Blood Sword Legacy 01 - Master of Surrender

by Karin Tabke

  “What of your people?”

  Thorin shrugged and stabbed a coddled egg with his table knife. “’Tis hard to say.”

  Isabel nodded, realizing the man had no interest in speaking of his family.

  But despite his short answers, the Viking laughed. “My lady, would your curiosity be satisfied if I told you I am the product of a coupling between the late Hardrada and a Byzantinian gypsy?”

  Isabel was surprised at such a revelation. She cocked her head and looked at the man in a different light. On second thought, mayhap she should not have been so surprised. Thorin’s regal bearing and aristocratic features melded in a ruggedly handsome harmony with his gypsy mother’s exotic lineage. Despite his injury and the black leather eye patch, Thorin was a striking man. Taller than Rohan, which was no small feat, and as muscled, he was no doubt as experienced on the battlefield. When Thorin rubbed his chest as she had seen Rohan and Wulfson do, her heart thawed more for these fierce warriors. Their suffering was unimaginable, the scars only a glimpse at what they must have endured.

  Isabel smiled and nodded, understanding that had the coupling been sanctioned by the church, Thorin would be sitting not among them but upon a throne somewhere in a distant land.

  “How fortunate for us a royal prince sits amongst us,” Deidre said, the scorn lacing her words almost indiscernible. Isabel’s rancor with the women was on the rise.

  Thorin smiled grimly at the displaced Saxon. “A royal bastard, Deidre. A distinct difference.”

  Isabel choked on the piece of braised meat she’d just chewed at Thorin’s blatant insult. Had he held any respect for the lady Deidre, he would have addressed her as such. That he did not gave Isabel a supreme sense of satisfaction. And to further confirm why Deidre did not deserve his respect, the woman blundered on. “What of your mother?”

  “She is dead,” Thorin said softly. Isabel gasped. And while he did not say it in such a way that asked for pity, she felt her heart swell for this man.

  “How?” Deidre persisted.

  Gwyneth, who had just a moment ago batted her lashes at the Viking as she set a large platter of meats before him, gasped at the audacity of Deidre’s question.

  “Methinks, Lady Deidre,” Isabel began, “it would be more courteous if you minded your own affairs.”

  The entire table fell silent as if waiting for a cat fight to ensue. Before Deidre could stick her foot further down her throat, Isabel looked across to Thorin, who seemed unaffected by the line of questioning. “My apologies, Sir Thorin. Such subjects are better left unsaid.”

  The proud Viking smiled. “My thanks for your concern, Lady Isabel, but I assure you, the topic, even so baited, does not cause me pain.”

  Isabel nodded her head but knew he lied. The look of fury that had crossed his face when he spoke of his mother’s death did not escape her. And while Isabel was intrigued by this mysterious Viking’s story, she had the good manners to let it rest.

  Feeling the need to set Deidre further back on her heels and quell the woman’s barbed insults once and for all, Isabel asked, “Does your mother still ail, Deidre, or does she find the company here not to her liking?”

  It was Rohan, Wulfson, and Rhys’s turn to choke on the food they were chewing. When Rohan could not catch his breath, Isabel pounded him on the back until he raised his hand for her to stop. She poured him a full cup of milk from the pitcher and handed it to him. Gratefully, he drained it. Isabel looked over at Deidre, who looked as if she had just drunk a goblet of vinegar.

  The entire table stared at Deidre, as if daring her to speak against the lady of the manor. When she bent to her single trencher, Isabel sat back in her chair, satisfied that for now the wasp would keep her stinger retracted.

  The conversation turned lighter and concluded in that tone. As Isabel moved to see to Manhku, she felt Rohan’s heated gaze on her back.

  “How fares the leg today, sir knight?” she asked.

  At Deidre’s sharp gasp behind her, Isabel bristled. Was the woman bent on alienating herself from everyone?

  Manhku nodded, a small smile twisting his lips. Isabel pulled up a chair and sat beside him. “Let us have a look.”

  Several minutes later, the wound lay exposed. Isabel smiled and looked up to Manhku, who looked expectantly at her. She smiled wide. “You are healing very well. If you promise not to exert yourself, you may join your men at the table for the next meal.”

  This time, Manhku smiled wide, revealing his sharp teeth.

  “Blessed Mother!” Deidre gasped from the table. “To what lengths will you go, Isabel, to save yourself from the slightest of hardships?”

  Isabel stiffened, Deidre’s words biting hard into her pride. That she shared a bed with Rohan was bad enough, but to insinuate that she did it to escape hardship was a crueler blow.

  Isabel scowled and turned to the woman, who was there only by Isabel’s goodwill. Rohan stepped between Isabel and the wanton. He laid a hand on her shoulder and softly squeezed it. The warmth sent a shiver through her body. Isabel set her jaw, not knowing whom to concentrate her anger on, the waspish Deidre or the knight beside her.

  “Your healing skills are admirable, Lady Isabel. My thanks for saving my man. Will he ride again?”

  She did not look up at Rohan, or over at Deidre, or to anyone else but Manhku, who fairly stewed in his chair. She sighed. She did not regret saving this man’s life. “Mayhap. But as I explained to your man, he may be up and about in a day or two with the aid of a sturdy stick.” Isabel scowled at the Saracen. “But be warned. If you overexert yourself, you may cause further damage. Damage I do not have the skill to heal.”

  “Why do you have this heathen amongst Christians?” Deidre boldly asked, coming to stand beside Rohan.

  Rohan tore his gaze from Isabel and frowned down at the woman. “I do not answer to anyone here. Do not ask questions on subjects that are of no matter to you.” He brushed past her and said to his men, “Let us survey more of this promised land.”

  As the men stood, the dreaded shout from the lookout pierced the morning tension, hiking it higher. “Smoke, four leagues south of the crossroads!”

  In less time than it took Isabel to blink, the knights stormed out of the hall. Isabel let out a long breath she had held. She faced Deidre. The woman was an awesome sight in all of her fury. Her black hair and green eyes sparked with fire. Isabel stiffened.

  “You may find yourself his favorite for now, but when it comes time for him to take a wife, he will not choose a soiled dove such as yourself but a woman of pure virtue.”

  The words struck deep into Isabel’s heart. For while she had no dreams of marriage to the bastard knight, she knew he would want a wife pure. And if what had happened between them last night was any precursor to what he intended to do to her later that eve, she was doomed to find herself no longer a maiden.

  “Deidre, that you have not been prey to a Norman thus far is a miracle in itself. For your sake, I pray your good luck continues.”

  “I do not throw myself at the first Norman who strides through my door, as you seem to have done.”

  Isabel smiled and bowed her head. “That I have a door is another miracle.”

  The barb hit home, and Deidre sneered. “I would never trade my virtue for a manor.”

  Isabel continued to smile. Aye, nor would she, but she would for the life of a squire who sought only to protect her from the very thing she offered for his life. And as she remembered her sacrifice, Isabel no longer felt ashamed. She looked closer at the woman. Aye, even for the surly Deidre, Isabel would make the same sacrifice.

  Without further adieu, Isabel moved past the woman and into the kitchens to see about opening the stores to the villagers. When she returned to the hall, she felt Manhku’s eyes on her. She poured him a cup of ale and took it to him. Silently, he took it and drank deeply from the cup. “Keep watch over the hall, Manhku. I have much to do in the village.”

  She opened the great doors to the manor and
stepped outside, stopping short to find Wulfson’s dark scowl on her.

  She scowled in return. “Why are you here?”

  “I am relegated to tiring woman today.”

  Isabel laughed while Wulfson’s scowl deepened. She placed a hand on his mail-clad forearm and tried in vain to suppress her merriment. “The honor is all mine, Sir Wulfson. A fiercer maid I cannot think of.” She laughed louder and stepped past him. “Come, let us go pick posies and chat and giggle of things maids find so consuming.”

  Wulfson glowered down at her, a low rumble in his chest. Isabel smiled as she looked up at the sun. It had begun its rise in the cool, crisp morning air. Not a cloud hung in the clear blue of the sky. The village teemed with activity, and as Isabel looked around, it occurred to her that more villagers had returned from the glade. Some even were new to her. Her heart swelled. Word had begun to spread.

  And so the morning progressed until after a rather lengthy conversation with Mildred on the different locations of different healing herbs, Isabel stopped in mid-sentence to find Wulfson’s dark green eyes, the color of fresh moss, narrowed at her. Isabel regarded him as scrutinously. “Does something ail you, Sir Wulfson?”

  He shook his head and grumbled. Isabel smiled at the reticent knight but ended her conversation with Mildred, who gladly scampered off.

  Whilst Wulfson was certainly not bashful when it came to the maids in the village, he was quieter than most. His dark bay-colored hair hung in the same fashion as that of all of the Blood Swords, long like that of the Vikings. She noticed that Wulfson’s hand continually fondled the hilt of his broadsword. Unlike the other knights, who did the same, Wulfson had double scabbards attached to a vest of sorts on his back. The blades were nearly as long as a regular broadsword but thicker. When he had drawn them in honor of Henri’s visits, her blood had curdled. He wielded them expertly, and she could only imagine the carnage they created.

  She further regarded him. Aye, these knights of Rohan’s were a suspicious lot. Like great wounded beasts who held no trust for mankind. Her limbs trembled in the chill of the late morning air. Her imagination was rampant with thoughts of what these men had endured.

  Isabel scrutinized Wulfson more closely and decided he reminded her of a troubled angel. The golden flecks in his green eyes pulsed. While he sported the same crescent-shaped scar as the others, his face was free of other scars. Her heart did a slow tumble. He was a man a maid could get into trouble with. His dark and brooding face posed a challenge to any woman.

  “Sir Wulfson, your name is Saxon. Why do you ride for a Norman?”

  He scowled. “I am of Norman extract.” Isabel raised a brow. He bowed and clicked his heels together. “Wulfson of Trevelyn, at your service.”

  For the second time that day, Isabel hid her surprise. “Trevelyn? Is that not—?”

  “I was raised in Wales by foster parents. I took their name.”

  Isabel pressed her hand to his forearm. He stiffened beneath her touch. “I do not bite, sir.”

  Wulfson growled low, obviously not comfortable with the conversation. Isabel enjoyed knocking these men off balance. So controlled were they in every facet of their lives except this one. “Did you leave a lady love behind in Normandy?”

  When he only scowled in answer, Isabel continued to question him. “Did your sire recognize you?”

  His scowled deepened. “Cease your prattle.”

  Isabel returned his scowl with an exaggerated one of her own. “’Twill be hard, ’tis what women do.”

  “’Tis why I avoid them.”

  Isabel laughed. “Do not tell that to Lyn and Sarah.”

  Wulfson looked past her shoulder as if something interested him more than their conversation. Isabel looked closer at the troubled knight. She had been correct with her first impression of him. Troubled angel was an apt description. Like Stefan, he was dark and brooding. “Did you escape the prison with Rohan and Manhku?”

  Wulfson hissed in a sharp breath, and his hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. His green eyes flashed. Isabel instantly regretted prying, but she had a burning hunger for information regarding Rohan. And knowing that these men had been to hell and back together, she hoped through them she could better understand the man who had changed her entire world.

  Isabel set her hand over Wulfson’s. “Sometimes my curiosity causes me to speak out of turn. My apologies.”

  The knight finally looked down at her. Pain and fury clouded his eyes. When he spoke his voice was low and throaty. “Your question reminds me of things better forgotten.”

  Giving him a trembling smile, Isabel nodded. “Come, let us see to the rest of the villagers.” He nodded, and they set off.

  Isabel was happy to see so many familiar faces. While at first many of the churls hesitated to pay their respects to her because of the hulking knight by her side, when they realized she held no fear of him, they were more bent on approaching her. Their tales of fleeing the raiders and also de Monfort set Isabel’s nerves on edge. The tales of de Monfort’s actions were gaining epic size. Isabel feared if the man was not stopped, he would single-handedly destroy Norfolk. She felt Wulfson’s reaction more than he voiced it.

  As Wulfson escorted Isabel back to the hall for the noon meal, she was surprised to see Aryls’s unwelcome cousin strolling toward the stable. “Does that not strike you as unusual?” Isabel asked Wulfson.

  He followed her gaze and frowned. At that moment, Deidre looked up to find them regarding her. Her step faltered, but she quickly recovered and made her way toward them.

  “You there! Sir knight, I request a mount. This filthy hamlet has me bored. Be a good man, and escort me so that I may get some much-needed exercise.”

  Isabel’s rancor rose. The woman acted as if she were the Queen of England, not a refugee.

  “Nay, Rohan’s instructions were clear. No one is to leave the village for any reason.”

  Deidre changed her tactic. Her body loosened, and her smile turned inviting. In a slow, sensuous stroll, she sidled up close to the Norman knight. Placing her hands on his forearm, she looked up at him with deep blue eyes and softly cajoled, “Please, sir? I will assume all responsibility for my person. Your master will understand.”

  Wulfson removed her hand from his person and shook his head. “Nay. I have my orders.” He extended his arm to Isabel, who took it and they walked off, leaving Deidre quietly cursing them both. Once in the hall, Isabel saw to the meal. As several of the soldiers, including Wulfson, sat down to eat, Isabel quietly slipped from the kitchen and into the courtyard, then hurried toward the stable, to see a flash of yellow fabric disappear into the thick edge of the forest. Deidre.

  Isabel glanced over her shoulder and found no suspicious eyes on her. She had a fleeting twinge of guilt. Wulfson would be furious with her. But she had no intention of being gone too long. Taking a deep breath, knowing the Saxon woman was up to no good for anyone at Rossmoor, Isabel, too, disappeared into the forest.

  Nineteen

  Following the scent of smoke and with Russell’s directions, Rohan and his knights made quick time to the small clearing by the river. What met their eyes would have disturbed most men, but after the previous pyre of bodies and what he had seen in his short time on earth, nothing affected Rohan so deeply he could not function.

  But that did not mean he had no compassion. Nay, his blood chilled at the sight before him. His anger festered deep and hot in his belly. He scanned the blood-soaked earth from astride his great horse. Several women, their skirts flung up around their heads, their most private parts exposed, no doubt horribly abused, lay scattered across the hard ground, most in unnatural positions. Several men, their body parts hacked to pieces, dotted the scenery. And stuck into the ground, though battle-battered, the black and white raven standard of the Norse king arrogantly taunted him. Rohan’s blood boiled. He looked to his friend, knowing the standard would conjure up bitter memories.

  “’Tis a ruse,” Thorin said softly, his
voice barely perceptible. “My sire is dead.”

  “Aye, mayhap you have kin who seek revenge.”

  “My kin shame me with this carnage. Wouldst the chance present itself, I would show them real torture.”

  Rohan looked at his one-eyed knight, knowing full well of what he spoke. “The Norse have gone too far.”

  Warner approached, his steed prancing, chomping at the bit, sensing the blood in the air. “It appears to me, Rohan, these demons seem bent on taunting. Do you think their game is to draw us out?”

  Rohan nodded. “I am sure of it.” He raised his hand to the silence. “Listen,” he said.

  Warner looked to Rohan, then to the thick forest around them. “There is no sound.”

  “Exactly. Even from deep within the forest and along the river bank, there is no sound. The creatures that inhabit it are silent. Our enemy is near.” Rohan urged his mount forward to the edge of the river. The trail was clear, as if an open invitation to follow. Rohan turned to Russell, just as the boy recovered from retching his guts up at the sight of the ravaged bodies. “Is this the shallowest spot to cross?”

  “Nay, down further. By the small bend.”

  “What awaits us on the other side?” Rohan asked.

  The boy blanched to white. “The haunted caves of Menloc.”

  Rohan threw his head back and laughed. “There will be more hauntings when we are done with them.” He turned to his knights. “After we cross and pick up the trail, fan out two abreast at ten horse lengths apart.”

  The great destriers picked their way through the brush and bramble, their ears laid back, their muscles bunched, ready to crush the enemy. Deeper Rohan and his men moved into the forest, following the well-marked trail, their eyes and ears on high alert. “Beware, men,” Rohan softly warned. “The trail of crumbs is clearly marked for us.”

  Moments later, Rohan put his hand up and knew his quarry was near. He suspected they had moved right into their trap, as he intended. In a quick motion, Rohan circled his hand, and his men formed themselves into an impenetrable half-circle. His short lance drawn, Rohan’s great battle cry rang out, the sound sending the birds, squirrels, and foxes diving for cover.