The Wolf and the Dove Read Online Free PDF

appeared pale and wan, seeming as fragile and delicate as the morning mist rising from the swamps beyond. She began gathering her hair, raking knots from it with her fingers. But the memory of Ragnor’s long, brown fingers thrust through it, hurting her, forcing her to bend to his will, made her stop abruptly. She whipped the heavy swirling mass forward over her shoulder, letting it tumble loosely down over her bosom to her thighs and strode across the room.
    “Nay, Mother,” she said in firm decision. “We will not flee today. Not while the honored dead lay prey to the ravens and wolves.”
    With purposeful strides, Aislinn left the room, leaving the old woman to trail behind in helpless frustration. Scrambling in her wake to the hall below, Maida stepped gingerly over the snoring Normans sprawled carelessly in drunken slumber upon the floor.
    Like a silent flowing wraith, Aislinn moved before her. With a heave of her slender form she swung wide the scarred door of Darkenwald, then staggered to a halt, half choking at the reeking stench of death. Her gorge rose in her throat and with an effort of sheer will she fought the retching down. She stumbled past the grotesque forms until she came to that of her father. He lay rigid now, his shoulders pressed to the faithful sod, his arms flung wide with his sword grasped in his knotted fist and a snarl of defiance still curling his lips.
    A single tear slid over Aislinn’s cheek as she stood silently mourning him. He had died as he lived, with honor and with his own life’s blood quenching the thirst of the soil he loved. She would miss even his rages. What misery, despair! What loneliness, death!
    The dame drew up beside her and leaned hard against her, panting heavily in the thickened air. Maida stared down at her slain husband and drew a long rasping breath. Her voice started in a low moan and ended in a raking screech.
    “Ah, Erland, ‘tis not fair you should leave us thus with thieves ranging the hall and our own daughter a good night’s toss for yon shaven ass!”
    The woman fell to her knees and grasped her dead lord’s hauberk as if to draw him up. Her strength failed and she knelt pleading in despair.
    “What will I do? What will I do?”
    Aislinn stepped across his frame and pried the sword from his hand. Grasping the once-loving arm, she sought to drag the corpse away to a softer place of rest. Her mother seized the other hand but only to work the great signet ring from the gnarled finger. At Aislinn’s gaze she looked up and whined:
    “ ’Tis mine! Part of my dowry! See, my father’s crest.” She waggled the ring in Aislinn’s face. “It goes with me,” her mother pleaded.
    A voice rang out, startling them. The old woman jumped, fear twisting her face. She dropped the hand and sped with amazing agility across the littered battlefield to disappear in the brush at the edge of the swamp. Aislinn let her father’s arm sag back to the ground and turned with calm deliberation that surprised even herself to face this unknown threat. Her eyes widened at the sight of the tall warrior astride a great stallion, the likes of which she had never seen before and which bore the man as easily as if he were but a lad. The mighty stallion seemed to pick his way almost daintily among the fallen toward her. Aislinn stood her ground yet felt the strings of terror tug at her as this giant apparition approached, making her markedly aware of her own woman’s frame and her vulnerability. The man’s brow was shadowed by his helm yet from behind the nose guard steel gray eyes seemed to pierce her through. Aislinn’s courage melted before his glare and she swallowed convulsively as the cold
hand of fear gripped her.
    His shield, portraying a black wolf rampant on red and gold with a bend sinister, hung from his saddle. Aislinn knew by it that he was a bastard. Had it not been for awe and fear inspired by his height and the sheer size of his huge mount, she would have hurled