Blood Sword Legacy 01 - Master of Surrender

by Karin Tabke

  “Who marked you?”

  She laughed a low, throaty laugh. The sound of a woman experienced in the game of love. “A lady never divulges such secrets.”

  “You play a game you will lose.”

  She smiled and pursued him. “Really, Rohan? What is the prize?”

  “Would you have me take you here and now?”

  “I would have you take me not at all.” With those parting words, Isabel sauntered past him.

  Rohan turned, furious, his gaze following the jaunty swing of her hips. He grabbed a stool next to the hearth and flung it across the room, where it shattered into dozens of pieces against the wall. “Name the cur who marked you!” he bellowed.

  Isabel hesitated in her step but kept moving toward the stairway.

  Rohan strode toward her, his temper nearly out of control. “You will halt, damsel, and answer me!” He stopped at the lord’s table. She was nearly to the stairs.

  Slowly, Isabel turned. Her eyes darted to Manhku, who, along with every other soul in the hall, held his breath and watched the storm build.

  Isabel swallowed hard, and though she knew she should not, she cast another glance at Manhku, who sat upon his pallet. His eyes remained passive. She dared not name him whilst Rohan raged. He might tear the man apart.

  “Du Luc,” the giant said. Isabel vehemently shook her head, but the Saracen ignored her. “’Twas I who damaged the maid,” Manhku admitted.

  Rohan’s jaw dropped. Anger darkened his features. Thorin appeared as if from the thin air and clapped a hand firmly on his shoulder. As if he were asking directions to the nearest shire, he said, “Tell us, Manhku, how that came about.”

  Rohan shook Thorin’s hand from his shoulder and squarely faced his man, his hands fisted at his sides. “Aye, Manhku, tell us.”

  “’Twas a simple misunderstanding,” Isabel offered, moving between the two men.

  Rohan worked his jaw, and Isabel knew a terrible war waged within him. His man had damaged his property. If he allowed Manhku to carry on with no punishment, he would lose face, and his men would see him as weak.

  Manhku looked from Isabel to Rohan. “The wench speaks half-truths.”

  “Then speak the whole truth, Manhku,” Rohan bit out.

  “The maid came upon me as I was trying to move about with the aid of a spear. She took it from me. To break my fall, I took her with me.” Manhku looked to Isabel, who stood rigid, holding her breath. “I begged her pardon. ’Twas not my intent to damage her.”

  Rohan looked to Isabel, his eyes narrowed, but instead of anger, puzzlement lurked in the golden depths. “Why did you hide this from me?”

  Isabel looked up to Thorin and past him to Ioan, Wulfson, and Rorick, who all stood silent in the doorway. “I—I did not want your man harmed.”

  Rohan shook his head and raked his fingers through his long hair. He laughed, confused. “I do not understand your methods, damsel. You save my man not once but twice. From the looks of those marks on your neck, he nearly snuffed you out, and yet you defend him?”

  Isabel nodded. “I am not a barbarian, Sir Rohan.”

  “Nay, you are—” He sighed and turned to look at Manhku, then back to Isabel. “You are a complete mystery to me. Next you will welcome Henri and his band of thieves to come sup with us.”

  Isabel quirked a smile, despite the memories the name conjured up. “My civilities only go so far.”

  Rohan made a gallant bow before her and all of his men. “I beg your pardon as well, Lady Isabel.”

  His words shocked her. Never had she expected an apology from him, and certainly not a public one. But what worried Isabel most was that she found herself being pulled toward the knight. He was all things bad, but beneath his rough exterior lurked a fair and passionate man. The heat rose in her cheeks as she remembered where he had spent the night. He may be fair, and he may be passionate, but he was as bad as a rutting boar, and she would not be his next conquest.

  “You will beg for more than my pardon, sir,” Isabel quipped.

  Wulfson snorted and chortled. “Nay, Lady Isabel, ’twill be Gwyneth he should beg forgiveness from!”

  Isabel scowled, not understanding his meaning, but Wulfson continued. “Aye, the wench was dumped!” Wulfson laughed louder as he made his way deeper into the hall. Rohan scowled heavily at his man. “But ’twas Thorin’s gain.” He slapped the Viking on the back. “I would have joined you, my good man, but both of my hands were occupied.”

  “Ha!” Rorick chimed in. “You stingy knight. Could you not share one of your pieces with your brothers in arms?”

  Rohan grinned and rubbed his chest. “The way those maids devoured Wulf last night, ’tis a wonder there is anything left of him this morn.”

  Wulfson’s grin nearly split his face. “Aye, I am a bit sore.” He poured himself a cup of ale and raised it high. “But not nearly as sore as those two. See for yourselves when they come to the hall.” He tossed his head back and drank deeply of the brew. As he finished, Lyn and Sarah brought two large platters into the hall, both walking unnaturally stiffly. The entire hall erupted into uproarious laughter. The maids’ cheeks flushed red, and both looked bashfully from beneath lowered lashes at Wulfson. He grinned, and as Rohan was fond of doing, Wulfson rubbed his chest. “Ladies, I am free this eve if you wish for company.”

  As weary as Isabel was, she was elated at the news that Rohan had not lain with the merry widow. Despite it all, she was filthy from the night’s ministries to the sick. But because Rohan pulled her down to sit beside him at the lord’s table and because she was famished, she ate. Soon her lids were heavy with fatigue. Enid came to her, and begged her leave of Rohan. He granted it. No sooner had Isabel entered her solar than Enid stripped her of her garments. Too exhausted to bathe, she sank naked between the cool linens. Her last thought was of Rohan’s smiling face as sleep found her.

  When Isabel woke several hours later, the sun had not risen full up. She stretched and smiled, glad for once not to have the weight of the world on her shoulders. While she still did not welcome the Normans to her home, she welcomed the break in tension. Enid appeared and aided her in a quick toilette, then helped her dress for the day.

  When Isabel walked down the stairway, the hall was uncharacteristically quiet. Manhku sat up on a chair with his leg elevated on another. She smiled at him. And while she could tell he would rather she disappeared into the stone walls, his lips twitched in a smile.

  “Good morn, Manhku, how fares the leg?’

  “The pain eases.”

  “Good. Let me change the poultice and the bandages.”

  Isabel set about the chore, and just as she finished wrapping the last linen strip around his thigh, he put his hand to hers. “You are brave.”

  His words startled her. Isabel raised her eyes to his. “That is very kind of you to say, Manhku, but I only do what anyone would do.”

  “Nay. Another wench would have run screaming and tearing her hair at the first sight of us. You stayed, and you fought.”

  Isabel smiled and tied the linen snugly, then sat back. “Aye, and a lot of good that did me.”

  “Rohan is a fair man.”

  “He is a man first, Manhku.”

  “Aye, he is that, but you will not find a finer champion than he. Give him his head. And do not betray him. He would never forgive you that.”

  Isabel looked closely at the Saracen. “Why do you tell me these things?”

  “Your sire and your brother. They will not return.” Hot tears flashed at his cold words. “I do not mean to hurt you, Lady Isabel, I speak the truth. They would be here had they survived the bloody hill of Senlac.”

  Isabel brushed a tear from her cheek. “Aye, I have lied to myself these past weeks. But I still hold hope.”

  “You can hope, but eventually you will have to put your trust in someone.”

  “Are you asking me to make Rohan the man I trust?”

  “Aye, or any of his Blood Swords. No worthier men wa
lk this frigid island.”

  “I applaud your loyalty, Manhku, but there is no future for me with any knight here. They are as transient as the wind. They have no name, no coat of arms. The world calls them bastard. The blood of three kings runs in my veins. I was bred to run a great manor. To marry well, to mingle with queens and kings.”

  His eyes widened. She smiled and patted his arm. “I know how selfish it sounds. But I chose it. I chose that path, for in it I have much at my disposal to help others. Wed to a poor, nameless knight, I might be able to eke out a meager existence for myself and my children, if I am so blessed, while my husband runs off to war. How will I support my family should he fall on the battlefield?”

  “Blue blood does not a worthy spouse make.”

  “I agree, but any blood must come with sustenance.”

  “Would you prefer Henri over Rohan, then?”

  She stiffened. “Nay. Not under any circumstance.”

  “Riders approach!” the lookup shouted. As she did every time those words echoed in her ears, Isabel first felt a leap of excitement, of hope that her father and her brother arrived, but it was quickly chased by dread. More marauders or, worse, Henri.

  Isabel excused herself from Manhku and hurried to the tower door. “Who comes?” she called up to the lookout.

  “A laden cart. Mayhap more churls.”

  Isabel hurried out of the hall through the courtyard and to the bailey and watched as a ragged caravan of Saxons made their way toward her. As they drew closer, recognition dawned, and an emotion she did not like to acknowledge she possessed crept up. It was one thing to feel jealousy at Rohan’s taking of a village woman, but a fuller, more potent jealousy gripped her belly. Lord and Lady Willingham of Dover, along with their only child, the renowned beauty and court favorite Lady Deidre, approached.

  Isabel smoothed her gown and waited in the bitter cold as they came closer. Had she not known the family personally, Lord Willingham’s long, flowing beard and hair gave his heritage away. His lady, Edwina, sat rigid and proud beside him. Deidre, adorned in a fully lined fox cloak, scowled, the gesture twisting her dark beauty. Isabel guessed that they, as were many other Saxons, displaced. And as surely as she could see the future, she knew she could not turn them away.

  “Lord and Lady Willingham.” Isabel welcomed them as she met the cart where it stopped.

  Lord Willingham handed the reins to Bart. “I would say good day to you, Lady Isabel, but it is a dark day for myself and my family. We come with nothing but a plea for refuge here.”

  Isabel curtsied and said, “Of course, milord, Rossmoor awaits you. Step down, and let me welcome you and your ladies.”

  He stepped from the cart and turned to his wife, who, still rigid, allowed him to help her, yet the minute her feet touched the ground, she jerked out of his arms. Deidre continued to scowl at Isabel. Neither lady had much use for the other, and since Deidre strutted around at court as if she should be queen, Isabel had always steered clear of her. Arlys’s cousin might be admired by the courtiers, but she was not admired by Isabel. But as she still considered herself lady of the manor, she would be the ever gracious hostess.

  Isabel moved to embrace Lady Edwina but was met with a hostile stare. Isabel smiled despite it and curtsied, and when she rose, she embraced the stiff woman. “Lady Edwina, welcome to Rossmoor. Feel free to make yourselves at home.”

  “At least, Isabel, you have a home,” Deidre spat.

  Isabel turned toward the angry woman. “I consider myself most fortunate.”

  Lord Willingham helped his daughter from the cart. As she stood before the great hall, her eyes widened. “The Normans did not burn it down?”

  “Nay, the hall is built almost entirely of stone. My great-grandfather planned well, and my father has maintained this great house.”

  Deidre turned her pinched face to Isabel. Her eyes narrowed. “How is it you have escaped the Norman’s hand?” Her question was loaded with insinuation.

  Isabel felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

  Lord Willingham shushed his daughter and took Isabel’s hand. “It has been a year at least since I have visited here. Rossmoor is a welcome sight to these tired eyes. The Normans burned us out. My lands have been taken from me and my family reduced to beggars. Your father, Alefric, before his death extended his hospitality to me should we need it.”

  Isabel gasped at his words. Her knees buckled, and had the old lord not held her hand, she would have swooned right there.

  He hugged her to him and patted her head. Tears erupted as her worst fears were realized. Hard sobs wracked her chest.

  “Forgive me, Lady Isabel, I thought you knew.”

  He moved her from where they stood in the courtyard and into the hall. He sat her on the first available bench. He knelt before her and took her cold hands into his and rubbed them. The pain of his words was unbearable, her tears so thick Isabel could barely make out his form.

  “Alefric fought with the vigor of ten men, lass. He was a sight to behold. Had Harold two more like him, we would have seen the day won.”

  “Did—did he die swiftly?” She had to know. The thought of her father lying for hours or days suffering on the bloody field was too much for her to bear.

  Lord Willingham’s eyes glistened as well. The two men had spent many an hour over a flagon of wine. He looked down at his hands clasping hers. “I do not know.”

  “Milord, please, tell me true. Did he suffer?”

  The old man cleared his throat and looked up at her. Softly, he said, “He was struck from behind. When I got to him much later, long after the battle was lost, his throat was slit.”

  Isabel gasped. “How barbaric!” Then she cried, “What of Geoff?”

  The old noble shook his head. “He is not here?”

  “Nay! Until you came, I had no word of my sire. Did you see Geoff?”

  “Aye, earlier that fateful morn. He fought beside Alefric. I did not see him among the dead, though.”

  Hope swelled. “Mayhap he lives?”

  He nodded. “Mayhap.” But his eyes said he doubted it. “Surely, he would have returned by now, Isabel.”

  Isabel drew the old man’s gnarled hands to her. “Were the graves blessed?”

  He nodded. “Aye, it took days, but the priests came.”

  Isabel let out a huge sigh of relief. For that she was grateful. She removed her hands from the old lord’s and swiped at her cheeks with her sleeve. She stood. “Come, let us see to your family.”

  As she turned to go back outside, she nearly crashed into Lady Willingham and her daughter. Their two maids and a manservant stood behind them with heavy bundles and a trunk. Isabel turned to find Enid standing anxiously nearby. “Show Lord and Lady Willingham’s servants to the chamber next to Geoff’s and Lady Deidre’s maid to the solar.” She turned back to the family and extended her arm to the hall. “Come and sup. You must be famished.”

  All three sets of eyes lit up at the mention of food. They moved eagerly to the lord’s table. But Lady Edwina halted. Her sharp hiss caught Isabel’s attention. The lady stared open-mouthed at Manhku seated at the hearth. Deidre also hissed in a sharp breath, as if she had touched something unsavory. Oswin, Lord Willingham, scowled at both of his ladies.

  Isabel smiled. Though it had been less than a week since the Normans’ arrival, she felt a kindness in her heart for the surly Saracen, and as each day passed, it became clearer to Isabel that he might very well call Rossmoor his home. Fellow countrymen or not, she would not have any guests question his right to be here.

  Forcing a cheerful tone to her words, Isabel asked, “Do you wish to meet Manhku?”

  The women vigorously shook their heads and stepped back. The old man, though not so adamant, declined. Isabel excused herself and went to see to the downed knight. She stoked the fire beside him and softly asked, “Would you like a trencher?”

  He raised his black eyes to her, and she read the mischievous glint in them.

  �
��Manhku, the travelers are weary. Leave your rancor for another day.” She grabbed a pelt from the pile of them nearby and settled it around his lap. “I beg you, behave yourself.”

  He growled low, and she could not help a smile when Lady Edwina squirmed in her chair.

  After she called for food, Isabel turned to the trio. “I assure you, he does not bite.” Deidre gasped, and Isabel added, “At least not today.” Lady Edwina mewled, and Manhku laughed.

  “Lady Isabel, please pardon my wife and daughter’s apprehension. When we heard les morts had settled here, we almost did not come.” Lord Willingham swallowed thickly. “Dunsworth, it seems, is but a pile of rubble, and the Norman there is mad. We had no choice but to come here.”

  Isabel nodded, and as she fussed around them, making sure the platters were warm and plentiful, she felt the need to twist the knife. It angered her that this family who had sought her out now turned their noses up to her other guests.

  And though her father’s death was certain, her brother’s was not, and she would hang on to that small sliver of hope. Until then, anyone other than the natives of this shire she would consider a guest and thereby a temporary inhabitant. That most certainly included the Normans. “Aye, Lord Oswin, the Blood Swords will be home to roost before nightfall. They are many, and none so bashful as this one. I would give you a word of warning. Do not offend them, or you will see yourselves cast out.”

  Lady Edwina harrumphed.

  Deidre spoke. “Father, I refuse to seek shelter with a band of thieves and murderers!”

  Before Oswin spoke, Isabel did. “Lady Deidre? Should you find a more welcome manor, please,”—Isabel extended her hand toward the door—“be my guest to seek it.”