Master Of Surrender (22 page)

Isabel set her hand over Wulfson’s. “Sometimes my curiosity causes me to speak out of turn. My apologies.”

The knight finally looked down at her. Pain and fury clouded his eyes. When he spoke his voice was low and throaty. “Your question reminds me of things better forgotten.”

Giving him a trembling smile, Isabel nodded. “Come, let us see to the rest of the villagers.” He nodded, and they set off.

Isabel was happy to see so many familiar faces. While at first many of the churls hesitated to pay their respects to her because of the hulking knight by her side, when they realized she held no fear of him, they were more bent on approaching her. Their tales of fleeing the raiders and also de Monfort set Isabel’s nerves on edge. The tales of de Monfort’s actions were gaining epic size. Isabel feared if the man was not stopped, he would single-handedly destroy Norfolk. She felt Wulfson’s reaction more than he voiced it.

As Wulfson escorted Isabel back to the hall for the noon meal, she was surprised to see Aryls’s unwelcome cousin strolling toward the stable. “Does that not strike you as unusual?” Isabel asked Wulfson.

He followed her gaze and frowned. At that moment, Deidre looked up to find them regarding her. Her step faltered, but she quickly recovered and made her way toward them.

“You there! Sir knight, I request a mount. This filthy hamlet has me bored. Be a good man, and escort me so that I may get some much-needed exercise.”

Isabel’s rancor rose. The woman acted as if she were the Queen of England, not a refugee.

“Nay, Rohan’s instructions were clear. No one is to leave the village for any reason.”

Deidre changed her tactic. Her body loosened, and her smile turned inviting. In a slow, sensuous stroll, she sidled up close to the Norman knight. Placing her hands on his forearm, she looked up at him with deep blue eyes and softly cajoled, “Please, sir? I will assume all responsibility for my person. Your master will understand.”

Wulfson removed her hand from his person and shook his head. “Nay. I have my orders.” He extended his arm to Isabel, who took it and they walked off, leaving Deidre quietly cursing them both. Once in the hall, Isabel saw to the meal. As several of the soldiers, including Wulfson, sat down to eat, Isabel quietly slipped from the kitchen and into the courtyard, then hurried toward the stable, to see a flash of yellow fabric disappear into the thick edge of the forest. Deidre.

Isabel glanced over her shoulder and found no suspicious eyes on her. She had a fleeting twinge of guilt. Wulfson would be furious with her. But she had no intention of being gone too long. Taking a deep breath, knowing the Saxon woman was up to no good for anyone at Rossmoor, Isabel, too, disappeared into the forest.

F
ollowing the scent of smoke and with Russell’s directions, Rohan and his knights made quick time to the small clearing by the river. What met their eyes would have disturbed most men, but after the previous pyre of bodies and what he had seen in his short time on earth, nothing affected Rohan so deeply he could not function.

But that did not mean he had no compassion. Nay, his blood chilled at the sight before him. His anger festered deep and hot in his belly. He scanned the blood-soaked earth from astride his great horse. Several women, their skirts flung up around their heads, their most private parts exposed, no doubt horribly abused, lay scattered across the hard ground, most in unnatural positions. Several men, their body parts hacked to pieces, dotted the scenery. And stuck into the ground, though battle-battered, the black and white raven standard of the Norse king arrogantly taunted him. Rohan’s blood boiled. He looked to his friend, knowing the standard would conjure up bitter memories.

“’Tis a ruse,” Thorin said softly, his voice barely perceptible. “My sire is dead.”

“Aye, mayhap you have kin who seek revenge.”

“My kin shame me with this carnage. Wouldst the chance present itself, I would show them real torture.”

Rohan looked at his one-eyed knight, knowing full well of what he spoke. “The Norse have gone too far.”

Warner approached, his steed prancing, chomping at the bit, sensing the blood in the air. “It appears to me, Rohan, these demons seem bent on taunting. Do you think their game is to draw us out?”

Rohan nodded. “I am sure of it.” He raised his hand to the silence. “Listen,” he said.

Warner looked to Rohan, then to the thick forest around them. “There is no sound.”

“Exactly. Even from deep within the forest and along the river bank, there is no sound. The creatures that inhabit it are silent. Our enemy is near.” Rohan urged his mount forward to the edge of the river. The trail was clear, as if an open invitation to follow. Rohan turned to Russell, just as the boy recovered from retching his guts up at the sight of the ravaged bodies. “Is this the shallowest spot to cross?”

“Nay, down further. By the small bend.”

“What awaits us on the other side?” Rohan asked.

The boy blanched to white. “The haunted caves of Menloc.”

Rohan threw his head back and laughed. “There will be more hauntings when we are done with them.” He turned to his knights. “After we cross and pick up the trail, fan out two abreast at ten horse lengths apart.”

The great destriers picked their way through the brush and bramble, their ears laid back, their muscles bunched, ready to crush the enemy. Deeper Rohan and his men moved into the forest, following the well-marked trail, their eyes and ears on high alert. “Beware, men,” Rohan softly warned. “The trail of crumbs is clearly marked for us.”

Moments later, Rohan put his hand up and knew his quarry was near. He suspected they had moved right into their trap, as he intended. In a quick motion, Rohan circled his hand, and his men formed themselves into an impenetrable half-circle. His short lance drawn, Rohan’s great battle cry rang out, the sound sending the birds, squirrels, and foxes diving for cover.

As the death cry trailed off, the knights charged, and the ghosts in the forest rose, answering with their own battle cry. What moments before had been a quiet forest now swarmed with battle ax–wielding Norsemen, accompanied by several of Harold’s men still bent on winning the day.

As Isabel broke through a small clearing and stopped, she scanned the forest. Though barren, there was still much brush and bramble to muddy the view. Nowhere did she see the yellow muslin cloth of Deidre’s dress. Shivering in the cold, Isabel looked over her shoulder, debating whether to return to the manor or continue her search for the Saxon woman. An inner voice told her the woman was bent on betrayal.

Isabel forged forward until she came to a well-worn path. As she turned a bend, she stiffened. A man approached. By his long hair and beard, she knew he was Saxon. From his rich clothing, she knew him not to be a churl.

When he spied her, his face lit up, and his pace quickened. Caution prevailed. Isabel stood, hand on the hilt of her dagger, ready to defend herself.

“Lady Isabel!” he cried, coming closer. Isabel scrunched her face in confusion. She did not recognize the Saxon. He continued toward her, his face beaming. “’Tis me, Cedric, Lord Dunsworth’s reeve.”

Memory dawned and with it more confusion. Why was he not with Arlys?

He crossed himself several times and made a deep bow. “Praise God you are here. I have come for you.”

More confusion reigned in her head. “Why?”

“Milord bade me bring you to him. He wishes to see you married posthaste.”

At Cedric’s words, Isabel’s heart stumbled in her chest. “How fares your lord?”

“He is well. He makes plans. Support rallies for the young Edgar. We pray for your support. Come with me now. He grows anxious for you.”

As much as she wished to be free of the Normans, Isabel hesitated. “I cannot leave my people, Cedric.”

“But your betrothed wishes you to come to him.”

She shook her head. “I am afraid that is not possible right now, Cedric. I—”

“My lord has news of your brother, Geoff.”

Her head snapped back, and her heart raced in her chest. There were no sweeter words to her ears. “He lives?”

Cedric grinned and nodded. “Aye, but he is wounded, and at least a day’s hard ride from here. Come with me, Lady Isabel. Come with me to your lord, and he will take you to him.”

Isabel nodded but still hesitated. Indecision waged a war inside her. Desperately, she wanted to see her brother and tend to him. To bring him home. But what of Rossmoor? And what of Arlys? She shivered, the cold having nothing to do with her chill. Nay, it had to do with thoughts of the dark and brooding Norman. Would her people suffer under his wrath?

“Come now, there may be little time left for him,” Cedric urged.

Isabel took a tentative step forward, then another and another. She had only one brother. She would see to him.

As they moved down the path, a bone-chilling cry from deep within the forest stopped them both. Cedric turned pale and wild-eyed toward her. It sounded as if death arose and was on the prowl for souls. Isabel wrapped her arms tightly around herself, having no mantle. “What was that?” she breathlessly asked.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the blood-curdling sound. “The devil’s battle cry, milady.”

She allowed him to drag her down the path, then deep into the wood, away from Rossmoor, away from the people who needed her most. Closer to the raiders even Rohan could not altogether quell. Her step slowed, but Cedric pulled her harder. If what Cedric said was true and her brother lay wounded, she would go to him, but not like this. As much as she yearned to see him and bring him home, the odds of her arriving safely at their destination were slim. But more than that, her people needed her. And if she were honest with herself, she did not want to see Arlys. Not yet.

She yanked her hand free from the reeve’s grasp. He turned abruptly and grabbed it back. “Nay,” she said, shaking her head. “I cannot go with you now. My people need me. More hide in the forest. ’Tis my duty to coax them out.”

Cedric’s tawny brows knocked together. “But milady, do you not wish to see Sir Geoff before he meets his maker?”

Isabel swallowed hard, and her hands trembled. “Aye, I do, more than anything, but if he lives now, he will live long enough for me to come to him. I must return to Rossmoor. Cedric, give my regrets to Lord Dunsworth. Tell him I wish him well and look forward to seeing him soon.”

She turned and stepped away from him, but Cedric stopped her with his hand wrapped around her arm. Isabel whirled and stopped short. Cedric’s eyes morphed from warm and friendly to dark and dangerous. Slowly, he shook his head. “My instructions were clear. Do not return without the lady Isabel. I will not disappoint milord.”

Isabel pulled her hand, and he pulled back. “Arlys will understand my loyalty to Rossmoor. Surely, you can make him understand.”

“Nay. There is more to it than that. He requires your treasury. Milord builds an army. Many come from the north to fight for our cause. When he triumphs, his lands will be restored, as well as all of Saxony.”

“’Tis madness right now! William storms London. His knights prowl the English countryside armed to the hilt. ’Tis rumored he has thousands more mercenaries on their way. The time is not ripe!”

“Aye, it is! The Witan is strong. The nobles rally. The time is now! Wouldst you stand in the way of Edgar, the rightful king?”

Isabel shook her head. “Nay. I support Edgar and will do my part to see him rightfully take the throne, but I am not so naïve as to believe William can be quelled now. His rampage is without mercy. He will see the entire island wiped clean of Englishmen.”

Cedric shook his head. Isabel persisted. She grabbed his hands and pleaded with him. “These last nights
les morts,
his elite death squad, have resided in Rossmoor. I have heard their talk. Not only does William have support in Westminster, but his army is still strong. He has coffers to back his claim. He will prevail if challenged now.”

“There is more at stake.”

Isabel eyed him. “What more?”

“You are worth a hefty ransom.”

Isabel laughed, the sound bitter. “Who would pay good silver for me? I have been reduced to a slave.”

“De Monfort has shown interest.”

Isabel gasped as realization dawned. “’Tis a ruse! Arlys does not send for me! Cedric, how could you play me false?”

As she backed away from him, he moved toward her. “For the cause, milady. De Monfort has money, and he is willing to part with a goodly sum of it to have you.”

Isabel shook her head. “Nay! I will not go to him. You would have to kill me first!”

In a violent reaction to her challenge, Cedric struck her in the face, the force of the blow landing her on the forest floor. The shock of his action and the searing pain in her jaw stunned her. The copper taste of blood filled her mouth.

Cedric yanked her up by the arm and pushed her forward. “Be warned, milady, we are desperate men in desperate times. If the devil Norman wants you and is willing to pay, then he shall have you!”

“You lied about Geoff!”

Cedric nodded. “Aye, and I am sorry to give you hope, but I knew of no other way to have you come with me.” He drew a short sword from his belt and poked it at her belly.

“Go, and do not try to flee from me. You will regret it.”

Isabel turned in the direction they had been walking. She held fast to the knowledge that while Cedric may have leverage with his strength, she knew the lay of the land. Indeed. She caught a small sob. She and Geoff had slain many an imaginary dragon in these woods, and not far off were the caves. She shuddered but decided she would fare better with the witch than with Henri de Monfort.

Several paces ahead of Cedric, she stumbled and dropped to her hands and knees. As the reeve moved to right her, Isabel rolled hard into his knees. As he tumbled backward, she hurried to her feet and ran for her life.

Cedric shouted for her to stop, promising her glory should she side with him and Arlys, promising that once the ransom was paid, they would rescue her. And it occurred to Isabel at that moment that Arlys was as involved in the ploy to see her ransomed as was his reeve. Though she did not wish to wed the earl, his betrayal of her caused her great pain. She was but a pawn to every man. Anger spurred her forward. She would be no man’s passage to greater glory. She would rather live a life of solitude. Isabel plunged headfirst into the wood. As she crested a knoll, she lost her footing and plummeted in a steep fall. She rolled endlessly, twigs and leaves biting into her skin, the hard earth forcing the breath from her chest.

When her body finally came to rest against a large boulder, she lay with her face planted in the cold, loamy earth. The sound of heavy footsteps from above pushed her forward. Ignoring the pain in her limbs, Isabel scurried to her feet, looked up, and screamed.