by Gail Link
Never.
Chapter 18
Rolf paced the confines of his chamber. All that occupied his mind were visions of the Lady Sybelle, riding to the hunt dressed in her man's garb; sitting there, atop her horse, accepting the tribute of the village elder.
He smiled, remembering the whispered comments of the women of the village regarding his choice of a woman. Even her mode of dress hadn't altered their notion of the rightness of her. This puzzled him. Outsiders were generally treated with the hospitality due them, yet courtesy was tempered with caution. There was something about her that his people responded to, an inner warmth. He saw it in the gentle smile she bestowed on the lad who offered her the drink, in the way she blushed at the old man's words. One woman had uttered the word бlainn. Beautiful. Indeed, beautiful was a word he would have used for her.
His thirst for vengeance had abated somewhat, and he found himself wondering just how he could have allowed his sense of purpose to have become lost. It was too easy to forget when all he wanted to do so desperately was take her to his bed, lose himself in the warmth of her body and forget that she was the daughter of his enemy. She was here for one purpose, and he must remain steadfast to that plan, no matter how much he wantedachedto alter what he'd set out to do.
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Supper was a quiet affair, with just Rolf, Bran, and Sybelle. The Great Hall was surrounded by shadows as the focus of the light was at the table. To one side several harpists, who were again on the main floor instead of in the smaller musicians' gallery above, played a mournful melody, befitting the somber mood of the trio.
Each maintained a carefully crafted silence, speaking only when absolutely necessary. The ease of the earlier part of the day seemed to have vanished with the passing of the hours.
'Tis as though a funeral were taking place, Rolf thought, with the way we all sit here and make no effort to communicate with each other.
To the musicians, he demanded. ''Play something else, something light and gay."
One of the men ceased playing the harp and picked up a lute. He strummed the instrument, picking out a lively tune. The musician could tell that they were responding to the change in tempo, and he lead the others in faster, heartier music, even asking the Lord Bran to lend his voice in song.
"With your permission, brother?"
Rolf bowed his head, nodding his assent.
Branduff joined the group, picking up a lute for himself. He strummed the strings quickly, testing the tone. Satisfied, he began to play. His voice was a lilting tenor, and the song he sang was in Gaelic.
Even though Sybelle couldn't understand the words, she responded to the inflection of his words, to the soaring use he made of the human instrument he possessed.
When he finished, she loudly clapped her appreciation. Bran made an exaggerated bow towards the table.
"His voice pleases you?" Rolf asked.
"Aye, it does, my Lord Killroone."
"Bran has the blessing of the ancient ones in his throat. He inherited that from our Welsh mother. I, however, do not possess that gift."
Sybelle turned to him and confided, "Neither do I. My voice is only fair. My sisters have the gift, however, as did my mother." She wisely chose not to mention that her father also held title to a fine singing voice, though he seldom used it. "Clare's soprano is a joy to hear." Mentally she recalled her younger sibling's range and tone, noting that it would blend harmoniously with Bran's.
The tempo of the music changed. Rolf recognized the basse danse, made popular by the Burgundian court. He stood up and held out his hand. "My lady?" he asked, half expecting her to voice a nay.
Sybelle hesitated. Should she refuse? She should, her head decided.
Her hand in his, they walked across the stone floor till they stood before the musicians and were surrounded by the shadows. Rolf lead her into the soft, gliding steps of the dance, which they executed perfectly. One dance lead inevitably to another, as she taught the movements of the English court dances to Rolf. She ignored the quick leap of her pulse when he placed his hand on hers, as he bent low and his breath drifted across the deep neckline of her borrowed gown. His fingers gripped her waist and raised her slightly above the floor as if her weight meant nothing to him. She breathed the clean scent he exuded. That brought her thoughts back to the festival that was held at Castle Derran last Twelfthnight. She had been dancing with another Royal Sheriff, who had smelt like a strong fish left out too long. Luckily, in her hand she had held a linen square that was liberally spiced with her favorite scent.
Another notion struck her. That was also the night that the Lady Duvessa and her father shared a dance. Looking back now, she could see their faces in the light of the hundreds of glowing tapers. Her father had whispered something to Duvessa, and the lady had smiled up at him, her wide hazel eyes shining with a look of sweet joy shared between them. Why hadn't Sybelle paid closer attention to it? Probably because at that precise moment the gentleman had stepped on her kid-covered foot, causing her to halt the dance for the pain.
A faster tempo brought her mind back to the present; Rolf smiled and released her hand, stepping aside. Among the instruments that the musicians used was one she had never heard played before. Its existence was not unfamiliar to her, and the Scots were also known to be fond of this musical instrument. The keening sound of the bagpipes filled the room.
Sybelle paused to watch as both Rolf and Bran danced to the different sound the pipes produced. When finished, they both let out a booming yell which reverberated in the Hall, startling the master's dogs.
Brother slapped brother on the back. Sybelle walked to the table and poured a glass of ale for each man. Turning, she beckoned both men with her arms outstretched, a warm smile on her features.
In each man's mind was the notion that the Lady Sybelle looked at ease here; hers was the warming, welcoming glance that beckoned one home, and gave peace.
Bran and Rolf eagerly took the tankards from her hands and quaffed the brew to the accompaniment of the musicians as they continued to produce lovely sounds.
The tranquil scene was interrupted by the sudden arrival of Auliffe, bearing a large leather pouch in his huge hand.
"My lord," he nodded his head, "pray forgive me for this interruption."
Rolf, feeling a sense of happiness that he hadn't known in a long while, said, "What is amiss that you come now?"
"A messenger has just arrived from England, my lord."
With that pronouncement a pall fell over those assembled in the room. Then Sybelle's eyes fell on the distinctive crest on the pouch. It was from Derran, her father. She could feel the leap in her heartbeat.
Bran felt the chill overtake his earlier mood, and he cursed the luck that brought the messenger at this time, just when there seemed to be something taking place between his brother and the lady.
"Where is the messenger?" Killroone asked, dismissing the musicians with a curt wave of his hand. They scurried away as fast as they could.
"Waiting outside."
"Bid him enter and wait here. I shall see what the Earl of Derran has to say."
"As you wish, my lord," Auliffe answered, leaving the hall and returning with a tired-looking youth.
Rolf placed his tankard on the table and took the pouch from Auliffe's hands; he opened it, tossing the heavy leather onto the stone floor with a thud. He held in his hand a thick sheaf of papers crowned with a wax seal bearing the stamp of the Earl of Derran. Breaking the wax impression, Rolf walked away from the group and stood before the blazing fire to read the letter. His face remained implacable, the strong set of his jaw firm and resolute. He read the pages slowly, taking his time, absorbing what was written and what was implied.
Sybelle anxiously watched his face, searching for some clue to his reaction to her father's letter. She could detect no softening to the hard shell of his features. What was taking place in the dark recesses of his mind? What had her father to say?
She longed to run over to Killroone and rip the sheets from his hand and see for herself what was written. Her left hand gripped the fabric of her skirt and tugged at it nervously.
Rolf finished reading. He said nothing for a moment, merely looked down from his height to the flames. He then stood up straight, his shoulders squared. Turning, his wide mouth was curved into a slight smile. One brow was raised just a fraction over the cool, slightly slanted green eyes.
Sybelle stared at him, mesmerized by the power she saw in those eyes, in the saturnine mask his features wore.
"The Earl of Derran demands," he emphasized, "that I return his daughter the Lady Sybelle to him. The arrogance of your sire astounds me, my lady. He demands. God's Blood!" Rolf smiled with a wicked charm. ''He makes a passionate plea for your release, under his terms." He held high the papers in his right hand. "It seems the earl is willing to make recompense that he feels will be equitable. A king's ransom indeed he offers for you, my lady. Your freedom for estates, jewels, gold."
"May I now read the letter, my Lord Killroone?"
"Prithee, do so," he said.
Sybelle approached him, both fear and excitement racing through her veins. A message from Derran at lasta way, she hoped, to free her from her bitter bondage.
She focused her eyes on the outstretched hand that held the document, and a shiver of sensual pleasure flicked her nerves. It was a powerful hand, one that held pain and pleasure, hope and despair, comfort and condemnation. Could she retrieve the document without putting her flesh to his?
She reached out her smaller hand for the paper. His fingertips grazed her hand for the smallest fraction of time before she withdrew. Her legs felt weak. She needed to sit down to read this letter. Bran correctly interpreted her searching look. A chair was immediately placed for her use.
Sybelle sank down gratefully, giving him a faint smile.
"My Lord Killroone," she read.
"In your possession is the person of my eldest daughter. I would have her back in my safe keeping. Name your price and it shall be met, whatever you ask. Money is of no consequence. Whatever form you deem payment in shall be accorded, be it land, jewels, or precious metals.
What ere your quarrel with me, my daughter is innocent. If 'tis blood you seek, then be man enough to meet me in single combat. No retainers. No large scale forces. 'Twill be decided by you and me, alone."
So intent on her father's words was Sybelle that she didn't hear Rolf coming up behind her. She felt his hand on either side of her head, stroking the soft texture of her hair, molding her skull, as he leaned down to whisper words for her alone.
"Innocent," he drawled out the word. "Derran speaks of that so convincingly. Blood." Again the word was drawn out, as if he was testing the pronunciation of a foreign term. "Does he suspect, my lady, that you no longer possess innocence, and that the blood sacrifice has already been paid? By you?''
Sybelle paled at his softly spoken words, each one a lash against her bruised soul. She also spoke low, with an edge of sadness to her voice. "My father is a soldier, my lord. I know his mind; he must take careful consideration of all the facts placed before him." She swallowed and closed her eyes, which were laced with moisture. "Aye, I believe, in truth, he knows." She bowed her head, silently acknowledging the unspoken sharing of her shame.
Rolf's fingers tightened ever so slightly on her shoulders. "Suppose I were to demand his life as forfeit. Would he willingly sacrifice himself for you?" he questioned.
Her head rose as she unconsciously responded to the soothing movements of his hands. "Aye, my lord. He would. But you would not seek that."
Rolf's fingers stopped their ministrations. He whispered, "How can you be sure of that, my lady?"
Sybelle turned her head slightly. "For, in truth, there would be no satisfaction in that demand for you, my Lord Killroone."
Rolf knelt by her side. He needed to see her face as he asked, "How can you be so certain, Sybelle?"
How could she explain to him that it was just something she felt, that she knew with no reason. "For you there would be no satisfaction in the gesture of the deed. Else why would I be here now? You would have hunted my father down, and never thought of me. No, a sacrifice would defeat your purpose. The victory would come too soon, and be empty for you. You would not accept his quick death."
"Who said 'twould be quick?"
Sybelle locked her gaze to his, gray-blue eyes meeting with green. "You would."
"Are you so sure?" he demanded.
A sad twist of her lips became a bittersweet smile. "'Tis something I am certain of, my lord. If you were to demand the death of a brave opponent such as my father, you would execute it as befitted his position. Your honor would demand it."
She understood, he thought with an odd surprise. He reached up his hand to cup her face.
"What will be your answer, my lord?" she asked, dropping her lids to hide the fear she was feeling.
"There has been no mention of my cousin, the Lady Duvessa. Strange, do you not think?"
Sybelle paused for reflection. "Mayhap Derran wants it that way."
"But I do not. And the game is of my device. The rules are set down by me. Only me." He stood, resuming his place behind her, and whispered in her ear, "Suppose, my lady, I had said I would accept his life. What would you have done?"
"Given you cause to change your mind, my lord." She needed no further explanation than that. Rolf understood immediately what she would have offered. Her pride and body willingly given tor her father's life. In that moment he envied Derranto be loved so much that a woman of Sybelle's quality would sacrifice her own high principles.
Rolf addressed the messenger, who stood mutely observing the scene, as did Bran and Auliffe. "Tell your master that we have no bargain. Not until he returns what belongs in Ireland. Have you got that, boy?"
The boy, dressed in the livery colors of Derran, nodded his head. Bravely, he decided to try now his instruction from Sir John. "May I take a message from the Lady Sybelle to her most noble father, the earl?"
"No, you may not," Rolf said. "You may say that the lady is well, in good health, as you can plainly see." Rolf once again laid his hands on her hair, slowly caressing it, allowing the youth to put his own interpretation on the gesture. And the boy could see the easy familarity with which the Earl of Killroone caressed the Lady Sybelle. Such actions would normally be permitted only by a member of the lady's family, or her husband; clearly this man was neither, yet he assumed the position of intimacy.
Robin knew he was the eyes and ears of his absent lord, and what he would have to report would tear an agonizing hole in the Earl of Derran's staunch pride. It bothered him to see this Irishman play so free with his lady. He wanted to draw a sword and demand satisfaction for his lord's sake, and yet he knew he couldn't. And he was within the walls of Killroone's own strongholdan untenable position to be issuing a foolhardy challenge. Better to hold his tongue and temper, else he could not serve his Lord Derran or his daughter.
Rolf's narrowed green gaze saw the conflicting emotions on the guileless boy's face. The lad still hadn't learned to hide his feelings before battle lest his opponent all too easily read them and thereby find his weak spot.
Defiantly, Robin asked, "My lady?"
Sybelle could feel the tense pressure of Rolf's fingers on her throat before he walked away from her to refill his empty tankard. She rose from the chair, putting a charming smile on her face for the messenger. "Only this. Bid my father and sisters well for me. Say that they have my love, as I pray I possess theirs." She clasped his hand, and he knelt to kiss hers, saluting her bravery. "Tell them . . . " she paused. "Tell them that I long most heartily for our reunion. God willing, 'twill be soon."
"It shall be as you command, my Lady Sybelle."
"Go in peace and safety, with God's grace."
"May his gracious protection surround you, my lady."
"See that he is fed, and sheltered for the night," Rolf instructed. "He is
to be sent on his way on the morrow."
"As ye wish, my lord," Auliffe said gruffly. "Come, lad," he said, urging the boy along with his large hand.
Bran spoke to Rolf, low and soft. "What does Derran say?"
"Read for yourself," Rolf responded.
Approaching Sybelle, Bran saw that she still held the papers clenched in her slender hand. With the tip of her left index finger, she slowly traced the broken wax seal. He wondered what was going through her mind now. Her thoughts seemed focused inward, as if she weren't really there. And Rolf's eyes now bore the stamp of sadness. The interplay between the two was not lost on Bran. Their silent communication, excluding everyone, was poignant. And palpable.
Christ's blood! he swore angrily to himself. Was there no way out of this position for his brother and the lady? What was to become of their lives? Of the closeness he had glimpsed earlier that evening when they danced, happy in each other's arms?
Sybelle looked past him as he bent to take the letter from her hand. Her eyes, Bran noted, were now focused on the figure of his brother, as if she were absorbing, memorizing details. There was no hate in the gray-blue depths.
At that moment Rolf turned his head and body just slightly so that his gaze held Sybelle's.
Bran sucked in his breath at the heat he observed passing between them. In his mind leapt the words tine chreasa, the flashing fire. For the sparks between them sizzled in the dimness of the night.
Sybelle rose from the chair she'd returned to when the boy left, silent and proud. She sank into a low curtsy in Rolf's direction before rising to leave the room. All this was accomplished without a sound.
Bran was confused, yet he noted that his brother didn't seem to share his feelings. The Earl of Killroone's narrowed gaze followed the woman departing from the Hall, then he released a deep breath; his hand curled tightly into a fist.
"What will you do?" Bran asked after he read the note from Hugh Fitzgerald.