Warrior's Surrender

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  On a stool by the bed was a bowl containing hearty stew, a small loaf of hot, freshly baked bread, and a goblet of wine. It smelled delicious, but Frey could not yet be tempted by it. A rectangle of goat’s milk soap lightly scented with lavender flowers tipped the scale in favor of the bath.

  She undressed and examined herself the best she could in the single, flickering candlelight.

  Her muscles were stiff from unaccustomed horse riding, not to mention the fall, which left her hip, left arm, and—from what she could feel—her left shoulder mottled with multicolored bruises.

  Slipping into the still, warm water and drawing the soap along her limbs slowly, Frey sighed contentedly. Even the sting of her several scratches felt less acute.

  With her body at rest, her mind started on the tasks ahead.

  Tomorrow, she would talk to Brother Halig and the abbot about Brice.

  Although Frey had freely used Brice’s assumed title to rally her father’s men and to deceive Sebastian into doing what was necessary, there were important things both men needed to know that would affect any decision made about the boy.

  It all depended on whether Sebastian’s forbearance could be further counted on.

  He had shown a great deal of goodwill to them thus far, much more than Frey knew she had any right to lay claim to, but she pushed him nonetheless. Not for her own sake, but for those she had a responsibility toward. Once she had seen to the security of Brice, Larcwide, and Orlege, then she would give some thought to her own future.

  Frey closed her eyes then, almost without thinking, pressed a finger to her lips to recall the pressure of Sebastian’s mouth on hers that afternoon. In the gentle embrace of the warm bath water, it was easy to imagine his hands on her once more.

  She felt a stirring of desire but tamped it down ruthlessly.

  Because of Drefan, and to no small measure her own father, her past allowed only one option for her future. But what did that matter as long as her family was safe?

  * * *

  Sebastian sat on the bench more or less patiently as a monk applied salve to the deep scratch on his leg and re-bound it.

  If he couldn’t be active, his mind could, so Sebastian took inventory of his responsibilities.

  Prior to bathing and eating, he had seen to his men’s accommodation. It was odd how he now included Orlege and Larcwide as his men, when they were quite clearly attached to their mistress.

  As for his two charges, he had seen little of either.

  Brice was safely in the hands of Brother Halig, renowned across four counties as one of the finest healers of the North.

  Where Alfreya was concerned, the abbot seemed a little unsure how to handle an unaccompanied young woman, so, in the interests of her safety and reputation, she would dine alone, bathe alone, sleep alone, and remain alone until morning.

  The abbot proved most adamant on the matter.

  Little point if the horse has already bolted, Sebastian thought darkly. Who knows how many men have had her? That’s what Gaines would tell him if he gave the man leave to speak his mind on the subject.

  Sebastian tried to reexamine his uncharitable thought, but again came to the only conclusion the evidence would allow, even considering how protective Orlege and Larcwide were of their Lady Alfreya.

  He recalled he’d twice heard the name Drefan from young Brice’s lips. With the recollection, a flicker of emotion he was hard placed to identify touched him.

  Sebastian needed to know all there was before he could put his plans into action.

  The monk finished dressing his wound and departed. Sebastian watched him go and raised a halfhearted prayer for forgiveness.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The spell of fine weather was over.

  Even the gray clouds, poured out flat and featureless across the sky, were halfhearted about their work, sending down miserable, drizzling rain in fits and starts. The sun tried its best to break through at dawn but, in the face of overwhelming resistance, settled for providing what comfort it could to those below with a weak half light that made the difference between noon and eventide impossible to differentiate.

  Frey spent part of the morning sitting with Brice while a novice, only a couple of years older than her brother, sat on a low stool by the bed to read to him. Frey could see Brice was fascinated by the tale and she felt a twinge of guilt that her brother never learned to read nor be schooled in all the ways expected of a son of an earl.

  They both listened as the young novice read the feast-day story of St. Alfreda and St. Ethelbert, two young lovers who lived three hundred years earlier in this same county.

  Ethelbert was a devoted man of God who trained missionaries, when he met the beautiful Alfreda, daughter of King Offa of Mercia. So struck by her kindness and her increasing interest in the Christian faith, Ethelbert determined to ask for the young virgin’s hand in marriage. However, Alfreda's mother, Queen Cynethritha, was jealous of her daughter’s interest in the young man and arranged his murder. Horrified, Alfreda departed the court and retired to the marshes of Crowland, where she lived as a hermit until her death.

  When the tale ended, Brice gave a sidelong glance at his sister. Frey knew what he was thinking. The similarity of the name struck her too.

  The novice looked up from the book in response to a call for assistance by Brother Halig and left Alfred’s two children alone to talk.

  “Are you going to live in a swamp, Frey?” he asked worriedly.

  Frey sat on the abandoned stool and ignored the question. She stroked her brother’s fine pale hair, which had grown far too long, and brushed it out of his eyes.

  “We should ask if they have some shears to trim your hair so you look like a boy and not a girl,” she said gently.

  Brice shook off the hand, a sure sign he was feeling much better.

  “You do not answer my question, sister,” he told her crossly.

  Frey considered her answer and decided to give him a version of the truth.

  “No, I will not go and live in a swamp. I might live in an abbey like this one.”

  She watched him think about her answer and her heart softened. She decided to ask the abbot which convents weren’t too far away. Brice was her only remaining relative, and she would be heartbroken if she were never to see him again.

  Frey became aware of Brice now scrutinizing her, and she glanced down at herself.

  She was dressed in a kirtle with long, tightly fitted sleeves that flared at the wrist. The garment was originally violet in shade, but now, being soft and well-washed, it had faded to a lilac hue. Her pale hair was covered by a light muslin veil.

  She certainly looked different than the woman she was just seven days ago, one who wore hose and a short tunic like the men, a woman who wore her hair uncovered and waged war.

  “I do not see you as a nun. You’re too stubborn,” Brice pronounced at last. “I think you should marry.”

  “If I’m too stubborn for God, then a man would hardly take me for his wife. Did you think of that?” she asked, struggling to hide a smile.

  His expression immediately became downcast. “Well, no…”

  “Then a nunnery is the only place for me to go.”

  Frey patted his hand and stood. She could hear the quiet shuffling of the monks heading to the chapel for their noon-day devotions, and she wanted to talk to Brother Halig before he departed.

  Brice tugged her hand urgently.

  “Promise me you won’t marry Drefan.”

  She halted. What did Brice know of the arrangement made by their father and Drefan?

  Not that it mattered now. Even if Drefan turned up today with legions of men and pledged his life to her on bended knee, she would spit in his face before running the gutless coward through.

  “Why not?” asked Frey, curious to know Brice’s objections.

  To her knowledge, Drefan’s perfidy extended to naïve young women and desperate, displaced earls, not to the young boy who once considered him a b
ig brother.

  “I did not care for the way he looked at you,” he answered seriously.

  “And how did he look at me?”

  Brice’s forehead puckered and his fingers plucked at the blanket as he concentrated hard on his answer.

  “As if he had secrets to keep from you.”

  Frey’s expression of surprise at Brice’s words was lost in the sound of a follow-up question that came from behind her.

  “What secrets were they, my lord?”

  She turned and scowled at Sebastian; he flicked his eyes in her direction for the barest moment before turning his full attention to Brice.

  Frey fumed. How dare he intrude on a private conversation? Adding to her annoyance was the realization that Brice was not at all concerned at seeing this giant of a man move toward his bed.

  Brice shrugged helplessly.

  “I don’t know…just secrets.” Then, deciding on his answer, Brice tilted his head to meet Sebastian’s eye. “Like he knew a humorous story but decided it would be more fun not to tell it.”

  Sebastian nodded his understanding and damn if the man didn’t look as though he did understand. It was as though she had missed an entire conversation that had taken place in front of her.

  From a pocket in his bliaut, Sebastian withdrew a small, dark-gray bundle of fur and dropped it into Brice’s hands.

  “A kitten!” the boy exclaimed.

  “Yes. I was told he was old enough to leave his mother, but he still needs someone to care for him,” said Sebastian.

  The kitten mewled and kneaded the bedclothes with tiny claws. Brice stroked the little creature carefully. He looked to Frey for confirmation. May he keep the gift?

  Frey kept her gaze fixed on her brother. If she looked at Sebastian he might see how much this act of thoughtfulness affected her. How dare Sebastian confuse her like this! She was furious with him just a few moments earlier.

  She smiled at her brother and gave a short nod.

  How could she refuse him this? He had nothing in this world he could call his own. She would never refuse him.

  “Ouch! Stop it!” Brice gave the tabby a tap on the nose in answer to a particularly enthusiastic nibble.

  She cleared her throat against the tumult of emotions that plagued her.

  “Uh, he will need a name,” Frey told Brice, who no longer looked at her but instead played with his new pet.

  “I’m going to call him Grindan.”

  Frey laughed, and Brice did too.

  “That’s a perfect name,” Frey agreed.

  Sebastian looked confused and, tempting though it was to leave him in that state, Frey decided to put the man out of his misery.

  “Grindan is a Saxon name. It means ‘sharp.’”

  Sebastian joined in the laughter.

  * * *

  Sebastian didn’t laugh now.

  In fact, if Frey met the man for the first time today, she would be absolutely convinced he had not laughed a moment in his poor, misbegotten life.

  His expression was new to her—fixed and grim. She had not seen him wear it the past three days spent in his company. As a result, it filled her with unease.

  Frey smoothed down her kirtle and touched her head rail to ensure her veil held in place.

  The action gave her a few moments to take in the room and the anteroom off the great library of St. Cuthbert’s. It held not only their handwritten illuminated Bibles, but also copies of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicles and generations of local lore of which her family history was a part.

  A monk who was to be scribe for this interview sat at a scarred and ink-stained desk, ready to begin. The light from the window behind him may have suited writing, but it cast all of his features into ominous shadow.

  The sound of a throat being cleared drew Frey’s attention to Abbot Brother Ranulf, head of St. Cuthbert’s Abbey.

  “We are here to officially confirm the identity of a young woman who claims to be Lady Alfreya of Tyrswick, the only daughter of Earl Alfred of Tyrswick, and a young boy who claims to be Lord Brice of Tyrswick, the younger son of Earl Alfred of Tyrswick.”

  The abbot paused and the room fell silent apart from the scratching of pen on parchment.

  “Do you swear by the holy book at your right hand that all you will tell us today is the whole truth, so help you God?”

  Frey’s affirmative answer rang out clear and unambiguously and she was invited to tell her story.

  This is what was recorded:

  Alfreya, aged twenty-one summers, is the oldest living child of Earl Alfred of Tyrswick, whose family has held these lands for generations. She is the second issue of Alfred of Tyrswick, who was slain in battle during spring in the Year of Our Lord 1077, being the 11th year of the reign of William of England.

  The fact of Alfred’s death is testified to by the baron of Tyrswick, Lord Sebastian de la Croix, who holds these lands by deed and by right from the rightful king of England.

  Furthermore, the lady confirms that Alfred’s firstborn, a son christened Edmund, was born in the winter of 1053. No other children were issue of this holy union, Alfred’s wife having died in childbirth in the winter of 1065.

  At the age of 8 years, Edmund, heir to Tyrswick, was fostered to the earl of Alnwick. He was believed killed at the Battle of Stamford Bridge in the year 1066, along with his lord, fighting alongside King Harold to successfully repel an invading Viking force. Edmund's body was never found.

  The scribe looked up, waiting for Frey to continue her recounting. She glanced to where Sebastian sat on a long wooden bench in the shadows and waited for the question she knew would be coming.

  “If your mother died in 1065, then who is the mother of Brice?” he asked.

  Frey heard the abbot straighten in his chair.

  “You may wish to think about your next answer very carefully, my dear,” he instructed gravely. “We have no record of Alfred remarrying nor of a second male child being registered as his issue.”

  “Brice is Alfred’s son by his hearth wife, a woman by the name of Rheda.”

  Sebastian let out a long hiss of surprise and leaned forward into the filtered light that poured through the library window.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “If your purpose was to withhold this news in order to make a fool of me, then you’ve succeeded admirably.”

  Frey shivered as though the words themselves were falling snow. His expression was now completely closed off to her, but Sebastian’s bitter words lit a spark of anger.

  “I beg pardon, baron, if my deception has wounded you, but do not expect me to be sorry for it,” she answered with passion. “Whether we share full blood or half, Brice is still my brother. To see him whole and my father’s men returned to their land by any means other than in chains is my only concern, and I will use any means necessary to guarantee it.”

  Abbot Ranulf looked shocked. The defiant stare Frey intended for Sebastian was unleashed on him instead as she continued.

  “My father already made provision for Rheda and Brice. He had Edmund for his heir, but after his death, he decided to claim Brice in full and name him as successor. That’s why we were in Durham.” She glanced at Sebastian, accusingly. “Then the harrying came.”

  The abbot recovered his composure. He nodded to the scribe, who still paused in his work, awaiting confirmation that this uncomfortable revelation was to form part of the official record.

  “And the reason you accompanied your father, my dear?” he inquired.

  “I was there to be married.”

  “To whom?”

  The question was asked by Sebastian.

  “I don’t know,” she shrugged at him. “I wasn’t told.”

  Sebastian uttered a curse, the first she’d ever heard pass his lips. The sound of the bench scraping loudly against the stone floor echoed through the library as he stood and stormed from the room.

  There. It was out. The complete truth, so help her God.

  Frey felt sick.

>   CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sebastian’s departure marked the end of the interview. The abbot was satisfied Frey’s claims were true and her account would be added to the official record. The only thing that remained was to plan for the future, and that required prayer and contemplation. Abbot Ranulf told Frey he was planning to do both and advised she do the same.

  Her form of contemplation involved a walk in the walled grounds of the abbey, avoiding the occasional shower of rain that punctuated the day. The monks at work at their labors, some in the field, others tending animals, still more indoors educating novices and translating books, all paid her no heed, leaving Frey to walk unescorted.

  She was drawn to the stables in the eastern end of the compound.

  “Ebon is a very sympathetic listener.”

  A dozen horses were stabled here and she recognized those that belonged to Tyrswick.

  Ebon stamped the hard, packed dirt floor twice in greeting. Frey snagged a brush hung on a peg protruding from a post and started grooming the black stallion.

  “What do you think I should do, Ebon? Am I really too mulish to be a nun?” she whispered into his ear.

  The horse nodded his head.

  “That is a not comforting answer, my friend. Do you think I should be more specific in my query?”

  Ebon huffed out a breath in response and Frey continued brushing, dropping to her haunches to brush down the magnificent beast’s legs, pleased to see yesterday’s scratches were healing.

  The action was both purposeful and relaxing—two of the things that Frey sorely needed to soothe her spirit.

  Once or twice, a monk walked into the stable to access one of the adjoining storage rooms for some purpose or another, but no one disturbed her occupation, indeed probably wouldn’t have seen her in the afternoon shadows.

  So when another set of footsteps crossed the threshold, she paid them no mind until she heard a man speak.