Warrior's Surrender

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  The page returned with a tray of cheeses and dried fruit, and just the sight of it made Frey’s stomach spasm with nausea. It had been more than a week since she and her band had eaten anything more filling than pottage made from a single rabbit they managed to snare and plucked wild herbs.

  Meals since then had consisted of a weak broth made from whatever they could forage. They always went hungry at night.

  Now, she ignored the food and took a small sip of wine, just enough to wet her lips.

  The Norman baron before her watched every movement with great interest. She felt as though he were a hunter watching his prey—silent, certain, deadly.

  She would rather have dealt with the knight; at least he wore his contempt for her openly. The baron, on the other hand, kept his own counsel and that made him dangerous.

  Frey decided she needed to be especially careful of this man.

  “I have come to negotiate a truce,” she announced.

  Sebastian offered a wry smile. “Have you indeed?”

  “I have,” Frey replied firmly.

  “Why ask for a truce? Surrender now and we can all go home in time for supper,” Sebastian reasoned sarcastically.

  Frey bristled and a run of insults came to mind, all with the voice of her father. “Norman dog, thieving bastard, plunderer, despoiler, bitch-wolf’s son.”

  “Brice, the rightful earl of Tyrswick, was injured five nights ago by a snare,” she told him heatedly. “His ankle is broken and the puncture wounds from the trap jaw have become infected.”

  Sebastian shifted on the stool and Frey took it as a tiny tell that indicated he appreciated the gravity of the situation she described. A seemingly minor wound might easily grow hot and puffy with poisoned blood, malodorous pus, and fluid leaking from the hole, invisible demons heating the body until it was feverish and weak. Infections were a serious business indeed, killing men faster and in greater numbers than were slain outright on the field of battle.

  “My brother needs a physician,” Frey continued. “There is an abbey three days’ ride from here. I want a truce without harassment and without arrest so my men and I can move him to St Cuthbert’s and entreat the monks to tend him.”

  Frey watched the baron take in her words. As she finished, he sat up straight and folded his arms, his expression turning from benign disinterest to hostility.

  “What advantage do I receive for the truce?” he asked icily. “Since spring, you and your company have stolen livestock and game from my villagers and been responsible for the deaths of ten of my men as well as committing treason against the Crown.”

  He looked at her with contempt. “For that you ought to be facing the executioner’s blade, not making travel plans, Lady Alfreya.”

  Frey slammed a flat palm on the table. The platter and cups leaped but remained upright.

  “And for that reason I cannot agree to surrender!” she yelled. “With a truce, you would be bound by the rules of combat chivalry, but with prisoners you would be within your rights to treat us as you wished, even hang a dying ten-year-old boy.”

  Frey glanced sharply around, now aware every man in the tent looked at her with astonishment. All of the promises to herself that she would negotiate as the equal of a man evaporated like this morning’s dew because of her loss of temper.

  Grudgingly, she pulled her focus back to the baron whose expression remained unchanged.

  “Please, I beg of you sir,” Frey whispered, as close to humiliation as she had ever been in her life. “I just want my brother to live.”

  * * *

  Sebastian regarded her. Lady Alfreya thought like a man. No, like a warrior. Reluctantly, he found himself impressed and suddenly considering her manner and appearance.

  Despite her fiery temper, which she seemed to work hard to control, Earl Alfred’s daughter had grown comely, although a little on the thin side. Her figure might best be described as willowy, but her outstanding features were her hair, the color of newly harvested hay, and her bright blue eyes, which examined him with caution.

  “Then what do you bring to this truce?” Sebastian finally asked.

  “Our band now numbers but thirteen, all of whom are good men and loyal to my father. They accompanied us to Scotland when William the Bas—” Frey corrected herself, “…when the king harried the north.

  “They are local men and without my father to lead them, all they wish now is to go home to the families they haven’t seen in four years. They will cause no further trouble; you have my word on that.”

  The baron shook his head.

  “Your little rebellion has gone on for months even after the death of Earl Alfred,” responded Sebastian, “and you yourself speak of their abiding loyalty to your late father. So forgive me, my lady, if I require more than just your word.”

  Frey nodded. It seemed his objection was not unexpected.

  “Then I offer myself as surety,” she said simply.

  “A hostage,” Sebastian stated blandly.

  Not an unusual offer, he thought. King Malcolm of Scotland’s eldest son, Duncan, had technically been a hostage of King William for the past two years, yet by all accounts the lad was well treated and, indeed, educated alongside William’s own sons.

  So, Lady Alfreya was taking a gamble on what kind of man he was. Interesting.

  “If you deem it such,” she shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance. “And yes, these remaining men are loyal to my family, but they will do nothing to give you cause for retribution on me or my brother.

  “You have my word of honor.”

  The quality of the dying light streaming through the entrance of the tent shifted again from pink to a dull, lifeless gray. In the glen, the noisy evening chorus of birds seemed preternaturally loud as they returned to their trees to roost.

  Sebastian didn’t need to look back at Henry Gaines to know the man’s thoughts.

  He'd fought alongside this knight for five years. Knowing what the other was thinking wasn’t a supernatural gift; it was one developed by necessity over time to assure survival in battle.

  He heard a sigh of resignation from Gaines as he made his decision and spoke.

  “Show me the boy,” Sebastian ordered.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Frey sat straight-backed on the stool.

  The baron had agreed to the truce? He hadn’t said so directly, but if he hadn’t, why did he ask to see Brice? If he wanted to force surrender, he could have his men round up their band in short order. Even a Norman would know she wouldn’t dare risk leaving her brother too far away.

  Sebastian de la Croix stood and Frey did likewise.

  “Give me your sword and the seal,” he told her. “You won’t need them again.”

  Frey did not comply.

  “Not until you agree we have a truce,” she answered.

  Sebastian gifted her with a half smile.

  “Congratulations, Lady Alfreya, you negotiated well. You have your truce—and never let it be said that I hang ten-year-old boys for the sins of their fathers.”

  Frey unbuckled the scabbard from around her waist. She handed it and the sword to him ceremoniously.

  “Neither let it be said the Tyrswick family is without honor,” she replied, handing over the ring with equal formality.

  Frey followed Sebastian to the opening of the tent, where he gave orders briskly and efficiently.

  “Gaines, organize a litter and get Lady Alfreya’s two men to bring the boy here. Make sure they’re accompanied by two of our men,” he said. “Send Robert back to the village with some coin to see what food and drink can be purchased. Tell him to fetch the friar too. We camp here tonight. I want to see the condition of the party before I decide what to do next.”

  Gaines paused stony-faced for a beat before nodding stiffly and moving away, barking orders of his own.

  Frey watched the byplay with great interest.

  Gaines had just made it clear that he believed his lord to have been too indulgent to agre
e to this meeting in the first place and was further out of his mind to contract a truce. The knight would not have shown mercy to the rebels.

  Without looking back, merely expecting her to follow, Sebastian walked around the tent to where his horse grazed quietly at the back. In a quick, graceful motion, he mounted the steed, then looked down at Frey and extended his hand.

  “I will walk with my men,” she told him, shaking her head.

  “Get on the horse now,” he growled in a flash of anger, “or I will tie you up and throw you on.”

  His irritation simmered with each long second she stood immovable.

  “You do not want to test me, madam,” he said, his voice low and menacing.

  Frey looked at his hand as though it were a poisonous snake before she reluctantly held out her own.

  Even wearing a hauberk of mail, she was pulled swiftly onto the horse as though she weighed little more than a sack of vegetables. He settled her across his lap, arms trapping her effectively to his chest.

  Her struggles seemed to amuse him as she sat straight in an attempt to put some distance between them, but that gesture came to naught as soon as the horse stepped forward. To secure her seat, Frey was forced to reach an arm around his back in a parody of an embrace.

  The hard muscles of his back played under her hand with the movement of the horse beneath them. His firm thighs pressed hers intimately.

  This was wrong. Dangerous.

  Frey swallowed her panic as he leaned forward to speak directly into her ear, his words causing gooseflesh to rise on her arms.

  “We may have a truce, my lady, but there are many more questions I have before I’m completely satisfied.”

  “Then satisfy yourself quickly my lord; we are not far from our encampment,” she told him softly.

  The man laughed and leaned in closer.

  “Know this of me, princess. I am never satisfied quickly.”

  Frey felt a flush of color rise in her face, betraying that the double meaning of his words was not lost on her. He straightened in his saddle. It might have been to her advantage to maintain an illusion of innocence. His knight may believe him to be a sentimentalist, but he was clearly no fool, and her every word, every reaction, might weaken her position if she did not guard herself.

  As they rode, he questioned her thoroughly, first about the location of the camp and the number of men, which she had already told him was thirteen. She realized he was probing again to see if the detail changed. He asked of their physical condition and the number and state of their weapons, then about the battle that killed her father.

  Frey did her best to give equally thorough and detailed answers. As much as she regretted the necessity, she knew it was essential to allay the baron’s suspicions if she were to ensure Brice received the treatment he needed.

  Fortunately, the conversation came to an end before he asked how she knew so much about her father’s fateful last battle.

  The fact was her band's six months of war without reinforcements and fending for themselves had forced Frey to learn a new set of skills a world away from the domestic arts learned in the solar with the other women of a noble household.

  It would not do for Sebastian to learn she had been on the field of battle that day and that she was one of her father’s most accomplished archers, deadly accurate with a bow and a knife. Moreover, she enjoyed putting these skills to use. Many a day, her aim was the only thing that furnished what little meat they had consumed in three moons.

  As they arrived among her men, Frey saw the meager band through the eyes of the stranger she rode with.

  They were men bearded and roughly dressed, poorly nourished and dispirited. The Normans could have driven a sword through the lot of them and found little resistance.

  One by one, their heads dropped at seeing her in the arms of their enemy. Their rebellion was truly over now.

  All of a sudden, sitting high up on a horse sat ill with Frey. She pushed the baron’s arm aside and slid down from the steed. The man athletically dismounted behind her.

  Frey attempted to ignore his presence at her shoulder as she approached Sar, a big young lad who guarded the entrance to her brother’s tent.

  “How is he?” she asked him, forcing his attention to her rather than the man behind her.

  Sar hesitated, glancing again at the large Norman warrior for a moment.

  “His fever's not broke, my lady,” he answered at last. “He’s more often than not asleep and then he is in delirium and it don't abate even when he wakes.”

  Frey slipped past Sar to enter the tent. She knelt beside her unconscious brother's cot, taking his hand in hers, her attention divided between listening to the boy's labored breathing and the baron addressing Sar outside.

  “What has the boy been treated with?” he asked in Norman, then, following a moment's uncomprehending silence from Sar, he asked the question again in Saxon.

  “I don’t know,” said the lad. “The Lady Alfreya tends to him herself.”

  Good, thought Frey, say as little as possible. Better to give nothing away. Then she groaned as the youngster added, “…or sometimes Larcwide does. I don’t know what potions he’s had, but it won’t have been much because we don’t got much.”

  She heard the baron grunt in response and enter the tent behind her. As he did so, Brice’s eyes opened and he weakly raised his head and smiled at him.

  “See, Frey,” Brice whispered, “you were wrong to worry. Your Drefan did come after all.”

  Frey tried to shush him. Sebastian stepped forward to get a better look at the heir of Tyrswick.

  The lad’s skin was sallow and the dark circles under his eyes made them appear to sink farther in his head. Sebastian removed the leather gauntlet from his right hand and reached down to feel the boy’s slick and clammy forehead.

  Frey glanced up surreptitiously at Sebastian. The easy smile he had given her brother when touching his forehead was gone as he looked to her, instead replaced with a grim line.

  They both knew Brice’s only hope was to be delivered into the care of the monks before his condition worsened. His body was close to defeat. Untreated, he would be dead within days.

  The youngster took the baron’s ministration without complaint, looking up at him in the tent’s dark shadows as if he were a saint or an angel.

  “You took an awful long time to get here,” he murmured, “but I prayed and you came.”

  Sebastian ruffled the boy’s hair in response and Frey felt the man look at her, but was determined to ignore him until she could master the roiling emotions that threatened to spill over. She kept her attention fixed on her brother’s face.

  “We’re going to get you well, Brice,” said Sebastian, “but I need a moment of your sister’s time.”

  He placed his hand on Frey’s shoulder and gave a gentle half rub, half squeeze to draw her attention. She gritted her teeth. If he showed kindness, she would break, so she frowned at him as she stood.

  “Ha, ha! I know what for,” Brice offered in a singsong voice. “I’m earl now, Drefan. You really ought to ask my permission before you kiss my sister again.”

  “Brice!” Frey admonished, color rising again to her cheeks.

  * * *

  If the boy’s condition wasn’t so grave, Sebastian might have laughed. He couldn’t help himself. His interest was piqued for more than one reason. To begin, who was this expected Drefan who had been a long time in coming? And what was the Lady Alfreya’s interest in a man familiar enough to kiss?

  Looking at the young woman who glared at him intently, Sebastian intended to find out.

  He meant what he told her. He never satisfied himself quickly, and now he had even more questions. However, there were her men to deal with first.

  “My lady, you ought to speak to your men on behalf of your brother,” he advised softly. “Let them know what is to follow.”

  Frey’s rigidly correct posture softened somewhat and she nodded in agreement. Glancing
again at her brother, whose eyes were now closed, she closed her own in a quick prayer before imperiously walking out of the tent, every inch the noblewoman.

  Sebastian followed, sticking close behind her.

  While in the tent, a pair of Lady Alfreya’s men, under the guard of two of the baron's own, arrived with a litter.

  Sebastian watched as Lady Alfreya gave terse orders for young Lord Brice's transportation, and when he added instructions of his own, the men hesitated, looking uncertainly to Alfreya for confirmation before they commenced their task.

  He learned their names—Orlege and aforementioned Larcwide—and determined he would watch those two. As trusted men of the earl’s family, they might still be dangerous.

  Alfreya watched with concern on her face as the two Saxons entered the tent and emerged a few moments later, carrying the young earl of Tyrswick on the litter, heading under escort down to the camp.

  Sebastian scanned the remaining men, all tired and defeated. They looked as though they craved nothing more than a belly full of warm food and a decent night’s sleep. Well, that he could grant.

  He accompanied Lady Alfreya as she went from man to man, thanking each for his sacrifice and loyalty. Finally, she addressed them all, assuring them there was nothing more to be done but rebuild their lives as she hoped she and Brice might.

  At the end of her speech, she looked up at Sebastian.

  “I know not what else to say,” she whispered, looking tired and surprisingly vulnerable.

  Compassion stirred in his breast.

  Sebastian gave a brief nod of acknowledgment and stepped forward, looking the weary and haggard men in the eye.

  “This will be the last night you will sleep outside under the stars not of your own choice,” he said.

  “On your pledge of fealty to me and to William the Conqueror of England, you will receive food tonight and my guarantee that as long as each of you are lawful and productive members of your villages, you will have amnesty and no cause to fear harassment from me.