Blood Sword Legacy 01 - Master of Surrender

by Karin Tabke

  When she woke, Isabel felt the urge to use the garderobe, and her stomach gnawed in protest. But she felt no hunger for food. Indeed, she felt no hunger for anything. Not even revenge. She was completely and utterly depleted.

  After taking care of a few necessities, Isabel managed to eat some stew and a piece of bread. She removed her clothes but did not bother to bathe. Once again, she allowed sleep to claim her. It was far easier than facing the reality of her world.

  The next time Isabel woke, she knew she could no longer hide. As her father was honor bound to die a warrior’s death, she was honor bound to her people to lead by example and accept the duke’s edict. Her stomach roiled with such velocity at the thought of lying with Henri de Monfort that Isabel could barely breathe. But if she did fly, he would take his wrath out on the gentle souls of Alethorpe. She sucked in a deep breath and refused to think of Henri as lord here.

  “Enid,” she called, her voice thick and rough. “See to a bath for me, and find out when the tourney is to commence and where Sir Rohan resides.”

  Enid smiled and bobbed her head, scurrying from the chamber to see about her lady’s business.

  As Isabel soaked in the steamy water, Enid came back into the chamber. “The tourney is set for noon tomorrow, milady, and Sir Rohan and his men reside in the huts surrounding the stable.”

  Isabel closed her eyes and asked, “Is the reeve’s cottage still vacant?”

  Enid bobbed her head, but her eyes were full of question. “Aye, ’tis.”

  Still keeping her eyes closed, Isabel said, “See that it is thoroughly cleaned by nightfall and that a thick goose-feather mattress with clean linens and furs is placed within. Along with enough wood to heat the meager place.”

  “But—”

  Isabel opened one eye. “No buts, Enid. See to it.”

  And with that resolve, Isabel rose from the bath and dressed herself. She could no longer deny Rohan’s last words after he told her of her father. And she could no longer deny her own love for the man. Despite the heavy burden of what was in front of them, she loved and cherished him over all men. It was the only thing she had left to give freely. Isabel smiled. Well, she did have one other thing. And that thing she had so stubbornly clung to she would give to Rohan this night. Aye, she would join with him as one and celebrate their love and what might be their last night together. For on the morrow, she might have nothing left to give.

  When Isabel entered the hall, several of Rohan’s men milled about, but she noticed none of his Blood Swords. She nodded her head to each man as they acknowledged her with short bows, and she made her way to Manhku, who sat before the hearth playing a game of chess with the duke’s messenger.

  They both stood as she approached. Manhku smiled and bowed, holding tightly to a thick walking stick. “How fare thee, Lady Isabel?”

  She smiled in return. “I fare well, sir knight. How fares the leg?”

  “Good. The Viking has seen to it.”

  “’Tis good to hear Thorin is multiskilled.” To the messenger, she said, “Do you have a name, sir?”

  He grinned despite her forwardness. He bowed and clicked his heels. “I am Rodger fitz Hugh. At your service, milady.”

  It seemed bastards abounded amongst William’s entourage. Isabel gave him a short curtsy and inclined her head toward the door. “Tell me of this tourney in which I am the prize.”

  The hall grew quiet, but after Rodger seated Isabel in a chair beside him, he explained in a low tone for her ears only. “’Tis not to the death, I assure you, milady. William has much need for his knights. In truth, methinks he is more annoyed by de Monfort’s demand, especially as my duke has much on his hands at the moment. Immediately following the tourney, the papers will be drawn naming the victor and the spoils—er, um, my pardon, milady, the name of the disputed lady.”

  As he spoke, Isabel’s anger resurfaced. “How does your duke think to win over Saxons when he treats them as one would sheep for breeding?”

  Rodger reddened. “I know not, milady—I—” He looked down at his shoes and shuffled his feet.

  “Aye, ’tis as I thought. There is no honor in a man who would force a maid to lie with a man she despises.”

  Rodger’s head snapped up, and anger flashed in his dark eyes. “Do you dishonor his grace?”

  “Aye, as he dishonors me.”

  She turned from the stunned messenger and made her way to the lord’s table, where Lyn immediately set a loaded trencher before her. Since the afternoon meal had passed, the serving maid brought what she thought Isabel would enjoy. Isabel smiled at the girl, and as she chewed and swallowed a piece of meat, she nearly choked as she thought what horrible things Henri’s men would do to her and the other women of the village should the devil win. Suddenly, her appetite was gone.

  Isabel stood, and with one of the duke’s men behind her, she moved out into the courtyard. The ringing sound of clashing steel echoed in the quiet chill of the air. Isabel followed it. As she passed through the bailey to the open meadow used for sheep along the east side of the village, she stopped.

  Her heart thudded hard in her chest. Bare-chested, Rohan wielded his sword against Thorin, then Ioan, then Wulfson, to Rhys, and Stefan, then Warner, ending with Rorick.

  In mid-swing, he stopped his sword held high above his head. Even in the cold, his great muscles glistened in manly sweat. His tawny eyes caught hers across the small meadow. All eyes turned to her. Isabel’s cheeks warmed.

  Rohan brought the blade down. In a slow, shallow move, he bowed to her. She turned from him, and instead of going into the hall, she looked for sanctuary in the chapel, where she fell to her knees and prayed to the almighty for the strength to live through yet another ordeal, for her personally the most trying.

  As the shadows of yet another day began to work their way into the westerly sky, Isabel still prayed. She did not want to leave the calm of the chapel. She did not want to face the world. She wanted to turn into mist and float away unseen and unaccosted.

  For the third time, she crossed herself, then pushed off from her kneeling position. The horn had blown for the evening meal sometime before. Deliberately, she ignored it. She did not want to take part in the revelry that was sure to be going on in the hall. Rohan and his men would no doubt be speaking of how the ignoble would fall.

  Instead, Isabel slipped from the chapel, only to be followed by the large shadow of the duke’s guard.

  She entered the hall through the kitchen door, and through a back stairway that led to the second floor, she entered not her solar but Rohan’s chamber. She let the bolt fall into the brackets and stood for a long moment in the empty room, her back pressed against the smooth wood of the door, and inhaled his manly scent. It was everywhere. She opened her eyes to see the cold hearth, but instead she saw it blazing with fire and warmth, Rohan standing before it, his naked body gleaming in the firelight like a great Norse god. She looked to the fur pelts scattered on the bed where last they had left them. Her body warmed as she remembered their last tryst in that place. She closed her eyes and allowed her body to feel his hands, his lips, his hot skin pressed against hers.

  Aye, Rohan had moved her as no other man had. She was sure she could live one hundred years more and never find a man such as he. As it did when she thought of Rohan, her father’s face sprang into her mind’s eye. Instead of the anger she felt at Rohan’s hand in his death, a calm peace filled her. While she did not understand the workings of a man’s mind, she understood honor. She nodded and walked deeper into the room. She trailed a hand along the soft fur of a pelt. God willing, this space would find Rohan residing in it with the next rise of the moon.

  She moved to the slitted window and pushed the tapestry that covered it to the side. She opened the shutter. Moonlight streamed in. The courtyard below and the bailey farther down were quiet. She had felt the anxiety of the entire hall. Not only did she fear the outcome of tomorrow’s tourney, but the villagers did as well. Would they flee back int
o the forest?

  She could not blame them if they did. Would they take up arms against Henri? The thought sickened her. Henri would hack them down where they stood. And what of the branded group from Dunsworth that Enid spoke of, the ones who conjured spells against the devil knight?

  Her heart swelled with pain, hope, and, yes, love. She was honor bound should Henri win the day to keep his bloodlust from her people. And she would do everything in her power to see it happen. She swallowed hard. Or die trying.

  And with those thoughts, the decision she had made earlier in the day was solidified. Until noon tomorrow, she would be in charge of her own destiny.

  Twenty-five

  “Sir Rohan,” Russell said, coming in on Rohan just as he finished his tepid bath. He scowled. These baths from a bucket were not to his liking. But at least the water was clean, and the soap gave a good lather. As Rohan rinsed his hair and flung it back, he eyes rested on the young squire. The boy had shown his mettle. He would make a worthy knight.

  “Aye, boy,” Rohan said as he dried his hair and shoulders. He stood in a small hut he and his men used as a bathing room of sorts. He stood naked, the low fire in the hearth keeping the room warmed against the chill.

  “I—a—lady—”

  Rohan’s body flinched, but he continued to rub his hair dry. “Speak up, boy.”

  Russell straightened his shoulders and looked Rohan in the eye. “There is a message from Lady Isabel. I am here to take you to the person who carries it.”

  Rohan slowly lowered the towel and stared hard at the squire. “Is this some trick?”

  “Nay, I would not play you false, sir. The messenger is just down the way. Dress, and I will take you.”

  Rohan hastened to do just that. He left his mail, but he did strap on his sword belt. Hastily, he followed the squire, his eyes wary as he watched for the slightest hint of subterfuge. While he had come to trust the lad, he did not completely trust anyone.

  As they moved past the stone wall to the village and slightly beyond to a stone cottage just off to the side, Rohan frowned. The cottage was abandoned. Who had word of Isabel? And why here? He slowed his step. Russell bobbed his head and opened the door. “The messenger awaits.”

  Rohan drew his sword. “Stand back, squire, and await me.”

  The boy nodded and stood ramrod-stiff beside the open portal. Rohan ducked in, and before he could rise to his full height, his heart clogged high in his throat. In the low light of the hearth, a vision stood. A golden angel. He tried to swallow, but his throat had thickened and his limbs would not move him toward her. The soft fabric of her shift illuminated in the firelight silhouetted her ripe curves.

  His rod filled. His blood coursed hotly through his body. When she turned and her violet eyes looked to him with adoration and love, and her full red lips smiled, Rohan knew he had died. For only in heaven could this be true.

  As if gliding in the air, she moved past him, closed the door behind him, and threw the bolt. He dropped his sword and stood rooted to the floor, afraid that if he moved any more, he would wake from his dream.

  She pressed her body against his. “I am real, Rohan.”

  His entire body quaked; he raised a hand to her face and brushed her gossamer hair from her face. She smiled up to him. “Give me your child tonight, Rohan.”

  Her words shocked him to his core. “Isa?” he asked, taking her face into his hands. “What are you saying?”

  She moved backward away from him. He followed, still holding her face between his hands. She backed up to the mattress and sank to her knees on it. She lifted the shift from her golden body and lay back on the linens and furs. Her body glowed like alabaster in the firelight. Her eyes twinkled in soft seduction. Rohan dropped to his knees. She pulled him by the hair on either side of his head toward her as she maneuvered herself to lie back. “I am saying I want you to make love to me. And in the process, give me your son this night.”

  His entire body trembled, his emotions too stormy to describe. So he did not try. “Isa,” he whispered, “it is my heart’s desire to give you my son.”

  In slow, unhurried fashion, Rohan kissed her lips, her cheeks, her nose, her ears. His hands worshiped every smooth inch of her, touching as a blind man would. Softly, savoring every part of her, burning her curves and planes into memory. Her skin smelled of roses, and her hair was thick and soft like silken strands. Her soft red lips kissed him back with a fervor he had never known.

  Miraculously, his clothes disappeared, and when he pressed his heated body to her equally heated skin, he knew he was in paradise.

  Isabel luxuriated in Rohan’s dark, powerful warmth. His fingers and lips worshiped each inch of her body, reverently as if she were a cherished possession. When she stripped his clothes from his body and he laid her back onto the furs, she could not wait to feel the full weight of him inside her. He was gentle at first. Digging his fingers deep into her hair, he looked into her eyes. “Isa,” he whispered, “you own my heart, my body, and my soul. Do not ever cast me aside.”

  Emotion so powerful built with his words that tears momentarily blinded him from her view. She arched against him and closed her eyes. Biting her bottom lip, she tried to quell the rush of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her senses. The wide head of him nudged her swollen folds. She opened her eyes and sobbed. “Rohan, you are my heart, my body, and my soul. Do not ever cast me aside.”

  His lips lowered to hers. “Never, my love. Never.”

  He entered her then, slowly, reverently. She opened for him, giving all of herself with all of her heart.

  As he breached what now mattered not to her, a sharp prick of pain came and passed so quickly she was barely aware of it. Rohan’s powerful body surrounded her. The heavy feeling of him inside her as her body accepted him caused her a moment of panic. He overwhelmed her. His size. His power. His passion for one brief moment terrified her.

  Rohan soothed her, raining soft kisses on her cheeks and eyelids. “Isa, the pain will pass,” he promised, then kissed her deeply, his hungry lips washing away any vestige of discomfort.

  And with all the love she felt for this man, Isabel kissed him back. Wrapping her arms around his neck, snaking her fingers into his thick hair, she strained against him, opening wider for his entry.

  Her body had prepared for him. Her muscles relaxed, and slick and hungry, Rohan moved inside her. The feeling of him filling her was more than she expected, so much more. The sublimity of him made her want to cry out with joy. The heat he generated from his slow, rhythmic thrusts caused a familiar tide to rise deep with her, but this was different from the others. This was deeper, richer, more powerful.

  Wanting to crest, to feel that ultimate feeling of ecstasy with him, uniting them, to feel his seed erupt deep within her, Isabel could no longer contain herself. A wild frenzy for more of him, for harder and faster, overcame her. Her body was slick with sweat. Rohan’s body glided in and out of her. The tide built to dizzying heights before crashing with the force of a thousand exploding stars inside her. Isabel hung suspended in his arms as her body spasmed, and one wave of pleasure slammed after another. “Rohan,” she gasped as her body convulsed against his. She gulped for air, hardly able to breathe. Her body had melted like warm wax around him.

  Rohan followed her bliss. His lips crashed down on hers as he thrust hotly into her. His body tightened. His hips tensed.

  “Jesu, Isa,” he muttered as his hips shuddered and he spilled deep inside her.

  Isabel wrapped her legs around his thighs, holding him tightly to her, wanting him to spill until he gave her the child of his she so desperately wanted.

  His body slowed, but his breathing matched hers in velocity. He collapsed against her. For long moments, their bodies spent, they lay entangled in each other’s arms. Their sweat-soaked skin glistened in the firelight. Their chests rose and fell in great gasps as they tried to regain control of their breathing.

  Isabel felt more womanly at that moment than sh
e had ever felt. She had no idea a man and woman could share such bliss and intimacy.

  Rohan pulled her into the circle of his arms. “Isabel,” he said softly.

  She smiled and luxuriated against him. “Aye?”

  “I have no intention of losing you on the morrow.”

  She smiled, but fear overshadowed it. “I have no intention of losing you, either, milord.”

  He rolled her onto her back, and his eyes searched her face. “We will wed as soon as a priest can be found.”

  Her heart filled to bursting. She smiled and looped her arms around his neck, bringing his lips down to hers. “I expected nothing less.”

  Her young body craved more of what he had just given her. “Make love to me again.”

  As hungry for her as she was for him, Rohan obliged her.

  Isabel woke to the mournful song of the lark. With a start, she realized where she was. Rohan snored softly beside her. Isabel pulled the furs up to her chin to ward off the chill of the room. The fire had died down, but what chilled her more was the call of the lark. ’Twas morning. And a bad omen. She slipped from the bed and threw more wood on the hearth. As she returned to the bed, she saw the bloodstained linens.

  A sudden worry terrified her. What if—what if Rohan fell this day, and Henri found her to be impure? Would he beat her? And what if she were with child? Rohan’s son? Would the brother kill him?

  “What troubles you, Isabel?” Rohan asked from the bed.

  She smiled and hastened back to his warmth. As she snuggled against him, she shook her head. “Nothing. I was only angry the lark began his song so early.”