The Captive - By Joanne Rock Page 0,52

Elsa into the tent.

The question hardly needed to have been asked once she stepped into the smoke-filled hut. The sweet scent of burning herbs was so strong she draped a loop of her hair and veil across her nose and mouth to lessen the potency. From the sticks affixed to the roof hung webs fashioned of rough wool twine. Some of them held beads at the intersection of the weaving, others contained bits of what looked like bone and hair tucked into the corners.

Herbs hung to dry overhead, while on the dirt floor sat an old crone humming and chanting over a small flame surrounded by jet-black rocks. The woman’s garb was unlike any other female in the village. The sleeves were embroidered with rune staves, some of which were familiar to Gwendolyn, and some that were not. Either way, it was obvious they had reached the hut of the local wise woman.

“Mother, our guest has arrived.” Elsa bowed low to the crone, who paid little attention to her.

Instead, the woman’s eyes fixed on Gwendolyn and she felt a hint of fear skitter up her spine like the spider climbing to its oversize web over her head.

“I’m Gwendolyn of Wessex,” she explained, wondering if “Mother” was a deferential title or if the woman was family to Erik and Elsa.

The moment of fear passed when sunlight streamed in through the tent as the door behind her opened. She knew who would be there before she turned. Not even the heavy scent of burning herbs could mask her senses enough to hide Wulf’s arrival. She felt the man in her veins, her body instantly alert to him whenever he neared.

She turned to see Erik at his side. The two men entered the tent together. Both of them bowed their heads to the crone.

“Wulf.” Gwen longed to reach for him, to take his hand and gather comfort from his presence, but he did not spare her a glance.

Did his kindness to her extend only to the bedchamber? A bit more of the day’s happiness dwindled.

“Mother, I ask you to cast the bones for Gwendolyn and for me.” He asked this in Gwen’s language, so at least he did not leave her in ignorance of their purpose here.

Still, she would have her future read? Gwendolyn knew such an activity would be frowned upon by her priest, but once more she reminded herself of her parents’ teachings—the respect for other cultures—and she chased away some of the fear inherent in such an act.

The old woman muttered under her breath, then drew a bag from her voluminous robes and chanted foreign words over them. Then, with the flourish of a great hall performer, she cast the contents of the bag onto the dirt floor where another twine spider web had been carefully arranged in the packed earth.

Swallowing down her fears, she wondered silently what Wulf hoped to accomplish through this. Did he really believe the old woman could see their futures? Gwendolyn did not even like the idea that their futures were available for the woman’s review since she preferred to think none of it had been decided yet.

“The Saxon brings wealth and lands.” The wise woman pointed a gnarled finger over some of the runes she’d tossed to the floor. Most were red in color, although a few were bleached white around the edges from use. “These you must take.”

Did the hag tell him to make war on her overlord Alchere? Or did the woman refer to the lands the king held in trust for Gwendolyn’s firstborn son? Alchere oversaw the holding where Gwendolyn had grown up. He’d been charged with its safekeeping when he’d been charged with her upbringing. Did Wulf mean to take the lands where she’d been raised?

Her gaze flew to Wulf. He remained expressionless, his eyes fixed on the seer’s work. In fact, Erik and Elsa appeared equally serious and raptly interested as the old woman preached advice that would be deadly for Gwendolyn’s homeland.

“Wulf, you cannot mean to—”

“Shh.” Elsa hushed her at once, her hand encircling Gwen’s wrist like a shackle. She gave a fast shake of her head, eyes full of warning.

“In Wessex, you turn Harold aside, but at a grave price,” the crone continued, her high voice creaking with age like an uneven step. “Our people will follow you and your seed proves fruitful.”

His seed?

Gwendolyn blinked. She peered over at Wulf once again, but his stoic expression had not registered the slightest disquiet or pleasure. Did the woman