled them into her skirts.

Wait here? Where else might she go? she wondered, wildly. Hysteria was a breath away. Staring at the cracks of light, she strove for calm. He would not hurt her, not this one. Might he hurt her—had she misread him? But, Sweet Mother, how she hated the dark.

In the hall a dog yelped, another snarled. She heard the murmur of voices, muffled by the door, the scrape of a stool leg on the floorboards. She could no longer hear Ailric.

Calm, Erica, calm. He does not seem cruel. He—

The door swung back and a broad-shouldered form stooped to enter—Saewulf Brader with a flickering oil lamp and a bundle. Another, slighter shadow darkened the doorway, and a thin pallet was heaved onto the floor, next to a barrel.

‘My thanks, Maldred,’ Saewulf Brader said.

The door shut, cutting off another burst of laughter.

He set the lamp on top of the barrel along with a couple of tallow candles. ‘We will save those for later.’

Later. Erica’s breath froze. Later.

He faced her. Smiled. There was so little room that he was scarcely a foot away from her. He was very tall, this man to whom she had been given, his head almost touching the planked ceiling. And, now that he stood close, Erica could see that he did indeed look young. She clung to the thought that she was most likely his senior, by a couple of years at least. How ridiculous that this thought should give her ease. Saewulf Brader’s skin was smooth and his eyes were clear, the blue rimmed by a charcoal-coloured ring. And he was, she realised with a start, examining her with equal attention. Convulsively, she swallowed.

‘Do not fear me. You are safe,’ he said, softly.

‘I…I thank you.’ Absurdly, she believed him.

‘Do you reckon the ale will spoil if I shift this? We need elbow space to sleep in.’ He nudged a barrel with the toe of his boot, and, without waiting for her reply, set about moving it to one side. His voice took on the edge of laughter. ‘Guthlac will have me pilloried if I spoil his ale.’

Strong muscles bunched and shifted under his tunic. A tunic that, now Erica had leisure to study it, she saw was simple in design, a brown worsted with no embroidery either at cuff or hem. A straightforward weave, it had once been of a reasonable quality, but it had seen better days. His belt was wide and simple, had no fancy pattern chased into the leather. His chausses were grey. Long boots hid most of his cross-gartering, but she saw a flash of blue. But why did he have no arm-rings?

Erica backed against another barrel to give him room to manoeuvre. Saewulf Brader was, she recognised as she swallowed hard on the lump in her throat, the image of health. He should have won at least a couple of trophies. But his lack of arm-rings was not uppermost in her thoughts. Young men, healthy young men were, in Erica’s admittedly limited experience, not entirely reliable where women were concerned. This she had learnt from listening to Ailric and Hereward. Even when Ailric had hoped to become her betrothed, he had visited the tavern girls by the docks in Lewes.

Until today, Erica had led a sheltered life—her high status had protected her. Physically, at least. Politically, of course, she was far from sheltered. A favoured only daughter, many was the night that she had sat at her father’s board listening to his men; many a time she had joined in their debates. Which was how her father’s housecarls had come to heed her counsel when news had come of Thane Eric’s death. Physically though, she remained naïve. Even though Erica had fled Whitecliffe with her father’s men, and had been living the life of an outlaw ever since, they remained extremely protective of her. Not one of her housecarls would dream of laying a finger on her. Physically, she was as chaste and innocent as a nun in an enclosed order.

Today that had changed. Erica had come to Thane Guthlac to end the bloodfeud. She was the sacrifice and she must personally make reparation for the slight suffered by Guthlac’s mother.

Silently, she stared at Saewulf Brader’s broad back as he worked and wondered what was running through his mind. He might have no arm-rings, but tonight he had been given a trophy. Her. Could she take him at his word? Could she trust him not to…touch her? He was—she must remember—Guthlac Stigandson’s man.

‘Saewulf?’

He ceased rolling a barrel closer to the wall, and glanced across. ‘Hmm?’



‘Wh…what have they done with Ailric?’

‘Locked him up with your other man,’ came the brief answer. Turning away, he continued clearing their sleeping space.

‘Thane Guthlac would not harm them, would he?’

Again the blue eyes met hers. A shrug. ‘I think not.’ He rested an elbow on the barrel. ‘This Ailric,’ he asked quietly, ‘you were to marry him?’

‘I…I…at one time. Not now.’

‘But there is…affection between you?’

Erica twisted her hands together. For her part, she had never felt anything more for Ailric than for any other of her father’s housecarls. Ailric, on the other hand, had been wont to act as though she belonged to him. Not that that had prevented him from visiting those tavern girls with Hereward.

Guthlac’s man smiled, and his expression softened. Erica’s pulse quickened—he was extraordinarily well favoured when he smiled.

‘Ailric certainly appears possessive where you are concerned.’

‘Yes.’

‘He will be angry after tonight.’ A thoughtful look came over him and he sighed. ‘I dare say he will wish to kill me. Such is the nature of a bloodfeud, so it continues, feeding on itself like yeast in a brew-tub.’

Erica bit her lip and glanced at the door. ‘But you said that you would not…that you…you swore you would n-not…’

‘Peace, my lady.’ The blue gaze was steady. ‘I will keep that vow. At dawn you will leave this chamber as pure as you were when you entered it.’



Again he smiled, and again Erica’s heart warmed towards him, for taking care to reassure her. His mouth was beautiful, she thought, disconcerted. One could see more of a man’s expression when he was not hiding behind a beard as was the Saxon fashion. And certainly in Saewulf Brader’s case, the lack of beard was far from unattractive. The curve of his mouth and the shape of his jaw—strong…

Presenting his back to her, he rolled one of the barrels in front of the door, grunting with the effort. ‘And before you object…’ His voice was amused, though how on earth Erica could tell that she could not say. Saewulf Brader was Guthlac’s man, a stranger, yet already she knew when his voice was smiling. ‘Before you object, my lady, I am putting this here to ensure that you may sleep in privacy this night. It is not there to keep you imprisoned.’ Straightening, he dusted his hands on his thighs.

‘Saewulf?’

He came close, so close that she had to tip back her head to look up at him. ‘My friends call me Wulf.’

‘Wulf.’ Erica gave him a shaky smile and broke eye contact. Wulf. It suited him. And, since January was wulf-monath, the month of the wolves, it was fitting somehow. Sweet Lord, but he was tall. Having inherited her father’s height, Erica was unaccustomed to looking up at a man; it made her feel…shy. And Wulf’s proximity in the cramped storeroom made his physical presence seem overpowering. It was not simply his height; it was the width of his shoulders, the intensity of his gaze. If he wanted to, he would have no trouble in forcing her. But, thankfully, he did not appear to have any such intention. Her guardian angel must have been watching over her this night. This particular wolf was not of the ravening sort.

‘Wulf…’ she swallowed ‘…how apt.’ The name Wulf was, however, a timely reminder. Here she was, a lone woman among a pack of wolves, and he was one of them—she must not forget that. However personable Seawulf Brader appeared, she must keep in mind that he was Thane Guthlac’s man.

‘Apt? Oh, I see, of course, you would think that. It is wulf-monath—you must feel you have been flung into a den of them.’

Erica’s jaw dropped—he could read her so easily? She looked at the pulse beating in his neck and frowned. ‘Wulf, I…I do thank you for your help. But I wonder…’

‘My lady?’

‘It is just that I am not certain why Thane Guthlac gave me to you and not to…to…that other one—his name escapes me.’

‘Hrothgar.’

‘Yes. Why did he give me to you when you made it clear then that you had no intention of…?’ She tried unsuccessfully to hold down a blush and would have turned away, but a light touch brought her face back to his.

‘That is easily answered. After tonight, my lady, you will find that your status has changed—no one will believe that you are chaste. It will matter not that I have not touched you, everyone will assume the worst. And because—’ his hand fell away and steel entered those blue eyes ‘—because I am what I am, your disparagement will be the more certain, your fall from grace the more precipitate.’



‘How so?’ Erica’s chest was tight; there was not nearly enough air in this storeroom.

Seeming to sense her discomfort, he eased back a pace, though his eyes remained cold. ‘Did you not hear Thane Guthlac and Hrothgar? Not only am I new to the warband and untried in battle, but I…’ He gave her a mocking bow. ‘Thane Guthlac recalls me from my childhood in Southwark. He knows I am Winifred Brader’s illegitimate son, and he has made sure that every man sworn to him knows me for what I am—a bastard, a low-born bastard.’

His cheeks had darkened and he was no longer meeting her gaze. Erica did not think it was shame that made him look away. He imagines he will see scorn anddismissal in my face. ‘Wulf?’ She made her voice as gentle as she could. ‘You could not help the circumstances of your birth.’

‘Lady, did you not hear me? My parents’ union was unsanctified. A bastard will share your sleeping quarters this night. That is why Thane Guthlac permitted you to choose me.’ He smiled, but his smile was bitter, and her heart ached.

‘Your birth does not trouble me,’ Erica said, frankly. ‘I chose you over…?’

‘Hrothgar.’

‘Yes, him. Of the two of you, I knew at once who was the man of honour.’

Wulf shook his head and his dark hair gleamed in the lamplight. ‘Lady, we are strangers.’

‘I know you,’ Erica said firmly. ‘And you, Wulf Brader, will not hurt me. That tells me all I need to know.’

With a sigh, he stooped for the pallet, dragged it to the space he had cleared and flung his cloak over it. ‘Lady, your bed.’ Drawing his own russet cloak from the bundle he had brought in with him, he handed it to her.

‘And you? Where will you sleep?’

‘Here, by the door.’

The spot he indicated was small for a man of his proportions. ‘There is little room.’ Immediately, Erica blushed, and wished the words unsaid. They sounded almost like an invitation.

‘There is room enough.’

Retreating to the pallet, she sank down on it and drew her cloak to her chin. She tried not to look his way. The cloak that she was lying on—his cloak—was thick and double lined, but there was no disguising that the mattress under it was thin and lumpy. For a moment Erica felt a longing for the fat, down-filled mattress of her box-bed at Whitecliffe, but she pushed the thought aside, and closed her ears to the harsh rustle of straw as she shifted on her crude bed.

It would be an uncomfortable night, Erica thought, recognising with something approaching astonishment that fear no longer gripped her. Her judgement of this man had been sound—she could trust him. He might be illegitimate, but there was no denying that Wulf Brader was an honourable man. Honour, she was fast learning, was not confined solely to the aristocracy.

She raised herself up on an elbow, bracelets jingling. ‘Wulf?’

‘Mmm?’

He was sitting on the floor, leaning against a barrel, pulling his boots off. Briskly he unbuckled his belt and set his sword close to hand. Erica’s stomach lurched as he began unwinding the blue cross-gartering. She had never slept alone with a man. And Wulf’s dark, almost sinful good looks, were having a strange effect on her; it would seem that they made improper thoughts leap into her head, unseemly thoughts that an unmarried Saxon lady had no business thinking, particularly since she had barely escaped ravishment at the hands of Hrothgar.

But Erica could not help herself, the thoughts kept coming. Thoughts about what it would be like to kiss such a man, one with penetrating blue eyes and a well-shaped mouth that had softened more than once when he had looked at her, a powerful man with a peculiar hint of sensitivity about him. Erica had never kissed a man, not intimately. Once, Ailric had attempted to steal a kiss in the Christmas before the Normans had come, but he had come to Erica with the reek of the ale-house on his breath and she had pushed him away very quickly. Her position as thane’s daughter had spared her other men’s attentions.

As Erica watched Wulf Brader prepare for sleep, the disconcerting intimacy of their situation stole her breath, and for a moment she forgot her question. Then she remembered. She was curious about him, his background, and not just what it might be like to share a kiss with him. It was quite ridiculous that she was having carnal thoughts and most unlike her. Still, it had to be better than dwelling on her current plight—hostage to the whim of Guthlac Stigandson.

‘Wulf, you say you are but newly recruited—how came you to join Thane Guthlac?’

For a moment it seemed he was not going to respond, then he shifted and said, ‘I was brought up in the port of London, near Earl Godwine’s house in Southwark. That was where, as a boy, I originally met Thane Guthlac.’

Erica’s eyes widened. ‘Did you meet King Harold, too?’

Again, Wulf took his time answering. In the hall, the noise was lessening, save for the clatter and bang of trestles and benches as they were pushed back to the wall to make room for sleeping.

‘Yes, but I do not like to talk of those days,’ he said in a closed voice, and bent over his cross-gartering.

Erica nodded. She understood; she felt the same way herself. She also had met King Harold, both when he was an earl and, later, when he had been king. And, yes, it was indeed painful to recall former times, when a Saxon king sat on the throne of England, and when William of Normandy was but a minor princeling on the other side of the Narrow Sea. ‘We all wish King William in hell,’ she said. ‘What loyal Saxon would not?’

Wulf shot her an impenetrable look and set the leg bindings aside. ‘Goodnight, my lady.’

‘Goodnight.’

Settling down once more on his cloak, Erica composed herself for sleep.


Chapter Six






Erica drifted awake some time in the dead of night, uncertain as to what had woken her. The lamp was smoking, its light was feeble, but there was enough of it to ward off her fear of the dark. Indeed, it was surprising that she had actually slept, for sleep had been elusive since coming to the fens. She had been ill at ease every moment since leaving Whitecliffe, even when among her men, yet sleep had taken her here in the heart of Guthlac’s castle; it was very odd.

The smoke from the lamp was twisting upwards in a lazy spiral when she became aware that the barrel was no longer blocking the storeroom entrance and the door was ajar. She was alone!

Heart in her mouth, Erica bolted upright, clutching her cloak to her breast. Soft footsteps approached. The door creaked wide and a tall, broad-shouldered figure stooped to enter.

‘Wulf!’ The relief was so intense she almost laughed. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Did you think that I had abandoned you?’



Slowly she shook her head.

A dark brow lifted; it told her he thought her a very poor liar. ‘You have my cloak, I was cold,’ he said, showing her the blankets he was carrying. ‘Go back to sleep.’ He rolled the barrel back in front of the door.

‘I was right to choose you, Wulf Brader,’ she murmured as—wonder of wonders—sleep came to take her a second time.

Wulf stared into the flickering half-light created by the lamp. God, but these boards were hard as iron and just as cold, he thought, as he tried to find a more comfortable position. The lady considered that she had been right to choose him. Hah! If only she knew what she had chosen. Never mind that she was apparently bedded down with one of Guthlac’s men—how would she react if she knew the whole truth? If she knew that Wulf was a Norman captain? What had she said—that she wished King William in hell? Hell indeed, Wulf thought, wearily scrubbing his face.

He wished he were a thousand miles away or, at the very least, back at the temporary Norman garrison that had been thrown up at Ely. He wished he had been given another commission, any commission, as long as it did not involve betraying Saxons or meeting a brave and beautiful thane’s daughter who compelled him to help against his better interests.

Thankfully, with Lady Erica saved from real disparagement, he should be able to report to De Warenne’s man and, with luck, return to the Norman base at Ely. Archers, he had decided, archers would be key to any successful attack on Thane Guthlac.

Meanwhile Lady Erica lay happily ensconced in his cloak, a small bump in the gloom, her breathing soft and even. Heaven help her, she trusted him. Given the precariousness of her position as the daughter of Guthlac’s sworn enemy, that was nothing short of miraculous. He permitted himself the luxury of savouring that thought. She, a Saxon noblewoman, trusted Saewulf Brader—now there was a novelty. It was too dark for him to make out her features, but they had been engraved on his mind from the moment he had first seen her: that pale, delicate skin, the dark hair, so dark as to be almost the colour of jet, the straight nose, the freckles, the gentle curve of her mouth, the rosy lips. A beauty.

And brave, too.

He could imagine how her body would feel if he were to draw her into his arms. She would be warm; she would have long, straight limbs and her skin would be smooth and—

Enough! The Lady Erica might have reacted with calm courtesy to the fact of his lowly birth, but he had sworn not to touch her. If he did in truth touch her, doubtless her reaction would be quite different. Wulf must not delude himself, he must remember who he was and what he was doing in this noisome fen. He pulled the coarse blanket tightly about him. How those green eyes would fill with scorn if she discovered his real purpose here, if she knew where his true loyalties lay.

Casting a last look at the figure a few feet away on the floor, Wulf closed his eyes. The lady thought she knew him. In the gloom his lip curled. Lady Erica of Whitecliffe would not exchange the time of day with him if she truly knew him.



Not only was he a low-born bastard, he was a low-born Norman bastard; if that beautiful bundle of womanhood got wind of that, she would no doubt take to her pretty heels and, bracelets a-jingle, run screeching from the room.

Willing his muscles to relax—Saints, lying on these boards was a penance—Wulf’s thoughts melted into one another. There was no point worrying what the Lady Erica would think of him once she realised his true role in Guthlac’s entourage; there was no point already beginning to dread the look of hatred that would distort that lovely face.

He had come to East Anglia to discover the strength of the Saxon resistance; he had come to win favours for himself and make his way in the world. His gut clenched. Yesterday he had not known of Lady Erica of Whitecliffe’s existence. Other men must surely answer to her—other outlaws, perhaps large numbers. Merde. He must find out, it would surely be useful for De Warenne to know. Because of her he had missed the first rendezvous, but, since he had missed it, he might as well make the most of things by discovering what he could about her people, they were rebels, too. That was why he was here; he must focus. And don’t forget about those archers, he reminded himself, think about training for the archers…



The next morning on the platform outside the hall, Erica splashed her face in icy water from the butt. Wulf stood like a sentry at her side, wreathed in the clouds made by his breath. With a sinking feeling it occurred to her that she would be hard pressed to tell whether he was there for her protection or to prevent her from attempting to escape. It is still wulf-monath, she reminded herself.

In the bailey below, a long-robed priest was walking towards the wooden chapel, hands folded into the sleeves of his habit against the cold. He vanished inside. Erica eyed the adjacent buildings, one of which was apparently being used as a lock-up for Ailric and Hereward. The hut closest to the chapel had no windows, and guards were posted outside, stamping their feet in the chilly morning. That hut, she thought, that must be where they are.

The portcullis was firmly lowered and, from Erica’s vantage point on the walkway at the head of the stairs, it was impossible to see whether their boat was moored at the jetty. The lake had iced over during the night, but a navigable passage remained in the centre of the waterway, a slim dark line dividing the frosted surface in two.

‘Good morning, my lady.’ Hrothgar’s sneering voice broke into her thoughts. Erica’s stomach lurched.

Thane Guthlac’s second-in-command was leaning his shoulder on a doorpost, arms folded across his chest, watching her with an unsettling air of expectancy. Nodding at him, conscious of Wulf’s hand hovering over his swordhilt, Erica dabbed her face with the edge of her veil and prepared to push past him.





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