His Captive Lady

‘We will save those for later.’

Later. Erica’s breath froze. Later.

He faced her. Smiled. There was so little room that he was scarcely a foot away from her. He was very tall, this man to whom she had been given. His head almost touched the planked ceiling. Saewulf Brader’s skin was smooth and his eyes were clear. And he was, she realised with a start, examining her with equal attention. Convulsively, she swallowed.

‘Do not fear me. You are safe,’ he said softly.

‘I… I thank you.’ Absurdly, she believed him.

Strong muscles bunched and shifted under his tunic. Saewulf Brader was the image of health. Young men, healthy young men, were, in Erica’s admittedly limited experience, not entirely reliable where women were concerned. Until today Erica had led a sheltered life. Her high status had protected her. Physically, at least. Physically, she was as chaste and innocent as a nun in an enclosed order.

Silently, she stared at Saewulf Brader’s broad back as he worked, and wondered what was running through his mind. Tonight he had been given a trophy. Her. Could she take him at his word? Could she trust him not to… touch her?

Carol Townend has been making up stories since she was a child. Whenever she comes across a tumbledown building, be it castle or cottage, she can’t help conjuring up the lives of the people who once lived there. Her Yorkshire forebears were friendly with the Brontë sisters. Perhaps their influence lingers…

Carol’s love of ancient and medieval history took her to London University, where she read History, and her first novel (published by Mills & Boon) won the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s New Writers’ Award. Currently she lives near Kew Gardens, with her husband and daughter. Visit her website at www.caroltownend.co. uk

Recent novels by the same author:

THE NOVICE BRIDE

AN HONOURABLE ROGUE

Praise for

CAROL TOWNEND

THE NOVICE BRIDE ‘THE NOVICE BRIDE is sweet, tantalising, frustrating, seductively all-consuming, deliciously provocative… I can’t go on enough about this story’s virtues. Read this book. You’ll fall in love a hundred times over.’ —Romance Junkies

‘From the very first words, this story

snatches the reader from present day, willingly

pulling hearts and minds back to the time of the

Norman conquest. Culture clash, merciless invaders,

innocence lost and freedom captured—all wonderfully

highlighted in this mesmerising novel.’

—Romance Reader at Heart

AN HONOURABLE ROGUE ‘Ms Townend’s impeccable attention to detail and lush, vivid images bring this time period to life.’ —Romance Reader at Heart

‘Anyone who wants to read a very satisfying and heartwarming

historical romance will not go wrong with

AN HONOURABLE ROGUE by Carol Townend.’

—CataRomance

Carol Townend

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Author Note

In the eleventh century heraldry was in its infancy— the devices of the various noble houses did not start to develop properly until the second quarter of the twelfth century. However, flags and pennons may be seen on the Bayeux Tapestry. They were used in the Battle of Hastings to convey signals as well as to reveal identity. Thane Eric of Whitecliffe’s battle pennon is similar to these.

Many thanks are due to my editor, Joanne, for her thoughtful (and always tactfully phrased!) suggestions. She is worth her weight in gold.

Chapter One

Westminster—December 1067

Captain Wulf FitzRobert sat waiting on a stool by the fire in the middle of King William’s cavernous new barrack-hall. Waiting, waiting. It was an exercise in patience, he told himself, but even so, he was unable to keep his keen blue eyes from straying to the top table where the great lords were in conference. He was hungry for his next commission.

The freshly whitewashed walls around him displayed a formidable array of shields and lances, which winked in the fitful candlelight. Thick beams arched above Wulf’s head, beams that had been cut so recently that he could smell sawn timbers, could see the marks of the adze. While Wulf kicked his heels and mastered his impatience, a troop of foot soldiers tramped in and headed for the wine jugs.

Glancing down at the worn brown tunic that stretched across his broad chest, at the shabby and barely serviceable grey hose that barely covered his long legs, Wulf noticed a rip in the weave and grimaced. His clothing needed to be replaced and he could ill afford it. Advancement, that was what he craved, more advancement.

Under the high table two wolfhounds—a grey and a brindle—were snarling over possession of a bone. Wulf’s mouth twisted. So it was with those lower in the ranks, he thought, lifting his gaze once again to the noblemen and commanders clustered around the board; that is what we are reduced to, fighting over scraps dropped by those above.

Parchments were scattered across the tabletop—aps, most likely. Wulf knew what the lords were about: they were busy slicing up lands won in the recent conflict. Estates that had once belonged to Saxon noblemen were being parcelled out among King William’s most loyal supporters. Campaigns for suppressing rebellion were being planned; offers were being made for the most wealthy of the Saxon widows and heiresses.

Just then, the brindle hound lunged amid a flurry of growling and snapping. The grey yelped and dropped the bone and in a moment it was all over. The brindle darted into the shadows with the bone fast in its jaws, while the loser slunk away, tail between its legs.

Was time running out for him? Wulf thought. England had only so much land; there were only so many titles. If he did not get a decent commission, there might be nothing left to win, neither land nor title nor heiress. Not that Wulf had ambitions for an heiress—no, the shadow over his birth meant he could not look so high. He was illegitimate. But lands and a knighthood, yes, he certainly had ambitions for those. And with no noble family to sponsor him, Wulf must shift for himself.

The lords had wine cups at their elbows. Of delicate imported glass, they were a world away from the clay goblet Wulf had warming by the fire. As well as the maps, there were several jugs of sweet red wine on the high table; wine that Wulf knew had only that morning been shipped in from Normandy. Briefly, Wulf spared a thought for the merchant willing to risk his ship to a winter crossing, but then this was King William’s hall, so doubtless the man and his crew would have been well rewarded. Wulf propped his chin on his hand. Rewarded as he hoped to be, when he was given a good chance to prove himself…

One lord in particular held Wulf’s gaze: William De Warenne, his liege lord. As one of the King’s most trusted commanders, De Warenne had recently been granted estates on the coast south of London, near a place called Lewes. Wulf had heard that his lord was also in the running for more land, land in the remote east of England, somewhere in the fens. Wulf had never set foot in the fens, nor did he want to. If what he had heard was true, the fen country was marshy and waterlogged even in high summer. And at this time of year, in midwinter, the fens would be frozen solid.

Wulf wound lean fingers round the clay cup and lifted it to his lips. He took no more than a sip; he wanted a sober head on him when his lord called him over.

Perhaps, if he were lucky, he would be granted a commission in those southern lands so recently acquired. Two days, Wulf thought, for two interminable days he had been whiling away the time here, kicking his heels while the commanders discussed tactics and jostled for power and position.

A lock of dark hair fell over Wulf’s eyes; impatiently, he shoved it back. He must get his hair trimmed, it had grown so much he looked more Saxon than Norman, and the last thing he wanted was for the lord of Lewes to think he was favouring the Saxon half of his heritage.

‘Captain!’

Wulf’s blue eyes narrowed and his fingers tightened on his wine cup. His heart thudded—De Warenne was looking directly at him. At last!

‘My lord?’ Setting his cup down, Wulf rose and approached the high table.

‘FitzRobert, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Wulf stood, feet planted squarely apart, and waited.

‘FitzRobert.’ De Warenne unrolled one of the maps and weighed it down with a jug and a candlestick. ‘Take a look at this, and tell me what you see.’

Ignoring the curious gazes of the other men sitting in council with De Warenne, Wulf peered at the candlelit parchment. Thankfully, he had made it his business to interpret maps; it was lettering he struggled with.

‘It is England.’ Leaning in, Wulf put his finger on the spot which he knew represented London. ‘We are about here, my lord. See where the river is marked? And here, this is where Lewes lies.’

‘Excellent. Now show me Normandy.’

‘Normandy?’ Wulf blinked. ‘This map is not large enough to show Normandy, my lord. If it were, it would lie down here, somewhere past the Narrow Sea.’ He indicated a knot-hole on the table, a couple of inches below where the parchment ended.

Nodding, De Warenne smiled and lifted a meaningful brow at one of his companions, Count Eugène of Médavy. ‘I repeat, Captain FitzRobert is the man for this job.’

‘Hmm.’ Eugène of Médavy scrutinised Wulf with a soldier’s eye, noting his height and how much weight he carried, assessing the strength and width of his shoulders. Wulf knew without vanity, for it was a fact, that by that measure he would not fall short. He had been born with a large, healthy body, and years of training had made it the body of a warrior. He was big, but he carried muscle rather than excess flesh. As a warrior Wulf did not disappoint, but the Saxon blood in his veins was quite another matter, never mind the shame of his illegitimate birth…

To Wulf’s astonishment, the Count began addressing him in English. ‘Captain, have you any knowledge of this land to the north of London?’ The Count’s accent was thick, but his English was intelligible, which was rare, very rare, in a Norman lord.

Hastily, Wulf closed his mouth and looked where Count Eugène’s blunt finger was pointing. East Anglia. ‘That’s marshland,’ Wulf said, replying in English, for this was doubtless some kind of test. A frisson of excitement ran through him. The fens might not exactly be the South Downs, but if they could bring him the preferment he sought, he would learn to love them. ‘Here is Ely, my lord,’ he continued in English. ‘I have not been there, but I have been told that there is more water thereabouts than land. The fens are criss-crossed with waterways rather than roads, and the fen folk use boats to travel from one place to another.’

‘The wenches there have webbed feet,’ Count Eugène said, on a laugh. ‘And people use poles to vault from island to island.’

Wulf shrugged; he, too, had heard the tales, but he doubted that half of them were true. ‘Perhaps.’

The Count watched him, a small smile playing about his mouth, and Wulf’s heartbeat speeded up. Giving one last glance at Wulf’s over-long hair, the Count of Médavy grinned at De Warenne and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Captain FitzRobert certainly has the looks, William, and he speaks the language like a native. He could well be our man, but he will have to be quick-witted, because he will not have long to learn the lie of the land.’ Picking up his gauntlets, Eugène of Médavy nodded at Wulf and sauntered to the door. Without turning, he snapped his fingers and the brindled hound detached itself from the shadows with its bone, and trotted after him. The Count’s voice floated back. ‘I shall leave it to you to arrange, De Warenne, since the King was making noises about granting you more lands there.’

A general scraping of benches announced that the other noblemen took this as their signal to leave, but Wulf scarcely noticed. His attention was all for his liege lord, though he fought to keep the eagerness from his expression. ‘I can be of service, my lord?’ At last. At last.

‘Aye, I think that you can. FitzRobert—’ De Warenne broke off, scowling.

‘My lord?’

‘Merde, you cannot use that name, we shall have to give you another.’

Some of Wulf’s elation began to drain away. ‘What, precisely, is my commission?’ He kept his expression blank and reminded himself of a lesson he had learned years ago—if he wanted to avoid disappointment, he should not expect too much. Likely he was being given this commission because it was too distasteful for a Norman nobleman to consider. Wulf set his jaw. Well, he was not proud, he was not noble. But he was ambitious and he would do whatever his lord asked, provided it brought him advancement.

‘Saxon outlaws have been reported hiding out in the fens,’ De Warenne told him. ‘We need good intelligence as to their number and strength. Any threat to our King’s rule must be eliminated.’

A spy. Ignoring the sudden griping in his belly, reminding himself of that knighthood that had been his goal for more years than he could count, Wulf straightened his shoulders. ‘What is it you would have me do, my lord?’

‘You must pose as Saxon. It should prove easy enough—you speak the language like a native.’

‘I am a native,’ Wulf said softly, ‘at least, half of me is.’

‘Ah, yes, your mother, I recall. You were brought up not far from here, were you not?’

‘Aye, in Southwark.’

De Warenne’s gaze sharpened. ‘The Godwinesons had a hall in Southwark.’

‘I know it well, or I did.’

De Warenne reached for his wine. ‘Not a plank standing,’ he said, oblivious that his words evoked yet more conflicting feelings in Wulf’s chest.

Wulf remembered playing in that hall as a young boy. He had even met King Harold long ago, when Harold had been but a young earl. And this man, this man sitting at the trestle in the new king’s barracks with the map of Harold Godwineson’s kingdom unrolled before him, now held title to a large slice of Harold’s lands around Lewes. Lord, Wulf thought, how the wheels do turn.

‘So, FitzRobert,’ De Warenne was saying, ‘these Saxon rebels—you are to track them to their lair in these marshes. Infiltrate their band. Our sources speak of a leader known as Thane Guthlac. An outlaw now, of course, as are those who ally themselves with him. Word has it that this Guthlac has built up a sizeable force, but so far none of our men have managed to come back with precise numbers.’ Wearily, his seigneur scrubbed his cheeks. ‘Nor can we pinpoint the location of his camp. Which is damned odd, since one of my scouts reported hearing a rumour that the man had built a castle out there.’

Wulf’s brows rose. ‘A castle in the fens? That seems unlikely.’

‘Nevertheless, that is the rumour.’ De Warenne took up the wine jug and filled a couple of glasses. Taking one, he slid the other towards Wulf. ‘Take a seat, Captain, we still have to discuss the question of your name. I hardly think that FitzRobert is suited to a Saxon.’

Wulf groped for the bench, trying to will away the knot that was forming in his belly. Finally he was being offered the chance that he had longed for, but where was the elation, the triumph that he had expected to feel? ‘I am to be a spy.’

‘Locate Thane Guthlac’s encampment. Worm your way inside, we need to know how much of a threat they pose. It could be that there are just a few stragglers hiding out with him—we have no idea and we must know. Now, about your name—’

‘I could use my other name, my lord.’

‘Other name?’

‘Saewulf Brader.’

For a moment his lord gazed blankly at him, before understanding lit his eyes. ‘Oh, I take it Brader was your mother’s name? You used it before your father had you brought to Normandy?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Saewulf Brader,’ De Warenne repeated, slowly examining Wulf’s features. ‘Yes, that will do, it has an authentic ring to it. Don’t bother to get your hair cut either, it will help you look the part. And, if I were you, I might consider growing a beard. Damned hairy, these Saxons.’

Wulf took a sip of the wine. It was rich and sweet, smoother by far than that served lower down the hall. ‘No, my lord, I do not think a beard is for me, I have grown accustomed to the Norman fashion.’

De Warenne raised a brow. ‘You will raise their suspicions.’

Wulf grinned. ‘I could say I ran into some Normans and cut my beard off to disguise myself.’

‘Suit yourself. I leave the details to you.’ De Warenne met Wulf’s gaze directly. ‘Do a good job, Captain, and I won’t forget. There will be preferment for you.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ Understanding that he was being dismissed, Wulf rose. ‘When do you want me to leave?’

‘As soon as you can. Oh, and one thing more …’

‘My lord?’

‘You have a horse?’

‘Aye.’ Not that his lord would call his poor Melody a horse; Wulf was a long way from affording a knight’s destrier. One day, perhaps …

‘You will have to leave him behind.’

Wulf nodded. A horse might also raise suspicions, since Saxons did not use them as much as Normans. But, in any case, from what Wulf had heard, horses and fenland did not sound compatible.

‘Put him in the stables here in the charge of my groom. I’ll see he knows to take care of him.’ De Warenne picked up a pouch and lobbed it towards him. ‘Here, this will help buy anything you might need.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

Tossing back his wine, Wulf turned to go. His mind was spinning. Finally, he was being given the chance that he burned for! He would not have chosen to spy on his former countrymen—in truth, his commission was far from pleasant. Some might call it a dirty task. Certainly it was not a task for a noble Norman. And this was, of course, exactly why it had been given to him. De Warenne and the Count of Médavy could flatter him all they wished by referring to his aptitude, to his fluency in English, to the length of his hair, but Wulf knew the real reason he had been chosen.

Wulf was not noble, Wulf was not even legitimate, Wulf was a bastard. A bastard of a commission for a bastard of a man. That had been the unspoken undercurrent in the entire discussion. No highborn knight would even consider such a commission.

Reaching the weapon stack by the door, Wulf picked his sword out of the pile and stood for a moment staring at it. It was a plain sword. With its wooden scabbard and its hilt bound in cowhide, it was the sword of a plain man. It might have a keen edge and Wulf might be able to wield it as well as any knight, but he had no noble family to sponsor him. And there, too, was another reason the Lord of Lewes had selected him to go to the fens. If by chance Wulf were killed, there would be no aristocratic friends calling for vengeance, there would be no noblewomen weeping at his graveside.

Rolling powerful shoulders, Wulf shrugged off his dark thoughts and buckled on his sword. He glanced around the huge hall filled with King William’s soldiers. He could not afford to be churlish, not when he was being given his chance. He might not choose to spend the winter in the fens, but the sooner he was gone, the sooner he might return. So, distasteful though this commission might be, he would do his best. As he saw it, those rebels, outlaws, call them what you will, were fighting a lost cause, and the sooner they came to realise that, the sooner the bloodshed could end. The sooner England could be at peace.

If there was one thing that Wulf had learned from his liege lord, it was that peace was not something that happened by chance. No, in the winter of 1067, peace had to be made. And if Wulf could play his part in bringing about that peace, and at the same time earn preferment for himself, then so much the better …

Chapter Two

East Anglian Fens—January 1068

Even when clad in green homespun and a simple matching veil, Erica of Whitecliffe presented a queenly figure. Night had fallen, and she was sitting by the fire in the rough reed-thatched shelter that was her latest refuge. Someone had actually found a chair for her. Incongruously it reminded Erica of a throne, and she was able to prop her chin on her hand and stare into the flames. Ranged about her on stools and benches, hugging close to the hearth, were the men she had chosen as her personal escort.

Ailric, his fair hair tied out of the way with a leather thong, was bent over his sword, sharpening it, and the gentle rasp of a whetstone on steel formed a backdrop to her thoughts, thoughts which went back and forth as she struggled to find a way out of their predicament. Morcar’s cough—it was worsening—brought a worried frown to her brow.

Outside the cottage the temperature had plummeted. And it was going to get worse, of that Erica was certain. It was early January; the coldest weather might yet be round the corner.

She was in exile, they were all in exile. And they could not live like this much longer, as that persistent cough was reminding her.

When they had fled her father’s hall at Whitecliffe in the south, Erica had prayed it would be a temporary exile, and that soon they would be home again with the world set to rights. But her father was dead and her people divided. Some had insisted on remaining with her while others, almost a hundred warriors, had taken refuge elsewhere in the marshes. When there was the slightest chance of harrying the Normans, the warriors took it. She longed for them to be together once more; she worried about the wives and children left behind in Whitecliffe.

Morcar, one of her father’s oldest housecarls, smothered another cough. She held down a sigh. Morcar was too old to be living the life of an outlaw, his chest was weakening. And there was Hrolf, with that leg wound that refused to heal—Hrolf needed good food which she could not give him, and rest and … Daily, Erica prayed to return home. This was no place to live, this was no life. But William of Normandy had fast hold of southern England and was not to be ousted, it would seem.

What could she do?

‘The bloodfeud with Thane Guthlac must end,’ she said and braced herself for the inevitable barrage of objections.

The whetstone stilled and Ailric spoke up. ‘My lady, you are not serious?’

‘I have never been more so.’