Warrior's Surrender Read online

  Those unable to leave their chores stopped just long enough to either nod or tug their forelocks before continuing their work.

  Before the party of travelers, Tyrswick Keep rose.

  Frey had only seen buildings this big before in Durham and Edinburgh, never before emerging out of the green English landscape as this.

  Larcwide reined his horse closer in to Frey’s mount.

  “Look at how Tyrswick prospers, my lady,” he said, his voice low but clearly in awe.

  “It does,” she answered, watching the spectacle of Sebastian’s homecoming. “Have their affections been bought so cheap they no longer remember my father?”

  Larcwide looked at her disapprovingly.

  “A man wants a roof over his head and food to fill the bellies of his wife and children,” he reproved. “Why should he not cheer?”

  “All of a sudden you’ve found Frankish blood in your veins?” Frey demanded.

  “Give the man his due, Alfreya.”

  Frey stiffened at the use of her first name.

  Larcwide held the young woman’s gaze steadily. She knew this was a battle of wills she would not win.

  “The war is over,” he said. “You should be happy your people fare well.”

  “But they’re not my people anymore, are they?” Frey rejoined peevishly. “They probably look at us and wonder why two ragamuffins ride horses.”

  Before Larcwide could answer, Frey felt a hand touch her leg.

  An old woman with wisps of gray hair escaping her cap held a hastily gathered offering of flowers up to Frey.

  “Not all have forgotten ye family, mistress,” she said.

  Frey stopped her horse to accept the bouquet and held onto the crone’s hand, touched by her words.

  “We ’eard about yer miraculous return from the dead, and I say Tyrswick’s doubly blessed to have ye back where ye belong.”

  “You remember me?” Frey asked, almost overcome with emotion.

  The woman smiled, exposing gaps where teeth used to be.

  “Every night in my prayers, my lady, both you and yer brother. Now you’re back for good.”

  Filled with compassion, Frey squeezed the hand with sorrowful affection.

  “I can’t promise that…”

  “I can.”

  Frey had not noticed Sebastian double back to them. Astride his horse, he looked every inch the imposing lord of the manor, yet there was humanity and affection in his voice as he addressed the old woman.

  “Lady Alfreya is home for good,” he vowed.

  The old woman’s gap-toothed smile brightened. “You’ve made an old woman happy, Sebastian de la Croix.”

  Frey wasn’t sure what shocked her most—the old woman’s familiarity with the baron of Tyrswick or his declaration that she was home.

  They rode on together for a short distance until Frey could no longer resist addressing the matter.

  “You ought not make promises you can’t keep,” Frey told him as they approached the outer bailey gate.

  “What makes you think my promise is hollow?”

  Frey straightened in the saddle and met his eyes directly.

  “The fact that the Crown decides my fate and not some minor baron in a forgotten, far-flung corner of the kingdom.”

  Let him mull on that insult, she told herself.

  Sebastian didn’t seem in the least bit perturbed; the blackguard even grinned. A twinkle in his eye hinted further at his amusement.

  “You underestimate my influence at Court, princess,” he said. “I’ve never been refused anything I wanted.”

  He watched her keenly and then with satisfaction, seeing the heat and arousal flushed through her, coloring her skin.

  “And what do you want?” she said.

  She had asked him that question before, in the maelstrom of conflicted emotions when he kissed her in the abbey’s slaughterhouse, and she believed she knew the answer.

  Yet the previous night, when they were alone in his tent, he could have taken her. He had not. To Frey’s shame, she almost wished he had, even if only to prove to herself that desire was just desire, devoid of meaning, like an itch that must be scratched to find relief.

  “All in good time, ma chere,” he added, then urged Ebon to the front of the party, having the honor and the right to be first across the drawbridge and into the inner bailey.

  The thunderous clatter of horses’ hooves on wood subsided as the last of the party entered the protective embrace of the keep’s formidable stone walls.

  Stable boys came forward to steady the horses as their riders dismounted.

  Frey glanced down at the one holding the reins of her mount. To her surprise, it was Orlege, who muttered a greeting before looking away.

  She was about to speak to her man-at-arms when firm hands encircled her waist, lifting her from the horse. Even without seeing, she knew it was Sebastian.

  Orlege tossed her an unreadable look over his shoulder as he led her horse away.

  As Frey was lowered to the ground, she saw Larcwide walk up and thump Orlege squarely on the back. Orlege turned and the two men greeted each other warmly before they disappeared toward the stables.

  Sebastian beckoned her and she followed him through the main doors of the keep.

  Frey suddenly found herself filled with loss. Brice was now being cared for and with a future far beyond that which she could possibly offer him. Orlege and Larcwide seem to have accepted the patronage of a new lord. Indeed, Larcwide seemed positively delighted by the prospect.

  Sebastian made his way past the guard’s living quarters, the smell of sweat attenuated only a little by the smell of fresh rushes on the floor and the scent of pine resin boiling from the log that burned brightly in the fireplace.

  Frey hastened to follow, momentarily losing sight of him as he ascended the circular stone staircase.

  She only caught a quick glimpse of the great hall as they walked past another floor, a series of sleeping chambers accessed from a central corridor.

  Frey mounted the stairs to the final floor and almost bumped into Sebastian’s back. She stepped back and glanced around. It was a surprisingly light and airy room, thanks to the doors that opened out into the roof of the forebuilding.

  Two or three walls were covered by sizable tapestries with armorial motifs. Benches and chairs were covered with comfortable-looking low pillows. Behind her to the left, separated by a thick wooden partition, was a spacious chamber that Frey guessed belonged to Sebastian himself. By the time she finished her inventory of the room, she felt five sets of eyes on her.

  Pride wouldn’t allow her to be cowed in front of this audience, so she acknowledged each one in turn with a direct stare of her own.

  First, an older woman with silver-gray hair neatly, but not expensively, gowned—must be the nanny to the pretty, high-born girl beside her who was aged about fourteen years, Frey supposed. The girl's stare was a frank appraisal of Frey’s own appearance. Approving or disapproving, Frey could not tell, but some kind of conclusion must have been drawn because the girl sat back and drew her lips into a tight line.

  Like the older woman, the next woman was fashionably begowned, but not as elaborately as the woman next to her on the left, which told Frey they were, in turn, companion and mistress.

  Even if that were not clue enough, the jet-black hair, the peculiar shade of green of the eyes, and the finely drawn features left Frey in no doubt she was in the presence of Sebastian’s sister.

  Suddenly, she was conscious of how she looked. Her hair, which she wore in a single braid, was coming loose from its ties, and small strands tickled her cheeks. Frey’s tunic was dusty from riding and she smelled of horse. Frey was aware that Sebastian watched her but refused to look up at him.

  Judging by the expressions in the room, she supposed they might think her some crofter’s spawn, not the daughter of the man who once ruled this land.

  She straightened her back and acknowledged their presence once more, thi
s time as Lady Alfreya of Tyrswick.

  “Lady Rosalind Villiers,” he said, addressing his sister formally, “I would like to introduce you to Lady Alfreya of Tyrswick.”

  Frey heard a gasp of astonishment from one of the other women but elected to maintain eye contact with the one in front of her whose own momentary look of surprise was quickly replaced with a warm smile.

  “Forgive us if we seem ill-prepared for your arrival, my lady, but until a few days ago, we believed you to be dead,” said Rosalind.

  “I shouldn’t wonder at your surprise,” Frey responded. “Until a few days ago, I had no idea I was supposed to be dead.”

  She curtsied and Rosalind rallied herself to stand. Frey realized the woman was heavily pregnant.

  “Please, don’t stand on my account, my lady. See to your comfort.”

  Rosalind smiled gratefully and eased herself back into her chair.

  “I want to forestall any gossip here and now,” Sebastian stated briskly. “Lady Alfreya is here under my protection and she is to be treated as a guest.”

  “Of course, brother,” said Rosalind. “A place has already been prepared for her in Heloise’s chambers.”

  Sebastian stepped forward and kissed his sister warmly on the cheek, murmuring “thank you” in her ear as he drew away again, his voice so low Frey thought it likely she was the only other in the room to have heard.

  She watched as Rosalind patted her brother's hand affectionately and could not miss the woman's brief, appraising glance in her direction.

  She wondered what Lady Rosalind Villiers thought of her.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Frey surveyed the room that she was to share with Lady Heloise Villiers, sister of Rhys Villiers, earl of Goscote, therefore sister by marriage to Sebastian and Lady Rosalind.

  Frey undressed, ignoring the young woman’s frankly curious assessment. There was something in the set of the mouth and the reservation in the girl’s welcome that suggested that her presence here was not a welcome one.

  She washed away the dust of two days’ travel and knew what kind of image she must present—an object of pity. A noblewoman who lost everything she had, nice clothes and jewels, forced to give up every worldly comfort because her father dared to rebel against the king of England.

  Oh yes, and life as an outlaw had ruined her figure.

  Instead of the soft curves enjoyed by noble ladies at court, her body was lean and muscled, not like a man because her waist and hips dipped and flared as they ought, but muscles could clearly be seen along her arms, while her buttocks and thighs were hard and lean.

  Frey’s musings were cut short when a servant entered the room. Heloise had already completed her own ablutions. She now sat on a stool and let the maid comb and dress her hair.

  Frey ignored them and examined the three garments laid out on the bed. They were all she owned.

  None of those kirtles were suitable for a guest dining in the Great Hall of Tyrswick Keep. She would be indistinguishable from the servants in those faded rags.

  Seeing that she hesitated in her choice, Heloise called out.

  “Come now, my lady, you don’t want to look like one of the serving wenches. Let me see if one of my gowns will suit.”

  Heloise shrugged off the maid to rummage through her coffer, missing the pained wince her artless words caused to flitter across Frey’s face.

  “There,” the young woman said, pulling out a kirtle of dark blue.

  By the way she was holding the gown, it was clearly not a favorite. Indeed, it was plain compared to the heavily embroidered rose pink dress she wore tonight, but it was clean and presentable.

  “This should fit you.”

  “Thank you, Lady Heloise,” Frey replied with as much forced grace as she possessed, “that is most generous of you.”

  Heloise sat back down to allow the maid to finish her hair. She looked very pleased indeed by the compliment, as though she had accomplished some great task.

  Frey slipped on a cream undertunic before tentatively drawing on the borrowed gown. It fit, but only just. She loosely tied the stays on the waist. The hem was short by a good two inches above her ankle.

  For a moment she reconsidered Heloise's offer, but one look back at her own clothes told her the girl was right. Frey swallowed her discomfiture and wondered if Sebastian would realize she was making an effort to fit in.

  Having finished Heloise’s coiffeur, the maid turned her attention to Frey. She only got as far as plaiting two braids before the sound of a ringing bell floated up from the Great Hall below. In haste, the girl pinned the plaits lopsidedly to the crown then rushed away to continue her work downstairs.

  Frey straightened and repinned her hair before positioning a gauzy yellow veil with a borrowed silver head rail, and donned her red cloak to follow Heloise down to the Great Hall.

  The noise assailed Frey first, followed by the smell of roasted fish and freshly baked bread.

  Men and women milled around the tables, waiting for the baron to arrive before they took their places. Frey looked for Orlege and Larcwide but could not see them among the housecarls and others who customarily dined at the hall.

  Frey stood with the other noblewomen to the left of the raised dais where the baron and the family would dine, a little uncertain of what might be expected of her.

  The hubbub in the room died down a little as Sebastian entered the hall, accompanied by Gaines, squire Robert, and a couple of other men whom she did not recognize. Sebastian seemed to be seeking a particular face among the noblewomen who waited for escorts to the raised platform. He found it and smiled.

  For several heart-stirring seconds as Sebastian crossed to the group, Frey thought the smile was for her and she returned it, but his eyes slipped past her to the person on her right, and he extended his hand to her.

  Rosalind took it with a smile of her own and allowed her brother to seat her to the right of his own chair; Robert followed close behind with cushions for her lower back.

  Gaines offered his arm to Frey. Her escort was clearly not happy with his duties.

  To her surprise, she was placed on Sebastian’s left, a position of high honor. A glance at Heloise suggested she'd expected Frey’s honor to be her own. Heloise was a picture of dismay as Robert escorted her to a seat farther down the table.

  Servers placed trenchers of roasted fish and filled cups with wine. With the head party served, the rest of the hall, including the servants, sat down to dine.

  Frey spotted Orlege and Larcwide and a couple of more familiar faces in the crowd, including Friar Dominic’s.

  Gaines, still the reluctant escort, slid a wooden platter with a hacked-about piece of fish and a torn piece of bread toward her. She thanked him. He grunted in response.

  Frey felt Sebastian brush her shoulder as he turned to serve his sister. Overhearing their conversation, Frey smiled wistfully to herself. She missed the easy banter with family and she wondered how Brice fared. Her heart ached for her brother.

  Her reflection was broken by a demanding pounding on the table, and Sebastian rose to his feet and tugged on her arm.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed.

  “Time to stand up, princess. Show people you’re home,” he said softly.

  Frey reluctantly stood.

  The babble of voices died down as Sebastian spoke.

  “I present to you Lady Alfreya of Tyrswick, daughter of the late earl. Alive, whole, and now our guest.”

  A murmur went through the crowd before a few isolated handclaps turned into an ovation.

  Frey bowed her head in acknowledgment before sitting, somewhat embarrassed by the attention.

  Sebastian spared her one last glance before turning his attention to assisting his sister with the second course—a pie of beef, rabbit, and pheasant. The hall thundered with the sound of a hundred fists banging their approval of the meal as it was served.

  As the evening wore on, Frey shucked off her cloak and looked about fo
r her taciturn dinner companion, who had slipped away as seating arrangements lost their formality.

  She spotted Gaines a moment later. He sat with a few of his men at the lower tables.

  Sweethearts separated by their duties during the day took the opportunity to sit side by side while children played in and out among the tables, followed by the dogs that eagerly foraged for scraps in the rushes on the floor.

  In Gaines’s place, Robert now sat to serve her from the tureen of stewed fruit and clotted cream, the final course of their meal, but his eyes were on one of the household maids who blushed becomingly every time she glanced over at him.

  Frey searched for Sebastian and cursed herself the moment she became aware of the direction of her thoughts. Nonetheless, she continued to look about. He wasn’t at the tables where he had stopped earlier to share a word with one of the servants or to slap one of the knights on the back with the easy camaraderie that seemed so commonplace here.

  Instead, she found him seemingly in deep conversation with Friar Dominic at the entrance to the Keep’s chapel at the end of the Hall. It also appeared Lady Heloise had left the hall early.

  Lady Rosalind leaned along the table to Alfreya.

  “Lady Alfreya, since I appear to have lost my escort for the evening, could I persuade you to assist me from my chair? I find with the babe, my balance on the stairs is somewhat lacking.”

  “Of course, my lady,” Frey replied. “After such a long and trying week, I would like to retire early myself.”

  Frey helped Rosalind to her feet and together they negotiated past the tables and benches and the branches of glimmering lit candles in freestanding iron holders at each end of the dais, then down the treads to where Gwenda stood to assist her mistress to bed.

  * * *

  Sebastian remained unaware of his sister’s retirement as he listened to Friar Dominic’s news.

  “There’s evil stalking the land, Sebastian.”

  “Dealing with evil is your domain, Dom.”

  “But when the devil uses the hand of man, then it becomes your problem too.”