Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment (10 page)

Sword in each hand, Wulfson urged the destrier forward, his mighty battle cry shaking the birds from the trees, the great horse’s large razor-sharp hooves clearing the way. Though surprised, the men quickly rallied and formed a loose circle around the lone knight. Unperturbed, Wulfson pressed upon the man nearest to him, and in one wide arc of his right arm, he separated the man’s head from his shoulders, his silent scream of terror lost forever. A sharp prick of pain in his shoulder did not deter Wulfson, and he pressed through the gauntlet, both swords meeting flesh and bone in a sickening cadence. He broke clear of the mangled circle and spun back around to reenter it. Using his legs to direct Turold, he gave the destrier the command to rear up on his hindquarters, and when he came down Wulfson sliced the air, then the flesh on either side of him. Agonized screams filled the heavy air; it only served to spur Wulfson on. He was in that place where everything around him narrowed down to survival, his vision focused completely on his enemy. The horse rose up again, and this time did a half pirouette, keeping the foot soldiers from his master. But the great horse had to come down sooner or later, and laden with weight of his mailed master, he came down sooner, and into the thick of the fight. The men swarmed Wulfson, despite his hacking off their body parts. As they pressed, Wulfson shifted his weight in the saddle,
and in a low voice commanded his mount, “
Capriole
.” Turold rose on his haunches and leapt forward and kicked out with his hind legs. The man behind him screamed in pain. “
À nouveau.
” The great horse repeated the movement; it was enough to push them back, but they swarmed again. Turold fought to keep the men at bay, but they were too numerous and well weaponed.

Twice Wulfson found his body breached. But the thrill of the fight overrode any pain associated with the wounds. He would tend to them later. Tunnel-visioned, he not only maneuvered himself around their attackers but one by one he slowly divested them of their limbs. As Wulfson swung around in his saddle to finish off the last of them, he noticed several bodies he had not touched lying on their backs, eyes staring skyward, with arrows piercing their chests.

In just that heartbeat of time, the last of the Welsh rushed him. Wulfson turned and brought both swords together as one to slice the man in half, but he never came close enough. His attacker’s body jerked forward then backward; his dark eyes widened in surprise. He folded to his knees, then fell face-first in the damp soil at the destrier’s hooves, a broadsword buried deep in his back.

Wulfson looked up to see Lady Tarian coming toward him still astride and barely winded. A deep pall of clouds settled over the thick wood. A jagged flash of lightning ripped across the gray sky, followed by a sharp crash of thunder just above them. Neither Tarian nor Wulfson acknowledged it. Both sat on their horses, each staring at the other.

Breathing heavily, blood soaking his blades, his arms and legs, Wulfson scanned the carnage. Half of the men were dead by his sword, the other half by arrows. He looked up,
and caught the heated gaze of the warrior princess. She did not seem to have even broken a sweat. Calmly she sat upon her stallion, her quiver empty, her bow snugly put away in the leather sheath just behind the high pommel of her saddle.

She pointed to the dead men. “’Tis well, milord, that I came to your rescue, or your blood would soak the ground, not that of these errant Welsh.”

“Why did you flee in the first place?” he demanded.

She threw him a smile over her shoulder. “To prove that I could.”

“I will take better care next time.”

Tarian dismounted, and made her way to her sword. She pulled it from the dead man and bent to wipe his blood on his undertunic. Once the blade shone again, she sheathed it. Without looking up at Wulfson, she moved around the dead, stepping over them and lifting their cloaks and tunics. “’Tis ignoble for a knight of the realm to scavenge,” Wulfson said scornfully.

Tarian cocked her head back and gazed at him through narrowed eyes. “I am not a knight of the realm, sir, and while it may appear I am looking for trinkets, I assure you I am not.” She bent down to one man and lifted his tunic to reveal a blue wren on a sable field. “’Tis what I seek. My godfather’s blazon. He will not be pleased with me.”

Wulfson intently watched her from his saddle. “And who, pray tell, is your godfather?”

“Lord Orwain, Queen Hear’s half brother.”

“Queen Hear?”

“King Rhiwallon’s wife.”

Wulfson scowled. The Welsh were getting bold. Lightning blazed across the blackening sky, the following thun
der closer than before. Wulfson looked skyward. “We will be soaked if we do not find shelter soon, and I have no desire to see rust upon my mail. Do you know a place close by where we can wait out this storm?”

Tarian grinned and nodded. She walked back to the gray, and Wulfson watched in amusement as she made one attempt to mount the big horse. He urged Turold toward the pair, and had he been a lesser man her arrow-sharp glare would have stopped him. But Wulfson of Trevelyn was unlike any other man. He dismounted, and when he did, he felt the first pang of pain from the fresh wound to his leg. Jagged shards shot up his groin. He didn’t look down; the wound didn’t matter now, though it would have to be ministered to. He grabbed Tarian up into his arms, and nearly tossed her atop the high back of the gray.

He grinned as he caught a quick view of the dark down that shielded her pink nether lips. His cock swelled at the vision, and though his bloodlust for battle had subsided, the sight he had just been gifted churned up another passion altogether.

Tarian drew as much of her skirts down her legs as she could, all the while holding him with a furious glare. Wulfson stared her down and grinned. “I was not sure there for a moment if you were but a pretty squire. I am assured now you are nothing of the sort.”

Tarian kicked the gray, startling him, and she moved past Wulfson and deeper into the wood. Wulfson hurried to mount the black, but felt the strength ebbing from his right leg. ’Twas the same leg that Ocba the devil of a Saracen had put in a wooden vise for amusement one day. Wulfson had passed out from the unbearable pain of it. When he awoke, he had been chained back up against the
wall; the only way he could keep his arms from dislocating was to stand on his good left leg. Any pressure on his right sent him into fits of agony. He still walked with a decided limp, but the pain was bearable. It only ached, it seemed, when the winters were overly cold and wet.

Lightning lit up the darkened sky with the intensity of the fiery star he had witnessed with his own eyes the year before. It was followed by an ear-shattering clap of thunder, and then the heavens opened and rain poured from the sky.

Wulfson cursed, and urged the black to follow the gray.

While he lost sight of Tarian more than once in the onslaught of rain, Wulfson was able to follow the well-marked tracks of the gray. They had turned back in the direction of Draceadon, but he was not overly concerned. They were close enough that if he wanted to make a run for it they could be within the fortress by the high sun of the day. But he was meticulous when it came to his equipment, and his mail was a most prized possession, given to him by his king just before they departed last year for Hastings. William’s own armorer, Gilbert fitz Hugh, had created the unique black mail. Only
les morts
, William’s elite guard, had the honor of wearing the masterpieces. And Wulfson, along with his Blood Swords, took great pains to preserve the gift. It was not only elaborate but constructed with such expert craftsmanship; the tightly welded piece had repelled many an arrow and sword when other mail would have allowed passage.

He was glad to see Tarian’s gray tied up under a lean-to attached to an old stone dwelling. Wulfson scowled. From
where he stood, he could detect no roof. Indeed, the architecture looked unfamiliar. The small cross-shaped holes that served as windows in the crumbling ruin gave the structure away. While his liege was a devout Catholic, Wulfson, having lived through hell, was not sure any god would treat his people suchly. He had no great faith, nor any great fear.

He tied the black next to the gray, and as he entered the dim confines of the crumbling edifice he stiffened, his hand wrapping around the hilt of his sword. Always wary when he entered a room, he scrutinized the woman across the hewn stone floor who had managed to start a small fire in the hearth. He didn’t cast an eye northward, but surmised there was a roof since where she stood was dry, though thick green moss grew along the north wall of the room, and branches from the outer foliage grew through breaks in the crumbling mortar. The space, though open, was stifling. But his eyes came back to rest on the nymph standing in only a damp green garment by the flickering flames. His blood warmed at the sight, and once again he cursed his weakness.

“Is it your aim to drive us out of here with more heat?”

Tarian looked up at him and smiled, and he immediately went on the defensive. It was not any smile. Nay, her smile was that of a woman who thought herself very much in control of herself and the man she was bent on destroying.

“I am soaked to the bone, and if you are as worried about your mail as you say, then you will strip and come close and dry it as quickly as you can with the aid of the fire.”

Wulfson nodded, and noted her kirtle and chauses hanging over a chair back to dry near the fire. He also noted the way her damp garment clung to her womanly curves. “’Twas my intention.”

“Of course it was.”

He unhooked his scabbards and set them to the side, but kept them close. He eyed Tarian warily as she approached him. Her damp clothing clung to her curves so strictly that though the room fairly steamed, the very noticeable outline of her nipples was undeniable. His rod filled more. “I am not incapable of undressing myself.”

Tarian snickered and stepped closer. “Do you fear my touch, sir?”

Wulfson grinned and pulled his hauberk off, and then his mail leggings.

Tarian fought to keep her breathing at its normal pace, but when he removed his gambeson and stood only in his undertunic, braies, and linen chauses, she could not help but admire his form. When he pulled off his undertunic, she caught her breath. The sight of the sword burned into his chest in the light of day was more gruesome than it had been by candlelight. The pain he must have endured, and survived it—commendable. She resisted the urge to reach out and smooth her fingertips across the red scar, as if somehow that would relieve him of pain long endured. Her eyes traveled past his muscled chest and lower to his flat belly, then, out of womanly curiosity, to his groin. She blushed. The full rise in his braies could not be ignored. Yet her gaze traveled lower to the ragged slash in his chauses. The crimson stain on his thigh alerted her. Her gaze rose to his and she caught her breath. His nostrils flared and his deep green eyes burned like molten emeralds. His jaw was set and his lips thinned in tension.

“If you do not wish to be ravaged by me at this time, madame, I suggest you stand back.”

Tarian swallowed and nodded, but moved back toward the fire.

She watched in quiet fascination as he sat down on a short bench next to the hearth and painstakingly rubbed the water from his mail with his undertunic. The crimson spot on his lower thigh deepened in color and volume.

“How came you by the scar on your chest?” she asked.

He stopped the rubbing motion and cast a hard glare. “A reminder of who I am.”

“Who are you?” she breathlessly asked.

“A bastard knight of the bastard king, who kills on command.”

“You make it sound so noble.”

Wulfson eyed her cryptically, but kept at his chore. “It is.”

Tarian stood, and slowly began to pace the small area. “You came to kill me, did you not?”

When he did not answer her, she spun around and came closer to him. “’Tis because I am a Godwinson?” Wulfson looked up, his eyes clear, hiding nothing. “What does your king fear? That I will raise up an army in the name of my uncle and seize the throne of England?”

Wulfson nodded, then softly said, “History has a way of repeating.”

“If William is so concerned the Godwinson line will rear its head to rule, then why not chase after my cousins Magnus and Godwine, Harold’s own sons?”

“They hide in Dublin. But mark my word, the day they set foot in England they will be hunted down.”

Tarian threw up her hands, and in a quick movement she unsheathed her broadsword from where she had hung the scabbard on a peg on the wall. She had meant to hand it over hilt first to the Norman, but he was up and weaponed so swiftly she could not believe a mortal could move
so fast. He pushed her hard against the wall, one sword to her throat, the other to her belly. “If you were a man, you would be lying in halves on the floor.”

He stuck one sword into the timber behind her and grasped hers from her hand. “’Tis lighter of weight than a man’s.”

She scowled. “Of course it is. I could not wield the weight of yours more than a minute.”

He grinned and pressed his body full against hers. “I would wager you could not handle the full weight of me for more than a minute.”

Her body steamed, and with only her undertunic separating her from him, Tarian was acutely aware of his maleness. He rose harder against her hip, and though she had walked that dangerous road with him just the night before, fear of his intentions gripped her.

His nostrils flared and she knew he caught her scent. His eyes narrowed. “Would you play me for a fool, madame?”

Vigorously she shook her head, denying what she knew to be true. He tossed her sword to the floor, and keeping her pinned with his short sword, his right hand moved down her belly to her hips. “Nay, do not trespass!” she cried.

Wulfson’s piercing green eyes held hers. A soft sheen of sweat covered his chest and throat. She felt as if she were about to be swallowed up in a wild whirlpool.

He pressed the palm of his hand to her mound, and Tarian hissed in a breath. She had no control of the hot shards of desire shooting through her. Her breathing increased in volume and her breasts swelled with more weight. She could no more ignore the primal cords that bound her to this warrior than she could change the color of her eyes. He had awoken something in her body the night before,
a craving, a hunger such as she had never known, and did not understand. Whatever it was, she could not deny it. But she would do her mightiest to control it. He pulled up her tunic in slow fistfuls, his eyes never leaving hers. As the fabric cleared her thighs, her soft musky scent wafted up between them. He closed his eyes and softly inhaled. When he opened them, she knew he knew. Her body quaked in fear. Would he end her life now?

What he did next shocked her. His fingers slid beneath the fabric of her tunic and in a slow easy slide he dipped into her wetness.

“Jesu
!” She gasped and fought the urge to open wider for him and press more intimately against him. Instead, she clamped her thighs around his hand and grasped his shoulders. “Pray, stop your trespass.”

His finger pushed deeper into her, and Tarian could not suppress the deep moan of pleasure that escaped her chest. “Pray, Tarian,” he said as his lips pressed to her ear. His tongue licked her and shivers rent her entire body. “Who trespassed first?”

With every muscle she possessed, combined with the will of a mighty warrior, Tarian pushed him away from her. When she moved across the room to the hearth, she glanced back at him. He stood, sword in his left hand, bare-chested, his other sword poking his braies for release. He had let her go, and they both knew it. He brought his right hand to his nose and inhaled her scent, his gaze never leaving hers. She shivered, and now, despite the applied honey and violet scent she had prepared and applied to her body, her natural scent overrode it.

“Honey musk. A scent that, once experienced, I would never forget.” He stepped closer to her, his eyes blazing,
not, she realized, in lust or passion, but in fury. “What game are you about, Tarian Godwinson, that you should drug me, then see yourself spread upon my bed in the middle of the night?”

She shook her head in denial. “I know not of what you speak. I only met you this morn.”

“Nay,” he softly said. He sheathed his sword and turned back to her. “Remove your garment.”

“What?” she indignantly demanded.

“You heard me.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

“Is this a barbaric attempt to exert your power over me?”

“I am master here. Do it now, or I promise, you will not like how I will remove it.”

Tarian swallowed hard, resentment at his humiliation riding her. “Give me your oath you will not touch me once it’s removed.”

He shook his head and stopped halfway toward her. “I swear no oath to you. Remove it.”

Tarian looked past the hulking knight to where Thyra, her sword, still protruded from the wooden wall, then to Wulfson’s twin blades near his broadsword. She would have to get past the nimble knight to get her hands on any weapon, and from what she had witnessed she was no match for him. She straightened. So be it. It would not be the first time he would see her naked. But it would, she decided, be the last. For all that there had been a momentary reprieve, she was intelligent enough to know that it was only a matter of time before William reconfirmed his kill order. And to that end, so long as this knight lived and
breathed, she would not. There was only one alternative. But in the meantime, she would demonstrate just who had power over whom.

She smiled a slow seductive smile, and as Salome had danced for Herod, Tarian slowly and seductively raised the damp tunic. As it passed up to her thighs Wulfson’s eyes blazed brighter. At her waist she heard a slow hiss emerge from his chest, and as she raised it past her breasts he cursed. When she pulled it over her head, then pulled it away from her long hair and shook the damp tendrils from her shoulders, she watched his body twitch and stiffen.

From beneath lowered lids she smiled up at the knight. He stood ramrod stiff now, as an oak in a brutal storm; he did not so much as flinch. Tarian arched her back and her full breasts jutted toward the Norman, her nipples hard and distended. Her flat belly fluttered under his heated scrutiny. Her smile deepened and she ran her hands up her sides to her breasts, grazing the tips with her fingertips. They both hissed in air, she at the hot shot of desire the caress evoked and Wulfson, she could only surmise, from the sight of her touching herself.

“Do you like to see my hands upon myself, sir knight?” Tarian boldly asked. When their gazes caught and clashed, she realized his great chest rose and fell in a quick staccato. “Would you touch yourself for me?”

Wulfson groaned. “You are wanton,” he said softly, his voice even lower than its normal deep timbre.

Tarian relished the control she had over this man sent to destroy her. She dug her fingers into her long hair and pushed the mass up on top of her head. Thus she proudly stood, every angle, every curve of her viewable. Slowly she
turned and came back around to fully face the warrior who, she noted, had stepped closer.

“Do I please you, milord knight?”

“You would please any man.”

“’Tis not any man I wish to please.”

His eyes narrowed. “Do not set your sights on me, madam. I will be gone from this damp clime before too long.”

“With my head upon a platter?”

He stepped closer to her and reached out a hand to her breast. “Mayhap,” he said, barely audibly. He slipped his long arm around her waist and pulled her toward him. “Mayhap not.”

“Mayhap, milord knight, you will wake to find my sword buried in your chest one morn.”

He yanked her hard against his chest and lowered his lips to hers. “Never fear. There are more Blood Swords where I come from. You cannot defeat us all.” Before she could utter a word, his lips descended upon hers.

Wulfson told himself he would resist what she so shamelessly taunted him with, but then he decided that would serve no purpose. His body burned too hot to be denied. And though she might want to deny it, she burned as hotly for him. He smiled against her lips when her body went limp in his arms. He gathered her closer and wished there were at least a pallet in the small area. But there was not, and though he had taken many a maid on the floor or the grass, he did not want to with Tarian. The wench had pride. She was a noble lady of royal blood; she deserved better then a quick tryst on the dirt and stone floor of an abandoned
Celtic ruin. And as he realized what he’d just thought, Wulfson knew he had waded too deep into her waters.

He growled, and as he was about to set her from him, she kneed him hard in the groin. He grunted in pain, his arms loosening, and she was gone. When he looked up through the haze of his pain, he found her sword tip pressed to his heart. His blood, already quickening, thrummed through him like a runaway stallion. He stood to his full height, and though he read murder in her eyes she had not done the deed. She looked magnificent in her fury, her petite body, so perfectly shaped, flushed pink in her excitement.