Free The Wolf and the Dove by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

his mount.
    They were herded into the square like trussed swine, and Aislinn released a sigh of relief when she saw that none were wounded. She stepped back as Wulfgar rode up before her and dismounted.
    “You did not kill any in the forest?” she questioned anxiously.
    “Nay, they fled like any good-blooded Saxon would,” he threw at her.
    Aislinn glared at him as he raised a mocking gaze to her and turning on her heels, stalked into the hall.
    A semblance of order fell on Darkenwald and compared to the previous night they supped in what was almost a tranquil atmosphere. The Normans were established and there was no bickering, for each man knew Wulfgar was lord here. Those that envied him dared not challenge him. Those that respected him thought him worthy.
    Aislinn found herself occupying her mothers’ rightful place as lady of the hall and was conscious of Wulfgar’s dominating presence beside her. He conversed with Sweyn who sat on the opposite side of him and generally seemed to ignore her which she found most bewildering since he had insisted that she feast with him, indicating that particular place beside him. She had been reluctant to do so. Her mother had been reduced to scrambling for scraps with the other serfs, and Aislinn thought it only proper that she share the same fate of Maida.
    “A serf’s place to dine is not beside the lord,” she reminded him caustically when he bade her take the chair.
    Wulfgar’s cold, penetrating gaze bore into her. “It is, when the lord commands.”
    During the feast Kerwick remained close by Wulfgar’s table, offering them food and wine as a common servant. Aislinn found herself wishing him someplace else. She hated the miserable guise of defeated resignation he wore. Ragnor, too, did not relent in his careful perusal of them but with his dark eyes, watched their every move. Aislinn felt his hatred of Wulfgar as if it were a solid substance and grew somewhat amused that he should be so annoyed by the bastard’s possession of her.
    The possessor of a blackened eye and a swollen jaw, Hlynn timorously brought ale to the Normans, flinching when they barked at her or reached to fondle a breast or buttock. Her clothing had been repaired by a piece of twine, and the men’s regalement became enlivened by a wager among them over which would be the first to break it. The fearful girl, not understanding their language or wager, walked into many a trap set by the conniving Normans.
    Maida appeared unconcerned by the girl’s distress but seemed more interested in the scraps of food flung to the hounds laying underfoot. At times Aislinn would see her cramming a stolen morsel into her mouth, and her own waning appetite was little improved by the knowledge her mother was going hungry.
    Hlynn’s repairs held until the meal was nearly complete, but in his frustration, Ragnor vented his anger upon the unfortunate girl. Catching her into his brutal grasp, he cut the cords with his dagger, pricking the tender breasts and pressed his cruel mouth to the youthful flesh, ignoring her tearful and terrified struggles.
    Aislinn’s stomach heaved and she looked away, remembering those same burning lips against her own breasts. She did not glance up when he strode out the door carrying the girl, but shuddered uncontrollably. After some moments she lifted her head, having regained some small bit of her composure, and found Wulfgar’s eyes upon her. Weakly she reached for her wine and drank it down numbly.
    “Time has swift wings, Aislinn,” he commented, watching her. “It is your foe?”
    She would not meet his gaze. She knew his meaning. Like Ragnor he had become bored with the feasting and was thinking of other entertainment.
    “I repeat, damoiselle, is time your foe?”
    She turned to him and was surprised to find that he was leaning toward her, so close that his warm breath touched her cheek. His eyes, almost blue now as he gazed at her, delved deeply into her own.
    “Nay,” she