His Enemy's Daughter

by TERRI BRISBIN

  ‘Look past the vengeance you seek against her father. Look back to the young man who took the field with William that day. Think of the plans you three had and the futures you fought for. Is this to be the way of it for you instead?’

  ‘You risk much, Larenz,’ Soren said through clenched teeth.

  ‘Nay, not much at all,’ Larenz replied. ‘Gautier would haunt me if I did not speak my piece to you at a time such as this.’

  Being reminded of his foster father, a man they both held in high esteem, took the anger out of him. Facing Larenz, Soren saw a likeness he’d never noticed before. ‘You sounded just like him then.’

  ‘It should not surprise you, Soren. He was my brother.’

  Surprise did not describe how Soren felt after this revelation. Never had he suspected such a thing. And if it was not something spoken of openly, it meant one thing.

  ‘We shared a father, though many years apart.’

  That explained much to Soren—Larenz’s request to serve with them and his willingness to train three bastards with claims to nothing. Before he could reply, Soren was called to by Stephen and nodded his consent.

  Stephen and the men began herding the people away from Sybilla and back to their duties and tasks or work. All but one followed the orders. Gareth remained on his knees in front of her as she bid farewell to those with her. Stephen took hold of him and began to drag him back to work, but he fought against leaving. Soren watched as Guermont stepped forwards and then the two of them looked to him.

  ‘Do they seek to plot against you, Soren?’ Larenz asked.

  ‘Nay, I think not,’ he said, shaking his head.

  He suspected that Sybilla had not yet been able to have someone read the list that Gareth provided and she would ask him about it. But she would not ask him for leave for such a thing. This gave her the opportunity to find out the truth without having to lose too much pride to do it.

  ‘Leave him,’ Soren called out.

  Stephen dropped his hold of Gareth and Guermont stepped away, leaving the lady with the former commander of her guards to talk in private. Gareth never approached her, speaking from his place before her, but Soren could tell the moment he revealed the names of those who had died in the attack.

  ‘I am back to my duties, Soren,’ Larenz said. ‘Should I tell the men you will join us soon?’

  ‘Damn you, old man,’ Soren grumbled. ‘You know I will not.’

  Larenz laughed as he walked off, but Soren said nothing. He could only watch as sorrow enveloped Sybilla like a fog that had descended from the sky in a storm. Gareth never moved closer, even when Sybilla’s shoulders began to shake. Everyone, even her maids, kept their distance in spite of her distress.

  His feet moved before he’d made the conscious decision to do anything and his mind tried to think of something he could do for her. Seeing the bucket sitting on the edge of the well, Soren went to it and dipped it to fill it. Then, scooping up a ladleful, he walked slowly towards Sybilla, stopping just yards from where she sat.

  ‘Have you finished your business with the lady?’ he asked Gareth. The man climbed to his feet and nodded to him. ‘Then return to your work.’

  ‘Be at peace, Lady Sybilla,’ her man said quietly as he walked away.

  She sat with her head lowered, saying nothing. He could see the tears still leaving tracks down her cheeks. Soren looked off in the distance for a moment and took a deep breath. He did not want to feel the pity that pierced his heart in that moment.

  ‘Hold out your hands, Sybilla.’

  She held them out, but they shook so badly he feared she would spill all the water in the ladle before it got to her lips.

  ‘Steady, now,’ he advised. It made no difference, for they shook even more now. So he placed one of his hands beneath hers before he placed the ladle in her palms.

  ‘Wha…what is this?’ she asked, lifting her face now in his direction.

  ‘The day is warming and I thought mayhap you would like some water.’

  Something hung in the air between them, some moment of time that could be felt as it moved past, marking a second when everything changed and nothing would be the same again. To Sybilla, though inexperienced and not worldly at all, this moment felt like that, as the man who came here intending to kill her and destroy everything of her father left in the world showed her an unexpected kindness.

  Another kindness, in truth, for he had allowed her to speak to Gareth and the others.

  Sybilla lifted the ladle to her lips, his hand guiding hers from beneath. She sipped the cool water and allowed it to soothe her tight throat. Even knowing that this man did everything for his own reasons did not stop her from enjoying the water and the consideration, though she sensed he would not want to even acknowledge it as that. She had been thirsty, for she finished it in two mouthfuls. Sybilla lowered the ladle and handed it back to him.

  ‘My thanks, Lord Soren,’ she said softly.

  Though she could hear others in the distance, she heard no clues to tell her others were nearby. The summer breezes rustled the branches of the tree above her and she could almost imagine herself there in the best of times instead of the worst.

  Her curiosity grew though about his intentions now. As last evening, he did things for a reason and she wondered if she was misinterpreting his actions once more. Could he simply be kind or was this some sort of prelude? To what, she knew not. Listening closely, she could not tell if he was near or had left to go to the well.

  ‘Lord Soren?’

  ‘Aye, Sybilla.’

  How had she never noticed the appealing deep voice he had before? Thinking back, she realised she usually heard him yelling or grunting and rarely had they just simply spoken to each other. Except for last evening when they had spoken and she had said too much. Still, she wanted to know.

  ‘Why did you allow that?’

  ‘You to speak to Gareth and the others? ’Twas simply the time for it to happen, Sybilla.’

  ‘I do not understand. Time for what?’ she asked. She thought she might, but wanted to hear his explanation and try to understand the reasons behind his actions. They were married for now and unless or until he gave her permission to seek the convent, they remained wedded.

  ‘You needed to leave your chambers and they needed to see their lady. There has been too much talk among your people about not knowing your whereabouts or your conditions. So, I got you out here and eased their concerns. And…’ He paused.

  ‘And?’

  ‘If they see you alive and well cared for by the monster now sitting in Durward’s chair, they will believe they are safe from him as well.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, nodding. ‘You have found another use for your blinded wife after all, then. Brood mare and figurehead.’

  He did not respond, most likely because it was the truth of the matter. His kindness was a sham, an act done for its impact. A burst of anger shot through her, giving her the courage to ask the question at the heart of all of this. The one question she’d thought of but had not dared to ask before.

  ‘Why, Lord Soren? Tell me why you hated my father so much? Why did you come here seeking to destroy my family or what was left of him?’

  ‘Sybilla, do not push me,’ he growled a warning to her, his voice now hard and angry.

  She heard the ground crunch beneath his boots as he began to walk away without answering her. Sybilla stood and took a step in the direction he moved in. ‘Lord Soren, I must know!’

  Sybilla heard him turn towards her. His breath was fast and shallow as he approached her. She braced herself, knowing in that moment that she would not like, nay, she would hate the words he would say. Oh, why had she asked?

  ‘Because your father made me into the monster I am now, Sybilla.’ She gasped, never dreaming that was the reason. But he was not yet finished tearing her heart and soul apart.

  ‘Your father struck me down with a cowardly blow from behind, tearing my flesh asunder and taking everything but my life.
’

  Sybilla felt herself stumbling, light-headed and weakened by such news. He grabbed her by her cloak to hold her on her feet, while he completed the horrible tale he’d begun at her request.

  ‘And now, just as he did to me, I have done and will do to you. Everything you had or valued will be mine.’

  Never noticing that she was sitting down, Sybilla was only stopped by the hard surface of the bench. Her head spun from what he’d said and the fury within his words.

  Her father could never have done such a thing. He would never have acted so cowardly. He…

  Dozens of questions formed in her thoughts, but she could voice none in the face of his anger. She heard him inhale a deep breath and waited for his next act.

  The sounds of his footsteps as he strode away shocked her.

  Sybilla waited for his return or his voice to call out orders about her, but nothing happened. She sat in stunned silence for some time before gathering her wits and standing to make her way back to her chambers.

  Chapter Twelve

  War arriving at your door had a way of bringing clarity to a situation, Soren thought as the Saxons approached the gates. Word of their arrival spread quickly and his men moved into position along the wall after the prisoners were secured and the women and children locked inside the keep for their protection. Now, watching as the armed troops moved ever closer, Soren assessed their strengths and weaknesses. After deciding that they were more nuisance than real threat, Soren called out to them as they sat below.

  ‘Who are you and what do you want here?’

  ‘I am Maurin de Caen. My lands are a day’s ride to the south and west, just over the hills,’ the first man said. Of Norman heritage, it would seem.

  ‘And I am Wilfrid of Brougham, Lord Soren. My lands are two days’ ride in the same direction. We received letters from the king about the rebels and are here to discuss the matter with you.’

  Soren looked to Stephen and Guermont, who, dressed in armour and sword, appeared more the warrior he was than the steward he’d become for a time. When both nodded, Soren climbed down the steps and went to the gates to allow them entrance. His men knew not to let down their guard for a moment and he would speak to these two in the yard, under the scrutiny and view of all. More importantly, within the range of his bowman, aiming from their positions along the wall.

  He watched as the two dismounted and walked to him, waiting for the inevitable reaction. When neither gave his face more than a passing glance, he knew they must have been warned. He pulled off his metal gauntlets and held out his arm in greeting. One, then the other, clasped it. He motioned for them to follow him to a table set near the keep.

  They talked about the situation in the surrounding areas and of the king’s wish not to have the northern borders of the lands of England fall to the Scottish king while William’s attentions were drawn further south. They spoke of the former earls of Mercia and Northumbria, Morcar and Edwin, whose lands surrounded Alston and who were currently the guests of William in Normandy along with the Saxon claimant to William’s throne. Soren called for ale and food and asked Stephen and Guermont to join them in the discussions, for they would learn much. For more than an hour they conferred about every issue Soren could think of, save one. He dismissed his men and sat down to ask the questions he truly wanted answers to, for the rest of it was known to him already.

  ‘Tell me of Durward of Alston,’ he said.

  The two exchanged glances and then Maurin began, though it was clear he measured the words in his response.

  ‘Though much of these lands is claimed by the king of the Scots, Durward held this manor from King Edward and then by Harold’s charter,’ Maurin began. ‘Harold had his doubts about Morcar and Edwin, even though related by marriage to their sister, and used Durward to secure this vital holding.’

  ‘Did he owe any fealty to Mercia or Northumbria at all?’

  Alston lay at the crossroads of several ancient kingdoms, all of which were highly sought after and whose ownership was highly contested, generation upon generation. As Soren waited for an answer, he witnessed another exchange of glances.

  ‘Not fealty, Lord Soren, but a bond of another kind,’ Wilfrid replied. ‘Although a betrothal between Durward’s son and a niece of Godwinson had been arranged, the boy’s death and then Hastings ended hope of linking those houses.’

  Wilfrid did not say the word, so Soren did.

  ‘But…?’

  ‘Morcar had already offered a marriage of his son to Durward’s daughter.’

  ‘Sybilla?’ Soren asked. They nodded. ‘Did she know?’

  ‘Most likely not. Durward had not decided the matter when the call to march on the Norse at York came. As a vassal to Harold, he had to send men, so his son led them. Unfortunately, he met Morcar and Edwin before Harold arrived from the south…’

  Soren knew the disastrous results, for that battle had been lost, with the English taking heavy casualties. He’d heard reports of it while recuperating near London. But this attempt to join the two houses was news to him and could play into finding the rebels who clearly had support here in the north from powerful people. Brice had sent word that Edmund Haroldson had been sighted near Shildon and was moving north. They suspected he was planning to seek support from Malcolm in Scotland, passing through this area to get there.

  Soren understood the truth now of Giles’s and Brice’s words—the lands promised to them were some of the most dangerous in William’s new kingdom and they would risk their lives and futures just trying to claim and hold them. With enemies on so many sides and few allies he could trust, Soren wondered at the probability he could succeed and live to have sons.

  ‘They are still conversing in the yard, lady,’ Gytha reported from her place by the window in her chambers.

  Apparently deemed safe enough for entrance into the yard, Lord Soren spoke to his guests outside, not allowing them in the keep. Once he’d let them through the gates, she and her women had been permitted to leave the kitchens and return to her room above. It seemed a good plan, truly, but Sybilla dreaded walking the steps and being in the midst of so many she could not see.

  Now, Gytha or Aldys stood at the window, telling her every step taken in the yard, whether she wished to know or not. She’d thought she’d met both Lord Maurin and Lord Wilfrid before and could have vouched for their identities, but he’d not asked her. In truth, they’d not spoken another word since the incident in the yard a few days before. She’d sought refuge in her chambers and had not been ordered out again, though her door was not barred, nor had she been commanded to remain within.

  However, the taste of fresh air and the sun’s warmth tempted her to try it again. Sybilla worried that the end of the perfect scene he’d staged for the benefit of her people had been ruined when she learned the source of his hatred for her father and for her. She tried to remember that war was war—it was vicious and cruel and took its toll where it could find it in lives and flesh. Yet Sybilla could never imagine her father striking such a cowardly blow from behind.

  Since all the men here were sworn to Lord Soren and would never naysay him, she thought that speaking to Wilfrid or Maurin might give her more insight into battle. But dare she speak of such things to them? She’d not even shared the news with her maids.

  ‘Is Lord Soren there?’ she asked. ‘Guermont or Stephen?’

  Gytha sighed—one that Sybilla was coming to recognize, for it signified the girl’s infatuation with the Norman knight Stephen. ‘Lord Soren, aye. The others have left.’

  ‘Seek out Guermont, Aldys. Bring him here if it is possible.’ Aldys left quickly to seek out the steward belowstairs.

  ‘Stephen told me that Lord Soren was called the “Beautiful Bastard” in their homeland,’ Gytha shared. Then, as though realising the inappropriateness of the comment, she gasped. ‘Pardon my loose words, lady,’ she begged.

  Sybilla realised she’d been going about this in the wrong way—the servants always knew m
ore than they said and could be counted on to gain information within any household.

  ‘Nay, Gytha, tell me what else Stephen said,’ she urged. She understood the obvious reasons for his hatred, to be left looking as he did, and the constant scorn and fear he encountered, was reason enough, but she had sensed in him a different man from time to time and wondered if she’d only imagined it.

  ‘Lady, mayhap I should not speak of such things to you?’

  Sybilla knew Gytha well—if she knew something, she wanted to share it. A gossip, though not mean-spirited at all, the news could barely remain quiet within her for minutes, so Sybilla thought Aldys must have warned her from telling it.

  ‘The “Beautiful Bastard”?’ she asked quietly, waiting for the words to spill.

  ‘Aye, lady,’ she said, walking closer as she did. ‘He is from Brittany and not Norman as most of them are. And he is of low birth, only raised by his king after…after…’

  ‘Aye, Gytha, after the battle near Hastings.’

  ‘He and two others were fostered by a nobleman in Rennes, their birthplace. The three of them and the nobleman’s heir were raised together. Strange, that,’ she commented.

  Very strange. Though natural sons and daughters had many uses, this was unusual. ‘And?’ she prodded.

  ‘They were trained to be knights.’

  Sybilla wanted to grab and shake the girl until she told her the meat of this story, but she took and released a breath, praying for patience.

  ‘Stephen said that they were known for their fighting abilities and for their way with women and that he, Lord Soren, was known to have a different woman in his bed each night—married, unwed, pretty or plain-faced, it mattered not to him. His looks, handsomer than all the rest, drew them like bees to sweet, he said.’ Gytha sighed. ‘Now though, Stephen said he is almost unrecognisable from what he looked like back then.’