Master Of Surrender (18 page)

Isabel brushed a tear from her cheek. “Aye, I have lied to myself these past weeks. But I still hold hope.”

“You can hope, but eventually you will have to put your trust in someone.”

“Are you asking me to make Rohan the man I trust?”

“Aye, or any of his Blood Swords. No worthier men walk this frigid island.”

“I applaud your loyalty, Manhku, but there is no future for me with any knight here. They are as transient as the wind. They have no name, no coat of arms. The world calls them bastard. The blood of three kings runs in my veins. I was bred to run a great manor. To marry well, to mingle with queens and kings.”

His eyes widened. She smiled and patted his arm. “I know how selfish it sounds. But I chose it. I chose that path, for in it I have much at my disposal to help others. Wed to a poor, nameless knight, I might be able to eke out a meager existence for myself and my children, if I am so blessed, while my husband runs off to war. How will I support my family should he fall on the battlefield?”

“Blue blood does not a worthy spouse make.”

“I agree, but any blood must come with sustenance.”

“Would you prefer Henri over Rohan, then?”

She stiffened. “Nay. Not under any circumstance.”

“Riders approach!” the lookup shouted. As she did every time those words echoed in her ears, Isabel first felt a leap of excitement, of hope that her father and her brother arrived, but it was quickly chased by dread. More marauders or, worse, Henri.

Isabel excused herself from Manhku and hurried to the tower door. “Who comes?” she called up to the lookout.

“A laden cart. Mayhap more churls.”

Isabel hurried out of the hall through the courtyard and to the bailey and watched as a ragged caravan of Saxons made their way toward her. As they drew closer, recognition dawned, and an emotion she did not like to acknowledge she possessed crept up. It was one thing to feel jealousy at Rohan’s taking of a village woman, but a fuller, more potent jealousy gripped her belly. Lord and Lady Willingham of Dover, along with their only child, the renowned beauty and court favorite Lady Deidre, approached.

Isabel smoothed her gown and waited in the bitter cold as they came closer. Had she not known the family personally, Lord Willingham’s long, flowing beard and hair gave his heritage away. His lady, Edwina, sat rigid and proud beside him. Deidre, adorned in a fully lined fox cloak, scowled, the gesture twisting her dark beauty. Isabel guessed that they, as were many other Saxons, displaced. And as surely as she could see the future, she knew she could not turn them away.

“Lord and Lady Willingham.” Isabel welcomed them as she met the cart where it stopped.

Lord Willingham handed the reins to Bart. “I would say good day to you, Lady Isabel, but it is a dark day for myself and my family. We come with nothing but a plea for refuge here.”

Isabel curtsied and said, “Of course, milord, Rossmoor awaits you. Step down, and let me welcome you and your ladies.”

He stepped from the cart and turned to his wife, who, still rigid, allowed him to help her, yet the minute her feet touched the ground, she jerked out of his arms. Deidre continued to scowl at Isabel. Neither lady had much use for the other, and since Deidre strutted around at court as if she should be queen, Isabel had always steered clear of her. Arlys’s cousin might be admired by the courtiers, but she was not admired by Isabel. But as she still considered herself lady of the manor, she would be the ever gracious hostess.

Isabel moved to embrace Lady Edwina but was met with a hostile stare. Isabel smiled despite it and curtsied, and when she rose, she embraced the stiff woman. “Lady Edwina, welcome to Rossmoor. Feel free to make yourselves at home.”

“At least, Isabel, you have a home,” Deidre spat.

Isabel turned toward the angry woman. “I consider myself most fortunate.”

Lord Willingham helped his daughter from the cart. As she stood before the great hall, her eyes widened. “The Normans did not burn it down?”

“Nay, the hall is built almost entirely of stone. My great-grandfather planned well, and my father has maintained this great house.”

Deidre turned her pinched face to Isabel. Her eyes narrowed. “How is it you have escaped the Norman’s hand?” Her question was loaded with insinuation.

Isabel felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

Lord Willingham shushed his daughter and took Isabel’s hand. “It has been a year at least since I have visited here. Rossmoor is a welcome sight to these tired eyes. The Normans burned us out. My lands have been taken from me and my family reduced to beggars. Your father, Alefric, before his death extended his hospitality to me should we need it.”

Isabel gasped at his words. Her knees buckled, and had the old lord not held her hand, she would have swooned right there.

He hugged her to him and patted her head. Tears erupted as her worst fears were realized. Hard sobs wracked her chest.

“Forgive me, Lady Isabel, I thought you knew.”

He moved her from where they stood in the courtyard and into the hall. He sat her on the first available bench. He knelt before her and took her cold hands into his and rubbed them. The pain of his words was unbearable, her tears so thick Isabel could barely make out his form.

“Alefric fought with the vigor of ten men, lass. He was a sight to behold. Had Harold two more like him, we would have seen the day won.”

“Did—did he die swiftly?” She had to know. The thought of her father lying for hours or days suffering on the bloody field was too much for her to bear.

Lord Willingham’s eyes glistened as well. The two men had spent many an hour over a flagon of wine. He looked down at his hands clasping hers. “I do not know.”

“Milord, please, tell me true. Did he suffer?”

The old man cleared his throat and looked up at her. Softly, he said, “He was struck from behind. When I got to him much later, long after the battle was lost, his throat was slit.”

Isabel gasped. “How barbaric!” Then she cried, “What of Geoff?”

The old noble shook his head. “He is not here?”

“Nay! Until you came, I had no word of my sire. Did you see Geoff?”

“Aye, earlier that fateful morn. He fought beside Alefric. I did not see him among the dead, though.”

Hope swelled. “Mayhap he lives?”

He nodded. “Mayhap.” But his eyes said he doubted it. “Surely, he would have returned by now, Isabel.”

Isabel drew the old man’s gnarled hands to her. “Were the graves blessed?”

He nodded. “Aye, it took days, but the priests came.”

Isabel let out a huge sigh of relief. For that she was grateful. She removed her hands from the old lord’s and swiped at her cheeks with her sleeve. She stood. “Come, let us see to your family.”

As she turned to go back outside, she nearly crashed into Lady Willingham and her daughter. Their two maids and a manservant stood behind them with heavy bundles and a trunk. Isabel turned to find Enid standing anxiously nearby. “Show Lord and Lady Willingham’s servants to the chamber next to Geoff’s and Lady Deidre’s maid to the solar.” She turned back to the family and extended her arm to the hall. “Come and sup. You must be famished.”

All three sets of eyes lit up at the mention of food. They moved eagerly to the lord’s table. But Lady Edwina halted. Her sharp hiss caught Isabel’s attention. The lady stared open-mouthed at Manhku seated at the hearth. Deidre also hissed in a sharp breath, as if she had touched something unsavory. Oswin, Lord Willingham, scowled at both of his ladies.

Isabel smiled. Though it had been less than a week since the Normans’ arrival, she felt a kindness in her heart for the surly Saracen, and as each day passed, it became clearer to Isabel that he might very well call Rossmoor his home. Fellow countrymen or not, she would not have any guests question his right to be here.

Forcing a cheerful tone to her words, Isabel asked, “Do you wish to meet Manhku?”

The women vigorously shook their heads and stepped back. The old man, though not so adamant, declined. Isabel excused herself and went to see to the downed knight. She stoked the fire beside him and softly asked, “Would you like a trencher?”

He raised his black eyes to her, and she read the mischievous glint in them.

“Manhku, the travelers are weary. Leave your rancor for another day.” She grabbed a pelt from the pile of them nearby and settled it around his lap. “I beg you, behave yourself.”

He growled low, and she could not help a smile when Lady Edwina squirmed in her chair.

After she called for food, Isabel turned to the trio. “I assure you, he does not bite.” Deidre gasped, and Isabel added, “At least not today.” Lady Edwina mewled, and Manhku laughed.

“Lady Isabel, please pardon my wife and daughter’s apprehension. When we heard
les morts
had settled here, we almost did not come.” Lord Willingham swallowed thickly. “Dunsworth, it seems, is but a pile of rubble, and the Norman there is mad. We had no choice but to come here.”

Isabel nodded, and as she fussed around them, making sure the platters were warm and plentiful, she felt the need to twist the knife. It angered her that this family who had sought her out now turned their noses up to her other guests.

And though her father’s death was certain, her brother’s was not, and she would hang on to that small sliver of hope. Until then, anyone other than the natives of this shire she would consider a guest and thereby a temporary inhabitant. That most certainly included the Normans. “Aye, Lord Oswin, the Blood Swords will be home to roost before nightfall. They are many, and none so bashful as this one. I would give you a word of warning. Do not offend them, or you will see yourselves cast out.”

Lady Edwina harrumphed.

Deidre spoke. “Father, I refuse to seek shelter with a band of thieves and murderers!”

Before Oswin spoke, Isabel did. “Lady Deidre? Should you find a more welcome manor, please,”—Isabel extended her hand toward the door—“be my guest to seek it.”

Oswin shushed his daughter and turned tired eyes to Isabel. “Please, our pardon, we are weary and in fear for our lives. We have nothing to offer, and we ask much. Forgive us. And”—he looked to Manhku and managed a smile—“the insult to your man.”

Isabel placed a comforting hand on his great shoulder. “These are trying times for us all. Nothing is guaranteed. For now, I can promise you a warm fire and food in your belly and a room with only a few drafts. Now, please sit and sup.”

Because of their station, there was no question in Isabel’s mind that the Willinghams would stay anywhere else but the hall. She showed the lord and his lady to one of the vacant chambers upstairs and Deidre to the lady’s solar. As the maid unpacked her trunk, Isabel caught the dark glare of her mistress. Isabel quirked a brow. “Deidre, you look as if something sour sits on your tongue.”

“Aye, the fact that I must share a room with such as you is bothersome.”

Isabel’s cheeks warmed. Not because of Deidre’s insult but for the insults to come when Rohan would demand that she retire with him later this eve. And he would. With the tension lightened, he would no doubt be feeling he had the right to claim her debt to him.

Later when Rohan strode into the hall, his men fanning out behind him, Isabel caught her breath and sighed. He was a most manly man. Tall, handsome, and dangerous on so many levels. He tossed his helmet and gauntlets to Hugh and strode toward her, pushing his cowl back. His face was flushed red, his eyes danced in victory, and she trembled as a warm flush washed over her. She had no doubt she would be the spoils for this victorious knight.

“You look rested, Isabel,” Rohan said as she handed him a full cup of ale. Lyn and Sarah handed out cups to the others.

“I feel rested. What of you? Did you find the cowardly raiders?”

“Nay, but we found others who had a covetous eye on the area.”

“Did they lay down their arms?”

Rohan drank deeply of the cup, draining it. He set it down on the table, and his eyes met hers. “Nay.”

Isabel swallowed hard. She did not ask what became of them.

Hugh bustled back into the hall, followed by Russell. He hurried to his master. “Sir, I will see to your bath posthaste.”

Rohan nodded, but Isabel said, “Sir Rohan’s bath awaits him already, Hugh.”

Rohan smiled. Isabel returned the gesture. Rohan extended his arm and said, “Come then, damsel, and scrub this grime from my back.”

Isabel hesitated, then placed her hand on his forearm and let him escort her to their chamber. Beside the hot tub, a trencher of food warmed by the fire along with a pitcher of ale cooling on the other side of the room near the window.

As he often did behind closed doors, Isabel noticed Rohan give in to a slight limp. Without a word, she helped him strip down to his loincloth. She moved away and found other things to occupy her until she heard his heavy sigh as he settled back into the tub.

Isabel filled a goblet and handed it to Rohan. He took it silently and drank. Enjoying the quiet of the moment, Isabel lathered up a linen cloth. Rohan leaned forward and said, “Scrub hard, Isabel.” And she did. When he sat back and she lathered his head and dug her fingers deep into his scalp, he closed his eyes and sat back against the high rim of the tub. After she rinsed his hair, Isabel washed his chest. When she looked up to find his warm gaze on her, it unnerved her more than when he stared at her with open lust. This quiet camaraderie felt more intimate, and therefore more dangerous.

“We have guests. I could do naught but offer them refuge here.”

Rohan’s body tightened. “Who?”

“Lord and Lady Willingham and their daughter, Deidre. Oswin is uncle to my betrothed.”

Rohan grabbed her hand, catching her attention. While he did not hurt her, his grip was firm. “Why are they here?”

“Displaced.” Hot tears welled. “Lord Willingham told me of my father’s death.”

Rohan sat up straight in the tub. He released her hand and trailed a fingertip across her cheek. “’Twas expected, Isabel.”

Choking back a sob, she nodded, and instead of trying to control her tears, she allowed them to flow. It was the least she could do for her father. “Forgive me,” she softly said, and turned from him, not wanting him to see her cry.