The Laird's Captive Wife

Ashlynn’s choice was stark: take Iain as her husband, or accept a fate that would likely be much worse.

When the words were all spoken and the ring on her finger he kissed her, a gentle kiss which burned nonetheless and set her pulse racing. Understated and subtle, it was underlain with a deeper promise, and the implications quickened every fibre of her being.

For an instant their eyes met, but as so often his face gave little away. Did he share the resentment she felt? Given the choice, he would never have entered into this bargain. From the outset he had regarded her as an encumbrance. What possible argument could have persuaded him to agree to this?

They went out to the horses and Iain took leave of his king. He turned back to Ashlynn.

‘Come, my wife.’

The use of that title sent another wave of heat the length of her body. Soon enough he would take her to his bed and make his possession complete…

The setting for this story is the Norman Conquest, a period that has long interested me because it was such a watershed in English history. However, the Battle of Hastings was far from being decisive in political terms. For the next six years William had to contend with numerous rebellions, which he put down with great severity. One such rising was in Northumbria. In the winter of 1069–70 the King’s army exacted a terrible retribution for this. Known afterwards as The Harrying of the North, it was one of the most infamous episodes of William’s reign. Contemporary chroniclers describe the region as being littered with corpses because there were not enough people left alive to bury them. One estimate puts the number of dead at 100,000. Over twenty years later, Domesday Book records much of this area as ‘waste and desolation’. It is alleged that William, on his deathbed, confessed that his treatment of Northumbria had been unjust and troubled his conscience greatly.

My heroine and her family are innocent victims of these events. When their manor at Heslingfield is destroyed by the King’s mercenaries, Ashlynn is alone and penniless in a dangerous land. Her troubles are compounded when she falls into the hands of Black Iain, a notorious border warlord. Haunted by the past, and driven by his thirst for revenge, Iain believes he has no time for the kind of encumbrance that Ashlynn represents.

The Laird’s Captive Wife

Joanna Fulford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Helen, who shared so many childhood adventures.

Praise for Joanna Fulford’s debut novel

THE VIKING’S DEFIANT BRIDE

‘Fulford’s story of lust and love set in the Dark Ages is reminiscent of Woodiwiss’s The Flame and the Flower.’ —RT Book Reviews

JOANNA FULFORD is a compulsive scribbler, with a passion for literature and history, both of which she has studied to postgraduate level. Other countries and cultures have always exerted a fascination, and she has travelled widely, living and working abroad for many years. However, her roots are in England, and are now firmly established in the Peak District, where she lives with her husband, Brian. When not pressing a hot keyboard she likes to be out on the hills, either walking or on horseback. However, these days equestrian activity is confined to sedate hacking rather than riding at high speed towards solid obstacles.

Recent novels by the same author:

THE VIKING’S DEFIANT BRIDE

(part of the Mills & Boon Presents… anthology, featuring talented new authors)

THE WAYWARD GOVERNESS

Prologue

The Scottish laird rested a moment on his sword, letting his gaze range the length of the defile where his men were now searching the bodies of the slain. Though the ambush had been successful the exhilaration of the fight was underlain by frustration as he realised the one he sought was not there. Surveying the scene now, his dark gaze hardened. Before he left he would find out what he wanted to know. Not all the men lying here were dead.

As the laird’s shadow fell across him, the wounded Norman mercenary glanced up quickly, taking in the naked sword and the uncompromising expression of the man who held it. Then he spat. The Scot’s gaze never wavered.

‘Where’s Fitzurse?’

The Norman returned him a cold stare but made no reply. A moment later the point of a blade was pressed against his throat.

‘I’ll ask you just once more,’ said the quiet voice. ‘Where is he?’

‘We’re dead men anyway. Why should I tell you?’

‘Tell me and you can take your chance with the kites and the ravens. Refuse and I’ll cut your throat and ask someone else.’

The man swallowed. ‘Fitzurse rides north with the rest of his force.’

‘Where?’

‘Durham.’

‘You’re certain of this?’

‘We’re in his pay.’

‘Paid to destroy everything for miles around?’

‘Aye, for sixty miles around. On King William’s orders.’

Recalling the devastation he had seen on the journey north, the laird felt his gorge rise. Once upon a time, in a past life, French society had been dear to his heart. At fourteen the world had been new and green, a place full of exciting possibilities of which France had been one. At the time it had seemed like a dream come true, a welcome chance to escape the cheerless confines of Dark Mount and his father’s enmity. Back then the castle at Vaucourt had been the warm centre of his universe; the military training it afforded the highest peak of achievement. At Vaucourt he had grown to manhood. At Vaucourt he had first met Eloise…

That recollection inspired others less welcome. All the dead faces he had seen in the past days blurred and merged until he saw just one, the one that had been all to him. Time dulled the pain of loss but it did nothing to extinguish anger—or hatred. Both burned brighter for being cold.

‘Why are you so anxious to find Fitzurse anyway?’

The prisoner’s voice drew the laird back to the present. ‘That’s my business,’ he replied.

‘Suit yourself. It’s nothing to me.’ The other paused. ‘I doubt if Fitzurse will care either.’

‘Oh, he’ll care all right when I catch up to him.’

‘And who are you exactly?’

‘My name is Iain McAlpin.’

The Norman’s eyes widened slightly in recognition and with it the first flicker of fear.

‘I have heard of you, my lord.’

‘You’re like to hear more, assuming I let you live of course.’

The other licked dry lips. ‘I’ve told you what you wanted to know.’

‘You can have your life, you Norman scum. I’ll not soil my sword with you.’ With that the laird sheathed the blade and walked away.

He headed back to the edge of the path where his men were waiting with the loot taken from the Normans.

‘Well?’ he asked.

His lieutenant shook his head. ‘Not a lot, my lord. We found only copper coin and a little silver. Hardly worth their effort to get it.’

‘Loot is only their secondary aim, Dougal. The first is revenge for the death of an earl.’

‘De Comyn was a fool.’

‘True, but he was also William’s chosen man and Northumbria will pay the blood price.’

He had found out early in life about the abuses of power, first at his father’s hands and later from other men. They were lessons well learned. Only when you were strong and feared could you protect yourself and others. His reputation might have come too late to help Eloise, but it now served well to protect all those for whom he was responsible.

Dougal eyed him quizzically.

‘What now, my lord?’

‘Tell the men to mount up. We ride for Durham.’

The other lowered his voice. ‘Is that wise?’

‘Wise? Aye, if I am to find Fitzurse.’

‘Have a care, my lord. The man has the king’s favour.’

‘That will not save him,’ replied the laird. ‘I have waited eight years for the chance to get him within my sword’s length.’

‘Aye, and you have just cause to seek him out. I know that if any man does.’

‘And your point is?’

Undaunted by that hawk-like stare his companion met and held it. ‘I’m only asking if Durham is the right place to meet him. The area is like to be swarming with William’s men. Fitzurse will be well protected.’

‘Not well enough to save him from me.’

‘Cut the bastard’s throat with my blessing, but what of your mission and your oath to Malcolm?’

‘Both will be honoured. He’ll get the intelligence he seeks at the appointed place and time.’ Retrieving the reins of a dapple grey stallion, the laird swung easily into the high saddle. ‘But come what may I shall have my revenge.’

Chapter One

‘Keep your guard high, Ashlynn. Like this.’Ban held his own sword aloft in demonstration. ‘That’s it. Now let’s try those moves again.’

Nothing loath Ashlynn closed in to attack, trying to remember everything her brother had taught her over these last weeks, her whole attention focused on the two blades. The clash of metal rang in the frosty air. Ban parried dextrously and for a moment or two she had the satisfaction of seeing him forced back several paces.

‘Ha! Take that!’

He returned the grin. ‘You grow cocky, little sister.’

Ashlynn redoubled her efforts, laying on with a will, and saw him give ground again. Exultant she laughed. Laughter turned to a yelp as a blow beneath the hilt sent the blade flying out of her grasp and he tripped her neatly, sending her sprawling on her back, his sword point coming to rest against her throat.

‘Do you yield?’

She sighed. ‘I yield…again.’

‘Don’t be disheartened.’ He put up his blade and extended a hand, pulling her to her feet. ‘That was much better.’

‘Not good enough.’

‘It takes time, Ash, and you’ve made real progress.’

His praise heightened the flush of colour in her cheeks. At nineteen Ban was a year her senior and had already established his fighting credentials, his career having been founded at Stamford Bridge and Hastings three years earlier.

‘Progress of a kind,’ she replied. ‘Yet I think my skills would not long withstand those of a seasoned mercenary.’

‘God send you never need to put them to the test.’

‘God send none of us does.’ She shot him a shrewd glance. ‘And yet you think it may come to that, don’t you?’

‘William will not suffer resistance lightly.’

She knew the words for truth. In recent days the manor at Heslingfield had seen a steady stream of people fleeing north from Durham ahead of the approaching army. None would willingly stay to face the Conqueror’s wrath, knowing it would be terrible indeed, for the slaying of the Earl of Northumbria would be avenged with interest.

‘De Comyn should have listened to Bishop Aegelwine. If he had he might be living still. Commandeering men’s homes and womenfolk was never going to win him friends.’

It was an understatement and they both knew it. What had followed the arrival of the new Earl of Northumbria was an orgy of violence and cruelty. Provoked beyond endurance, the people of Durham had risen up in the night and slain the hated invaders, almost to a man. The streets of the city had run with blood. De Comyn had been burned alive when the mob set fire to the house where he and some of his men tried to make their last stand. Of the original force of seven hundred Norman soldiers only two had lived to tell the tale.

Ban shook his head in disgust. ‘The Normans are arrogant brutes and heed none when their minds are set on blood and conquest.’

‘William will find the city empty when he comes.’

‘Then his wrath will fall elsewhere.’

It was the reason he had begun to teach his sister the rudiments of swordsmanship. Women were vulnerable in these unsettled times, even those possessed of courage and spirit.

‘Surely he would not punish the innocent, Ban?’

‘A man like William won’t bother with such distinctions. Why, he even burned his own men at York.’

‘He could not have intended it. No commander in his right mind would destroy his own troops. ’Twas only that the fire burned out of control.’

‘He seemed to find it an acceptable level of loss all the same. The man holds life cheap.’

She shivered, feeling the cold for the first time. By tacit consent they sheathed the swords and retrieved their cloaks from the foot of a tall oak. Then they began to retrace their steps towards the manor. Beneath their feet the snow, already ankle deep, scrunched with each step. It had come early this year and above them a lowering sky gave promise of more.

As they left the shelter of the trees they paused, seeing movement on the road in the distance. Roused from her thoughts, Ashlynn saw a small group of people heading that way.

‘More fugitives from Durham, would you say?’

Her brother nodded. ‘Aye, most likely.’

The bitter weather must surely have rendered any journey unthinkable that was not undertaken from strictest necessity. It was a measure of their desperation that the people came anyway. As they drew closer she could see they numbered a dozen in all, men, women and children, their frightened faces pinched with cold. A few pitiful bundles contained all that they had been able to carry when they fled the city. Ashlynn’s compassion woke and, exchanging a swift glance with her brother, she saw the same thought reflected in his expression.

‘I’ll take them to the kitchen house,’ she said. ‘They’ll need hot food before continuing their journey.’

‘No, I’ll go. You’d best change your clothes before Father sees you.’

Ashlynn nodded, knowing very well that he was right. She watched for a moment as he went to meet the refugees and then hurried off towards the women’s bower. She had only just reached her chamber when a servant arrived with a message.

‘Your father desires your presence, my lady.’

Ashlynn grimaced, more than ever aware of her unorthodox appearance. Having dismissed the servant, she swiftly divested herself of leggings and tunic, and dressed again in her blue wool gown. Pausing only to tidy her hair and throw a mantle over her shoulders against the chill she made her way to the hall.

Lord Cyneric had been sitting in his accustomed chair by the fire but hearing her step he looked up, his shrewd blue gaze appraising, surveying her in silence. Then he inclined his head.

‘Sit down, Ashlynn.’

Obediently she took the offered chair opposite and waited, wondering what this meant. For a moment or two he said nothing, his weathered face thoughtful. Almost it was as though he were seeking the right words. His expression was more sombre than usual and for the first time she felt the vague stirrings of unease. Had he found out about the sword practices with Ban? Was she about to be rebuked again for unladylike behaviour? Would her brother get into trouble too? It wouldn’t be the first time, of course. As long as she could remember, their escapades had landed them deep in the mire. Her mind, following that track, was quite unprepared for what came next.

‘It is time you were married, Ashlynn.’

For a moment she was rendered speechless and could only stare at him.

‘We live in dangerous times,’ Cyneric continued. ‘For your own protection you must have a husband, and one well able to defend you.’

She swallowed hard. ‘But I am under your protection, my lord.’

‘It may not be enough. The situation is dangerous and getting worse.’ He paused. ‘I would see you safely settled. Heaven knows you’ve had suitors enough. Yet at eight and ten you are unmarried still.’

Her face grew hot. It was true. By rights she should have been married long since. ‘I never met a man I liked well enough.’

‘You have had plenty of time to choose, but you have not done so. Now the circumstances force me to choose for you.’

Her heart lurched. ‘My lord?’

‘The Thane of Burford has asked me for your hand several times already and—’

‘Burford!’

The name brought her out of her chair. In her mind’s eye she could see the man for they had met several times during the celebratory gatherings for Yule and Beltane. Older than her by ten years he was of average height with a stocky frame and, like many Saxons, his colouring was fair. He was unfailingly attentive and courteous yet nothing about that homely, bearded face attracted her in the least.

Her father fixed her with a piercing gaze. ‘He is much smitten with you, Ashlynn, and it’s my belief he will make you a good husband.’

She shook her head. ‘I do not love him, my lord.’

‘It is not necessary to love your future partner in life, only to respect him. The rest will come later when you know him better.’ He paused. ‘You are a pretty wench, enough to twist any man around your little finger if you wished to.’

Ashlynn took a deep breath, fighting panic. ‘I don’t want to twist Athelstan round my little finger. I don’t want to get to know him better!’

She had only ever behaved towards him with the requisite good manners though his interest in her had been clear from the first. She had never encouraged it knowing she could not return the sentiment. The thought of receiving much closer attentions from him was inconceivable.

‘Ashlynn, listen to me—’

‘No! I am not some chattel to be handed over thus.’

‘I would not give you lightly to any man. Athelstan is worthy and he has been most constant in his affection for you. He will treat you well.’

‘I will not agree to this.’

‘My word is given. You will be married at Yule.’

The blue eyes widened. Yule was only a few weeks away. ‘No!’

Lord Cyneric’s jaw tightened but he held his temper in check. ‘There is no time to be lost. Burford’s lands lie further off some five days’ ride, and he has at his command a large force of men under arms. He will protect you.’

‘But I—’

‘No more argument, Ashlynn. You will marry him and there’s an end. This year our accustomed Yuletide feast will be to celebrate your wedding. Afterwards you will leave with your new husband.’

‘My lord, please…’

‘Enough. I am the head of this household and I shall be obeyed.’

If the tone had not been enough to convince her of the futility of further argument one look at that implacable expression was. Ashlynn turned on her heel and ran from the room, ignoring the exclamation that would have demanded her return. Half-blinded by angry tears she had no real idea of where she was going, only of a need to be alone for a while. In the event, her precipitate flight brought her to the stables and she slipped inside, pausing a moment on the threshold to look around. Mercifully the place was devoid of human company. Dashing the tears away with a shaking hand she made her way along the stalls until she came to Steorra’s. The chestnut mare heard her step and turned to look, whickering softly in recognition and presenting the white star on her forehead for which she was named. Ashlynn stroked the velvet muzzle for a moment or two. Then she buried her face in the horse’s mane and wept.

It was late when she returned to the hall. The evening meal was preparing though in truth she had little appetite for it. A group of people was gathered near the fire, among them her father and brothers. Ethelred was deep in conversation with his parent but Ban saw her come in and smiled. Then the smile faded a little and his eyes narrowed, taking in her altered appearance, for although she had sluiced her face with cold water before rejoining the company, her eyes were still suspiciously pink-rimmed, her face unwontedly pale. However, one warning glance held him silent and he merely watched as she turned away, extending her hands towards the blaze.

Letting the conversation wash around her Ashlynn kept her gaze on the fire, though in truth she saw nothing. All she could think of just then was being tied for life to a man she did not love, and being taken from her home and everything that was familiar to live in a distant place among strangers. Her father used the excuse of the troubled times but both of them knew it was more than that. Whenever he looked at her he saw her mother, the beloved wife he had lost just days after Ashlynn’s birth. Though he tried to hide his resentment afterwards he had never quite succeeded. With this marriage she would be gone and the reminders with her.

In due course they took their places at table but Ashlynn’s appetite had deserted her and she ate little. Around her the conversation continued, still very much focused on the political threat that hung like a pall over all their lives.

‘Will Heslingfield remain safe from the Conqueror’s anger?’ said Gytha.

Her sister-in-law’s voice penetrated Ashlynn’s consciousness and she glanced up, her attention caught in spite of her sombre mood.

‘We have done nothing to provoke it,’ Ban replied. The tone was even enough but Ashlynn detected the criticism beneath. Her brother had been much in favour of the rebellion and their father’s refusal to allow his kin any involvement had rankled with him. Lord Cyneric threw him a shrewd glance.

‘Be thankful for it.’ He frowned. ‘All the same we shall be ready to defend ourselves if the need arises.’

‘Against an army?’ replied Ethelred.

‘William will hold the city and use it as a base to consolidate his position as he has with York. Besides, the weather is on our side too. He will seek winter quarters for his men. We may perhaps see forays for food and supplies but little more, I think. We shall be secure enough until the spring.’

‘If William finds none to punish within the city he will look elsewhere. Heslingfield may not be as safe as you think, my lord.’

Lord Cyneric frowned but he did not immediately reply, pondering his son’s words. Though they did not always see eye to eye on every issue, Ashlynn knew her elder brother’s opinion carried weight with their father. At three and twenty Ethelred had much of the look of his parent, being tall and well made and with the tawny hair and blue eyes that were a family characteristic.

‘He is right, my lord.’ Ban threw his brother a swift glance. ‘It may not be safe to stay.’

‘The women should be moved to a place of safety,’ Ethelred went on, ‘though heaven knows those are precious few these days.’

‘We shall consider Gytha’s situation in due course,’ their father replied. ‘Ashlynn is to marry Burford at Yuletide. Her future safety is assured.’

The news fell like a thunderbolt and for several seconds there followed a deep silence in which all eyes went from Cyneric to his daughter. Ashlynn felt her face grow warm as resentment rose like a tide.

‘Ashlynn to wed Burford?’ said Ban. ‘Since when?’

She could hear disbelief in his tone. The same incredulity was registered in his face.

‘Since this morning,’ she replied.

He threw her a penetrating look. ‘I didn’t know you cared for him.’

‘Why should she not?’ replied Ethelred. ‘He is a worthy man in every way.’ He smiled at his sister. ‘Congratulations. I wish you happy, Ashlynn.’