His Captive Lady

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….