Warrior's Surrender Read online

  Beside her, the figure in the cloak also rose. Frey turned swiftly as the cowl fell.

  Drefan stood before her.

  As she took a step back, Drefan gripped her arm tightly.

  “Did you ever doubt me, my dear? I’ve come back for you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The Tyrswick party reached the village of Eanfirth by mid afternoon. Sebastian could see that it too suffered damage from the spring rains, but nothing requiring resources beyond what the villagers gathered for themselves.

  He rapped at the door of the cottage belonging to the village priest. On entering, the party was greeted by a comfortable dwelling and a warm fire burning in a stove on which heated a pot of aromatic stew.

  The priest bowed to Sebastian, showing deference with which, he mused with some humor, Dominic never obliged him. Father Cornell was a middle-aged man about the same years as Dominic, but where the friar was built like a prize pugilist, this priest was wiry and half a head taller.

  Over a meal, they discussed the band of traveling tinkers.

  “When Brother Dominic told us the Beast of the North might have wintered with us, I can tell you I was quite alarmed,” announced the priest.

  “These men have visited our village in the past and have caused no trouble, but when young Mary went missing yesterday, I thought it wise to send word to Dominic.”

  “Have you ever thought about speaking to these men, instead of secretly harboring suspicion?” Gaines asked rudely.

  Sebastian shot him a look. It was ignored by him, though not by the priest.

  “Of course I have! With the exception of the fact that they’ve never set foot in my church, the only fault I can find is a general lack of personal hygiene. Their quarters smell rank, so no wonder they don’t mix with the villagers other than to do the odd jobs.”

  “When did you last see them, Father?”

  The man straightened and turned his attention to Sebastian.

  “Three days ago. I was doing my rounds of the village. They’ve been living in the blacksmith’s shed since just before the first snowfall.”

  “Did they seem anxious to move on?”

  “Not especially. But they’ve been talking about it for weeks, saying it would be as soon as the flooding from the spring rains subsided.”

  “Then I’m glad we arrived when we did. The River Tyrs has indeed begun falling.” Friar Dominic interjected, “Can you tell us more about the missing girl?”

  “Little more than you know already,” Cornell shrugged. “She’s a good girl, never one to give her parents a minute’s worry, not one to go running off.”

  “Well, we have only a few hours of daylight left,” said Sebastian, standing. “We’ll have to wait for first light tomorrow for a search. But let’s talk to these men and not waste any more time.”

  The priest took the lead to direct them to the blacksmith's shed.

  The heat was a visible presence the moment Sebastian walked through the door. The glow of the coals and the shimmer of heat haze rose from behind the anvil. The taciturn smithy, his bulging arm muscles glistening with sweat, nodded a greeting to the party before pointing his mallet to another door behind him.

  A smart place to spend the winter, Sebastian thought.

  While the heat of the forge burned up the smell of everything but hot metal, the room behind was cooler and reeked of a stench so foul Sebastian was forced to swallow hard against gagging. Gaines and Robert were less successful, and behind him, he could hear the sounds of their dry retching.

  The only illumination was sharp shafts of light that forced their way through the slatted timber walls. To a casual observer, the room might have been empty but for sacks slumped against the wall.

  Then one of them moved.

  “’Ere, ’oo do you think ye are, disturbin’ our rest?”

  “Get to your feet and show some respect to the baron of Tyrswick!” Gaines growled.

  One, then another, then a third sack rose to its feet.

  “A baron?” the second sack said. “We be right honored, ain’t we, Tinker?”

  The third sack spoke. “That we do, Carpenter. Show some respect there, Thatcher, no need to be rude to our visitors.”

  Sebastian watched the interplay between the three men and noted only Tinker looked him square in the eye. Clearly, he appointed himself spokesman for the group.

  “I hope we’re not being accused of wrongdoin’. Someone’s always trying to accuse us of something or other.”

  Sebastian allowed a slow grin to spread across his face. It also helped to make his breathing shallow. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay in this confined space with such malodorous baggage.

  “What say you, Gaines, perhaps we should accuse these three of witchcraft?”

  Gaines grunted his approval. “A dunking chair for these three would be a blessing to us all.”

  “Get them out here. Robert and Duncan, you stay and conduct a search.”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw a look of distaste cross the young men’s faces and he sympathized. He gave a lingering glance about the room now the men had been removed, trying to establish the odors into some sort of order.

  There was the smell of unwashed bodies to be sure, and the stench of rancid meat mixed with redolent herbs, plus the reek of excreta of creatures large and small inhabiting a small space.

  The sound of raised voices outside broke into Sebastian’s examination. He quickly clasped Robert’s shoulder and nodded to Duncan.

  “Do this well and you’re on your way to winning your spurs, lads. Good luck.”

  He left them to the unpleasant task ahead.

  The heat of the smithy’s forge and the tangy scent of molten iron that lingered at the back of one’s throat was a welcome antidote to the pestilent smells of the other room. Sebastian found himself hoping uncharitably for a stray ember to burn down the entire building in the night.

  Outside, the late-afternoon air was fresh and cool. Sebastian took in a lungful before straightening his back and, with authority evident in his bearing, approaching Gaines and the three itinerants.

  Daylight had improved their appearance somewhat. They were strong and fit for the manual labor that took them from village to village; their clothes were gray and colorless from numerous washings, and a variety of patches, more or less neatly applied, spoke of a hard life on the road.

  Carpenter and Thatcher spared nervous glances back to the blacksmith’s shack. Tinker showed no such fear. Clearly the man was going to brazen it out with him.

  “Why are your friends so nervous?”

  “There are many thieves about. A man can’t be too careful about holding on to what he owns.”

  Gaines stepped forward and backhanded him.

  “Watch who you’re speaking to.”

  Stumbling, Tinker dabbed a filthy hand to a small cut by his mouth. He shot Gaines a venomous look and focused his attention back onto Sebastian. This was not the first interrogation Sebastian and Gaines had conducted and each knew his role well. It was a surprise just how much men might reveal in a glance or a nervous tic, especially if they were unaware that they were subject of such scrutiny.

  Gaines played a valuable role in stealing the attention of the interrogated man to give Sebastian time to observe and assess. In the case of Tinker, the man was trying to buy time.

  “A fourth travels with you. Where is he?”

  Several changes of expression told Sebastian the man was considering which of several answers to give. The two men behind him shuffled their feet in the silence.

  “It’s no good, Tinker, just tell him so we can be away from here,” whined Carpenter.

  Tinker gave a short nod.

  “We ain’t seen him in four days,” he told Sebastian. “Listen, what’s this all about?”

  “Have you heard of the Beast of the North?” Sebastian asked.

  Tinker frowned and turned to the two men behind him; they shook their heads, bemu
sed.

  “It seems that for the past year wherever you’ve been, there's the brutal murder of a young maid.”

  Thatcher cursed vociferously and shoved Tinker at the shoulder. “I told you he was a wrong ’un.”

  Tinker shoved back. “You never complained when ’e paid in his share, did ye? Ye stupid drunken bastard.”

  An argument developed and, while it was words only, Sebastian allowed it to continue, learning among the bickering and swearing that the missing man’s name was Tanner, and they considered whatever he did out of their sight no concern of theirs.

  “Enough!” Sebastian yelled with such force that even Gaines behind him started. Sebastian suppressed a smile and returned to business.

  “Does this Tanner go missing often?”

  Carpenter regained his voice.

  “He do. He goes off fer maybe a sennight sometimes when we leave a village. Each time you’d think he’s gone for good, then he shows up with not even a by-your-leave, but he always pays in his share from what he's earned.”

  A cry of horror from within the smithy was quickly accompanied by the sound of running feet. Robert emerged first and threw up in the grass. Duncan rushed up ashen-faced and skidded to a halt in front of Sebastian.

  “What is it, lad?”

  “We…we’ve found something.”

  “Speak up,” prompted Gaines.

  Duncan turned to Gaines, then back to Sebastian.

  “Fingers! People’s fingers. Dozens of them!”

  * * *

  Before the full horror of his presence could be realized by Frey, Drefan dragged her away from the upturned cart as six armed men emerged from the trees, some surrounding Larcwide, others righting the cart.

  She could hear Larcwide yell her name above the creaks and groans of the shifting conveyance. Surprise and panic coalesced into action. Frey lashed out with a well-aimed knee to Drefan’s groin, and, as he doubled over, she wrenched her arm free and ran to put some yards between her and the man she hated.

  An ambush! And it was no false flattery to believe she was the target. Her safety and that of Larcwide depended on sounding the alarm at Tyrswick Keep.

  “Run, my lady, keep running!” she heard Larcwide shout, and after only a moment’s hesitation she did so, sprinting toward the thicket of trees and to her horse waiting on the other side.

  The sound of steel on steel filled her with dread. An experienced and wily warrior Larcwide might be, but he was no match for four younger men.

  Then the ground tilted toward her and hit with a bone-jarring thud. Air fled her lungs as she landed heavily. The sensation of a vicelike grip on her ankle worked its way into her consciousness.

  Despite the bruises, she twisted and lashed out with her free leg and connected with a solid mass that grunted in its effort to hold her. Then her other ankle was imprisoned before she was roughly flipped onto her back.

  “Remember me?”

  Although he was more roughly dressed and no longer clean-shaven, Frey recognized her new captor.

  “Baldwin!”

  “That’s right, Alfreya of Tyrswick. You don’t think I would disappear without wishing you a fond good-bye, do you?”

  She was hauled to her feet and, for one absurd second, was grateful for the hold on her upper arms; she was unsure if she could stand unaided. Frey swung a leg, looking for a connection, but Baldwin was faster, avoiding the blow and twisting her left arm so it was wrenched behind her into a shoulder lock.

  Frey cried out and Baldwin pressed his advantage, raising her disabled arm higher, sending sharp, excruciating pain down the limb.

  “Stop struggling, you stupid bitch, or I’ll dislocate your shoulder,” he hissed.

  Frey shook her head, not to disagree, but to dislodge a lock of hair from her eyes. She stared at Baldwin malevolently yet did as she was told. His grip eased somewhat and the agonizing pain receded to a throbbing ache.

  He lowered her arm and grabbed the other, binding both securely behind her back.

  She turned her eyes away, searching for Larcwide.

  In the field, the battle between Larcwide and Drefan’s men was over before it began. Her man-at-arms’s sword lay at his feet, and his arms were upraised in the universal gesture of surrender. Just one man watched the prisoner.

  The cart was now on its wheels and four men were at work. Two inserted curved iron ribs across its width and the other two followed behind with a canvas to turn the cart into a wagon.

  Another man readied the horses for harnessing.

  As Drefan made his way toward her, he limped, she noted with silent satisfaction. Frey stood straighter with all the dignity she could muster and glared at him imperiously. If he thought to intimidate her, he had another think coming.

  He reached her and stopped a foot away. Several well-chosen epithets bubbled in her throat, but before she could give voice to any of them, Drefan swung hard. The back of his knuckles connected forcefully across her cheek. Frey slumped against Baldwin, her eyes watering with agony.

  She straightened herself and took two large gasps of air to fight the heat and pain.

  “You dog,” she bit out hoarsely. “It takes a big man to hit a woman, doesn’t it?”

  A flash of anger ignited in Drefan’s eyes, but he mastered his temper quickly.

  “I’ll not let you goad me, my pet, not when the end is so close.”

  “End? What end?” Frey asked, but he turned his back to her and whistled loudly. His men paused their activities.

  “Get a move on! We leave now!”

  Frey watched the men redouble their efforts.

  “Leave for where?” she demanded.

  Drefan half turned back to her.

  “Will you ride like a lady or do I have to truss you up and toss you in the back of the cart?”

  “Do you really think I’ll make it easy on you?”

  Drefan shrugged and started walking away.

  “Tie her up, Baldwin.”

  “With pleasure,” Baldwin drawled. Frey instantly regretted her choice.

  Baldwin shoved and Frey was propelled forward, frog-marched toward the cart. As they approached, Larcwide surged forward, surprising his guard. Frey strained against the bonds, hoping to loosen Baldwin’s hand. Her left shoulder throbbed painfully.

  Larcwide stumbled but righted himself as though he felt her pain. Then he clutched his left shoulder, agony etched on his face.

  The older man raised his eyes, mouthing something wordlessly, and took a few more halting steps toward her before his face contorted in anguish and surprise as a paroxysm shook him bodily.

  “Larcwide!” Frey screamed as Baldwin dragged her closer to the wagon.

  The old man clawed violently at his chest and sank to his knees.

  “Help him, somebody help him!” Frey pleaded, bucking wildly in her captor’s arms and heedless of the tears running unchecked down her face.

  She watched in horror as Larcwide fell face first onto the grassy meadow and did not rise again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Sebastian stared at the darkened ceiling of the priest’s cottage from his bed, listening to the rhythmic breathing and the occasional snores of the other occupants.

  Something did not sit right with him, something just out of reach. He stretched his mind to reach out, but the darkness of night was like a tangible thing barring his thoughts of a way forward.

  He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the disquiet. Tomorrow he would need his wits about him and men he could rely upon. Such dark quiet brought to mind Frey’s distrust of Gaines. He had to admit he watched his most trusted friend closely today to see whether there was something different about the man’s manner. If there was, it was outside of his reckoning.

  Instead, they fell into the long-learned ways of working together as they had always done. It was good.

  The three itinerants had been aghast at the mummified fingers that belonged to five sets of hands and vociferously denied any knowledge
of how Tanner had come by his collection.

  Sebastian believed them, but there were enough obviously stolen trinkets and goods among their belongings to justify a thorough flogging for each of them.

  A search through Tanner’s belongings found carefully wrapped braids of hair of various lengths and colors—again, five in total.

  Diera’s body, hands mutilated, hair hacked, eyes gouged, was vividly recalled. He closed his eyes tightly against the memory, though once it would have brought him to his knees in torment. He supposed he ought to feel a measure of shame at his selfishness. Diera was dead, killed cruelly and needlessly, but now the memory brought a strange kind of relief, because it wasn’t Frey.

  Not Frey, not Frey, not Frey…

  Sometime later he awoke, the weak light of a new morning accompanied by the sound of several calling roosters heralding the sun’s arrival over the trees. After quickly dressing and breaking fast, he checked on preparations for the day.

  He found Dominic concluding a conversation with one of the villagers.

  “I’ve learned there’s a Roman excavation in the hills,” the friar said to Sebastian without preamble. “There’s an old hermit who lives in the caves, an eccentric chap who usually comes down to scrounge food. No one has seen him for days.”

  Sebastian considered the information. Tanner could not have gone far with the girl, and the old mine was as good a place as any to begin their search.

  “I’ll have some men track the hermit down,” Sebastian decided.

  “Before you do, I want you and your men to take communion.”

  Sebastian raised his eyebrows. “It’s not Sunday.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Dominic shot back. “You know as well as I do this is a different kind of killing than a drunken brawl or a murder for profit. The very nature of it is evil.”

  “That’s why I plan to be well armed.”

  Dominic offered a wry smile and quoted, “‘The weapons of our warfare are not carnal but they are mighty through the Holy Ghost.’ Go check on your horses, Sebastian. I’ll see you inside.”

  * * *

  Frey was jostled awake.