Ragnor gazed at Maida and thought of the regal poise and vintage beauty she had shown until his man struck her and marred her face. He could find no hint of the former woman in the painfully shuffling, dirty creature who stumbled about her labors with a twisted face and gray-streaked auburn hair matted with blood and dirt. Perhaps the maid at his feet saw herself as she stared so intently at her mother.
A scream tore Aislinn’s attention from her mother, and she glanced around to see the serving girl, Hlynn, being pulled back and forth between two of the soldiers who were arguing loudly over her. The timid maid, just entering her fifteenth year, had never known a man and now faced the nightmare of rape at the hands of these ruffians.
Feeling the girl’s terror, Aislinn bit into her own knuckles to keep from echoing Hlynn’s frightened cries. She knew only too well that soon she would be prey to a man’s passion. There was a rending of cloth as Hlynn’s gunna was torn from her breasts, and a restraining hand clamped down roughly on Aislinn’s shoulder. Cruel, calloused hands snatched and pawed at the young girl’s body, bruising the tender flesh. Aislinn shuddered in revulsion, unable to drag her eyes away. Finally one of the men stunned his rival with a blow to the head and rose, lifting the thrashing, screaming Hlynn in his arms and strode out the door with her. In despair, Aislinn wondered if the girl would survive the night, and she felt the odds seemed high against it.
The dreadful weight upon Aislinn’s shoulder became suddenly unbearable. Her violet eyes flashed their loathing as she turned once more to glare at her captor. The Norman’s eyes returned the challenge and a slow sneering smile crept across full and generous lips, mocking her defiance. Yet as her stare grew more contemptuous and unwavering, his grin faded. Aislinn felt his fingers tighten upon her, bruising her shoulder. Unable to further contain herself, Aislinn shrieked in rage and lifted her hand to strike a blow to his cheek, only to have him catch her arm and force it behind her back until she was crushed against his hauberk. Her face was nearly pressed to his, and his hot breath touched her cheek as he chuckled at her helplessness. She struggled to wrench herself from him as his free hand moved with deliberate slowness over her body, sampling with crude lust the soft ripe curves beneath her garments. Aislinn trembled at his touch, loathing him with every ounce of her being.
“Filthy swine!” she hissed in his face, deriving small pleasure from the startled expression on his face that her French words had brought.
“Eh!” Vachel de Comte sat up sharply, his ears pricked by a feminine voice speaking words he could understand. He had not heard such since they had sailed from Saint Valery. “By damned, cousin, the wench is not only beautiful but learned as well.” He kicked in feigned disgust at the late lord’s saddle. “Bah! ’Tis your luck to get the only wench in this heathen country capable of understanding you when you give her directions in bed.” He grinned as he relaxed back into his seat. “Of course, I must take in account that rape does have its drawbacks. But since the maid can understand you, mayhaps you can coax her into a more congenial mood. What does it matter that you killed her father?”
Ragnor threw Vachel an ugly scowl, and let Aislinn fall to his feet again. His superiority over her once more had slipped a notch, for the wench knew French when he had no inkling of her language.
“Be silent, cub,” he snapped at the younger man. “Your prattling annoys me.”
Vachel pondered Ragnor’s mood and smiled. “Dear cousin, you do worry overmuch, I perceive, or else you would see the jest with me. What can Wulfgar say when you tell him that we were attacked by these wretched heathens? The old man was a wily fox. Duke William will not blame you. But which bastard do you fear most? The Duke, or Wulfgar?”
Aislinn sat more alert now as Ragnor’s features darkened with ill-concealed anger. His brows drew together like a gathering storm cloud.
“I fear no man,” he growled.
“Oh-ho!” Vachel hooted. “You say that bravely enough, but do you mean it? What man here tonight does not hold some uneasiness within him for the deed done here? Wulfgar gave his command not to draw the villagers into battle, yet we have killed many of those who were to be his serfs.”
Aislinn listened carefully to the words the men spoke. Some were strange to her ears but she managed to understand most. Was this man, Wulfgar, whom they spoke of with such apprehension, to be feared above these terrible invaders? And was he to be Darkenwald’s new lord?
“The Duke has promised Wulfgar these towns,” Vachel mused. “But they are of little value without peasants to work the fields and herd the swine. Yes, Wulfgar will have words to speak and in his usual manner not one will be uttered in trivial tones.”
“Nameless cur!” Ragnor spat. “What right does he have to possess these lands?”
“Yea, cousin. You are justified to feel resentment. It does test even me. The Duke has promised to make Wulfgar lord here while we, of noble house, have been given nothing. Your father will be greatly disappointed.”
Ragnor’s upper lip drew back in a sneer. “A bastard’s loyalty to another of his kind is not always just to those more deserving.” He lifted a glossy tress of red gold hair from Aislinn’s shoulder to idly rub it between his fingers, enjoying the silky texture. “I’d swear William would make Wulfgar pope if he could.”
Vachel stroked his chin thoughtfully and frowned. “We cannot with truth say Wulfgar is altogether undeserving, cousin.” What man has ever beaten him in a joust or bested him in a fight? At Hastings he fought with the fury of ten with that Viking ever near to guard his back. He stood his ground when we all thought William dead. Yet to make Wulfgar a lord—aaah!” He threw up his hands in genuine disgust. “That will no doubt give him the thought that he is our equal.”
“And when has he ever thought otherwise?” Ragnor quipped.
Vachel’s gaze shifted to Aislinn as she gave his cousin a contemptuous look. Youthful she was. Vachel surmised her less than a full score years, mayhap eight and ten. Already he had seen her fiery temper. It would not bend easily to obedience. But a man with an eye for beauty might find cause to overlook this flaw, for he was confident it was the only one she possessed. Her new lord, Wulfgar, would no doubt be pleased. Her copper hair seemed aflame around her and caught the light of the flickering firelight within each thick curl. An uncommon shade for a Saxon. Yet her eyes were what took him completely off guard. Now in her rancor they burned dark and purple, glowering as she felt his perusal. But when her manner was calm her eyes were a soft violet, clear and bright as the heather that grew on the hillsides. The long, sooty black lashes that rimmed them now lowered and fluttered against ivory skin. Her cheekbones were fine and high, and the same gentle pink that shone upon them graced the softly curving mouth. The thought of her laughing or smiling titillated his imagination, for she possessed good white teeth, unmarred by the blackish rot that many other fine beauties were plagued with. The small, slightly tilted nose was lifted proudly, defiantly so, and the stubborn set of her jaw could not disguise the daintiness of its line. Yea, she would be a hard one to tame, but the prospect appeared thoroughly enjoyable, for though she was taller than most and slender, she was not lacking the full curves of a woman.
“Aah, cousin,” Vachel concluded. “You’d best make merry with this damsel tonight, for the morrow may see Wulfgar with her.”
“That lout?” Ragnor scoffed. “When does he ever bother himself with a woman? He hates them, I swear. Mayhap if we find a fair squire for him—”
Vachel smiled wryly. “If that were but true, cousin, we could have him beneath our thumbs, yet I fear he is not so inclined. Yea, he shuns women like the plague in public, yet I believe he has as much of them in private as we. I have seen him giving one or two damsels his perusal as if pondering what merits they possessed. No man looks at a woman in that fashion when some lackey tempts him more. That he manages to keep his affairs private is only one more thing about him that seems to fascinate his women. But ‘tis baffling to me why the fair damsels at Willia
m’s court dangle their kerchiefs and posture so inanely before him. They must be tempted sorely by his cursed aloofness.”
“I have not seen so many wenches fawning over him,” Ragnor retorted.
Vachel chortled in glee. “Nay, cousin, and yon wouldn’t, for you are usually more than properly entertained yourself. You are far too busy leading fair damsels astray to be troubled with those who fancy Wulfgar.”
“You are indeed more observant that I, Vachel, for I still find it hard to believe that any maid should covet him, cursed and scarred as he is.”
Vachel shrugged. “What is a little mark here and there? It but proves a man is daring and brave. Thank goodness Wulfgar does not boast of those small attributes of battle like so many of our noble friends. I can almost bear his wretched dryness more than those boring tales of doing and dare that are told and retold.”
Vachel beckoned for his drinking horn to be refilled and Maida came trembling to accommodate him. She exchanged a hurried glance with her daughter before slipping away to return to her mutterings and ravings.
“Never fear, cousin,” Vachel grinned. “We have not lost this game yet. What care we that William favors Wulfgar for a time? Our families are of some importance. They will not long tolerate this usurpery when we make this outrage known.”
Ragnor grunted. “My father will not be overjoyed when he learns I have gained no lands for the family here.”
“Do not be bitter, Ragnor. Guy is an old man and has old thoughts. Since he won his fortune he naturally assumes it is easy for you to do the same.”
Ragnor’s hand gripped his drinking horn until his fist whitened about it. “There are times, Vachel, when I think I loathe him.”
His cousin shrugged. “I am impatient with my father also. Can you imagine him threatening me that with the next bastard I make on some wench he will throw me out and cut off my inheritance?”
For the first time since breaking open the doors of Darkenwald Ragnor de Marte threw back his head and laughed. “You must admit, Vachel, you do your share.”
Vachel chuckled with him. “And you cousin, are not one to call the kettle black.”
“True, but a man must have his pleasure,” Ragnor smiled and his dark eyes fell to the red-haired wench who sat at his feet. He caressed her cheek, and his mind became intoxicated with the vision of her slender body pressed tightly to his. Beginning to feel impatient for her, Ragnor caught his fingers in the fabric of her gunna, tearing it from her shoulders as she tried to wrench free. The hot, greedy eyes of the invaders turned quickly to feast on the half-revealed bosom swelling above the torn garment. As earlier with Hlynn they shouted encouragements and obscene jests, but Aislinn did not relent to hysteria. She held the separated garment together, and only her eyes spoke of her hatred and contempt to each. One by one the men were silenced by her gaze, and they drew away to swallow their discomfort with a large gulps of ale, mumbling among themselves that this wench was surely a sorceress.
Lady Maida clutched a wineskin frantically to her bosom, her fingers white with the pressure of her grip. In pain she watched Ragnor fondle her daughter. His hands moved slowly over the silken flesh and beneath her garments, trespassing where no other man had dared before. Aislinn trembled in revulsion, and Maida choked on the fear and hatred that seemed to congeal in her chest, making it impossible for her to draw an easy breath.
Maida’s eyes raised to the darkened stairway leading to the bedchambers. In her imagination she saw her daughter already struggling with Ragnor upon the lord’s bed, the one she had shared with her husband and where she had given birth to Aislinn. Now Maida could almost hear the cries of pain drawn from her daughter by that fearsome knight. The Norman would have no mercy nor would Aislinn plead for it. Her daughter had the stubbornness and pride of Lord Erland. She would never beg for herself. For another, perhaps, but not herself.
Maida moved into the deep shadows of the hall. Justice would not be served until her husband’s murderer had felt her revenge.
Rising to his feet, Ragnor drew Aislinn with him and wrapped his arms close about her supple body. He chuckled as she squirmed against him trying to get free, taking brutish delight in the painful grimace that crossed her face as his fingers tightened on her arms.
“How be it that you speak the tongue of France?” he demanded.
Aislinn tossed her head up to meet his gaze yet remained silent, her eyes cold with loathing. Ragnor considered her haughty demeanor and released her from his savage grip. He thought no amount of torture could wring the answer from her lips if she refused to tell him. She had kept mute before when he had commanded her name. It was only her mother who had rushed to tell him when he threatened the girl with violence. Yet he had ways to humble the most arrogant of damsels.
“I pray you speak, Aislinn, or I shall strip your garments from you and let each man here take his turn on you. You would not be so royal then I vow.”
Reluctantly Aislinn replied, standing soberly against him. “A traveling troubadour spent much time in this hall during my years of childhood. Before he came upon us he wandered from country to country. He had knowledge of four tongues. He taught your own to me because it amused him.”
“A traveling troubadour who amuses himself? Where was the jest? I see none,” he returned.
“ ’Tis said your duke from his childhood fancied England upon his platter. My merry troubadour knew of this tale for oft would he play for the high born of your country. Twice or thrice in his youth he even pleasured your duke until he cut off his small finger for singing the tale of a baseborn knight in his presence. It pleasured my troubadour to have me learned in your language, that if one day the Duke’s ambitions were realized I could call you the scum that you are and have you understand me.”
Ragnor’s features darkened but Vachel chuckled in his cup.
“Where be your gallant troubadour now, damoiselle?” the young Norman inquired. “The Duke is no more fond of being called a bastard today than when he was a youth. Mayhaps your man will find his head missing instead of a finger.”
Sarcasm dripped from Aislinn’s words. “He is where no mortal man can reach him, quite safe from your duke.”
Ragnor’s brows lowered. “You remind me of unpleasantries.”
Vachel smiled. “Your pardon, cousin.”
The sight of Aislinn’s meagerly clad shoulders gleaming smoothly above her tattered gown turned Ragnor’s thoughts in another direction. He bent and swept her into his arms amid a shower of angry protests and a surprising variety of titles. He chuckled at her efforts to escape until she nearly lunged out of his grasp, then he crushed her against him, smothering her efforts in an iron grip. He grinned as he lowered his head to hers and his mouth was upon her lips, wet and searing. Suddenly he drew back in pain. A small trickle of blood ran from his bottom lip.
“You vicious little viper!” he choked.
With a low growl, Ragnor tossed Aislinn over his shoulder, jolting the breath from her as his hard mail slammed into her belly, and stunned, she hung half senseless. Snatching up a candle to light his way up the darkened stairs, he crossed the hall and mounted them, leaving the noise of the rowdy invaders behind as he entered the lord’s chamber. He kicked the door closed and setting the candle aside, strode to the bed and he spilled Aislinn unceremoniously onto it. There was a glimpse of long, slender legs before she scrambled up and tried to leap from the bed. The rough rope around her throat frustrated her effort and brought her up short. With a cruel smile, Ragnor began to wrap the thong about his wrist again and again until she knelt close before him, facing him as a wary dog faces its tormentor. He laughed at her undaunted stare and loosened the rope from his wrist, tying it to one of the massive posts at the foot of the bed. With a casual slowness he began to undress, dropping his sword, hauberk, and leather tunic carelessly upon the floor. He crossed to the hearth, donned now only in a linen chainse and the chausses, a garment combining tight-fitting hose and underpants. Her apprehension mounting,
Aislinn tore frantically at the rope around her throat, but her fingers could make no dent in the hard knot. He stirred the fire up and added more kindling, and by its warmth he drew off the linen shirt and the woolen chausses. Aislinn swallowed convulsively as his body emerged lean and muscular, giving her little encouragement that she could hold him off by strength. He smiled almost pleasantly as he came to her and reached up to rub his knuckles gently against her cheek.
“The bloom from the thorn bush,” he murmured. “Yea, ‘tis true, and you are mine. Wulfgar gave me leave to take a suitable reward upon completion of his orders.” Ragnor chuckled as if amused. “I cannot think of a more appropriate recompense than to have the most valuable possession in these towns. What is left is hardly worth my notice.”
“Do you expect reward for slaughter?” Aislinn hissed.
He shrugged. “The fools should have known better than to attack armed knights, and slaying the messenger of the duke drew the old man’s lot to a certainty. We’ve done a good day’s work for William. I deserve reward.”
Aislinn shuddered at his callous disregard for the lives he had spilled. She lunged away from him off the bed to the limits of the tether.
Ragnor threw back his head in a roar of laughter. “Would my little pigeon fly from me?” He twisted his hand in the rope and began to draw her to him. “Come, dove,” he cooed softly. “Come, dove, and share my nest. Ragnor will be gentle with you.”
Sobs struggled from between her clenched teeth as Aislinn wildly fought the pull of the rope. Finally she was held on her knees before him. His hand held the knot tight beneath her chin, forcing her head back so she stared up at him with rolling eyes and gasped for breath. He reached behind him and snatched up a wine skin lying atop a chest.