Master Of Surrender (23 page)

M
ore than a score of armed men charged the Norman knights. Rohan ran the first one within range of him through with his lance. He pulled the weapon free from the listing warrior and with his right hand drew his sword and brought it down for the final blow, separating the man’s head from his body.

Rohan roared as a raider chopped at his calf, the blade biting into the thick leather surrounding his boots and mail. Enraged, Rohan kicked the attacker from him. He hurled his short lance at the Viking. It hit true through his neck. The man gurgled, blood bubbled from his mouth, and he fell dead to the forest floor.

Rohan pressed the stallion deeper into the fray. Two ax-wielding Saxons rushed him. Mordred chopped through them, his spiked armor tearing into the men’s thighs. Rohan hacked one down, and the other, now behind him and having managed to regain his stance, found Rohan’s blade backhanded deep into his gut.

Wheeling the stallion around, Rohan charged into three Vikings bent on hacking Russell into bits. As Rohan swung his mighty sword around his head, chopping at the assailants, their heads tumbling to the ground, Russell blanched white.

Rohan scowled and reined in his horse. “Man up, boy. William will want able Saxon knights.”

Russell’s eyes widened, and immediately Rohan whirled around in his saddle just as the blade of a battle ax swiped in front of his face. He felt the breeze of it too close. He jabbed his sword into the chest of the man wielding it. He turned back to Russell to find him engaged with a man who had come up on the other side of Rohan. While this was no immediate threat to himself, Rohan’s knights having sufficiently quelled the attack, Rohan called to Warner as he saw several men flee into the wood. “See that those cowards do not see the break of the next day!”

Rohan turned back and watched as the young squire thrust and parried his short lance against the last of the Norsemen who had chosen to stand and fight. Russell was outmanned, outweaponed, and outseasoned, but Rohan held his position. There was no better experience for a young warrior than actual battle.

And as the knights gathered around the dueling pair, the Norseman knew he was doomed, and not by the red-haired boy he fought but by the black knights circling him.

In a last-ditch effort, the Viking let out a blood-curdling battle cry, and knowing he would soon meet Wodin, he brought his battle ax down for the fatal blow just as Russell gave one last thrust of his lance. It fell short of its mark. The boy’s blue eyes widened in terror.

Rohan swung his blade, severing the Viking’s hand from the ax. The Norseman screamed in pain, then stood in stunned silence as he looked at the bloody stump that was once his hand.

Rohan dismounted and strode toward him, his blade raised. Casually, he pressed the tip to the man’s chest. “Who leads you?” he demanded.

The Viking shook his head, his eyes wide.

“Tell me, or you will lose a limb each time you deny me.” Rohan moved closer, his blade digging into the fur pelt that covered the man’s chest. When he refused to answer, Rohan hacked off his right arm.

The man screamed and sank to his knees. Blood spurted in a high arch from the stump. Rohan raised his blade again, this time intending to hack off the left arm. “Hardrada!” the Norseman screamed.

Rohan pressed the sword into the man’s belly. “Hardrada is dead.”

The Viking looked up through narrow eyes, violence burning hot in them. “And so shall you be when the devil is through with you!”

Rohan roared and hacked off the left arm. The Viking fell back onto the earth. Blood spurted from both stumps. He closed his eyes and breathed, “The devil wants his due.”

With both hands, Rohan took up his sword and plunged it deep into the warrior’s chest, skewering him into the ground like a spitted boar.

Russell choked when Rohan withdrew the blade and raised it high in the air. The blood of half a score of men mingled on it.

Rohan turned shrewd eyes on the squire. “Your lady has sacrificed much for your life, boy. I would see you home alive this day.”

Russell nodded and swallowed hard. He bobbed his head and murmured, “My thanks for my life, milord.”

Rohan bent and wiped the blood from his sword on the Viking’s leg. He turned back to Russell. “You would do well to train more often with my men. Next time, I may not be so available.”

Russell hastily nodded, his color returning. The crashing of horses’ hooves broke into the carnage-laden clearing. Warner raised his blood-soaked sword and saluted Rohan. “We gave the cowards the ride to hell they deserved.”

Rohan nodded and sheathed his sword. He mounted and rested his gauntlet-encased hands on the high pommel and leaned forward to survey the carnage. “Methinks, my good fellows, we have two different groups of raiders amongst us. Armed knights and these foot soldiers.”

Thorin moved closer to Rohan. “Aye, these men are led by more than revenge.”

“Rohan,” Ioan said from behind him, “the devil is indeed at work here.”

A hard shiver wracked Rohan’s body. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. “Aye, and who else bears the name with such aplomb?”

“Henri?” Warner said.

Rohan nodded. “Aye, my brother’s heart is filled with hatred. He seeks to destroy everything that I covet.”

Warner shook his head. “But Rohan, he does not have the coin to pay these men.”

“He can promise it,” Thorin interjected. “He can also give promise of land. Is it not why we are all here?”

Warner nodded. “He is foolish to think he can best you, Rohan.”

Rohan urged his mount to where one of the Saxons lay slain. He dismounted and raised the man’s leather hauberk to reveal his tunic. A red fox on a green field stared back. “’Tis the colors of the earl, the lady Isabel’s betrothed.” Rohan ripped the patch from the garment and stuffed it into his hauberk, then mounted. Anger seethed. Did the maid have a hand in this? Was she in contact with the earl?

Rohan whirled his mount around and said to no one in particular, “Let us ride and seek out my brother.”

As Isabel pushed back, Cedric’s body slammed hard into her, sending her sprawling forward, where she fell once again into the hard earth. The soft, loamy smell of the forest floor mingled with the stench of rotten flesh. She screamed again, the sound buried in the dirt. Cedric yanked her up by the hair. He raised his hand to strike her again, but his arm froze high in the air. His eyes widened, and he froze.

Isabel followed his gaze, knowing he saw the sickening sight that had caused her to scream. In a large semicircle before them, several pikes with decapitated heads in varying degrees of decay stared gruesomely down at them. The warning to trespassers was clear.

“’Tis the work of the witch,” Cedric breathed. Grabbing her tighter against him, he slowly backed away from the awful sight. Her wits regained after the shock, Isabel yanked her hair from his grasp. Surprisingly, Cedric did not fight her action.

Isabel used his fear to strengthen her position. “Aye, ’tis Menloc. Shall I call to the witch?”

Cedric paled and vigorously shook his head. “Nay!”

Isabel smiled, fighting her own fear. Cedric was now concerned for his own welfare. Slowly, Isabel edged away from him toward the pikes. “She prowls this forest in search of rapists and looters, ’tis said, for revenge against her own raped daughters and slain husband.”

“Shut thy mouth,” he hissed, not wanting to draw the witch.

Isabel raised her voice. “Would that I could tell her you were willing to sell me to the devil himself for the right to land!”

Cedric implored her with his eyes to keep silent. She would not. Isabel pointed to a fresh head. One of a Viking. “One of your hired men, Cedric?”

He shook his head but not with the conviction of an innocent man. His plot began to take fuller shape, and her fury built.

“Did you and Arlys promise the Norsemen land and wealth for their part in terrorizing your own people?”

He remained silent, but the hatred in his eyes spoke the truth.

“Why, Cedric, why kill your own people?”

“’Twould rally those who chose not to fight against the Normans.”

Isabel shook her head. “You are wrong. ’Tis the Normans they look to now for protection!” Her hands fisted at her sides. “You are a fool!”

He stepped closer, the witch forgotten. “Nay, your father’s treasury is well known. With it and the ransom from the devil Norman, we will be able to buy the best mercenaries. With them, we will win the day!”

He grabbed her arm and yanked her back toward the hill. “I do what I must for the good of England. If it means a few of us should fall to save the throne, then so be it.”

“You are mad to think so, Cedric. England is lost.” As Isabel said the words, she knew them to be true. The Normans were fierce and determined, the Saxons as well, but the difference was that while a few such as Cedric and Arlys were willing to sacrifice some of their countrymen, the Normans were willing to wipe the entire race from the face of the earth. Her chest trembled as a hard sob wracked her. Hot tears followed. The battle was lost; to continue to fight meant more misery. She straightened, throwing her shoulders back, and sniffed. “I will not abet you, Cedric, on any level. My oath is to my people, and I will keep them safe at all costs, and that includes keeping them safe from you. If that means accepting William, then so be it.”

Cedric’s face turned a murderous shade of red, and Isabel knew she was in deep trouble. He had lost his tenuous grasp on sanity. She kicked him hard in the shin, then punched him with all of her might in the groin. He grunted, bending over, and Isabel kneed him hard in the sensitive spot. She turned to flee in the direction of the caves, but he grabbed her long hair and pulled her back so hard she fell flat on her back. For a moment, Isabel saw only black. She closed her eyes and caught her breath, then opened them to the meager light filtering through the heavy canopy of trees above her.

Cedric reached down to grab her, but the far-off thunder of hooves stopped him. A sharp cackle added more tension to the air. Isabel sat up and turned toward the sound just beyond the piked heads. The blood cooled in her veins.

The whispers were true.

An old crone, hunched and clad in ragged garments, shuffled toward them. She chanted softly in a foreign tongue. Her long white braid was unkempt, but fringes of silver shrouded her face.

She pointed a long, bony finger at Cedric and cajoled him. “Come, Saxon, come to me so that I might add your head to my collection.” For one so old and feeble in looks, her voice was clear and strong.

Surprisingly, Cedric held his ground. “Be gone, hag! Do not concern yourself with my affairs!” he shouted, but took a long step backward just the same. He pulled Isabel with him. Grabbing her hair at the base of her skull, Isabel yanked it hard from his grasp. In what she was not sure would be the correct action, Isabel darted toward the old woman, who paid her no mind but instead kept her black eyes focused on Cedric, who did not follow her.

“Come, Saxon,” she wheedled, her clawlike hand outstretched in invitation. “Come to me, and live the pain of those you have betrayed.”

Cedric swallowed hard but squared his shoulders. “Give her to me, crone, or I will return with an army to take her.”

The woman cackled. “There is no army with the might to breech my magic.” She looked up at Isabel, the dark eyes glowing not in madness but with complete lucidity. At once, Isabel lost her fear of the woman. Had her sire known she meant them no harm? A surprising calm filled her. As addled as the woman appeared to be, with her speech of magic, Isabel knew she was in no danger from her.

“Who are you?” demanded Cedric.

The woman cackled again. “I am Wilma, guardian of Menloc and those true hearts who abide nearby.” Her eyes narrowed, and she pointed her finger at the quaking Saxon. “And your heart is black with lies. Innocent souls cry out for revenge.” She stepped closer. Cedric backed up a step. “I see all that happens in these woods, Saxon. I know your plots. I know who plots with you.” She laughed, the cackle cracking in her throat. She was consumed with a fit of coughing. Once it died down, she turned watery eyes up to Cedric. “I know who plots against you!”

Cedric took a brave step forward. “If you know all, Wilma of Menloc, then you know the devil will have her at all costs! Give her to me so that others may live!”

“Nay, Saxon. She belongs to another, and when he discovers your trespass, you will feel the bite of his sword deep in your gut.”

“Lord Dunsworth would never take up arms against me! I am his loyal servant.”

Wilma laughed again and moved a step closer to him. “Fool, what makes you think I speak of him?”

Isabel gasped. If not Arlys, then who?

Wilma shared a grim smile with Isabel, then turned back to the Saxon. “Aye,” Wilma crooned, moving closer. “The legacy will begin in her womb. Much blood will be spilled to see the final result. But mark my word, Saxon, no blood of England will spring forth from her loins.”

Isabel trembled in the chilled air, Wilma’s words causing her great concern. If she was not to wed a Saxon, then—? Her heart leapt in her chest. Nay! She would not bear a bastard!

Cedric stood silent for a long moment, contemplating the woman’s words. Fury clouded his crimson face. His hands fisted open and closed at his sides. As if a decision had been made, he nodded. Slowly, he drew his short sword. “Then I will spill her blood now to end the legacy before it begins!”

He leapt at Isabel. But Wilma threw herself between her and the crazed Saxon. “Run, girl, run to the caves!” she screamed. Isabel turned to flee, but she could not let the old woman fall for her. She grabbed a large rock from the ground, and as Cedric raised his sword to plunge it into Wilma’s gut, she brought it down with all her might on his skull. He moved his head in time to escape the brunt of her blow, but it was enough to cause him to lose his grip on Wilma. Isabel grabbed her up and turned to flee with her. The ground beneath her shook. Riders!

“Hurry, Wilma, we must flee now.”