by Karin Tabke
Her heart beat faster against her breast. Had he succumbed to a Norman sword? Had Geoff? Her fun-loving brother, who had much growing up to do, had just recently been knighted. He had waved as he rode off, promising she would see him home before his November birthday.
The first of November had come and gone with no word of her sire or her brother.
“Milady!” Russell called from the top of the stairway. She turned to find him wild-eyed and pale. “More riders on the horizon!”
Hope swelled for a moment. “My father’s standard?”
“Nay, more of the black horses.”
Isabel’s stomach plummeted to her feet. Hastily, she crossed herself several times. “Go, Russell, keep the villagers quiet.”
“But—”
“Nay! Mayhap with words of peace I can stay this threat to our shire. Now go.” Before Isabel moved to meet the Black Sword, she reached up behind her father’s chair and wrestled down a broadsword from the wall. It rested there more as a decoration, but it was solid and a worthy adversary. It took two hands to bring the great weapon down from the stone wall. But once it was in hand, she moved to stand in the middle of the hall, the only home she had known.
Emotion gripped her heart. She could not imagine foreigners calling the hall home. Call her foolish, but how could she not stand and defend it? She flung the sword from her hands, knowing she could not effectively wield such a weapon. Instead, she fondled the jeweled hilt of the dagger hanging from her chain girdle. And so she stood. And waited.
Let them come.
Two
“Prepare for entry!” Rohan called to his men. “The timber gives!”
Thorin, Ioan, Wulfson, and Rorick hurled the thick oak trunk for the death blow. Rhys, Stefan, and Warner wielded its twin. In unison, the two battering rams slammed into the door, and the timber gave way, opening with a sickening screech. Rohan spurred Mordred forward, and crashed through the crippled remnants of the Saxon’s defense.
Shield raised and sword at the ready, he maneuvered the huge destrier with his legs into the wide open space of the hall. His body tensed in preparation for a full-out assault. Instead, the sight that greeted him shocked him.
A lone maid, the one who had so brashly challenged him from the tower, stood in the middle of the great hall. A broadsword at her feet, a dagger clutched tightly to her breast. His eyes instantly moved past her to the wide stairway leading to the chambers above. His men fanned out behind him on foot. Rohan urged his horse past the girl and up the wide stairway, the shod hooves making a sharp clicking sound on the stone. He moved down the narrow hallway, certain to find the villagers lying in wait to war against him. Instead, eerie silence met him. Aye, the cowards hid behind the bolted doors, allowing a mere maid to see to their rescue. Rohan sneered contemptuously.
He pulled back on the reins, and Mordred backed up. Rohan allowed the black to move at his own pace down the treacherous stone steps. The woman stood tall and proud before him.
He stopped several strides from her. If she moved, Mordred’s spiked leg armor would shred her in half. His blood ran hot in his veins, and it occurred to him that to waste such beauty would be a tragedy. She was no taller than a young lad. Long golden-colored hair hung wildly around her face and shoulders, reaching down to the full swell of her hips. Eyes the uncommon color of heather in first bloom, framed by thick black lashes, stared defiantly up at him. Her skin was the color of fresh-churned cream. Her cheeks were rosy from the chill in the air and, he guessed, from his unwelcome visit. His eyes scanned lower to a full bosom that heaved in her anger. He could already feel the full swell of it beneath his hands, and the soft thrust of her hips as they met his with passion. The spoils of war were gracious this day. He would enjoy her whilst he could. For tomorrow may find him riding the horizon at his liege’s call. He nodded, acknowledging her.
“Bow to your new master,” he commanded in French.
“I will never bow to you,” she hotly replied.
Rohan nodded and looked to his men, who flanked the walls, swords at the ready. They waited only for his word to go deeper into the hall and ferret out the hiding Saxons.
Slowly, Rohan dismounted.
Isabel’s breath caught high in her throat as the devil himself strode toward her. All sound stopped, the world grinded to a halt. Tawny gold eyes glittered from behind the black metal helmet. The nose guard split his face in two, making him look all the more menacing. A crescent-shaped scar marred his chin. He was huge. Larger than any man she had come across in her nearly two score years. His shoulders were as wide as half the width of the double oak portal. Legs thick as oak supported a wide chest bearing black mail and black surcoat. She stared at the marking emblazoned on his chest. The black sword plunging through a skull, crimson drops of blood hung from the sword tip. His shield bore no coat of arms. The fate of his kind. The rumors called him bastard nephew to William’s mother.
The French called him la lame noir, the English the Black Sword.
Her blood ran cold, turning her skin frosty. It was true. The black knight and his death squad behind him were notorious for their skill at killing. Isabel dared look past him to the equally notorious knights, in search of the ebony giant who it was rumored could slay a dozen men with one swipe of his sword.
The Black Sword’s lips twisted into a deadly smile. She felt as helpless as a mouse in the jaws of a stable cat. Yet she stood firm, refusing to back down.
“Strong words for such a small wench,” he softly said, the timber of his voice chasing shivers across her skin.
“Do not underestimate me, Norman. I am well schooled in many things.”
The black knight advanced toward her, his long stride eating up the small distance. He carried his mail and weapons as easily as she carried a basket of flowers. He stopped a hand span from her, towering a good two hands above her. As if she were as insignificant as the rush mats on the floor, he turned to survey the empty hall. He gave no heed to the dagger clutched in her hand. She had but to jab it at him for it to strike his black heart. She curbed the urge. Her gaze darted past him to the men behind him. Violence swirled around them like a bitter north wind across the northern moors. Should he succumb, there were more to take his place.
Battling her fear of the legendary knight so close to her, Isabel caught his scent. He smelled of leather and horse, of manly sweat. But more prominent was the scent of the kill. Her chest tightened as she realized she stared death in the face. He and his men filled the great hall with doom, and as strong as Isabel had always been, she felt small and insignificant in his presence. A hard tremble wracked her body. Her life was no longer in God’s hands but Satan’s.
“Call your cowardly people from their hiding places, and I will spare them.”
“You cannot harm them where they are.”
He looked harshly at her. “Mayhap, but I can harm their lady.”
Isabel drew her dagger. An instant later, it clattered to the floor. She cried out in pain, rubbing her hand. The savage grabbed her by the front of her gown. He yanked her hard against him, and her breath rushed out from her chest from the contact. “Would that you were given to more intelligence, lady.” He dropped her, and she crumpled to the hard stone floor. He motioned to his men. “Bring the ram, and ferret them out.” As two men moved through the open portal and returned with a massive battering ram, the black knight said to them, “Kill any who resist.”
Isabel hurried to her feet and rushed ahead of the men as they moved toward the stairway. She stretched her arms out as if she could possibly stop them. “Nay! They do not deserve your wrath!”
The knights pushed past her and up the stairway, lugging up the great piece of timber. The chamber doors would split as easily as twigs in her hand under the combined strength of the men and the battering ram. Soon the loud pounding of mailed fists on the doors echoed through the hall. The terrified screams of her people followed. Isabel turned to the knight who stood calmly watching her as his men terroriz
ed the villagers.
Soon the hall descended into chaotic order. The knights assisted by several foot soldiers dragged down resisting villagers, the women screamed, the men, oddly, were quiet. The sound of the ram battering down more bolted doors echoed throughout the hall. Isabel stood silent and watched, ready to come to the aid of any of her subjects who looked as if the Norman sword might find a home in their belly. Her eyes scanned the terrified faces. By her calm stance against these invaders, she hoped they would gain some small comfort. It would do none of them good for her to rail against these Norman knights. She must be the calm in this storm and see where it would settle.
Isabel’s eyes traced the hall before going up the stairway. One face was missing amongst the villagers and house servants. Russell’s red head.
“Who lingers, damsel?” the Black Sword asked from behind her.
Isabel whirled around to face him. He stood close enough to her that all she had to do was reach out a hand to touch his chest.
“None,” she whispered.
“If you lie…” He stood back and turned to the assembled people, then signaled to his men to bring them closer.
As the terror-stricken people were herded tightly together and subdued, la lame noir turned back to Isabel. The same twisted smile he had bestowed on her earlier returned. “Now, damsel, you will bow to me in front of your people so that they accept me as their master.”
Isabel gasped at his request. “I will never bow to a bastard!”
The black knight’s men gasped in shock. As she spoke in French to the knight, her people had no knowledge of what she said. For that she was grateful, for they would not know what he demanded of her.
The black knight threw his head back and laughed. His hand clamped on her shoulder, his mailed fingers digging deep into her skin. In perfect English he said, “To your knees, damsel. For each moment you refuse, one head will roll across the rushes.”
Her pride waged a terrible war with her fear. The Black Sword raised a hand, and one of the knights closest to her grabbed Enid. The maid shrieked. Isabel bit her lip so hard she tasted the hard copper of her own blood. She sank to her knees. But she did not bow her head. She looked harshly up at him, her eyes narrowed. Then she spit at him.
His tawny eyes flinched in surprise. And once again that terrifying smile twisted his lips.
“I will enjoy breaking your spirit, Lady Isabel.” He reached down, and as he drew her up, a sharp hiss of air stirred her long hair, followed by the battle cry of a foolish boy. Isabel screamed and stepped back as an arrow struck the dark knight in the chest. When the arrow bounced off and clattered to the floor, her jaw dropped.
In the time it took to blink, the knights surged forward. The dark knight barked an order to his men to hold. The boy was his. Rohan’s eyes never wavered from Russell, who stood defiant midway up the stairway. Isabel knew he would pay for the attack with his life. She could not stomach the loss. With cold, hard realization, Isabel moved directly in front of the knight’s path up the stairway.
As he reached for his battle ax and hurled it across the hall, Rohan pushed her aside. Isabel stood transfixed in horror, watching the motion of the ax as it hurled handle over head toward Russell in what seemed slow motion. The boy scurried up the stairwell, where the ax bit deep into the scruff of his tunic and into the wooden cross timber pinning him there.
The furious knight rushed up the stairway, pulled the ax free from the lumber cross beam, and raised it to sever Russell’s head from his body. Isabel lunged up the stairs, throwing herself across the boy’s back.
“Nay! Do not kill him!”
The knight roared his anger and grabbed her with one fist by the tunic, lifting her high off her feet. A storm waged on the sharp angles of his face, but Isabel refused to cower. It was her fault Russell had taken it upon himself to defend her honor. Eye to eye with the son of Satan, Isabel raised her chin, even though she hung from his grip like a scullery rag. His blazing eyes flashed before they steeled again. “Do not interfere, wench!”
She kicked him in the shin. “I am no wench. I am the Lady of Rossmoor. As such I have some word here. Do not harm the boy!”
Surprise sparked in his eyes. “You demand what is no longer yours. I am master here until William bids it otherwise.”
“Are you so demonic that you must murder children as well as their fathers?”
The knight growled low. “I murder those who would murder me.”
“He is but a boy trying to protect his mistress. Forgive him his loyalty to me.”
“I forgive no one who attempts to cut short my time on this earth. He will pay the penance as those before who have tried and failed before him.”
“Nay! You cannot! ’Tis murder!”
“Call it what you will, maid, but I will see it done.”
He released her, and she tumbled to the steps, her back slamming hard against the wall. The knight stepped past her and started toward Russell, who had crawled to the top of the stairway. He could have run off and hidden whilst she argued for his life with the Black Sword, but Russell stood his ground. Isabel scrambled up the stairway after the knight and grabbed at his hauberk sleeve. “I beg you, spare the boy. Spare him!”
The knight abruptly turned, and she slammed hard into his thighs. Before she bounced off, he grabbed her by her sleeve and pulled her up against the cool hardness of his mail-covered chest. Their gazes locked. Her rage was forgotten as an earth-shattering terror gripped her.
As if she could see her future, Isabel saw it with this man in it. His naked body, glistening with sweat as he thrust himself between her thighs. Her body stilled. For it would be the price he would demand for the boy’s life. She squeezed her eyes shut, knowing that as sure as she was Lady Isabel, daughter of Lord Alefric and Lady Joan, this man would see her maidenhead as the price for the boy’s life.
And as foreseen, his hand slid down her back, pressing their bodies more intimately together. “What price do you put on the boy’s head, damsel?”
With no hesitation, Isabel answered, “I wouldst give my life for his.”
His eyes darkened, he pushed her away from him. With a slow, appraising glance, he perused her from the tip of her soft leather slippers up to her hips, then to her bosom. When his eyes rose to meet hers, he softly said, “Your life is unimportant to me.” He pressed his hand to her breast. “Methinks, though, you have something beneath your gown that wouldst interest me more.”
Although prepared to sacrifice herself for Russell, Isabel would not acquiesce so easily. Let her strike a bargain, but on her terms. “I have only my person, sir!”
He grinned wide, showing straight white teeth. “’Tis what I speak of.”
His men hooted and caterwauled, egging him on. Isabel’s resolve stiffened. “I cannot give you what you ask for, sir knight. I am promised to another. Would that my betrothed gave his permission, then I would see your request met. But he is not here.”
His face darkened. Hope swelled. Isabel pressed the point. “Sir knight, wouldst you defile the lady of the manor only to have my people raise up and take arms against you to defend my honor?”
His eyes flashed. “I would kill any man or woman who raises a hand to me or my men.”
“Would you steal then what is not yours to take? Are you a thief as well as a murderer?” she accused.
“I am no thief.” His lips tightened, and his eyes turned frigid. His gaze scanned the room to the gathered villagers. “Does one of you call this maid your intended?” he asked in English. It didn’t shock her that he spoke her tongue, though it should have.
Wide-eyed, the people of Rossmoor remained silent. The knight turned his attention back to her. “Your gallant is not here. His lands, as yours, are no doubt in the hands of my fellow Normans. Your betrothal is no longer valid, unless William commands it.”
“Arlys is one of Harold’s most trusted vassals. He will not lie down easily.”
“Harold is no more.”
; “That may be, sir, but Arlys is a nobleman. He fought beside Harold at Stamford Bridge and my father and brother at Hastings. You may rethink your position here. I expect their return any day.”
He grinned then. Instead of softening his face, it hardened the angles sharpening them to hewn stone. “I was there. There were few survivors at Senlac Hill. William ruled the day.” His eyes swept her person, and she read contempt in the gesture. “Do you not think your kin would have returned home by now should they live?”
Her stomach fluttered as if a swarm of angry bees buzzed inside. She fought the urge to retch. Knowing he spoke the truth made Isabel solidify her resolve. Her father and her brother would not have died in vain. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them and peered at the man standing in front of her. He gave no care to her heart, or the hearts of other Saxons, knowing such blood was lost forever and to a bastard conqueror no less! Isabel stood resolved. Until she had proof positive that her kin lay as one with the English soil, she would do everything in her power to keep what was rightfully theirs from the hungry hands of these men of the bastard duke.
Aye, the Norse blood of her great-grandmother Signund ran as hotly through her veins as did the warrior spirit of her Saxon kin. She raised her chin a notch, refusing to give up or give this man before her the satisfaction of seeing her cower. She was Isabel of Alethorpe and the warrior sprit ran long and deep in her blood. “Do not be so sure my kin will not return. Lord Dunsworth will have your head for your trespass, as will my sire and my brother. You have no right here.”
“I have every right. William is rightful king. I am Rohan du Luc, his captain.” Sir Rohan turned to the gathered people of the hall. “He gives me right to claim land in his name.” He turned back to Isabel. “I see no living heir here. By right of conquest, I claim this manor, its people, and all that surrounds it.” He stepped closer to Isabel. “That includes you, Lady Isabel. From this moment forth, you and everything tied to this holding are William’s property.”