His Captive Lady Read Online Free Page B

careful to act his part; he must behave precisely as Guthlac and his rebels would expect him to behave.
    With a start, the man on watch dozing over his bow snapped upright. 'Sir!' Beorn, if Wulf remembered his name aright. He had long flaxen hair and he eyed Wulf uncertainly, doubtless wondering if he was to be reprimanded for sleeping at his post.
    Wulf pointed out across the fen. 'Is that what I think it is?'
    Beorn stared, frowned, and went pale. 'God in Heaven, a boat!'
    Wulf's brow furrowed, too. As the darkness lifted, the boat slid closer. A yellow light shone in the prow, the light that moments ago Wulf had mistaken for the rising sun. He shook his head, glancing askance at the sky, a sky that had been determinedly leaden ever since he had arrived in East Anglia. As if the sun would actually shine in this place. This was the fens, a low, flat land where everything was grey and wet and cold and--an icy gust bit into his neck--no doubt snow would soon add to their joys. God grant that once he had delivered his report, De Warenne, who might yet be in Westminster, would have him despatched to London or Lewes, to anywhere but here.
    Beorn bit his lip. 'I...I am sorry, sir. I...I will raise the alarm.'
    'Do that--I shall stand in for you here.'
    'My thanks.' Beorn clattered down the walkway, clearly happy to escape a reprimand. Wulf's nostrils flared. The man had to be thinking that Thane Guthlac's new housecarl was a walkover, but he didn't give a damn what he thought. Wulf was not going to be among these rebels long enough for discipline to become a problem. Come sunset, he would be gone.
    The door slammed.
    While Wulf waited for the uproar that he would bet his sword was about to ensue, he watched the oars of the approaching boat lift and fall, lift and fall. His eyes narrowed. It was a small craft and it contained two...no, three, people. One of them looked to be female; she wore a russet cloak. Curious, wondering if he had seen this woman elsewhere on the waterways, Wulf strained to make out the colour of her hair. But the woman had her hood up and her hair was hidden. She sat perfectly still, hugging her cloak against the January chill. No great threat there, surely? They might be pedlars working the waterways, though Wulf could not see anything that resembled stock in the bottom of their boat: no barrels, no crates, no bundles of merchandise wrapped in sailcloth.
    As the boat glided ever closer, an unnatural quiet held the fen. There was no honking of geese, no men shouting, there was not even the sound of the oars creaking in the rowlocks.
    Abruptly, the hall door bounced back on its hinges and Guthlac Stigandson erupted onto the platform. 'Maldred! Maldred! ' The outlaw wrenched his belly into his swordbelt. 'My helm, boy, and look sharp!' Guthlac's hair was straggling free of its ties, hanging in grey rats' tails, his beard was uncombed and he was so exercised by this intrusion into his territory that his mottled cheeks were turning purple.
    Maldred ran up. Guthlac snatched his helm and slapped it on his head. He stomped up to Wulf at the sentry post, golden arm-rings rattling. 'Saewulf? Report, man.'
    Wulf waved in the direction of the small craft. 'It is as Beorn has no doubt told you. One boat only, my lord, three passengers, I doubt they present much of a threat.'
    Hrothgar, Guthlac's right-hand man, was peering over Guthlac's broad shoulders. Other housecarls crowded behind.
    Guthlac elbowed Hrothgar in the ribs. 'Let me breathe, man.'
    'My lord.' Hrothgar stepped back, waving to clear a space. His bracelets gleamed in the morning light, valuable gold bracelets that showed he was his lord's most favoured housecarl.
    Guthlac's battle-scarred hands grasped the handrail as he scowled down at the water beyond the palisade. 'They must be Saxon,' he muttered. 'No Norman would dare to venture this far into the fens.'
    Wulf's stomach tightened, but he kept his expression neutral.
    'A woman, eh?' Guthlac's eyebrows