Warrior's Surrender Read online

  He shrugged.

  “Not for many months. When you came to the chapel those months ago, I was saying good-bye.”

  Frey thought on that for a long while.

  “She still comes to me in dreams,” she said.

  “What does she say?”

  “She says darkness is coming.”

  Sebastian’s embrace became warm and solid.

  “I haven’t forgotten her. She needs justice. All those poor young women do.”

  Frey looked up and met Sebastian’s eyes. Even in this half-light she could see the weight of responsibility lay on his shoulders. She ran her hands along them. Such broad shoulders—strong, fair, and just. There was no second-guessing his motives. There was no doubt he would bring Diera’s murderer to justice if it was at all possible.

  She laid a kiss where he was most vulnerable, the place where she could see the pulse in his neck beat strong and steady. Her kisses grew bolder, lavishing his neck with open-mouthed adoration. Without hurry, she reached his mouth and savored its warmth as he welcomed her exploration.

  “Come to bed,” she said, giving him a tug on the wrist when she stood. He followed and they settled into bed.

  Sebastian seemed to sense the different mood in her tonight. Rather than dominating this time, he lay passively on his back, an arm flung over his head, watching her with a guarded scrutiny, but he didn’t resist or object when she straddled him.

  “I have you where I want you,” she said huskily, running her fingers lightly down his bare chest, where nut-brown nipples tautened.

  The dreams about Diera haunted her more than she would be willing to admit to herself, let alone to Sebastian. Her friend should be alive.

  Frey was consumed by a hunger that didn’t quite seem hers. It was as though Diera lingered at the edge of her consciousness, demanding through her to feel alive, to feel the potent physical and emotional force of their coupling.

  One of Sebastian’s hands trailed lazily through her hair.

  She leaned forward, her fingers and lips moving farther down his torso, along skin that prickled and rose up in lines of gooseflesh where her fingernails lightly scraped. As she moved down, her breasts skimmed his chest, adding to her own pleasure.

  She was someone else for a moment, someone who would not second-guess her choices, her decisions, and weigh them up against the demands of others. Here, she could demand and take. The thought was heady.

  * * *

  Whether he slept for the remainder of the night or merely dozed, Sebastian couldn’t tell. He was conscious of the warmth of Frey beside him as she slept, sated from their lovemaking a few hours before.

  He was honest when he told his wife he no longer dreamed of Diera, but the nightmares had returned. And now the savaged body laid out on the altar was not Diera’s, but Frey’s.

  That was bad enough. Occasionally, however, he confronted the killer—sometimes just before, sometimes just after the deed. But every time, he was too late to prevent her death, and every time it gutted him as though his heart had been ripped from his chest.

  But dreams were just dreams. Simply disjointed workings of the mind.

  Sebastian shifted and watched Frey sleep peacefully beside him. He lingered over her figure, composed of fine-boned limbs on which delicate feminine muscles sat honed by practice at the archery butt. He followed the swell of her breasts, the flare of her hips to where they disappeared under the blankets that covered them both.

  He thought her revelation three months ago that she loved him would alter things, but they hadn’t. He suspected the change in her feelings for him happened the night of the Hallowmass revels when she encountered Drefan.

  Drefan. The fact the mole had gone to ground over the winter frustrated him.

  Sebastian was a man who preferred immediate, clear-cut engagement. On the battlefield or over a game board, his skills were formidable. His word was his word. He had no patience for political machinations in which alliances shifted under his feet like sand. That was why he was happy to stay the hell away from London and York, even Durham.

  Drefan was elusive and his motives unclear. The fact he involved Heloise was disturbing.

  Well, thank God the Goscote party was now on its way back home to Leicestershire, and the next time he’d see them, Heloise would have a husband of her own.

  Sebastian rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, allowing the sound of the driving rain to focus him into a meditative state.

  He put the issue of Drefan aside and considered the other great issue he faced: the Beast of the North.

  It was spring, which meant, if Dominic was right, the band of travelers would be on the move soon and another young woman’s life was at risk. Many itinerant workers trod the same roads year after year, and villagers planned their season by the workers' arrival. If his and the friar's estimation was true, it would mean these men would be on their way to Tyrswick lands.

  Sebastian would be ready.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Torrential spring rain, along with the snowmelt, turned the most unassuming streams into raging torrents, gouging the landscape and threatening to flood some of the small, low-lying communities around Tyrswick.

  The inclement weather had gone on for weeks, and this day was the first fine one in some time.

  The Keep was a hive of activity. Tempers that had begun unraveling at confinement indoors were now soothed with a flurry of doings. Almost every inch of sunlit space was filled with freshly washed linens, workers inspected and planned repairs to weatherworn roofs, children ran about.

  Frey was delighted when Sebastian agreed for her to accompany his patrol of the villages around Tyrswick, a journey that would take four days, but perhaps longer, conditional upon the damage done by the winter ice and the spring thaws.

  Depending on the need found, the baron would allocate resources for building and repairs to help ensure the lands returned to being as productive as possible, as quickly as possible.

  Frey learned that, in years past, Beyard would have accompanied Sebastian, but as mistress of Tyrswick, the people were as much her responsibility as her husband’s. Besides, from the vantage point on her horse in the courtyard, it looked like Beyard would be occupied for quite some time.

  She grinned as she watched the one-armed steward intervene in an escalating dispute between one of the senior housekeepers and a lad who had been thoughtless enough to start a bonfire of soiled floor rushes too close to her freshly washed linens. Beyard was thrusting himself between them as the woman attempted to take a broom to the boy, despite his being twice her size.

  The harsh scrape of metal on metal as the external gate opened drew Frey’s attention back to the patrol, which numbered twelve. Seven, including herself, would be the forward party, and the five following would drive and guard their wagon, heavily stocked with tools and food not only to see to their needs, but also to provide immediate surcease for stricken villagers.

  “Ready to ride?”

  Sebastian flashed her a grin to set her pulse racing. He looked magnificent on Ebon, and his glossy black hair lifted lightly in the breeze that pushed fluffy white clouds across a vivid blue sky. Dressed in his livery, he was every inch the rightful lord of Tyrswick.

  The thought gave her pause. It was a year since her father had been slain in battle, quite possibly killed by the man who was now her husband, a man who she had long been taught was her enemy.

  Familiar prejudices withered in the light of the truth. Her father was killed by stubbornness, his inability to accept war with the Normans was over and they were all Englishmen now.

  She said a silent prayer for her father, hoping he might have found the peace in the next life that he never found in this one, as she urged her horse into a trot to catch up with Sebastian. He’d stopped on the other side of the drawbridge. As she crossed, she looked down to see the first of the Keep’s defenses, a deep ditch filled with water.

  “I didn’t think we had that much rain,
” she said.

  “We haven’t,” he answered. “Let me show you something.”

  They broke away from the main party and rode several hundred yards to where the boundary of the Keep met Tyrswick River.

  A structure like a low stone gate stood parallel to the river and straddled the channel that skirted the walls of the Keep. Instead of a door, a series of heavy wooden planks strapped with iron were suspended over the water.

  “It’s a sluice gate,” he said. He pointed downstream to where the river flowed by the village. “We couldn’t risk the wheel on the mill being damaged by floodwater, so we had the gate built at the same time,” Sebastian explained. “When the river rises above a certain level, we raise the gate to divert water. Not only does it protect the mill and the village, but it also gives the Keep another defense.

  “Let’s head down into the village to see if the gate did the job.”

  Thanks to Sebastian’s forethought, Tyrswick village had weathered the rains well. The mill was in perfect order and would be ready to start grinding the grain immediately. That meant fresh bread. Large quantities would be required to feed the starving if there had been significant damage done to other areas.

  During the course of the day, they visited a number of villages downstream of Tyrswick and, fortunately, they too seemed no worse for wear.

  “Nothing a few days of sunshine won't cure” was the oft-repeated assessment.

  The muddy roads made the journey slow going, and, at several stops, additional horses and more manpower were required to dislodge the cart from mud nearly a foot deep. Frey was exhausted, but she’d sooner rip out her own tongue than voice a complaint.

  Their journey ended farther down the valley when they entered the village where they would spend the night.

  On the rise overlooking the hamlet, they could see paths between the cottages turned to black mud, planks providing the only stable crossing over them. One of the cottages had been unroofed in the wild weather and, as the late-afternoon sun disappeared, men scrambled across joists and down ladders, abandoning repairs for the day. The village hall, the largest structure in the settlement, was a thatched wooden building that would be headquarters for the Tyrswick party.

  There, they were greeted by a white-haired man in his sixties who introduced himself as the village beadle. “You honor us with your presence, my lord,” he greeted.

  “How do you fare here?” responded Sebastian as he ducked his head to avoid the low lintel on entering the hall.

  The space was already crowded. One corner served as a dormitory for the dispossessed. Children lay dark-eyed and exhausted, listlessly watching the activity of the adults.

  “We had flooding through the village five nights ago and two of the crofters’ cottages have been swept away,” the beadle explained.

  “Everyone is accounted for apart from a shepherd and his boy. They went out three nights ago to round up their sheep and they’ve not been seen since.”

  Sebastian considered the logistics and manpower he brought with him.

  “There’s no more we can do tonight. We’ll search at first light.”

  The beadle shifted on his feet uncomfortably before addressing his newfound distress as host.

  “My lord, I didn’t know you intended to bring your lady with you. You have the use of my cottage, but it’s hardly worthy enough for the baroness.”

  “You’ll find I’m accustomed to sleeping in barrack conditions, Beadle,” Frey answered.

  The beadle looked at her askance and turned to the baron for conformation.

  “I’m sure all the arrangements will suit us well, and we thank you and your village for the welcome. We promise not to be a drain on your resources.”

  The latter part of Sebastian’s speech cheered the beadle immensely.

  “Oh, one more thing,” said Sebastian, “have you word of itinerants about?”

  “Not here, my lord. No one from the south would have been able to cross Tyrswick River. It’s flooded bad. One of the lads told me it's a hundred yards wide in some places.”

  The story was confirmed by Friar Dominic later at supper.

  “The river has gone down some but it’s still going to be several days before anyone is going to be venturing this far north,” he said around a mouthful of stew.

  Sebastian reached across to refill his tankard from one of the dozen kegs stacked against the back wall.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Frey in conversation with some of the village women. She seemed unaware of the gravity of the discussions before him.

  Good.

  Sebastian sipped from the cup, thoughtful for a moment.

  “Then the road to Alnwick is passable, and there is a roundabout way to Durham. They may elude us still.”

  Gaines pushed his empty trencher away.

  “I don’t like this. We’re chasing ghosts,” he announced. “Four mysterious men come to a village—they may not even be the same four men, mind, and sometime after they leave, a girl goes missing and shows up dead. Who accuses them?” He glared at Dominic. “You?”

  Dominic refused to be baited.

  “I accuse no one,” he shrugged. “I propose we ask and we observe.”

  Dominic rose from his seat, leaving an empty bowl at the table, and addressed the two men as he left.

  “‘For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.’”

  “Phantoms,” Gaines grumbled. He watched the friar touch the baroness on the back and offer greetings before moving farther into the crowd.

  “I say we increase the number of our longer patrols in the areas where the Beast has struck. He may come back and he’ll feel the weight of justice around his neck before he can take another life. Besides,” Gaines lowered his voice, “a man and a boy are missing. They could just as easily be victims of the Beast. You don’t buy into the friar’s nonsense do you?”

  Sebastian looked at his man-at-arms cautiously. They had been through a lot together, and he always relied on Gaines to keep him grounded, but something about Dominic’s logic was compelling.

  Torn between two trusted advisors, he considered the merits of the arguments of both men and came to his decision.

  “Increasing the number of long patrols weakens security around Tyrswick. And we have worked hard to assure the Saxons we’re not brute-heeled murderers drunk on power,” he said, “so let's use that. The goodwill of the villagers is the best defense we have. If by issuing a warning we make the people more vigilant, then so much the better.

  “As for the man and his boy, if they have succumbed to anything it will be the wet and cold. The Beast chooses victims who are weaker, more vulnerable.

  “We’re here and Eanfirth is only half a day’s ride once the river is passable.”

  Gaines slumped in defeat. Sebastian smiled to himself. He knew his reasoning was impeccable, and Gaines would just have to leave his doubts at the door.

  * * *

  “You wished to speak to me, my dear?”

  Frey licked her lips nervously. She liked Friar Dominic, yet he always looked at as if he knew her thoughts.

  Did God tell him?

  All of a sudden the question she wanted to ask him fled, so she asked another.

  “Does God talk to people in dreams?”

  She found Dominic smiling patiently with a twinkle in his eye as though he knew that was not the question she wanted to ask.

  “He spoke to Jacob in a dream and to Joseph, the one with the many-hued coat and the one who escaped Herod with Mary and the infant Jesus. There’s no reason to think he wouldn’t still talk to people through dreams.”

  Frey screwed up her courage but found she could not make herself look at Dominic directly.

  “I think he’s speaking to me about the Beast of the North.”

  She waited for a laugh, any sign of derision. At silence, she looked up to see him considering her thoughtfully. />
  “Let’s take a walk outside, my lady, away from where we might be overheard.”

  The sun had set, leaving only a gray half light. Frey and the friar walked away from the long house and a few cottages to sit on the edge of a stone-ringed well.

  “I keep having these dreams. I think I see him but it’s not clear,” she began. And, once she began, the words tumbled over one another as though eager to escape the confines of her mind.

  She told him how Diera would appear to her in the dreams, sometimes whole as she saw her last, other times brutally mutilated, but always frightened of the mysterious figure in green. She would feel safe under the broad and welcoming arms of the yew tree while the weather would rage about her as though angry with the disorder in this world. Then the figure in green would disappear in a puff of smoke despite being shot directly with an arrow.

  Dominic's response was not what she expected.

  “Do you believe in evil, Alfreya?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The roar of Tyrswick River in full flood drowned out any possible conversation between those standing farther than three feet away from one another.

  “We’ll follow downstream for one more mile ’til we reach the tributary before we double back,” Sebastian yelled before trudging on.

  Progress was slow going, but the search party slogged on, determined to find the shepherd and his son before the unfortunates spent a fourth night out in the elements.

  Frey had persuaded Sebastian to allow the shepherd’s wife to join them, despite his misgivings. The last thing the woman needed to see was the dead and bloated body of her husband or child trapped, half submerged under a log.

  But even he had to admit someone who knew where the shepherd may have taken the sheep would help narrow down the search.

  He watched Frey walking alongside the village woman, trudging step after laborious step through the sticky silt that spread across the meadowlands where sheep would usually graze.

  Cunning woman, Frey. Insisting that the shepherd's wife join the search party ensured she would not be left behind, though Sebastian had been sorely tempted to do just that. He didn’t adjust his stride for the women, however, and kept up a determined pace for the past five miles. Even some of his men, including Gaines, could only keep the rate going for another hour.