‘Sacred? Enough!’ Erica made a chopping motion with her hand. Her jaw was as set as the jaw of the young man quivering in front of her, her determination was as grim. It had to be, for this, she was convinced, was the only way forwards. She drew herself up to her full height. ‘Hereward, you forget yourself. I know full well the import of the bloodfeud—have I not grown up with it? Did I not lose my cousin to it? I will not waste breath discussing the futility of his death to a fellow Saxon on the very eve of the Norman invasion. I know how you men…’ she looked into each and every silent face around the fire and poured scorn into her voice ‘…do value this…squabble. And squabble it is, however you might choose to glorify it. You say it is a matter of honour. Honour? I call it pathetic. One of Guthlac’s men slighted one of ours, and in revenge one of our men slighted one of their women, on and on and on it goes. Why, this feud stretches back in time so far—’
‘Theirs was the first slight,’ Siward said confidently.
Erica looked coldly at him. ‘Was it? You were there yourself, were you?’
‘We…ell, no, my lady, not exactly, but I do remember Maccus telling me that Hrothgar’s father—’
‘Siward, be silent! This feud between Guthlac’s family and mine has run for generations. Be honest, no man living can remember the original slight.’
Solveig, Erica’s maid and companion, and the only other woman in their camp, stepped quietly out of the shadows. ‘I was told that some years back it re-ignited when Waltheof despoiled Guthlac’s mother.’
Erica drew her head back. That she had not heard, but it could not be true—surely someone would have said something to her, if such a dreadful thing had indeed happened. ‘No, no.’ There was no one here who might testify to the truth. A distant relation of Erica’s, Waltheof had been killed at Hastings alongside her father.
Solveig’s soft voice continued. ‘Whatever the original cause of the feud, my lady, if such a thing did happen to Thane Guthlac’s mother, Thane Guthlac would have little reason to love you.’
Ailric took Erica’s hand. ‘Solveig is in the right. Erica, if you walk into that…that den—I cannot allow it.’
The wind rattled the reeds outside. Erica looked down her nose at the man she might have married and slowly withdrew her fingers from his clasp. If she was to have her way in this, she must draw on her authority. And she must have her way on this, if they were to survive. ‘You cannot allow it? Ailric, who are you to command me?’
Again, Ailric reached for her hand, but she twitched it away, hiding it in her skirts. ‘Erica, think.’ His voice cracked. ‘Do not make me do this. It is not what your father would have wished.’
Turning her back on him, Erica stared into the heart of the fire where the bright flames flickered like pennons. Her skin was icy—why could she not feel the heat? ‘Ailric, you forget yourself,’ she murmured, for his ears alone. ‘I am not your betrothed for you to command me in this manner, I am not your chattel.’ Putting strength in her voice, she lifted her head to address the entire company. ‘My mind is fixed. Tomorrow at first light, we go to treat with Thane Guthlac.
‘Remember, Guthlac Stigandson is himself a survivor. Like us he is Saxon. Even Thane Guthlac cannot but see the sense in our two parties uniting. Together we will overcome these invaders, our Norman enemies. I declare that the feud between my family and Thane Guthlac’s,’ she said, ensuring she caught Siward’s eye, ‘is ended. And I will personally geld the man who resurrects it.’
Chapter Three
Thane Guthlac’s hall door slammed and the ashes on the clay hearth shifted in the sudden draught. Wulf shivered. A faint light was showing through the crack at the bottom of the door. Dawn. And, since his report for De Warenne’s man was ready, it was the last he would see in this hall. Come noon, he would be gone from here, thank God.
Wulf’s pallet, as one of Guthlac Stigandson’s rawest recruits, had been unforgiving, and his every limb creaked. He might as well have slept on the bare boards. Suppressing a groan, he flung back the cloak he had been using as a blanket and sat up. He had barely slept, partly owing to his position at the draughty end of the hall, and partly because being a spy made for an uneasy night. He glanced regretfully at the dead fire. He would have preferred warmth while he had tossed and turned all night and dreamed…ah…impossible dreams…
Dreams that warded off memories of his half-sister, Marie. Dreams that gave him a position in society, when slights to his family would no longer go unpunished. Dreams of being knighted and of owning a plot of land for which he could do knight service to his lord openly and above-board, instead of having to meet men and smile and talk with them and know that, one day soon, he might have to betray them. He had even dreamed of a lady who stood tall and proud at his side…hah! There was no room for a woman in his life. What fools we are in the middle of the night, Wulf thought, what dreams we dream to block out reality.
While he eased his broad shoulders, working the stiffness from his muscles, it occurred to Wulf that it mattered not whether one sided with Normans or Saxons—in both camps raw recruits invariably got a rough deal. That mattress—Lord.
He groped for his boots. It was a bitter morning; even inside the hall amid so many sleeping men, his breath made smoke. Grimacing, Wulf tossed his hair out of his face; it was not getting any shorter, but neither was it long enough to tie back—in fact, it was a damned nuisance. He wished he could shave, too, but that would have to wait until later. De Warenne had been in the right, his lack of beard had been a point of concern when he had first arrived at the castle. A visit to the barber would definitely not have helped. Wulf had been accepted as a rebel purely on account of his childhood links with Southwark. It was his good fortune that Guthlac Stigandson himself remembered him from those days.
Taking up his sword and belt, Wulf moved lightly to the door so as not to disturb anyone fortunate enough to have bagged a softer pallet. The oak door was heavy. Pushing through, he went out onto the platform. The torches on either side of the entrance were guttering, sending up an evil black smoke that the wind whisked away.
Here, where the platform girdled the tower, there was a commanding view of the fens. In full daylight one could see a broad expanse of water—water that at this point was large and wide enough to be known as ‘the lake’. The lake was surrounded by low-lying land on all sides, but in this dull pre-dawn light visibility was poor, the colour leached out of everything.
Wulf remembered his first sight of Guthlac’s castle as it reared out of the mist. Its sheer size meant that he was bound to stumble across it sooner or later, for the wooden tower and its motte dwarfed the local alder and ash trees. Guthlac might well have fled to the fens from the south, but not even his worst enemy could accuse him of skulking.
A water-butt stood on the walkway immediately outside the main door. As the door latch clicked shut behind him, Wulf found he had not quite shaken off the melancholy that had gripped him from the moment Marie had entered his thoughts. Two years his senior, his half-sister would have been twenty-four had she lived. And her child—Wulf’s heart squeezed—her child would have been nine.
Wulf thrust aside the image of Marie; he must not think of her. Lifting the lid of the water-butt, he splashed his face, hissing through his teeth as the icy water hit him. He washed quickly and dried his face on his sleeve. The wind scoured his cheeks. Thank God he was leaving today.
The marshes were still shrouded in gloom, but by the bank beyond the palisade he could make out a thin skin of ice at the base