Warrior's Surrender

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  “However, if you are lawless, your lives will be forfeit.

  “If you have love for your late lord and any regard for his children, you would do well to consider it or it will not bode well for them either.

  “What say you?”

  With varying degrees of reluctance, the men voiced their assent, then one by one they were brought before Sebastian to swear their oath before him, witnessed by Gaines and the local friar who had returned from the village with Robert.

  Finally, Sebastian told the men that, in the morning, the friar would subject them to a census and arrange their return home. He dismissed them with an order to “go and eat your fill.”

  The men turned their attention to the meadow from where the almost forgotten aroma of roasting mutton wafted.

  “Baron, a word in private if I may,” the friar called.

  Friar Dominic was a small, nuggetty man who appeared to Sebastian, judging by his lined mouth and eyes, to have seen more of life than most.

  Gaines had once joked that a single dead-eye stare from Dominic would have the devil himself flee. Sebastian was hard-pressed to disagree with the assessment. However, the friar's sharp mind and forthright manner also made him one of the few Englishmen Sebastian trusted enough to confide in.

  “Gaines, escort Lady Alfreya and ensure she and her brother have sufficient to eat,” he instructed his man at arms. He watched her follow Gaines in the direction of the camp before turning to the clergyman. “Yes, Dominic?”

  “What are you planning to do with Lord Brice and Lady Alfreya?” asked the friar.

  Sebastian gave a short laugh and turned away, starting down to the lea where flames from half a dozen braziers flickered an orange blaze, casting distorted shadows of men setting up the last of the encampment. A quarter moon added a weak glow to the new night. Sebastian could just make out the shapes of Gaines and Alfreya about twenty yards ahead.

  Despite the difference in their heights, Friar Dominic kept pace with the taller man easily.

  “What do you think I should do with them?” said Sebastian crossly at last. “Put their heads on a pike? Flay them? Send them to London to be locked in White Tower?”

  “Strictly speaking,” considered the friar, “you’d be well within your rights to do any of those things, according to the powers given to you by King William.”

  “What are you trying to tell me, Dominic?”

  “Is it my place to tell you anything?” the friar asked.

  “It hasn’t stopped you in the past,” retorted Sebastian in good humor.

  “So, you’re convinced this woman is the daughter of Earl Alfred, despite the fact you just buried a woman of that name not two months ago?”

  “You performed the rites; you identified the signet ring.”

  “I did.”

  Sebastian stopped and gave a long, drawn-out sigh.

  “Speak plainly, will you, Dom? It’s been a long day.”

  Friar Dominic came to the point.

  “Since we buried the girl whom you believed to be Lady Alfreya of Tyrswick, you’ve taken a personal interest in trying to find the man who brutally murdered her,” he said. “I just want you to be certain, for your sake.”

  Sebastian gave a curt nod in acknowledgment.

  “She carries Alfred’s sword, seal, and surcoat. That alone would be enough to commend her,” he said. “Even without them…she speaks French fluently, and her skills in command and negotiation would have convinced me soon enough.”

  The two men continued their walk down the hill.

  “She is a beautiful young woman, is she not?” ventured Dominic after a moment.

  Sebastian did not answer, but the friar had his attention and continued. “You’ve secured the loyalty of the remainder of Alfred’s men—or at least their oath of loyalty. But what of his children?”

  “From what I’ve seen of young Brice,” Sebastian replied, “it will take one of God’s miracles for him to see the next full moon. And as for that woman…”

  “His sister,” Friar Dominic corrected.

  “Sister, then,” Sebastian acknowledged. “She has offered herself as my hostage in exchange for her brother’s care.”

  “Putting herself in your hands? She's braver than I gave her credit for,” said Dominic, openly irreverent of the baron's authority. “But that does bring me back to my original question. What are you going to do?”

  Sebastian shrugged, but the action was lost in the darkness.

  “That all depends whether our murderer was an opportunist who happened across the girl at random or whether Alfreya was the intended victim all along.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sebastian’s man-at-arms stalked down the hill, seemingly heedless of whether Frey followed him or not.

  Losing sight of the baron behind them in the darkness, Frey concentrated on keeping up with the knight whose long strides took them rapidly toward the camp.

  A dozen more tents had sprung up in the couple of hours since Frey made her truce with the new master of Tyrswick. What started in the afternoon as a gathering of not more than thirty people now swelled to double that number as the curious from the nearby village arrived with food and drink. The meadow had taken on a carnival atmosphere.

  Frey could see some of her father’s men sitting around a fire, some laughing and with smiles that had been absent for many, many months. A yell of recognition, laughter, and the sound of hearty backslapping drew her attention to another part of the field. Two more men were in animated conversation with a group of villagers with whom they were well acquainted.

  The smell of meat cooking was almost unbearable. Frey’s mouth watered at the sight and aroma of two fowl roasting on a spit, and she stopped in her tracks. Gaines was paying attention after all. He stopped too, a few feet away.

  The old woman turning the spit handle looked up and grinned. “Ye’ll be waitin’ a while for these dearie, but there’s plenty o’ stew t’be ’ad,” she told Frey, indicating a pot suspended over a nearby fire.

  “Thank you,” said Frey, and the old woman shuffled off to fill a bowl for her.

  Frey called to Gaines and the knight turned to her reluctantly, as though she was beneath his contempt.

  “Have all the men eaten?” she asked.

  The man looked around and shrugged. “I suppose so,” he told her, then turned away with a disinterested air and walked off, his work of escorting her to the camp over.

  Frey sighed. The care of the men, at least with respect to food and drink, was another responsibility taken from her shoulders. For months the routine had been the same. Stay one step ahead of Sebastian de la Croix and his soldiers, hunt for food, and find shelter from the changeable northern weather.

  Now it was over and Frey wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

  The old woman returned with a steaming bowl of stew and a lump of bread.

  Frey thanked her and glanced about until she saw Sar. The youngster stood glumly by the entrance to one of the tents, his presence indicating it was the one in which Brice rested.

  Sar stood to attention as she approached, then his eyes wandered down to the bowl in her hands. He stared covetously.

  “Have you eaten yet?” Frey asked.

  The lad shook his head, and Frey handed her meal to him.

  “Finish that and you may be lucky to get some roast meat,” she told him. “I’ll stay with Lord Brice.”

  Sar didn’t need to be told twice. He managed the ungainly feat of dipping the bread into the stew, eating, and running toward the spit all at the same time.

  On lifting the flap of the tent—the baron’s own, she realized—her nostrils were assaulted by the thick scent of an incense of myrrh, rose, and frankincense. A censer more typically used in a church sat by the entrance flap in the gloom. Clearly the friar had been here first.

  Had he given up on her brother too, merely offering the last rites and abandoning him to his fate?

  A lamp glowed dully, offering just
enough light for Frey to identify the location of her brother’s cot.

  She approached and observed an earthenware jar by the edge of the bedding. She removed the lid and sniffed the contents. Despite the heavy odor of incense in the air, one by one the ingredients identified themselves to her—honey, rosemary, and a citric tang she guessed were crushed feverfew leaves.

  She relidded the jar and lifted the edge of the blanket. Brice’s ankle had been rebandaged and the dark, sticky fluid that oozed from the edges had the same odor as the unguent in the jar.

  Nearby, a bowl contained the dregs of a clear broth. If Brice had eaten more than a few mouthfuls, she would be grateful.

  Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who believed her brother could be made well, after all.

  Frey brushed his cheek affectionately and kissed his forehead. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully, with no sign of the fever that had plagued him earlier.

  There was nothing more for her to do in here, so she stepped out into the night air.

  Nothing more to do. The thought echoed in her head.

  Instead of the relief she expected to feel, a hollowness settled instead. Once she safely delivered her brother into the hands of the healing monks at St Cuthbert’s, her goal would be accomplished. But what then?

  For the first time in her life, Frey found herself devoid of purpose and with no idea of what the future might hold. From the entrance of the tent, she watched the activity by the fires and felt estranged from it.

  She needed solitude.

  Frey turned her back on the camp and walked into the darkness, away from the comforting warmth of the firelight, the smell of food, and the sound of conversation.

  The inky evening cloaked her in its embrace.

  She sat on a fallen log and allowed a tear, the first she had permitted since her father’s death, to fall.

  “Damn you to hell, Drefan!” she cursed in a hoarse whisper. “You said but for my father’s determination to win back Tyrswick, we would be wed.

  “Now my father is dead, perhaps my brother also soon enough, and my life and future are in the hands of a Norman enemy.

  “My father paid you handsomely in gold but you and your promises of troops and arms are nowhere to be seen.

  “Traitor, thief, liar… Is this what it means when you vow love?”

  * * *

  Frey’s tears were long dried before anyone intruded on her privacy.

  Larcwide approached, holding a joint of meat in one hand and a bowl of stew in the other.

  “Eat, my lady,” he said, handing her the bowl.

  “What makes you think I haven’t already eaten?” she grumbled, but nonetheless accepted the meal.

  The man-at-arms shrugged and sat down beside her.

  “I know you too well, mistress,” he responded, giving her a nudge with his shoulder while he helped himself to a large mouthful of roasted sheep. “Go on, humor me. At least pretend to eat.”

  Frey huffed. She dipped a piece of bread into the bowl and popped it in her mouth.

  It was heavenly. She chewed slowly, savoring the flavors of onion, herbs, and beef.

  Larcwide watched as Frey scooped two more mouthfuls with the bread before he returned to chewing his joint.

  They sat in companionable silence until Larcwide’s meal was nothing more than scraped bone, but he observed Frey's still unfinished meal as he interrupted her reverie.”Your father would have been proud of you today,” he said.

  Frey shook her head and snorted derisively.

  “Yes, he would,” Larcwide argued. “It’s a true test of a warrior’s mettle to know when the battle has been lost and negotiate the best outcome. You did that today. A few of the men are reunited with their families; the rest have been promised employment gathering the harvest, and so far none of us have been hanged, boiled in oil, burned at the stake or clapped in irons and that’s more than anyone expected, so…well done.”

  Frey accepted his thanks with an awkward shrug of her shoulders and a nod. After a moment she turned her head and considered his profile.

  “What of yourself and Orlege?”

  “You can’t see us being farmers or shepherds?” he asked lightly.

  Frey shook her head.

  “What about a swineherd?”

  Frey laughed as Larcwide punctuated the question with an oink and a squeal.

  He smiled too, at hearing his mistress laugh, she surmised.

  It had been too long.

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” said Frey, unaware of his distraction. “You and Orlege are warriors. You’re no more a farmer than I am a scullion.”

  “Perhaps our new lord could stand a few replacement knights for the ones we took in battle and you could get used to washing dishes?”

  Frey’s look told him what she thought of the idea.

  Larcwide grinned and forced a half smile from his mistress.

  “Now, don’t you be worrying about us, my lady. Battle-hardened warriors always find employment.”

  The conversation came to an end and each remained in silent contemplation for a while before Frey broached the subject that troubled her. She looked back at the camp and started to feel the pull of its warmth, camaraderie, and certainty. She blinked and looked away before she spoke.

  “Do you think the outcome would have been different if Lord Drefan delivered the troops and arms as promised?”

  “Only God knows,” he answered truthfully, and paused before going on. “Mayhap yes it would, which would mean more war. King William has already shown how far he will go to assert his authority. But then perhaps no, which would mean all of us dead in battle or by the noose, and you destined for something much worse than death.

  “This way, your men begin a new life, Lord Brice will receive care, and you can be married to someone more worthy of you than Drefan.”

  Larcwide punctuated the end of his speech with a forceful spit.

  Frey started. She had never before heard anyone of her men, let alone Larcwide, venture a negative opinion of Edgar the Atheling’s cousin.

  “So you put more faith in a barbarian Norman like the Baron Sebastian than a fellow Saxon?” she questioned.

  Larcwide issued a long-suffering sigh.

  “I’m a simple man, my lady,” he told her. “I judge men by what they say and by what they do. Lord Drefan promised troops and aid. He didn’t deliver. Lord Sebastian promised full bellies and an amnesty. He’s made good on the first promise, and that's one more than Drefan.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Then came Peter to him, and said, ‘Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? 'till seven times?’ Jesus saith unto him, ‘I say not unto thee, until seven times: but, until seventy times seven.’”

  Friar Dominic closed the ancient text—one painstakingly hand copied and bound in leather—upon a tree stump and drew breath to deliver his sermon. Earlier that morning he had announced a service of reconciliation and thanksgiving after the break-fast, as well as the hearing of private confessions.

  Gathered in close were both Alfred’s and Sebastian’s men and a few of the villagers who weren’t occupied with morning chores.

  “Our Lord places an extraordinary amount of emphasis on forgiveness, not only from our Heavenly Father for our own sins, but also in that we should emulate him and forgive our brother. Not just once, not just twice, but many, many times over,” said the friar.

  “Many here have been both trespasser and trespassed upon. Forgiveness is not an act of emotion, but an act of your will. Now is the time for forgiveness, now is the time to leave behind enmities of the past to build a new day and a new life, exhorting ourselves to follow Christ’s example.”

  Dominic nodded to Sebastian’s young squire, Robert, who was serving as altar boy. The young man solemnly opened up the traveling sacristy and the friar retrieved a small silver salver and chalice and held them both to the heavens. The morning sun seemed to give him a beatific glow.

&
nbsp; One by one the camp, both Saxon and Norman alike, filed past to accept the sacrament.

  Frey remained where she stood at the back of the crowd. A dozen people filed past and accepted the Eucharist. Then came Sebastian’s turn.

  Frey watched the baron bow his head and kneel. She saw a man of superior height and strength to the friar, nevertheless humbling himself to acknowledge something greater than himself. As Sebastian knelt before God, she knew the only other he would do so for would be King William himself.

  For reasons she struggled to understand, this observation made her angry.

  This man killed my father and ruthlessly hunted us for months, and now he seeks reconciliation? she thought. God may forgive him, but I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I want to.

  As she argued with herself, Larcwide’s words from last night popped into her head. “He’s made good on the first promise and that is one more than Drefan.”

  Yet when has a Norman done anything other than pillage and destroy? she asked herself bitterly.

  Then, unbidden, a fragment of a memory—surreal, as though a dream—resolved itself in her mind's eye, of a young Norman, who had stood before her and then lied to his lord to afford her the chance to save her wounded father and young brother.

  Frey shook her head to clear the image. Two acts of kindness from Normans. What should she make of it?

  She waited until the last of the men joined the communion line before adjusting the hood of her gray cloak, the closest thing she possessed to a veil, and taking her place.

  Maybe, if she prayed harder, she could learn to forgive.

  * * *

  Midmorning passed before the makeshift camp had been completely dismantled. Many of those who had stayed overnight were long departed, including Lord Alfred’s men. They were to accompany the friar back to the closest village, where they would stay until all the neighboring priests could check their parish records to confirm their identities.

  Before Dominic left, Sebastian directed him to write a missive to the abbot of St. Cuthbert’s, telling him to expect the arrival of a gravely ill child and asking the abbot to identify and vouch for the accompanying cipher. Using the ring surrendered to him by the Lady Alfreya, Sebastian added a wax imprint, accompanied by his own seal.