Warrior's Surrender

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  Lumley’s position as senior advisor to William Walcher, the bishop of Durham and King William’s personal appointment, was mutually advantageous, so long as peace was maintained.

  From the look in the man’s eye, it would appear Lumley believed peace should start in the Great Hall.

  “Greetings, Tyrswick.”

  Despite the man’s age, his double-handed grip on Sebastian’s forearms was strong and firm.

  “Greetings, Lumley.” Sebastian nodded out across the sea of tables whose occupants were now making a great show of disinterest. “I see my arrival has caused a stir.”

  “What did you expect? One of King William’s favored knights accused of plotting against him? Court hasn’t been this well attended since Walcher’s investiture.”

  The earl led Sebastian toward a quieter corner of the hall. He leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice.

  “What’s this nonsense about, Tyrswick? These are no trifling crimes this Lord Drefan D’Aumont of Angou charges you with.”

  “Falsehoods to be sure,” Sebastian responded crisply. “But my first concern is for my wife.”

  “Your wife? Well, that appears to be the subject of some contention too.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  Lumley shook his head.

  “Only a glimpse when she first arrived, then she was spirited away to their quarters. This man claimed she had been so ill-used at your hands that her mind and body were damaged.”

  Sebastian became aware of the pain of his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palms. He unclenched his fists and enunciated his words coldly and precisely.

  “I would never hurt Alfreya.”

  “Calm yourself, my lad,” said Lumley, his expression kind. “I know you would not—”

  “But he would!”

  Sebastian’s raised voice quieted the hall again. He spared the faces a glance and returned his attention to Lumley.

  “I want her away from him now! I’ll be demanding an audience with His Grace.”

  “You’re in no position to demand anything, Tyrswick, not while these charges hang over your head. Walcher has set aside Friday afternoons to hear court matters. You can petition him then.”

  “Three days from now? What the hell does the man do all day?”

  The earl's mouth lifted in a sardonic smile.

  “You’ve not heard the latest? He’s made grand plans for a cathedral and monastery right at the end of the peninsula. He spends half his time cloistered with draughtsmen and the other half banging the cup for contributions.”

  “So, no time to deal with matters relating to the peace and security of the North,” said Sebastian with rueful bitterness.

  Lumley shrugged. “Walcher isn’t a bad man, he’s—”

  “—just so heavenly minded that he’s no earthly good? That’s how a friend of mine describes him.” Sebastian hung his head briefly and closed his eyes. “To hell with it,” he said, looking back up. “Three days, Lumley! I’m going to push for an audience now.”

  “Good luck with that, young man. You’ll have to get past his chaplain, Leobwin, and his cousin Gilbert. They are the ones who wield the political power here.”

  “I have gold enough to grease the wheels,” Sebastian retorted.

  Lumley gave him a stern look.

  “Take some advice from me, Tyrswick. Use the time to prepare your defense, make sure your men stay out of trouble, and renew some acquaintances here. The goodwill of your peers will be vital at the trial.”

  Sebastian weighed his options for a moment before offering a quick murmur of agreement. Lumley all but sighed in relief.

  “In the meantime, I’ll ask my wife to lead a delegation of noblewomen to check on Lady Alfreya’s welfare,” he offered.

  “Then you have my most pronounced thanks,” said Sebastian.

  The earl clasped his forearm. It was meant as an expression of solidarity, but Sebastian recognized the warning in it. Feuds flared quickly here and much blood had been spilled in them.

  “If we are going to stop the invasion from the north, we have to stop fighting among ourselves,” said Lumley.

  Sebastian frowned at the rapid change of subject. “These shores have not seen a Viking raid in nearly ten years.”

  A shutter came down on Lumley's expression and prickling awareness crawled its way up Sebastian’s spine.

  “You mean Scotland, don’t you?”

  Lumley said nothing to confirm, but a slight shift in his posture revealed more than words.

  “It’s inevitable. But I would rather it later than sooner.”

  A stir near the entrance to the Great Hall stole the older man's attention briefly before he turned back to Sebastian.

  “We’ve had our minor differences, Tyrswick, but even I know you’re loyal to the king. Don’t do anything rash, eh?”

  With a clap on the shoulder, the earl departed, deliberately avoiding the party now spilling through the double doors.

  Emerging from the center of the crowd was a tall man, dressed finely in olive, trimmed with ochre. Sebastian sized him up. He was easily as tall and as broad as Sebastian himself.

  The man carried himself with aristocratic ease born of self-assurance. His blond hair drew the observer to his dark arched eyebrows, which framed gray eyes. Even without a description, Sebastian felt he would have would known him.

  He was face to face with Drefan.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Frey huddled beneath the bed linens. She was too conscious of her vulnerability to drift into sleep, though she was exhausted. Her mind and body compromised, leaving her in a half-waking state.

  She was not a woman prone to tears or tantrums when her monthly courses came, but now a hysterical bubble of laughter threatened to spill from her mouth at the thought of them. She swallowed the bitter laugh with a half sob.

  Drefan’s temper this afternoon was as ferocious as she had ever known, but he had not the appetite for anything else. The thought of a woman's blood curdled desire quickly even in men used to war and wounds, and for that she was grateful.

  He roared but did not come near her, not even to deliver the beating he sorely wished to give. Drefan needed her alive, for the time being, anyway. Frey uttered a silent prayer for her elderly jailor. Mistress Duignan would be the one to bear the brunt of Drefan’s brutality. Frey hoped she had strength to withstand it.

  Instead, Drefan raged at Frey, then tormented her with Diera's awful misfortune and that of her fellow travelers.

  “You hoped I was still in Scotland raising an army for you, but I wasn't,” he had sneered.

  “My party was in and out of England all the time. Sometimes we were close enough to hear your men snore at night. And when your father was dead and the group left for Scotland, we followed them and killed them. Except Diera, of course. Not straight away.”

  Though horrified, Frey had not been able to resist asking the question. “What did you do?”

  “Oh,” said Drefan lightly, “she was safe enough while she remained compliant and of use to me. And after she was disciplined for her first escape attempt, I thought she was cowed. She traveled with us for four weeks.”

  He looked at Frey emotionlessly.

  “But you can never trust a woman, so when she tried to slip away again, I killed her.”

  He heard Frey's involuntary gasp at his brutally dismissive tone and smiled. He looked at his hands, front and back, then held them up for her to see.

  “With these hands, as a matter of fact. With these bare hands.”

  “Why?” demanded Frey, huddling into the corner of her bed farthest from him. “Why did you kill her?”

  He seemed to consider his words for a moment, his eyes becoming distant.

  “Because I could,” he said at last. “And because she reminded me of you.”

  Then he gazed at her more directly once again.

  “I did regret it, honestly, Alfreya. I mean, what was I to do now? I'd have to dig a grave.
Then I recalled the stupid villagers all abuzz about the Beast of the North and what he did to his victims, and it seemed much simpler to gouge Diera's eyes and cut off her fingers and hair, then just dump the body. You can see my logic. Just add another to the Beast's tally and I didn't need to get my men to dig a hole.”

  Frey had stared at the wall in shock for some time after he left the room.

  She started awake. Perhaps she had dozed after all. She stopped to listen.

  The wing of the castle that held the guest chambers was silent. It must be well after midnight.

  “Get up!”

  Frey heard the voice clearly; it was the voice of Larcwide.

  “Get up now!”

  She stirred, unsure of the direction the voice had come from. It seems as though it was all around her, in fact through her.

  A sense of urgency filled her with energy, where the moment before had been lethargy. Frey sat up slowly and eased out of bed so as not to disturb the one of Drefan’s twins who had been instructed to sleep beside her.

  The woman did not stir.

  Frey’s hand connected with the solid reality of the door handle and it moved. She inched the door open and stood back against the wall, fearing a repetition of this afternoon’s encounter with Drefan. Frey breathed out to the count of five and then breathed in.

  Merciful silence.

  A glimpse down the moonlit gallery revealed no one about.

  “The chapel,” the voice prompted.

  Frey hazarded a guess and turned right, not looking back.

  The dance of candlelight through the stained-glass sidelights of Durham Castle’s chapel cast shadows of red, yellow, and green along the floor. Frey stepped through the entrance. Two shapes, bodies hunched over in prayer, sat in the front pews on either side of the red-carpeted aisle.

  From habit, she dipped her hand in the holy water stoup and crossed herself. Frey was conscious of the open space and felt vulnerable so close to the door, so she moved farther in, edging along the back wall, past the two confessionals and the narrow oak staircase that rose to the choir loft. She found a deeply shadowed seat within the six rows and waited for the two figures to leave.

  Stubbornly, they did not, their murmured prayers continuing.

  Impatience, even panic, threatened to overwhelm her. What if Drefan should find her here? What protection would there be in a small room with two devout insomniacs?

  “Sanctuary.”

  The idea brought a measure of peace but no further clarity. Should she pray?

  “Sanctuary,” the voice insisted.

  “Sanctuary!” Frey cried, startling herself as much as the two worshippers with the spoken word.

  A richly dressed woman and a man clothed in the dull brown of a monk’s robe turned swiftly to face where she now stood among the pews.

  “My name is Alfreya of Tyrswick, wife of the baron of Tyrswick,” she told them. “I throw myself on the mercy of Almighty God and demand the right of sanctuary from the Church.”

  The monk stood and pulled back his hood. For one horrible moment Frey feared it was Baldwin there to take her back. The face revealed was a welcome one.

  “Dominic!”

  * * *

  On too little sleep, Frey’s temper strained to the breaking point.

  “Take it back!” she snapped.

  After the interrogation she received at the hands of Lady Aldgyth of Lumley and Lady Maeve, the wife of the bishop’s counselor Lord Gilbert, the poor lady’s maid was a convenient scapegoat for her frustration. The girl was at first frightened at the explosive outburst, and then bemused.

  Frey was forced to admit that, on the face of it, her objection sounded absurd.

  Refuse to receive a coffer full of beautiful clothes and matching shoes?

  She barely spared it a glance before waving away the two squires who carted the box. She could easily refuse when they were bought by Drefan. Frey wanted to leave no uncertainty in anyone’s mind whom she favored.

  She took a deep breath and continued in a more conciliatory manner.

  “Please inform Lord Drefan there is nothing of mine in his chambers. If he will not accept the return of the clothes, you have my permission to distribute them among the poor.”

  The young woman’s eyes lit up. It seemed she considered herself most eligible for her ladyship’s charity, and Frey was in no doubt the spoils would be distributed among Lumley’s servants within the hour.

  Good.

  From the moment she came under the protection of the Earl Ligulf of Lumley and his wife, Lady Aldgyth, her every word, every gesture, was observed and discussed behind covered hands and closed doors by every denizen of Durham Castle.

  Did you see those bruises?

  Well, she doesn’t look feeble-minded.

  She’s awfully thin.

  Have you seen both men? Who wouldn’t love to have her choice?

  She was on trial as much as Sebastian.

  Frey’s actions now could win or lose support for Sebastian among the other knights called on in two days’ time to side with the accused or the accuser.

  To commend or condemn.

  The ladies brooked no dissembling on Frey's part. Their questions were thorough, relentless, and intensely personal. Not even Abbot Ranulf in St. Cuthbert’s Abbey would dream of asking such intimate questions.

  Frey answered with equal frankness and, after an hour, the two older women gave one another meaningful looks and mercifully left her alone.

  Frey returned to the mahogany coffer that remained closed in the anteroom hastily prepared as a small bedchamber for her. The chest had arrived before dawn this morning, but she’d had no time to open it.

  She ran her hand over the familiar woodwork. It was the first piece of furniture given to her. No elaborately carved and inlaid piece could ever mean as much to her as this sturdy and reliable piece of craftsmanship made by Tyrswick Keep’s carpenter.

  She lay her cheek against the surface as though being close to it she could be close to Sebastian and fingered the latch, watching it pivot on its hinges.

  Tears begged for attention behind her closed lids. Stupid feminine weakness, Frey cursed, and stubbornly refused to give in to them.

  It was ridiculous surely, but it seemed that if Frey concentrated, she could smell the freshly cut grass and the fragrance of the meadow flowers of home. With a new sense of purpose, Frey opened the lid.

  A single sheet of paper lay folded on top of the freshly laundered, familiar clothes from Tyrswick. It was a note in Sebastian’s own hand.

  It contained one word.

  Courage.

  A sharp rap on the door brought Frey back to herself. Wiping stray tears, she bade the visitor entrance. When she saw the grim expressions worn by Lady Aldgyth and Friar Dominic, she stood.

  “What’s amiss? Is it Sebastian?”

  Lady Aldgyth bustled past her into the chamber beyond and called for two maids.

  “My lady,” began Dominic, “I had hoped this wouldn’t be necessary, but it seems you will be required to give evidence.”

  Her heart quickened. To give evidence would be to see Sebastian and set to rights the lies spun by Drefan.

  She lifted her chin with confidence rather than feigned bravado.

  “I welcome the opportunity, Dominic.”

  * * *

  It was obvious to Sebastian that Bishop Walcher would dearly love to be somewhere else; probably holed up with his advisors, dreaming of ever more elaborate embellishments to his cathedral.

  The man turned to Drefan and waved his hand impatiently to direct evidence to support the charge of treason be given.

  Drefan remained silent and still until all eyes were on him.

  Sebastian was reminded of the magician at the All Hallows Eve revels—impressive theater as long as one didn’t look too closely. He made that mistake himself once.

  It would not happen twice.

  Sebastian had his own trick up his sleeve. He vowed to Frey
long ago that he would see that Diera got the justice she deserved, and one way or another he would deliver.

  Did his hatred of Drefan derange his judgment? No matter. This morning at the breakfast, he announced his intention to denounce Drefan on a charge of murder.

  Sebastian’s declaration and subsequent refusal to immediately name the victim created such uproar in the Hall that Walcher could no longer ignore it. He angrily demanded both men convene in the Bishop’s Hall to settle immediately the matter of both the accusation of murder and the case of Lady Alfreya.

  Now here they stood, face to face, in front of an audience of their peers who would also be their judges.

  Sebastian, every fiber of his being tensed for action, looked directly at Drefan, whose cold gray eyes stared back implacably.

  What concocted “evidence” would Drefan bring?

  Sebastian was an exemplary soldier. London could have no quarrel with him; tax revenues had increased year on year as he improved farm yields and, in two years, turned the abandoned Roman coal mine into a safe and profitable enterprise.

  This year, he intended to turn his attention to an abandoned lead mine, which, local legend had it, also hosted a rich vein of silver.

  The Crown did well from Tyrswick, Sebastian considered, and his own conscience was clear. His only disobedience was back in the days of the Harrying, when he spared the lives of the wounded Alfred and his children, and none but him and Frey knew of it.

  “My friends,” Drefan began. “It might seem to you here that this is merely a falling out between two men over a woman.”

  Sebastian fancied he heard behind him a quiet snort of derision from Gaines, who sat on the front pew on his side of the aisle, along with Dominic, Orlege, and Robert.

  “But nothing could be further from the truth,” Drefan continued. “This is about the future security of England.

  “I myself have only recently become aware of a conspiracy between the baron of Tyrswick and the late Earl Alfred to conspire with King Malcolm of Scotland to invade England.”

  The Bishop’s Hall was in uproar once more.