Warrior's Surrender Read online

  Frey climbed the platform, her eyes seeking out Sebastian although he was not difficult to find. Dressed in his surcoat of red and blue, he directed Ebon alongside Lord Rhys, who was mounted on a dappled gray. He too wore a dress surcoat, his of rich emerald green and gold with an embroidered eagle rising from the center of it.

  Larcwide mounted the steps and stood beside her.

  “Do you fancy to make a little extra coin, my lady?” he asked quietly, grinning at her mix of curiosity and suspicion.

  “Wagering, Larcwide? I’m shocked,” she said, although a growing smile belied the sternness of the words. “Who should I be watching for?”

  “Young Robert’s swordplay has been coming on.”

  “He has an exceptional teacher.”

  Larcwide accepted the compliment with a grunt.

  “Who’s keeping the book?”

  “Orlege.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  Larcwide's response was to laugh, then quieten when several heads turned in their direction.

  “Well, Lord Rhys’s men are very proud, my lady,” he said. “And Orlege is not above boasting. It might have been suggested to our lads they take their time to get the measure of their opponents without giving away their strength.”

  Frey crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow, to which Larcwide added hastily, “Not that I would ever say who would give them such advice, mind, but suffice it to say that Tyrswick’s squires have rather taken to more advanced types of martial skills than those from Goscote.”

  Larcwide paused expectantly, looking hopeful.

  “Does Sebastian know any of this?”

  The old man-at-arms shook his head slowly and grinned.

  Inwardly, Frey sighed. This had the potential to end badly.

  Larcwide’s grin broadened when he saw Frey’s posture soften and she reached beneath her sleeve for her small leather purse.

  She pressed a coin in his hand and whispered, “Put me down for a shilling on Robert.”

  A fanfare of horns pierced the early afternoon and a crier announced the beginning of the event with all the seriousness of a tourney. At the sound of the clarion, Rosalind emerged from the tent, having changed into a gown of deep green, the same shade as her husband’s surcoat.

  Frey felt a twinge of dismay she hadn’t thought to do the same. She was dressed in her practical, plain gray-blue walking dress.

  Sebastian and Rhys urged their mounts to a trot before the viewing platform where the two men bowed to the ladies. Rosalind unwound a length of gold ribbon from her hair and with great ceremony tied it to her husband’s wrist.

  Rhys raised his arm triumphantly, the shimmering length of satin fluttering in the breeze.

  Frey’s dismay turned to panic. All of Tyrswick would next be watching her and, although she and Sebastian were not yet wed, what kind of impression would she make if she didn’t offer a similar gesture?

  She remembered the length of bloodred silk in her pocket and pulled it out, seeing as she did that it was an exact match for the color of the lion stitched across Sebastian’s chest.

  He edged Ebon around and Frey leaned forward, tying the length of silk around his elbow, where in the breeze it poured out like liquid flame.

  Their eyes met and Frey saw something unreadable there, but it filled her with longing. As she was about to withdraw, Sebastian took her wrist and brought it to his lips. The heat of their touch seemed to reach through her gloves, branding her.

  The crowd roared its approval and the spell was broken, though not before Sebastian gave her a final salute and rode away to join Rhys and their assembled men.

  * * *

  On a far edge of the field, Heloise stood beside Baldwin and watched the very public display of regard between Sebastian and Frey.

  “The cheating snake,” she complained. “She has a lover, you know.”

  Baldwin feigned shock.

  “Surely not!”

  “It’s true,” she insisted. “He writes her letters. But Sebastian is too blinded by the death of his own lover to see that Alfreya is nothing more than a cheap substitute.”

  “The baron had a lover?”

  “Yes, but she was killed. She is buried in the crypt at Tyrswick Keep.”

  “Oh,” said Baldwin. “You know, it is a pity you do not know the name of Lady Alfreya’s lover. Perhaps if the baron knew—”

  “Oh, but I do know his name,” Heloise cut in. “He signs himself Drefan.”

  Baldwin put on a performance that would have impressed the professional play actors at the fair. He rocked back on his heels, put his hand to his mouth, and opened his eyes wide. As expected, Heloise looked alarmed at his reaction and reached for his arm.

  “Baldwin? Are you ill?”

  He staggered back, taking her with him to stand behind the small group of people who watched the games.

  “No, no…it’s just…my lord’s name is Drefan.”

  It was Heloise’s turn to look shocked.

  “Why, that would explain why he has lingered here instead of heading straight to York,” the young man added.

  He watched Heloise pause in thought for a moment before addressing him.

  “Do you think I could meet with your lord?” she asked hopefully.

  Baldwin smiled.

  * * *

  Although a bohort was supposed to be a friendly competition between allies, the young men of both Tyrswick and Goscote treated the games seriously indeed.

  The tug-of-war competition may have gone to Goscote lads thanks to the heavy weight ring-in of a knight at anchor, but the Tyrswick squires quickly showed their superior prowess at swordplay.

  When Robert won his match, no one cheered louder than Frey.

  The competitors were evenly matched throughout the day, with Sebastian and Rhys both playing master showmen, whipping up the crowd to cheer for one side over the other.

  The final display of the afternoon was an archery competition, and here too Frey discovered the competitors equally skilled. Like the others watching, she was nearly hoarse from cheering when Sebastian raised his hand just before the last event of the day.

  Rhys, still on horseback, joined him, and the two men conferred in the middle of the field.

  As the conference continued for a minute, the crowd became impatient and started stamping their feet just as the two knights appeared to come to an agreement.

  All eyes were on Sebastian as he rode over to the crier and spoke to him.

  Then the knight lifted his head in the direction of the tourney tent. Even from this distance, Frey felt certain Sebastian looked directly at her, and she could not make her eyes leave his. So consumed, she missed the crier’s announcement and the reaction of the crowd until nudged by Rosalind.

  “Are you really?”

  “Am I really what?” Frey asked distractedly, her eyes still on Sebastian as he approached the stand.

  Rosalind laughed. “Weren’t you paying attention? The crier has just said you would be representing Tyrswick against Rhys’s champion squire.”

  “I’m going to be doing what?” she responded, turning to Rosalind. “Where did you get the ridiculous notion that I—”

  “Unless you believe you are too out of practice, princess.”

  Frey looked up. Sebastian sat there on his horse, a smile playing around his sensual mouth and merriment dancing in his green eyes. She couldn’t speak.

  “Perhaps that day with the wolves was a lucky amateur shot.”

  “Lucky? You think luck saved your life, Baron?” Frey demanded, standing up from her seat.

  The crowd, apparently under the belief she had agreed, roared their approval.

  Sebastian held out his hand to her.

  “Show me how lucky I am, princess.”

  She took his hand and was swept onto his saddle. Before she could catch a breath, they were galloping down the green toward a bull’s-eye target that stood on a three-legged easel.

  “Sebastian,�
�� she whispered, “are you sure? It’s one thing for me to practice with Larcwide after his lessons, but another to represent you and Tyrswick.”

  “You’ll be my wife in two days’ time, and then you will be Tyrswick.”

  Their conversation ended there.

  Frey dismounted and looked over at her opponent. He was about her height but had the build of a man.

  She felt sorry for the lad; his face suggested he was unsure whether to be honored or insulted at being told to compete against the wife-to-be of his lord’s best friend.

  Frey donned the expression she habitually wore when she commanded in the field. She met the young man face to face, greeted him with a firm handshake, and wished him all the best.

  The town crier joined them, taking his role of event steward seriously. He compared the bows they were to use and satisfied himself they were equal in size. He then counted out six arrows, making the crowd count along with him.

  Frey knew this game. The closest to the bull’s-eye, the higher the points.

  The crier looked at her. She was to shoot first.

  Taking a pin from her hair, Frey fixed back the right outer sleeve of her kirtle to prevent it fouling her shot, then ignored her fellow competitor, instead watching the direction of the breeze as it rocked the leaves in nearby trees. Frey picked up the bow and pulled back on the string. The draw was heavy and she tested it a few times before selecting her arrow.

  Her focus turned to the target, a large white disc with a red circle in the center about a hand span in diameter and surrounded by a larger black ring.

  Frey licked her lips and steadied her breathing.

  Breathe in, position the arrow, breathe out.

  Breathe in, line up the target, breathe out.

  Breathe in, pull back the bowstring, breathe out.

  Breathe in, release the arrow.

  Exhale slowly while it remains in flight, crossing fingers that a sudden cross wind doesn’t queer the trajectory.

  Frey’s arrow hit the outer edge of the thick black ring, a creditable first shot.

  Rhys’s squire bettered it by an inch, landing his arrow in the middle of the black.

  Frey readied her second arrow and released it. It fell just outside the red bull’s-eye.

  The squire’s second sat just inside the red.

  With one arrow left, her only chance to win was to make the next shot perfect.

  The applause of the crowd drifted into her consciousness. Distracted, she turned toward the sound, unerringly finding Sebastian in the sea of faces behind her. He nodded and mouthed something she couldn’t hear, but his steady gaze filled her with her confidence.

  Frey mounted her final arrow and pulled back on the drawstring; the muscles of her biceps quivered under the strain and then settled, helping to hold her aim true.

  Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in…

  Frey released the arrow. The twang of the string sounded unnaturally loud. She watched the fletching on the rear of the arrow bend with the force of flight as it left the bow.

  Breathe out.

  And the arrow hit true, quivering in the center of the target. She turned to flash Sebastian a grin, which he returned.

  The squire stepped up to the mark and readied his final shot. It fell just outside the red.

  Frey thrust her bow aloft in one hand as the crowd erupted in cheers, and she turned, accepting the acclaim. Then she was swept into Sebastian’s arms. He lifted her off her feet and spun her around. As he did so, he whispered into her ear.

  “Well done, Frey! I’m proud of you.”

  His words brought raw emotion to the surface. No one ever told her they were proud of her.

  It meant more to her than any declaration of love.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The tent flap swept open, the cool afternoon breeze at his back alerting Drefan to his guests.

  He did not face his visitors. Instead he warmed his hands by the brazier and watched the distorted form of the girl reflected in the polished copper kettle that sat nearby.

  The girl remained on the threshold, casting her eyes about, hesitating. The little bird was cautious, as she ought to be. He watched her turn to look at the furnishings, a long bench covered with comfortable cushions, the coffer that held various jugs and jars, and then lastly his two companions.

  The twins, not much older than this girl herself. He turned his head to watch them dress. One was helping the other adjust the waist ties of their matching ochre and olive gowns.

  Their presence reassured the girl—as it was supposed to. She entered. Baldwin followed behind. The little sparrow had hopped right into the snare.

  “My lord, forgive my intrusion, but as fate would have it, I have found someone I feel compelled to introduce you to,” said Baldwin.

  On cue, Drefan turned and Heloise gasped.

  He knew himself to be a fine-looking man with a haughty, aristocratic bearing. It suited him. His hair was fair and his eyebrows dark, almost black. A strong, straight nose was positioned over full lips.

  Now he was ready to play the role of Lady Alfreya’s devoted lover.

  “Lady Heloise Villiers, may I introduce Baron Drefan d’Aumont,” continued Baldwin. “My lord, Lady Heloise is the sister of the baron of Goscote and sister by marriage to the baron of Tyrswick.”

  Heloise acknowledged Lord Drefan’s bow of greeting with a curtsey.

  “My dear! Then you must have news of my darling Alfreya,” Drefan exclaimed. “Please sit, be at ease, and tell me how she fares. I fear my attempts to let her know I have returned have been failures.”

  He turned to the two young women and gave them coins with the instruction to enjoy the markets. They each thanked him with a kiss on the cheek and left.

  Now it was the three of them alone, although Heloise didn’t seem to notice as she accepted his invitation to sit, take refreshment, and unburden her soul. Now there was an irony.

  Drefan said little, indeed needed to say little, as Lady Heloise Villiers told the story from the day of Sebastian's distraught, nay reckless behavior following the death of a Saxon noblewoman and then his return with the earl’s daughter and the Crown’s approbation of their betrothal.

  He listened to her tale with intense interest and without interruption.

  “Do you mean my letter did arrive to Alfreya’s hand?” Drefan blinked as though confused.

  “It did, my lord, I watched her read it,” she averred earnestly.

  Drefan looked over at Baldwin, who was standing by the brazier, and exchanged a meaningful look with his knight. “Tell me,” he said, taking a sip from his cup. “Lord Sebastian. You say he was very distressed by the death of the Saxon noblewoman.”

  “Indeed my lord. He even had her body interred in the crypt at Tyrswick Keep. I believe he was in love with her.”

  Drefan offered the poor idiot child a sad smile of implied empathy and let her keep prattling on like the hen-witted fool she was.

  In his mind, he examined this nugget of information the girl had given him.

  To be certain, giving a Saxon noblewoman—a stranger to him—the conspicuous honor of burial in what rightly was the de la Croix family crypt was odd behavior from a man known to be rigidly reliable and conformist.

  Drefan recalled Alfred’s telling him of his narrow escape from Durham because some fool of a young knight didn’t stand and fight or sound an alarm. Surely, it would be too much to expect de la Croix to be the same man.

  Most unexpected.

  Excellent.

  Already, in his mind, he planned his next step. First, confirmation of his suspicions that, if true, would provide the catalyst needed to embolden King William’s son, Robert Curthose of Normandy, to do more than threaten to rise up against his father.

  He drew his attention back onto the girl, having already half listened to her relate a conversation in which she confessed her long and everlasting devotion to de la Croix.

  “What can
be done? They are to be wed in two days’ time,” she concluded.

  Her fragile innocence was quite sweet, he supposed, if he was given to such emotion, which he was not. Drefan adjusted his features to affect a look of benign compassion.

  “I see you are deeply devoted to Lord Sebastian, my dear, but I wonder whether that is enough?”

  The question had the desired effect. Heloise straightened, ready to defend her feelings.

  “I love him!” Heloise declared with passion. “I would do anything for him.”

  With a quick look to Baldwin, Drefan fixed his most winning smile on the girl.

  “That’s what I’m counting on.”

  * * *

  Robert lit two of the stone cresset lamps in the Tyrswick tent as the three men sat around the radiating warmth of a brazier.

  “What have you learned, Dom?” asked Sebastian, stretching his legs toward the heat.

  “Well, praise be to God, there have been no other murders apart from the one you learned of, my lord,” answered Dominic, nodding to Rhys.

  “What I have been doing is trying to learn of anything in common that ties all these acts of evil together.”

  Rhys snorted, unimpressed. “We know what these crimes have in common. The girls who were disfigured and brutalized are of age, pretty, and unwed.”

  “Rhys!” Sebastian rebuked, but the friar didn’t need his defense. With equanimity, the clergyman continued.

  “Knowing who he likes to take tells us only what attracts the Beast, not who he is and certainly not how to stop him,” he said.

  “Then what have you learned, Dom?” Sebastian inquired.

  “Well, in the weeks prior, a traveling band of tinkers and odd-jobs men would arrive in the village…” Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Really, Dom? Is that the best you can come up with? A traveling band of gypsies? The convenient scapegoat for any and every crime and misdemeanor across five parishes?”

  “The local people don’t suspect them. I do,” Dominic said. “According to the villagers I’ve spoken to, the travelers arrive in town, stay for no more than three weeks, and depart. But they have been discounted out of hand because the girls always went missing two to three days afterward.