Free Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment by Karin Tabke Page B

goal to outfit the island with castles to repel all invaders.
    Wulfson scowled. On the morn, they would no doubt see more Saxon soldiers, as in these times Alewith would not travel light, though he doubted they would have muchfight in them. William’s hammer of a fist was well known among the westerners and the southerners. Those north of the Umber had yet to be brought to heel, but Wulfson had no doubt they would be, as would these people of the West.
    Slowly he undressed, and was about to put to good use the warmed water left out when a soft knock on the chamber door jerked him from his thoughts. Standing only in his braies, he bade the person enter.
    Instead of his squire, Rolf, an old woman he knew to be the Lady Tarian’s servant, bobbed her head and hurried into the chamber, bearing a tray of food, a skin of wine, and a sturdy silver chalice. She made haste to place them on the small table by the cold hearth. “Sir knight, your evening repast.”
    “Where is my squire?” Wulfson demanded.
    “He lingers with the others in the hall.”
    The plucky lad was no doubt in search of a wench for the night. With so many men lost in the last year, the manor teemed with the fairer sex. The boy would pay for his dalliances. Wulfson’s scowl deepened as a sharp jab of desire struck his loins. It had been months since his last woman. He would do well to find himself some solace for the night. It would soothe the irritated edges of his temper. His rancor rose. ’Twas no simple wench he craved, but the witch who resided down the hall.
    He would wager his horse she was a mass of thorns and thistles in bed. He cursed, and looked up to see the old woman staring at him with wide eyes. He cursed again, so lost in his thoughts had he been that he’d forgotten her presence. This place, this Dragon Hill and its enigma of a lady, was addling his brain.
    “Begone,” Wulfson tiredly said. She scurried out of the room pulling the heavy door shut behind her. His men had ribbed him hard when he left the lord’s table at the late meal, his trencher untouched. He knew they understood his frustration and unwillingness to languish idly by while the Welsh were rattling their swords just across the border. Since the time he had arrived, it seemed his presence and reason for being in Dunloc were known by all. His sour mood carried into the evening, and, in no mood to be further ribbed by his men, he had retired, forgoing the evening repast with them.
    Wulfson poured a hearty draught of wine and nearly drained the cup. The mulled spices were soothing, and soon he found himself finishing off a second cup. The roasted venison and simmered vegetables smelled appetizing, and, as with the wine, he found himself eating the meal with a newfound gusto. Clean and sated, he rubbed his hand across the deep scar along his chest. The uneven scars were as familiar to him now as his hands and feet. Even the ache in his right thigh he had grown accustomed to. He would never live a day without pain. ’Twas well, for it reminded him of how close he had come to glimpsing his maker in hell. When his time came, he would burn, but not a minute before.
     

    “The bait has been set,” Edith said softly, as she closed the door to her mistress’s chamber.
    “What of his squire?”
    Edith cackled and rubbed her hands. “A-wenching, to be sure.”
    Tarian turned from where she stared at the low fire in the brazier. She let out a long nervous sigh. “How long will the herbs take to prepare him?”
    Edith cackled again, the laugh turning into a fit of coughs from which she quickly recovered. “Not long, not long. The knight I beheld had a fierce restlessness born of hunger.” Edith motioned to the bed. “Come, my dear, let me rub you with the rose musk. It will tempt him beyond mortal control.”
    Tarian swallowed hard, and for the tenth time in the space of minutes she questioned her action. Would it prove disastrous? Would he harm her in his herb-induced ardor?