His Enemy's Daughter

by TERRI BRISBIN

  ‘I am called Raed,’ the boy said as he stood and thrusted out his chin.

  ‘Raed of Shildon, where are your parents?’ Soren realised that the name did match the boy’s colouring, even though his own did not. The boy glanced away from him, looking instead at the freshly dug graves along the road and nodded.

  ‘I have no mother,’ he answered in a low voice. ‘My da lays there.’

  An orphan. Soren glanced over at Guermont to determine if his men had killed the boy’s father. Guermont’s slight shake told him that it had been the work of Oremund’s men.

  ‘What skills do you claim?’ Soren asked. Something about the boy touched him deeply, in a place Soren had not thought existed any longer. This Raed seemed to have about eight years and Soren remembered how strong pride had filled him at that age. The boy shrugged and shook his head.

  ‘Foolish and fearless, then, for attacking an armed knight with but a puny dagger is asking for death.’

  As the words escaped, a twinge pierced that place again—the one that recognised the truths one did not wish to know. Raed leaned over and picked up the dagger, shifting it from hand to hand, positioning it much as a warrior would. Clearly, the boy had used it before. In that moment, Soren made a decision that surprised even him and for reasons he could not understand fully.

  ‘Fearless, I can use. Foolish, I can beat out of you,’ he said, gruffly. The boy’s face paled, but he did not run or turn away. ‘I am in need of a squire, I think. Bring him, Larenz.’

  The men laughed and Larenz approached the boy, grabbing hold of his shoulder and dragging him to the back of their troop. Not certain why he had just taken on the task of training the boy, Soren raised his hand and gave the signal to ride.

  He never caught sight of the boy during the next four days’ journey to Alston, but Larenz reported on him each day. Only the night before they reached Alston did the boy show himself and only for a moment before he tucked himself back into the shadows of the camp.

  Soren’s rest was fitful the night before the battle, as it always was—partly due to facing an unknown outcome and partly due to the thrill of battle. He woke from dozing and walked the camp, speaking to some of the men, yet in reality seeking out the boy he’d taken. He found him, curled in a ball far from the cooling ashes of a fire, shivering in the dawn’s chill. Seeing an unused blanket nearby, Soren draped it over the scrawny form and began to walk away, stopped by the quiet whisper of the child.

  ‘And what are you called?’ Raed asked.

  ‘Soren,’ he said. ‘Soren the Damned.’

  For no matter what happened on the morrow, no matter the outcome of William’s fight against the rebels plaguing his lands, no matter that the blood of his enemy would be spilled, Soren knew his soul was damned to the darkness in which it now lived.

  Chapter Two

  Sybilla, Lady of Alston, stood up straight and moaned as her back spasmed in response to the movement. Pressing her fists into her lower back, she tried to ease the pain caused by leaning over too much and by carrying too many large rocks to the wooden palisade. They must shore up the defences, said Gareth, the commander of those who yet defended her and the keep. So, she helped as much as she could. Lady or not, another pair of hands lightened the work of all and gave her the hope that the wall could be strengthened to protect the keep from the coming invader.

  Sybilla accepted a cup of water from the servant girl passing by, tightened the leather ties around her braid and began anew. They had little time to finish this task before the invader king’s pawn arrived at their gates. After receiving the message that he travelled there to claim the lands of her father, Sybilla and her late father’s steward Algar decided to protect themselves from the devastation committed on their neighbours and kin when faced with the same situation. She did not believe they could hold out long, but if they presented their strength, she and they hoped to negotiate a peaceful transition—one that allowed her people to live and her to travel to her cousin’s convent and live out her life there in peace and contemplation.

  With her father and her brother dead, with no other Saxon kin able to come to her rescue or to stand against these invaders as they moved inexorably north towards her lands, Sybilla knew she and her people had few choices and little power.

  They worked until nightfall, taking advantage of every moment of summer’s daylight to build the wall as high and strong as they could. Gareth had nodded his approval of their efforts in that stern, serious manner of his, but Sybilla knew it was not enough. Still, they had two days, possibly three, before the invaders arrived and they would take every moment given to them to prepare.

  The birds’ song that heralded the dawn also brought terror to their doors, for the invaders crested the hill across from the keep and formed their lines to attack. Sybilla quickly gathered the children and took them to the back of the keep and carried out whatever Gareth ordered. Though she’d lived there for all her life, never once had they needed to defend it from outsiders. Even when her father and brother went off to fight alongside their king—her brother to Stamford Bridge and then her father to Hastings—their defences here were perfunctory and never needed.

  Now, though, it meant the difference between life and death.

  When things were settled in the keep, she climbed to the top of the wall to see what forces they faced. Gareth ordered her away, but Sybilla thought that meeting the enemy face to face might ease the situation. If Duke William of Normandy’s man thought them no threat, he might not attack before they could negotiate. Holding her hand over her eyes to shade the growing light of the rising sun, she shivered when she saw him.

  Black. Everything he wore was black, except for the slash of red on his shield, angling to the left that she understood spoke of his bastardy. Or his duke’s? She knew not which, but once more her body trembled. His armour was black, not reflecting the rays of the sun above him. His horse, a huge, monstrous destrier, was the colour of midnight, without any markings to lighten his coat. And Sybilla felt as though death stood before her on the field.

  Or the devil incarnate?

  She shook herself from fear’s control and walked to Gareth’s side. His jaw clenched, he issued commands to his men in a low voice so that they would not carry across the open field in the silence. Sybilla noticed the silence then, and counted their numbers, at least the ones she could see.

  Holy Mother in Heaven! They would never survive an attack from a force of this strength. She began to think they’d made a mistake when the giant’s words confirmed it.

  ‘I claim the lands and people of Durward the Traitor and order the gates open.’

  Gareth shook his head and, though tempted to call out orders of her own, she acquiesced to his experience and knowledge in such matters. ’Twas a mistake.

  ‘Prepare to die!’ the warrior called out and he and his men launched their attack.

  Gareth ordered her from the wall and Sybilla rushed down the steps, intending to get back inside the keep before the invaders reached the walls. The wall shuddered in that moment and Sybilla realised that the first line of attackers were using rams to knock down the wall! Worse, they did not approach the strongest part of the wall near the gate; they used their weapons on the newest section, the weakest part. She needed to get past the very place that they were battering down.

  Rushing along the path, avoiding the soldiers running to take their places and listening to her people crying out in terror, Sybilla tried to focus on all that Gareth had told her. Instead, every time the walls shook, she paused. Then, her worst fear was realised as the ram did its horrible task and the section of the wall in front of her shattered and fell.

  Until Sybilla regained consciousness, she did not know she’d lost it.

  She struggled to get to her feet, but her head ached and dizziness made her nauseous. She reached up to push off the blinding bandage that covered her head and eyes and discovered it was not a bandage blocking her sight at all—she was blind.

&
nbsp; ‘Here now, lady,’ a familiar voice whispered to her. Aldys, her maid’s mother, touched her face, drew the bandages back into place and eased her back down. ‘You were injured, my lady. You must lie still,’ she warned.

  Sybilla tried to touch her face, her eyes, but Aldys brushed her hands aside. Panic filled her and she felt the very breath in her lungs being squeezed out. Then another woman took her hands and held them.

  ‘Lady, they have broken in through the wall and are at the doors of the keep. Gareth said you must stay here,’ Gytha, her maid, whispered. ‘Some of the rock hit you on the head, on your eyes, and there is much bleeding.’ The pressure on her head eased, but returned quickly. ‘We are trying to stop the bleeding.’

  ‘I cannot see,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot see!’ Sybilla could feel her control slipping away and terror of a new kind filling her heart and soul.

  ‘Hush now, lady,’ Aldys soothed. ‘We will see to your injury. All will be well.’

  The pain grew and grew until she felt faint, but the sound of the keep’s doors being destroyed shook her awake. Then the great wooden doors crashed apart and the sound of fighting spilled into the keep.

  ‘Gytha,’ she moaned out. ‘You must get the children to safety now.’

  ‘’Tis too late, my lady,’ her maid answered.

  Suddenly, she was pulled to her feet and dragged along by some unseen hands. Women screamed and she was jostled as they struggled against the strong grasp of whoever had come into the keep. Then, just as suddenly, she was tossed to the floor. Clutching her head, she tried to sit up, but could not. Then Aldys gathered her in her arms and she heard Gytha on her other side.

  Chaos and terror reigned and Sybilla screamed along with them. She had seen the enemy and knew without doubt that he would slaughter them all. She suspected it might have been his intent all along, for he’d not paused or asked for a parley as others might have. Listening without being able to see only heightened the fear for her; hearing her people being tormented and harmed tore her heart apart, piece by piece.

  Is that what he wanted here? To destroy everything her father had built and nurtured? What kind of man would do such a thing? Her unspoken question was answered moments later when a silence so deep she thought she must have fainted filled the hall.

  She heard not a sound, not even the breathing of those around her in those tension-filled moments. Then, just when she thought she would scream out, the whispered prayers of the women at her sides reached her. They were praying for mercy!

  ‘Bring those who survive before me.’

  It had to be him! The dark giant who commanded the forces. The devil on horseback who had destroyed her home and killed her people. Before she could gather any shards of courage together, she was pulled to her feet once more and towards the voice. Aldys and Gytha protected her on each side, still whispering prayers for protection to any saint who would listen. She heard words like ‘monster’ and ‘demon’ and ‘devil’ whispered by those around her and she trembled, unable to mask her own terror. Soon, he called out for silence and everyone obeyed.

  ‘I am Soren Fitzrobert, now lord of these lands.’

  Those around her gasped at his words. The first surprise was that he spoke in their tongue and not the Norman one, but it was his declaration that sliced her to the core. Her family had owned and ruled these lands for generations, one of the proud and mighty Saxon families who counselled the king and the Witan. Sybilla felt her body shake and she reached out to Aldys and Gytha for support.

  ‘Do not beg for mercy, for I have none for those faithful to Durward the Traitor. Only those who swear allegiance to me will live.’

  Shock ran through those listening. Sybilla shook her head. How could he demand such a thing? How could he execute those who owed their living to her father? His cold voice and emotionless commands chilled her soul and she knew she had no chance. Had he already killed Gareth and the others? Without being able to see, she did not know and that was in some ways worse.

  ‘Aldys,’ she whispered, ‘is Gareth here?’

  ‘Hush, lady. The warrior approaches.’

  Sybilla could hear his heavy steps coming nearer, so she clutched Aldys and Gytha, her chest tight with fear. His words, spoken so close to her she could almost feel his breath, did nothing to ease her fears.

  ‘I will, however, show mercy to any of you who tell me of Durward’s get. Where is his daughter?’

  Again, shocked whispers spread through the room, halted only by his angry voice.

  ‘I will have you all killed unless someone tells me where she is.’

  His voice spoke of his true intentions. Cold, without feeling or mercy, it revealed the truth of his words—he would kill them all. Would he stand by his word and not kill them if she stepped forwards? Was it simply a ploy on his part?

  ‘Stay, lady,’ Aldys warned under her breath.

  ‘Your time is running out,’ he called out. ‘Guermont, bring the archers. It will be easier that way,’ he coldly ordered.

  Some of the women screamed then, children cried out and the crowd surged and stumbled as they were pushed back and back until they could not move any further. Sybilla realised they were being placed against the wall, easier targets for the demon’s archers. Through it all, no one identified her as the lord’s daughter. They would die for her, she knew it in her bones. She also knew that, even if it meant her death, she could not allow them to do so. Though Aldys and Gytha kept hold of her, she pulled free and stepped away from them.

  ‘Soren Fitzrobert,’ she said, her voice trembling even as she tried to steady it and herself.

  Sybilla tried not to shake and the sounds of his spurs scraping on the stone floor approached. Remembering his size, she knew it would take only one blow to bring her death. The pounding pain in her head grew with each passing second and she knew she would not be able to stand much longer without help. The sound of his breathing came from above her head and she fought the urge to reach out to steady herself.

  Straightening up as much as she could, wincing against the tightness of the bandage and the feel of her blood trickling down her neck from the wound on her head, she said the words that would save her people and damn herself.

  ‘I am Sybilla of Alston, Lord Durward’s daughter.’

  Silence reigned as the sound of his sword as he drew it from its sheath met her declaration and she offered up a prayer for her soul as she waited to meet her fate.

  Chapter Three

  Hatred raced through his veins as she spoke her name. Months of waiting, months filled with nothing but pain and suffering, had brought him here and he pulled his sword free from its scabbard. The red haze of fury and anger filled his vision as he raised the weapon of her death above his head and savoured this moment he’d dreamed of and prayed for since the battle at Hastings. For a moment he was tempted to drop the sword and use his bare hands to wring the life from her body, knowing it would appease some primitive need within him for vengeance, but he gripped the sword’s hilt tightly as he shouted out his hatred for all there to hear.

  ‘Death to all who carry the blood of the traitor Durward!’

  But, before he could swing his weapon and end the life of the last of them, his vision cleared and for a brief moment he saw only the woman kneeling before him. It was all the delay that the crowd needed for they took advantage and surged forwards and pulled her into its centre. She fought against them, trying to push herself forwards, but they did not allow it.

  He took a step towards them and the entire throng backed away, finding themselves between his men and the corner of the hall. They could go no further and had no chance of surviving an attack by armed knights and archers, but they would not relinquish their lady to him.

  ‘Soren,’ Guermont whispered at his side. ‘Mayhap this is not the way?’

  Soren turned to him, unable to hear out of his right ear, and glared at him. In spite of his momentary hesitation, he had not come this far and got so close to his purpose to b
e defeated or delayed by some villagers and children. And that was all who defended her now. Her men were either dead or prisoners, and yet, the least of her people gathered around her as though they could indeed stop him. Still, Guermont’s words of warning slowed his actions. Killing innocent peasants would damn him even more than he was already cursed by God.

  He slid his sword back into its scabbard on his belt and strode towards the crowd, his men following behind as they formed a wedge that moved through to its center. When they’d pushed or pulled her free and dragged her from the rest, the crowd did not slow in its defence of her. First an old woman, one of those closest to the lady, fell to her knees and began to beg.

  ‘Mercy, my lord! Mercy!’ she called out loudly.

  ‘Mercy! Mercy!’ another called. Then another and another until the hall shook with their pleas for a mercy he did not have. Or he thought he did not have until the wench’s hand touched his and she fell to her knees.

  ‘Spare them, I beg you. They seek to only to protect me,’ she implored. ‘They are not to blame here.’

  In spite of her condition, in spite of the bloody rags tied around her head and her torn and soiled gown, she looked every bit the proud daughter of the old lord. Her defence of her people, now his people, touched him regardless of how much he hated this moment of weakness in his hour of triumph.

  ‘What happened to you?’ he asked, not even trying to keep his anger from his voice.

  ‘The wall…stones…’ she began to say. ‘My eyes…’ She could say no more, for her body began to shake and tremble as though hearing the news herself for the first time.

  ‘You are blind?’ he asked.

  A defect like this gave him complete absolution in disregarding the king’s wishes for him to marry her. It could be grounds for an annulment of any betrothal. It was an impediment to a true marriage and could be…

  She cannot see me!