Warrior's Surrender

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  The local woman wore a satchel with dry clothes for her husband and boy and was no doubt familiar with this area. She was wide of girth and took strides to match, grimly plodding on without complaint.

  Frey wore her bow and quiver. Her only concession to the conditions was a walking staff, which would, if needed, also serve as a stretcher pole.

  He watched her brush a sweat-soaked strand of hair from her eyes and raise them to his as if daring him to make comment.

  He smiled. Even dressed in rough tunic and hose, and muddy up to her knees, she was beautiful, and his heart was filled with a proprietorial pride.

  Their journey took them up an incline where granite rocks forced the river through a narrow fracture. The ground here was dry, and the elevation provided opportunity to look out over the valley and farther downstream.

  Sebastian walked past several men who had stopped to light a small fire and prepare their noon meal. On the lea side of the hill, a flock of sheep stood grazing and, from what Sebastian could see, several of the ewes were lambing.

  “Robert! Fetch Mistress Eames.”

  Moving with surprising speed for someone of her build, the woman was soon at Sebastian’s shoulder with Frey not far behind.

  “Are these yours?”

  The woman peered down the grassed slope before letting out an ear-splitting series of short whistles. Sebastian winced.

  Soon one ovine head lifted. The bellwether bleated, separating himself from the herd to start up the rise.

  “Aye, they be ours,” the woman confirmed.

  Soon, the rest of the sheep were on the move, with newborn lambs following their mothers.

  “If ye be seein’ to ’bout husband and bairn, I’ll see to takin’ this lot back t’village.”

  “Will you not stay for the search?” asked Frey with surprise.

  Mistress Eames shrugged. “There be no point findin’ ’im if he ain’t nothin’ to come back to.”

  Her logic was irrefutable.

  * * *

  Following the repast and the departure of the shepherd’s wife, along with a Tyrswick knight as escort, Sebastian settled next to Frey on one of the small boulders littering the top of the hill and scraped the worst of the mud from his boots.

  “You should have gone back with her,” he said.

  It earned him a sour look.

  “Don’t you treat me like a soft-born flower, Baron,” she retorted. “I can keep going as long as you can.”

  She softened her harsh words with a slow, seductive smile.

  “Besides, where else would I rather be than beside my husband?”

  Her words were having an effect on him.

  Temptress.

  If she wanted to play, then he would be honor-bound to join her.

  “I seem to recall you have a fondness for outdoor sport, princess,” he drawled. “Now the weather is warming, we should see how long you can keep going.”

  A flare of her nostrils and the widening of her bright blue eyes told him his aim was true.

  He leaned in closer, so close he could feel her body heat.

  “There’s a stream just beyond Tyrswick walls and a waterfall that is shaded and cool in summer. It’s secluded. I can’t wait to introduce you to how good it feels to swim in bare skin. Think about it, princess.”

  Frey's breath hitched and she licked her lips.

  “Then summer cannot come too swiftly, my lord.”

  The sun had moved to its mid-afternoon position, and the search party turned to the north to check upstream of a tributary that normally ran slow and clear but which the melting snow and rains had transformed into a roiling, dun-colored maelstrom.

  “It’s usually easy to cross here,” yelled one of the local men. “Most times the water is only knee-deep and only as wide as a man.”

  Sebastian could see nearly twice as much water churned through.

  “Eames won’t have gone too far from his flock,” said Sebastian. “What might bring the man up here?”

  “There’s an old hunter’s hut somewhere around here. If the storm got too bad, he might have decided to take the boy there,” he man answered.

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “Aye.” The man pressed forward to take the lead.

  * * *

  Frey put one foot in front of the other, her calves and thighs protesting their labor, and followed the rest of the party. Sebastian and Gaines took the lead with the villager. Two other knights walked ahead of her and another soldier followed behind.

  She adjusted the weight of her quiver across her back and pushed herself forward, looking down to avoid exposed tree roots, felled branches, and other debris that made the walk treacherous.

  Her clothes were damp and cold. Mud coated her hose to the knees. By the chalky sensation on her skin, a smear even streaked her cheek.

  She was content to remain in her own thoughts. Her conversation with Friar Dominic weighed heavily on her.

  She knew the evil that men did for power, glory, or gold, the sins identifiable and their motivation plan, but the concept of evil as an entity? It seemed to beggar belief.

  God she could believe in readily, although in her experience he was as stubborn as she was and with a stranger sense of humor.

  But the idea of an intangible evil? Surely such was make-believe, like the stories of fairies and hobgoblins told to make children behave. And yet when Dominic told her the hand of evil was at work, there was a quickening in her spirit as though somewhere deep in her being she knew the words he spoke were true.

  “You’re telling me the man, this…creature, who killed Diera is close?” she had asked him before their departure.

  “Closer than we all realize,” Dominic confirmed.

  “Then why does Sebastian not go out after him?” she demanded with passion. “He could find him and send him to the hell he deserves!”

  “Because evil does not always wear the same face.”

  Dominic paused, waiting for her to compose herself.

  “I've prayed much and contemplated on this, Alfreya. I wanted to talk to you because I believe Sebastian is the one who can stare evil in the face and win. Not simply because he is baron of Tyrswick and the law of these lands, but because he has been chosen to do so. The devil and his minions know this and they will try to stop him.”

  Frey stepped back, his words frightening her.

  “You think I’m a mad man, ‘but God has chosen the foolish things to confound the wise.’”

  She shook her head slowly with each step away.

  “Examine your heart and you’ll know I’m right. Pray for him, my dear, that’s all I ask you to do.”

  But Frey couldn’t just leave it to prayer. Her insistence in joining this search party was not borne of stubborn bravado, but for a very real fear for Sebastian’s safety.

  At the sound of yells from the front of the group, Frey looked up and then across the churning water to the welcome sight of a man and his boy, wet, bedraggled, and clearly feeling the effects of exposure.

  The child, aged about eight, was thrilled to see the search party and took several weary steps toward the water. “Stay there!” Sebastian yelled, waving his arms. “Stay there! Tell him to get back.”

  At last the shepherd understood the instructions and laid a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder to prevent him moving forward.

  Excitement and relief overcame fatigue. Frey found the energy to jog to where Sebastian huddled with Gaines, Robert, and his other men.

  “…I doubt even the shepherd could make it across unaided, and with the boy not at all,” she overheard Gaines speak.

  “Agreed,” responded Sebastian. “Nothing we’ve seen for the past three miles is remotely suitable for crossing. How much rope and line do we have with us?”

  Frey moved in closer to stand at Sebastian’s shoulder. Despite the damp and sweat, he was warm.

  Feeling her beside him, Sebastian gave her an odd look before returning his attention to Robert
.

  “We have four lengths about four yards long, my lord, and two of twine,” answered Robert.

  “The trees on the other side look as though they may hold. If we can get a rope across, they could use it as a handhold,” suggested Gaines.

  “If the shepherd tied himself and his son to the rope, we could haul them across,” added Robert.

  Sebastian glanced at the swollen water course. “Either way, it’s a plan.”

  The huddle broke up and Sebastian yelled across the rushing water. Eventually the message was understood and the shepherd put a little distance between himself and the straight, wide tree trunk, gathering the lad to his side.

  Sebastian lined up his mark, making adjustments to compensate for the expected drag of the trailing twine knotted ahead of the fletching, waiting for word the twine was securely tied to one of their lengths of rope.

  Frey remained in the background, wishing to be of assistance but determined not to be a distraction. She hugged to her chest the bag of dry clothing Mistress Eames had left with her.

  She glanced up to the treetops, where the wind that cleared the skies made it difficult to get a clear shot. Although she had faith in Sebastian’s abilities, she knew the attempt was not without risk. The arrow falling short of the tree was the least worst of the possible outcomes.

  Sebastian stepped sideways to compensate and, as Frey watched him take a deep breath, she breathed with him and prayed.

  The arrow was launched.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Frey saw the length of coiled rope jerk and raise its head like an awakened snake.

  A cheer followed a split second after.

  Frey jerked out of her reverie to see the shepherd already rushing to the arrow. Moments later he was pulling across the twine, then the rope. The man snatched and tied the line around the trunk just below the embedded arrow, then two men behind Frey tensioned their end of the rope around a tree.

  The shepherd urged the boy on ahead of him, but the timid lad needed coaxing when the pull of the current threatened to drag him under the line. None-too-steady on his feet either, the man hoisted the lad onto his back and doggedly moved forward, the water reaching his knees, then his waist before he was halfway across.

  A crack heard clearly over the roaring water was so loud Frey checked the sky for a storm before she saw the true cause.

  “Look out!” she screamed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Upstream, a tree heavy with rain and weakened by rot, wind, and erosion of the riverbank plunged gracelessly into the water, leaves quivering violently as though with fright.

  The fear on the shepherd’s face as he looked upstream was naked.

  He moved as fast as he could along the line. The force of the current and the slippery stones beneath his feet slowed each step as the fallen tree, leadenly tumbling in the hurrying water, came toward him and his child.

  Then it struck them. Two heads disappeared beneath the torrent.

  No, no, no! Frey chanted to herself. There was nothing to do but watch in horror.

  After a heart-stopping second, the shepherd's head emerged. He had managed to hang on to the rescue line as the tree rushed beneath it.

  “Papa! Papa!”

  The panic-stricken voice of the child faded into the roar of the cascade as, tangled in the branches of the tree, he was swept downstream with ever-increasing speed.

  “See to him!” Sebastian commanded, pointing to the father as he sprinted along the riverbank in pursuit of the boy. Without thought, Frey ran after him, but with his superior size and strength, he quickly outpaced her.

  When she lost sight of him, she followed the trail he left behind. Sword, bow, quiver, aketon, cloak—anything that would weigh him down.

  As Frey rounded the bend, only a couple of hundred yards away from the roiling junction of the tributary and river, she saw that Sebastian had overtaken the fallen tree, but only just.

  Before she could catch her breath, Sebastian leaped at the tree.

  He made an unsteady landing on the trunk, the action propelling the tree toward the other bank, where overhanging branches impeded its forward progress. The young boy’s hysterical screams grew louder as Sebastian edged himself nearer and stretched out his arm.

  Fear for her love—this man who was hers, heart, mind, body, and soul—beat a relentless tattoo against Frey's ribs. Over the roar of the rushing water, she could see him speaking words of encouragement to the lad who clung to a limb in a death grip. The child reached out to him and, in a swift movement, Sebastian hauled the boy onto the trunk.

  She could see the youngster was badly cut and grazed, and the tree rocked with the movement, threatening to throw them both back into the water.

  “Frey!” Sebastian called, his voice even, but his expression tight. “Get a line over here now! It’s not going to hold.”

  Her? But what could she do that he in all his strength could not?

  Her hesitation was only fleeting, but it was observed by Gaines, who was the first to catch up with them. Frey could see the expression of disgust that flitted across his face as their eyes met. Gaines hated her, that much was clear, despite the effort she had made to be a good wife to Sebastian and to unite Tyrswick.

  She raised her chin. No matter what he thought of her, she was the baroness and, by God, she would use every inch of her authority.

  “Rope! Now!”

  The man jumped like a startled rabbit and repeated the command to poor Robert, who scrambled on the double.

  Frey ignored her shaking hands, shucking off the quiver and bringing her bow into position. Sebastian’s position on the log was even more precarious as debris building up behind the tree threatened to push them away from the opposite bank and back into the flow.

  Robert handed her an arrow with the rope tied directly to the shaft.

  Despite the chill of the late afternoon, beads of sweat ran down her cheeks as she lined up a target, a small clear patch of gray bark not bigger than twelve inches across on an object that bobbed and rocked.

  Poorly judge the shot and she’d miss, or worse—hit Sebastian or the boy.

  She started at Gaines's sudden breath beside her ear. “Now you have it, Mistress,” he intoned softly. “Convenient, would it not be, if the Saxons regained Tyrswick at the hand of the wife of a Norman baron? Let’s see how much you really want Tyrswick.”

  “Get the hell away from me,” Frey hissed.

  Gaines stepped away and Frey took a deep breath. She spared Sebastian a glance and his expression gave her confidence.

  She commanded her hands to steady, took aim again, and released the arrow. Weighted by the rope, it fell short, but close enough for Sebastian to lean down and grab before it was swept away.

  He snapped away the arrow and, with swift, practiced movements, he tied the rope to himself, then lashed the child to his chest, thrusting off as the log finally dislodged and tumbled wildly away.

  The rope tensioned and the force of the flowing water pushed Sebastian and the lad below the surface.

  With muscles straining and teeth gritting, Robert, Gaines, Eames, and two other knights heaved on the line, struggling against the weight of a grown man and a child being dragged farther downstream.

  Frey grasped her bow tightly and fixed her eyes on yellow-gray water, watching for her husband and the child to reappear. Long tense seconds passed before an explosive surge broke the surface.

  Sebastian gasped for air, as did the boy, who also coughed in body-shaking spasms. Sebastian rolled onto his back, taking the boy on top of him, and kicked powerfully against the current while his men on the bank hauled them ashore.

  “Papa!”

  The crying boy struggled free of the rope and, weeping tears of fright, rushed into the open arms of his father.

  Frey turned from the reunion, ignoring Gaines as he ordered the men to ready for the return journey to the village.

  Sebastian stood apart from the bustle, his back to her, resting
his forehead on a raised arm, allowing a few wet, choking coughs to escape.

  “Art hurt?” she asked softly. She could see his cuts and bruises were minor ones, which he would not count.

  He answered with a curt shake of his head, but he did not turn to face her until he had pulled in another lungful of air, which ended in a racking cough.

  Frey wondered if he hit his head while underwater. She reached up and ran her fingers through the wet locks, searching for telltale lumps.

  He halted her exploration with his free hand around her wrist and hauled her to him, so close she could feel his warm breath on her cheek.

  Sebastian didn’t embrace her as she longed for him to do.

  Here, before the men, he was baron of Tyrswick, a warrior, a leader. Her tender and thorough lover was a part of him that was theirs alone.

  Still, the powerful physical communication between them was palpable. She knew he felt it as she did; it flowed between them as it had done when they faced down the wolf pack so many months ago.

  The spark of passion was merely an ember then, newly ignited, but these months and their marriage had provided ample fuel so now it burned brightly and threatened to combust into a conflagration.

  The look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know of his thoughts. The desire to possess her as soon as possible was etched plain on his face. She knew her willing answer was to be found on hers.

  The very thought made heat run through her veins.

  She licked her lips and touched his sodden clothing. Sebastian watched her hungrily.

  “We need to get you dry,” she whispered.

  He quirked his lips into a predatory half smile.

  “And I was thinking about getting you wet.”

  * * *

  The village celebrated that night, overjoyed by the safe return of the shepherd and his son, not to mention the recovery of the flock.