His Enemy's Daughter

by TERRI BRISBIN

  As it turned out, it was a tie. Or a stalemate, depending on how he looked at it.

  ‘No, Lady Sybilla, you do not have my permission.’

  He lifted the latch on the door and pulled it open. Stepping into the corridor without looking back, Soren breathed in and out. The coolness of the air there eased his way out and made it possible to breathe. At his direction, the guard had remained belowstairs, keeping the lady’s maids there, too, so no one witnessed his hurried exit of her chambers.

  Soren positioned the patch across the sunken area of flesh, then he placed the leather hood over his head and adjusted it. With those ready, he walked down the steps. Durward’s laughter still tasked him, making him realise that he had lost the battle after all. The irony of wanting the woman he’d sworn to destroy was not lost on him, but neither did he forget that she almost gave herself over to him in that one moment of the kiss they shared.

  And he wanted to keep her. He wanted the opportunity that she offered without even having knowledge of it herself. He wanted to be with a woman who shuddered in passion and not in horror. Damn if some needful place in his heart did not realise it and want her even more for it. Convent? His arse! Unfortunately, another part of his body seemed to be controlling his actions and it was not his head.

  He passed by the guard whose duty it was to watch over Sybilla and her maids, who both stood with hands clutched and twisting their garb as though expecting him to announce he’d killed her. Then Soren remembered what the entire keep seemed to suspect his reasons were for sending a bath to Sybilla’s chambers and shook his head in disbelief. As he began to walk to the small chamber off the kitchen where he usually slept, he spoke to the one called Aldys.

  ‘Has she eaten today?’ he asked. He suspected the answer, but wanted it confirmed or denied.

  ‘She was quite nervous, Lord Soren,’ she began to explain. He waved off the rest of it.

  ‘On the morrow, she leaves that room. The weather has broken a bit and it should be pleasant at some time. When the sun is up, get her dressed and get her out.’

  ‘But, Lord Soren,’ the woman pleaded, ‘she cannot see!’

  ‘She does not need sight to walk. Guide her. Both of you!’ he said sharply. ‘You do your lady no service keeping her shut away in her room. It ends on the morrow.’

  He nodded his head in the direction of the stairs, sending them to her now. He added one thing. ‘Do not offer her food or drink. Serve her if she asks, but do not mention it otherwise.’

  The horror on their faces told him immediately that they mistook his instructions and they believed him planning to starve her into submission. He let out a frustrated breath and explained further. ‘Speak not of food to her. I will have the evening meal sent to her chambers and eat with her.’

  It did not go well. Clearly the thought of eating with him turned their stomachs. ‘Do not question my orders, nor tell her of them. Do your duty or I will re-assign you to ones you can perform adequately. Call on Guermont if you need assistance, but get her out of that room.’

  The horror in their expressions did not ease. So be it. He cared not if they agreed or not. Soren understood better than most what the lady was going through. He’d survived the shock and numbness after regaining consciousness and then faced the permanence of his injuries and the changes they meant to his life. The worst time was when he’d prayed for death rather than wanting to live…like this.

  She would reach that time of purgatory for her soul and her spirit. For now, Sybilla probably believed her sight would return. He was certain that she’d convinced herself even now that this was simply a temporary condition, that Teyen was wrong in his assessment of the severity of the injuries she suffered. But until she accepted her blindness would not go away, her soul would have no peace.

  Soren had learned much in his own struggles, but never had he expected to be the one watching someone else experience what he had. Or expected to be the cause of it. For the first time in the months since he’d decided that he would live for vengeance, he now questioned whether or not he could keep up the pursuit of it.

  Lord Gautier had taught him well that vengeance ate a man’s soul bit by bit and now Soren wondered if that wasn’t the truth of the matter. Though it had given him the strength to survive his dark night of purgatory, he considered that mayhap he would need something more to give him the strength to live.

  He reached the room and closed the door. His meal sat waiting as he’d ordered and Soren sat on the stool to eat. Removing the hood, he stretched his neck and shoulder, easing the ever-present tightness. As he sat alone eating, he realised that his desire for a bath alone had caused this chain of events. Later, as he lay unable to sleep, he thought he heard Lord Gautier’s laughter again.

  For the first time in months, he missed his friends Giles and Brice, who’d trained and fostered with him in Rennes. Bastards all three, they had somehow met and befriended Simon, Gautier’s son and heir, and found themselves being tutored and raised by that wise man. After the battle at Hastings and once his friends knew he lived, they’d ridden off at the king’s orders to claim their lands. He yearned to be fighting at their sides, as they’d always done, but it had taken months for him to recover and he’d joined them in battle just in time to help Brice chase the rebels from his lands.

  They’d promised to be at his back when he needed them and he had pushed them and their advice away when they’d tried to offer it to him. Now he wished they were here, for they would understand his dilemma—neither of them had wanted the woman they married, yet each now was happy in his marriage. Certainement neither had planned to kill the woman as he had, but he had his reasons. Valid reasons, or so they seemed to be until this night and that kiss.

  Confused more than he wished to admit even to himself, Soren tossed and turned all through the night, plagued—as he knew he would be—by thoughts and memories of the tender kiss he’d shared with Sybilla.

  By morning he knew two, nay, three, things: first, he still did not know if he would or could keep her as his wife; second, the worst of her journey towards survival was yet to come. The third was the hardest to accept of all—it had been easier existing in the blinding haze of vengeance than trying to live as the man he’d always wanted to be.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘I do not understand, Aldys.’

  ‘Lord Soren ordered it so,’ her maid explained.

  It made no sense to her. She could do nothing outside this chamber and very little in it. She had no wish to disgrace herself before those who had served her and her family for years and she especially did not want to be with people when she could not tell who or how many were there around her.

  ‘I cannot do this,’ she finally admitted.

  ‘My lady, you must. I fear what will happen if you remain here.’

  Sybilla was trying to ascertain the reason for this need to leave her chambers when a knock came at her door. Both maids gasped loudly and she trembled at the sound. What did they fear would happen to her? She heard Aldys greet whoever stood outside in a very quiet voice and usher them in.

  ‘Good morrow to you, Lady Sybilla. ’Tis I, Guermont,’ he added, to let her know who stood before her. Tactful and discreet, as was his way it seemed.

  ‘Guermont,’ she greeted him with a nod.

  ‘Lord Soren bids you come out into the yard and enjoy the warmth of the sun while the day is clear,’ he invited.

  ‘I cannot, sir. Please inform your lord so,’ she said calmly, or in what she hoped was a calm voice. Her hands began to shake then, and the parchment she held crinkled in her grasp.

  ‘Lady, I fear I cannot go to him without bringing you with me,’ he explained quietly. ‘Those are my orders.’

  ‘Aldys, please explain to Guermont why it is not possible to do as he says. I cannot see. I cannot make my way down the steps or outside this room.’ She could hear the desperation in her own voice—did they? ‘Ask your lord to allow me to remain here until my vision returns.�
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  The silence around her told her more than words could have. None of those present believed her sight would return. She could not, indeed, would not, think about such a possibility. Shaking her head, she refused to budge.

  ‘Lady, I would ask you to walk at my side and let me guide you on the steps. But if you refuse, I will carry you down, whether silent or screaming. The choice is yours.’ The quiet tone belied the serious intent of his words.

  Sybilla was terrified into wordlessness. Why did Lord Soren want to humiliate her in this way? Was it his punishment for daring to ask to leave him? Was he so disgusted by her zealous reaction to his kiss that he would now disgrace her in public?

  ‘Here, Lady Sybilla,’ Guermont said as he took the parchment from her shaking hands and placed them around his arm. ‘Let me escort you.’

  The chainmail dug into her skin as she clutched him tightly. He wore his protection even now when the battle was long finished. Did Lord Soren as well? She lost track of their path until Guermont brought her to a stop.

  ‘Lady, we will go down only one step at a time. If I am going too quickly, just give the word and I will slow our pace,’ he offered.

  The steps that had never slowed her down now loomed as an abyss before her. Sybilla felt as though she were suspended over a black well, waiting to fall into its depths. Then, all at once, he took the first step, dragging her at his side.

  ‘Mayhap we should count as we descend so that you know how many steps there are?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘The lady has lived here her entire life!’ Aldys snapped at him from behind them. ‘Think you she knows not how many steps there are?’

  But Sybilla had never needed to know how many steps separated her chambers from the main hall before. Unable to speak, for fear had clogged her throat, she nodded, hoping Guermont was watching. When he began counting to her with each one, she knew he had been. He had counted out a score and they stopped. Out of breath from both the exertion and the fear of walking into the blackness before her without being able to see, Sybilla drew in a ragged breath, waiting for the next step.

  ‘The hall has been cleaned of rushes and the tables moved aside to form a straight pathway to the door, my lady,’ Guermont reported. ‘There were twenty steps on the stairs, but I suspect it will take us twice that many paces to reach it from here.’ He was giving her clues about their path and the layout of the hall now, alerting her to changes made since the Normans’ arrival. ‘We will walk slowly as you gain your bearings, my lady.’

  And then they were off. Guermont placed his hand over hers on his arm and guided her, counting out their paces under his breath so that she, but no others, could hear them. They had only taken a pace or two when it began.

  First, a collective gasp went up from those in the hall as they saw her. Then, her name was murmured through the room, echoing as it got louder. She stumbled as she listened to it.

  ‘They are pleased to see you, Lady Sybilla,’ Guermont said.

  ‘Do they…do they know I cannot see them?’ she asked. Aldys and Gytha never mentioned what had been told about her to the people. She did not know if they thought her a prisoner, dead or something else.

  ‘Aye, my lady. They know of the extent of your injuries. Indeed, many have been offering prayers in the chapel for your recovery.’

  Her breath caught then, her unseeing eyes filled with tears. She had feared they would blame her for their situation. If she had not stupidly allowed Gareth to resist the Norman lord, they might not be mourning their dead. Sybilla blinked, trying to stop them, but she felt the first of many trickle down her cheeks. When someone touched her gown, then another touched her arm, whispering her name as they walked by, she let them flow freely. Guermont yet counted out their paces and when he called off forty-and-three, they stopped.

  ‘A few more than forty, my lady, and we are at the doorway to the yard. Do you need to catch your breath before going further?’

  She brushed the tears off her cheeks and cleared her throat. Sybilla had never expected this reaction—from her or from her people. Her heart ached inside her chest and she shook her head.

  ‘Nay, Guermont, I am ready. Lead on,’ she said.

  ‘Just so, my lady.’

  The door creaked on its hinges as it was swung open and she stepped outside for the first time since the attack. Summer had blossomed in full and she felt the warmth of the now-midday sun on her face.

  Sybilla paused there, waiting, praying, hoping, begging God to allow her to see the sun’s light as she left the shadows of the hall. To let her notice any difference in the darkness in which she now lived. Even a flicker of some change in the unrelenting blackness would satisfy her.

  ‘My lady?’ Guermont asked gently, as though he understood the reason for her pause. But he could not know.

  Nothing.

  Nothing spread out before her.

  No light. No change. Nothing.

  Sybilla let him lead her forwards into the yard. People were there; she could hear the voices of men, women and even children, as they worked around her. The smell of blooming honeysuckles filled the air and she inhaled, trying not to think about her disappointment. The earth beneath her feet and the trees and flowers all added to the wonderful cacophony of scents that filled her lungs with the fresh air.

  ‘There is a bench under the tree near the wall,’

  Guermont said. ‘You can feel the warmth of the sun there, but be shaded by the tree, my lady. It looks to be another forty or so paces.’

  He guided her well, making their walk appear smooth. A soft word when the ground grew uneven. Another when they needed to avoid a puddle of mud, and so on until they reached the place he’d mentioned. Guermont lifted her hand from his arm, turned from her side and helped her to sit. Aldys spoke from behind her, letting her know of the maid’s presence.

  Sybilla tried to catch her breath again, surprised by how quickly she’d lost it during their walk here. She usually traversed this path and more many times a day, never feeling winded at all. But she’d sat unmoving in her chambers for so long that this small activity tired her. Though getting here had been a struggle, Sybilla tried to prepare herself for the next challenge—facing Lord Soren after last evening’s débâcle.

  Hoping he would not humiliate her where everyone could witness it, she accepted a linen from Aldys and wiped her face with it. For the first time in many days, she grew thirsty and realised her maid had not pressed food or drink on her this day. She would have asked for something, but a disturbance began on the other side of the yard. It grew in volume and strength and Sybilla knew Lord Soren must be approaching.

  Orders were called. Soldiers moved to obey. People screamed and called out her name. ’Twas like reliving the day of the attack, only worse, for now Sybilla could see nothing.

  ‘Is it Lord Soren?’ she asked. When no one answered, she asked again in a louder voice, ‘Pray thee tell me what goes there?’

  ‘Some of the prisoners are trying to break free and come here,’ Guermont said. ‘The guards are trying to keep them contained.’

  ‘Prisoners?’ she asked before realising he spoke of her men, her soldiers, her people. ‘Aldys! You must tell them to cease before he—’ She did not finish the words, for his voice interrupted.

  ‘Stephen!’ Soren called out. ‘Let them go to her.’

  He capitulated again in her presence, something be coming a habit, it seemed. Soren nodded to Stephen, who ordered the guards to release the prisoners. At first they hesitated, probably fearing retribution for their acts of disobedience, but then Gareth led them across the yard to where Sybilla sat. Within moments, a crowd surrounded her, speaking her name and trying to touch the hem of her gown or her hand.

  Guermont stood at her side, never moving from it, so he feared not for her safety. Not that he worried about her at all, but men held prisoner could not be trusted in their actions if it meant their freedom from chains. Gareth, he noticed, knelt before her, never moving as others
came, gave greetings and moved aside for others to come closer. Soren continued to watch from his place near the stables.

  ‘A wise exercise of power,’ Larenz said as he walked closer. ‘And a good one.’

  Surprised by his approach and by his comment, Soren turned to look at him. Larenz had trained him in many skills a knight needed to fight and win on the field of battle. Simon, now Count of Rennes, had allowed him the freedom to swear allegiance to one of the three in honour of his many years of service to the House of Rennes. For some reason, Larenz had chosen him.

  The old man had remained with him after the battle and through his terrible ordeal. Larenz had seen him at his best, at his worst and now at some crossroads Soren did not yet understand completely. Uncomfortable at such realisations, Soren changed their topic of discussion.

  ‘How is the boy?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s a good one, Soren,’ Larenz answered, turning to face the ongoing scene at the other side of the yard. ‘Another of your good decisions.’

  ‘Where is he? I have not seen him since yestermorn.’ Larenz laughed and Soren faced another moment of truth. ‘You knew he gave the wrong message to her?’

  ‘Aye, Soren. I knew.’ Larenz glanced over towards the stables and nodded in that direction. ‘He hides from your wrath.’

  Soren let out a breath and glared at Larenz. Did everyone believe he would torture a child?

  ‘You have not been known for showing or being interested in mercy these last few months, Soren. Everyone who now serves you is aware of your plans and your methods of carrying them out.’

  ‘You dare much, old man, if you believe your own words,’ Soren threatened. He clenched his fists, angry that this man knew and allowed the situation to happen without warning him. ‘Why did you not tell me?’

  ‘It was time, Soren,’ Larenz said quietly. ‘It is time for you to make her your wife.’

  In anything else, he would take this man’s counsel, but in a matter so personal and so important, he wanted it not. Torn between striking out and walking away, Soren stared at the woman sitting in the midst of an adoring crowd. He hardened at even the thought of her now and as much as he’d like to blame the months of abstinence for it, Soren knew that had little or nothing to do with it. But simply because his body agreed, did not make it the right thing to do.