Master Of Surrender (11 page)

Russell swallowed hard and nodded.

Rohan reined Mordred around and raised his hand to his men. “There is naught else for us to do here. Let us patrol this land we have conquered before we return to Rossmoor.”

Rohan’s blood warmed when he spoke of Rossmoor. But it was not for the impressive stone edifice. Nay, it was for the stubborn wench who called herself lady of the manor. To his utter astonishment, he found himself thinking of the maid and the excitement she wrought from him over the thrill of the kill.

He shook his head in self-loathing. She was but one of many women who could turn a man’s head. And there were scores more like her in this godforsaken land.

As Ralph led her deeper into the frigid forest, Isabel noticed the quietness surrounding them. It was as if she stepped through a graveyard. The air here was colder, the color dimmer. The morning frost lingered, marking their passage with a soft crunch of frozen turf. The birds she was used to hearing chirp cheerfully in the sunshine were silent. It was if their joy had been struck from them.

Isabel could well relate. In less then two months’ time, her life and the lives of all of Saxony were twisted inside out. A foreigner claimed the throne of England. Her father and her brother gone to war, mayhap both dead, her lands and people decimated by cowardly raiders and then the arrival of the Normans.

She shivered hard and pulled her fur-lined cloak tighter around her shoulders. A sad smile crossed her face. The mantle was of fine Norse mink. Fully lined, the outer fabric a luxurious embroidered velvet. A gift last Michaelmas from her father. He had commissioned it for her. Part of her wedding trousseau. He had insisted she take it as an early gift from an aging father. She was happy to accept it.

Isabel swallowed hard. Her wedding date was planned to mark the spring slaughter. Would Arlys come for her? Would he demand she be given to him as was promised by her father?

He had been patient all these years. Their betrothal contract was forged when she was but a young girl. Two years after her first courses, she was promised as wife to the earl. But with her mother’s passing coming right before the time she was originally to wed, her father hesitated. He could not bear to lose his wife and his daughter in the same year. He insisted that Isabel stay as lady of the manor until Geoff took a wife. Arlys was not happy and even petitioned Edward to force Alefric to honor the contract as it was originally written.

But Alefric was godfather to several of Edward’s court favorites. Alefric was also a benevolent patron of the saints and had stood steadfast beside Edward when Godwin would have stirred up civil war.

And so Arlys was doomed to lose his petition. To show good faith, Alefric gave the earl a portion of her dower lands in Mercia. The balance of her dowry, one of the richest ever to be recorded, would follow on the wedding day. Anger roiled in her belly. Would that she still retained those lands! At least she knew her father’s treasury was well hidden deep in the caves. Some months before Edward’s death, Alefric being the wise man he was and foreseeing the future, had moved the chest of silver to the caves. When they heard of William’s intent to sail to the shores of England and claim the throne, they sighed in relief. Rossmoor may be taken, but the silver would serve them well to buy passage to friendlier climes should the need arise.

But until such time, the coin would await the lord’s return deep in the caves of Menloc.

Isabel didn’t like the dark, dank caves. The bats were many and ferocious. Tales of the lost souls who wandered the deep crevices crying out for others had terrified her since childhood.

And whispers about the witch there grew with each passing year. ’Twas said she was the one responsible for the lost souls in the first place and that she was mightier than any warrior and wove her clothes from the hair of her victims. Isabel had loudly protested when her father picked the caves as the hiding spot for his silver.

“But Father!” she had cried. “The witch will shear you and pike your head to add to her collection!”

“Nay, child.” He had shushed her. “I know of what I speak. Now, let us see to the chore.”

And so it was done.

At least, Isabel thought, all was not lost. Mayhap if her betrothal to Arlys was null, she could wag the silver under the nose of a new potential husband. She let out a long breath. It occurred to her then that she was not unhappy she would not wed with Arlys. She could not exactly say why that was, but she knew part of it was that he was older, and he spent most of his time at court instead of tending his shires, but those were silly reasons. Arlys was, or had been, a powerful overlord. He was a good match for someone of her station. United, they would be a most formidable couple. Amongst the most powerful in England.

Isabel sighed and watched her breath darken in the chill of the air. But Arlys did not stir her heart. And his touch did not elicit the warmth that Rohan’s did. Aye, Rohan disturbed her on many levels, and Holy Mother forgive her, but on more than a few occasions, her thoughts conjured up his naked, powerful body.

Isabel stumbled, and had she not had a firm grip on the wagon, she would have tumbled to the hard earth.

“Easy, milady,” Ralph said, steadying her. “We are almost there.”

And so Isabel pushed the troubling thoughts of the dark knight far from her.

A
small clearing emerged from the thick copse of trees. A large fire blazed in the middle. Several small makeshift huts hugged as close to the flames as safety permitted, drawing the meager warmth while forming a snug semicircle around it. Several people looked up, their bleak, forlorn faces nearly as pale as the frosty turf. Those from Alethorpe Isabel instantly recognized, those from Wilshire, a two-day ride from Rossmoor, she barely could.

As recognition dawned on the villagers, their faces morphed from despair to pure joy. “Milady, milady!” they cried in chorus, then enveloped her in a mass of frightened, tired humanity. Isabel’s heart swelled with love, and as she hugged them to her, warm tears trailed down her cheeks. She feared to speak lest her voice crack and they would think her weak. Instead, she kept her head down and wiped the tears with the sleeve of her gown.

Once she had collected herself, Isabel stood back and painted on a fierce smile. “Have faith! Lord Alefric and Sir Geoff have yet to return. When they do, we shall see our lands more settled. Until then, let me tend to you, then I urge you all to come to Alethorpe.”

Several people cried out in fear. “The Normans!”

Isabel nodded. “Aye, the Normans abound in my hall, but they are not bent on the same destruction as the raiders. At least for now, the Normans will protect us. It is more than what you have here.”

“Milady, the Normans would slit our throats whilst we sleep,” Ralph said, disdain lacing each word. “I would stay here before returning.”

Isabel turned shocked eyes on the smithy. “Ralph! You would desert your wife and daughters in the village?”

He shook his head, his dark eyes hard. “I would bring them here.”

“’Tis folly. The raiders are many. They maim and plunder. You would perish here with no food.”

“I have a sturdy spear. The others have bows.”

“Aye, and you are capable. And whilst I allowed you to hunt two days a month in the lord’s forests, the Norman may not be so generous. The stores and larders at Rossmoor are plenty. The Norman has promised to see the smokehouse refilled as it depletes.”

Ralph shook his head. His brows furrowed. “Have you been persuaded by the Norman, milady?”

Isabel gasped, shocked at his accusation. “Nay! I think only of your safety and the safety of the others. Out here in the middle of the forest, you are easy pickings for starvation and the raiders. At Rossmoor, you have a chance.” Isabel pulled the heavy tarp from the laden cart. “Mildred,” she said to the old midwife, “have Blythe help you distribute the food we have brought. Be frugal with it. I have no guarantee when more will be forthcoming.”

The woman bobbed her head and set about the chore. Isabel turned back to Ralph. “Show me to the wounded.”

She followed him to a larger hut set back behind the smaller ones. As she ducked in, pushing back the tattered fabric that acted as a door, the stench that met her nostrils caused the bile in her belly to rise. She stopped in mid-step and struggled to keep her meager breakfast down.

Ralph steadied her. “Some of the wounds have festered too long, milady. I fear they are beyond saving.”

Isabel nodded and motioned to Brice, Mildred’s sturdy grandson, to follow her out to the fresh air. “Bring the pallets out here near the fire. Heat two cauldrons of water to boiling.”

He turned to do her bidding, but she grabbed his shoulder. He turned dark brown eyes up to her. “And Brice, fetch me a good sharp ax and a dagger.” The boy paled considerably, but he bobbed his head and scurried to do her bidding.

“Have you the stomach for it, milady?” Ralph asked from behind her.

Straightening her back, Isabel turned and looked up into his dark eyes, only to find quiet concern for her. “Aye, I have no choice. They can either lose a limb or lose their life. I will give them each the choice.”

As so it was to be. When Paul, Ralph’s brother, was brought to her and deposited on the pallet, he passed out from the pain of his arm being disturbed. Isabel pulled back the rough fabric stuck into the deep gash in his forearm. The stench that rose from the wound had the kick of a destrier. Isabel breathed in through her mouth. The flesh around the gash was black. Thick green and yellow pus oozed from the swollen appendage. The poison had worked its way up to the elbow.

She touched his brow. It was hot with fever. Isabel pressed her hand to his cheek. He opened his eyes. Bleak and hopeless, he stared at her. “Paul, I cannot save your arm. But I can save your life if you allow me to—” she swallowed hard—“allow me to sever it from you. ’Tis the only way to keep the poison from spreading.”

He nodded and closed his eyes. Isabel raised her gaze to Ralph, who kneeled beside her.

“I shall need your brawn, Ralph. If the arm is to be cleanly severed, it will take more than a sharp blade and my meager strength.”

“Tell me what to do.”

Isabel got to work. She formed a tourniquet several inches above the black flesh and gave it time to numb the poisoned part of Paul’s arm. She asked for rope and was given several lengths. She tied one at each of Paul’s ankles and the other two on his wrists. The sturdier men would pull him taut so that he could not thrash and impede Ralph’s aim. Last, she found a solid branch and gave it to the man to bite down on.

“My pardon, Ralph, for asking such a thing of you. Had I the strength, I would do it myself,” Isabel softly said.

“I am honored, milady.”

She turned her gaze back to Paul, who despite his dire straits was fully awake. The fear on his face was almost enough to turn Isabel away. But she held fast. She crossed herself and said a silent prayer. “’Tis for the best, Paul. I will cauterize the stump, and the pain will ease as well as the fever.”

He nodded. “Do it now!”

Isabel gave the signal to the men, and they pulled his limbs taut. Ralph raised the ax, and in one swift strike, he brought it down, severing the arm in half. Paul’s screams disturbed the eerie quiet of the surrounding forest. Isabel could not fight back the bile this time. As discreetly as she could, she released what was left of her morning meal onto the hard earth. She wiped her sleeve across her mouth and bent to the chore of cauterizing the wound.

And so the afternoon went. She did not count the severed limbs, fingers, or toes. She did not count the pale, lifeless faces of those she could not save. She did not count the times she thought she could not stomach another wound or bathe another body raging with fever.

When the last of her people was tended to, Isabel looked up to Ralph, who appeared as weary as she felt. “Ralph, it seems the thieves were more bent on maiming than killing. What manner of man does this?”

The old smithy squatted next to her. He stared into the waning fire for a long time, not speaking. He clasped his gnarled hands, the lines in them deep and cracked. “The men are well armed and skilled in the art of war. Some I would swear were of Viking blood, but they bore no colors.” He looked at her. “In truth, I know not whence they came.”

Isabel put a comforting hand on the man’s sinewy arm. “Viking blood runs deep among our people, Ralph. Could it be kin?”

The smithy frowned and shook his head, but he turned angry eyes on her. “Who kills his own kin?”

Isabel thought of the answer. She did not like what was obvious. “’Tis not so hard to think of in these times. Harold’s own brother sought to slay him for the crown. With the Normans’ trespass, I fear we will see many strangers swarm our land, most more than willing to kill for a piece of it. Even du Lac’s own brother challenged him.” Isabel thought of Rohan, and her body quivered. So involved in her tasks, she had not given him a thought since her arrival in the glen. She looked up toward the darkening sky. He would have returned to Rossmoor by now. She trembled to think of his fury when he discovered her gone.

Isabel smiled sadly at the old villager beside her. Aye, there was no choice. She would take Rohan’s wrath a thousand times over. She had no regrets for coming to the glade. Indeed, she would fight to come again. “I pray this knight Rohan will be good for one thing, to rid the forests of this scourge.”

Ralph snorted, then spit to the ground. Abruptly, he stood. “Norman swine! Who is this William, anyway? He has no blood tie to our land. He is nothing but a bastard grandson to a tanner.”

Isabel nodded and stood with Ralph’s assistance. As she brushed the dried leaves and dirt from her gown, she said, “Aye, he is all of that, Ralph, but be warned. The Black Sword who now trespasses our land and claims it is also the grandson of that same tanner. I pray thee tread lightly until we have a firm footing in this war. Let us be patient and see this charade to the end. Much can happen to the two bastards who would rape us of our birthrights.”

Ralph’s dark eyes flashed in defiance. “Lord Arlys is near, Lady Isabel. He gathers men. I will bide my time and watch. We will yet win the day.”

At his words, Isabel’s belly slowly churned. “Tell me of Lord Arlys. Where is he?”

“I have only heard he did not have the men to withstand the assault on Dunsworth, but he escaped with his life. The manor has been reduced to rubble, and the lady Elspeth is being held for ransom. I had heard the young Lord Edward is missing.”

Isabel gasped. Poor Elspeth! Arlys’s sister was only ten, and poor sweet Edward? Where could he be? Had Arlys hidden the lad? Silently, Isabel crossed herself and realized she was more fortunate than most Saxon maids. Rohan was a brutal warrior. It was true he held no compassion for her or her people. But he had not forced himself on her, nor had he destroyed Rossmoor or the village. Indeed, only a fool would do so. For it would only have to be rebuilt.

Isabel glanced around the quiet camp. The low moans of those surviving wounded had quieted, and the wide-eyed faces of the children now receded into the shadows in fatigued sleep. She noticed a young mother sitting much too close to the fire with her new babe clutched tightly to her breast, trying valiantly to keep the child warm. Isabel reached down and grabbed her fur-lined cloak from where she had laid it and walked over to the young women. Soulful eyes stared up in hopelessness. Isabel smiled, then kneeled next to the girl and wrapped the rich garment around her and the babe. “Here, you will be warmer now.” The girl’s eyes welled with tears. Isabel’s smile widened, and she fought back her own onslaught of tears. “God is watching over you and your babe.”

Isabel stood and turned back to Ralph and Mildred, who watched her with shocked expressions.

Isabel shrugged her shoulders. “We are in this together. I hope, should I ever need a kind word, someone will come forward and soothe my fears.” Isabel rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “Ralph, have you word of Father Michael? There are too many graves to be blessed. ’Tis not fair that innocents should lie unshriven.”

“The good friar has not been seen since the first raid on Alethorpe.”

“Do you think him slain?”

“I know not, milady.”

Isabel thought on the matter. If Father Michael was indeed gone, then she would have to travel to the abbey at Dunleavy and ask one of the friars there to come bless the graves. ’Twas a two-day ride to the east. But she could not go without an escort. Would Rohan give it to her? Did he even care that her valiant people lay unshriven? Nay, she would not believe such a vile thing, not even of a Norman. She would have her priest, even if she had to sneak out under the cloak of night and find one herself.

Rohan galloped along the well-forged road to Rossmoor, feeling victorious. They had won the day. And with the absence of the raiders, he could encourage those who had fled to the forests to return under his protection.

’Twould be another good day to celebrate. He grinned beneath his helmet. And a good night to taste more thoroughly the sweetness of Lady Isabel. His blood warmed. Aye, he admitted he would be hard pressed not to sink deep between her thighs, but he possessed supreme self-control. There were other ways to find release. And he planned on schooling the reluctant maid in every one of them.

As the thick fog parted and Rossmoor came into view, Rohan’s chest filled with pride. The large stone manor was a fine bit of architecture. The luxuries that abounded within were the best he had ever experienced. The surrounding lands were ripe with natural resources. Aye, Alethorpe was a jewel in the crown of England.

Excitement pulsed through him. Should he be so lucky, it and all that cleaved to it would one day be his.

As Rohan skidded to a halt in the courtyard, his mood instantly soured, and his warrior instinct flared. Something was deeply amiss. Warner paced a deep wedge into the stone. Rohan dismounted. Hugh grabbed Mordred’s reins and walked off with the huge black. Rohan’s eyes scanned the area for Isabel. His ire rose when it was plain she was not present.

“Why are you not guarding the lady?” Rohan demanded, yanking his helmet from his head. As he pushed the cowl back, he knew the moment Warner turned fearful eyes up to him that the lady was gone. A maelstrom of emotion he could not name rushed up inside Rohan. For Warner to show fear of him meant the worst. Had she fallen at the hand of a raider?

Rohan’s blood chilled to ice in his body. Had Henri returned?

“Where is she?” he demanded, stepping closer to his man. Never in his life had Rohan thought to strike a man over a woman, but if Warner—

“She gave me the slip, Rohan. She tricked me!”

Rohan grabbed Warner by the shoulders and shook him like a rat. “Where is she?”

Thorin came to stand beside Rohan. He put a hand out, breaking his iron grip on Warner.

“She told me her people needed food. She asked if I would give her permission to take from the larder. I gave it. She then told me she needed to fetch more herbs from her chamber. I watched her go up those stairs, Rohan. I stood at the end of the hallway and awaited her return. She did not pass me by! I turned that keep inside out. She disappeared into the air! Her man Ralph, who was to help her feed the churls, has disappeared as well.”

Rohan knew a fury so complete that for a moment he could see only black. In a supreme effort, he leashed his anger. In a slow, menacing voice, he demanded, “Have you scoured the perimeter? She would have had to go over the wall or around it.”