Chapter 13

Strange, thought Brodwyn, how some circumstances scared her more than others. Scanning the view through the arrow slit overlooking the Bailey and the huge gate in the curtain wall. she placed a hand against the stone surround, as if that would stop its quivering, stop her whole body trembling, wondering.

Was it her age that dredged up fears she had always been able to shrug off—plan her way out of? There was something about Henry La Mont, a callous edge that, for all his high-class Norman manners, made her uneasy. Harald had never made her bones quiver inside her skin. He had been a vicious, cruel killer, yet she had always felt a certain amount of control over him. Even when Rob killed him, she hadn’t been fearful for herself. She was a woman, a sexual being, and had always weaselled her way out of punishment with a look, a touch, a smile.

Henry was different.

He had been gone overnight by the time she watched the Baron and his men flow in through the gate into the Bailey the way they had ridden out—so different frae when they went to war—wearing drab hunting colours in place of armour. She dreaded telling Henry that the lads—the ones in whose hands he had placed his family’s future—had been abducted.

She took a deep breath to steady herself, and as soon as she saw Henry and St Clair pull hard on the reins of their mounts, she ran along the gallery, her skirts tangling about her legs. On the way down the stairs, she tugged at her hair, loosening her veil, and as she crossed the hall to greet, them she clutched the front of her kirtle above her breast, ready to be the bearer of bad tidings and hoping it wouldn’t cost her overmuch.

“Baron Henry!” she called, standing atop the steps outside the manor door, the air around her fraught with anxiety—hers. There was no sign of Melinda, but then because of the knowledge she held, that wasnae unexpected—just another wee thing she wouldnae tell Henry.

“Henry,” she repeated as he reached her.

“We found her horse, but there was no sign of Melinda.”

She released her grip on her kirtle to cross herself, muttering a small prayer—Normans expected their women to act pious everywhere except in bed. “Oh, Henry, I’m sorry, but it’s worse than that. I’ve been out of my mind with worry waiting for ye to return. It’s yer grandsons, Harry and Ralf. They’re gone ... gone; and there was naught I could do to prevent it, no one to send after them as all the men were with ye and St Clair. After ye left yesterday, I thought to help Becky with the lads but couldn’t find them no matter which chamber I searched. The place was silent, and ye know how noisy the lads can be at times. Then I looked out and saw Becky running across the training grounds, her arms full of bairns and bags until a huge man...” she took a breath, biting her tongue on the words Rob McArthur. The pain made her cry and went toward the plausibility of her tale, “He seemed to come out of nowhere to help her with her burden, then they disappeared—the man, Becky and the bairns all gone and not a soul around to help me find them.” She was practically sobbing by the time her story finished and she blinked her wet lashes to clear them enough to look at Henry.

His face had lost all its ruddiness, drained of the tan gained frae his time out in all weathers, training and riding about Wolfsdale putting the fear of God into the peasants. Glancing to his side, she noticed St Clair, his fist closed around the hilt of his sword. Thankfully, his over-bright gaze was fixed on Henry who had come into his own again. Turning to the constable, he directed him, “Find fresh mounts for those who need them and make sure all the men are fed. We have a new search to take care of.”

St Clair had another notion, “Sir, let me go. I can take a few men and follow the trail north. It’s only rational that they would take that direction since we, as well as all the men have been searching to the south. Give me four men and the fastest horses available and I promise to seek them out.” He held out his hand to Henry and they clasped, hand to elbow in the way of men, as if the more pressure they used the stronger the oath.

Nostrils flaring, white rimmed, Henry turned to the Constable, “See to that. Have the horses ready to leave in an hour or so; the sooner they are away the better.”

The three entered the Hall together, the men either side of Brodwyn—an uncomfortable sensation leaving her nae room to practise her wiles, so instead she rushed forward saying, “I’ll order food brought to the Hall, for I’m sure ye hadn’t expected to be away so long.” That said, she bustled into the kitchen, relief dropping her shoulders for a few moments, then she straightened up, became her usual self, and started issuing orders about the fare the Baron expected.

He hadn’t as yet asked her opinion on the matter, though she was certain he would once he had washed and refreshed his garb. Melinda, the sly wee minx, had never confessed the name of the lads’ father, but since Brodwyn had yet to arrive in Wolfsdale while the McArthur’s son was held ransom, nae one could question her assertion that she had never seen the man who took Becky and the lads away.

Brodwyn had nae doubts that Rob already held Melinda hostage, and had threatened Becky with her mistress’s life if she didn’t obey. She remembered Rob and Jamie at Dun Bhuird. Rob had been the younger of the two but, except where Lhilidh was concerned, different frae Jamie, having little in the way of softness in his nature. Nae, he took after the McArthur. She had seen it in his features when he lifted the sword Gavyn Farquhar had lost while fighting Harald, watched him lift it frae the stony Caithness ground and thrust the blade between Harald’s ribs and into his heart.

She held nae grudge against him for that, unlike the one she would hold against him if his actions had spoiled her grand life at Wolfsdale—living the way she had always felt she deserved, what with her close family connections to Thorfinn the Mighty on one side and the Comlyn dynasty on the other. If only Harald hadn’t been so self-serving and had followed her plan, she and Harald would have been in the place where Gavyn and Kathryn now stood, ruling Comlyn lands that had been Harald’s and hers by birthright.

Men. Sometimes they could be so stupid, dense. Yet she didn’t doubt that once Henry was over the shock of losing his grandsons, he would be asking questions, mainly of her, and it behoved her to set the answers straight in her mind. Do it now, so none of them trip me up .

The two of them, Henry and St Clair, were talking as they descended the stairs from the gallery and continued when they sat down to eat—planning, she expected. Taking care not to rush or act interested, she poured a dark red French wine into deep silver goblets and placed them to hand on their left. Although Henry had changed into a tunic—one of his customary, richly decorated garments—St Clair was almost drab, a wren compared to the peacocks she had seen at court. As for her, she remained in her crushed kirtle and untidy veil.

“Eat with us,” ordered Henry.

She sat at the high-board in her normal place—that of companion to Melinda—which wasnae by Henry’s elbow. Taking a few morsels on a pewter charger, she began warily to nibble on sliced breast of grouse, making sure she didnae have her mouth full when Henry at last asked, “Why wasn’t someone sent after us when ye saw the children being taken?”

Thanking God for his mercy and the gift of forethought, she said, “I did try, but there were none left in the Manor who could ride, except for the guards on the gate, and they said they had to man the gates and dared not leave their posts on pain of death. Of course, they didn’t believe me, insisting I search the Manor once more. They questioned how anyone could steal away the children without passing through the gates, especially since no one had left the Manor after yerself and St Clair went in search of Melinda.”

She stopped to catch her breath, made a play of it, a hand over breast and tears welling up in her eyes—an ability she had found useful over the last few years. Harald would never have been fooled, but then he’d known her better than most. “I’m sure that now ye have had time to think on it, ye will have come to the same conclusion as I—”

Henry did not let her finish. “Aye, we were duped and neither of us is particularly happy about it.”

He looked at St Clair, who continued his line of thought, “Whoever took Harry and Ralf had undoubtedly already abducted Melinda. It behoves me to find them all, since Baron Henry has promised Melinda’s hand to me, and as soon as I return with her we shall be wed.” His thin lips pressed together as if he needed a moment to form the next question without giving offence. “Did ye never discover the name of the twins’ father? I understand ye believed he might be dead, for who else but a dead man wouldn’t return to claim such a prize as Melinda and her sons?”

Henry sighed. The same obstinate expression she had seen on Melinda shaped his lips. “She wouldn’t say, indeed vehemently refused to give me his name. I did wonder if it had been a rape, but then wouldn’t that have given her all the more reason to tell me the man’s identity so I could kill him?”

“I would willingly do it for ye,” vowed St Clair. “Just give me a name.”

“There were a few months when I attended the King at Winchester for Yuletide. Originally I went to report on another insurgence of the Scots across the border toward Durham, not so far from last week’s battle at Alnwick. It was a fight with none of the grand results we had a few days ago when King Malcolm and his son Edward were killed.” Henry glanced away, and for a moment she thought he was about to lie, then he looked at her and continued. “I captured a young Scot and held the man hostage with the constable in charge of him. He was gone by the time I returned with Brodwyn to be a companion to Melinda.” In her mind, everything stopped, paused as he told the lie, then moved on. “The ransom was waiting in his place and, I for one, was pleased to find nary a hide nor hair of him, for I have no liking for Scots. I learned my lesson with Melinda’s mother.”

Brodwyn widened her eyes, as if that might help her believe what she was hearing. It was only by the Lord’s guid grace she had decided to claim Cumbria as her place of birth. As well as being across the border frae Strathclyde, it lay on the far side of the country frae Wolfsdale with less chance of her ever being caught out. “Ye never mentioned her before, Henry.”

“I’m not a man inclined to share the worst periods of his life with all and sundry. When I met her, my wife was one of a few Scots attending Malcolm Canmore’s first son, Duncan. The lad was held hostage by the first William—held for King Malcolm’s good behaviour after the Abernethy treaty was signed. She was as beautiful as Melinda, but it’s almost impossible to tame a Scot. Ester claimed relationship to Malcolm’s first wife, a cousin of Thorfinn the Mighty no less. It gave her airs, but she was more delicate than Melinda and died of some sort of ague soon after I was awarded Wolfsdale by the King.” As he finished, he looked from St Clair to her through narrowed green eyes, as if waiting for a reaction. Brodwyn felt icy cold. While she wanted to cross herself and thank God for giving her the gift of reticence, the shock she had received stilled her hand.

She had journeyed over the water to Ireland and thenceforth to England, only to discover she shared bloodlines with Henry’s first wife whom, it would appear, he had hated. “It must have been a blessing that the Lord took her so soon after ye made her yer wife,” she said, her voice full of sympathy nae one could mistake for sarcasm.

“I thought so,” he said, complacent. St Clair didn’t comment, his face immobile as a graven image, giving naught away. It was up to Brodwyn to ask the obvious question, “Do ye think it was the young Scot who stole Melinda’s honour?”

She awaited his answer, watched his lip curl and suddenly felt sorry for his grandsons, for how long would it take for him to realise that his heirs were more Scots than Norman.

It wasnae her place to farewell St Clair. She left that to Henry and waited for her lover’s return with a goblet of wine in her hand. She knew better than to drink enough to lose her inhibitions. She choked back an ironic snort. Inhibitions? She had none. It was control she hated to lose.

While Henry was gone she mulled over what had passed between all of them during the meal. Her lover had shown her a side she hadn’t seen before, but with the Manor empty of all but her, Henry, and the servants, she wondered what might ensue. Until now, with Melinda and the lads just down the gallery, her slightly vocal efforts hadn’t been out of the ordinary. It had been up to her to suggest anything slightly adventurous. On the whole, his mind had been on other matters and his efforts dull compared to when they first met, but she felt it was better to caw canny and be bored than to toss all she had earned aside simply to indulge in her own preferences. For her, it meant nae more than ensuring a comfortable life, where most of her efforts were carried out in the bedchamber. Jamie had been the only man she had truly loved, but even he had turned his shoulder to her after what happened to Lhilidh. What use protesting she had tried to stay Harald’s hand? Naebody had considered her feelings as she watched him throw a burning brand on the thatched roof, watched him throw away their lives in a burst of temper, intent on firing the broch where he had left Brodwyn’s cousin, Kathryn Comlyn and her maid Lhilidh with their hands and feet bound. Kathryn had survived, but Lhilidh hadn’t been so fortunate. She shouldnae have been surprised when Jamie rejected her; even so it had pained her to watch him walk away.

Again, she remembered the expression on Rob’s face when he put Harald to the sword. If, as she thought, it was he she had observed removing Becky and the children, she believed even St Clair would be hard pressed to overpower him. Sir Charles St Clair might consider Melinda a grand prize, even with the lads included. On the other hand, the young knight had nae notion that Henry valued the lads a thousand times more than he did his daughter. If St Clair thought marrying Melinda would bring him Wolfsdale, she was certain he would soon discover his mistake. Now that his daughter had given him heirs, she would become as disposable as it appeared Henry had deemed his Scottish wife. And where did that leave her, nae more than a leman? She had fewer rights than one of his hounds. With that profound possibility in mind, she leaned back and tipped up her goblet, emptying the dregs down her throat.

Nae more than a moment later, she watched Henry’s shadow cross the threshold ahead of him and swiftly stood. Although she kept her demeanour solemn as he strode across the hall, she couldn’t help broaching the subject that had to be on both their minds, “Do ye think he will succeed in finding them?”

Henry frowned then bit out words in a manner that seemed to contradict what he said, “He may appear young, but he is not lacking in experience. He fought his way through France and Normandy. This is a man who comes from an ancient Norman family; sadly being good with a sword appears to have precluded their ability to produce large families. Charles St Clair is the last of his line, yet a man I would willingly include in mine. Keep in mind that William Rufus’ brother, Robert Cutrose awarded him his knighthood on his fifteenth name day, and it was well deserved. Ye should have seen how he fought by my side on the battlefield.”

Henry clenched his fist and lunged as if ready to thrust his sword in a duel. He held this pose as she moved in close to his side, her fingers sliding around his upper arm with a squeeze that tested its strength. Raising her chin, she caught his gaze and held it as she slid her hand up and down his arm, watched Henry’s green eyes grow dark, watched her reflection grow larger as if he pulled her inside. It came naturally to lick her lips, to dampen them as lust moistened her swelling folds.

In an instant, Henry twisted his arm frae her hold until his fingers wrapped tightly around her wrist. He lifted his hand until she was pulled against him, almost powerless against the heat flaming in his eyes as he bent his head and took her mouth, biting her bottom lip between his strong teeth—an act so perverse, so different frae the Henry she had grown used to. Her nipples furled up tight and hard, pressing so against the smooth weave of her kirtle that she whimpered, lifting her other hand to her breast the way she had when she pretended to be distraught over the abduction she had witnessed.

She whimpered once more as Henry told her through clenched teeth, “Ye have been teasing me by touching yer breast since I returned. It made me hard, watching to see if St Clair noticed, made me wonder if he envied me having something he would never have.” He growled and with that bent his head lower and caught her nipple between his teeth through the fine worsted of her kirtle, bit it the way he had her lip. The pain was almost excruciating and communicated fiercely with her womb until her legs crumpled from the sheer pleasure of it and she fell against him.

He pushed her away and stared down. Her kirtle was stained dark by his spittle, and her lips felt as full and as tender as the lower lips betwixt her thighs. His gaze left her needy, wanting. ‘Come,” he demanded, as he might one of his hounds. She didnae care, practically running up the stairs as he held her close to him, as his hand searched under the skirts of her kirtle and shift, his long fingers forcing their way between her buttocks seeking her damply swelling centre. Below in the hall, the manservants cleared away the remains of their meal. She caught one man’s knowing glance as they reached the last step into the gallery and found she didnae mind the flash of excitement it sent through her—excitement that increased as Henry pressed her belly against the half-wall lining the gallery, her shoulders leaning forward until she felt dizzy enough to crash onto the flagstones even though she was held by the fingers fucking her as his thick prick pressed down, separating the swell of her buttocks, hard, hot, pulsing. Seeking.

For a moment she thought he might take her there and then, bend her over the half-wall and thrust inside her as the men below dismantled the boards and swept the flags clean. The hounds growled and fought for any scraps that had fallen on the floor—carried on fighting while her screams competed with their loud barks—and something inside her cared not a whit as the auld Brodwyn resurfaced; but did she dare let the woman she used to be out?

A rough sigh of despair escaped her lips as she looked back over her shoulder. Henry’s face was flushed and eyes black as night, as dark as the passion betwixt them. His lips pulled back wide in a grimace as his long fingers thrust again into her heat. “Not here,” she gasped, “take me to yer chamber and I will more than satisfy the thirst I see in yer gaze.”

He lifted her feet off the floor as he carried her high against his chest without ceasing the thrusts of his fingers. How long since she felt so overwhelmed? Never, she thought, since that last night when Jamie lifted her into the stable straw and took her with his horse nudging at his shoulder, neither it nor them giving a damn.

The moment Henry removed his arms and questing fingers she fell to the floor in front of him, knees weak, unable to hold her upright. When he would have lifted her once more, she said, “No.” She begged, her voice as rough as the wall he had almost taken her against, and parting his tunic murmured, “Let me.” As he stood with his hips against the huge high bed, she reached inside his tunic and found him. Had he ever felt this large before, this hot, this thick?

One touch and he groaned as if in pain.

She knew that pain, could feel it spread out frae her womb as her fingers surrounded him and slid back and forth as she had on the braced muscle of his arm, both tense. Spreading the sides of his tunic that were fashioned to make it easy to sit comfortable on his mount when out riding, she tipped back her head and took him into her mouth, sucking, pushing forward, until she felt the head of his shaft touch the back of her throat, all the while looking up at him as he trembled and moaned lewd curse words at her. “Fuck ye, Brodwyn, why have ye never done this before.” She couldn’t answer with her mouth full, instead she cupped his balls in her palm and squeezed them to the rhythm she used to suck him.

His scrotum tightened as she felt him expand to completely fill her mouth and throat, and she prepared to swallow his seed, tilting her head farther back. Suddenly, his hands clutched her head, large hands, shaking with tension as he yelled, “No!” and pulled away.”

She had barely time to catch her breath afore he lifted her frae the floor, roughly throwing her atop the bed, face and belly pressed down. With winter coming, the top coverlet was sewn frae wolf skins, and as he pushed up her skirts, her face slid across long strands of fur that she had to grasp, tightening her fists amongst the long-haired winter coats to find purchase. Afore she had time to find a measure of control, Henry lifted her hips higher, raised her until her knees bent under her against the mattress, softer than she had ever slept in afore she came to Wolfsdale. She had nae intention of losing all that, everything she had worked for on her back, so she wriggled her behind at him, tempting, though in truth Henry didnae need much enticement. With a roar like a bear, he thrust into her so hard she was pushed forward once more, but not for long. Henry’s big hands gripped her, held her by the hips while he thrust fast and deep, moaning, “Take me, take it all now and any time I want, for I’m the master here. The master!” he yelled, spilling his seed inside her while her womb clenched in pleasure and gathered up all that spurted frae him afore he collapsed atop her. His chest heaved and her body shuddered as, still joined together they fell asleep lying atop the wolfskin with Brodwyn’s fingers curled deep into the fur.