Warrior's Surrender Read online

  “There’s no time to sleep, Frey. Wake up!”

  She opened her eyes to see Diera’s warm brown eyes fill her vision, her face lit by flickering torchlight.

  “I’m awake.”

  Frey sat up, aware they were under the arms of a spreading yew tree. In a cloudless night sky, she could see an endless spray of silver stars. Around her, torchlight danced exotic shadows on the ground and the trunk of the yew. The feeling of expectant trepidation that accompanied other visits to this place was absent.

  She looked about. The hooded figure in green was nowhere to be seen.

  “Evil wears many faces,” said Diera.

  At the phrase, Frey snapped her attention back to her friend, who was dressed in her midnight blue robe.

  “Who told you that?”

  Diera merely blinked.

  “Who told you that?” Frey demanded urgently. “Sebastian is going out today to find the Beast of the North, to deal with the man who killed you!”

  Frey received no reply, only a pitying look and a slow shake of the head.

  “Is he in danger?”

  A dread terror rose in her breast, a fear that quelled every other emotion.

  “Is Sebastian dead? Answer me!”

  Diera stopped her movement.

  “Sebastian has been appointed, but this is not his time. Justice will be done this day, but the time of my reckoning is not yet.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Diera’s reply was a look of benign compassion.

  “Pray for your husband, Frey, and I’ll pray for you.”

  She reached out and ran gentle fingers over Frey’s head and stroked her cheek tenderly before moving down her arm to hold her hand. A lethargy came with her touch, and Frey felt the overwhelming urge to yawn.

  “Rest now. More answers await in the morning.”

  Frey closed her eyes and felt a tug on her hand, encouraging her to lie down.

  Her final conscious thoughts were a prayer for her husband and a prayer for Diera.

  Frey slept and was certain of it because, when she awoke, her body ached mightily from the previous day's abuse, especially her shoulder, where Baldwin wrenched it. This was no dream.

  Overhead she recognized the shapes of oak leaves silhouetted against the early dawn light. Her hands were free, but her ankles were hobbled to prevent escape.

  The camp was quiet. It seemed morning hadn’t sufficiently broken for the other men to stir and yet she was filled with a certainty that she was being watched. She turned her head. Just a few feet away with its back to her was a figure cloaked in green.

  Green!

  Frey sat bolt upright and silently and fruitlessly reached behind her for her quiver and bow before recalling their confiscation.

  This was no dream. The figure in green was real. It turned away from the sun now peeking over the darkened hill to the east and faced her.

  “I see you’re awake,” said Drefan, sardonically.

  “You! You killed Diera, not the Beast of the North!”

  His reaction was not what she expected. Drefan nodded once and followed with a slow clapping of his hands.

  “You were always too clever for your own good. Yes, well done. I killed Diera, but only you and I will ever know it.”

  * * *

  The morning was late by the time Sebastian reached the entrance to the abandoned mine.

  He was aware of several of these cuttings around Tyrswick and the one nearest the Keep was a rich source of coal that he had been quick to exploit.

  There were rumors of the Romans mining lead and even hiding a trove of silver on Tyrswick lands, but he had been too occupied with the defense of Tyrswick and ensuring its agricultural success to go chasing after rumors of treasure. What he had already uncovered was more than enough for one lifetime.

  Perhaps that was something for this son to explore, should he and Frey be so blessed.

  A yell from a couple of his men several yards to his right broke his reverie, and he jogged to where they stood.

  The bent body of a shaggy white-haired man lay on the ground, his fingers clutching a scrap of cloth. Sebastian noted his men ventured no closer than a yard away, and as he approached, he understood why. A particularly awful stench wafted from the corpse.

  Sebastian bent to give the cloth a tug and the rag came away with some difficulty. Rigor mortis gripped the body still and, coupled with the lividity of the skin, this suggested the man had been alive just a day earlier.

  Sebastian sniffed at the fabric. The odor was there but slight. Sebastian bent down again. The smell of it, like cat’s piss, was stronger on the hermit’s beard.

  He waved a hand at Dominic.

  “Dom, you know something about herbs. What does this smell like to you?”

  The friar didn’t venture any closer, instead resting his weight on his staff.

  “You can tell from the color of his lips and the rictus, not to mention the disgusting odor, he’s been given yew-leaf tincture.”

  Gaines took a step back and ordered two accompanying villagers to take the old man’s body back to the vicarage for cleaning and burial.

  “That might explain how the Beast keeps his victims subdued; just a little in wine to disguise the taste would be enough,” he added.

  Sebastian straightened and looked at Duncan and Robert.

  “Pull yourself together lads and prepare the torches. It’s not the first body you’ve seen and it won’t be your last, but there’s a girl in there who might yet be still alive and, by God, we’re going to make sure she stays so.”

  The two young men rallied and set about their task. Sebastian gave his equipment a final check and Gaines did the same. His sword sat within its scabbard; a dirk was strapped to his right thigh.

  Sebastian allowed himself a small surge of pride. His two squires were similarly prepared and looked as though they could actually be competent with both. Larcwide and his incessant drills had done wonders.

  Twenty feet through the mine adit, the men were confronted with branching tunnels.

  “Which way, Sebastian?” asked Gaines, contemplating both.

  Sebastian turned to his party and counted the number of unlit torches they carried. Duncan and Robert carried a dozen each, bound and slung across their backs and held two in each hand. He had seen the iron rings installed three yards apart along the tunnel. Evidently the ever-efficient Romans deemed that sufficient light to see.

  Their supplies were possibly enough if they relied on them to light their way down one tunnel, as long as it was no farther than a thousand yards in length.

  “Go left—let’s explore that for a few yards. One torch for every other ring. That will give us about an hour.”

  Thirty yards in, the tunnel opened out into a natural cave. Sebastian and Gaines entered together, Sebastian circling left and Gaines to the right, while Dominic and the two squires were instructed to wait at the entrance.

  The torch in his hand appeared dim. He looked up for its cause. A fissure in the roof of the cave opened at an angle to the surface, bringing a shaft of light and, from the erosion on the floor, a small measure of water when it rained.

  “Baron!”

  Sebastian turned immediately at Gaines’s tone of voice—urgent and strained.

  He hurried toward the light from his torch, which now lay on the ground. Its flickering light revealed a prone form where Gaines kneeled. His audible sigh indicated palpable relief.

  “She’s breathing! She’s alive!”

  Sebastian ran the torch over the girl’s length. There was enough light to reveal her hair had been hacked off, but the Beast had not got so far as to gouge out her eyes or to remove her fingers.

  “No injuries, thank God.”

  “None that we can see, anyway.” Sebastian shrugged. “Robert! Duncan! Get over here and get this lass back to the village.”

  The young men swiftly assembled their stretcher and eased the still-unconscious girl onto the canvas. Sh
e didn’t stir, which did not bode well.

  “Tell the healer that she’ll need to be purged of yew,” Sebastian ordered, making his way back down the tunnel to where it forked. The squires followed swiftly after, and he watched them disappear into the blinding sunlight of the mine entrance.

  “Dom, you go with them. Gaines and I will handle the Beast from here.”

  “I will not, Baron.”

  Sebastian turned to face the equally determined friar and looked him up and down. Dominic could hold his own in a straight physical confrontation, of that he was sure, but this was another matter altogether. It required armed, expertly trained soldiers to deal with the monster who lay ahead.

  Gaines refused to hide his scorn.

  “You’re unarmed, man, unless you plan to beat him to death with the crucifix around your neck.”

  A flash of anger crossed the cleric’s face but was quickly extinguished.

  “Have you two not been listening to me about the true nature of the Beast of the North? Just because you wield steel you think you are adequately prepared for what you are about to face.”

  Dominic turned to the darkened tunnel. He pulled a torch from an iron ring and walked away, calling back as he did so, “‘We wrestle not against flesh and blood but against principalities and powers, against spiritual wickedness in high places.’”

  “He’s a madman,” Gaines pronounced softly.

  Sebastian cursed under his breath, lit a fresh torch, and followed.

  The tunnel narrowed and the trio were forced to walk single file.

  After several hundred yards, Sebastian accepted another lit torch from Gaines. Every now and again, a haunting moan could be heard, accompanied by a breeze that caused their lights to cast unnatural shadows along the walls.

  There must be another entrance nearby, Sebastian decided. A gust of wind blowing through the network of passageways caused the moans, along with a creaking latticework of timber supports from the original excavations. In spite of himself, Sebastian felt tendrils of fear work their way along his spine. His instincts had served him well in previous battles, and they told him now that they were foolish to continue much farther alone.

  The girl is safe. Mission accomplished. Go home, something told him. Make love to your wife. Return to this godforsaken hole another day with an army of men.”

  With every step he took, the thought became more insistent.

  Sebastian stopped at another branching excavation. He was about to give voice to his concerns, when a cry filled the air and he was knocked bodily to the ground, his head hitting a rock.

  Sebastian shook his head to clear it, hearing the sound of scuffles and curses. For one panicked moment, he feared he had lost his sight until he saw the shadow of a man haring down the right-hand passage, the figure lit briefly by the guttering remains of a dropped torch as it expired.

  He could hear a groan of pain as he righted himself and reached in his pocket for a flint. Groping about, he sought the extinguished torch and found it at last. In a swift motion, he sparked the flint, and the pitch-soaked head, still hot, caught alight once more.

  Gaines writhed on the ground, clutching his calf. Blood flowed through his fingers. Dominic was gone.

  “That crazy bastard monk cut me!” Gaines swore through clenched teeth.

  “Easy man, let me see it.”

  Sebastian prized Gaines's fingers apart. A six-inch gash ran down the man’s calf. Thank God for his boot, but for which the cut might have severed an artery.

  As it was, the wound was serious, but not mortal.

  “Are you sure it was Dominic who stabbed you?” asked Sebastian as he tore a length of fabric from his tunic and began binding Gaines's lower leg tightly. The man grimaced.

  “Yes. No. Oh shit, I don't know.…”

  Sweat poured down the face of the man-at-arms as Sebastian eased him to his feet, bringing with him Dominic’s abandoned staff.

  “Do you think you can make it to the village?”

  Gaines gave a curt nod while attempting to put weight on the injured leg and failing.

  Sebastian stooped to pick up the bundle of remaining flares.

  “I mean alone.”

  He received a sharp look from Gaines that he knew well.

  “No. If you're determined to go on, I go with you.”

  “Don't be stupid, man. You can't walk.”

  “Yes, I can,” Gaines replied stubbornly, and placed almost his full weight on the gashed leg. He cried out again and, but for Sebastian catching him around the chest, would have fallen.

  “Henry, please,” said Sebastian, “use the staff, crawl if you have to, but get back to the village and send Robert and Duncan back here with some of the villagers.”

  Sebastian unsheathed his sword, glancing in the direction in which Dominic had disappeared, then turned back to Gaines, who now looked stronger, probably fueled as much by anger as pain, he thought.

  With a shake of his head, Gaines made a few hobbling steps back in the direction of the entrance, his injured leg crooked up, supporting his weight with the staff.

  “You’re both mad!” he said.

  “Probably. Now get going.”

  Sebastian turned away and began walking.

  “Sebastian?”

  He stopped and looked back at Gaines.

  “What?”

  “Godspeed.”

  Sebastian gave his friend a grim smile and strode on.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Frey recognized she was in shock—numb, both inside and out.

  The rope binding her hands and ankles made her captive, not only to the men who took her, but also to the swaying of the cart, which rolled southward toward Durham. The covers of the wagon were drawn, allowing only the faint glow of daylight through the weave of the canvas.

  Pins and needles spread up her arms and across her shoulders, a blessed distraction from the nausea in her belly. Her mouth was soaked dry by the cloth gag made necessary as a result of the deep teeth marks one of Drefan’s men now wore on his hand. His mistake for getting too close.

  She wanted to weep but did not. She would sooner burn in hell than show weakness in front of Drefan. He had said no more to her after this morning’s revelation, and unanswered questions burned within her. She prayed Diera’s soul might have the rest promised her on the inscription in Tyrswick Keep’s chapel.

  She only learned of their destination by overhearing two of Drefan’s men stop to talk to a merchant making his way north.

  Why Durham?

  A small flicker of hope rose. If Rhys and Rosalind were still there paying their respects to the bishop, then maybe she could get word to Sebastian. But in order to do that, she couldn’t be trussed like a prize turkey.

  Come on, Frey, think! The plea turned into a prayer.

  The cart, laden also with a couple of chests and several sizable sacks, dipped and juddered its way through a rut in the road, and the rope at her wrists rubbed against irritated skin, accentuating her helplessness.

  She closed her eyes against the pain and the beloved face of Larcwide swam into view.

  This time tears did leak from the corners of her eyes. Another person dear to her was dead because of Drefan.

  She remembered soon after their arrival in Scotland, Larcwide took her and Diera aside one evening while her father drunkenly snored in their chambers. Frey had only just turned fifteen.

  He had been uncomfortable with schooling two naive young highborn women in the ways men might use their wiles or their strength to get what they want, but as Frey now recalled the memory, Larcwide had always taken his duty to protect seriously and had seen the way the men in Malcolm's court were looking at them.

  “You have to be smarter than them.”

  The words, spoken long ago, struck a chord anew. Her life and her husband’s life depended on it.

  Several hours later, the cold bite of the early evening air flooded the stopped wagon, and, having been hauled roughly to the tail
of the cart, Frey looked up as the first stars of the night twinkled cheerfully in the indigo sky.

  Frey's feet dangled over the edge of the tailgate and the desire to kick out at the manhandling brute nearly overwhelmed her resolve to wage war with her wits rather than her temper.

  She ushered in deep breaths through her nose to calm herself. To her surprise, the man, one she had not seen before, offered her a look of something like compassion, although she couldn’t be certain in the dimming light.

  “I seen what a nasty bite you gave Poldarth. You won’t give me that trouble, will you Lady Alfreya?” he asked kindly.

  Frey shook her head vigorously. She sighed in gratitude as he loosened the knot behind her head, then those at her wrists and ankles.

  “Thank you,” she croaked as he pulled the rag away from her mouth.

  The man gave a slight frown of disapproval.

  “You shouldn’t have been tied up for so long. Wait there while I fetch my good lady wife.”

  At that the man walked away into the small crowd setting up camp for the night. It seems they had become quite a caravan.

  She stretched her arms experimentally, almost relishing the pain of her muscles protesting their lack of use, and watched the activity before her.

  Two other carts similar to the one she rode in stood to one side, their horses out of harness and grazing quietly nearby. Laughter, both male and female, erupted from one end of the camp where a cooking fire had been lit.

  The atmosphere could almost be described as festive. Frey briefly considered making a run for it, but even if her legs were up to the task and she could outrun her pursuers, where would she go? No. Durham, if that indeed was where they were heading, would offer her more opportunities.

  Soon a middle-aged woman carrying a basket bustled up to her.

  “There, there, my dear, you’ve been through quite an ordeal, but it’s all over now. You’re quite safe here,” she began. “My name is Mistress Duignan.”

  Frey opened her mouth to speak but instead let out a choking cough.

  “Tsk, tsk, that won’t do at all,” she said, and rummaged around in her widemouthed wicker basket to hand Frey a leather flask. “You drink this up while I put some salve on your ankles and wrists.”