The Wolf and the Dove (3 page)

“How be it that you speak the tongue of France?” he demanded.

Aislinn tossed her head up to meet his gaze yet remained silent, her eyes cold with loathing. Ragnor considered her haughty demeanor and released her from his savage grip. He thought no amount of torture could wring the answer from her lips if she refused to tell him. She had kept mute before when he had commanded her name. It was only her mother who had rushed to tell him when he threatened the girl with violence. Yet he had ways to humble the most arrogant of damsels.

“I pray you speak, Aislinn, or I shall strip your garments from you and let each man here take his turn on you. You would not be so royal then I vow.”

Reluctantly Aislinn replied, standing soberly against him. “A traveling troubadour spent much time in this hall during my years of childhood. Before he came upon us he wandered from country to country. He had knowledge of four tongues. He taught your own to me because it amused him.”

“A traveling troubadour who amuses himself? Where was the jest? I see none,” he returned.

“ ’Tis said your duke from his childhood fancied England upon his platter. My merry troubadour knew of this tale for oft would he play for the high born of your country. Twice or thrice in his youth he even pleasured your duke until he cut off his small finger for singing the tale of a baseborn knight in his presence. It pleasured my troubadour to have me learned in your language, that if one day the Duke’s ambitions were realized I could call you the scum that you are and have you understand me.”

Ragnor’s features darkened but Vachel chuckled in his cup.

“Where be your gallant troubadour now, damoiselle?” the young Norman inquired. “The Duke is no more fond of being called a bastard today than when he was a youth. Mayhaps your man will find his head missing instead of a finger.”

Sarcasm dripped from Aislinn’s words. “He is where no mortal man can reach him, quite safe from your duke.”

Ragnor’s brows lowered. “You remind me of unpleasantries.”

Vachel smiled. “Your pardon, cousin.”

The sight of Aislinn’s meagerly clad shoulders gleaming smoothly above her tattered gown turned Ragnor’s thoughts in another direction. He bent and swept her into his arms amid a shower of angry protests and a surprising variety of titles. He chuckled at her efforts to escape until she nearly lunged out of his grasp, then he crushed her against him, smothering her efforts in an iron grip. He grinned as he lowered his head to hers and his mouth was upon her lips, wet and searing. Suddenly he drew back in pain. A small trickle of blood ran from his bottom lip.

“You vicious little viper!” he choked.

With a low growl, Ragnor tossed Aislinn over his shoulder, jolting the breath from her as his hard mail slammed into her belly, and stunned, she hung half senseless. Snatching up a candle to light his way up the darkened stairs, he crossed the hall and mounted them, leaving the noise of the rowdy invaders behind as he entered the lord’s chamber. He kicked the door closed and setting the candle aside, strode to the bed and he spilled Aislinn unceremoniously onto it. There was a glimpse of long, slender legs before she scrambled up and tried to leap from the bed. The rough rope around her throat frustrated her effort and brought her up short. With a cruel smile, Ragnor began to wrap the thong about his wrist again and again until she knelt close before him, facing him as a wary dog faces its tormentor. He laughed at her undaunted stare and loosened the rope from his wrist, tying it to one of the massive posts at the foot of the bed. With a casual slowness he began to undress, dropping his sword, hauberk, and
leather tunic carelessly upon the floor. He crossed to the hearth, donned now only in a linen chainse and the chausses, a garment combining tight-fitting hose and underpants. Her apprehension mounting, Aislinn tore frantically at the rope around her throat, but her fingers could make no dent in the hard knot. He stirred the fire up and added more kindling, and by its warmth he drew off the linen shirt and the woolen chausses. Aislinn swallowed convulsively as his body emerged lean and muscular, giving her little encouragement that she could hold him off by strength. He smiled almost pleasantly as he came to her and reached up to rub his knuckles gently against her cheek.

“The bloom from the thorn bush,” he murmured. “Yea, ‘tis true, and you are mine. Wulfgar gave me leave to take a suitable reward upon completion of his orders.” Ragnor chuckled as if amused. “I cannot think of a more appropriate recompense than to have the most valuable possession in these towns. What is left is hardly worth my notice.”

“Do you expect reward for slaughter?” Aislinn hissed.

He shrugged. “The fools should have known better than to attack armed knights, and slaying the messenger of the duke drew the old man’s lot to a certainty. We’ve done a good day’s work for William. I deserve reward.”

Aislinn shuddered at his callous disregard for the lives he had spilled. She lunged away from him off the bed to the limits of the tether.

Ragnor threw back his head in a roar of laughter. “Would my little pigeon fly from me?” He twisted his hand in the rope and began to draw her to him. “Come, dove,” he cooed softly. “Come, dove, and share my nest. Ragnor will be gentle with you.”

Sobs struggled from between her clenched teeth as Aislinn wildly fought the pull of the rope. Finally she was held on her knees before him. His hand held the knot tight beneath her chin, forcing her head back so she stared up at him with rolling eyes and gasped for breath. He reached behind him and snatched up a wine skin lying atop a chest.

“Have a taste of wine, my dove,” he coaxed, his face close above hers as he forced the brew between her lips. Aislinn choked and gasped then swallowed the burning fluid. He held the skin to her mouth till she fought again for breath. Releasing her, he sat back on the bed, tipping the skin above his own mouth, half drinking, half bathing in the dark red brew. He lowered the skin and his eyes gleamed as he wiped the stain from his face and rubbed his chest where it had spilled. Laying the skin aside, he reached out to draw on the rope. Aislinn had less strength to fight this time, and he pulled her close until their faces were but a hands’ breadth apart. His breath, sour with ale and wine, almost made her retch, but suddenly his hand was in the neck of her gown and with a swift downward thrust he tore her garments from her and threw them aside. He released his hold abruptly and she stumbled back in surprise. With a smile, he lay back on the bed and took a long pull of wine without taking his eyes
from her as she tried in sudden fear and shame to cover herself.

“Now come to me, little dove. Do not fight so,” he cajoled. “After all, I’m not without influence in William’s court, and you could do far worse.” He leered at her in drunken grace, his eyes sweeping every tempting curve of her body. “You could be thrust beneath the churning butts of those cloddish oafs below.”

Aislinn’s eyes grew wide and she strained again at the stubborn knot.

“Nay, nay, my dove.” He grinned and reached out, giving the rope a tug, pulling her sprawling to her hands and knees. She stayed there, gasping with pain and frustration but raised her head to glare her hatred. With a half snarl upon her face and her long hair tumbled, glowing with reddish gold lights, she seemed again as some feral beast crouched wild to do him battle. There was a quickening in his loins and a yearning for her grew with every moment. His eyes darkened.

“Aah, no dove at all,” he murmured huskily. “But a vixen, all in truth. If you will not come to me, then I must come to you.”

He rose from the bed, and Aislinn gasped, for he stood there before her bold as a man can be. He strode forward, desire burning in his eyes and a half smile playing on his lips. Aislinn straightened and backed away cautiously. An icy riverlet of fear ran along her spine and cold trickles spread through her body until her breath came fast and ragged, almost in a sob. She wanted to scream, to cry out her terror much as Hlynn had done. She felt the burgeoning wail congeal in her throat, and she fought the suffocating dread of utter hopelessness. Still he stalked her, the same evil leer twisting his lips, the same bold, unblinking hawk-like stare eating of her every move until the tight rope brought her in a circle against the foot of the bed and she could retreat no further. Her limbs hung like leaden weights and refused to obey her will. The shadows blurred behind him, and the handsome, cruel face filled her vision. In the flickering firelight his long, lean body seemed lightly furred. The panic rose and choked her
until she could barely breathe. He reached out a hand and laid it against her breast, and with a cry Aislinn twisted away, but he held her and pressed forward until they tumbled onto the furs spread upon the bed. She was caught, pinned beneath him. The room swam before her, and his voice was oddly muffled in her ear.

“You are mine, damoiselle.” His words sounded slurred and indistinct He brushed his face against the slim column of her throat and his breath, hot and heavy against her flesh, seemed to sear her to the bone. His mouth caressed her breast as he muttered again. “You are mine. I am your master.”

Aislinn could not move. She was in his power and she ceased to care. His face swam close before hers, her vision blurred. The weight of his naked body pressed her down deeper into the furs. It would soon be over—

Maida gazed down at the entwined couple now silent and still. She threw her head back and let her laughter override the waves of merriment from the hall. The peal of a hungry wolf rent the night and the two sounds were mingled. Below in the great hall, the rowdy invaders were silenced as a chill spread its cold fingers up their sturdy backs. Some crossed themselves, never hearing the like before, and others, thinking of Wulfgar’s rage, thought he had already come.

Aislinn woke slowly, hearing her name called from what seemed a long distance away. She struggled to awareness and pushed at the heavy weight across her bosom. The Norman stirred beside her and rolled away, freeing her from the dreadful burden of his arm. In slumber Ragnor’s face seemed innocent, the violence and hatred hidden behind the mask of sleep. But as she gazed down at him, Aislinn sneered her contempt, loathing him for what he had done to her, remembering too well his hands upon her body, his hardened frame pressing her down into the furs. She shook her head in distraction, knowing now she must worry that she would bear him a child. Oh, God forbid!

“Aislinn,” came the voice again, and she turned to see her mother standing beside the bed, wringing her thin hands in a fearful worry.

“We must hurry. We’ve not much time.” Maida pushed a woolen gunna at her daughter. “We must leave now while the sentry still sleeps. Make haste, daughter, I pray.”

Aislinn heard the whimper of terror in her mother’s voice, yet no emotion stirred within her own bosom. She was numb to all feeling.

“If we are to escape, we must hasten,” Maida urged pleadingly. “Come, before they all wake. For once think of our safety.”

Aislinn struggled from the bed, tired and bruised, and pulled the gunna over her head, unmindful of the prickly texture of the woolen material without the familiar kirtle beneath. Afraid she would rouse the Norman, she cast an uneasy glance over her shoulder. But he slept on undisturbed. Oh, she thought, how pleasant his dreams must be for him to rest so serenely. No doubt his victory on her had sweetened them considerably.

Aislinn whirled and went to stand at the window, flinging the shutters open with an impatient movement. In the sharp white light of the dawning sun, she appeared pale and wan, seeming as fragile and delicate as the morning mist rising from the swamps beyond. She began gathering her hair, raking knots from it with her fingers. But the memory of Ragnor’s long, brown fingers thrust through it, hurting her, forcing her to bend to his will, made her stop abruptly. She whipped the heavy swirling mass forward over her shoulder, letting it tumble loosely down over her bosom to her thighs and strode across the room.

“Nay, Mother,” she said in firm decision. “We will not flee today. Not while the honored dead lay prey to the ravens and wolves.”

With purposeful strides, Aislinn left the room, leaving the old woman to trail behind in helpless frustration. Scrambling in her wake to the hall below, Maida stepped gingerly over the snoring Normans sprawled carelessly in drunken slumber upon the floor.

Like a silent flowing wraith, Aislinn moved before her. With a heave of her slender form she swung wide the scarred door of Darkenwald, then staggered to a halt, half choking at the reeking stench of death. Her gorge rose in her throat and with an effort of sheer will she fought the retching down. She stumbled past the grotesque forms until she came to that of her father. He lay rigid now, his shoulders pressed to the faithful sod, his arms flung wide with his sword grasped in his knotted fist and a snarl of defiance still curling his lips.

A single tear slid over Aislinn’s cheek as she stood silently mourning him. He had died as he lived, with honor and with his own life’s blood quenching the thirst of the soil he loved. She would miss even his rages. What misery, despair! What loneliness, death!

The dame drew up beside her and leaned hard against her, panting heavily in the thickened air. Maida stared down at her slain husband and drew a long rasping breath. Her voice started in a low moan and ended in a raking screech.

“Ah, Erland, ‘tis not fair you should leave us thus with thieves ranging the hall and our own daughter a good night’s toss for yon shaven ass!”

The woman fell to her knees and grasped her dead lord’s hauberk as if to draw him up. Her strength failed and she knelt pleading in despair.

“What will I do? What will I do?”

Aislinn stepped across his frame and pried the sword from his hand. Grasping the once-loving arm, she sought to drag the corpse away to a softer place of rest. Her mother seized the other hand but only to work the great signet ring from the gnarled finger. At Aislinn’s gaze she looked up and whined:

“ ’Tis mine! Part of my dowry! See, my father’s crest.” She waggled the ring in Aislinn’s face. “It goes with me,” her mother pleaded.

A voice rang out, startling them. The old woman jumped, fear twisting her face. She dropped the hand and sped with amazing agility across the littered battlefield to disappear in the brush at the edge of the swamp. Aislinn let her father’s arm sag back to the ground and turned with calm deliberation that surprised even herself to face this unknown threat. Her eyes widened at the sight of the tall warrior astride a great stallion, the likes of which she had never seen before and which bore the man as easily as if he were but a lad. The mighty stallion seemed to pick his way almost daintily among the fallen toward her. Aislinn stood her ground yet felt the strings of terror tug at her as this giant apparition approached, making her markedly aware of her own woman’s frame and her vulnerability. The man’s brow was shadowed by his helm yet from behind the nose guard steel gray eyes seemed to pierce her through. Aislinn’s courage melted before his glare and she swallowed convulsively as the cold
hand of fear gripped her.

His shield, portraying a black wolf rampant on red and gold with a bend sinister, hung from his saddle. Aislinn knew by it that he was a bastard. Had it not been for awe and fear inspired by his height and the sheer size of his huge mount, she would have hurled the taunt in his face. As it was she raised her chin in a gesture of helpless defiance and met his eyes, her violet eyes speaking her hatred. His lips curled in contempt. The French words rang clear and a rankling sneer could be heard in the tone.

“Saxon swine! Is nothing safe from your thievery?”

The notes of Aislinn’s voice rang higher but with the same sneer as she replied in kind. “What sayeth thou, sir knight? Cannot our brave Norman invaders see us bury our dead in peace?”

She gestured in mockery to the field of slain.

He snorted distainfully. “By the stench you have dallied too long.”

“I dare say, not long enough one of your companions will say when he wakes and finds me gone,” she spat in return. Despite her will to still them tears brightened her eyes as she returned his glare.

Without moving the man seemed to relax back into his saddle as he studied her more closely. She felt his gaze glide leisurely over her. A sudden breeze molded her woolen gunna to the curves of her body and presented great detail to the observing eye. As his glance traveled upward it paused brazenly upon the full rounded bosom heaving with her anger. Aislinn’s cheeks grew hot and flushed under his slow, careful appraisal. It maddened her that he could make her feel like some nervous milkmaid being considered by her lord.

“Be thankful you had more to offer Sir Ragnor than these,” he growled as he too gestured at the dead.

Aislinn stuttered in rage, but he swung down from his steed and came to stand before her. She fell silent as his hard gaze penetrated her. He removed his helm and held it casually in the crook of his arm while he released the upper catches of his coif and pushed it back from his head until it lay across his shoulders. He smiled leisurely, measuring her again, and his hand went out to lift a soft curl from her breast.

“Yea, be glad you had more to offer, damoiselle.”

“They gave the best they had. Would that I could have taken a blade and given as much.”

He snorted and half turned away, surveying the carnage in apparent disgust. In spite of her words, Aislinn studied him with detached interest. He stood tall, at least two hands higher than herself though she was not of short stature. His tawny hair was tousled and streaked by the sun, and though the long coat of mail was heavy, he moved with an easy strength and confidence. She surmised that in courtly garb he would draw many a sigh from a maiden’s breast. His eyes were wide set and the brows well arched above them though, when as now he was angered, they drew down and blunted his long, thin nose and lent to his face the intense look of a hunting beast. His mouth was wide, the lips thin yet finely curved. A long scar that ran from his cheekbone to the line of his jaw grew pale and the muscles beneath it worked as he ground his teeth in anger. In a quick movement he turned to face her and Aislinn’s breath fled from shock as she found herself staring into cold gray eyes. His lips drew back from strong,
white teeth and a low growl rumbled in his throat. Aislinn was stunned by the wild look of him; it was as if he were a hound on a scent. Nay, more than that. A wolf set to wreak vengeance on an ageless enemy. He whirled from her and with long strides almost ran to the main portal of Darkenwald and disappeared within.

Once he stepped inside it was as if thunder shook the hall. Aislinn heard him bellow loudly and the heavy walls echoed with the noise of the scrambling invaders. Her anger forgotten, she listened and waited. Her mother crept to the corner of the building and gestured imperiously for her to come. Reluctantly Aislinn turned her attention to the task that lay before her and reached to take her father’s arm to drag him away. But she started when a great yelp rent the air and glanced up in alarm to see Ragnor being thrown naked from the door. His clothes and sword followed and came to rest beside him in the dust.

“Imbecile!” his evictor raged, coming to stand on the steps above him. “Dead men are useless to me!”

Her eyes gleaming with obvious satisfaction, Aislinn watched and relished the sight of Ragnor scrambling awkwardly to his feet suffering greatly from this indignation. His lips drew back in a snarl as he grabbed for his battle sword, and the gray eyes above him flashed a warning.

“Take heed, Ragnor. Your stench can rise with your victims.”

“Wulfgar, you son of Satan!” Ragnor choked in rage. Recklessly he beckoned the other near. “Come hither that I may skewer you properly.”

“I do not care to joust with a naked, braying jackal at the moment.” Noticing Aislinn’s interest, he lifted a hand toward her. “Though the lady wishes you dead, sorrowfully I have use for you.”

Ragnor jerked about in surprise to see Aislinn watching him with amusement. His face darkened with his wrath and humiliation, and the angry twitch of his lips were stilled as he bit them. With a muttered curse he snatched up his chausses and donned them before crossing to her.

“What business finds you here?” he demanded. “Why have you left the hall?”

Aislinn laughed low and her eyes were full of loathing. “Because it suited me to do so.”

Ragnor stared at her, considering how to effectively quell her rebellious nature without marring her beauty or the soft, lovely body he could remember all too well against him. It would be difficult to put aside that delicious memory. He had never before seen a wench with the courage to match a man’s.

Reaching out, he took hold of her slender wrist. “Get into the hall and wait me. You will soon learn that you are mine and must obey me.”

Aislinn snatched her arm away. “Do you think that because you have bedded me once you own me?” she hissed. “Oh, sir knight, you have much to learn, for never will I be yours. My hatred of you will set me against you all the years of my life. The blood of my father cries out from the earth, reminding me of your deed. Now his body begs burying and whether you will it or not, I am bound to do it. You can only stop me by spilling my blood also.”

Ragnor caught her again roughly by the arms, his grip biting painfully into her tender flesh. He was aware that Wulfgar watched them with great interest, and Ragnor’s frustration grew that he could not frighten this stubborn wench into doing his bidding.

“There are others more capable of burying him,” Ragnor growled low through clenched teeth. “Do as I command.”

The lines of Aislinn’s jaw grew rigid as she looked up into his flashing black eyes. “Nay,” she breathed. “I prefer it be done by loving hands.”

A silent battle raged between them. Ragnor’s hand tightened as if he would strike her, then without warning he flung her from him, making her reel and stumble to the dirt. He came to stand above her, his eyes raking her slender form. Aislinn hurriedly pushed down the gunna over her thighs and returned his stare coldly.

“I yield this once, damoiselle. But do not test me again,” he warned.

“Truly a kind knight,” she taunted, rising to her feet. She rubbed her bruised wrist. Her look of contempt held him for a moment and then moved passed him to the tall warrior standing at ease near the steps of the hall. That Norman met her look and smiled, a touch of mockery twisting his handsome lips.

Aislinn turned abruptly, missing the thoroughly appreciative gaze he swept over her. She bent, taking up her father’s arm once more, and began to tug at him. Both men stood watching and finally Ragnor moved to help her, but she thrust his hand away.

“Be gone with you!” she cried. “Can you not leave us in peace for this brief moment of time? He was my father! Let me bury him.”

Ragnor dropped his hands to his sides and did not try again to help but went to put on his clothes, feeling the bite of a chill wind against his scantily clad body.