Warrior's Surrender Read online

  Sebastian spent the next two days alone in his chambers in private mourning. He knew his servants thought his actions to be eccentric.

  If they only knew.

  It was not Larcwide he mourned, although his wise counsel and steady presence would be sorely missed.

  He had discovered in Frey’s coffer, hidden among undergarments, four letters from Drefan, urging Frey to maintain her courage and have faith in his promise to rescue her from her unwanted marriage to the bastard Norman.

  The manner of the writing suggested that correspondence had begun around the time of their wedding and continued until February when the worst of the winter weather cut Tyrswick off from the rest of the world.

  Was her love for him a sham?

  He could not accept that, but a voice in his head, sounding very much like Gaines, Sebastian hated to admit, allowed the doubts to burrow parasitically into his soul.

  And weeks passed.

  Patrol after patrol returned without sighting or clues to the whereabouts of Drefan and Alfreya. He thought again of Diera and his suspicion that Drefan and not the Beast of the North was responsible for her death. His certainty of just a few weeks ago withered and died as self-doubt took root.

  And, though he racked his brains, he could not ken any reason why Drefan would have killed Diera with the intent her body be mistaken for Frey. Was there an advantage for Drefan in having him believe so? Or had Sebastian become so fixated in his hatred for the man that he would ascribe any wickedness to him?

  More likely, Sebastian supposed in his clearer-thinking moments, poor Diera had simply fallen foul of some murderous copyist of the Beast in the lawless world outside the villages.

  Yet if that was the case, how to explain that Diera was found only recently killed so close to Tyrswick many weeks after she had been supposed returning to Scotland?

  Thinking about it was starting to hurt Sebastian's head, so he descended to the yard where, between patrols and management of the affairs of the county these past weeks, he spent every spare moment in punishing rounds of training. The pig leather hide that was his punching bag received a brutal pummeling, and swordplay practice with his men took on an intensity hitherforth unknown since the Invasion.

  For Sebastian, each thrust of his sword, each punch landed on the bag was, in his mind, directed at Drefan.

  Sebastian laughed to himself bitterly. He had Frey’s description of the man, and Orlege’s too, but he had no real idea what his enemy looked like. He was fighting a specter.

  He’d allowed himself to go soft since Frey came into his life. He had bought into the lie of peace without price, and now he was at risk of losing the one thing that meant everything to him.

  He began to consider it possible Frey was dead and, at his lowest ebb, wondered if that conclusion was not preferable to succumbing to the alternative worst case, the poison that brewed in his mind since the discovery of the letters.

  * * *

  Six weeks ground glacially by without a single word of hope, then early summer brought unexpected visitors. A guard stationed on the ramparts sent word down to the training yard that an armed delegation in the livery of the bishop of Durham was approaching.

  Sebastian mopped the sweat from his brow and handed his sword to Robert, his newest knight. He called for Gaines and Dominic to join him in his chambers.

  Sebastian poured a pitcher of hot water into a bowl. He sluiced his face and quickly washed the worst of the dried sweat from his body.

  “They’re about to arrive in the outer bailey,” announced Beyard. “Cook has arranged a repast for them to give you time to repair yourself.”

  “Good,” said Dominic as he folded his arms and looked contemptuously out of the window. “If the bishop’s men are anything like the bishop himself, they won’t object to gorging themselves on someone else’s purse.”

  Gaines raised his eyebrows. “It’s a good job diplomacy is not listed as a virtue, Friar. I always wondered why a man of your talents never went any higher than traveling cleric.”

  “I have no time for men who claim to be servants of God serving their own interests over his,” Dominic responded crisply. “And the bishop is such a man.”

  “Gentlemen!”

  Sebastian’s punctuation brought both men to order.

  “We don’t have time to argue among ourselves,” he told them as he dressed in his own court livery, a fine linen shirt and hose and a resplendent surcoat in white with the scarlet lion rampant finely stitched on his chest.

  “We all know the bishop does nothing unless it has an immediate and personal reward, and he wouldn’t send such a numerous delegation without reason. I suspect I’ve been enough of a thorn in his side these months that he’s finally been forced to act on Frey’s abduction.

  “Let’s hear what they have to say.”

  Sebastian entered the Great Hall and looked up at the magnificent tapestry Frey had designed for him. If her dedication to him was a pretence, she could not have done that. He felt her love and presence in the room at that moment and a surge of optimism. His bride would return home.

  However, to his surprise, no men gathered at the trenchers apart from his own household.

  Beyard approached, his mouth in a grim line.

  “Sir, they’ve refused to disarm and refused to enter the Keep.”

  Dismayed, Sebastian, followed by Gaines and Dominic, Orlege and Robert, descended to the outer bailey.

  Standing in the forecourt was a senior knight, a man into his middle age. He might have been handsome once, but easy living under the bishop’s lot had thickened his waist and his chin.

  He stood to attention, accompanied by two younger men, both serious-faced, whose hands were poised on the hilts of their swords.

  “The bishop honors us with such an auspicious delegation,” Sebastian began. “So what’s this I hear that you refuse to accept my hospitality?”

  The man straightened and unfurled the scroll in his hand.

  “Sebastian de la Croix, baron of Tyrswick?”

  Sebastian frowned.

  “I am he.”

  “You are hereby accused of sedition against William, the rightful king of England and Normandy. You will answer to these charges in Durham.”

  A fleeting look to Gaines and Dominic reflected twin expressions of surprise. Sebastian turned back.

  “Who accuses me?”

  “The charge comes from Lord Drefan d’Aumont of Angou, who further charges that you abducted and raped his betrothed, Alfreya.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  They had traveled for an entire month before arriving at Durham, and Frey knew that was nearly four weeks ago. Her courses began the day she arrived at Durham Castle, and four days ago she experienced the telltale ache that accompanied their imminent return.

  She stood on a small balcony, safe within the massive stone walls of the castle, and rubbed her abdomen, unmindful of the spectacular scenery across which farms and pasture lands had created a patchwork of orderly plots from midway up the hill and the start of Shaw Wood, down to where the sun had blessed the River Wear, wide and muddy brown, with a sprinkling of gold.

  Where the river turned a sharp bend to pass the castle on a second side, a clearing had taken place for the bishop of Durham, William Walcher’s, new obsession—a cathedral and monastery.

  Her vision swam abruptly and she clung to the parapet for support.

  She was still being drugged and, despite her best efforts to avoid heavily flavored wines, there was little she could do to avoid food, although she did her best to eat sparingly.

  The healthy weight she gained since living at Tyrswick had been shed, leaving her as thin and weak as she had been in her final weeks as an outlaw.

  “Come away from the window, you’ll get ill in all that fresh air,” Mistress Duignan clucked, placing a woolen shawl across her shoulders. Frey immediately shrugged it off, anxious to feel the sun on her back for a few moments more.

  Seeing her du
ty done, the titian-haired woman sat by the fireplace and resumed her knitting. Frey returned to the room, light-filled and pleasantly furnished, most suitable for a married lord and his retinue.

  But a prison was a prison, no matter how pleasant the view.

  After several minutes of restless pacing, Frey slumped into a chair and reluctantly picked up some needlework. She stabbed at the fabric more in anger than dexterity and watched resentfully as her jailer slumped farther and farther into her chair, then started to snore lightly.

  Frey bided her time silently. The passage of minutes was marked by the shadows being cast across the floor.

  She had learned that around the time they reached the far edge of the wide floor rug, the evening meal would be delivered by Drefan’s twin whores, who, laughably, passed themselves off as her maids. Some evenings Drefan would arrive too; on others, she would not see him all night.

  The only sounds in the room were the occasional pop from the fireplace and the rhythmic snores of the woman who dozed beside it. Frey watched the sun creep over the carpet until its shadow mark lay halfway across. It would now be approximately ten minutes before the rug lay in full shadow.

  Still Mistress Duignan slept and, finally, Frey rose stealthily and crossed to the far end of the room, where a stout oak door opened out to the hall.

  She reached out and touched the handle, feeling its substance in her hand. With growing confidence, she pushed down on the latch and the resulting click sounded unnaturally loud. A swift glance around saw Mistress Duignan unmoved.

  Now was her chance!

  The door opened with minimal fuss, nary a squeal on the hinges, and Frey tugged the weighty timber cautiously. Just a little bit more and she would slip around it into the hall.

  But to Frey’s surprise, the door suddenly swung inward of its own accord, the heavy oak pivoting rapidly on its hinges and slamming back against the stone wall.

  Frey fell back in shock as a wakened Mistress Duignan screamed behind her. Drefan filled the doorway, his two blonde mistresses drifting behind him with the evening meals on trays.

  “What's this, my lady? I arrive early for our meal and find you trying to slip away?”

  He came toward her and she retreated in equal measure until she felt a windowsill at her back.

  Drefan reached out and his hand gripped her chin cruelly and pushed.

  Frey scrambled to brace herself as he bent her backward through the open window, leaning over her. She steadied a line of sight on him against the glare of the sun now in her eyes.

  “You’ll be hanged by nightfall if you kill me now,” she hissed.

  His answer was grin.

  “You overestimate your importance.”

  To emphasize the point, Drefan pushed harder.

  Frey lost her footing and rested against a mere twelve inches of stone coping, her knees bent and heels digging against the inside wall for purchase.

  With his hold on her face tightening, her scream was little more than a squeak.

  “That’s right, my little mouse. You’re mine to toy with for as long as I please. Should I decide on defenestration for you, all anyone will think is the poor lady Alfreya, not right in the head, chose to take her own life rather than face the Norman dog who even now rides to Durham.”

  Drefan hauled her back into the chamber and shoved her toward a cushion-covered settle.

  Sebastian! Unreasonable hope filled her breast, and the expression must have shown itself, as Drefan’s own face changed as she sat.

  “You love him.”

  Frey sat straighter on the bench and met his gaze. Drefan burst out laughing and clapped his hands once.

  “Perfect!”

  “He will kill you,” Frey answered steadily, although she wondered at Drefan’s apparent delight.

  “De la Croix is a sentimental fool! Before the sun sets in three days’ time, you will have ripped out his heart piece by piece until he is a husk of a man who would be defeated by a stiff breeze.”

  Scorn flushed her face, red hot and venomous.

  “I’d sooner rip out my own heart.”

  “It’s too late, my pet. It’s already done. Don't you remember your impassioned words?”

  Drefan stepped away from her and threw out his arms, acting the scene and using the floor as if he were a professional mummer. “‘Every time I come close to that Norman dog, I wish I held my dagger to plunge into his chest again and again and again.’”

  His blonde mistresses stood on either side of Mistress Duignan, each laying one restraining hand on the old woman’s shoulders as they giggled their appreciation of his performance. The old woman gaped as Drefan continued.

  “‘I would take his life without pity as he took my father’s life without remorse. Would you do the deed for me, Drefan? You would if you were serious about your love pledge for me and, oh my love, how I would show my gratitude and give you my body as yours—’”

  “Enough!” cried Frey, feeling her fingernails pierce through the silk on the cushions beneath her as she clenched her fists in anger. Yes, those were her words, and she was horrified to hear them again, but they were written many moons ago, a full twelvemonth past, when she was still at war with the Normans and the hatred with which Drefan had poisoned her mind still blazed in her.

  She swallowed and continued in a more measured tone.

  “My husband will never believe those letters to be recent.”

  “My dear, it’s likely he already does, especially when he reads my replies.”

  “You never answered my letters!”

  Drefan folded his arms and grinned.

  “Oh yes, I did. A reply to each one sits bound in a satin ribbon among your clothes in Tyrswick.”

  Frey’s eyes widened. How? When?

  Drefan saw the questions on her face and answered them obliquely.

  “Lovelorn girls are always apt to make rash decisions.”

  “Heloise,” she responded leadenly.

  “She was a very useful idiot,” Drefan admitted. “Not only did she place the letters but she also informed us of events inside the Keep, all of which will date the letters within a half year of today. And should he discover they are false, he will surely learn who secreted them among your possessions. What damage do you think it will do to his relationship with his brother-in-law and ally?”

  Frey had no response. She knew Sebastian loved Rhys as a brother and considered Heloise as his own sister. Would it be better for him to think that she had betrayed him than his own family?

  She drew breath.

  “Sebastian,” Frey began slowly, “is not a man to be underestimated.”

  “Neither is the bishop and his court. The letters not only confirm my version of events but also help support a compelling case that will convict de la Croix of being a traitor to King William.”

  A stalwart Norman knight like Sebastian, a traitor? Why the very notion was absurd. Two months of aching fear now found their release in derisive laughter.

  “You truly are an addle-brained lunatic. No one is ever going to believe such an accusation.”

  Drefan gave her a parody of a downcast expression.

  “Oh…Now you’ve underestimated me, my pet. A very, very bad thing to do.

  “You think me ill-prepared, but I have been dedicated to nothing else for many years. There is nothing that has escaped my attention. For instance, de la Croix's traitorous allowing of your escape from a Durham barn with your father and the brat.”

  Frey regarded him with shock. How did he know?

  She composed herself. “Sebastian is loyal to King William.”

  “Sebastian is weak.”

  Anger burned in her at Drefan's sneering judgment.

  “Mercy is not weak; mercy is strong. And Sebastian risked his own life that night he let us go—”

  She stopped abruptly, realizing she had only further confirmed his accusation. “No one will believe you,” she said.

  Drefan smiled. “But they wil
l believe you.”

  “I will not support your case against my husband!”

  “Never mind.” He gestured back toward the women. “We have witnesses to your admission and they will happily testify.”

  Frey slumped. He had won.

  “All this for Tyrswick,” she muttered bleakly.

  “On the contrary, my lady, I have been pledged a prettier prize than your drunkard father's mere district. King Malcolm has promised me the whole county of Northumbria when he invades England and is victorious.”

  Frey heard Mistress Duignan gasp behind her, and Drefan glanced over to give the woman a vicious, mugging smile before returning his attention to Frey.

  “Who knows? It may be more. The Norman Empire is stretched and cannot support its own weight. Who can say how far south Malcolm might push?”

  Frey dropped her head.

  Drefan turned to the older woman, who sat in shocked silence behind Frey.

  “You have displeased me, Mistress Duignan.”

  He nodded to the women flanking and restraining her.

  “Take her to my chambers and wait for me there while I deal further with Lady Alfreya.”

  * * *

  The conversations that echoed about the cavernous Great Hall of Durham Castle, one of the most impregnable fortresses in the north, stuttered and fell silent as Sebastian and his party entered.

  With a swift wave of his hand, Gaines gave the signal for a dozen knights to disperse into the crowd with but one instruction—determine the size of Lord Drefan’s company. Gaines, Orlege, and Robert, as Sebastian’s most trusted men, had an additional mission: to identify the location of Lady Alfreya and to report to him, discreetly.

  The Tyrswick men melted into the crowd largely ignored as most eyes—some friendly, others filled with contempt or simple curiosity—remained focused on Sebastian.

  Only one man approached, Ligulf of Lumley, the most senior Saxon earl still in power in the North. The man exuded authority and wielded a strong hand that kept the hot-headed younger Saxons in check, but the earl was also a pragmatist. He knew William the Conqueror would never relinquish England, the jewel in the crown of the Norman Empire.