The Wolf and the Dove (43 page)

“ ’Tis the best way to keep that shrewish vixen at your beck and call, keep a babe in her belly and the clothes off her back.”

Wulfgar looked at him in pained silence wondering if there was a fox hole nearby that he could stuff the Viking in. In sour humor he cracked an egg and began to peel it as the Norseman continued.

“You’re right to keep these Saxons at heel. Show them who is master. Keep their women abed and little bastards running at their heels.”

Bolsgar’s brows raised questioningly as he turned to stare at Sweyn. Wulfgar choked on the yoke of the egg he had just bitten into and Bolsgar gave him assist by pounding him heavily on the back. The younger man turned a silent scowl upon his friend when he had regained his breath and took an ample draught of milk to wash the egg down.

Sweyn nodded agreeably. “Aye, there should be some celebration for the wench’s comeuppance. Ah, she was a haughty one, but no matter. When she’s gone, there will be more to conquer. Never fear.”

Finding the last straw that broke his calm, Wulfgar slammed his palms down on the table in silent rage. Without a word he strode past Sweyn and crossed to the door, snatching it open, and making his escape from the stares of all.

Sweyn leaned back in her chair, and tipping his head back, loudly vented his amusement. Bolsgar had shifted his gaze from Wulfgar’s back to stare at the Norseman. Slowly the dawning came and he could see the lay of the Viking’s words and he, too, joined in Sweyn’s high humor.

Aislinn descended the stairs shortly after Gwyneth. Haylan had wasted little time informing Wulfgar’s sister of the expected addition to the fancy. Gwyneth turned a mocking gaze upon Aislinn as she spoke on the side to Haylan yet loud enough that Aislinn might hear too.

“ ’Tis best that an unwed slave take advantage of her master’s tenderness while she can, for the lord will soon grow tired of her ripening shape and pack her off to some hovel or some distant country to have the babe in shame.”

Aislinn’s brows drew together at the woman’s words but she replied with dignity. “At least I’m capable of bearing children,” she sighed. “There are those who are unable though they would try hard. ’Tis sad, isn’t it?”

She turned away from their gaping faces with small sense of victory. Gwyneth’s words had destroyed her slight spirit and she could not bear the sight of the food-laden table. She wondered what fate her child would suffer if Wulfgar could not be convinced to marry her. She could not nag him on the matter, for he would surely turn from her in disgust and find some other wench to amuse himself with. She must deal with her state with all the honor and honesty heaven allowed her. In that way she might win him and nothing else would satisfy her.

It was toward dusk when Wulfgar returned from Cregan and mounted the stairs to his chamber, removing his helm and coif and tucking them beneath his arm. Aislinn was bent over her needlework before the hearth when he flung open the door, but seeing that his mood was morose and untalkative, she quietly rose and assisted him in removing the hauberk.

“I’ve heated water for your bath,” she murmured and took his leather tunic as he handed it to her to fold it in the manner she had seen him so often do.

Wulfgar grunted in reply but when she went to lift the heavy kettle of water from the hearth, he paused in taking off his chainse and asked sharply:

“What are you about, woman?”

Aislinn stopped and stared at him in surprise. “Why, I’m readying your bath as I have done these many months past.”

“Sit down, wench,” he commanded then strode to the door and throwing it open, bellowed: “Miderd!”

It was but a moment before the woman showed a worried face in the portal. She looked hesitantly at Wulfgar, a rather awesome sight garbed only in chausses. She swallowed convulsively as she measured the broad expanse of his chest with her eyes, wondering what she had done to rouse his wrath.

“My lord?” she said weakly.

“You will keep these chambers clean and prepare baths as the Lady Aislinn desires. You may have Hlynn to help you,” he directed. He pointed to Aislinn and startled both women as he shouted, “And you will see that she lifts nothing heavier than a chalice.”

Miderd almost breathed a sigh of relief, but his scowl did not allow for ease of spirit. She hurried to ready the bath, glancing at Aislinn as the girl stared somewhat amazed at her lord. Miderd withdrew, closing the door behind her, as Wulfgar began to take off his chausses. He stepped into the steaming water and relaxed back against the rim of the wooden tub, letting the heat soften the ache that a hard ride drew forth. He had driven the Hun almost to the limits as he tried to sort out in his own mind the thoughts that plagued him.

Aislinn took up her sewing again, settling back in her chair, and glanced up at Wulfgar between the stitches she set.

“My lord,” she murmured, after a while. “If I am a slave, why do you command others serve me?”

Wulfgar scowled. “Because you are slave only to me, for my enjoyment, none other’s.”

Aislinn drew her needle through the linen. “ ’Twas not my intention to let my state be known to any other than yourself, my lord, but I fear there is no help for it now. It seems my position of child-bearing slave has spread to all corners of Darkenwald.”

“I know,” Wulfgar replied brusquely. “There are many here at Darkenwald cursed with loose tongues.”

“And will you send the babe and me off to Normandy or some other place distant from here?” She would not bite her tongue to keep the question unsaid. She must know, for it tortured her every moment.

Wulfgar looked at her sharply, remembering his words to Kerwick. “Why do you ask?”

“I would know, monseigneur. I do not wish to be away from my own kind.”

Wulfgar frowned heavily. “What is there different between a Norman and a Saxon that you must say this is your kind and yonder is mine? We are all flesh and blood. The child you carry is between, half Norman, half Saxon. Where will he place his loyalty?”

Aislinn laid her sewing in her lap and stared at him as he continued speaking in anger, realizing he had not answered her. Had he avoided the question deliberately because he did intend to send her away?

“Can you not place your trust in someone other than a Saxon?” Wulfgar demanded. “Must you forever spur me for their cause? I am no different from any Englishman.”

“Indeed, my lord,” she said softly. “You remind me much of one.”

Wulfgar scowled at her but he was silenced and could find no further words with which to berate her. He rose from the tub and, toweling off, donned his clothes and escorted her down the stairs where they took their meal in silence under the stares of serf and Norman.

Aislinn sat alone in the bedchamber, carefully sewing small gowns and other garments for the child to come. It had been a month since she had told Wulfgar of her state, and her mood was near the depths of despair. Wulfgar had been gone from the hall since early morning and in his absence, Gwyneth’s sharp tongue came into play. Aislinn recalled the snide remarks that had driven her almost in tears from the noon meal to seek the privacy of her chamber. Wulfgar’s sister had casually asked if Aislinn had her things packed and was ready to leave Darkenwald then had viciously carried the subject further to imply that Wulfgar would soon be sending her away, probably to Normandy as soon as Aislinn’s belly began to hinder his lovemaking or when it could no longer be hidden. Aislinn sniffed loudly and shook her head as the tears threatened to spill again. At least here was a place Gwyneth dared not roam and where Aislinn could find a moment of peace.

Even Maida had unwittingly done her part to ruin Aislinn’s day. It was not too long after she had sought the shelter of the room that her mother had come scratching at the door. Her plea was that she came to see to her daughter’s welfare, but in reality she did little to enhance it. She had begged Aislinn to leave with her, hinting that the time was short and it was far better to flee to a haven of their own choosing than to wait Wulfgar’s pleasure. The visit had ended in an argument, as this subject always did, and only when Maida faced Aislinn’s flaring temper had she wisely retreated.

So it was that Aislinn worked on the tiny clothes and arranged them on the bed, smoothing them pensively as she thought of the wee form that would fill them. Still she found no solace, for even as she dreamed of her child her thoughts came full circle and she remembered her mother. She felt the pain of seeing Maida’s fragile grasp on sanity weaken and slip and knew she could do nothing to save her.

“ ’Tis naught to be done now,” she sighed. “Best I put away the past and look to the future.” She straightened a tiny robe. “Poor wee child. I wonder if you are lad or lass.” Aislinn felt a movement as if the babe would have answered her. She chuckled lightly to herself. “ ’Tis the least of my worries. I would be satisfied if you were born of a marriage true and not a bastard.”

She lifted a small blanket and tucked it tenderly into the crook of her arm, feeling its softness. A lullaby came to her lips and she rose and strolling idly to the window, hummed the refrain and dreamed of how it would be to hold her own baby and know its helpless trust as it slept against her breast. She might well be the only one who would love it and give the warmth and kindness that would nourish it more than milk.

A light rain pattered on the sill before her and an early southern breeze played in her hair, bringing a smell of wet sod from the outdoors, of growing things, of spring not too far off. A shout came from the stable, followed by a rush of voices and she knew that Wulfgar and Sweyn had returned. Thinking he would come and seek her out as was his custom, Aislinn rushed to put away all the clothes in a chest and set the room to order. She ran her hands over her gunna to chase the wrinkles and sat down before the hearth to wait.

Time passed and no one came.

Aislinn could hear Wulfgar’s voice in the hall, laughing and making jokes with the men who gathered there.

He cannot come to bid me the time of day, she mused petulantly. Already he finds his ease with his men and that hussy, Haylan. He readies himself for the day he will send me away to bear his brat in some far off hovel where his tender eyes will never see the truth. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Twill not be so.

Tears were near flowing again, but with an angry shake of her head, she sought a cool cloth to press upon her face and drive the redness away. There was no need for weeping. Wulfgar was gentle with her and of late more than considerate, especially after learning she was with child. He did not press her to play his game as often.

Indeed, she thought sadly, one might even call his manner cool. ’Tis sure he sees my ripening shape and finds that hefty widow more to his liking.

There was a light rap at the door and Miderd’s voice came.

“My lady, the table is set and my lord bade me come and ask if you will sup with him or take a platter here?”

No solace there, Aislinn mused derisively. He sends others to fetch me instead of troubling himself.

“Give me a short time, Miderd,” she replied, “and I will take my meal in the hall. My thanks.”

Wulfgar and the others were in their seats at the table when Aislinn entered and joined them. He rose to greet her with a smile, but she would neither meet his eyes nor answer him and brushed past him to take her chair. He frowned slightly, wondering what had set her to brooding, and finding no answer for his thoughts, took his place beside her.

The meal was good but not unusual as winter had considerably narrowed the available fare. There was fresh venison and mutton and what vegetables that could be stored, all cooked in a rich stew that lined the belly well. The talk was scant and forced, and the knights were wont to fill their cups more often, Wulfgar not the least of them. He sipped his wine and considered Aislinn as she dainty nibbled at her food. Her aloofness was unmistakable, but more than not these days she was somber and serious, her manner cool and withdrawn, as if she had lost all gaiety in life. He could find no cause but the babe and wondered after the child was born if she would detest it as his mother had him. It would be better that the child was sent away where he could find the love and attention he would need. Wulfgar knew well by experience the heartbreak a boy could suffer if left with an unloving mother. No matter what Kerwick’s words, he must consider the advantage for the babe. There was a kindly couple he knew of, who had
long hoped for a child of their own but had been unable to have one. They would make good and doting parents.

With Aislinn’s moods, Wulfgar admitted to being at a loss. It took only some small, misplaced gesture to anger her and he would feel the bite of sharp words from her tongue. Still, in bed she was as she had always been, reluctant at first, then yielding, then passionate. And he thought he knew women—he smiled to himself.

Gwyneth had taken note of Aislinn’s manner and once the meal was well joined, leaned toward her brother and ventured:

“You seem to be gone overmuch of late, Wulfgar. Has something here lost its flavor? Or perhaps this hall displeases you?”

Aislinn glanced up to meet Gwyneth’s smug smile and knew the last was meant for her. She realized immediately that it had been a mistake to join the meal, but there was nothing to do now except face it out or admit defeat. Bolagar snorted and sought to change the subject.

“The game comes out of the deep forest, Wulfgar,” he tried in a conversational tone. “ ’Tis a sure sign of spring as are these light mists we’ve been having.”

Gwyneth sneered at her father. “Light mists! Indeed! ’Tis the sorry whim of the south of England to see us cold and wet. It seems either that snow is blowing in my face or the fog is heavy and wets my hair. And who cares if spring comes or naught. This dastardly weather is foul all year long.”

“You should care, Gwyneth,” berated her father, “for ‘tis on this year and its success or failure, we’ll see the truth of Wulfgar’s ways or even William’s. The land is much wasted as are the poor English lads, and if this summer’s harvest is slim, then so will your belly be come the next cold.”