Warrior's Surrender Read online

  Frey wanted to take Larcwide at his word, but later that night she found herself sitting with her back against a log, watching Sebastian with his men on the other side of the fire. She noticed he was watching her with equal contemplation.

  There was little in the way of conversation among the group; their meal was consumed in near silence and an air of unease drifted into camp, thick and heavy.

  It was unbearable.

  Frey left the campfire and sought out the gloom. After checking on Brice, who remained soundly asleep, she found herself drawn to the horses tethered under a spreading oak. One of the animals eyed her, lifting its head with a tussock of grass in its mouth, which it then chewed meditatively, watching her approach.

  Speaking softly, Frey reached out and stroked the muzzle of the big beast.

  “It’s easy for you,” she grumbled. “You know what you have to do—eat, sleep, walk, trot—carry your rider from place to place.”

  The horse twitched its ears, then bobbed its head in agreement.

  “Ebon is a very sympathetic listener.”

  Frey wasn’t startled. She heard the approaching footsteps and turned to the owner of the voice.

  The baron stood a yard or so away with his arms by his side. He now approached her as cautiously as she had approached the black stallion she now patted. The thought of Sebastian considering her a skittish mare struck her as amusing.

  She offered him a shy smile, which he returned on his approach toward her. He had a nice smile, she noted. It suited him.

  “I talk to him too,” he said softly, stroking the horse down its flank with long, firm movements. The muscle beneath the stallion's glossy black coat twitched with the contact. Ebon clearly approved of the gesture and nudged Frey's hand for more petting at the muzzle.

  “He never argues, never judges, and never gossips.”

  “Does he offer sage advice?” asked Frey.

  “Hmm…” Sebastian pretended to consider his answer. That earned him another easy smile from Frey.

  “He remains silent; most of the time it is good advice for people, too.”

  “Only most of the time?”

  “Sometimes it is good to speak out.”

  It was Frey’s turn to nod.

  She wanted to speak now, but a large lump had somehow taken up residence in her throat, making it difficult to breathe. She concentrated on stroking Ebon’s nose instead.

  There was silence.

  If Frey closed her eyes, she could imagine she was here all alone, but, oddly, the thought brought her no comfort, just a deep ache that cut across her abdomen.

  Then she did close her eyes to guard against the pricks of newly formed tears reaching her lids.

  Without sight, she could concentrate on the sounds of the crickets, the rumination of the grazing horses, and the occasional sound of summer-nesting nightjars searching for their evening meal.

  During the course of the evening, a breeze had sprung up and the hem of Frey’s skirt eddied around her ankles. She ought to have felt cold, but Sebastian, a couple of feet away, blocked the wind.

  She found it comforting and, despite the fact that he was her enemy and the usurper of her brother's title, something within her yearned to reach out and touch him.

  But she did not.

  After long minutes, Frey opened her eyes and met Sebastian’s own, steady and empathetic.

  “It’s hard sometimes,” she whispered.

  Sebastian nodded.

  “I know.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The party of nine was on its way before the sun emerged over the treetops. Sebastian told the band that, if they made good time today, there was every chance they could press through to St. Cuthbert’s before nightfall.

  The news brought a smile to Brice’s face and, with it, a look of undisguised gratitude from Frey. She wasn’t sure what it was about last night, but it seemed this morning the tensions in the camp had eased. Even Larcwide and Orlege fell into step with the rest of the baron’s men. The camp had been broken down and horses saddled as quickly and as efficiently as though the men had been working together for years.

  The contrast between them, however, remained; for today, instead of faded and patched clothing, de la Croix’s men wore blue-gray surcoats upon which a bloodred lion rampant was stitched.

  Sebastian's surcoat was lavish. A rich shade of sapphire with the lion proudly displayed in red satin across his chest. The whole tableau struck Frey as surreal. Only a few days ago she hated this man, simply because of who he was. A Norman.

  Developed in the months consumed by avoiding his relentless hunt and staying alive, her hatred of him was such she could have taken his life without a second thought or a moment’s regret.

  Now his kindness and honor were forcing her to reassess everything she was taught to believe about the invaders.

  Could Larcwide have been right? Was now a time for peace? A time to lay down arms?

  Something Frey once heard returned to her memory.

  To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

  A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to harvest;

  A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

  A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

  A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

  Frey allowed herself a bitter-sweet smile in recollection. She had had her time to hate and her time of war, and she was weary of them both.

  A time of peace she could embrace, not only for her sake, but also for her darling brother as well.

  But love?

  No, she had tried that once and her heart and soul had been laid to waste like the brutal punishment King William meted out during the harrying. Every building, every living thing killed and burned, the ground salted so nothing could ever grow there again.

  “Drefan, you destroyed my hope and you destroyed my love,” she told him in her mind.

  Never again.

  Learned responses of antipathy toward the new Norman rulers had been deeply ingrained by her father and fostered at the court of the Scottish king Malcolm, who entertained the Saxon malcontents and fed them hope for their rebellion…as much for his own amusement as it was to harass the English.

  Would she be disloyal to the memory of her father and to the heritage of her brother if she learned to forgive as Friar Dominic entreated? What might it be like to start over again without this burden of hatred?

  Frey sighed and glanced at her brother, who lay sleeping. A fine sheen of sweat glistened across his little blond brow. First things first. Until she could see him well, she could see no other future.

  So lost in her thoughts, it took Frey several moments to realize Ebon trotted alongside the wagon. She looked up at its rider.

  “Lady Alfreya,” Sebastian greeted.

  Missing the mischievous winkle in his eye, the formality of his tone disappointed her for a reason she couldn’t account even to herself.

  “My Lord Sebastian,” she responded coolly.

  His lips pressed into a narrow line of displeasure. Good.

  A puff of frustration passed his lips.

  “Do you ride?” he asked, his tone mild.

  The question took her off guard.

  “I do,” she answered with curiosity etched plain on her face.

  He was up to something, she knew. Strange, but her frank regard seemed to please him.

  “Good,” he approved. “Be prepared after the noon meal.”

  And then Sebastian galloped to the head of the procession, where he stayed until the sun shone overhead and they broke the journey for a midday repast.

  Afterward, Sebastian selected a mount for Frey and, suitably clad in hose under her skirts and a surcoat over her chemise, she found herself seated on a chestnut gelding belonging to Talbot, one of Sebastian’s young knights. Talbot, now seated alongside the carter, was barely taller than
Frey herself, and she suspected Sebastian had picked this mount for that reason.

  As Larcwide on one side and Sebastian on the other adjusted the height of the stirrups, Frey smiled down at her brother, who opened his eyes briefly.

  For a moment the young boy looked about wide-eyed, unsure of his location and indeed unsure of who was in front of him, before he recognized his sister. He struggled to sit up, aided by Orlege.

  “Where are you going, Frey?” asked Brice, his voice reedy and thin.

  “Just for a little ride, my brother.” She smiled.

  “Does Drefan accompany you?” he asked, his voice filling with worry.

  “No, my sweeting,” answered Frey, unable to keep a dark edge from her voice before hastening to soften it. “With Lord Sebastian. Remember our host, the baron?”

  Brice nodded wearily, his eyes closing.

  “He’s nice. I like him,” he said with a sigh before sleep claimed him again.

  “The lad shows good sense,” agreed Sebastian, cinching the saddle’s girth strap and causing the horse to shift its weight.

  Frey gave him her most haughty expression. It only seemed to amuse him even further. Adroitly mounting his own horse, Sebastian gave her a winning grin.

  “Ready to ride, princess?”

  Frey knew only one answer to that. She looked him directly in the eye with a slow, broad smile.

  * * *

  Frey’s expression caused Larcwide to groan audibly. That look spelled trouble for the baron. It was within him to feel sorry for the Norman.

  He shook his head sorrowfully as he watched Frey urge the horse to a canter, putting yards between her and Sebastian, who took off in pursuit.

  Talbot turned to him, concern clear in his young eyes.

  “Do you think it is safe for your mistress? I mean, my b-bow and arrows…,” he stuttered.

  “What are you saying, lad?”

  “I left them on the saddle.”

  Larcwide clasped the lad on his shoulder as he laughed uproariously.

  “Lady Alfreya is quite capable, my boy, and as long as her temper is not roused, your lord will be safe too.”

  Not wholly convinced, Talbot offered a meek “oh” in response, and Larcwide laughed even more.

  Orlege caught Larcwide’s eye and two men eased themselves to the back of the cart so as not be overheard.

  “What do you mean by allowing her alone with that man?” Orlege hissed.

  “It is far past the time the girl to be wed.”

  “You’re the wrong sex to be playing matchmaker.”

  Larcwide merely shrugged, but Orlege wasn’t satisfied.

  “We were at war with de la Croix not two days ago. Did it never occur to you that he might take vengeance against Alfreya now he has her alone?”

  Larcwide turned and gave Orlege a long and steady stare.

  “No, it did not,” he punctuated emphatically. “Besides, he is the law of these lands. He could ravage her before our eyes with none of us able to lift a finger in aid. As it is, he has seen to the fair treatment of our men and taken upon himself to personally give safe conduct to Lord Brice. He seems to be a just man, and Lady Alfreya could do worse than to be wed to him.”

  Orlege’s eyes were as wide as platters, his flaring pupils ringed with gray.

  “But he’s…Norman!” He hissed the last, wary of being overheard.

  “And Drefan is Edgar the Atheling’s cousin. Would you see her wed to him?”

  Orlege slumped in response to Larcwide’s well-made argument. Drefan was not the man Lord Alfred had been convinced of.

  In the face of all that was said of Lord Drefan, he had never heard a murmur of complaint about Sebastian de la Croix from his men.

  Though there was his behavior last night as he and Orlege gathered wood…

  Larcwide sighed.

  He was generally a good judge of character, but he was also an old man who was tired.

  Was he accepting a convenient solution to an inconvenient problem?

  * * *

  Frey laughed joyously, reveling in the sensation of a fine horse moving beneath her and the sound of steady, thrumming hoofbeats of Sebastian and Ebon closing the distance.

  On this late summer’s day, billowing white clouds drifted aimlessly across the blue sky. Frey slowed her mount to a walk and then to a halt to take in the landscape, gazing at the rolling hills of the northern English moors she loved.

  Immediately before her, yellowed blades of tall grass undulated gently with the breeze. Farther down the hill, the grass was shorter and greener, marking a nearby stream hidden in the dense thicket of trees at the bottom of the vale.

  She knew this place well. Their journey would take them down into this gently sloping valley, through a grove and around the Tor, which would put them within ten miles of St. Cuthbert’s Abbey.

  She turned to Sebastian.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in such a long time.”

  “Not as much as I have enjoyed watching you.”

  Frey frowned, not understanding.

  “You have a good seat.”

  She saw his grin widen as understanding of the double-edged compliment dawned on her.

  “With charm like yours, I’m sure all the ladies of court just swoon in your presence,” she retorted.

  To Frey’s surprise, Sebastian laughed without rancor or malice.

  “And a razor wit like yours must have suitors running,” he offered.

  “Aye, usually in the opposite direction,” she agreed with a self-deprecating grin as she rediscovered the sense of humor she had almost forgotten was hers.

  “Not all though,” she continued. “Those I have been aware of considered my father’s favor and my dowry adequate compensation for enduring a wife with a shrewish disposition.”

  “Is that how you see yourself?”

  Frey considered the unexpected question for a moment.

  “It is how others see me,” she reflected. “I have come to the conclusion one can never be a good judge of one’s own character.”

  “Perhaps you are right. I’ve learned people are very good at presenting more than one face.”

  “You speak a truth there,” she agreed.

  Sebastian’s eyes drifted over her form. She ought to be offended by his appraisal, but she was not.

  Frey imagined what he saw there.

  A woman in plain, almost peasant robes but with an aristocratic bearing. It was proper that she should cover her head, but in the pleasant afternoon sunshine, with her thick blonde hair already braided, she had not bothered with the hood, suggesting—nay, confirming—her defiance of convention.

  She was aware, though without self-possession, that when dressed in the finery befitting her rank, she was considered a beauty. High cheekbones, a slender nose, and a firm jaw gave structure to her soft skin, left lightly golden by the sun. Her straight posture allowed the makeshift riding clothes to drape attractively over her silhouette.

  She could not hide a flush of color in her cheeks, however, as his gaze took in her well-formed breasts and small waist, moving down to the flare of her hips and shapely legs encased in a fine leather boots.

  “Would you like to know how I see you?” he asked at long last.

  Yes, she would, but she’d be damned if she told him so.

  An unladylike snort was her reply. “You weren’t even aware of my existence until two days ago.”

  “Oh, I think you’d be surprised how well I know you.”

  Skepticism was written plainly across her features, but Sebastian was not put off.

  “A wager then?” he offered.

  Curiosity replaced skepticism.

  “What kind of wager?”

  “The fastest over a mile.”

  “What do I get when I win?”

  Sebastian grinned at Frey’s boast and she returned it.

  “Anything you want,” he replied.

  “Really?” she asked,
drawing out the word to emphasize her disbelief.

  “Name it and it will be yours,” he affirmed.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “It’s a trick.”

  “No trick, just you and me on horseback, the fastest over a mile, from that milestone,” he said, pointing to the ancient Roman marker they had just passed, “to the next.”

  “What do you claim in the unlikely event of your victory?”

  “Anything I want.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Before Frey could ask him to explain himself, Sebastian was off at a gallop, and, needing no encouragement, her gelding followed Ebon’s lead.

  The thought of what “anything” might mean should she lose spurred Frey to concentrate on the race.

  The landscape disappeared in a blur of multihued greens and yellows as she raced along the path, its grass kept short by frequent four- and two-legged wanderers.

  For hundreds of yards she gained on Sebastian, looking ahead to find the fastest way down the hill. The path ahead zigged and zagged between a thicket of trees edged by low-growing ferns before disappearing to the right around a tall rocky outcrop, just a couple of hundred yards later.

  And there, just before the turning, stood the foot-high milestone that marked the end of the race.

  She whispered encouragement to her mount, keeping pace with its tattoo of hoofbeats with a rhythmic strike of the reins across the animal's shoulders.

  “Come on, come on, come on!” she urged as she felt the heat of exertion radiating from Sebastian’s horse, now alongside hers.

  Then, offering Sebastian a winsome but fleeting smile, Frey redirected her horse to draw a straight line across the meandering path and make a straight dash for the marker.

  He saw her strategy only a split second later, but, by then, it was too late. The gelding was in front by a head and then one yard and then five.

  Victory belonged to Lady Alfreya of Tyrswick, who acknowledged Sebastian’s exaggerated applause with a bow from the saddle as his mount started to slow from a full gallop.

  By the time Ebon had transitioned to a canter, both horse and rider disappeared from Frey’s view around the collection of massive boulders.