The Wolf and the Dove (35 page)

Many hours had passed since he first entered the inn and as a shadow fell across the table, Wulfgar raised his eyes to find the keeper standing near him.

“My lord, the hour is late,” the man reminded him. “And I would bar the door. Do you lodge here for the night?”

“Nay, nay, good fellow. This night of all will I seek my own bed.”

Wulfgar rose unsteadily to his feet and tucked the wineskin beneath his arm. He counted out coins until the keeper was satisfied, then made his way with slow deliberation from the inn to where the Hun stood waiting. The horse snorted at the unusual gait of his master but held stone still while, after several tries, Wulfgar lay prone across the saddle and then eased himself upright and found the stirrups. Wulfgar urged his steed forward and bellowed loudly when the Hun made no move to obey. Finally the innkeeper opened his door again and untying the reins from the post handed them to the rider. The man returned to his inn, shaking his head and mumbling to himself as Wulfgar roared his thanks. Now the Hun moved off, and for the most part ignoring his master’s signals, made a cautious way in the direction of the townhouse and its warm stable.

It had grown dark at the house and thick fogs crept in from the river. Alone now, Aislinn clasped her arms about her in happiness. The eight new gowns lay carefully arranged on the bed before her, finished and well sewn, a delight for any woman. But what spoke more to her was Wulfgar’s generosity. She felt overwhelmed by it. Never in a thousand years had she expected anything like this from him. They were luxurious gowns, like any grand dame would wear. And he had bought them for her, with the coins he guarded so well.

She took the yellow gunna first and folded it gently away. The others followed but for one of a soft peach hue which she donned. Hlynn combed her hair long and tiringly, then twined ribbons through the lustrous braids she formed as a crown about her mistress’ head. Aislinn descended to the hall to await Wulfgar’s return and as she came into view the room fell silent. Her changed appearance was such that the men were struck dumb. It was Milbourne, the eldest of the knights, grizzled and scarred, who rose to give her his arm and guide her to a seat at the table. Aislinn smiled and nodded her thanks while Sir Gowain gulped and began to compose poems of praise in his ale. None seemed to be worthy of her, but his eyes glowed warmly whenever her smile turned his way.

The men were enchanted and Hlynn grinned with pleasure to see these Normans stumble over words to praise her mistress. Even Sanhurst in his corner ceased the rubbing of tallow into Wulfgar’s boots to prop his chin in his hand and bend a wistful gaze upon Aislinn.

The meal was taken leisurely and was almost done when Beaufonte raised his hand for silence. Through the open shutters at the end of the hall drifted the sound of slow hooves accompanied by a loud voice bawling a song of love and devotion. The curse of an irate townsman was heard before the door slammed in the stable below. Raised brows ran about the hall and Aislinn giggled as Gowain rolled his eyes in mock anguish. The voice was muffled but grew louder as unsteady feet mounted the stairs. Without ceremony Wulfgar burst into the room with a half empty wineskin in his hand. He bellowed and swung his arm wide to greet them all, then his feet did a quaint step as he regained his balance.

“Ho, good fellows and most lovely damoiselle,” he roared as his clever gait carried him into the room. His words were slurred in an odd mixture of English and French.

In Wulfgar’s mind, he came forward and made a graceful bow before Aislinn as she rose to greet him and taking her hand, kissed it gently. In reality his feet tangled as he stepped before her and many caught their breaths, fearful he would crash upon her. His hand seized hers as he swayed and his kiss found a place half way to her elbow. He straightened and his eyes wandered independently about the room unto they focused upon her. Aislinn had never seen Wulfgar in this state. Indeed she had always known him to be abstemious.

“My lord,” she murmured softly. “Are you ill?”

“Nay, cherie. I am drank upon this beauty that bursts upon my eyes and leaves me gasping in its tumbled wake. Forsooth I raise a salute to you.” He gestured to the room at large. “To the Lady Aislinn,” he shouted. “The fairest wench in any man’s bed.”

He raised the skin high and managed skillfully to collect some of the brew in his mouth as Aislinn glared at his crudity. Wulfgar set the wineskin aside and took her hand in both of his, pressing it to his lips and murmured in his most romantic fashion:

“Come, cherie, let us retire for the night. To bed!”

He smiled a drunken leer of goodnight to his men and, turning, put his foot in a woven basket. It was several moments before he could shake the vicious beast from him, but only Sanhurst had the gall to laugh aloud though there were choking coughs aplenty.

Wulfgar straightened, casting a glare to the guffawing Saxon and rearranged his gown. With the majestic dignity of his kind he missed the second step of the stairs and measured his length back into the hall. With a sigh Aislinn grasped his arm and beckoned to Gowain who struggling with laughter took the other. Between them, and after many false starts, they guided him up the stairs and into the chamber where he was set upon the edge of the bed. Dismissing the young knight and closing the door behind him, Aislinn turned to Wulfgar. He lurched forward as if he would sweep her into his arms, but the cloaks hung behind the door filled them instead as she easily sidestepped his lunge. One fell over his head as he flailed about to free himself and Aislinn seized his hands.

“Hold, Wulfgar.” Her voice took on an edge of command. “Hold still, I say.”

She disentangled him and seated him again on the bed before returning the garments. That accomplished, she stood before him, arms akimbo, shaking her head. She began to remove his gown and lifted it over his head, but with delicate timing Wulfgar rose to fling his arms about her. Aislinn squealed in exasperation, pushing against his chest and Wulfgar found himself sitting again. This time he waited as the wench was obviously eager to lay with him.

Avoiding his persistent hand, Aislinn slipped off his shoes and his chausses, pressed him back and laid the covers over him. His eyes followed her with avid warmth as she went to stand by the glowing hearth and remove her gunna, carefully folding it and placing it with the others. She loosened her hair, shaking the long length free then slipped the kirtle off placing it too, neatly aside. She kicked the slippers off as she crept beneath the covers and waited for his hand to come searching, but heard only a soft, gentle snore. She giggled and curled safely against his warm side and resting her head against his shoulder, drifted contentedly off to sleep.

Aislinn’s eyes opened at the bright sunlight streaming in through the windows. They had slept unusually late she surmised but even then something had awakened her, a strange moaning sound, oddly muted and coming from the corner where the chamber pot stood. She chuckled to herself and snuggled deeper in the covers. There was a splashing of water and then the bed creaked as Wulfgar’s weight settled upon it. She turned toward him with a cheerful morning greeting upon her tongue, but it died unspoken as she found herself staring at the broad expanse of back. She rose to an elbow and pulled at his shoulder until he rolled face up. His eyes and lips were tightly clenched and a rather greenish pallor extended well down his chest. Drawing a blanket over his nakedness, she tucked it in about him then raised her eyes and found his steel gray ones regarding her from pools of livid red beneath swollen bluish lids.

“The shutters, Aislinn,” he sighed, gesturing toward them lamely. “Close them. That light pierces me with a thousand blades.”

She scampered up, dragging a heavy blanket with her to wrap about her shoulders and darkened the room, easing his pain. She paused to throw more fuel on the fire then coquettishly leapt back into the bed and snuggled against him for warmth. Wulfgar gritted his teeth as her movements bounced his head.

“Gently, my sweet, gently,” he groaned. “My head feels the size of a wineskin and I swear the fur still clings to my tongue.”

“Poor Wulfgar,” she murmured consolingly. “The wine makes you ill when taken in such great amounts and its joys of the night are well bought with the morning’s misery.”

Wulfgar heaved a sigh and rolled his head. “And I am couched with a philosopher,” he muttered softly as if to himself. “Perhaps your talents include some remedy for an aching pate.”

Aislinn chewed on the tip of her finger as she thought for a moment. “Aye, but the cure is near bad as the ailment.”

He took her hand and laid it on his fevered brow. “If I live to survive the day,” he promised. “I will reward you handsomely.”

She nodded and rose from the bed, snatching the blanket about her. She thrust a fireplace iron deep in the glowing coals. While it heated she mixed herbs and potion in a cup, then filled it from a jug of wine. When the iron glowed red, she plunged the heated tool into the brew until the liquid steamed. Bringing it to Wulfgar she met him with a hesitant smile.

“You must drink it all and quickly,” she directed.

Wulfgar struggled upright to accept her offering. The noisome mixture wrinkled his nose when he would draw it near and his greenish color seemed to heighten. He raised his eyes in mute appeal but she placed a finger beneath the cup and pushed it firmly toward his lips.

“All and quickly,” she repeated.

He drew a deep breath and held it as he tipped the chalice and drained it in a single gulp. He lowered his hand and sat hanging his head, shuddering as the bitter draught tore its way into his belly. Aislinn drew back, clearing a path. There was a small rumble which drew him upright and then another as his eyes widened. He flew from the bed, not caring of the chill and made straight way for the chamber pot.

Aislinn climbed into the bed and settled deep beneath the blankets while he was held racked with spasms over the receiving bowl. She clasped her hands and turned an innocent gaze to him when some time later he returned to her side. He dragged himself beneath the covers and flopped back too weak to move.

“You are evil, wench, beyond your years. If I live to see this out, I will have you exorcised by the monks.”

Aislinn sat up and smiled down at him. “What is your proposal, Wulfgar?” she inquired gayly. “As you know only a husband truly wed can exorcise his spouse.”

“Aaargh.” Wulfgar writhed as if in pain. “You even bait me in my hour of need when I am stretched up the rack of your spell.”

He opened his eyes and peered at her and even now some of the red had left them and a more healthy color returned to his cheeks.

“ ’Tis but a cleansing balm,” she sighed in feigned disappointment. “With the poisons gone you’ll soon feel much better.”

Wulfgar probed with his fingers about his head. “It does feel almost normal and I vow I could devour the Hun.”

He drew another pillow beneath his shoulders and regarded her more warmly.

“Are you pleased with the garments the tailor made for you?”

Aislinn nodded happily, setting her coppery locks tumbling over the blanket she clutched about her. “I have never known such finery before, Wulfgar. Thank you for the gift.” She bent and pressed a light kiss to his cheek. “The gowns are worthy enough for any queen.” She lifted her eyes to his. “The price must have lightened your purse sorely.”

He shrugged, noncommittal, as his gaze dipped to where the blanket gaped away from her breast, but Aislinn sat back upon her heels, his lustful regard unnoticed, and frowned slightly.

“But I fear the garments might meet the fate of my own. They are far too lovely to be let alone.”

Wulfgar half grunted his reply. “I’ll attend to that.”

Aislinn plopped down beside him again and snuggled close against his side. “Then they are truly mine? To wear as I will?”

“Of course. Would I give you gifts then take them back?” he questioned, peering at her from the corner of his eye.

She brushed a cheek against his shoulder. “What can a slave claim without the will of the lord?” She sighed then laughed lightly. “I vow I must be the first slave ever to be robed so richly. I will no doubt be the envy of many at Darkenwald. What will you tell them when they ask you about dressing a slave so?”

Wulfgar snorted. “Only Gwyneth is rash enough to dare such an inquiry. But what I do with my wealth, whether meager or large, is my own affair since it was my labors which accumulated it. If I chose I could give it all away and she could say naught to me. I owe her nothing nor any other woman.”

Aislinn traced a finger across his hardened chest, following the path of the scar there. “Then I must feel doubly grateful for your generosity since I am, after all, only a woman.”

Wulfgar turned on his side to face her and lifted a curl from her breast. “You are more worthy than most. That you are here with me is proof.”

Aislinn shrugged her lovely shoulders. “But I am still your whore and that title bears no proof of your fondness. What am I to you that other women have not been? I am the same, no more.”

He laughed derisively. “Do you think I would open my purse so freely for another woman even to see her nakedness covered? I have told you in the past my thoughts for the fairer sex. Be honored that I place you above the rest.”

“But, Wulfgar,” she murmured softly. “Wherein does the difference lie? In this gift you give? In others’ eyes I am that and no more.”

He bent to her lips. “I care naught of wagging tongues or what others think,” he said then kissed her, silencing further words from her. He could not resist running a hand down that finely curved back and over a full hip, but Aislinn bit her lip and drew away as his fingers touched the tender spot that remained from Gwyneth’s stroke of the whip. Wulfgar frowned and held her still as he lifted the blanket to view the ugly welt that curved across her hip and buttock. Aislinn could almost feel his anger build.

“What is this?” he demanded.

“A bruise, nothing more, Wulfgar,” she returned lamely. “I but fell—”

He snarled and raised to his knees drawing her up to hold her by the shoulders. “Aislinn, you play me for a fool.” He spoke softly but spit the words out as if they soured his mouth. “I know the mark of a lash when I see it.”