Master of Craving (38 page)

Shouts from the woods pierced the tight circle. “We are under attack!” a man shouted.

Stefan moved in on Ralph as he came to his feet. He kicked him in the face this time, sending him reeling. His screams rent the air, mingling with those of the others. The circle had thinned considerably, but Stefan stayed focused on Ralph: he was key to the battle; once removed the day would be won. Ralph came to his feet, assisted by his squire. Behind him, Stefan could see the manor house was aflame and the gates wide open, but pouring from the bailey were mounted knights. He dared not turn toward the wood to see where the guard was; instead, he focused on Ralph, who now had two armed men at his side. Slowly they approached, their weapons drawn.

“You will die as you lived, Ralph: a craven. Before your blood stains this ground, I offer my thanks.”

 

“For what?”

 

Stefan smiled. “For all of de Lyon.”

 

“Never!”

“There, dear cousin, you are wrong. Robert informed me of my sire’s death and the missive he sent to William before he was poisoned. You did not tell me he was dead. Why? So that you could slay me and claim all?”

“Your father was an old fool. He could no longer live with himself, he said. He must atone for his sins! He would make you heir, then embark on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Bah! I made sure that did not happen. But ’twas too late, he had sent word to William.”

“Your greed will be your end.” Stefan struck the man to Ralph’s left, slicing open his calf. He turned and crouched again, bringing his sword around in a low sweeping motion, finishing the job. The man howled as blood spewed from his torn leg. The other rushed Stefan, but he was prepared. He kept the crouch position, and as the man came at him, Stefan jabbed his sword into his belly, skewering him. He kicked off the body, but as he did, Ralph hacked at his shoulder, catching him off guard. Stefan grunted in pain, ignoring the rush of blood down his arm. ’Twas his left, not his right, his sword arm. He pushed up from the ground. In short hacking sweeps, he moved toward Ralph, who now had no others to back him. A battle ensued around them, the manor ablaze. In the din Stefan heard Rohan’s battle cry, followed by Ioan’s, then Rorick’s, ending with Warner’s. Ralph paled in the moonlight.

“Make your peace with God now, cousin.”

 

“Stefan!”

He froze. Arian? Here, in the midst of a battle? He turned to tell her to go, to run for cover. ’Twas his fatal mistake. He saw her upon her horse, her eyes wide with fear. He reached out a hand to her. At that moment, she screamed, and in slow motion, he turned as Ralph’s blade came down upon him. He rolled out of the way, catching the edge of his attack on his shoulder. Ralph kicked Stefan’s sword from his hand as he hit the ground. Stefan now with no weapon, his cousin brought his sword down with both hands. Stefan kicked out, trying to bring himself up off the ground, but he had no strength in his left arm, and his right was numb. He fell back to the ground. Ralph’s eyes burned with hatred.

“Make
your
peace, cousin,” he said, and just as he brought the sword down a hiss, followed by the indisputable thump of an arrow finding home in skin and bone, rent the air. Stefan watched, shocked, as Ralph grabbed at the arrow that went clear through the side of his neck. He raised his eyes up and beyond Stefan, who followed his gaze. Arian sat upon her horse, another arrow notched in her bow.

“Stand down, Ralph, or my next arrow will cut your throat in half,” she threatened.

He stepped toward Stefan, and before his foot touched the soil, another arrow ripped through his throat. Blood sprang forth, and Stefan knew he was done. Stefan rolled over and slowly stood; grabbing his sword from the ground, he moved to Arian as quickly as he could. She held out a hand to him, and he vaulted onto the back of her horse.

“My thanks, milady.” He took up the reins and spurred the horse toward his men, who, with the help of the Norse guard and Arian’s Welshmen, had formed a tight gantlet around the quivering Saxons and the remaining Normans, who cowered worse than the Saxons did. In the distance, the entire manor and bailey lit up the night sky in flames.

Stefan gave the signal to blow the horn. After several trumpets, eerie quiet fell over the bloody field.

 

“The day is lost!” he shouted to the subdued army. “Throw down your weapons, now, and I will spare your lives this day.”

Metal clanked upon metal as the men dropped their swords, axes, and bows. Stefan looked beyond, to the raging fire that once was Moorwood. “You Saxons destroy well.” He looked to Ralph’s men—some half-score left. “Dismount.” Slowly they did. The Blood Swords circled them. “You are traitors to the Crown. Decide this night how you wish to die on the morrow!”

He felt Arian stiffen in his arms, but she remained silent. For a long moment, Stefan scanned the fearful faces before him. Most of them were field churls who would follow their master to the edge of the earth, their loyalty so deep. ’Twas the kind of man he wanted.

“What you have destroyed today, we will rebuild tomorrow for William.” His eyes scanned the few nobles who stood amongst them. “Cadoc!” Stefan called. “See that these men are retained.” Next Stefan’s eyes settled on the fearsome Danes. “Give a message to your king on behalf of mine: we are aware of his plot to invade England. Olaf will give Sven no support, nor will Sven find support amongst the Welsh kings. William’s hand firmly holds the reins here. And be sure Yorkshire will see more seasoned Normans each day that I am lord here. And I am not going anywhere.”

The Dane closest to Stefan made a short bow and bent to pick up his ax. “Nay,” Stefan warned. “You return as you are, stripped of your fight.”

 

The man glared at Stefan, but backed away, and was quickly followed by his men, who faded into the darkness.

Once more, Stefan turned to the large group of churls. “Return to your families this night, but at first light return to me here, and together we will rebuild a castle worthy of a king!” Wide-eyed, the churls looked at one another, unable to believe they were free to go home.

As the field emptied, leaving only Stefan and those loyal to him, he tightened his arms around his wife. He flinched at the pain in his forearm, knowing he would need stitches. He was grateful she kept silent. When they spoke, he wanted their words to be private. Slowly, they made their way to the manor that was now no more than a smoking heap of rubble.

“Jane?” Arian asked, fear lacing her words.

 

“She is safe in the wood behind the manor,” Rohan said from beside them.

 

Her body loosened in his arms.

 

As they stopped to gaze upon the wreckage so did everyone behind them, including the Norsemen. “How did you convince the Norse captain to return and fight for you?”

 

She leaned back into his arms. “I offered him and his men Magnus’s lands in Norway.”

 

Stefan threw his head back and laughed. “You are a wily princess, milady.”

 

“I am a determined one.”

 

As they entered the bailey, there were only a few huts left unscathed. The kitchens, made of stone though scorched, still stood. Thankfully the stable held as well.

 

“The manor is completely ruined,” Arian said softly.

 

“We can rebuild,” Stefan said just as softly.

 

“I never liked this hall or this setting. There is a more protected area down the road a ways, with a river close by. ’Twould be a good place to raise our sons,” Arian said.

She turned in his arms, and her eyes glowed softly in the low embers surrounding them. He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her long and deep. When their lips parted Stefan raised her chin with his hand. “ ’Tis a hostile area, Arian. ’Twill be difficult at best to win the hearts of these people. There is no Saxon blood in our veins.”

“You are strong and just, Stefan. The people will see it as I have.”

 

“Mayhap in time, but there is another option.”

 

She leaned comfortably against his chest. “I am listening.”

 

“I am heir to my father’s holdings in Normandy. They are vast, and it is safer there for you.”

 

“I go where you go, my love,” Arian said, her silvery gaze penetrating Stefan’s soul.

 

Emotion welled up in his chest with such a velocity he thought he might die from the rush. “What do you wish, Arian?”

 

For a long minute, their gazes held as she pondered his question. “A new start, here, for us both.”

He grinned and pulled her close to his heart. His gaze scoured the smoldering ruins settling on his brothers, Rohan, Warner, Rorick, and Ioan, as they tended the wounded. With Wulfson, Thorin, and Rhys—whom they
would
find—still absent, part of him felt incomplete. But he would survive, as would his brothers. Stefan kissed the sunburst-colored hair beneath his chin.

Princess Arianrhod of Dinefwr was not only his wife, but his life force, his heart and soul, and Stefan knew with unshakable truth that so long as she remained beside him, they would thrive in Yorkshire and build a dynasty that would last one thousand years.

Master of Craving
© 2009 Karin Tabke ISBN: 9781439102572 POCKET STAR BOOKS
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