Master Of Surrender (10 page)

“I can show you the way,” Russell said, stepping forward.

Rohan scowled, staring down at the boy. But the youth regarded Rohan with quiet strength. “What of your back?”

“It pains me not.”

Rohan scoffed but nodded. “If you think you have what it takes to ride with me, then find yourself a suitable mount. Go to Hugh, my squire. He will see you properly outfitted.”

Rohan turned back to Isabel, who had sunk down beside her fallen man. She looked up with teary eyes. “Abel gave his final sacrifice for my father.” She closed his eyes and crossed herself several times. Rohan helped her to stand.

“Stay within the protection of the hall, Isabel. I know not if these raiders mean to draw us out. I will have plenty of men to guard and protect, but there is too much danger for you to be about.”

Isabel scanned his eyes; they seemed to soften. In spite of his harsh words and deeds, did he perhaps hold some affection for her? If ’twere true, it would make her less prickly toward him. When she did not answer, he harshly said, “No argument. For many reasons, I do not wish to have to pay a ransom for you.”

Before she could offer a sharp word at yet another of his callous barbs, Rohan stalked off.

Several moments later, the devil’s Huns thundered away from Rossmoor. For a long moment, Isabel stood and watched the dark mass of man, horse, and weaponry as it disappeared into the thick forests. If there was one good thing that came of Rohan’s presence, it was that the raiders would think twice before engaging again, and she admitted ’twas better they were in Rohan’s hands and not in the hands of that devil Henri de Monfort. For had he arrived first, Isabel knew full well she would no longer possess the thin skin between her thighs that made her a virgin. She shivered and ran her hands up and down the thin fabric of her gown. Be that as it may, she knew her days to remain intact were severely numbered. Oath or no, she could see the Norman breeching her in the heated throes of passion.

A harsh wind ripped at her dress, bringing her back to the present. Isabel looked up to see several villagers staring at her. Her eyes went to Abel, then to the group of men. “Take him to his wife, and see to it he is buried.” With a heavy heart, Isabel moved back into the hall. A priest. They must have a priest to bless the many graves.

M
ilady!” a man’s voice cried out. Isabel turned to see Ralph the smithy hurry across the bailey, craning his neck back and forth like a swinging noose. Hunch-shouldered as if trying to make himself small and insignificant, he hugged the stone wall as he entered the courtyard, continuing to look fearfully about.

Several of Rohan’s men scowled his way, and one, the knight Warner, kept a wary eye on the smith. Isabel hurried to him. As soon as he could hear, she said, “Act as if you come to the manor every day, Ralph. You bring too much attention to yourself with your skittish movements.”

Isabel turned then. As he caught up and fell in step with her in a slow, unhurried pace, she walked toward the manor.

“Forgive me, Lady Isabel,” Ralph huffed, out of breath.

“But I am unused to these foreigners in my home.”

Isabel nodded but kept her pace slow and even. “I understand, but so long as they are here, let us not give them cause to do more harm than they already have.”

Ralph spit. “Had I a sword!”

Isabel shushed him, and they entered the hall, stopping at the forward hearth that warmed the aft portion of the hall. It was also where the villagers ate and came to see to the lord’s business and where the hounds were leashed. The upper hall where Manhku rested, along with the lord’s table, was where the nobles resided. And, Isabel thought, the Normans who acted as if all was theirs. And William had yet to be crowned!

Isabel bent to let several of the hounds free. As she did, Ralph moved closer and whispered, “Milady, many villagers hide in the forests, near the caves. They are hungry, and many are wounded. You are our only hope.”

She turned to look up at him and nearly screamed. Warner stood only a few feet from Ralph. He fondled the hilt of his sword, his dark eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer still.

“Is privacy now against Norman law?” Isabel intentionally asked in English.

Warner’s scowl deepened. “It would please me, Lady Isabel, if you would speak my tongue,” the knight responded in French.

Isabel nodded, her suspicions confirmed. Sir Warner did not speak her tongue. “I beg your pardon, sir knight. I but asked if privacy was now against Norman law.”

Warner nodded and smiled a crooked smile. The scar on his chin tightened with the gesture. He was a handsome man whom under different circumstances Isabel could find herself admiring. Of all of Rohan’s men, he seemed the most interested in bridging the great divide that separated Norman and Saxon, while Rohan seemed to be the one most bent on widening it.

“Nay, Lady Isabel. In times of war, etiquette does not exist. Not even on the battlefield.”

Isabel curtsied and smiled a trite, forced smile. “Of course, Sir Warner. How foolish of me to expect more from a Norman.” She looked him directly in the eye. “If you will pardon me, my man Ralph brings me news of the village. He speaks only English.”

Warner nodded but did not move from them. Instead, he leaned up against the hearth and reached down to scratch a hound behind the ears. “Feel free to discuss your affairs.”

Isabel turned from the arrogant knight. She would have the last laugh on them all. In English, she said to Ralph, “He does not understand our gentle tongue. Speak freely to me, but do it in a manner such that he believes we discuss the daily business of Alethorpe.”

Ralph nodded, and before he started, he cast a wary eye on the knight, who regarded him with cool disdain.

“Deep in the great forest of Menloc, a group from Wilshire gathers, as well as many people from our village. They fear the Normans. They are tired and hungry, and many have festering wounds.”

With the toe of her shoe, Isabel poked at an ember that jumped from the hearth to the stone floor near her foot. In a slow, grinding motion, she snuffed the heat from it. “I cannot bring food, Ralph, but”—she bit her bottom lip and tried hard not to look at the Norman knight—“methinks I have a way to deplete the stores under the Norman’s nose. I will gather the healing basket. Then I will meet you behind the stable along the south wall.”

“Aye, near the rubble break.”

Isabel nodded. Ralph swept a narrowed gaze at Warner, who stood staring at them both as if he understood every word they said. Isabel felt her cheeks warm. It was difficult to remain calm when she was about to defy Rohan’s orders.

“The Norman guards you well. How will you rid yourself of this unwanted shadow?”

Isabel smiled and put her hand on his forearm. “Leave that to me. Now, let me sway the Norman.”

Isabel turned a serene face up to Warner. He immediately stiffened. She smiled and softly said in French, “You have nothing to fear from me, Sir Warner. I only ask a small favor of you.” Skeptically, he nodded for her to continue. “Sir Warner, Ralph has explained to me that there are many villagers who are ailing and have not eaten in several days. Our stores are full. I ask that you give him permission to take from them to feed my people.”

Warner scowled, uncertainty clouding his features.

Isabel touched his arm. “Sir, the people require nourishment to survive.”

Warner continued to scowl at her. It was clear he held no trust of her.

“Would you and your fellow knights tend the fields and the sheep when there are no churls left to tend them?”

She knew the moment she won. He straightened, and his eyes cleared. “I’ll have a man see to it.”

Isabel pressed her hand more firmly on his arm. “’Tis not necessary. You Normans scare my people. Allow Ralph to go unsupported so that they may sup in peace.” When he gave no further word, she smiled and squeezed his arm, then stepped back. “My thanks, Sir Warner.”

Isabel hastened to inform Ralph of what she was about. “See to several families, and when the time is right, slip out the back of one of the huts, and meet me with the cart.”

Ralph’s eyes danced in humor, but Isabel gave him a stern look. No need to alert the Norman that he was being played for a fool. As Ralph moved toward the kitchen, Isabel moved toward the great hearth and the Saracen. Warner followed close behind.

Isabel stared down at the sleeping giant. His wound gaped, but it did not fester so much. She bent to her task. Several times as she cleaned, packed, then bound the leg, the African stirred. As she wrapped the last of the linens around his thigh, his dark eyes opened, and she frowned at him. “Stay down, Manhku, or lose your leg.”

He growled softly, more like a puppy than a great dog, but closed his eyes, and soon his snores filled the hall. Isabel looked up at Warner, who offered his hand to her. She placed hers in his, and he drew her up. “Thank you, Sir Warner. Now, if you will excuse me, I should like to change my clothes and freshen up. I have much that needs my attention this day.”

“I have been entrusted to secure your safety this day, damsel. Do not play me the fool in Rohan’s eye.”

A quick stab of guilt flittered through Isabel’s chest. But her path was clear. Her people came first, and did not Sir Warner say only moments before that there were no rules of etiquette in war?

“I doubt, Sir Warner, that you could ever look the fool to Rohan.” Isabel grabbed her basket of herbs and hurried up the great stairway to the lady’s solar, where she quickly changed into sturdier clothes.

Moments later, with her basket replenished and laden with herbs, balms, and linens, Isabel slipped out of the room. Casting a wary glance over her shoulder, she held her breath. Warner stood at the end of the hall leading to the stairway. In a slow backward motion, Isabel moved down the hallway. As Warner turned, she pressed back into a shallow alcove. Her heart beat so hard in her chest she thought for sure it would rip her open. The hard, cold stones dug into her back.

After several long moments, when no sound emerged, she dared to peek. With Warner’s back once again to her, Isabel darted around the bend of the hallway to the next stairway. On one side, there was a thick wooden door that led to the old chambers of the manor and down to the kitchens. Some were still fit for habitants, but mostly they were used for storage. Across from the door was stone.

Isabel reached up as high as she could on her toes and felt along the protruding ledge of a ruggedly hewn block. She pressed her fingertips up and down until she heard a small snap. She smiled. Several larger blocks moved forward, a door, leading to a secret passageway to the back of the manor and into the forests.

Her smile tightened as she remembered her mischievous brother. Close in age as they were, Geoff had always included her in his adventures. One had been the discovery by accident of the secret passageway. Many a time, they hid from their father in the dark recesses of the dank stairway when he stormed the hall demanding that his children perform loathsome tasks.

Her heart ached for her brother. When he had gone to foster with Harold, she had been devastated. But Geoff had returned regularly, and once he’d earned his spurs, he resided more oft than not at Rossmoor.

Quickly, she slipped through the narrow opening into the dark, dank stairway. Isabel nearly dropped her basket as the odious stench of excrement assailed her senses. The drop to the cesspool ran along the passage. She gagged several times before she managed to gather herself and feel her way down the slippery steps, using the wall as her guide.

Still holding her breath, Isabel came to the bottom of the stairwell. Very slowly, she felt for the latch that would open the door to the outside. Cool air rushed at her, and Isabel gulped great mouthfuls of it. Sunlight filtered through the dense bramble of the mulberry bush that shielded the secret stone door from view.

Isabel crossed herself quickly as she said a silent thank you to her great-grandfather Leofric. When he constructed Rossmoor, he made certain that if his wife’s Norse family came to call without an invitation, there would be an escape route. And now it served Isabel well.

Because of where the entry was positioned, all Isabel had to do was move along the manor walls to the high stone wall that surrounded Rossmoor. Hidden behind another overgrown mulberry bush was a passage through the stone wall to the outer fringes of the forest. She found the latch and slipped through the other side to meet with a waiting Ralph.

“You did not encounter any Normans?” Isabel asked, surprised to find the smith waiting so soon with a cart laden with food.

“The Normans may have their own stench, but they cannot tolerate the stench of the tanner’s hut. I made that my third stop. They are no doubt still gagging up their morning meal.”

Isabel smiled and picked up an even pace beside Ralph as he pulled the cart toward the thick copse of trees. “We may not match the fierce Norman knights in weaponry and horse, but we outman them with our wits. Let us hope the rest of Saxony is as wily as we, Ralph.”

Rohan sat astride Mordred, the forest quiet and morose around him, his nose raised in the crisp November air. Like a wolf’s, his nostrils twitched, then flared. His prey was near. He could smell the stench of their terror.

There had been nothing left of the small camp the villagers had made. Only blood-soaked earth and cold embers told their story. There was not even the remnant of a cloth or a trencher of food. It was if they had been plucked up by a hand in the sky.

Rohan looked up through the thick canopy of trees. Sunlight filtered through the bleak branches, casting a deathly pall over the eerie silence.

“They watch us, Rohan,” Thorin said from his right side.

Rohan nodded, narrowing his eyes to see more clearly into the thick bramble. They were at a disadvantage. His men were best met in the open, where the great destriers could be easily maneuvered. As they were, his Blood Sword knights would be hard pressed to wield their great swords and battle axes in a worthy manner. Their mounts would be climbing over the next man’s, and confusion would reign supreme.

Rohan had never backed away from a fight in his life, but his gut told him should they press the point with these marauders on this terrain, the loss of his men would be substantial.

“Aye, they watch and wait for us to pull closer together. ’Tis not the best of positions for us, my friend.”

“We would kill each other in our efforts to slay them.”

Rohan nodded. “’Tis their folly to underestimate the power of our arsenal.” He grinned and said, “So let us give them a taste of what we are capable of.”

Thorin grinned in return. “Aye, my bow cries for attention.”

Rohan pulled his long bow from the leather sheath that cradled it on his saddle. Instead of one arrow, he drew three and notched them.

His men followed suit. Because the copse was so thick and the cowardly raiders hid low beneath it, Rohan aimed his trio of arrows at an angle that would have maximum impact and penetration.

He released, as did his men. The hissing sound of well-placed arrows stirred the air in a hideous scream, followed by Rohan’s deep, gut-wrenching battle cry. Seconds later, human screams erupted from the bramble. Rohan and his men notched more arrows and let them fly.

More screams erupted from the bramble. The forest shook as the bodies of the cowards fell or turned to flee in the thick cover. Rohan sat astride his mount with no intention of following them deeper into the forest. He pulled another three arrows from the quiver and notched them. This time, he aimed at a higher angle, giving the arrows more of an arch to catch up with the fleeing marauders. Once again, his men followed suit. The sweet hissing sound of the arrows as they launched into the sky gave Rohan shivers. While he was knight first and foremost and found the broadsword made for his hand, he and his men were also expert archers and had learned the skill well. It had come to their aid more times than he could count. For sometimes a sword or an ax was not the weapon to see the job met.

More screams erupted, this time from deeper in the forest.

When several more barrages of arrows brought no cries of pain, Rohan nodded, satisfied that while they might not have eliminated the destructive raiders, enough damage was done to prevent another attack anytime soon.

Rohan turned in his saddle and looked down at the upstart squire of the lady Isabel. “You would learn soon enough, boy, that Norman knights are versed in all aspects of weaponry.”