Warrior's Surrender Read online

  She drank greedily, the taste only registering with the last mouthful. It was pungent, earthy. In a panic, she shoved the container back into the woman’s hand.

  “What’s this? What did you give me?”

  “Only valerian, my dear. Your husband wants you well enough to give your testimony to the bishop in Durham.”

  The tranquilizing effect of the drug on an empty stomach worked rapidly. It took Frey a moment to register her words.

  “My husband…He’s here?”

  “Of course he is, my dear! Greatly relieved he is, too. I can’t tell you how sick with worry he’s been,” Mistress Duignan smiled benevolently. “My Lord Drefan has asked me to take special care of you and that’s what I intend to do.”

  * * *

  In the blackness of the mine, there was no reckoning the passing of the day, no reckoning of direction, either.

  Sebastian ruefully considered the twine sitting at the bottom of the bag of flares that slapped across his back as he ran, an admonishment of his impetuous action; one that would have earned a tongue lashing, if not a flogging, for his men if any had done anything as similarly reckless.

  He should have used the twine to tie along the iron torch rings and guide his way back. Now, after several turnings, Sebastian had to concede he was lost. Moreover, there had been no sign of Dominic either.

  He stopped, mastered his harsh breathing, and listened.

  The baleful howl of the wind was softer here, and the sound of steady dripping indicated water nearby, a supposition backed up by the smell of damp air and slime-covered walls, glistening as they reflected the torchlight.

  Then sudden screams, anguished but faint. He hadn’t imagined them.

  The blanket of fear, which had only been hinted at back along the passage, settled oppressively around him, warning him to turn back.

  He could die down here and no one would know.

  Frey would never know.

  Who would protect her? Did she know how much he loved her?

  The thought of her spending endless lonely years without him was infinitely more terrifying than the thought of his own death.

  “Oh, Frey, my love. I don’t want to leave you!” he intoned.

  Terror sunk its talons into his heart, and, with each beat, the pain became a physical agony. The tormented cries of the poor soul in this mine might have been his own.

  Then a memory of her smile, the recollection of Frey’s courage, the feel of her naked flesh under his hands as he brought her to the peak of desire, the sure and steady realization of her reciprocated love played across his mind.

  Perfect love casts out fear.

  The talons withdrew and Sebastian basked in a feeling of peace as though a warm sun emerged from behind a dark cloud. A breeze from somewhere pushed at his back. Sebastian took a step or two forward just as his torch died.

  As his eyes grew used to the dark, a glow emerged from around a corner some twenty yards distant. He might have missed it had the torch not gone out.

  Then the cries began again, but there was something beneath them. A low deep chant of which Sebastian could hear snatches.

  “Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctifice turno mentuum.”

  Reflexively he joined in the prayer under his breath.

  “…Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven…”

  Sebastian continued forward until he encountered the spur off the main tunnel, half blocked by a cave-in. Light glowed eerily beyond the rock fall. The voices were louder here, and Sebastian eased his way over a broken prop. A keening wail echoed around the walls. Sebastian pulled out his sword and crouched.

  He eased the blade out into the void, using the polished surface as a mirror. A dozen lit torches flooded the cave with light.

  Dominic stood in the center, his crucifix glinting in the illumination. The friar’s entire focus was on the figure before him, a man whose face was contorted with hate and fear. He clutched a bloodstained knife in his left hand.

  As Dominic prayed, the man juddered violently, then halted his involuntary movements with a sharp call to attention as though he were a doll in the hands of an unseen puppet master. Unerringly, the man’s head snapped in Sebastian’s direction as though he could see him from behind the rubble.

  “Come out, come out, baron of Tyrswick! We want to play.”

  We? Were there more men here?

  Sebastian, sword brandished, cautiously entered the space, scanning the flickering shadows for an ambush. Dominic didn’t seem the least bit concerned; he remained single-mindedly focused on the man before him. As a soldier, Sebastian fell back on his training—circle the perimeter, eliminate any surprises.

  There were none. Only the three of them.

  “Tanner?” Sebastian asked.

  “Yes?” said the man.

  “By what name are you called?” the friar demanded.

  Sebastian frowned. What on earth? Dominic already knew the man’s name.

  Tanner kept staring at him with large, curious eyes. Sebastian stared back. The fear he experienced earlier welled up once more.

  “I’m talking to you!” said the friar with authority.

  Tanner’s head swiveled sharply back to the cleric.

  “Our name? Multis,” he spat contemptuously, pronouncing a strange sibilance on the name. “But we are known by many names.”

  Dominic took one step forward, and Tanner’s hand, which clutched the knife, sprang up defensively.

  “Dom…,” Sebastian warned, but his words went unheeded as Dominic took another step forward.

  “Ego praecipio tibi in nomine Jesu Christi exire,” he said, before repeating in Norman. “I command thee, in the name of Jesus Christ, to come out.”

  At that, Tanner let out an ear-piercing scream and shuddered violently. The knife clattered harmlessly into the dirt before he too dropped, convulsing.

  Before Sebastian could move, Dominic rushed forward and knelt, placing a hand on the man’s chest and continuing to pray under his breath. Tanner’s chest convulsed once, twice, and a third time before he lay completely still. Sebastian stepped forward. The man looked as though he were dead.

  Sebastian sheathed his sword and knelt down beside Dominic. The final words of the Lord’s Prayer lingered on his lips.

  “For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and ever amen.”

  Tanner’s eyes opened wide and he drew a deep breath as though he had been a drowning man. His eyes focused on Dominic’s before he burst into tears and pulled himself into a fetal position.

  Sebastian was startled at the change in the man from belligerent to quiescent. Was this really the Beast of the North, responsible for the deaths of at least six women? Sebastian stood and looked down at the man.

  “Are you the man they call Tanner?” he asked.

  Tanner started as though he had only just noticed Sebastian’s presence.

  “Aye.”

  “Stand up.”

  With Dominic’s assistance, Tanner rose unsteadily to his feet.

  “You hereby stand accused of heinously killing six women and brutalizing their bodies. How plead you?”

  Tanner blinked uncertainly for a moment before revelation washed over his face.

  “Oh God. Was that me?”

  The horror of his deeds hit home, seemingly dawning on him for the first time.

  “Yes. It was me, it…made me…I…”

  “May God have mercy on your soul,” said Dominic, shaking his head sorrowfully.

  Sebastian continued.

  “By the confession of your mouth before two witnesses to the charge of six counts of murder, I, baron of Tyrswick, condemn thee to death—”

  “Five!”

  “—You will be hanged by your neck until you are dead and your body left to rot as a warning to others who would blaspheme against the laws of God and of William, king of England and Normandy.”

  “No! It were five! I killed five women, as God is
my witness!” Tanner yelled.

  “We have your trophies,” Sebastian shot back. “Their fingers—”

  “Aye! But fingers from the hands of five, not six.”

  Sebastian shrugged.

  “Five or six, does it matter?”

  Even in the face of condemnation, Tanner was affronted.

  “I may hang, but I’ll hang for the right number of crimes.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Sebastian closed his eyes, ignoring the disapproving eye of the village priest’s housekeeper as he propped his feet on the table and rocked his chair back on two legs, its back and his shoulders resting against the windowsill.

  He was tired and his mind wandered toward the prospect of a soft, warm bed. Frey’s soft, warm body in a bed. Naked. The thought of making love to his wife warmed him as much as the fire that burned in the nearby hearth.

  It was late. On his return to the village and ensuring that Tanner was in secure custody—more for his own safety than any threat he now posed—he checked on Gaines.

  The healer had done a neat job on the vertical line of stitches that ran down his calf. And despite his insistence, the old woman good-naturedly but adamantly refused to let him see the girl, assuring him that her body at least had suffered no lasting harm. Now, he waited while the priest and Dominic heard Tanner’s final confession. He would hang in the morning, and notices would be sent out to the villages where the Beast of the North had struck.

  Despite taking a moment to enjoy his private fantasy of Frey laid out before him, another thought intruded, one so insistent he reluctantly left his wife’s side. Five murders, not six. Tanner was resolute. If he told the truth, and it seemed likely he did—for why otherwise confess to the other five—then which was the odd one out?

  It had to be Diera. Tanner said he'd taken the fingers of both hands, but Diera was missing only those of her right. There were forty rotted and mummified fingers in Tanner's bag. It was, Sebastian considered with grim logic, a complete set of fingers for five victims.

  Diera. Why? And by whom?

  Sebastian examined the possibilities.

  Unlike the other girls, no one would mark Diera as missing. Everyone presumed she had gone back to Scotland. Her body was identified by the small gold ring with the old Tyrswick insignia. Demon possessed or not, Tanner hardly seemed a man who would ignore a valuable piece of gold. And, given his predilection for the fingers of both hands, there seemed no reason for him to vary his pattern.

  That could only mean Diera was killed in the manner of the Beast by someone who wanted Sebastian to believe the girl was the daughter of Alfred. But why? What purpose did it serve and who would do such a thing? He didn't know why, but he could think of one man who would do it if it served his ends.

  Drefan.

  As though punctuating the thought, the cottage door flung open and Talbot and Orlege barreled through, both sweat-soaked from a long, hard ride. Ignoring the henlike fussing of the housekeeper, protesting about the heat being let out and mud brought into her house, Orlege marched up to the table.

  “My lord!” he began.

  The man looked him squarely in the eye, with a look that hinted at turmoil. A glance over Orlege’s shoulder revealed Talbot’s stricken face.

  Frey!

  Sebastian stood, his heart beating faster in his chest in anticipation of the bad news.

  “Tell me everything,” he ordered. “Leave nothing out.”

  * * *

  For some time, Frey floated in a half dream, one in which she was warm, comfortable, and safe. All she would have to do is open her eyes to see the familiar furnishing of her chambers in Tyrswick Keep. Sleepily, she reached a hand across the bed. It was empty. Sebastian must have risen early to train with his men. She should join him.

  Frey, with her eyes still closed, made a halfhearted effort to rise, but her limbs were much too heavy, so she settled down under the covers and listened to the sound of the household at work.

  Strange, she thought. The sounds were much louder than they normally were. Did someone leave the chamber and staircase doors open?

  A conversation started nearby and grew louder.

  “…Oh, much better, my lord. She slept like a top.”

  The slight Irish burr of Mistress Duignan’s accent gave her away.

  “I’ll put some more salve on the poor girl’s limbs, and, by the time we get to Durham, she’ll be as right as rain.”

  “Good,” a male voice answered, his response too abrupt for Frey to identify its owner at once.

  He continued, “She will need to stay quiet for the remainder of the journey.”

  Frey’s eyes opened immediately. Drefan.

  She was back in a cart, but it had been made up with a proper bed and there were two handsomely carved coffers, along with a box she expected might fit a wash bowl and pitcher.

  It was a traveling boudoir fit for a lady.

  “Lady Alfreya is prone to hysteria and self-harm. I want her to be given belladonna before we leave today. She will travel better if she sleeps.”

  She clutched the bedclothes and seethed as the conversation continued right outside the wagon. Belladonna? Did the man wish her dead? To be sure, it was an effective sedative when used correctly. When misjudged, it offered the patient only the sleep of death.

  Mistress Duignan obviously harbored misgivings.

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, sir. Belladonna is too potent for such a wee thing. A couple of healthy cups of valerian will quiet her nerves.”

  Apparently, the woman’s assurance wasn’t enough, so she added with haste, “My lady has been as quiet as a lamb. In fact, she still sleeps. See for yourself.”

  Frey snapped her eyes shut and concentrated on breathing slow and relaxing her body. The flap opened and she could hear the sound of Mistress Duignan clambering aboard and Drefan soon after.

  Afraid she could not keep the charade of sleep, Frey made a great show of stretching and yawning.

  “Diera? Is that you?” The shaky uncertainty in her voice added to her appearance of befuddlement.

  Mistress Duignan patted her hand.

  “No dear, it’s Mistress Duignan,” she soothed maternally. “Remember? I put that lovely salve on your hurt wrists and ankles.”

  “You’re very kind, Mistress Duignan.” Frey gave her a tentative smile.

  “I have someone here who wants to see you very much.”

  The woman stepped aside and Drefan leaned forward.

  “Good morning, Alfreya. I trust you slept well.”

  His mockery was ill-disguised and, prior to her decision last night, she would have seized the bait and told him openly what a rat-faced bastard he was or scorched him with withering sarcasm. However…

  “I did, my lord.”

  She watched his eyebrows rise in mild surprise.

  “Mistress Duignan, you may leave us.”

  The woman departed. Drefan leaned forward as though he might kiss her. Frey sank reflexively back into the pillows.

  “That was a fine performance you put on, but do not think I am fooled. I’ll be keeping my eye on you.”

  “You had me drugged so I can no longer stand on my own feet,” Frey hissed. “What threat do I pose you?”

  “That’s better.” Drefan sat back, satisfaction spread across his features. “Meek and weak does not suit you.”

  “Sebastian will come after me.”

  “Yes, I’m counting on it.”

  As much as she willed her temper, her body betrayed her. Frey’s eyes widened and her nostrils flared in alarm.

  “What game do you play?”

  Drefan shook his head, refusing to answer her questions. He opened the wagon’s flap and nimbly jumped down.

  “I don’t play games and de la Croix will soon learn it.”

  He flashed her a devilishly handsome grin, the same one that deceived her those years ago in Edinburgh, but she knew it for what it was now. Her own expression hardened in response.<
br />
  “Be a good girl and I might even let you live. You can beg me as Diera did.”

  * * *

  Sebastian eased off as Ebon struggled with his ruthless pace. The twenty-four miles from Eanfirth to Tyrswick was a comfortable day’s ride on horseback, but he pushed his mount and his men to go quicker. They had departed at first light, and a league from Tyrswick village, in the hour after noon, he slowed and turned to Talbot and Orlege.

  “Show me where you found Larcwide’s body.”

  Talbot led them to the place in the meadow where he found the man-at-arms.

  “He bore no wounds and his equipment had not been stolen,” the squire said.

  “Heart failure,” concluded Orlege with a profoundly sorrowful shake of his head. “His heart simply gave out on him.”

  Sebastian read the field as he would read the landscape on a hunt.

  Trampled areas of grass suggested a band of men. A rectangular yellow patch of grass, out of place in the green, proved the men lay in wait on a canvas groundsheet for at least a day before they sprung the trap. A narrow parallel track told him they took Frey and some additional weight on the cart with them.

  “There’s nothing more to see here.”

  He followed the track back up to the road and called Orlege to fall into step with him.

  “Send Robert and Duncan on to Durham with the letter for Baron Goscote and widen the patrols. We find Drefan and we’ll find Frey.”

  Sebastian paused to clasp Orlege on the shoulder.

  “And we’ll give Larcwide a warrior’s send-off. He was a good man.”

  * * *

  The following day, the mood in Tyrswick Keep was even more subdued.

  Tyrswick’s squires formed a guard of honor while a detachment of household knights, including Orlege, carried Larcwide’s coffin from the chapel.

  Even the sky was overcast and a light drizzle made the graveside vigil a more miserable affair.

  “It shouldn’t have happened,” Gaines grumbled afterward. Several pitchers of spiced wine had been consumed over the course of the wake. “Left on the field to die like that. It’s not right.”