Master Of Surrender (27 page)

Her sobs tore through her, great, wracking sobs that shook her entire body. And Geoff. Sweet, funny Geoff. He was a lover of the arts and of women; he was not a warrior. She would never hear his laughter or his teasing voice as he called her more a boy than a girl.

She would not see nieces and nephews, and he would never be lord of Alethorpe. Isabel dug deeper into the furs, her body so cold she felt as if she rested on a block of ice. She did not know which news affected her more darkly, her brother’s death or that Rohan had slain her sire.

She did not hear the knock on the door until Enid asked if she should answer it. Isabel did not respond. Several moments later, she recognized a deep voice as Thorin’s. Enid’s voice rose in argument, only to be silenced by Thorin’s much deeper and much angrier tone.

Isabel rolled over, her eyes so swollen she could barely make out the one-eyed knight. He approached her and bowed. For a long minute, he did not speak, and when he did, his words were slow and measured. “Lady Isabel, subterfuge abounds. I beg you, do not believe what a desperate man says when he has nothing to lose. Rohan is many things, but he is first and foremost a noble warrior on the field. Unless he had good cause, he would never kill a downed knight with a dagger to the throat. He would use his sword and pierce his heart. ’Tis his way.”

Isabel cringed at Thorin’s graphic description. She sniffled and nodded. He bowed and hurried from the chamber.

Long into the afternoon, Rohan rode. He rode hard, he rode angry, he rode confused. His heart had swollen to twice its normal size in his chest. The pain of it was unbearable. Just as painful, he felt Isabel’s heart against his own heart, beating in agonized rhythm. He knew not what to do. The deed was done. He had slain Alethorpe there on the bloody slopes of Senlac Hill. As the old man lay dying, he’d begged Rohan to finish him off, for he had been stabbed in the back by one of his own. He did not want to die by a treacherous Saxon hand.

Long after Harold fell and the battlefield was laid to waste, Rohan had been clearing the field of bodies when he heard a man call to him.

“Norman!”

Rohan had hesitated but turned back in answer. His eyes had scanned the thick copse of bodies before he located the one where a bare hand waved slowly in the chill of the air. The late sun had begun to lose its light. Rohan had squatted down and squinted for a better look. He had knelt beside a Saxon knight, much as Rohan foresaw himself in many years: a hardened warrior, forever loyal to his king and country, fighting to his last breath.

The Saxon had grabbed Rohan’s hand. “Finish me off, Norman. I will not die by the coward’s hand that slew me from behind.” His voice, still strong for one so aged and so wounded, had continued, “Do not let the vultures pick my eyes out. See to it that myself and my fellow Saxons are shriven.”

Rohan had nodded; not being a man of God, he had more interest in the sword lying beneath the old warrior. He slid it out from under his back. The hilt bore Edward’s symbol. ’Twas a Saxon sword. Rohan had scowled but held it up. “’Tis a Saxon sword, milord.”

The old man had nodded. “Aye, a coward’s sword.” Taking in a shallow breath, he’d continued, “I am Alefric of Alethorpe, lord of the great manor Rossmoor. I fear my son has fallen by the same cowardly Saxon sword as I.” He’d coughed, bloody spittle foaming from his mouth. Rohan had doubted any force could take him until he’d said what he had to say. “I leave a headstrong daughter and a treasury worth a king’s ransom. Slay me, Norman. Allow me to die by my enemy’s hand, not the one of a coward.” He had coughed harder that time, more blood bubbling up from his throat. His faded violet eyes so much like his daughter’s had beseeched him. “Swear your oath on your sword that you will see to the future of my daughter.” Alefric had grasped Rohan’s hand tighter. “Do not let her fall prey to the fox in sheep’s clothing.”

So close to the old man, and understanding a warrior’s wish to die with honor at his enemy’s hand, Rohan had slid his short sword from its sheath and placed his right hand on it. “I swear an oath to you, milord, I will do my best to see her safe.” Then, in a quick motion, Rohan had slit the vital vein in his neck. The old warrior had closed his eyes, and Rohan had watched him quietly leave this earth. Whether he went to heaven or hell, Rohan did not know. If ’twere the latter, he was sure they would once again meet.

And so that was how the old man had met his maker. By Rohan’s hand, to be sure. He turned his horse around and gave the beast a quick kick. His chest and flanks already lathered, Mordred gave more for his master. Rohan came to a decision. He would tell Isabel all, and he would live with her decision. His love for her was too strong to force her to bend to him. He would take her only if she wanted him, scars and all.

And while he felt a great weight lift from his shoulders, it was replaced with a heavy load of trepidation. While he wagered all, the odds were not in his favor.

He smiled grimly and nodded to the wind. He had learned much in his short time with the maid. To gain the respect and honesty of these Saxons he so desperately yearned for, he would in turn have to give it to them. And there was no better place to begin than with their lady, and if she would have him, their union would be an honest and blessed one.

The chilled wind blew full in his face as the steed ate up the space between him and the woman he loved, and excitement mounted in Rohan’s belly. Aye, he would plead his case to the lady, and she would see his love for her was true.

And so she would not deny him!

M
ilady!” Enid cried, shaking Isabel awake. “You must come. ’Tis a messenger from the duke!”

Isabel heard the words, but they did not make sense in her fatigued mind. Her face felt as if it had swollen to the size of a wineskin. When she tried to open her eyes, they stuck closed. Her chest hurt, and her throat felt raw. In one torrid rush of pain, she remembered why.

Fresh tears, hot and salty, burned her eyes as they seeped from beneath her closed eyelids.

She rolled over away from Enid’s insistent voice. “Leave me be, Enid,” she cried into her pillow.

“Nay, milady, you must rise. The messenger demands to speak to you and the Norman together. Do not tempt William’s wrath. Rise!”

Her limbs had no strength, her heart had no will, but somehow Isabel managed to sit up and throw her legs over the side of the bed. Enid pressed a cool damp cloth to her face and fussed about combing her long hair and working two small braids down each side of her face while leaving the bulk of her hair free.

Enid slid Isabel’s shoes on, and when she was satisfied with the results, she pulled her lady up and helped her to the door. Once over the threshold, Isabel stopped. A sob wracked her chest. Valiantly, she fought back more of the hot, stinging tears. She met Enid’s calm eyes, and her resolve strengthened. She was Isabel of Alethorpe, daughter of one of England’s most noble knights and granddaughter of kings. She was as much a warrior at heart as her sire and his sire before him. And as much as the man who slew him. She would see what the duke demanded of her and see it done.

Isabel swept down the stairway just as Rohan burst through the portal. He stopped in his tracks. Over the long expanse of the hall, their eyes met. Isabel turned to look down at the messenger bearing the duke’s crimson and gold colors. He was surrounded by several armed knights also bearing the royal colors.

Rohan hurried toward the messenger. He bowed, then demanded, “What news do you bring of William?”

The man held a sealed scroll in his hand. “Duke William makes a proclamation, Sir Rohan.” He broke the seal, unrolled the parchment, and began to read, “In the name of William Duke of Normandy and heir to the English throne, I do hereby command my captain Rohan du Luc and his brother Sir Henri de Monfort to meet two days from the reading of this edict on the grounds of Rossmoor in a duel of swords, but not to the death, for the rights to the lady Isabel of Alethorpe and the lands that come with her.”

Isabel gasped, and her knees buckled. Rohan moved to her and set her down on a nearby bench. “The lady is to be separated from both knights, with no interaction until such time as the tourney. It is my express desire that this not be a duel to the death, as I have great need for my knights. But let the outcome of this tourney never be disputed again. William.”

The messenger rolled the parchment, and not one person uttered a word. Indeed, everyone in the hall stood in shocked silence.

Isabel looked from where she sat, anger hot and bright burning in her eyes. “Tell your duke I will die before I go with either of these knights.” She stood up, and the messenger, shocked by her outburst, seemed lost for words.

“Isabel,” Rohan softly said, “you cannot thwart the duke.”

She turned bright eyes up to him; tears hovered at the edges. “I will kill myself then.”

As she turned to leave the hall, the messenger shouted, “Halt!”

Isabel hesitated in her step but continued toward the stairway. At the bottom, she turned to the assembled crowd. “Tell your duke he will have to find another bitch for his knights to fight over. I am not available.” She turned and walked with as much dignity as she could up to her solar. Enid hurried behind her.

The messenger motioned to one of his men to go after Isabel. Rohan stopped him with a brawny arm. “Do not, Rodger. She learned only today that her brother is dead and just a few days before that of her sire’s death. If you press her, she will make your life miserable.” Rohan grinned. “To that I can attest.”

The messenger shook his head. “’Tis of no matter to me, Rohan, but William will have his due.” Rodger reached behind his surcoat and handed Rohan another scroll, this one smaller but with the duke’s seal marking it as unopened. “His grace asked me to give you this after I read his order.”

Rohan took the scroll, slipped his thumb beneath the wax seal, and read silently to himself: “My good friend and comrade in arms, it is with a heavy heart and much irritation I have had to take time from warring with these ungrateful Saxons that I write to you. Have heart. The duel is not to the death, and if I had any doubt as to the outcome, I would not have issued the order. For as you know, I could not turn de Monfort’s brat away. Too much levy is dependent on Henri feeling I do not play favorites. Win the day, the damsel, and the lands, and there will be much to celebrate at my coronation. William.”

Rohan moved to the hearth, where the hungry flames yearned for more fodder. He tossed the scroll into the flames and watched as it was consumed.

Rohan smiled. He would see the day won and his brother once and for all off his back.

He bowed to Rodger. “I beg only a moment with the maid and to retrieve my belongings from my chamber.”

Rodger started to shake his head, but Rohan persisted. “’Tis urgent I speak with her, Rodger. Do not deny me this.”

“Aye, go, Rohan, but do not push. I will not have it said I favored du Luc over the house of de Monfort.”

Rohan hurried past the king’s man to his chamber. His blood ran cold when he found it empty. On impulse, he ran to the lady’s solar, where he found Isabel pacing the room and Enid fussing about her like a fly around a horse.

“Leave us,” Rohan said.

Wide-eyed, Enid stopped her movements but made no move to leave the chamber. “Now!” Rohan boomed. She squeaked and rushed from the room. When the door slammed shut, Rohan flung the bolt into the brackets. He turned to face a murderous Isabel.

She launched herself at his chest, her fists pummeling him with everything she had. Rohan allowed her her attack. She screamed and railed against him, using words not fit for a lady, but still he took her wrath. As her strength waned and her fists no longer hit with such force and he knew she was beat, he swooped her up into his arms and strode with her to the bed.

He laid her down and sat on the edge next to her. Her sobs tore his heart in half, and knowing he was directly responsible for her pain pained him.

He smoothed her hair back from her face. “Isabel, let me tell you of that day.”

She shook her head, and her eyes closed. “Nay,” she gasped, barely able to get the word out. “Leave me be.”

She rolled away from him, and Rohan felt his world slipping from his grasp. He inhaled a long breath, then began his story. “We all fought for our lives that day on Senlac Hill, Isabel. Both Saxon and Norman. From early morn to late in the day, the tide of battle changed back and forth. William would repel the Saxons only to have Harold regroup and move us back down the hill. Blood from both sides ran like a crimson river. The stench of it clogged our noses and chests. It made breathing difficult. I did not think they would, but the Saxons impressed me. Harold was a good man, though one who did not keep his oath. He would have made a good king, but the throne was promised to William, ’twas, as you know, why we were there. To claim it.”

He reached out a finger and touched her shoulder, wanting contact.

“Once the day was won, William sent word he would not have his men defile the fallen dead. He was adamant. He sent many of us forth to see that the bodies were not desecrated.”

Isabel rolled over, the violet of her eyes barely discernible beneath her red, swollen eyelids. Rohan smiled and brushed hair from her cheeks. “As I made my way among the fallen, a voice speaking my tongue called out to me, but he called me Norman. I knew it was an Englishman who spoke my language. I moved in that direction, Isabel. I could not ignore the desperation in his voice.”

Her bottom lip trembled, and Rohan touched his finger to it. “When I approached the old man, he was on his back and struggling for every breath. He bade me come closer. He grabbed my hand and told me his name and how he and his son had fallen from a cowardly Saxon sword.”

Isabel gasped. Rohan nodded and took her hand. “He spoke the truth. I pulled a Saxon sword from beneath him. He also spoke of his defiant daughter. He demanded my oath to see to you and protect you from the fox in sheep’s clothing. I gave it.”

Fresh tears trailed down her cheeks. “He then demanded I give him the death of a warrior.”

Isabel shook her head. “Isabel, ’tis unworthy not to die by the hand of your enemy on the battlefield. Alefric had been brought low by a cowardly Saxon. He desired a warrior’s death. One of honor, at the hand of his enemy. I gave it to him. He died peacefully with the knowledge that he would see God as an honorable knight of the realm.”

Isabel closed her eyes. Tears slid from beneath her lids down her cheeks. Rohan bent over her and kissed them away. “You of all people know I am a man of my word, Isa. I promised your sire I would see to you, and I promise you now, you hold my heart in your hands.” Then he stood and left the chamber.

Isabel could not comprehend Rohan’s deed. Honor was not gained by who slew you on the battlefield. Honor was gained by how you lived your life. Did her sire feel he had not lived the life of an honorable man? Was he so sure of his demise that he insisted a stranger, a Norman, make the final strike? Sobs welled up in her chest, and she rolled over, smashing her face into the pillows. Aye, it was exactly what her father would have demanded! Honor was not a word to him but a way of life. He had taught his daughter well. Honor above all.

She drifted off into a troubled slumber. When she woke, the room was dark, but in the small hearth a fire burned brightly. A covered tray of food sat on a nearby table, and watching her from the corner of the room was Enid. Her maid smiled but made no move toward her. For that, Isabel was grateful. She wanted no interaction on any level with anyone. Her wounds were raw, and she wanted more time to heal from the shock of her life. She closed her eyes and drifted off to a more solid slumber.

When she woke, Isabel felt the urge to use the garderobe, and her stomach gnawed in protest. But she felt no hunger for food. Indeed, she felt no hunger for anything. Not even revenge. She was completely and utterly depleted.

After taking care of a few necessities, Isabel managed to eat some stew and a piece of bread. She removed her clothes but did not bother to bathe. Once again, she allowed sleep to claim her. It was far easier than facing the reality of her world.

The next time Isabel woke, she knew she could no longer hide. As her father was honor bound to die a warrior’s death, she was honor bound to her people to lead by example and accept the duke’s edict. Her stomach roiled with such velocity at the thought of lying with Henri de Monfort that Isabel could barely breathe. But if she did fly, he would take his wrath out on the gentle souls of Alethorpe. She sucked in a deep breath and refused to think of Henri as lord here.

“Enid,” she called, her voice thick and rough. “See to a bath for me, and find out when the tourney is to commence and where Sir Rohan resides.”

Enid smiled and bobbed her head, scurrying from the chamber to see about her lady’s business.

As Isabel soaked in the steamy water, Enid came back into the chamber. “The tourney is set for noon tomorrow, milady, and Sir Rohan and his men reside in the huts surrounding the stable.”

Isabel closed her eyes and asked, “Is the reeve’s cottage still vacant?”

Enid bobbed her head, but her eyes were full of question. “Aye, ’tis.”

Still keeping her eyes closed, Isabel said, “See that it is thoroughly cleaned by nightfall and that a thick goose-feather mattress with clean linens and furs is placed within. Along with enough wood to heat the meager place.”

“But—”

Isabel opened one eye. “No buts, Enid. See to it.”

And with that resolve, Isabel rose from the bath and dressed herself. She could no longer deny Rohan’s last words after he told her of her father. And she could no longer deny her own love for the man. Despite the heavy burden of what was in front of them, she loved and cherished him over all men. It was the only thing she had left to give freely. Isabel smiled. Well, she did have one other thing. And that thing she had so stubbornly clung to she would give to Rohan this night. Aye, she would join with him as one and celebrate their love and what might be their last night together. For on the morrow, she might have nothing left to give.

When Isabel entered the hall, several of Rohan’s men milled about, but she noticed none of his Blood Swords. She nodded her head to each man as they acknowledged her with short bows, and she made her way to Manhku, who sat before the hearth playing a game of chess with the duke’s messenger.

They both stood as she approached. Manhku smiled and bowed, holding tightly to a thick walking stick. “How fare thee, Lady Isabel?”

She smiled in return. “I fare well, sir knight. How fares the leg?”

“Good. The Viking has seen to it.”

“’Tis good to hear Thorin is multiskilled.” To the messenger, she said, “Do you have a name, sir?”

He grinned despite her forwardness. He bowed and clicked his heels. “I am Rodger fitz Hugh. At your service, milady.”

It seemed bastards abounded amongst William’s entourage. Isabel gave him a short curtsy and inclined her head toward the door. “Tell me of this tourney in which I am the prize.”

The hall grew quiet, but after Rodger seated Isabel in a chair beside him, he explained in a low tone for her ears only. “’Tis not to the death, I assure you, milady. William has much need for his knights. In truth, methinks he is more annoyed by de Monfort’s demand, especially as my duke has much on his hands at the moment. Immediately following the tourney, the papers will be drawn naming the victor and the spoils—er, um, my pardon, milady, the name of the disputed lady.”

As he spoke, Isabel’s anger resurfaced. “How does your duke think to win over Saxons when he treats them as one would sheep for breeding?”