by Karin Tabke
Cedric’s face turned a murderous shade of red, and Isabel knew she was in deep trouble. He had lost his tenuous grasp on sanity. She kicked him hard in the shin, then punched him with all of her might in the groin. He grunted, bending over, and Isabel kneed him hard in the sensitive spot. She turned to flee in the direction of the caves, but he grabbed her long hair and pulled her back so hard she fell flat on her back. For a moment, Isabel saw only black. She closed her eyes and caught her breath, then opened them to the meager light filtering through the heavy canopy of trees above her.
Cedric reached down to grab her, but the far-off thunder of hooves stopped him. A sharp cackle added more tension to the air. Isabel sat up and turned toward the sound just beyond the piked heads. The blood cooled in her veins.
The whispers were true.
An old crone, hunched and clad in ragged garments, shuffled toward them. She chanted softly in a foreign tongue. Her long white braid was unkempt, but fringes of silver shrouded her face.
She pointed a long, bony finger at Cedric and cajoled him. “Come, Saxon, come to me so that I might add your head to my collection.” For one so old and feeble in looks, her voice was clear and strong.
Surprisingly, Cedric held his ground. “Be gone, hag! Do not concern yourself with my affairs!” he shouted, but took a long step backward just the same. He pulled Isabel with him. Grabbing her hair at the base of her skull, Isabel yanked it hard from his grasp. In what she was not sure would be the correct action, Isabel darted toward the old woman, who paid her no mind but instead kept her black eyes focused on Cedric, who did not follow her.
“Come, Saxon,” she wheedled, her clawlike hand outstretched in invitation. “Come to me, and live the pain of those you have betrayed.”
Cedric swallowed hard but squared his shoulders. “Give her to me, crone, or I will return with an army to take her.”
The woman cackled. “There is no army with the might to breech my magic.” She looked up at Isabel, the dark eyes glowing not in madness but with complete lucidity. At once, Isabel lost her fear of the woman. Had her sire known she meant them no harm? A surprising calm filled her. As addled as the woman appeared to be, with her speech of magic, Isabel knew she was in no danger from her.
“Who are you?” demanded Cedric.
The woman cackled again. “I am Wilma, guardian of Menloc and those true hearts who abide nearby.” Her eyes narrowed, and she pointed her finger at the quaking Saxon. “And your heart is black with lies. Innocent souls cry out for revenge.” She stepped closer. Cedric backed up a step. “I see all that happens in these woods, Saxon. I know your plots. I know who plots with you.” She laughed, the cackle cracking in her throat. She was consumed with a fit of coughing. Once it died down, she turned watery eyes up to Cedric. “I know who plots against you!”
Cedric took a brave step forward. “If you know all, Wilma of Menloc, then you know the devil will have her at all costs! Give her to me so that others may live!”
“Nay, Saxon. She belongs to another, and when he discovers your trespass, you will feel the bite of his sword deep in your gut.”
“Lord Dunsworth would never take up arms against me! I am his loyal servant.”
Wilma laughed again and moved a step closer to him. “Fool, what makes you think I speak of him?”
Isabel gasped. If not Arlys, then who?
Wilma shared a grim smile with Isabel, then turned back to the Saxon. “Aye,” Wilma crooned, moving closer. “The legacy will begin in her womb. Much blood will be spilled to see the final result. But mark my word, Saxon, no blood of England will spring forth from her loins.”
Isabel trembled in the chilled air, Wilma’s words causing her great concern. If she was not to wed a Saxon, then—? Her heart leapt in her chest. Nay! She would not bear a bastard!
Cedric stood silent for a long moment, contemplating the woman’s words. Fury clouded his crimson face. His hands fisted open and closed at his sides. As if a decision had been made, he nodded. Slowly, he drew his short sword. “Then I will spill her blood now to end the legacy before it begins!”
He leapt at Isabel. But Wilma threw herself between her and the crazed Saxon. “Run, girl, run to the caves!” she screamed. Isabel turned to flee, but she could not let the old woman fall for her. She grabbed a large rock from the ground, and as Cedric raised his sword to plunge it into Wilma’s gut, she brought it down with all her might on his skull. He moved his head in time to escape the brunt of her blow, but it was enough to cause him to lose his grip on Wilma. Isabel grabbed her up and turned to flee with her. The ground beneath her shook. Riders!
“Hurry, Wilma, we must flee now.”
The old woman didn’t budge. Instead, a smile twisted her thin lips. “Nay, lass, stand and face the devil.”
Isabel gasped as Henri crashed through the bramble to their left, several of his men following close behind. Cedric rolled out from under the hooves that would have shred him to pieces had he not acted so quickly.
Henri’s bay stallion reared and pawed the air with his hooves. When he dropped to all fours, he blew nervously, stomping the hard ground. Henri removed his helmet, his grin, so much like Rohan’s, screaming victory. “So, we meet again, Isabel.”
Henri dismounted. Isabel move backward. Cedric, in an act of submission, bowed low to the devil. “My lord,” he said. “As promised, the lady Isabel.”
Henri gave him a cursory glance, then motioned to one of his men. The knight dismounted and drew his sword. Cedric read his death in the knight’s eyes. He dropped to his knees, then lay supine, grabbing Henri’s ankles. “I pray you, do not do this! I know the hiding place of the lady’s treasury!”
Henri held up his hand and kicked Cedric in the chin, rolling him over. He placed a heavy foot on the reeve’s chest and drew his sword. He pressed the tip to Cedric’s throat. “Tell me now, or die.”
Cedric opened his mouth, but no words came. “Nay! Do not slay him!” Isabel screamed, tearing away from Wilma. “Enough Saxon blood has been spilled for silver. End it now!”
Rohan galloped furiously toward the screams. The hairs on the back of his neck rose at the first cry. It was too familiar. When he broke into the clearing, his eyes went directly to the devil knight and the woman he clasped tightly to his chest. The Saxon at his feet groveled like a mewling bitch. Not far from the trio stood a grizzled old woman who seemed to have command of the situation. Farther back still were several of Henri’s men.
Rohan reined his horse to a grinding halt several horse lengths from his brother and his minions behind him. Rohan knew his own men were ready to lay down their lives at his slightest command. And, Rohan thought as his blood began to boil, the end of the day might very well see his brother’s blood fertilizer for the hard English soil. His patience was at an end.
Henri grinned, and with Isabel clasped to his chest, he bowed and extended his arm to the piked heads. “Welcome, brother, to hell!”
Rohan’s men flanked him, their hands on the hilts of their swords. Henri’s men mirrored the action. “What goes on here?” Rohan demanded.
Henri threw his head back and laughed. “It appears, dear brother, you have been cuckolded.”
Rohan scowled at the implication. His angry gaze locked onto Isabel’s wide-eyed stare. Slowly, she shook her head.
“Your lady was off to meet her lover. How fortunate for you I discovered her ruse.”
“Nay!” Isabel screamed, twisting in Henri’s arms. “’Tis a lie!”
Rohan sat quiet but alert in the saddle. Anger burned hot in his belly. His eyes dropped to the Saxon cowering at Henri’s feet. Henri pointed his sword at the man. “Ask him. He will tell you.”
Rohan contemplated the man as an unexpected spear of jealousy stabbed him. While the man appeared to be nothing but a coward, his rich clothing spoke of his higher standing. Was this Dunsworth? “Who are you?” Rohan demanded.
The man rolled over to face Rohan. He started to crawl away from de Monfort, but th
e Norman placed his booted foot on his back, planting him hard into the ground. “Speak from there, Saxon, and speak clearly so we all may hear the truth.”
Rohan stiffened. The Saxon swallowed hard, and his body shook violently beneath Henri’s heavy foot, but when he spoke, he spoke clearly and strongly. “I am Cedric, reeve to Lord Dunsworth. I came to take the lady to my lord.”
“Why did he not come himself?”
Cedric looked up at Henri, then to Isabel, then to Rohan. “He—he had pressing matters to attend.”
Rohan laughed coldly, not believing the reeve. Nor Henri. He speared Isabel with another glare. He did not believe her, either. There was far more afoot than Isabel simply going to meet her betrothed.
“Did the lady go with you willingly?” Rohan softly asked.
The reeve nodded, not making eye contact with Rohan. “Aye, she did indeed.”
The old woman cackled. “The Saxon speaks in half-truths, Norman.”
“Shut thy mouth!” Henri shouted.
The crone moved toward Henri, no hint of fear in her eyes. Indeed, her calm boldness impressed Rohan. “Your lust for revenge will be your undoing, Norman. Leave this island now, and you will live to see yourself lord over all your sire claims.”
“You are addled, crone! My brother Robert is heir to all my sire holds sacred!”
She smiled, her lopsided, snaggletoothed grin unnerving. Rubbing her hands together the old woman cackled again. “Aye, you, sir knight, are the least-favored son.” She turned to Rohan, then looked back to Henri. “The sire even favors his bastard above his noble-born second son!”
Henri roared in anger and moved forward with Isabel in front of him, using her as a shield, with his sword pressed across the vital vein in her neck.
“How do you know this?” Rohan demanded.
She turned dark eyes up to Rohan. “The forest whispers her secrets to me.” The old woman’s eyes darted from Henri to the reeve, then to Rohan and beyond. She moved at an angle away from the noble-born son.
“What madness do you speak, woman?” Rohan demanded.
She stopped her sideways movement and looked long and hard at Rohan. Despite her crazed ranting, her eyes were clear and lucid and held a deep wisdom he saw in few men and fewer women. His skin flinched as he thought of A’isha. She’d had the same knowing eyes of this sage.
“I am Wilma of Menloc, seer of the ignoble.” Her eyes moved past Rohan to Thorin, touching on each of his men before landing on Isabel, then back to Rohan. She raised her hands to the sky. “In the dungeons of hell, you have sworn your oath to one another. For the oath to take root, each of you must sow your seed deep between the thighs of England. But before each coupling, blood must be shed, for only the blood sacrifice will assuage the fury of the Blood Sword!”
Her words stunned Rohan. When he looked to his men, he saw they were equally stunned. When he looked to Henri, he saw murder in his eyes.
“Norman knight, bastard kin of the bastard duke, strike your mark, and make it sure, for if you do not, the legacy will die before it breathes life!” Wilma turned and looked to Isabel of Alethorpe. “Your destiny is clear, virgin daughter of Saxony. Prepare yourself!”
With those last words, Rohan felt as if he had been struck by a bolt of lightning. His chest heaved toward the sky as if a rope pulled it, before being abruptly released. With a clarity he had never before experienced, he understood his destiny was with the maid. He had known the moment she challenged him from the tower rampart that she was destined to be his. Now he could no longer deny it. Nor did he want to.
His body frosted, before his blood thawed, then warmed to hot. He turned to face Isabel, who stood blanched white in Henri’s arms. A fierce possessiveness grabbed hold of Rohan’s heart. Yet a calm determination held on tighter.
“Henri, release the maid,” Rohan said, his voice barely audible yet laced with tempered steel the noble could not deny.
When he did not release her, Rohan dismounted. He silently signaled his men, and in the time it took to blink, the knights had arrows notched and bowstrings drawn. Henri’s lips twisted in a maniacal smile. He nodded as if warming to this deadly game, then lifted his foot from the reeve and moved Isabel backward away from Rohan, toward the piked heads.
“My men never miss their mark. Release the maid,” Rohan said again.
“Men!” Henri shouted. In answer, his six knights drew their swords.
Rohan laughed, unfazed by Henri’s threat. “You will be dead before they can thrust.” He moved toward his retreating brother. “Release the maid.”
“Release her, second son!” the crone cackled. “If you do not, your head will grace my pike.”
Rohan watched the cowardly reeve skulk to the edge of the clearing.
It took the words of the witch finally to get to Henri. Wildly, he looked around. Rohan’s men had two arrows notched in each of their bows, aimed directly at his head.
“You are doomed, brother. Release the maid,” Rohan softly said, moving closer.
Henri smiled, his eyes clear. Then, in a swift move, he ripped Isabel’s dress down the middle, exposing her naked breasts. “The hag’s prophecy will die here and now!” He pushed Isabel’s back with his knee, forcing her to arch toward Rohan. When Isabel tried to shield herself, Henri slapped her hands away and pressed his sword harder into the white flesh of her throat. Rohan roared and moved toward his brother. When Henri grabbed a breast and rubbed a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, Rohan saw red.
“She is quite the prize, brother. Much sweeter then Eleanor. Did you know this lady’s betrothed is willing to pay for her?”
“Release her,” Rohan ground out.
“I will, but first, brother, I will take from you what you stole from me.”
As he moved to push Isabel back into the thick forest, he was suddenly hurled high up into the air.
Rohan and his men stood wide-eyed, their jaws agape. Henri hung by his right foot, swaying back and forth and upside down from a thick rope attached to a high limb of a sturdy oak. His screams of frustration echoed throughout the forest. The crone laughed so hard she coughed. Henri’s men swarmed below him, looking up, not sure how to free their lord. With all eyes on de Monfort’s dilemma, Isabel darted to Rohan but was grabbed by the reeve, who had kept his focus solely on the maid and had grabbed Henri’s sword from where it fell on the ground. As Henri had done before him, the reeve pressed the blade to Isabel’s throat.
Though he stood fast, the man’s eyes implored Rohan for understanding. He would get none. “Forgive me, Sir Rohan, but my loyalty lies with my lord first, and he insists I bring his lady to him at all costs.”
Rohan strode toward him, his body heated and taut. He saw nothing but the shaking pale hand of the Saxon and the blade at Isabel’s throat. The vision of her flesh slit and her life’s blood slowly oozing from her clouded his sight with rage but more than that, a gut-twisting sorrow. He would go to hell first before he allowed Isabel to be taken from him.
“Forgive me, Saxon, but my loyalties are to the lady!” Before the Saxon knew what he was about, Rohan grabbed Isabel with one hand and plunged his sword deep into the man’s gut with the other.
Isabel screamed.
The crone laughed in self-satisfied glee. “’Tis as I foretold!”
Twenty-one
Rohan jerked his surcoat off and placed it over Isabel’s head. She shivered from the cold but more from the shock of all that had just unfolded. Numbness kept her from going completely hysterical.
Wilma moved toward Henri, who had quieted from his humiliating upside-down position on the rope. Instinctively, Isabel knew he realized that his life was in his brother’s hands. When Wilma pulled a short knife from the inside of her garment, Rohan stepped between her and his blackhearted brother.
“Nay, Lady Wilma. My brother will not die by your hand today.”
She raised dark eyes up to him, and her lips twitched. “Allow him to live now, Norman, and he will cost
you more.”
Rohan nodded and hacked the taut rope in half with his sword. “So be it.”
Henri tumbled to the hard earth with a sickening thud. His men rushed to him. Rohan’s knights still held bows drawn, aimed directly at the ignoble.
Wilma threw her hands up and tore at her hair. “I cannot control your destiny, bastard Norman!”
Rohan sheathed his sword and walked to where Isabel shivered uncontrollably. He picked her up and carefully placed her in his saddle. He mounted behind her and turned to the seer. “Nay, you cannot, but I can.”
The ride back to Rossmoor was long and silent. Rohan’s arm clasped Isabel possessively to his chest. The powerful thrust of the great horse beneath her ate up the turf and his body steamed, keeping her warm. Isabel’s thoughts and emotions whirled from relief at not going to Arlys, not succumbing to Henri, and surviving Cedric’s attacks to fear and despair at what Wilma prophesied. Her body trembled violently at the implication of her words. Rohan pulled her tighter against his chest, and try as she might to deny that she wanted a life with the Norman, the prospect excited her. Being wife to a man such as he would be a constant challenge.
But he did not offer marriage.
Even if he did, as his wife, she would no doubt see him off fighting beside his duke more than he would stay and be husband, for while England was crippled, there were those such as Arlys and her father so passionate about keeping a Norman off the throne that they would die for the cause. What would Geoff want? Would he lay down his arms and swear to the Norman duke, or would he stand and fight him?