Master Of Surrender (15 page)

She rubbed her throbbing neck. She tried to swallow, but painful shards pricked her throat. Manhku’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He grabbed the spear. She watched him fight back his pain, but he managed to stand. His grip was wobbly, and sweat poured from his face, but he did not fall. She cowered back farther until she was almost completely under the table.

With a slow, unnatural gait, he hobbled toward her. When she dared catch his gaze, her panic dissolved. Manhku’s pride suffered greatly. She could see it in his eyes in the way he fought through what must be excruciating pain. And she had shamed him when she sent him sprawling to the floor. And more now, witnessing his pitiful attempts to stand and walk. Aye, he was a man, a warrior, and she, a lowly woman in his eyes, had shamed him.

Isabel moved out from under the table, her fear set aside for the moment. She was not one to apologize, even when warranted. It was a stubborn, prideful streak her father had worked hard to break. But to no avail.

Manhku bent forward, the spear bowing under the strain of his large body, and extended his enormous hand. Isabel swallowed hard and searched his face for guile. There was none. Silently, his eyes repented his deed. Taking a deep breath, then slowly exhaling, Isabel accepted his offering. She slipped her hand into his. Manhku drew her up with the ease of a mother picking up a swaddling babe.

Gently, he handed her to the bench, then turned and hobbled back to his pallet, where he tried several times to sit without falling. She jumped to his aid but was immediately waved off.

He would do it himself. Isabel stood back.

Once Manhku settled himself, Isabel went about securing the items she would need to repack his wound.

When she approached him several minutes later, her basket laden with linens and herbs, he scowled at her, and despite the injury she had suffered at his hand, she scowled back with equal force. Clearing her throat and ignoring the tightness of it, she knelt beside him and said, “I will fear you worse as a one-legged beggar. Now, sit back and let me tend your leg.”

Manhku nodded and relaxed back onto the pallet. He let out a long breath as she bent to her task. She gave him no quarter as she aggressively cleaned and repacked the wound. Despite his damage, she was content with the progress. It would be months before he had full use. As she bent over him, tying the last of the linen, he reached out and touched a fingertip to her throat. Isabel flinched at the contact, not used to casual interaction with men.

“Hurts?” he asked in French.

A sudden well of burning tears rose in her eyes. Manhku’s question combined with Rohan’s callous treatment of her and the utter devastation of her people mingled into a harsh balm to swallow. She was no longer in control of her own life but subjected to men who knew not the barest of civilities. She swiped back a tear and shook her head. “Nay. It would take a much stronger man than you to hurt me.”

Manhku smiled. A low sound, which Isabel surmised served as laughter, rumbled deep in his chest. “Gooood,” he said, then sank back onto the pallet and closed his eyes. Isabel stood, and for a good long time she watched him. When she bent down and covered him with his mantle, she knew she was mad. What manner of Saxon was she to coddle the enemy so?

When the lookout shouted that riders approached, Isabel gave her precarious position no more thought. As it did each time she heard the call of riders, her heart leapt, and her stomach buzzed as if bees swarmed. Could this be the day her father and her brother returned?

She pushed open the great door and rushed out into the courtyard.

T
he sight that greeted Rohan as they galloped into the tiny hamlet of Siward turned his stomach. The stench had reached him first. The all too familiar rancid smell of burning flesh. Since his branding at the hand of the Saracen, it was a stench that immediately took him back to Jubb and all of the bile-stirring memories that kindled.

Rohan reined his horse to a sliding halt. Aye, even for the battle-hardened warrior he was, the horrific sight that greeted them made Rohan question the hell this earth had become.

A pile of naked, dismembered bodies burned atop thick tufts of thatch. Mordred snorted and pawed the hard earth. Rohan’s men fanned out on either side of him. Against the deadly quiet, the sound of Hugh and the upstart squire Russell retching their guts up mingled with the crackle of the fire as it consumed the carnage, sending a hard chill to Rohan’s blood. He was in no great rush. There was not enough of a body to save. He urged his mount forward. Arms and legs stuck out from the smoke. Quartered torsos, their innards hanging out, sizzled in the flames. The heads? There were none. Rohan’s eyes scanned the perimeter of the hamlet. Vultures circled just beyond. He urged the horse past the human bonfire to the edge of the small clustering of huts to a larger building that appeared to be the stable.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose. There upon a score of pikes were the heads. Men, women, and children, their eyes cut out, their noses slashed off, lay in the dirt at the base of the pikes.

A deep fury simmered in his gut. Rohan reined the horse around back to his men. Thorin and the other knights had dismounted. The squires were still doubled over, their backs to the carnage.

“See to the huts for survivors.” As Rohan gave the command, he knew it was for naught. For a long moment, he stood in the middle of the small hamlet and scoured the forest surrounding them. The cowards were long gone. He felt it in his bones. He also knew they were not rid of them yet.

Rohan began to walk slowly around the grounds, searching for evidence of the identity of the culprits. They were not foot soldiers. Several shod hoofprints stamped the softer ground. The size bespoke a destrier. And the only destriers in the region he knew of were those that belonged to knights. Saxons and Vikings, notorious for this type of kill, fought on foot.

Suspicion rose in his heart. Could a Norman have wreaked such destruction?

“Look,” Rohan said to Thorin, who strode up to him, pointing to the large hoofprint. “’Tis as big as Mordred’s.”

“Aye, there are more on the other side.”

Rohan looked at his right hand. “Normans?”

“Mayhap. Or Saxon knights. There were many at Senlac. Mayhap we left a few?”

Rohan nodded. Thorin spoke the truth. While the Saxons were not renowned for their cavalry, they did exist. A sudden thought came to Rohan. “Mayhap the lady’s betrothed has made a statement.”

“A possibility. There is nothing left here of value. The craven did a good job stripping the hamlet of usable goods. But it strikes me they were bent more on simple destruction than thievery.”

Rohan nodded. “Aye, the violence of this screams rage. Whoever is responsible acted in anger.”

“Who wouldst be more angry than one whose lady has been publicly shamed?” Wulfson asked from behind Rohan.

Rohan turned to his friend and scowled. Wulfson stood solidly beside Thorin. Both men stared at him, waiting for an answer. “The lady is still intact!” The force of Rohan’s words halted the rest of his men as they moved around the camp.

“That may be the truth, Rohan, but it is no secret she sleeps in your bed. Prepare to pay the price for such trespass.”

“She is my slave. There is no penalty to pay,” he growled.

“Now, leave me be on the matter!” He flung his hand at two of the men who had survived hell and back with him. Of all people on this earth, would that they would understand his reservations when it came to a woman, regardless of her comeliness or previous title.

Rohan mounted the great warhorse and said to the squires, “Take the heads down and burn them!” Russell doubled over at the command, and Hugh looked as if he would follow suit. Rohan sneered at their weakness. “’Tis a man’s war. If you cannot hold your spleen, mayhap you should take up the needle and have the ladies instruct you in embroidery.”

Angrily, he reined his horse and moved along the perimeter of the encampment until he found the trail he sought. “Let us ride, men. Mayhap with some luck we will find these villains.”

Rohan did not await his men’s pleasure. He hurtled down the narrow path, bent on easing his fury with his sword buried deep in his enemy’s gut.

Isabel ran from the courtyard to the bailey to see Ioan and Warner guiding those people from the glade who could walk to one side whilst they brought the carts laden with wounded up front. She bade Ioan and Warner to bring them to a large hut abandoned by a large family. It would serve as a hospital of sorts. Within minutes, she began to minister again to those she had tended the day before, and with very few exceptions, she was pleased with her handiwork.

Enid, Lyn, Mari, and Sarah made room for the people of Wilshire. They were a sullen lot, not familiar with their surroundings. Most of them having never left their village, fewer still had ventured to Alethorpe. Wilshire was the smallest of all of her father’s holdings, but the manor was sturdy and the lands rich with minerals. The forests teemed with game. It was one of Edward’s, then Harold’s, favored hunting grounds. When the king’s train came to stay at Rossmoor, it was always a most tedious time.

There was much to prepare, and the king’s courtiers required food and shelter. Yet her father never grumbled at the cost of such visits. He gladly dipped into his treasure trove of silver and was a most gracious host. The last time Harold had been through was in July. It was a short visit. And more than a mere hunting excursion. Harold had come to his most loyal lord, Alefric, to drum up arms and a pledge of soldiers. Alefric had many allies to the north, and even as far south as Normandy on his late wife’s side. Harold was counting heavily on them. Her father did not disappoint. He sent almost three hundred men with Geoff to Stamford Bridge, and another one hundred followed him to Senlac Hill. That only a handful of men had returned and with no word of her father greatly disturbed her. As each day passed, Isabel lost hope of ever seeing her sire or her brother alive.

She turned back to her chores. The wounded had been tended to and the displaced families of Wilshire given shelter and food. There were a goodly number of craftsmen among the survivors and several women she would be able to put to good use in the manor. But Isabel waited to press them to duty. They had been so traumatized and walked as if in a fog. They needed time for the scars in their minds to lessen. There was plenty of time to put them to work. A day or two would not matter.

As she stood in the courtyard rubbing the aching small of her back, Isabel gave thought to Rohan. She had deliberately put him from her thoughts for most of the day. Yet, inevitably, he crept back into them. And each time he did, her anger flared.

Isabel felt the overwhelming need for a power greater than her own or any mortal man’s. Having a moment where no one tugged at her sleeve for advice or to clean a festering wound, she slipped into the chapel.

She smiled as she slid into the front pew and saw that some devout soul had lit several candles. Her muscles relaxed in this most sacred of places. She had always found comfort here. She crossed herself and sank to her knees. She closed her eyes tightly and prayed for a priest. She prayed for her father and her brother, and she prayed for all of England, and as she was about to say amen, she crossed herself again and prayed for Rohan’s black soul.

As she lit several more candles, the shout of the lookout announcing that riders approached swept away her easing tension. She knew the riders would not be welcome. For the first time that day, Isabel wished for Rohan’s hasty return. She moved to the doorway of the chapel and pulled back the door to peek out. Her heart missed a beat.
Henri.

He strode straight toward her. Isabel turned and quickly moved back to the pew she had just sat in. She sank to her knees and crossed herself several times. Henri would not dare harm her in the house of God.

The door opened with a slam. The sound jerked her around to stare at a man who resembled Rohan in all ways but one. Henri’s eyes were almost brown, and his face bore no scars. But there was something more. As he pulled his helmet from his head and pushed back his cowl, his short hair, cropped in the Norman fashion, stuck to his forehead. His eyes smoldered. Yet behind the superficial passion there, a cold evil lurked.

“Milord,” Isabel breathed, feigning surprise and also feigning calmness. She smiled and gave him a short curtsy. “I did not expect to see you again so soon. Rohan rides to the south, but his return is imminent.”

Henri took her hand and brought it to his lips. She expected them to be cold like his heart, but they were surprisingly warm. Her hand trembled. Not in the excitement his brother drew from her but in fear.

“I did not come to see my bastard brother, Lady Isabel. I admit, I came for you. I could not wait to see you again, damsel. Your beauty has haunted my dreams.”

Isabel attempted to pull her hand from his, but he tightened his fingers around her. He pulled her closer to him. He smelled of sweaty horse and leather and ale, but underlying those scents was the stench of death. Isabel yanked her hand from his and moved away, putting the pew between them.

“I am not one to mince words. Tell me what you desire, and if it is in my power to give you, I will then see you gone.”

He smiled. His teeth were as white and straight as his brother’s. “I want you,” he softly said. Isabel shook her head. “Aye, Isabel. And I want you now. Come to me, we haven’t much time.”

She shook her head again, not believing what was happening.

Henri darted around the pew with such quickness Isabel cried out. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her struggling form against his mailed chest. She opened her mouth to scream, and he kissed her. Isabel fought harder. She twisted her head away from him, but he grabbed her hair and pulled her back so hard her back arched and her breasts jutted out toward him. He pushed her arms behind her back and with his left hand clasped her wrists. With his right hand, he grabbed her breast and squeezed. Isabel screamed and stomped on his foot. She howled in pain. His boot was hard.

Henri laughed at her piteous attempt to thwart him. He shoved his knee between her thighs and hiked up her skirts.

“’Tis sacrilege!” she screamed. “We are in a house of God.”

“Mayhap your God, damsel, but not mine.” Henri moved her toward the altar and cleared it with one long sweep of his arm. He shoved her onto it. Isabel rolled over away from him and silently begged God’s forgiveness as she grabbed the goblet used for the communion wine. He yanked her back to face him. Isabel slammed the heavy vessel against his head with all her might. He howled in pain, his hand loosened, and it was enough. Isabel twisted away from him on the other side of the altar and ran for the door.

“Bloodthirsty bitch!” he called after her.

Isabel tore through the courtyard, and instead of running straight for the manor, where he could trap her, she ran for the village. Several of Henri’s men who lounged about rose to attention as they saw her running their way.

“Seize her!” Henri screamed from behind her. Isabel was light and fleet, they were heavy and encumbered with mail. She darted between two men as they lunged for her. She would have found their thudding bodies as they crashed together amusing on any other day. Isabel continued to run toward the bailey, where several people stopped to watch the drama unfold. The sharp cry of the lookout announcing approaching riders on the horizon spurred her to move faster. She dared not hope for rescue. It could be more of Henri’s men.

In her wild flight, she heard shrill Saxon voices erupt not far away. Dear God, her people were fighting Henri! They did not stand a chance. But she could not help them. She must draw Henri and his men as far from the village as possible.

As Isabel crested a small knoll, she dared to look over her shoulder. She screamed. Though she was half the well-born knight’s size and did not sport the heavy mail, even in full battle garb, Henri was a large, strong man with a long, strong stride. He was right behind her. Behind Henri, a swarm of her people descended on two of Henri’s men. Two more followed their master.

Isabel zigzagged down the hill and away from more villagers, hoping the others would stay away from Henri and his men. For if they got too close, the Norman would surely hack them to pieces. The tree line was just ahead. If she could get to it, she would have the advantage. Just as she passed the edge of the village and broke for the trees, Isabel stumbled on a stump she did not see. She hit the ground and rolled. Springing back up, she moved to continue her flight. But it was too late. Henri grabbed her. His great weight slammed her into the hard November earth. The force of the hit knocked all breath from her, and she saw only black. Isabel squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them. Henri grinned above her. “I would wager, Isabel, you are more sport than I bargained for.” He grabbed a hank of her hair and pulled her face up to meet his. “I will take you here in the wood, as a stag takes a doe.”

He dragged her toward the trees. Isabel stumbled as he pushed her harder. Once they had broken through the tree line, he spun her around, and while he held her with one hand, he pulled the slit in his clothing aside. He shoved her to the ground, and she squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see his engorged member. “It will give me great pleasure to give my brother my bastard.” Henri sank to his knees and flung her over. He intended to take her from behind! He grasped the hem of her dress and shoved it up, exposing her bottom.

“It will give me great pleasure, Henri, to geld you,” Rohan said from behind them.

Isabel cried out and rolled from the blackhearted brother. Henri grabbed her and pressed his dagger to her throat. “Aye, but at what cost, brother?”