Master Of Surrender (26 page)

Rohan took a deep breath and looked meaningfully at her. “I have no loyalty to this man. And while he may not support the bands of raiders who have sorely plagued the shire, we found a man bearing his colors amongst those we killed yesterday.”

Isabel’s eyes widened.

“Should he challenge me, I will not back down on your behalf,” Rohan said softly.

Isabel nodded and felt confident that the meeting, while it would not go well for Arlys, would enlighten them all. “I would not expect you to decline on my behalf, Rohan.” She strode over to him and placed her hand on his left forearm. “Let us go and see what the fox is about.”

Rohan looked down at Isabel and smiled. She never ceased to amaze him. He realized at that moment that had A’isha or Wilma not prophesied the maid as his destiny, he would still move heaven and earth to make it so.

She was a rare treasure in his dark and tarnished world. He would always welcome her smile, her touch, her gentle heart. He grinned. And her nails in his back. A livelier maid he never had the pleasure of bedding. His blood quickened. He would give her her wish. He would not breach her. For when he did, she would be his wife proper.

And there would be naught but William to say him nay. Rohan would dispatch the messenger after he dealt with the errant Dunsworth.

As they walked down the hall, Rohan gave Isabel one last appreciative look. While she had bathed and dressed quickly, she was still a sight to behold, begowned in a heavy sapphire-colored velvet, the intricate golden girdle from which her jeweled dagger hung accentuating her waist. Her long, golden hair hung thickly and freely about her shoulders. He would beg her to wear it thus even after they wed. He grinned down at her. But the smile faded as a terrible thought crossed his mind. Would she choose the ousted Saxon over him?

Did she burn for Dunsworth the way she burned for him? Jealousy tore through him, and Rohan decided then and there that he would retain her at all costs.

A
s the couple descended the stairway, every eye in the hall was riveted on them. Rohan scanned the visitors with the scrutiny of a hawk and immediately singled out Dunsworth. He felt Isabel’s hand tremble on his arm. He squeezed it subtly to his chest in reassurance. Once again, a fierce possessiveness he was not familiar with engulfed his being. He did not want to lose Isabel, not when he had just found her.

For a displaced noble, Dunsworth was dressed in rich garb. His aristocratic features were sharp, but his eyes danced with joy as they settled on Isabel. But only briefly. For next they clashed with Rohan’s. Instinctively, Rohan knew the lady beside him blushed, for every person either knew or suspected where they both had just come from. And at that moment, Rohan felt ashamed for the position he had placed her in. He had no right to strip her of her dignity. He would beg her forgiveness.

Once again, foreign emotions toyed with his stiff resolve. It irritated him beyond belief. He was a warrior, a knight of William, captain of
les morts,
the most deadly fighting force known in Christendom, and he was thinking how at his first chance he would beg a maid’s forgiveness for trespassing upon her person, a trespass he was rightfully entitled to!

He scowled heavily, his mood becoming morose. Aye, Dunsworth was everything Rohan despised in a man. Fat, titled, and legitimate.

“My lady!” Arlys cried, and moved toward her, extending his hands to hers. Rohan allowed her to move away from him when they reached the bottom of the stairway.

Arlys grasped her hands, reverently kissing them as he bent down on one knee. “My lady, how fare thee?” Arlys asked ogling up at her as if he were a nursing lad.

Isabel gave her betrothed a short curtsy. “I am well, milord, how fare thee?”

Their polite talk with so many waiting with bated breath for complete havoc to ensue seemed ridiculous to Isabel.

“I am much better now that your beauty once again graces my eyes.” He pulled her away from Rohan, but only so far before Rohan moved his hand to the hilt of his sword. Arlys looked up at the Norman, his eyes narrowed. “I am Arlys, Lord of Dunsworth. I wish no war with you, Norman. I have come here with the sole intention of claiming my betrothed, Lady Isabel.”

Rohan nodded and looked past Dunsworth to his handful of assembled men. While they looked battle-weary, they stood erect and proud. He wondered how many of them had partaken in the slayings.

“Indeed, for a man who no longer holds land or title, you are very bold or very stupid to show yourself here.”

Arlys’s face puffed red. “You are as boorish as your brother, du Luc. But rest assured, while de Monfort drinks my wine, eats my food, rapes my sister, and shouts to the world that he killed my brother, I have confidence I will regain what is rightfully mine.”

Isabel gasped at Arlys’s declaration. Poor sweet Elspeth and young Sir Edward. “Arlys! You must take Elspeth away!” Isabel cried.

He looked down at her and slowly shook his head. “Dunsworth is well guarded. Should I return and get found out, I will suffer greatly.” His blues eyes hardened. “I will petition William for my rights.”

Rohan laughed. “Your petition will fall on deaf ears, Dunsworth. While my brother is the scourge of the earth, our common sire has sent heavy levy to William. De Monfort is a powerful ally to the duke and one he would not want to displease. Henri will hold what he has plundered here. Make no mistake of that.”

Arlys swallowed hard, visibly paling. His eyes darted to Isabel, then back to the Norman. “All is not lost to me, du Luc. I still have my betrothed. Allow her to pack her belongings so that we may go.”

Rohan fondled the hilt of his sword. “What makes you so sure the lady wishes to go with you?”

Arlys looked at Isabel. He smiled, and when she did not return the smile, his lips tightened. “Isabel, tell this man you wish to be released from his care.”

“I—I cannot leave Rossmoor, Arlys,” Isabel said softly.

The noble looked hard at her, then up to the towering Norman. “Cannot or will not?”

She shook her head. “I will not.”

Dunsworth’s face colored dark crimson, and for a man who had everything to lose and very little to gain, he pushed. “Does this man violate you? Has he forced himself on you, Isabel?” he demanded.

Isabel struggled for words. Her eyes lifted to Rohan’s, then turned to her betrothed. Slowly, she shook her head.

Arlys struggled for words, for a thought, for a way to persuade his lady love to fly with him. “I sent Cedric to bring you to me. The forest whispers that this man slew him. Is it true?”

“’Tis true,” Rohan answered for Isabel. “His life for those lives of Alethorpe your men have slain.”

Arlys’s head snapped back, his eyes narrowed. “What lies do you spill, Norman?”

“Your colors were on one of the raiders we slew yesterday.”

Arlys stepped back, shaking his head. “Nay, I never sanctioned such a thing.”

“’Tis not what Cedric said to me, Arlys,” Isabel challenged.

The noble-born Saxon shook his head. “I am afraid, my love, Cedric had his own agenda.” His eyes softened for a moment. “I only asked him to bring you to me.”

“And so you will not have her. The maid has given you her answer,” Rohan reminded him.

“Nay!” Arlys insisted. “She is mine. I will not leave without her!”

Rohan was at the end of his patience. “You have nothing left to offer the lady. You are landless and without title. Your betrothal is null and void.”

The color drained from Arlys’s face as Rohan’s words hit home. Yet he persisted. “I may have lost all, Norman, but I give her the promise of my love and respect and to pledge my troth before God. What do you offer her? The chance to be your leman?”

Those in earshot gasped at the Saxon’s bold words. Rohan drew his sword.

“Nay, Rohan!” Isabel beseeched him, pressing her hand to his arm. “Leave him be.”

His hot gaze pierced deep into her heart. Her hand trembled on his arm. “Please, leave him.”

“Isabel,” Arlys said softly, “’twas your father’s wish we were to wed. Would you deny him that wish?”

Isabel looked stricken for a moment before she turned to the earl. “My father is dead, and mayhap my brother. When our betrothal contract was signed, Edward was king. He is dead, as is Harold. The contract is null, Arlys. It cannot be enforced.”

He dropped to a knee and grabbed her hands into his. “But what of you, Isabel? What of our love?”

Rohan stood so stiffly beside her he thought his back would snap in half. Yet he would have the maid’s answer. Not, he realized, that it would change anything. She was his. No man, contract or no, would take her from him.

Isabel wrestled with her emotions. She did not want to hurt Arlys further, but she also did not want to give him false hope.

“Arlys, I do not love you. Not as you would have me love you. Take this opportunity to find a lady who would make your happiness her happiness.” She shook her head. “I am sorry. I am not that lady.”

He squeezed her hands. “I do not believe you, Isabel. This Norman intimidates you. Come with me! Edgar has been crowned king! There is hope for England!”

Rohan pressed the tip of his sword into Arlys’s chest, moving him away from Isabel. “’Twill be rectified soon, Saxon, I assure you,” Rohan said.

Arlys threw his shoulders back and looked Rohan hard in the eye. “If that is to be the case, is your duke so ignorant as not to understand he will be met with far more resistance should he strip everything from us? Does he not have the slightest understanding that should he be crowned king, there are many Saxons who will pledge loyalty to him?”

Rohan’s eyes narrowed. “Are you such a man, Dunsworth? Do you swear here and now your oath to William?”

Arlys sidestepped the question. “My loyalties are to the king of England.”

Rohan was more direct. “To the current king or the rightful king?”

“I served Edward and Harold. I will serve the king.”

“You play with words, Dunsworth. Which is it? Edgar or William?”

Arlys shot Isabel a glance, then looked hard at Rohan. “I serve the king.”

Rohan smiled and nodded. “You are swift, Dunsworth. But a subject who switches loyalties as frequently as my men switch women is of no value to myself or William. As a former lord, what would you suggest I do with someone such as yourself?”

“Under the circumstances, I would ask that you allow my lady to come with me so that we may find shelter in a clime where we are welcome and not looked upon as slaves.”

Rohan turned and looked down at Isabel. She returned the look, and while he saw she was tense, he felt she wanted the Saxon gone from the hall for fear he might take a ride on Rohan’s sword. “Do you feel unwelcome here, Isabel?”

Isabel looked around the room and saw so many familiar faces. Faces filled with fear of the unknown, faces looking to her for guidance. Faces that looked to her for hope. Her duty was to her people first, and despite her newly discovered feelings for Rohan, she would not leave her home. She shook her head.

“Do you feel set upon by me or my men?”

Slowly, she shook her head.

Rohan turned back to Dunsworth. “The lady has denied you thrice. The subject is no longer open for debate.”

Arlys stood, furious, his hands opened and closed into fists at his side. His men, though unarmed, pressed closer to him in defense. Isabel trembled. She had never seen Arlys so angry.

“You choose this bastard over me?”

“I choose Rossmoor, Arlys.”

“Would you choose the man who now owns Rossmoor if you knew he slew your sire?” Arlys triumphantly flung at her.

Isabel’s body jerked as if she had been hit in the chest with a club.

“What say you?” she whispered.

“Du Luc is the slayer of your sire!”

Rohan’s gut twisted as he watched a part of Isabel die before his eyes. She turned toward him, and he watched her features crumble. Her big violet-colored eyes turned up to him, tears making them shine like precious gemstones. Silently, she beseeched him to tell her it was not so. His body stiffened.

For as fierce a warrior as he was, and as many men as he had slain and the unspeakable horrors he had survived, Rohan did not have it in him to crush this woman’s heart with the truth. For with the truth he would lose her forever. And he realized that while he could take her hate for the bastard he was, he could not bear to see the incrimination in her eyes every time she looked at him, knowing his was the final strike that drew her sire’s last breath.

But it had to be so, and if presented the situation again, he would repeat it one hundred times over. Honor bound, he had no other choice. But she would not understand the ways of men or how dying with honor on the battlefield by the hand of your enemy was the Holy Grail in a true warrior’s heart. And Alefric was a warrior Rohan would respect on any battlefield.

So be it.

Isabel choked back a sob and asked, “Does he speak the truth?”

The hall was deathly quiet as a tomb, every ear straining to hear his answer.

“I slew many Saxons on that bloody hill, Isabel. It is possible your sire fell beneath my sword.”

“Nay!” Arlys screamed. “I saw with my own two eyes, you slit his throat!”

Isabel crumpled to the floor. Rohan bent to her. Isabel cried out and waved him off. Her cheeks turned ashen; her eyes held a far-away look in them. She turned to Arlys and asked, “What of Geoff?”

“I watched him fall, Isabel, beside your sire. He is dead.”

“Why did you not tell me this sooner? Why did you not send word?”

Arlys shuffled his feet and looked down at the floor. “I wanted to tell you myself and would have once we flew from here.”

Isabel nodded weakly in understanding. Rohan squatted beside her. Her shoulders shook as great sobs wracked her. Her great, luminous eyes turned up to his, and Rohan felt the earth shake beneath his feet. “He is bent on swaying you to his favor, Isabel. He has much to gain from his words.”

She shook her head as tears streamed down her cheeks, her golden hair stuck to her face. She lay down on the floor, as an animal crawling off to die would lie. “Leave me be, both of you.” She closed her eyes and murmured once more, “Leave me be.”

Rohan turned to Wulfson, who stood nearest to his lady. “Take her to my chamber.” He then gestured to Enid. “See to your lady.”

As Isabel was carried up the stairway, Rohan turned to the unruly Saxon. “You have wounded her to the soul. For that, you will get your chance to see William sooner than I am sure you expected. And”—Rohan smiled grimly—“in chains.”

When Rohan gestured to his men, pandemonium broke out as Arlys and his men attempted to make an escape. But
les morts
were always prepared, and within minutes, the Saxons were subdued. Just in time for the Willinghams, who came down the stairs with their meager belongings in hand to witness.

“Arlys!” Deidre cried out, flying down the stairway. “What is happening?” she demanded of Rohan. He ignored her and strode past her to the wide portal, which he flung open, allowing the chilled December air to swirl in.

“Take them all to the stable.” Rohan commanded.

As they were dragged out, Rohan ignored Deidre’s hysterical screams and Lord Willingham’s demands for explanation. Rohan strode to the stable himself to saddle up his horse. At Deidre’s repeated demands for explanation, Rohan heard Ioan explain in no uncertain terms that Dunsworth and his men were now war captives of William and that if the Willinghams would like to join him, he would gladly see to it.

Seconds later, Rohan threw open the stall door and flung the bridle around his great horse’s head. He drew him from the stall and hopped onto his back. With a swift kick, Mordred dug his great hooves into the hard earth, and away they thundered.

Isabel collapsed onto her father’s bed, and if she had been more coherent, she would have demanded that Enid move her to her solar. Her heart was torn in half, and she knew not how to mend it. The vision of Rohan standing over her father, pressing his blade to his throat and watching him die, tormented her soul. How could he do such a thing?