Blood Sword Legacy 01 - Master of Surrender

by Karin Tabke

  As Isabel sat down at the wide trestle table, the doors to the manor were flung open with such a force she jumped in her seat. Rohan strode in, the morning fog swirling around his great shoulders. His breath curled around his ears. He looked like a fire-breathing dragon. Her body warmed. When his gaze settled on her, she fidgeted in her seat. He scowled. Several of his men flowed in behind him. All of them mailed and armed to the hilt. ’Twas their way. Save for the times in their chamber, Isabel had not seen Rohan in anything but his mail. It was the same with his men.

  Isabel turned a shy smile up at Rohan, but his cruel words chased it away. “I give you the lord’s chamber, feed your carnal wants, and now you think you are the queen of the realm, not rising until the sun is high?”

  Isabel choked on the thick bread in her throat. Rorick scowled, as did Thorin. Wulfson stopped dead in his tracks and gaped at Rohan. Rhys and Stefan shook their heads but continued toward the roaring hearth.

  Humiliation rode Isabel hard. Angrily, she stood, shoving her chair back so hard it fell, hitting the floor with a loud crash. Rage infused every inch of her. She spit the chunk of bread into her hand, afraid that if she swallowed it in the tirade that would follow, she would surely choke to death. She flung it to the floor. A hungry hound snatched it up. Isabel squared her shoulders, and, not to be brought low in front of Rohan’s men, she moved toward him, stopping only inches from where he stood so cocksure of himself.

  “Do not speak to me of gifts you bear,” she spat. “You have only taken from me. Had I not reminded you so loudly this eve past of your oath to me, I might at this very moment carry your child.” She moved closer to him and said very low but very clearly for all to hear, “And most, chivalrous knight, your child would not please me at all!”

  Rohan’s eyes narrowed, and she knew when his skin whitened that she had crossed a line. But she would not allow him or any man or woman to tarnish her good name with half-truths. Hurt, anger, and confusion melded into a big emotional ball in her belly. What she thought was a most intimate evening despite his near rape of her, he saw in an entirely different light.

  So be it.

  “That you could even bear a child is not known,” Rohan said.

  Isabel slapped him. “You are a lout and a boor. You are not worthy for me to wipe my feet on!” She reared her hand to slap him again, but this time he grabbed her wrist.

  “Beware, Lady Isabel, I am a knight of William, and he does not take kindly to his subjects being assaulted.”

  She yanked her hand from his grasp and spat at his feet. “I do not take kindly to base-born knights tarnishing my good name, especially one who is not welcome in my home!”

  “Your regard of me means nothing, damsel. You are but a slave now.”

  Isabel gasped at his harsh words. Hot tears filled her eyes. She looked up into his face, searching for a sign that he jested with her. She found none. “You are cruel, Rohan. May God spare you the pain you so freely inflict on others.” She turned and started to walk toward the stairway, but Rohan’s sharp command halted her.

  “Stop, slave.”

  Isabel stiffened before turning to face him. Through her tears, she saw Rohan’s men staring at her, each of them holding the same stony stare as his master. They were all the same, this death squad of William’s. There was not one gentle edge to any of them.

  “My lord?” she softly questioned.

  “You have not been dismissed.”

  Isabel curtsied. “May I have your permission, milord, to see to the business of the manor?”

  “Smoke in the forest!” shouted the lookout.

  Rohan turned from her and hurried to the bottom of the tower stairway as the guard came down. “Smoke, Rohan, fresh black billows of it two leagues past the south road to Wilshire.”

  “’Tis the small settlement of Siward. The families who excavate the limestone from the caves live there,” Isabel said. She wrung her hands. “The huts are made mostly of the stone, but the roofs are thatched. Thatch burns white.”

  “To arms, men!” Rohan called. He looked down at her and opened his mouth as if to say something, but he jammed his lips together, turned from her, and strode out into the courtyard. Isabel was surprised to see Russell dressed and holding the reins to Rohan’s great steed. He was also dressed in similar garb to the knights’.

  Before he handed Rohan his weapons, Russell shared a quick smile with Isabel. Confused, she watched the squire’s eyes follow the tall knight in something akin to worship. Quickly, Russ mounted a smaller horse behind Rohan and turned with the horde as they thundered off through the village.

  Was it not just days ago that the same knight he now so admired nearly stripped his back of flesh? Isabel shook her head, once again stymied by the ways of men and the brutality of one in particular. Her ire rose as she watched the black horses and riders disappear over the crest of the last hill. She kicked angrily at a stone on the ground and in so doing stubbed her toes. She cursed and turned toward the hall and caught the eyes of several of Rohan’s guards on her. So, he still guarded her, did he? She would see about giving them the slip as she did Warner. Not because she had somewhere to go but because she wanted to prove she could. Isabel slammed the heavy oak portal closed and strode angrily toward the kitchen. The villagers would be arriving soon with Ioan and Warner, and they would be hungry. She would set about making huts available to them. Once Isabel had the servants hard at work, she came back into the empty hall. Empty except for the African. Anger rushed anew as she watched the foolish man attempt to rise with the aid of a short spear. The wood bowed under his weight. A dull crimson stain marred the bandages. Exasperated and looking to exact some vengeance on Rohan, Isabel chose the next best thing.

  She strode up to the man and grabbed the spear from him, knocking him off balance. He sprawled backward toward his pallet, and as he did, he flung a long arm out to her, catching her by the throat as he tumbled backward. The action left her breathless, cutting off her scream for help.

  Manhku rolled onto his side, taking the brunt of the impact, but he did not let her go. Instead, he rolled over onto her, his face a murderous shade of purple. He grasped her throat with his other hand, and in a slow squeeze, his hands tightened. Isabel flailed and kicked at him, trying to scream, but no sound would come forth. Still, Manhku did not relent. With the hall empty, there was no one to come to her aid. She saw the spear to her right and grabbed for it. Manhku smacked it from her hand. Then he abruptly released her and moved away. On her hands and knees on the floor, her fingers digging into the rush mat, Isabel coughed and heaved, trying mightily to catch her breath. Her throat burned, and she felt as if it had closed completely. Teary-eyed, she scooted backward away from the giant, gasping and coughing and trying not to lose her precarious grip on her control.

  The wooden corner of the table dug into her back. Warily, she watched the man’s face morph from wild savagery into uncertainty. He seemed confused and looked around, as if just realizing where he was. His dark brows furrowed, his sharp teeth flashed. He rubbed his thigh where the bandage now oozed fresh blood. He mumbled something in his strange tongue, then looked over at her.

  For a long moment, he stared at her. Then he did the last thing she expected of him. He extended his hand. Isabel shook her head and moved harder into the bite of the table leg.

  She rubbed her throbbing neck. She tried to swallow, but painful shards pricked her throat. Manhku’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He grabbed the spear. She watched him fight back his pain, but he managed to stand. His grip was wobbly, and sweat poured from his face, but he did not fall. She cowered back farther until she was almost completely under the table.

  With a slow, unnatural gait, he hobbled toward her. When she dared catch his gaze, her panic dissolved. Manhku’s pride suffered greatly. She could see it in his eyes in the way he fought through what must be excruciating pain. And she had shamed him when she sent him sprawling to the floor. And more now, witnessing his pitiful attempts to stand
and walk. Aye, he was a man, a warrior, and she, a lowly woman in his eyes, had shamed him.

  Isabel moved out from under the table, her fear set aside for the moment. She was not one to apologize, even when warranted. It was a stubborn, prideful streak her father had worked hard to break. But to no avail.

  Manhku bent forward, the spear bowing under the strain of his large body, and extended his enormous hand. Isabel swallowed hard and searched his face for guile. There was none. Silently, his eyes repented his deed. Taking a deep breath, then slowly exhaling, Isabel accepted his offering. She slipped her hand into his. Manhku drew her up with the ease of a mother picking up a swaddling babe.

  Gently, he handed her to the bench, then turned and hobbled back to his pallet, where he tried several times to sit without falling. She jumped to his aid but was immediately waved off.

  He would do it himself. Isabel stood back.

  Once Manhku settled himself, Isabel went about securing the items she would need to repack his wound.

  When she approached him several minutes later, her basket laden with linens and herbs, he scowled at her, and despite the injury she had suffered at his hand, she scowled back with equal force. Clearing her throat and ignoring the tightness of it, she knelt beside him and said, “I will fear you worse as a one-legged beggar. Now, sit back and let me tend your leg.”

  Manhku nodded and relaxed back onto the pallet. He let out a long breath as she bent to her task. She gave him no quarter as she aggressively cleaned and repacked the wound. Despite his damage, she was content with the progress. It would be months before he had full use. As she bent over him, tying the last of the linen, he reached out and touched a fingertip to her throat. Isabel flinched at the contact, not used to casual interaction with men.

  “Hurts?” he asked in French.

  A sudden well of burning tears rose in her eyes. Manhku’s question combined with Rohan’s callous treatment of her and the utter devastation of her people mingled into a harsh balm to swallow. She was no longer in control of her own life but subjected to men who knew not the barest of civilities. She swiped back a tear and shook her head. “Nay. It would take a much stronger man than you to hurt me.”

  Manhku smiled. A low sound, which Isabel surmised served as laughter, rumbled deep in his chest. “Gooood,” he said, then sank back onto the pallet and closed his eyes. Isabel stood, and for a good long time she watched him. When she bent down and covered him with his mantle, she knew she was mad. What manner of Saxon was she to coddle the enemy so?

  When the lookout shouted that riders approached, Isabel gave her precarious position no more thought. As it did each time she heard the call of riders, her heart leapt, and her stomach buzzed as if bees swarmed. Could this be the day her father and her brother returned?

  She pushed open the great door and rushed out into the courtyard.

  Thirteen

  The sight that greeted Rohan as they galloped into the tiny hamlet of Siward turned his stomach. The stench had reached him first. The all too familiar rancid smell of burning flesh. Since his branding at the hand of the Saracen, it was a stench that immediately took him back to Jubb and all of the bile-stirring memories that kindled.

  Rohan reined his horse to a sliding halt. Aye, even for the battle-hardened warrior he was, the horrific sight that greeted them made Rohan question the hell this earth had become.

  A pile of naked, dismembered bodies burned atop thick tufts of thatch. Mordred snorted and pawed the hard earth. Rohan’s men fanned out on either side of him. Against the deadly quiet, the sound of Hugh and the upstart squire Russell retching their guts up mingled with the crackle of the fire as it consumed the carnage, sending a hard chill to Rohan’s blood. He was in no great rush. There was not enough of a body to save. He urged his mount forward. Arms and legs stuck out from the smoke. Quartered torsos, their innards hanging out, sizzled in the flames. The heads? There were none. Rohan’s eyes scanned the perimeter of the hamlet. Vultures circled just beyond. He urged the horse past the human bonfire to the edge of the small clustering of huts to a larger building that appeared to be the stable.

  The hairs on the back of his neck rose. There upon a score of pikes were the heads. Men, women, and children, their eyes cut out, their noses slashed off, lay in the dirt at the base of the pikes.

  A deep fury simmered in his gut. Rohan reined the horse around back to his men. Thorin and the other knights had dismounted. The squires were still doubled over, their backs to the carnage.

  “See to the huts for survivors.” As Rohan gave the command, he knew it was for naught. For a long moment, he stood in the middle of the small hamlet and scoured the forest surrounding them. The cowards were long gone. He felt it in his bones. He also knew they were not rid of them yet.

  Rohan began to walk slowly around the grounds, searching for evidence of the identity of the culprits. They were not foot soldiers. Several shod hoofprints stamped the softer ground. The size bespoke a destrier. And the only destriers in the region he knew of were those that belonged to knights. Saxons and Vikings, notorious for this type of kill, fought on foot.

  Suspicion rose in his heart. Could a Norman have wreaked such destruction?

  “Look,” Rohan said to Thorin, who strode up to him, pointing to the large hoofprint. “’Tis as big as Mordred’s.”

  “Aye, there are more on the other side.”

  Rohan looked at his right hand. “Normans?”

  “Mayhap. Or Saxon knights. There were many at Senlac. Mayhap we left a few?”

  Rohan nodded. Thorin spoke the truth. While the Saxons were not renowned for their cavalry, they did exist. A sudden thought came to Rohan. “Mayhap the lady’s betrothed has made a statement.”

  “A possibility. There is nothing left here of value. The craven did a good job stripping the hamlet of usable goods. But it strikes me they were bent more on simple destruction than thievery.”

  Rohan nodded. “Aye, the violence of this screams rage. Whoever is responsible acted in anger.”

  “Who wouldst be more angry than one whose lady has been publicly shamed?” Wulfson asked from behind Rohan.

  Rohan turned to his friend and scowled. Wulfson stood solidly beside Thorin. Both men stared at him, waiting for an answer. “The lady is still intact!” The force of Rohan’s words halted the rest of his men as they moved around the camp.

  “That may be the truth, Rohan, but it is no secret she sleeps in your bed. Prepare to pay the price for such trespass.”

  “She is my slave. There is no penalty to pay,” he growled.

  “Now, leave me be on the matter!” He flung his hand at two of the men who had survived hell and back with him. Of all people on this earth, would that they would understand his reservations when it came to a woman, regardless of her comeliness or previous title.

  Rohan mounted the great warhorse and said to the squires, “Take the heads down and burn them!” Russell doubled over at the command, and Hugh looked as if he would follow suit. Rohan sneered at their weakness. “’Tis a man’s war. If you cannot hold your spleen, mayhap you should take up the needle and have the ladies instruct you in embroidery.”

  Angrily, he reined his horse and moved along the perimeter of the encampment until he found the trail he sought. “Let us ride, men. Mayhap with some luck we will find these villains.”

  Rohan did not await his men’s pleasure. He hurtled down the narrow path, bent on easing his fury with his sword buried deep in his enemy’s gut.

  Isabel ran from the courtyard to the bailey to see Ioan and Warner guiding those people from the glade who could walk to one side whilst they brought the carts laden with wounded up front. She bade Ioan and Warner to bring them to a large hut abandoned by a large family. It would serve as a hospital of sorts. Within minutes, she began to minister again to those she had tended the day before, and with very few exceptions, she was pleased with her handiwork.

  Enid, Lyn, Mari, and Sarah made room for the people of Wilshire. They were
a sullen lot, not familiar with their surroundings. Most of them having never left their village, fewer still had ventured to Alethorpe. Wilshire was the smallest of all of her father’s holdings, but the manor was sturdy and the lands rich with minerals. The forests teemed with game. It was one of Edward’s, then Harold’s, favored hunting grounds. When the king’s train came to stay at Rossmoor, it was always a most tedious time.

  There was much to prepare, and the king’s courtiers required food and shelter. Yet her father never grumbled at the cost of such visits. He gladly dipped into his treasure trove of silver and was a most gracious host. The last time Harold had been through was in July. It was a short visit. And more than a mere hunting excursion. Harold had come to his most loyal lord, Alefric, to drum up arms and a pledge of soldiers. Alefric had many allies to the north, and even as far south as Normandy on his late wife’s side. Harold was counting heavily on them. Her father did not disappoint. He sent almost three hundred men with Geoff to Stamford Bridge, and another one hundred followed him to Senlac Hill. That only a handful of men had returned and with no word of her father greatly disturbed her. As each day passed, Isabel lost hope of ever seeing her sire or her brother alive.

  She turned back to her chores. The wounded had been tended to and the displaced families of Wilshire given shelter and food. There were a goodly number of craftsmen among the survivors and several women she would be able to put to good use in the manor. But Isabel waited to press them to duty. They had been so traumatized and walked as if in a fog. They needed time for the scars in their minds to lessen. There was plenty of time to put them to work. A day or two would not matter.

  As she stood in the courtyard rubbing the aching small of her back, Isabel gave thought to Rohan. She had deliberately put him from her thoughts for most of the day. Yet, inevitably, he crept back into them. And each time he did, her anger flared.

  Isabel felt the overwhelming need for a power greater than her own or any mortal man’s. Having a moment where no one tugged at her sleeve for advice or to clean a festering wound, she slipped into the chapel.