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
E ven 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.'
Ailric's brow furrowed and the moment he set his sword aside, Erica knew she was in for an argument.
'Ailric, look at us. We need to pool our resources with others, we need allies. Our very survival is at stake.'
'The bloodfeud will never end,' Ailric said. 'It is a matter of honour and--'
'The bloodfeud must end.'
'There are other ways.'
'No, Ailric, you are wrong! We ran out of choices months ago, but were too blind to see it. The bloodfeud with Guthlac must end . I have made my decision.' Erica clenched her fists and stared fiercely round the ring of bearded faces that gleamed in the firelight. Her father's housecarls were loyal, and it went without saying that they would sacrifice their lives for her. As they would have done for her father, had he not died at Hastings. But loyalty had never prevented them from disagreeing with her. Unfortunately.
The fire guttered and an icy draught cut through Erica's cloak while she marshalled her arguments. There were dozens of cracks in the slipshod planking and the fenland wind knew its way into every one of them. Suppressing a shiver lest it be mistaken for weakness--and she would die before one of them thought her weak--Erica dragged her cloak more firmly about her shoulders and
Chapter Two
East Anglian Fens--January 1068
E ven 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.'
Ailric's brow furrowed and the moment he set his sword aside, Erica knew she was in for an argument.
'Ailric, look at us. We need to pool our resources with others, we need allies. Our very survival is at stake.'
'The bloodfeud will never end,' Ailric said. 'It is a matter of honour and--'
'The bloodfeud must end.'
'There are other ways.'
'No, Ailric, you are wrong! We ran out of choices months ago, but were too blind to see it. The bloodfeud with Guthlac must end . I have made my decision.' Erica clenched her fists and stared fiercely round the ring of bearded faces that gleamed in the firelight. Her father's housecarls were loyal, and it went without saying that they would sacrifice their lives for her. As they would have done for her father, had he not died at Hastings. But loyalty had never prevented them from disagreeing with her. Unfortunately.
The fire guttered and an icy draught cut through Erica's cloak while she marshalled her arguments. There were dozens of cracks in the slipshod planking and the fenland wind knew its way into every one of them. Suppressing a shiver lest it be mistaken for weakness--and she would die before one of them thought her weak--Erica dragged her cloak more firmly about her shoulders and
Similar Books
The Great Scottish Devil
Starla Kaye
Bone Deep
Gina McMurchy-Barber
In Vino Veritas
J. M. Gregson
Wolf Bride
Elizabeth Moss
Just Your Average Princess
Kristina Springer
Mr. Wonderful
Carol Grace
Captain Nobody
Dean Pitchford
Pretty Witches All in a Row
Lisa Olsen
Paradise Alley
Kevin Baker
Kleber's Convoy
Antony Trew