The Wolf and the Dove Read online

  “You’ve fared well enough, Wulfgar.” She rose and not waiting for his assistance, climbed to the ground and came to him. She waved a hand encompassing the cart and knight. “At least, much better than we have.”

  At the woman’s familiarity Aislinn felt an instant hostility and a sinking feeling of dread. The face lifted and she saw the cool and frail beauty of its fine, aristocratic features and the pale, ivory skin that seemed without flaw. The woman was older than she, perhaps nearing thirty, and bore herself proudly. Aislinn’s own heart trembled within her bosom, for she could only wonder at what prior claim this woman had upon Wulfgar.

  The old knight drew up and gave Wulfgar a salute as one lord to another. Wulfgar returned the gesture and the two measured each other for a long moment. The mounted one grounded his lance and doffed his helm and Aislinn noted the fall of white hair, long in the Saxon manner, yet the face showed pale on the cheeks where a beard had been recently shaved.

  Her brow knitted in puzzlement to see this armed Saxon knight at Darkenwald. Then there was something familiar about the man also, though his face was strange and he bore no crest on his shield.

  Wulfgar spoke and an odd note rang in his voice. Aislinn thought it was as if he fought some inner battle.

  “The lodging is poor and lean, my liege, but you are welcome here.”

  The old man stayed in his seat as if rejecting the welcome. “Nay, Wulfgar, ‘tis no fortnight’s lodging we seek.” The elder’s eyes stared straight ahead over his steed’s head and when he continued his voice was husky as if the words came hard. “I am cast from my land by your Normans. The Saxons half believe me a traitor, for I could not go to battle at Harold’s side. My household has grown small yet I cannot support them fairly for my possessions are few. Thus it is, I come to you to beg for shelter.”

  Wulfgar shifted a foot and gazed at the lowering afternoon sun and then back to the other man who still sat rigid and proud. Wulfgar spoke and his voice was strong and sure again.

  “It is as before, my lord, you are welcome here.”

  The old man nodded and relaxed and closed his eyes for a moment as if gathering his strength for some further ordeal. He braced his lance across the rear of his saddle to the ground on his left and hung his shield upon its upper end. He placed his hand beneath his right knee, grimacing with pain as he raised that member, and sought to bring it across the wide pommel. Wulfgar stepped forward to assist him but was waved back. With greater effort the old knight succeeded but gasped as his leg swung against the flank of his horse. It was Sweyn now who came forward, brushed aside the wave of dismissal, lifted him clear of his mount and set him erect, taking the weight of his body against his own. They stood thus as the old man smiled at the Viking and then laid a clenched fist against his chest where it was seized in a huge hand and roughly shaken.

  “Sweyn. Good Sweyn.” The man nodded. “You have not changed.”

  “A little older, my lord,” the Viking returned.

  “Yea,” the stranger sighed pensively. “And so am I.”

  The woman turned to Wulfgar. “We thirst greatly. The dust was dry upon the road. May we have drink?”

  Wulfgar nodded. “In the hall.”

  For a second time that day Aislinn was made aware of her ruffled appearance as she felt first the woman’s and then the man’s gazes fall upon her. The tousled red hair and the small, slender bare feet showing beneath her hastily donned garments were all too obvious to both strangers. With a touch of color rising to her cheeks, Aislinn self-consciously smoothed her gown under the woman’s quizzical stare. Sweyn glanced away with indulgence toward his lord, for there was no mistaking the change in her appearance. The fair-haired woman came forward to the foot of the steps and stared upward at Aislinn with curiosity. Ragnor approached to stand at the door beside Aislinn and the woman’s brow lifted sharply at his lazy smile, for he seemed almost to flaunt the girl before them. She glanced back to Aislinn in contemplation of her proud bearing then turned toward Wulfgar for some explanation of this scene but found him striding toward the maid. She watched in considerable bewilderment as he mounted the steps and took the girl’s hand, drawing her to his side. For a brief moment Wulfgar met the woman’s bemused stare and a bit of mockery crept into his gaze.

  “This is Damoiselle Aislinn, daughter of the old lord of this hall. Aislinn, my half-sister, Gwyneth,” he said, lifting his hand toward the woman. He felt more than saw Aislinn’s surprise and turned his hand toward the old man. “Lord Bolsgar of Callenham, her father.”

  “Lord?” Bolsgar repeated. “Nay, Wulfgar. The times have changed. You are now lord, but I only a knight without arms.”

  “These many years have I thought of you as Lord of Callenham and ‘tis hard to change,” Wulfgar replied. “I fear you must humor me.”

  Aislinn smiled at the old man who glanced from Wulfgar to her with a troubled frown. “The old Darkenwald was always honored when guests paused to pass the time in its hall. You would have been welcomed then as Lord Wulfgar makes you welcome now.”

  Ragnor stepped forward to press an introduction and bent low over Gwyneth’s hand. At the touch of his warm lips, the coldness she felt at first encounter with him melted into a bubbling spring of pleasure. She smiled into his eyes as he straightened and Ragnor immediately sensed a new conquest near at hand. He turned to Wulfgar and grinned.

  “You did not tell us you had kin here, my lord. William will be interested in knowing of this.”

  “No need to hasten your tale to him, Sir de Marte. The story is no news to him,” Wulfgar assured the knight.

  Dismissing further questions, Wulfgar turned and pushed the door wider then strode down the steps again to Bolsgar’s side. He took the old man’s arm and brought it across his own shoulders to help Sweyn get him into the hall. Aislinn ran to drag a large, heavy chair close before the hearth and ordered food and wine brought to the weary travelers. She set a stool before the chair and the two men eased the older one into the place she had provided. The Saxon grimaced in pain as Wulfgar gently lifted his leg upon the stool, but the old man sighed deeply in relief as he settled back in the chair. Kerwick drew near to watch as Aislinn knelt beside Bolsgar and began struggling with the leather trappings binding his leg. This she found difficult for the leg was swollen. Using her small blade in a sawing motion she sought to cut them off until she realized as Bolsgar stirred in his chair this only brought new pain. Wulfgar knelt beside her, unsheathing his own knife and easily slipped his blade beneath the coverings and with a single pass slit them open. The old man gestured Aislinn away as she reached to pull them apart.

  “Wulfgar, take this girl from here. ’Tis no pretty sight for young eyes.”

  Aislinn shook her head. “Nay, I will not be sent away, Sir Bolsgar. I have a strong stomach and”—She looked into Wulfgar’s eyes as he regarded her—“I have been called stubborn; you must allow.”

  Amusement crept into the steel gray eyes. “Indeed she is.”

  Aislinn frowned at him. Gwyneth had drawn near and stared down at the two as Maida scurried to serve her and her father food and drink.

  “How is it to be among the conquerors, Wulfgar?” Gwyneth inquired.

  Bolsgar looked at her sharply. “Curb thy tongue, daughter.”

  Lazily Wulfgar shrugged his great shoulders and bent with Aislinn over the elder’s leg. “Better I would say than being among the defeated.”

  Any reply to this remark was completely silenced as the leggings were drawn away, revealing the bloated, red, festering wound. Gwyneth choked and abruptly turned her back and allowed Ragnor to assist her in moving her plate and goblet to the lord’s table where he entertained her liberally with the courtly ways of a Norman knight.

  A stench rose from the dirty coverings about the old man’s leg and even Aislinn swallowed heavily. Wulfgar steadied her with a hand upon her shoulder, but she shook her head and peeled the legging back further.

  “Tell me what must be done,” Wulfgar urge
d, noticing her pallor.

  “Nay,” she replied softly. “I will do it.”

  She took up a wooden pail and turned to Kerwick. “The bog—do you know the place?” At his nod, she handed the bucket to him. “Fetch me this full of the blackest of the mud.”

  Without further word he hastened from the hall and for a change no one questioned his intent.

  Wulfgar frowned up at his stepfather. “How came you by this, lord?” he inquired. “Was it by Norman hand?”

  “Nay,” the other sighed. “Proud I would be if it were so, but ‘twas no enemy who brought this thing upon me—only myself. My horse stumbled in a rut and fell upon my leg before I could jump free. A sharp stone cut my leggings and tore the flesh and now the thing worsens despite what I do for it.”

  “Did you not ask to have it tended?” Aislinn inquired in surprise. “It should have been cared for at once.”

  “There was no one to ask.”

  Aislinn glanced toward Gwyneth but did not voice the question. Yet her thoughts strayed to the times she had tended her own father’s wounds and wondered at this sister of Wulfgar.

  Aislinn took quick command. “Wulfgar, bring the kettle of water from the fireplace. Mother, fetch clean linens from the chests, and Sweyn, prepare pallets before the fire.”

  Bolsgar’s brow lifted and his lips broke into a smile as he noted that even the knight warrior did not question her but made haste to do her bidding. The girl herself went about the hall gathering handfuls of dusty cobwebs from the darkest corners with complete disregard for possible occupants. Now Wulfgar and Sweyn helped strip the mail from him and placed him upon the bed. Aislinn returned to his side where he now lay on the pallets with his back comfortably settled upon a mound of pelts. She slipped her hand beneath his heel and lifted his leg, removing the remains of his legging and in its place put a soft goatskin, tucking the edges underneath until it craddled the wounded member and held it steady. She turned the leg carefully until the wound was uppermost and the stench that rose from the gaping wound almost made her retch. She took a piece of linen and with a quick motion tore it in half but then paused, raising her gaze to meet that of the older man, her concern showing in her troubled brow.

  “ ’Twill hurt, my lord,” she warned. “But it must be done.”

  He allayed her fears with a smile and gestured for her to continue. “I have felt your gentle touch, Lady Aislinn,” he admonished her. “And I doubt that you can pain me beyond my endurance.”

  She dipped water from the steaming kettle into a smaller wooden bowl and wetting the cloth, began to wash the ichor from the torn flesh. Aislinn looked up again as his foot trembled. He still smiled at her but sweat beaded his brow and his hands tightly clutched the mattress.

  Carefully she washed and cleansed until Kerwick threw open the door and gasping for breath, placed a dripping bucket of black slimy muck beside her. She seized a shallow dish and threw into it a handful of the odorous mud, there adding the cobwebs and with her fingers mixed the two into a thick paste. This she pressed into the wound where the skin was torn and spread it liberally over all the bruised and discolored flesh. When this was done, she dipped more cloths in the hot water and folding them gingerly packed them close about the leg on all sides, pulling the goatskin tightly over the whole and tucking it under until it held them firmly in place. She sat back pausing for a moment as she wiped her hands dry and looked at Bolsgar.

  “You must not move this, lord,” she told him firmly. “Not one small bit.” Then she smiled and rose. “Unless ‘tis your desire to wear a wooden peg and make a funny track.” She lifted her gaze to Wulfgar. “Mayhaps Sir Bolsgar would find a draught of cold beer to his liking.”

  The old man smiled his thanks and when the proffered horn was drained, slowly closed his eyes and it was not long before sleep overcame him.

  Ragnor left the hall with Wulfgar and Sweyn and after showing Gwyneth to a chamber where she could rest, Aislinn sought her own privacy. In the room she shared with Wulfgar she stood beside the bed, gazing at its rumpled pelts, almost feeling again the warmth of Wulfgar’s body pressing upon hers. With a small cry, she whirled and went to stare out the window, remembering Gwyneth’s appraisal of her and knowing well what the woman’s thoughts must be. Gwyneth had watched them in the hall, hardly taking her eyes from them except when they were drawn by Ragnor. What would Gwyneth think this eventide when she must sit beside Wulfgar at the table and then later come with him to this same bedchamber? Oh, surely he would not flaunt his mistress before them. And yet, at the door, he had claimed her by the casual taking of her hand and seemed not to mind Gwyneth’s stare. Other men would have felt discomfort in presenting a mistress to their kin and in such obvious disarray. Aislinn’s cheeks burned at the thought of how she must have looked at them. She shook her head in dismay and spread her hands over her ears as if to blot out some accusing voice that screamed:

  Harlot! Harlot!

  She calmed herself and, turning her attention to the window, saw the Normans on a distant hill rehearsing the maneuvers of battle, but she whirled away from the sight, not content to watch them in that display of their trade, knowing many countrymen had found death at their hands.

  She bent her attention to arranging the chamber and improving her own appearance. She braided her hair with yellow ribbons and donned a kirtle of soft yellow and a gunna of tawny gold with embroidered trimmings around the long, trailing sleeves. About her hips she placed her girdle of fine wrought metal links and in its sheath her small jeweled dagger, the symbol that she was something more than a slave. A thin-textured snood of silk she placed upon her head. She had never taken such minute care with her dress since Wulfgar’s coming and wondered at his reaction, if he would even notice. Kerwick might muse at her attire and certainly Maida, for this was her best gown, the one she had been saving for her marriage to him. What good would it do her if she could not win that stubborn knight of Normandy?

  Darkness had descended when she went down to the hall. The trestle tables had been set up to feed the men but as yet they had not returned. Gwyneth paced the hall and Aislinn noted that she had freshened her hair but still wore the travel stained garment she had arrived in. It seemed an unwise choice to have donned her own finest gown and she wished her mind had not been so set upon Wulfgar that she allowed herself to blunder so badly. But it was too late for afterthoughts.

  Gwyneth turned as Aislinn came down the stairs and her eyes swept her from small slippers to the silk snood covering her bright head.

  “Well, I see the Normans at least left you a change of garments,” she said with a touch of venom. “But then, I gave naught of my favors to them.”

  Aislinn halted in her step, her cheeks flushed with hot anger. She bit back a sharp question as to how Gwyneth had been fortunate to be among the few women of English blood to escape rape by the Normans. No doubt they had honored her as Wulfgar’s sister, but what gave her the right, Aislinn wondered, to ridicule those who had been dishonored? With rigid control she crossed to the hearth where the old man still slept. For a time she stood gazing down at him, letting compassion for this aged Saxon knight wash away the bite of Gwyneth’s words. As Ham came into the hall and approached her she turned.

  “Mistress, the food is waiting to be served. What must we do?”

  Aislinn smiled. “Poor Ham, you are not used to these hours the Normans keep. The promptness of my father spoiled you.”

  Gwyneth spoke firmly as she joined them. “These Normans should be taught something of promptness. Let them have a taste of cold food but I prefer mine hot. Serve me a platter now.”

  Aislinn moved her gaze until it rested upon Gwyneth, and she spoke with a calmness she did not necessarily feel. “ ’Tis the custom of this hall, Lady Gwyneth, to wait upon the lord when he has not told us otherwise. I would not discredit my lord with my haste.”

  Gwyneth made as if to reply but Ham turned and left them, not questioning Aislinn’s authority. Gwyneth frowned and lif
ted a brow at the younger girl.

  “These serfs should be taught respect.”

  “They have always served well,” Aislinn replied in Ham’s defense.

  The sound of horses approaching broke the stillness of the evening and Aislinn went to draw open the door. She waited as Wulfgar pulled his stallion to a halt before the steps and swung down. He came to her as his men led the horses away, and for a moment he paused beside her, letting his gaze range the length of her slender frame. With a soft glow in her eyes he murmured:

  “You do me honor, cherie. I had not thought your beauty could be enhanced, but I see that perfection can indeed be improved upon.”

  Aislinn blushed lightly at his compliment, knowing that Gwyneth listened and observed them carefully. Wulfgar bent to kiss her mouth, his lips parted and eager, but in some confusion Aislinn withdrew and held out a hand toward the other woman.

  “Your sister is famished, my lord,” she said quickly. “Will your men be long?”

  He lifted a brow sharply. “My lord?! What is this that you’ve forgotten so soon, Aislinn?”

  She threw him a pleading look, her cheeks growing warmer now. “You were so long,” she replied, trying to distract him. “We were wondering if we must dine alone.”

  Wulfgar grunted, giving her a scowl, and went to warm himself before the hearth, stepping carefully when he saw that the old man slept on. He stood with his back to the heat, his legs spread, his arms folded behind him and his somber stare followed Aislinn as she crossed to the door of the small cooking chamber just off the hall and gave instructions for the meal to be served. She returned, no less observed, and felt tacit disapproval in his gaze.