Terri Brisbin - His Enemy's Daughter

‘Is Algar dead, then?’ she asked in a soft voice.

Part of him urged him to lie to her—not to add to the burden of guilt she must carry—but he tamped it down. The daughter of Durward deserved no such consideration, he told himself again.

‘Aye, he is dead. We found his body in the rubble of the wall, along with four others.’

He could have told her that they were following her with orders to get her to safety, but those words would not flow from his tongue. Unwilling to dwell on that small measure of courtesy granted to a woman he came here prepared to hate, he repeated his demand.

‘Where did he hide the rolls? Or did you accomplish the deed?’

The silence went on for several minutes with no sign of an answer in the offing from her. Soren used his leverage then.

‘You put their lives in danger, lady, with your refusals. How many more must die because of you?’

Her indrawn breath told him of his success in piercing the lady’s apparent lack of concern.

‘You would kill them for something not in their control?’

‘If it will gain me that which I need, aye,’ he said, using her inability to see in this battle of wills. Clearly, she could not hear his lack of resolve and now had no visual cues to use to decide whether he bluffed or not. Memories of his own days spent blinded by his injury threatened, but he gathered his control and prevented them from flaring.

‘Tell me the names of those who died and I will take you to that which you demand.’

He laughed aloud at her attempt to bargain with him. A bit of spirit yet remained within the woman and it pleased him somehow. He preferred to face a strong enemy, to sharpen and hone his skills against a worthy adversary, than against a frightened woman with nothing to risk or lose. Soren also knew the value of timing in a battle, and this was nothing less, so he turned without another word and left. Let her sit and worry over his choice for a bit.

He strode down the stairs, having a care for the steepness of the steps. His eye could not discern the depth of something, especially a thing cloaked in the shadows, well enough yet, so he braced his hand on the wall as he moved downwards to the landing. Such a limitation served as a constant reminder of all he’d lost with Durward’s blow and served to strengthen his resolve to overcome it as well. He’d learnt to adjust the aim of his bow quickly to sharpen the accuracy of his arrows’ flight. But, simple things like staircases thwarted his attempts to appear as he once was—confident, accomplished and skilled. Guermont, who now stood as his second-in-command here at Alston, met him at the bottom.

‘This encounter would seem better than your last one with the lady,’ Guermont said, walking at his side through the hall to the door that led out to the yard. ‘The guards have reported no outbursts from her since the first one.’

‘Has she asked to leave her chambers? Have her maids asked?’ Soren asked.

Guermont oversaw everything and everyone within the keep for Soren, so that he could see to the defences and the outlying buildings and lands. Soren had toiled alongside his men, the villeins of Alston and the prisoners he’d taken during his attack. Once the entire manor was under control and rebuilt to withstand attacks from the rebels who yet gathered to fight off the rule of King William, he would have time to better organise those who served him.

Though he’d initially planned to tear the place apart, plank by plank, stone by stone, he would have to wait on that, for the rebels were active once more in the north of England. Soren and his troops would be pivotal in controlling this area and they needed Alston, for now, as their base. Once the area was secured, Soren would be able to destroy the home of Durward and begin anew with his own plans.

‘Nothing. Her maids remain at her side every moment, leaving rarely and never allowing her to be alone in her chambers. If one runs some errand, the other remains there.’

‘Send to me if she asks to leave her room, Guermont,’ Soren ordered, stopping a few paces outside the keep. ‘Keep her maids with her for now.’

‘Is she a prisoner, then?’ Guermont asked.

‘Nay, not a prisoner. All she has to do is ask and she has my permission to leave that room. But, she must ask it of me.’ Soren nodded and turned to leave. A question in his mind stopped him.

‘Is she eating?’ he asked. The woman looked gaunt, more so than when he’d seen her last in the light of day.

Guermont shook his head. ‘She eats little. I hear her maids cajoling her to take some porridge or broth.’

A memory of those first days after waking from his weeks of pain and herb-induced sleep shot through him then. Once he knew the extent of his injuries and the profound change it had wrought to his life and his body, he cared little if he ate or did not. He cared little if the sun rose or set. Sybilla of Alston was going through the exact same pattern that he had, but she could not even see around her to know if it was day or night. At least he’d been spared one eye to make his way in the world, such as it was.

Shaking off a growing sense of some emotion he neither understood nor appreciated, Soren left Guermont to his duties and sought out the place in the wall where the prisoners worked to repair it. He watched the men all defer to one man when given orders. They waited and watched him before obeying, a pattern repeated over and over. Stephen walked to his side.

‘Is there a problem, Soren?’

‘Nay. I am just watching that one,’ he said, nodding in the direction of the older man. ‘Was he the commander of Durward’s guards? The one on the walls next to the lady?’

‘I cannot tell,’ Stephen replied.

Without delay Stephen walked to where the man walked and pulled him out of the line of prisoners, dragging him to where Soren stood. The length of chain attached to his ankles served to keep his strides short and prevented his escape. When he stood before him, Soren crossed his arms over his chest and studied the man.

‘You commanded the manor’s defences,’ he asked, not doubting it for a moment. ‘What is your name?’

‘Gareth,’ the man answered, meeting his gaze and not flinching or looking away. Clearly, this warrior had seen many battles and the results on human flesh.

Soren motioned for Stephen to release him and then, without hesitation or warning, he swung his fist, landing his punch on Gareth’s jaw, knocking him to the ground.

‘That is for closing your gates when you could not hope to keep me out.’

The Saxons watched now, ignoring their work and trying to get closer. His men stopped them, forming a wall between the prisoners and him, shoving them back to their places. Soren watched as Gareth climbed to his feet, wiped the blood from his mouth and stood straight before him, as though ready for the next blow. Soren had no intention of more, he simply wanted to make his point that the man’s actions were foolhardy. In a battle when outnumbered by overwhelming numbers, antagonising one’s opponent was not the smartest course of action.

‘Come,’ he directed and he walked away, expecting Gareth to follow. Soren strode a short distance away from the others and stopped, turning to face Gareth.

‘How long have you served as commander of the guard here in Alston?’ he asked.

‘For nigh on ten years,’ Gareth answered.

‘Have you received word or instructions from kith or kin about the forces of William and the war?’

‘Nothing until your message arrived last week, not since before the battles in the south.’

‘All of England is now under William’s control. Those Saxons who yet resist are being run to ground and exterminated like the vermin they are,’ Soren explained, trying to make the man understand that resistance was futile.