The Captive - By Joanne Rock Page 0,66
the men who rode the falling ladder backward to the ground. He moved down the battlements to another area at risk for climbing Danes when Erik appeared at his elbow.
“Wulf, the watchtower guards say there are attackers by land on the other side.” Erik’s sword arm hung awkwardly at his side, though that hand now clutched his axe. His sword he brandished with the less dominant arm. “There is some talk it could be a troop raised by Godric to take Lady Gwendolyn. Perhaps he made an alliance with Harold—”
“Go to the keep where the women are locked up.” Everything rattled inside at the thought of harm coming to Gwendolyn. “You are worth ten of Osbert and I need to be sure they are safe.” He had not wanted to leave a Saxon in charge of the women, but with his own forces so thin to defend the large keep, he had no choice.
“I can still fight,” Erik argued, his shoulders tense for battle. “Do not banish me into the keep for an injury that is less than naught—”
“I send you because I will unleash the wrath of the Christians’ hell if any harm comes to Gwendolyn, do you understand?” He started running, passing men in the heat of battle, clubbing two enemies seeking a foothold on the parapet.
She’d kissed him before he left her, and he had not even returned the gesture. No wonder the world thought him a barbarian. Would he commit the same mistake again—to care for a woman and horde the sensation for the sake of pride? He had not forgiven the wound Hedra had inflicted when she wed Olaf and they had both paid a terrible price for it. Could he be so blind and stubborn again to hurt Gwendolyn when he prized her so dearly his chest ached at the thought of Godric getting his hands on her?
He tore up one staircase and down another to reach the battlements on the far side of the keep. Only a few guards—Saxon villagers who had been willing to swear an oath of loyalty—were still here, the vast majority of his manpower having been assigned to fight the battle in progress to the south end of the structure. These men were huddled together in deep conversation, their attention trained over the lands to the north.
“What news?” Wulf could already see the riders at the woods’ edge, a war party that could be fifty men or hundreds, depending what was hidden beyond the tree line.
“We saw activity there early this morn,” one of the men began, his eyes shifting to his companions as if to validate his story. “But they were obviously Saxons and we did not think they were a threat.”
Were they so stupid? Or had he been betrayed from within that the guards had not alerted him earlier?
“The first few were not dressed for war,” one of the others clarified, his gaze equally shifty while his hands alternately clenched and flexed around his crossbow. “We thought it a traveling party, or a group that might approach to seek shelter.”
That one was nervous, Wulf decided, though whether it was about his incompetence or for his backstabbing treachery, he could not be certain.
“You do not decide what warrants my attention. If a rabbit pisses within a stone’s throw of these walls, I hear about it.” Wulf picked up the nearest man by the collar and yanked him up to eye level. “If you have betrayed me, your life is already forfeit.”
These Saxons could have previously slipped someone inside the gates, taking advantage of Harold’s invasion. Which meant Gwendolyn could already be in danger.
Dropping the man unceremoniously to the ground, Wulf vowed to replace every Saxon in sight with a Dane loyal to him and no other. He would not risk Gwendolyn’s safety in the hands of more beef-witted louts and gold-seeking schemers.
He just prayed he wasn’t too late to save her from the enemies converging upon them on all sides.
THE EERIE QUIET OF THE CROWDED chamber unnerved her.
Gwendolyn sat among more than a hundred women and children, yet except for the fitful cry of one tired babe, no one made a sound. As one, the group strained to gauge the battle outside by the din of clanking steel weaponry, the shouts of the commanders and the harrowing gurgles and moans of the dying. Could each woman distinguish the sound of her man’s voice?
Heaven knew Gwendolyn could differentiate Wulf’s voice from any other. She longed to hear it now,