Wolf for a Lioness 8

 

Chapter 8

 

Four figures slipped into the stables, and were soon riding out, keeping to the sides of the light woodland that skirted the village to hide their silhouette. There was little noise of their hoofbeats over the soft turf over sand, and they came presently on a spinney near the leap. Sewin gave the horses nosebags with a wet mash in, so they would not dehydrate even with a long wait, having something to browse likely to keep them quiet. Wulfric showed Sewin and Father Hubert the remains of the tarred twine, and the cut to the other hawthorn tree’s trunk which Isabeau had first found. Then he spread his cloak for Isabeau to sit on, and settled down to wait. Sunset was before half past seven; that had passed by the time they arrived, the sky arrayed with skeins of purple cloud against a golden glow, fading into blue above, which deepened towards the east. There would be some light for a good two hours as yet, though only of much use for another three quarters of an hour. Wulfric hoped that his quarry would come before dark.

The muffled thudding of hoofs as the sky’s bright colours faded suggested that they were to be in luck.  A horse thundered up, foaming slightly from having been ridden too fast, and a cloaked figure almost fell off it, going to the base of the hawthorn tree where the twine remained. There was enough light in the sky to see the flash of a blade, cutting it, and actions which clearly showed mud being smeared onto the scar.

“Well, Piers, it seems that I was right to think you would want to remove the evidence as soon as possible,” said Wulfric, standing up and moving forward.

“You! You interfering Saxon bastard!” snarled Piers.

Wulfric laughed.

“But I’m not the bastard, Piers; you are,” said Wulfric. “And not just by birth, but in depriving the lovely Isabeau of her father.”

“It’s all your fault,” said Piers. “I spoke to Sir Ferrand about securing her hand, and the stupid old fool said that he intended to bestow her on you, and that he planned to tell her, and celebrate a wedding at Michaelmas when all the harvest was in. I ... I had to kill him ere he might tell her, that I might persuade her that he intended her for me!”

“Why, Piers! I had no idea that you felt so warmly for Isabeau; you have never displayed any passion for her,” said Wulfric.

“Passion? How could one feel any passion for that ice-cold hellcat?” sneered Piers. “But I would have schooled her to be the perfect, obedient wife in order to have the lands. So often the old fool spoke of me being as a son in his household, but a son of the household would have been his heir! She would pay for despising me, for being scornful of me!”

Wulfric laughed.

“Don’t you think that scorn is the right emotion for such a fool as you, who permits himself to be tricked into giving himself away?” he said.

“It is your word against mine! I will say that I followed you, and saw that you removed evidence, that you pretended you were going to look for in the morning, when others would have accompanied you. Your word is unsupported!”

“You’re wrong there, Piers,” said Isabeau. “Those of us sat in the shadows, listening, have heard every word, and if you thought I despised you before, why, ‘tis nothing on my feelings now, when you have revealed yourself to be so little, such a half-man, that you must ‘school’ a wife who will not defer to you, as I am happy to defer to my lord, Wulfric.”

Piers gave a whinny of terror, as Isabeau moved out of the caliginous gloom of the shadow, and stood by Wulfric.

Then, in a sudden move, he was on her, and seized her by one plait, pulling her head, his knife still in his hand and held at her white throat.

“I’m going to my horse,” he said. “You will not stop me. If she behaves, you may get Isabeau back alive; and perhaps intact. But my seed will rule these lands if I do not.”

“My son, do not be so foolish!” cried Father Hubert, running forward. Isabeau could not suppress a cry of pain as Piers’ knife nicked her.

“Don’t, priest,” said Piers. He backed towards his horse, a tight hold on Isabeau. He pulled off her girdle. “Loop it round your hands, bitch, or I will cut you,” he said. Isabeau swallowed hard; it pressed her throat closer on the knife, and she began to make a loop with her girdle, making a slip-knot which she might rapidly pull undone from one of the ends, as Wulfric had once taught her. She slid it over her wrists, and made sure Piers had the other end to pull tight.

And then there was a sickening, hollow, damp Poc! And Piers sagged. Isabeau stood on the end to loose herself, and her hands were free, and she pulled away from him, pushing the suddenly limp arm from her.

“Lady! My lady!” cried Arnebeort’s shrill voice. “I slinged my sling at the bad man! I followeded you, in case you needed me!”

“Arnebeort! My angel, why art thou not abed?” asked Isabeau, opening her arms to the child as Wulfric sprang on the unconscious Piers to tie him securely.

“I sneaked out,” said Arnebeort. “I knew you were going to catch him, and I was frit he might hurt you! So I brung my sling, like David and that Gol-fellow.”

“So you did!  Well done, Arnebeort,” said Isabeau. “Wulfric, be not over-tender of him. We heard his testimony. If Father Hubert will set it in writing, you and I might sign it as a true account to send into Bungay. And if he dies of his wound ... I will not be displeased. I do not want even Piers drawn and quartered.”

“Art tender-hearted, my little bird, my wren,” said Wulfric. “Let Piers be taken back to the house, where he might lie overnight under guard.”

“Let him be taken in the morning by litter to Rumburgh Priory[1],” said Isabeau. “He may recover or perish there, under the rule of the Benedict monks. They revere St. Bee, and will not take lightly his threats to violate a shamefast maid whom he had seized.”

“It shall be so,” said Wulfric. “My lady, dost feel able to ride back?”

“My lord, I am not, I think, as feeble as Piers has ever been,” said Isabeau.

“Then Arnebeort shall ride in front of me,” said Wulfric. “Today, child, hast avenged thy father, and saved thy lady.”

“Can I be a knight, one day?” asked Arnebeort.

“I see no reason why not,” said Wulfric.

 

oOoOo

 

Overnight, Piers slipped into a coma, and did not wake from it, dying three days later, shortly after the arrival of the curly-haired Roger Dispencer.

“I came to take your prisoner, but it seems he is like to die,” said that cleric. It was almost an accusation.

“Aye, and God guided ... well, if not your hand, another part of your anatomy when you left the foolish Fressenda with child,” said Wulfric. “For your natural son, in defence of his lady, used his sling to stop this man abducting the fair Isabeau, with intent to despoil her in his spite for having been caught killing his uncle and patron, Sir Ferrand.”

“I ...” for a moment, Dispencer considered denying knowledge of Arnebeort. “I am proud of the tyke, then,” he said. “You plan to rear him as one of noble birth?”

“My bride wants to adopt him,” said Wulfric. “I wait only until we have legitimate issue of our own.”

“Understood,” said Dispencer. “Thank you for not making an issue of it.”

“A man can be tempted. I was not in your shoon at the time,” said Wulfric. “And if it were a sin, it were a sin which has been cleansed by his actions. I make no issue.”

Piers breathed his last, and was taken to the chapel. He would be buried very quietly.

 

oOoOo

 

As the golden leaves of September blew desultorily from the trees, Wulfric knelt beside Isabeau to exchange their wedding vows. All the local notables were in attendance to witness it, and if Fleury and Danforth looked sour, there was nothing that they might do, and must accept a fait accompli.  And Arnebeort was a delightful and cherubic page boy, whose other weapon, an elder-stem pea shooter, Wulfric had firmly confiscated before bored eyes turned on irritating the choir.

Isabeau was also a thing of beauty, in a golden and brown damasked silk bliaut, the sleeves lined with a jewel-bright blue silk. Wulfric dressed in brown, but his own bliaut was richly dyed, a russet with embroidery at neck and sleeves in black, three browns, and gold thread.  The sun shone on his coppery locks and he looked every inch a lord. The peasantry appreciated it too; but they appreciated the wedding feast in the tithe barn more. The guests and the household servants would feast at the hall.

Isabeau and Wulfric endured the feast until Wulfric stood.

“Wife,” he said. “I am full of food, full of wine, and full of impatience. I am hungry for thee, and only thou wilt satisfy me.”

“My lord is masterful,” said Isabeau.

“You have not seen anything yet,” said Wulfric, picking her effortlessly up to carry to the solar.

He was given several drunken cheers.

Isabeau was giggling as he dropped her on the bed.

“Art ready to strip thy bride as the wind strips the leaves relentlessly from the helpless trees?” she asked.

“Art as helpless as a sack full of ferrets, my lady; I saw you tie that slip-knot, if our little Arnie had not brained Piers, I wager thou wouldst have gutted him, for he had not taken thy knife.”

“Aye, my husband, I should have done so. But before my husband, I am helpless and trembling, your wren in the jaws of a wolf.”

“I’ll remind you of that when my lioness gives bite for bite and bruise for bruise,” said Wulfric.

Laughing, they helped each other to undress, and Wulfric kissed his wife with all the pent-up passion he had been controlling, and showed her how masterful he could be in bed.

He collected a few bites, scratches and bruises along the way as his bride showed she was quite as capable as he was of initiating loving.

Pale dawn touched the windows ere they lay, satiated, dozing in each other’s arms.

“We will call a son Leofric and a daughter Wulfrun,” suggested Wulfric.

“We will call a son ‘Ferrand’ for Papa, and a daughter ‘Edith’ for the queen,” said Isabeau.

“What, not Mahaud for the Queen?” said Wulfric, startled.

“Oh, I do not need to fight about it anymore,” said Isabeau. “I concede the point to my husband. On one condition.” Her fingers suggested what the condition was.

“You’re going to kill me with exertion,” said Wulfric.

He did not sound unhappy about this.

 

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[1] Neither Bungay Priory nor Flixton Priory had been founded at this period.