her white veil out of the way, a veil of so fine a weave that her dark braids were visible beneath the fluttering silk. Her cheeks were pale, her expression composed, but the hem of that veil was trembling. Her composure was a mask; she knew what was likely to happen to her. The bile rose in Wulf’s throat.
‘I will do it,’ Hrothgar said, getting up to seize the lady’s other arm. His mouth twisted. ‘Seeing as you are a married man, my lord.’
One man made a lewd remark. Another spluttered into his ale.
‘My lord!’ Wulf scrambled to his feet. He was not certain, but he feared that the Lady Erica was about to face the same fate as his sister. With his commission, the last thing he needed to do was to draw attention to himself, but he could not stand by and let this happen. ‘You cannot sanction this…it…it would be rape!’
Great green eyes fixed on him, wide and startled— Wulf felt their impact in his core. Then Lady Erica seemed to draw calmness about her person like a cloak and her features went blank. It was as though she had somehow absented herself from the hall.
‘Rape?’ Guthlac Stigandson was shaking his head and several around the board murmured their agreement. ‘Not rape, but reparation, Brader, reparation. Since you have not been long of our number and are unfamiliar with this feud, I will explain. If one of my men disparages Thane Eric’s daughter, then our honour will be satisfied. In view of what was done to my beloved mother, such an act is not rape, it is merely reparation.’
Wulf edged his sword free of its sheath. Hrothgar was watching him like a hawk. ‘No, my lord.’ For his part, Wulf did not take his eyes from Guthlac. Wulf did not want a fight, not here, not over this woman, but in memory of his poor sister, he could not see her hurt. ‘Call it what you like, but if a woman is bedded against her will, it is rape.’
Lady Erica’s bosom heaved. ‘I think, sir, I would be willing—’ her tone was distant, her sang-froid astonishing ‘—if I knew for certain it would finally put an end to the bloodfeud. That is why I am here, to end the bloodfeud.’
Appalled, Wulf stared. She was obviously personally innocent of any wrongdoing and yet she could accept such barbarism? The man she had called Ailric could not; on the other side of the trestle, the veins were bulging in his temples as he struggled vainly to wrench free of his guards. The lady looked directly at Wulf, but her green eyes had lost their luster; they were dull as they had not been when she had first walked, head high, through that portcullis. The Lady Erica’s body might be here in this hall, but her mind and her soul had fled. It came to Wulf that already, though hardly a finger had been laid upon her, this woman was being scarred by what was happening.
But surprised?
Wulf gritted his teeth. No, the lady had definitely not been ignorant of the revenge that the Saxon leader might demand, she had known. Oh, she could not have been certain of the revenge Guthlac would exact on her, but she had recognised that her ravishment was a distinct possibility.
She had hoped, perhaps, that Guthlac Stigandson would relent, but she had known the possibilities and—with stunning bravery—she had walked into this stronghold fully prepared to offer herself up so that the bloodfeud might end. She was desperate, so trapped she was prepared to be the sacrificial lamb.
Stepping carefully round her, Wulf looked directly at Guthlac. The man’s gaze was as cold as fenwater. ‘My lord, I realise I am but a newcomer here, but I am bound to say that, however you dress it, this is not an honourable act.’
Hrothgar’s lips curled. ‘Woman.’
Wulf was not about to be distracted by such a crude attempt to draw his fire. ‘My lord?’
Guthlac sighed. Now that his wife and her ladies had left the hall, some of the tension seemed to have left him. Perhaps all was not lost. Was it possible that the man possessed a shred of decency? Had he been ashamed to sanction such an act before his wife? Guthlac wanted his revenge, to be sure, but perhaps on one level he did not have the stomach for it. He had openly admitted to a grudging respect for the lady’s father…and yet, as leader, he could not back down without impugning his honour.
The leader of a warband would not want to lose face before his men. And Wulf recalled that it had been Guthlac’s mother who had apparently been—what was the term they had used?—disparaged. Had she really been raped? Dear God, did two wrongs make a right?
‘Saewulf Brader…’ Guthlac released Lady Erica to Hrothgar and reached for his ale ‘…as you have not been long of our number, I shall once again overlook your questioning me. But let me assure you, the feud between Thane Eric’s family and mine is an honourable one. Why, even a man born by the docks in Southwark as you were, must have heard of such bloodfeuds.’
Wulf nodded. ‘Indeed, my lord, but surely the honour that is satisfied in harming an innocent young woman is a pretty poor sort of honour.’ The image of his sister, pale as she lay on her bier, took form in his mind’s eye. No bloodfeud had caused his sister’s death, that had been an individual act of violence, one person on another, but in Wulf’s mind rape was rape. This woman’s tribe might sanction her sacrifice, but he could not. Lady Erica would not suffer hurt tonight, not if he could help it.
Eyes narrowing, Thane Guthlac raised his ale cup. He drank deep, set the cup down with deliberate slowness and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Aye, boy,’ he said, managing with one word to emphasise his seniority in both rank and age, ‘so you might think. But what say you to the honour that saw one of her father’s housecarls abduct my mother and take her against her will?’
Wulf’s heart thudded as he realised the enormity of what he was up against. ‘One of Thane Eric’s men did violate your mother—it is true, then?’
‘Just so.’ Guthlac’s lips thinned and his voice became soft, but no less dangerous. ‘Her blood cries out for vengeance, so stand back, Saewulf Brader, let honour be satisfied.’
Somehow Lady Erica was keeping her composure. Tall and stately, she stood with lowered eyes and with only that almost imperceptible quivering of her veil to show the agitation that she must be feeling. Wulf ought to step back, De Warenne would wish it—his commission was of the first importance. But Wulf could not do it. The memory of his dead half-sister had kept him in this place when he should have gone hours ago, and now it drove him on. ‘My lord—’
‘He wants her.’ Hrothgar’s mouth became ugly. ‘That is what this is about—Saewulf fancies the girl himself. What’s the matter, Brader, wouldn’t Maude oblige last night? Never mind, boy,’ he sneered. ‘Since we are, as my lord has explained, honourable men, I will fight you for her.’
Wulf’s mouth went dry. He thought quickly. He did not want to fight Hrothgar, but if he did fight and if he won, he might be able to keep the lady safe. He swallowed; he might be one of the rawest of the housecarls in this place, but he had trained shoulder to shoulder with De Warenne’s knights, and his swordplay was strong. Hrothgar had no idea what he was up against. When Wulf had ‘enlisted’ with the rebels, he had naturally been tested in combat, but he had held back, misliking that these men should know his true measure.
Lady Erica waited, apparently meekly between Wulf and Hrothgar, while Hrothgar held fast to her arm. Remember why you are here—Wulf felt the anger rise within him—remember your commission. You should not be drawing attention to yourself. But Wulf could not tear his eyes from the large hand crushing the purple cloth of the lady’s sleeve and he knew that, whatever the cost, he could not see Erica of Whitecliffe ravished as Marie had been. Clenching his fists, he struggled for control. A hot head would not help him here; he must use his anger, not be used by it.
The lady’s head came up and those green eyes fastened on him. There was a slight crease between her brows. Tall Erica of Whitecliffe might be, her height equalled Hrothgar’s, but she only reached Wulf’s shoulder.
Wulf smiled. She did not return his smile, but her eyes ran over him, assessing him as she would a thoroughbred. Wulf felt oddly naked and hoped he was not flushing. Resigning