Praise for Terri Brisbin

THE MERCENARY’S BRIDE

‘Brisbin’s latest Knights of Brittany book is just as thrilling and passionate as the rest. Brisbin excels at immersing readers in history and bringing her characters to life.’

—RT Book Reviews

THE CONQUEROR’S LADY

‘Riveting with its rich narrative, pulsing sexual tension and chilling suspense. It’s a tale of a man of passion, action and heat, and the innocent beauty who conquers him body and soul.’

—RT Book Reviews

SURRENDER TO THE HIGHLANDER

‘… rich in historical detail, laced with the perfect amount of passion, Ms Brisbin continually delivers highly satisfying romances. Don’t miss it.’

—Romance Reviews Today

TAMING THE HIGHLANDER

‘TAMING THE HIGHLANDER is a lively, frolicking tale of life in the Highlands; truly a must-read.’

—Historical Romance Writers

THE MAID OF LORNE

‘With her usual superb sense of characterisation and exceptional gift for creating sizzling sexual chemistry, Brisbin fashions a splendidly satisfying medieval historical.’

—Booklist

“So, you wish to become a nun, then?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper, teasing her ear with his breath.

“No, not a nun,” she stuttered. “But I could live a contemplative life there.” Her claim was a bold one, and one that would be refuted by most any person who knew her.

Suddenly he stood behind her, grasping her shoulders and drawing her back against him. His body was like a stone wall—all hard, with no softness to be felt anywhere. He leaned down and whispered again.

“Would you give up all that you have, Lady Sybilla? Would you be able to obey and live quietly?”

He moved one arm across her, holding her to him, while he used the other to slip into her hair and move it to one side. His breath tickled her neck now, and she tried to ease away. Instead she opened the whole of her neck to him. Exposed, held securely against him, she was vulnerable in a way she’d never felt before. She should be crying out in fear, but her body reacted most strangely—her breasts swelled under the weight of his arm, her skin tingled and yet ached for something more …

“Would you give up everything?”

Author’s Note

Although the 1066 invasion of Duke William of Normandy brought about huge changes in the politics and society of England, some of those changes were already underway. Normans had become an integral part of England during Edward the Confessor’s reign, many gaining lands and titles long before the Conqueror set foot there. So, the Saxons had some experience with Norman ways before this major invasion force landed in Pevensey in October 1066.

Many Saxons held their lands after William’s arrival—those who pledged their loyalty to the new ruler were permitted to retain them, but many were supplanted by those who’d fought for William. Important Norman nobles gained more property and often Saxon heiresses.

Thought ruthless and not hesitant about using force to implement his rule, William did not employ it fully after the Battle of Hastings until the revolt three years later in the north of England. Then, he unleashed his anger on those in what’s still called the ‘Harrowing of the North’, destroying everything in his path and effectively wiping out what was left of the Saxon way of life.

In my story, one of Harold’s sons, Edmund, appears as a leader of the rebels. ‘My’ Edmund is really a composite of several real people who lived in the aftermath of the Battle of Hastings and continued to fight the Normans as they moved from the south-east of England northwards and westwards to take control of the whole country.

It is believed that at least two of Harold’s sons did survive—or avoid—the battle that killed their father and that they and their mother joined in the efforts of some of the others opposing the Normans. The earls of Mercia and Northumbria, Harold’s brothers-by-marriage, switched sides several times during this conflict, were even taken to Normandy along with the designated Saxon heir-apparent, Edgar Atheling, and were later part of this struggle that led to William’s ‘Harrowing of the North’. So, any resemblance of ‘my’ Edmund to the real protagonists of history is intentional!

About the Author

TERRI BRISBIN has been writing romance fiction since 1995 and has more than twenty-five historical and paranormal romance novels, novellas and short stories published since then. When not living the glamorous life of a romance author in the southern New Jersey suburbs, Terri spends her time being a wife to one, mother to three as well as a dental hygienist to hundreds.

A National Readers’ Choice Award finalist, three-time RWA RITA® finalist, and winner of the NJRW Golden Leaf and Desert Rose Golden Quill, Terri is now working on more romance novels and novellas. You can visit her website for more info about the author and her work or to contact her: www.terribrisbin.com

Previous novels by the same author:

THE NORMAN’S BRIDE

THE COUNTESS BRIDE

THE EARL’S SECRET

TAMING THE HIGHLANDER

SURRENDER TO THE HIGHLANDER

POSSESSED BY THE HIGHLANDER

BLAME IT ON THE MISTLETOE

(short story in One Candlelit Christmas)

THE MAID OF LORNE

THE CONQUEROR’S LADY*

THE MERCENARY’S BRIDE*

and in Mills & Boon Historical Undone! eBooks:

A NIGHT FOR HER PLEASURE*

The Knights of Brittany

HIS ENEMY’S DAUGHTER

features characters you will have met in

THE CONQUEROR’S LADY

and THE MERCENARY’S BRIDE

and in Mills & Boon ebooks

Royal Weddings Through The Ages

WHAT THE DUCHESS WANTS

His Enemy’s Daughter

Terri Brisbin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Prologue

Thaxted Keep north-eastern England— June AD 1067

Bishop Obert pounded his fists on the thick wooden table in a most inappropriate gesture for a man of God. The muscles in his cheek began to twitch and he fought to keep control over his completely human temper. ‘Twas times like these when he wished he’d never taken Holy Orders or represented the king. ‘Twas times like these when he would like nothing more than to raise his fists and react to the words spoken to him. The scarred warrior came closer to the table, undeterred by his friends’ furious whispered warnings. Obert could not help but flinch as he approached.

First, the man’s size would give any man pause for he stood more than six feet tall and possessed the muscular build, power and menace of a man of war. But his face, half-torn apart by an axe’s blow and half still the one that earned the man the title of the ‘Beautiful Bastard’, gave him pause for another reason and drew some other emotion from him.

Obert thought fear the likely cause, for no one but a fool would look on Soren Fitzrobert and not offer up a prayer for their own soul and his. And no one who knew him before the fateful blow struck him down in the Battle of Hastings would ever look on him now and not feel pity for all he’d lost. But Obert had dealt with enough proud men in his life to know that pity would make things worse.

‘These are the king’s orders, my lord,’ he said, using the title he knew the man wanted and craved almost as much as he craved a return of his appearance. ‘Surely you would oblige the king and carry out this one task before taking your own lands?’

‘Why can Brice not see to this task for the king?’ Soren demanded. ‘Eoforwic was his kin by marriage,’ he offered, ‘at the order of the king.’ Obert observed his glare and heard the sarcasm in his voice. The anger was subsiding and acceptance had crept in, whether the warrior recognised it yet or not.

‘The king has asked this of you,’ Obert said calmly. ‘Since Alston sits in the north, you can travel by way of Shildon and handle the matter. He does not wish for the rebels to gain a stronghold while our attentions are elsewhere.’

Lord Giles tugged his friend back from the table and spoke to him quietly. Lord Brice stood silently,

but watched with grave regard for his friends. Finally, Soren nodded to Obert.

‘Very well, my lord bishop,’ he forced through his teeth. ‘I am ever the king’s loyal subject.’ Soren tilted his head in a bow that was neither respectful nor meant to be.

Obert watched as the warrior’s friends offered their help in the endeavour and as the man begrudgingly warmed to the thought of fighting Saxon rebels. Though Soren accepted it, Obert knew that he was different, changed irreparably by the blow that had nearly killed him. Never again would he be the carefree, beautiful young man who drew women to his bed like a bee to honey. Never again would any man look at him without wincing in pain or in sympathy … or in pity at his condition.

God help the woman meant as his wife! The pity filling Obert’s heart in that moment was for Sybilla of Alston. The king’s declaration ordered Soren to marry her if she was alive, but gave him the discretion to marry elsewhere if she did not please him. Watching the three friends talk, he wondered if their advice would temper his anger.

Obert had overheard Soren’s intentions to destroy anyone related to Durward of Alston, the man who’d wrought the terrible damage to his body long after the battle was called. Would his vengeance take the life of the innocent young Sybilla or could Soren be directed away from his path of darkness before she was destroyed? And before his soul was damned?

Offering up another prayer, Bishop Obert announced that he would present Soren with the king’s charter after Mass. Leading Lord Giles and Lord Brice and their wives into the chapel, he noticed Soren’s unease at being surrounded by so many people. As he prepared the altar and donned the garments necessary for celebrating the Mass, Obert prayed as he’d not done in many, many years.

Mayhap God could influence this knight when his friends and others had failed?

But, as he watched over the next weeks as Soren prepared to head north and saw the darkness in his spirit and in his heart, Obert doubted that anything, mayhap even God’s intervention, would be strong enough to help in the knight’s battle to become the man he should be.

Chapter One

Shildon Keep, north-east England— July AD 1067

The acrid stench of fire and death burned his nostrils and his eye. Soren Fitzrobert blinked quickly and surveyed the devastation before him.

Crops and outbuildings yet burned in the late daylight of midsummer, the smoke darkening the sky more effectively than the setting sun could. The dead lay in pools of their own blood as it seeped into the ground. The silence crushed him, for not a sound echoed across the yard or the land surrounding it now. Stephen approached—from his good side, he noticed—and waited for his orders.

‘They are cowards,’ Soren said as he lifted his helm off and rubbed his head. ‘Look, they burn their fields, kill their own people and run.’

‘For certain, these were Oremund’s orders,’ Stephen answered, disdain for the man involved clear in his voice.

‘If he was not dead, I would kill him again, slowly, for something like this,’ Soren declared. Lord Oremund had been in league with the rebels who sought to overthrow the king’s rule and return the old Saxon lords to their place in England. He’d been killed in the battle to secure his friend Brice’s claim to Oremund’s half-sister’s lands.

Oh, vengeance ran hot in his own blood and this bit of sympathy for the slain did not cool it. He had cause to seek out and destroy those responsible for his condition, but these villagers—men, women, even children—deserved not the fate of being massacred by their lord’s men. Soren even understood how innocents could be caught up in the throes of war, but this was not warfare.

This was slaughter.

‘Seek any who live and gather the dead for burial,’ he ordered. ‘Burn the bodies of those who fought against us,’ he added.

Stephen hesitated, but did not speak. Soren turned his good eye to gaze at him. The flinch in the man’s gaze lasted less than a heartbeat of time, but it happened and Soren saw it. Worse, though, was the glint of pity that passed quickly through the battle-hardened warrior’s eyes for him.

His stomach clenched in a way now familiar to him when faced with this constant and unfailing reaction to his face. Fear or horror or revulsion followed quickly by pity. By Christ, he was sick of it! Soren turned away and walked off, not waiting to see if his orders were obeyed or not.

His blood boiled with hatred then. He would seek out the get of Durward of Alston and destroy any of them who yet lived and wipe his very name from the earth. The skin over his eye and the ragged scar down his face and neck itched then, reminding him of the damage wrought by the coward Saxon after the battle had been called. Soren fought the urge to touch it, for there were too many watching him now.

Another of Brice’s men called out to him and Soren nodded for him to approach. In tow, the halting shape of a priest walked behind, head bowed, prayers whispering under his breath. The priest did not look up and so he collided with Ansel and stumbled. It was as the priest raised his head that their gazes met and it happened.

The horror. The fear.

The priest instinctually made the sign of the cross and looked away as though unable to bear looking at him. Soren seethed with anger and hatred and lashed out.

‘Get him out of here, Ansel!’ he yelled. His voice echoed in the silence and everyone who was not watching, now did so. Soren did not care.

‘Soren, he wants to bless the dead,’ Ansel explained calmly, unaffected by his fury.

He sucked in a breath, trying to regain control, as the need to strike and hurt and destroy pulsed through his blood and nearly overwhelmed him. Clenching his fists and his teeth, Soren waited for the blinding rage to ease. The priest cowered and whispers rippled through the yard as the people there, both villeins and his men, waited to see his actions.

He could not speak, his throat clogged with anger; his arms and hands ached with the need to hurt someone, anyone. Soren simply nodded permission at Ansel as he strode off. The only thing that helped at times like these was labour—hard, physical toil that would tire his body and drain some of the hatred from his soul. So, he walked to where groups of the men cleared the bodies from the fields and wordlessly joined them.

Hours later, exhausted from days of hard riding and the battle this morn and even more from the digging and carrying, Soren barely made it to his blankets. It would take days to bury all the dead and get things in order here before he could head north to Alston. Days wasted when he should be taking control of his own lands and killing those related to Durward.

He had given his word to Obert and to Brice, so he had no choice but to see this through. And he would, though not happily. Once he had held the charter in his hands, spoken the words making him the king’s man and received the bishop’s blessing, the tension had grown within him. With every passing hour and day, the need to claim his own lands and make his place forced him forwards, like a hunger in his belly for a meal he could not or should not eat.

With every passing day, the gnawing fear that this dream would be snatched away from him grew. Held out like a choice bone to a hungry dog, the promise of these charters enticed them to dance to the king’s tune, regardless of the dangers. Soren and his friends were bastards, never meant to inherit or rule over wealth or lands. This opportunity from the king was unheard of and the threat of failure dogged his every step, just as it had Giles and Brice.

No matter now, he told himself for the thousandth time since regaining consciousness and discovering the offer made by Bishop Obert. Soren’s dreams and hopes for a life had ended on the battlefield and now he lived only for vengeance. Though he would pursue the king’s gift, he had little planned once he actually claimed it.

As he fell asleep on his fifth day of ‘handling’ Shildon for Brice and the king, the guilt struck him. And the irony as well, for he had the same fate in mind for Alston as Oremund had done here—burn it to the ground and wipe the slate clean so he could make his own mark on it. He wondered if he would feel pity for the get of Durward when they were dead at his hand and whether it would wipe him clean as well.

Sleep claimed him before he could answer his own question.

Soren called out for his men to mount up and then did so himself. He fought to keep the smile from bursting forth on his face, for it would only make him appear more demonic than he was without it. After securing the lands and organising the people left alive, Soren was leaving one of Brice’s men in command until Brice decided who would oversee these lands for him.

The thought of riding to the lands that would be his, cleansing it of the vermin now living there and the fighting that would be necessary to accomplish those tasks charged his blood with heat and made his muscles ache to draw his sword. There would be time and opportunity aplenty, so he bided his time now, waiting for his men to fall into line behind him.

His attention was drawn to watching as they formed in their battle-ready lines and he never noticed the small boy approaching from his side. The scrawny child’s bleating scream made him turn just before the boy attacked.

Attacked? The boy did indeed have a dagger in his hand and he held it high as he ran towards Soren and his mount. It took little time or effort to stop the attack, for Soren simply leaned over and grabbed the pitiful thing from his feet by the clothes he wore and dangled him above the ground. Due to Soren’s long reach and the boy’s non-existent one, there was no hope for success or escape.

‘What the hell do you do, boy?’ he yelled, shaking the boy until he dropped the dagger. Pulling him in closer, Soren pushed his hood back and used the horror of his face to terrify him even more. ‘Do you think to kill me?’ Once his men realised there was no threat, they laughed at the boy’s puny attempt and waited for Soren to handle him.

‘You … you …’ the boy sputtered, swinging his fists even though he could not reach Soren.

‘Bastard?’ Soren offered in a low voice.

‘Aye,’ the boy nodded and then spat at him. ‘You bastard!’

That insult had stopped hurting some time ago. Soren had discovered the truth of his parentage at about the same age as this boy here and had learned the hard way not to let it goad him into anger or action.

Insults only had power when you let them control you, Lord Gautier’s voice expressed a long-forgotten lesson of life.

‘As is my king and yours now, boy,’ Soren agreed.

His men laughed, having been taunted with the same words themselves since most of them were born out of the bonds of marriage. That was part of why they’d all banded together and why he was at ease with them. No high-born men in his ranks to belittle him. No legitimate sons of nobles served with him, for only Gautier’s legitimate son Simon had ever befriended them. Bastards all, with excuses made to no one for it.

Soren dropped the boy onto the ground and waited to see what his next move would be. Strange, the boy was the first one here who did not flinch or wince at the sight of his face.

‘What are you called?’ he asked.

‘I am called Raed,’ the boy said as he stood and thrusted out his chin.

‘Raed of Shildon, where are your parents?’ Soren realised that the name did match the boy’s colouring, even though his own did not. The boy glanced away from him, looking instead at the freshly dug graves along the road and nodded.

‘I have no mother,’ he answered in a low voice. ‘My da lays there.’

An orphan. Soren glanced over at Guermont to determine if his men had killed the boy’s father. Guermont’s slight shake told him that it had been the work of Oremund’s men.

‘What skills do you claim?’ Soren asked. Something about the boy touched him deeply, in a place Soren had not thought existed any longer. This Raed seemed to have about eight years and Soren remembered how strong pride had filled him at that age. The boy shrugged and shook his head.

‘Foolish and fearless, then, for attacking an armed knight with but a puny dagger is asking for death.’

As the words escaped, a twinge pierced that place again—the one that recognised the truths one did not wish to know. Raed leaned over and picked up the dagger, shifting it from hand to hand, positioning it much as a warrior would. Clearly, the boy had used it before. In that moment, Soren made a decision that surprised even him and for reasons he could not understand fully.

‘Fearless, I can use. Foolish, I can beat out of you,’ he said, gruffly. The boy’s face paled, but he did not run or turn away. ‘I am in need of a squire, I think. Bring him, Larenz.’

The men laughed and Larenz approached the boy, grabbing hold of his shoulder and dragging him to the back of their troop. Not certain why he had just taken on the task of training the boy, Soren raised his hand and gave the signal to ride.

He never caught sight of the boy during the next four days’ journey to Alston, but Larenz reported on him each day. Only the night before they reached Alston did the boy show himself and only for a moment before he tucked himself back into the shadows of the camp.

Soren’s rest was fitful the night before the battle, as it always was—partly due to facing an unknown outcome and partly due to the thrill of battle. He woke from dozing and walked the camp, speaking to some of the men, yet in reality seeking out the boy he’d taken. He found him, curled in a ball far from the cooling ashes of a fire, shivering in the dawn’s chill. Seeing an unused blanket nearby, Soren draped it over the scrawny form and began to walk away, stopped by the quiet whisper of the child.

‘And what are you called?’ Raed asked.

‘Soren,’ he said. ‘Soren the Damned.’

For no matter what happened on the morrow, no matter the outcome of William’s fight against the rebels plaguing his lands, no matter that the blood of his enemy would be spilled, Soren knew his soul was damned to the darkness in which it now lived.

Chapter Two

Sybilla, Lady of Alston, stood up straight and moaned as her back spasmed in response to the movement. Pressing her fists into her lower back, she tried to ease the pain caused by leaning over too much and by carrying too many large rocks to the wooden palisade. They must shore up the defences, said Gareth, the commander of those who yet defended her and the keep. So, she helped as much as she could. Lady or not, another pair of hands lightened the work of all and gave her the hope that the wall could be strengthened to protect the keep from the coming invader.

Sybilla accepted a cup of water from the servant girl passing by, tightened the leather ties around her braid and began anew. They had little time to finish this task before the invader king’s pawn arrived at their gates. After receiving the message that he travelled there to claim the lands of her father, Sybilla and her late father’s steward Algar decided to protect themselves from the devastation committed on their neighbours and kin when faced with the same situation. She did not believe they could hold out long, but if they presented their strength, she and they hoped to negotiate a peaceful transition—one that allowed her people to live and her to travel to her cousin’s convent and live out her life there in peace and contemplation.

With her father and her brother dead, with no other Saxon kin able to come to her rescue or to stand against these invaders as they moved inexorably north towards her lands, Sybilla knew she and her people had few choices and little power.

They worked until nightfall, taking advantage of every moment of summer’s daylight to build the wall as high and strong as they could. Gareth had nodded his approval of their efforts in that stern, serious manner of his, but Sybilla knew it was not enough. Still, they had two days, possibly three, before the invaders arrived and they would take every moment given to them to prepare.

The birds’ song that heralded the dawn also brought terror to their doors, for the invaders crested the hill across from the keep and formed their lines to attack. Sybilla quickly gathered the children and took them to the back of the keep and carried out whatever Gareth ordered. Though she’d lived there for all her life, never once had they needed to defend it from outsiders. Even when her father and brother went off to fight alongside their king—her brother to Stamford Bridge and then her father to Hastings—their defences here were perfunctory and never needed.

Now, though, it meant the difference between life and death.

When things were settled in the keep, she climbed to the top of the wall to see what forces they faced. Gareth ordered her away, but Sybilla thought that meeting the enemy face to face might ease the situation. If Duke William of Normandy’s man thought them no threat, he might not attack before they could negotiate. Holding her hand over her eyes to shade the growing light of the rising sun, she shivered when she saw him.

Black. Everything he wore was black, except for the slash of red on his shield, angling to the left that she understood spoke of his bastardy. Or his duke’s? She knew not which, but once more her body trembled. His armour was black, not reflecting the rays of the sun above him. His horse, a huge, monstrous destrier, was the colour of midnight, without any markings to lighten his coat. And Sybilla felt as though death stood before her on the field.

Or the devil incarnate?

She shook herself from fear’s control and walked to Gareth’s side. His jaw clenched, he issued commands to his men in a low voice so that they would not carry across the open field in the silence. Sybilla noticed the silence then, and counted their numbers, at least the ones she could see.

Holy Mother in Heaven! They would never survive an attack from a force of this strength. She began to think they’d made a mistake when the giant’s words confirmed it.

‘I claim the lands and people of Durward the Traitor and order the gates open.’

Gareth shook his head and, though tempted to call out orders of her own, she acquiesced to his experience and knowledge in such matters. ‘Twas a mistake.

‘Prepare to die!’ the warrior called out and he and his men launched their attack.

Gareth ordered her from the wall and Sybilla rushed down the steps, intending to get back inside the keep before the invaders reached the walls. The wall shuddered in that moment and Sybilla realised that the first line of attackers were using rams to knock down the wall! Worse, they did not approach the strongest part of the wall near the gate; they used their weapons on the newest section, the weakest part. She needed to get past the very place that they were battering down.

Rushing along the path, avoiding the soldiers running to take their places and listening to her people crying out in terror, Sybilla tried to focus on all that Gareth had told her. Instead, every time the walls shook, she paused. Then, her worst fear was realised as the ram did its horrible task and the section of the wall in front of her shattered and fell.

Until Sybilla regained consciousness, she did not know she’d lost it.

She struggled to get to her feet, but her head ached and dizziness made her nauseous. She reached up to push off the blinding bandage that covered her head and eyes and discovered it was not a bandage blocking her sight at all—she was blind.

‘Here now, lady,’ a familiar voice whispered to her. Aldys, her maid’s mother, touched her face, drew the bandages back into place and eased her back down. ‘You were injured, my lady. You must lie still,’ she warned.

Sybilla tried to touch her face, her eyes, but Aldys brushed her hands aside. Panic filled her and she felt the very breath in her lungs being squeezed out. Then another woman took her hands and held them.

‘Lady, they have broken in through the wall and are at the doors of the keep. Gareth said you must stay here,’ Gytha, her maid, whispered. ‘Some of the rock hit you on the head, on your eyes, and there is much bleeding.’ The pressure on her head eased, but returned quickly. ‘We are trying to stop the bleeding.’

‘I cannot see,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot see!’ Sybilla could feel her control slipping away and terror of a new kind filling her heart and soul.

‘Hush now, lady,’ Aldys soothed. ‘We will see to your injury. All will be well.’

The pain grew and grew until she felt faint, but the sound of the keep’s doors being destroyed shook her awake. Then the great wooden doors crashed apart and the sound of fighting spilled into the keep.

‘Gytha,’ she moaned out. ‘You must get the children to safety now.’

‘‘Tis too late, my lady,’ her maid answered.

Suddenly, she was pulled to her feet and dragged along by some unseen hands. Women screamed and she was jostled as they struggled against the strong grasp of whoever had come into the keep. Then, just as suddenly, she was tossed to the floor. Clutching her head, she tried to sit up, but could not. Then Aldys gathered her in her arms and she heard Gytha on her other side.

Chaos and terror reigned and Sybilla screamed along with them. She had seen the enemy and knew without doubt that he would slaughter them all. She suspected it might have been his intent all along, for he’d not paused or asked for a parley as others might have. Listening without being able to see only heightened the fear for her; hearing her people being tormented and harmed tore her heart apart, piece by piece.

Is that what he wanted here? To destroy everything her father had built and nurtured? What kind of man would do such a thing? Her unspoken question was answered moments later when a silence so deep she thought she must have fainted filled the hall.

She heard not a sound, not even the breathing of those around her in those tension-filled moments. Then, just when she thought she would scream out, the whispered prayers of the women at her sides reached her. They were praying for mercy!

‘Bring those who survive before me.’

It had to be him! The dark giant who commanded the forces. The devil on horseback who had destroyed her home and killed her people. Before she could gather any shards of courage together, she was pulled to her feet once more and towards the voice. Aldys and Gytha protected her on each side, still whispering prayers for protection to any saint who would listen. She heard words like ‘monster’ and ‘demon’ and ‘devil’ whispered by those around her and she trembled, unable to mask her own terror. Soon, he called out for silence and everyone obeyed.

‘I am Soren Fitzrobert, now lord of these lands.’

Those around her gasped at his words. The first surprise was that he spoke in their tongue and not the Norman one, but it was his declaration that sliced her to the core. Her family had owned and ruled these lands for generations, one of the proud and mighty Saxon families who counselled the king and the Witan. Sybilla felt her body shake and she reached out to Aldys and Gytha for support.

‘Do not beg for mercy, for I have none for those faithful to Durward the Traitor. Only those who swear allegiance to me will live.’

Shock ran through those listening. Sybilla shook her head. How could he demand such a thing? How could he execute those who owed their living to her father? His cold voice and emotionless commands chilled her soul and she knew she had no chance. Had he already killed Gareth and the others? Without being able to see, she did not know and that was in some ways worse.

‘Aldys,’ she whispered, ‘is Gareth here?’

‘Hush, lady. The warrior approaches.’

Sybilla could hear his heavy steps coming nearer, so she clutched Aldys and Gytha, her chest tight with fear. His words, spoken so close to her she could almost feel his breath, did nothing to ease her fears.

‘I will, however, show mercy to any of you who tell me of Durward’s get. Where is his daughter?’

Again, shocked whispers spread through the room, halted only by his angry voice.

‘I will have you all killed unless someone tells me where she is.’

His voice spoke of his true intentions. Cold, without feeling or mercy, it revealed the truth of his words—he would kill them all. Would he stand by his word and not kill them if she stepped forwards? Was it simply a ploy on his part?

‘Stay, lady,’ Aldys warned under her breath. ‘Your time is running out,’ he called out. ‘Guermont, bring the archers. It will be easier that way,’ he coldly ordered.

Some of the women screamed then, children cried out and the crowd surged and stumbled as they were pushed back and back until they could not move any further. Sybilla realised they were being placed against the wall, easier targets for the demon’s archers. Through it all, no one identified her as the lord’s daughter. They would die for her, she knew it in her bones. She also knew that, even if it meant her death, she could not allow them to do so. Though Aldys and Gytha kept hold of her, she pulled free and stepped away from them.

‘Soren Fitzrobert,’ she said, her voice trembling even as she tried to steady it and herself.

Sybilla tried not to shake and the sounds of his spurs scraping on the stone floor approached. Remembering his size, she knew it would take only one blow to bring her death. The pounding pain in her head grew with each passing second and she knew she would not be able to stand much longer without help. The sound of his breathing came from above her head and she fought the urge to reach out to steady herself.

Straightening up as much as she could, wincing against the tightness of the bandage and the feel of her blood trickling down her neck from the wound on her head, she said the words that would save her people and damn herself.

‘I am Sybilla of Alston, Lord Durward’s daughter.’

Silence reigned as the sound of his sword as he drew it from its sheath met her declaration and she offered up a prayer for her soul as she waited to meet her fate.

Chapter Three

Hatred raced through his veins as she spoke her name. Months of waiting, months filled with nothing but pain and suffering, had brought him here and he pulled his sword free from its scabbard. The red haze of fury and anger filled his vision as he raised the weapon of her death above his head and savoured this moment he’d dreamed of and prayed for since the battle at Hastings. For a moment he was tempted to drop the sword and use his bare hands to wring the life from her body, knowing it would appease some primitive need within him for vengeance, but he gripped the sword’s hilt tightly as he shouted out his hatred for all there to hear.

‘Death to all who carry the blood of the traitor Durward!’

But, before he could swing his weapon and end the life of the last of them, his vision cleared and for a brief moment he saw only the woman kneeling before him. It was all the delay that the crowd needed for they took advantage and surged forwards and pulled her into its centre. She fought against them, trying to push herself forwards, but they did not allow it.

He took a step towards them and the entire throng backed away, finding themselves between his men and the corner of the hall. They could go no further and had no chance of surviving an attack by armed knights and archers, but they would not relinquish their lady to him.

‘Soren,’ Guermont whispered at his side. ‘Mayhap this is not the way?’

Soren turned to him, unable to hear out of his right ear, and glared at him. In spite of his momentary hesitation, he had not come this far and got so close to his purpose to be defeated or delayed by some villagers and children. And that was all who defended her now. Her men were either dead or prisoners, and yet, the least of her people gathered around her as though they could indeed stop him. Still, Guermont’s words of warning slowed his actions. Killing innocent peasants would damn him even more than he was already cursed by God.

He slid his sword back into its scabbard on his belt and strode towards the crowd, his men following behind as they formed a wedge that moved through to its center. When they’d pushed or pulled her free and dragged her from the rest, the crowd did not slow in its defence of her. First an old woman, one of those closest to the lady, fell to her knees and began to beg.

‘Mercy, my lord! Mercy!’ she called out loudly.

‘Mercy! Mercy!’ another called. Then another and another until the hall shook with their pleas for a mercy he did not have. Or he thought he did not have until the wench’s hand touched his and she fell to her knees.

‘Spare them, I beg you. They seek to only to protect me,’ she implored. ‘They are not to blame here.’

In spite of her condition, in spite of the bloody rags tied around her head and her torn and soiled gown, she looked every bit the proud daughter of the old lord. Her defence of her people, now his people, touched him regardless of how much he hated this moment of weakness in his hour of triumph.

‘What happened to you?’ he asked, not even trying to keep his anger from his voice.

‘The wall … stones …’ she began to say. ‘My eyes …’ She could say no more, for her body began to shake and tremble as though hearing the news herself for the first time.

‘You are blind?’ he asked.

A defect like this gave him complete absolution in disregarding the king’s wishes for him to marry her. It could be grounds for an annulment of any betrothal. It was an impediment to a true marriage and could be.

She cannot see me!

Soren realised that it was the tiniest seed of hope that spoke those words inside his head. Blind, she would never see his deformity. She would never look on him in revulsion as his torn and mangled flesh was revealed. Blind, she would never gaze in fear or pity at him the way others did.

She could not see him.

‘Take her,’ he said quietly.

The hall erupted in screaming and lamenting as those present believed he would have her executed. The lady said nothing and did not resist his men as they led her forwards to the front of the hall and up the steps of the dais there. His warriors had to form a line between the people and the dais to keep them from pushing forwards to her side.

He climbed the steps there and walked to her side, glaring at those who would argue his power to do as he would. Her quiet voice forestalled any orders before he could call them.

‘My lord?’ she said, turning her head to gauge his position and proximity. ‘My lord Soren?’ she said again.

A flash of heat pierced his body as he imagined the sound of her sultry voice in his bed. She would whisper it over and over, acknowledging his power over her body and soul as he pleasured her for hour on hour. She would cry out his name as he entered her, thrusting deep within her flesh, making her his and his alone.

Soren shook himself from such a vision and glared at her. Realising the futility of it, he walked to her.

‘Aye,’ was the only word he could force out.

‘Would you grant me a moment with a priest before.?’ Her voice faltered for a moment. Only a moment. ‘Before my death.’

He would have admired such bravery in anyone else, but he steeled himself against her. Angry at himself for even the fleeting thought of showing kindness, he turned away.

‘You will have need of a priest, Sybilla of Alston,’ he barked out, ‘but I do not intend to kill you this day.’

‘My lord?’ she asked. ‘Am I to be your prisoner, then?’ He watched as she tried to come closer and stumbled. Damn it! He fought the urge to reach out to help her.

‘Prisoner of a sort, lady,’ he said. ‘You will be my wife.’

The hall erupted again; the people surged forwards, trying to free her from what they thought would be a fate worse than death. The lady remained silent and then crumpled to the floor.

Chapter Four

His head pounded. His eye burned. His throat grew hoarse from shouting. His hands yet itched to twist the wench’s neck and end the line of Durward’s seed, but his words had put a stop to the possibility of killing her quickly. Soren raised his arm and rubbed his hand across his brow, trying to ease the pain there. A moment of weakness and he would now be responsible for her. A weakness he thought crushed out of him by the relentless suffering and pain of his ordeal and by the humiliation and torment of his condition and the loss of everything he valued in life.

The object of both his hatred and his newest pledge now sat silent and unmoving in a wooden chair he’d called for when she collapsed before him at the news of not her impending death, but her impending marriage to him. Soren only knew that her reaction was far less hysterical than if she could look upon his face and see him as he was now. Shaking off any regrets and trying to accept his path now that he’d stated it for all to hear, he searched the hall and the doorway out to the corridor for any sign of the priest. He yelled out the priest’s name once more, hoping that someone would find him and hasten his steps.

The silence that filled the chamber allowed him to hear the approach of a small number of people and he let out his breath as the portly priest and his clerk stumbled in through the doorway and blessed his way through the stunned mob that now awaited his word and deed. The cleric reached the dais just as Soren’s meagre stores of patience wore out. At least the horror did not show on his face when their gazes met, though he could see the narrowing of his eyes and the restraint the priest exerted on his reactions. All those hours on his knees in prayer and fasting had apparently taught the priest some measure of self-control. Soren crossed his arms over his chest and nodded at the pair as they climbed the few steps and approached him.

‘Tell her to ready herself for marriage,’ he growled to the priest with a nod at the wench. He needed to get this done before he changed his mind.

‘My lord …’ the priest began to stutter. ‘She is …’

‘I said to see to her now, Father.’

He watched as the priest started towards her and then stopped. After glancing between the two of them—his lord and his lord’s intended—Father Medwyn slowly turned from her and returned to stand before Soren.

‘My lord, she is blind,’ he whispered.

With malice aforethought, Soren exaggerated his motions and turned his good eye, his only eye, towards her. ‘Aye, Father, she is blinded.’ Narrowing his eye’s gaze on the defiant, hesitating priest, Soren waited for him to decide to defy or obey.

‘My lord, if you will allow,’ the priest petitioned, leaning closer to speak only to him. ‘This is a clear impediment to marriage. You can find another, mayhap?’

The priest did not realise the boon her blindness was, and of certain, he would never speak of it if he did, but Soren had in that instant of insight. Now, her blindness would cause her to live as his wife and breed him sons.

‘I need not her eyes for a true marriage, Father. I only have need of her womb to consummate the words spoken.’

Since everyone in the hall had stopped speaking at once, Soren heard his words echo into the air around them. He stood close enough to hear her gasp and see her body stiffen as the insult and sentence struck. In truth, he cared less for her than he did the last mount he had purchased, nay, earned, and had paid more attention to that horse’s physical qualities and potential. A wife would lie with him and give him children, sons who inherit that for which his flesh and blood had paid a steep price. And though it would pain him, the man once known as the ‘Beautiful Bastard’, Soren knew he would rather pay for comfort of the other sort when he needed it and keep it an honest exchange of coin for service rather than see the horror in a woman’s gaze.

In his wife’s eyes.

She cannot see me.

It was settled.

‘Bring her,’ he ordered and he waited for his word to be obeyed.

Though some of his men openly scowled, they did as they’d been told to and soon, with a man at each side, Durward’s daughter stood next to him as they faced the priest. She’d not spoken a word yet, but he could hear the sound of her shallow breathing as dead silence reigned once more. What she could not see, but her people could, was the soldier standing behind her with his sword drawn and aimed for the wench. Any disturbance, any outcry, they knew would be met with her death. He saw mutiny in some gazes, frank terror in others, but underlying it all was something more frightening to him in that moment—they loved their lady and would do anything, even acquiesce to him, in exchange for her safety.

He would later tell himself otherwise, but he nearly lost his nerve in the face of such devotion and pure affection. Watching her as she stood tall in spite of the hold laid on her by his men, he realised that she bore the same love for her people in return.

A sense of longing so strong that it almost took him out at the knees tore a path through him, tearing his heart and soul in two. Soren found it difficult, nigh to impossible, to breathe in that second. He shook his head as though to clear his thoughts, then the second emotion pierced him—the one that reminded him of his true purpose. The one that had sustained him through the pain and suffering since that September afternoon and every single, tortuous one that followed.

Anger.

Fury in its strongest form.

Righteous and purifying and fortifying.

It gave him the chance to regain his control and banish any mercy that might be creeping into his heart or soul for her. Straightening to his full height, he glared at those around them who might give any indication of arguing or disagreeing with his decision to proceed—both in marrying her and in marrying her now—and watched in satisfaction as they capitulated. Turning his gaze on the priest, Soren waited for him to begin.

The delay was hardly noticeable, but he noticed and he would hold the priest accountable for it later. Once he began, Father Medwyn accomplished the joining quickly, and if the bride’s vows were not loud and if the groom’s were not enthusiastic, no one dared comment on it. Once they were pronounced wed, Soren glanced at the windows to gauge the amount of daylight still remaining and estimated the amount of work yet ahead of them before any could seek their rest.

Calling out orders, he strode from the dais, mindful of so many things and yet forgetting one until his man brought his attention back to … her …

‘Soren?’ Guermont yelled over the growing din of soldiers and villeins and the general mayhem and confusion of those conquered. ‘My lord?’

Soren paused as he replaced the leather hood he wore on his head and tugged his mail coif over it into place. He shook his head, refusing his helmet from one of the younger men and turned to see what Guermont wanted. Guermont simply nodded his head and Soren realised he’d left her … his wife … standing in the hold of the soldiers awaiting his word.

‘Take her …’ he began, then realised he did not yet know the layout and accoutrements of this manor and keep and could offer no direction in which to send her. He turned to those still huddling along the wall.

‘Where are her chambers?’ he called out, aiming his question at the woman who had fallen to her knees first, crying out for mercy for Durward’s daughter. When neither she nor the others answered, he shrugged. Turning back to Guermont, he shook his head.

‘Tie her there—’ he pointed at the chair where she’d been sitting ‘—and you can find a place for her later.’ Just as he thought would happen, the old woman called out then, emboldened by his threat.

‘My lord?’ she said, not waiting for his permission to approach. ‘I served her mother before her and serve Lady Sybilla now. I would see to her care.’

As he’d suspected, they would dare much for their lady. This old woman did not grovel or beg, she did not even look away from him when he met her gaze. Not willing nor able to give in before all of his men and those newly vanquished, Soren rose to his full height and strode over to the woman … who had the good sense to bow her head at his approach.

‘And you will continue to serve her at my pleasure,’ he said, watching her face for signs of rebellion. But she schooled her expression in respect and obedience and if it hurt to say the words, he could not see it on her face.

‘As you say, my lord. At your pleasure.’

Appeased for the moment, Soren nodded. ‘Show them where to take her and prepare her for me.’

‘My lord?’ the woman asked before he could turn away.

‘What part of my words do you not comprehend? I made no secret of the only use I have for the traitor’s daughter. Once I have secured the land, I will consummate our vows.’

Lord Gautier would have taken a cane to his back for such flagrant words of disrespect, but Soren could not help it. And, as usually happened with such ill-spoken words, the bitterness of them burned his tongue before they even left his mouth. Still, he would not, could not, relent in this, so he glared at the woman until she nodded her understanding.

‘See to it,’ he ordered as he strode from the hall into the yard to sort out a different kind of chaos than the one that now made his gut clench.

Sybilla barely heard a word or sound around her. The pain pulsed through her head and burned her eyes, making it difficult to even remain standing. Instead of fighting the strong grip of the men holding her, she let their strength keep her on her feet. It was wrong, so wrong, to speak vows before a priest to a man she had no intention of marrying, but the shock and sorrow of the day crushed her into compliance.

To his will and not her own.

One day she would need to answer for her failure to object when asked by the priest if she consented to this marriage, but now she felt too overwhelmed to dwell on it much. And Sybilla found she had not the strength of body or will to focus her efforts on anything but not being dragged like a sack of flour through her own hall.

The soldiers said nothing as they followed Aldys to the stairs and then up to the second floor where her chambers were in the corner tower. When she tripped for the third time, unable to judge the height of the steps and to adjust her pace to those hauling her along, the tears began. This was her home, the place she knew better than anyone, yet she could not tell how many steps there were or how steep they were. By the time they reached her chambers, the fear about her fate and her injury and the possibility of being blind for the rest of her life took control and she collapsed in a crying heap when the soldiers released her.

Nothing had intervened in her despair for what could have been minutes or hours and then she drifted back to an awareness of herself and her surroundings.

To the sound of her maid and Aldys both praying for her!

Sybilla tried to raise her hand to her face and the source of her pain and found she could not move.

‘My lady,’ Gytha whispered. ‘You are awake!’

Sybilla nodded, but tears threatened again so she did not even try to speak. A hand behind her head supported her as a cup was placed at her mouth and she took a few sips. Watered wine eased the dry tightness in her throat.

‘We feared you would not wake,’ Gytha whispered again. From the sound and tone of the maid’s voice it was clear that there was a need to remain quiet.

‘Where am I?’ she asked. Without sight, everything felt different to her. Unable to see her surroundings, even her bed, if it was hers, did not seem familiar at all. ‘Are we alone?’

There was a pause before Gytha answered and Sybilla could almost imagine the two women exchanging glances between them before speaking. It was something they did frequently now that they both served her needs and when they felt the need to soften the coming blow. Sybilla had seen it when the news of her brother’s death at Stamford Bridge came, then when her father’s fate further south at Hastings arrived here months later. Their wordless exchange was so filled with sympathy, she could almost feel it now. Sybilla tried to push herself up to sit, but her arms and body did not obey her.

‘Hush now, lady,’ Aldys soothed. ‘We cleaned the wound and there is a new dressing in place. The bleeding is almost ceased.’ Sybilla felt the soft touch of a hand across the bandages now in place. ‘We are in your chambers.’ Then Aldys’s voice came from closer to her ears. ‘We are alone, but his lackeys check often and watch everything we do. They probably listen for our words, so have a care.’ Sybilla tried to nod her understanding of their situation.

‘Where is he?’ she whispered, knowing he would have to come here sooner or later now that their marriage had happened. She swallowed against the fear of what would follow.

‘He left the keep after … after …’ Sybilla nodded—she knew when he had left. ‘He can be heard calling out his orders in the yard and even beyond the wall.’

A strong shudder passed through her then, remembering the sound of his voice as he called for Alston’s surrender. And as he’d demanded she step forwards to face his death sentence. She shook again. Not death now, but something she imagined he would make worse than death. As a vision of him in his black armour flashed in her memory, she trembled as the thought of what she would suffer at his hands became clear to her.

‘I … cannot …’ she stuttered without thinking. Shaking her head, Sybilla felt the fear take hold of her. ‘I cannot do this.’

Aldys and Gytha leaned in close, each taking her hand and squeezing it. ‘Hush now, lady,’ Aldys repeated. ‘Rest and gain your strength.’

Because you will need it later were the unspoken words in her warning. But later came much too soon.

‘Lady?’ a voice called from the hallway. Sybilla could not identify the person behind the call.

‘What do you want, boy?’ Aldys asked.

‘Lord Soren sends me to bid you make ready for him.’

‘He sends a boy to tell you such things?’ Gytha whispered.

‘Monsters such as him will use anyone they can to do their bidding—women, children, whoever!’ Aldys’s anger made her voice low and almost unrecognisable.

‘Lady?’ the boy asked.

‘Aye, lad. I heard your message.’ Sybilla nearly could not get the words out, but she asked one question. ‘Are you of Alston?’

‘Nay, lady. I am Raed of Shildon.’

‘Shildon?’ she asked. A village some days’ journey to the east from Alston.

‘Aye, lady. My lord Soren took me from there to serve him.’

Sybilla sank deeper onto the pallet, her head pounding now from the injury and from all that faced her. Dear God in Heaven, he was a monster! He stole children from their families and forced them into his service? She shook her head, unable to say or think anything more.

Agitated by this news of how Soren acted, Sybilla could find no rest. She tossed and shifted on the pallet, for both comfort and ease escaped her. Nothing eased the pain in her head or in her heart. She felt the tenuous control she’d managed begin to wane as the hours passed. When she heard the sound of heavy footsteps approaching down the corridor outside her doorway, she wished she could have fainted and not faced what would follow his arrival.

But the saints above and even the Almighty seemed to ignore her prayers and kept her from sinking into oblivion. Sybilla hoped only not to disgrace herself and her name when he touched her, but from the way the fear took hold, she knew any control she had would end the first moment he came close.

Chapter Five

Soren had tried not to think much on the coming night, he just wanted to accomplish as much as possible before the sun set. So, he’d focused his thoughts on how to hold so many prisoners, and how many of his own men had been killed, and how many villeins had fled his approach and how many yet remained to tend the fields, and other matters as weighty as those. It was only as he climbed the steps leading to the second floor of the corner tower of the keep that he realised he’d thought about her more than he wanted to admit … even to himself.

The scorn and scolding he saw in the gazes of his soldiers who stood guard stopped him in his steps. He was about to address their insubordination when Stephen called out his name. Since the man stopped at the end of the corridor and did not come to him, Soren walked back to hear his concerns.

‘Soren, is this wise?’ Stephen asked in a low voice.

‘What do you speak of?’

‘I know that a man’s blood runs hot after battle, but is this wise?’

Coming from this man, someone who had learned the hard lesson of misplaced lust after a battle, gave Soren pause. But, this was not of his concern.

‘If I was caught in the throes of bloodlust, you would be lying unconscious on the floor for asking such a thing and I would already be lying between the wench’s thighs halfway to satisfaction,’ he said. Soren glared at his friend. ‘So, ask me not such things and we will both be the better for it.’ Soren turned away, but was stopped by Stephen’s grasp on his arm. He shrugged it off easily.

‘She is your wife now, Soren.’

‘She is Durward’s get.’ The men who fought with him knew, had heard, his plans for any who carried the blood of Durward of Alston and who came under his control. In all the dark and painful detail. The change in her circumstances mattered not.

‘And now your wife. Different than what you had planned on. A different matter completely now.’

‘And my concern alone, Stephen. Do not make me regret accepting you into my service.’

The warrior looked as though he wanted to argue, but he controlled that urge and nodded. With only one more glance over his shoulder at Soren, Stephen left. Soren continued his path down to the doorway to her chamber. The guards stepped aside and waited for his orders.

‘Stay down there. I will call you if you are needed,’ he said, directing them to the place where he’d just spoken to Stephen. ‘No one comes further until I say so.’

He noticed the sweat on his palms as he reached for the latch and lifted it. He swore he felt no nervousness, but his heart raced and his chest tightened as he faced the next step in seeking vengeance against the man who had destroyed his life … and his body and soul. Soren pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Her servants, both the older, stout-figured one and the younger, lithe-bodied one, stood like statues next to the pallet. The wench lay nearly motionless on its surface—motionless but for the quick and shallow rise and fall of her chest and the curling of her fingers as though she tried to take hold of the bedcover and could not find purchase of it.

‘Can she see?’ he asked. The injury to her head did not necessarily mean blindness. ‘When the bandages were removed?’

With a stiff shake of her head, the older woman confirmed her condition and he let out his breath.

‘I told you to prepare her,’ he said, moving then and making his way slowly across the chamber. ‘Undress her and get out.’

‘My … lord …’ the younger one stuttered, bowing her head now in an unsuccessful attempt to placate him. ‘Twas too late for that.

He hesitated in spite of his intentions and watched as they helped her to stand next to the bed. Now in a clean gown and tunic—what did they call those, syrce and cyrtel?—with her injury tended to, Soren could see her loveliness. And he could see the terror that drained her face of any colour and made her body tremble with fear.

Her pale hair fell in waves over her shoulders, but it was her hands that caught his eye. Fine and graceful, like the curve of her neck as she whispered to her servants. Any trace of the earlier bravery she’d displayed had fled her and he could see that she was younger than he first thought … more beautiful as well. But it was her delicate features that struck him now. She was a well-born lady and he was.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts and to focus his intentions. ‘Either you undress her or I will see to it,’ he said, harsher than he needed to, but he made his point.

Soren turned away then, trying to ignore them, hearing them move to do his bidding rather than allow him to do it. Soren busied himself with removing his heavy leather belt and scabbard, and lifting the chain coif from his head and loosening the leather helm. Turning away, he positioned the leather patch to make certain it hid the stitched flesh that covered the place where his eye should be. When it grew silent behind him, he turned back to find the wench lying under the bedcovers and her garments in the hands of her maids.

Good. He let out a breath he did not realise he’d held. His task here would be done quickly and he could see to more important matters. If his seed did not take, he could visit her until it did and then not see her until the birth of his heir.

As he’d realised during his hours of toiling to make this place his, apathy would be a more fitting punishment than the hatred that simmered just below his skin, waiting to tear free of his control and wreak havoc on his enemies … on her. Though vengeance was key in his plans for her, he would make this woman nothing but a vessel that would bear his seed and fulfil his needs.

Soren smiled grimly, glad that success felt so close at hand. With a nod, he ordered them from the room and when the door closed he took in and released a deep breath. But the smile remained. Only when he was within an arm’s length of the bed did he notice her trembling once more. The curling mass of her pale hair outlined her head and shoulders and distracted him again from his contemplation of vengeance sought and found. Though the bandages had been removed, she lay with her face turned away from him as though she did not wish to look upon him.

The humiliation he’d felt when others had turned from the carnage that used to be his face returned in an instant, pouring bile into his stomach. But, one glance at her empty gaze and he remembered that she could not see him at all. Relief flooded his senses in that moment and the tension evaporated within him.

She cannot see me.

He allowed himself to revel in that realisation and he felt lighter than he had in all the months since that September day. Standing over her now, Soren noticed the creaminess of her skin and wanted to caress those graceful lines of her neck, the fullness of her lips and the fragile daintiness of her slender figure. It would, he realised, take little effort to tug the linens out of his way and see the rest of her feminine curves and skin laid bare. With just this small hint of her comeliness, his body warmed and readied for the task ahead. Soren reached over to lift the sheet away when she startled so suddenly that he jumped back.

‘Sybilla,’ he said, realising he should offer her some words of explanation. He did not doubt she came to this ill-gotten marriage a virgin.

The sound of her name on his tongue for the first time felt rough and ill-fitting. He swallowed and cleared his throat. Before he could move closer or do anything, she tossed the covers back and pushed herself off the bed, sliding away from him. He reached over to grab her, but slipped and landed across the bed, with an empty hand. Leaning up, he watched as she tried, like a trapped, wild animal, to run with nowhere to go.

Her bare feet skidded on the wooden planks of the floor and her momentum carried her as she stumbled across the chamber. Soren climbed over the bed and reached for her just as she got to her feet and dashed away. Like a madwoman, one too caught up in escaping to remember she could not see. Confused and probably still dazed from her injury, he watched as she pressed herself up against the wall, whispering and shaking her head.

Soren spoke her name several times, but clearly she was incapable of hearing him. He approached her as he would a high-strung mare, trying to gentle her with a calm voice.

‘Sybilla,’ he said, sliding off the bed and trying to get to her before she caused more damage to herself. ‘You must stop.’

She stood motionless, but only for a deceiving second, and then she bolted as soon as he moved towards her. He almost got hold of her when she knocked over a small table that held a jug and cups. Soren managed to take hold of her shoulders and stop her from further injury, but she began to wail as soon as his hands touched her skin. It was a pitiful sound that he hated hearing, both for what it made him want to do and what it made him feel. Sybilla would have backed away from him but for his hold on her and she surprised him again when she collapsed to the floor.

Soren told himself that she simply sought to avoid the inevitable and that he had every right to claim her body this night, but something deep within him refused to let him take that step. Instead, he whispered her name and tried to calm the devastated woman he had forced into marriage. Somehow he guided her over to the bed and settled her under the bedcovers.

He ran his hands through his hair as he gazed around the chamber and wondered how he had so mismanaged this situation that had seemed completely under his control just minutes before. His plan to bed her regardless of her feelings on the matter fell apart in the face of her pitiful condition. Some remnant of his old self ate at him as he witnessed the fall he’d planned for so long. But only for a scant moment as he realised he could not, would not, bed her this night.

Acknowledging it, acknowledging that he could not take her against her will, no matter his will or his desire on the matter, seemed to let loose all the anger he’d held inside for so long.

She’d won again.

Her father had defeated him yet again.

Soren felt the rage seething and turned away from the bed and her. He struck out in blind anger, at the only thing he could, grabbing a nearby wooden loom and throwing it frame first against the wall, then crashing it to the floor. He heard Sybilla scream out, but ignored it this time. He’d given up much this night and could give no more.

Unfortunately, the loom had landed partially against the door, blocking the path of his retreat, his exit, so he had to call out for the guards. When they opened the door immediately, Soren knew they’d been right outside and not down the hall.

‘Get this damned thing out of here!’

Only as they began to collect the wooden beams did she react, sobbing and sliding from the bed where he’d placed her. He blocked the guards’ view of her and wrapped a blanket around her as she scrambled towards the remnants of the loom. He shook his head in confusion and disbelief.

Was she mad as well as blind?

As he watched, Sybilla tried to gather and touch the pieces of the frame in her arms, all the time rocking to and fro and sobbing. Stephen arrived at the doorway and frowned as he watched the strange scene before him.

‘What happened, Soren?’

Soren shrugged. At first he thought fear had taken hold of her. Fear of consummating their vows would be something he could understand since she was a maid and was his bitterest enemy. But then, she seemed to have lost her wits and her way. Now, the heart-wrenching sobs that seem to come from her soul confused him. Damn it! Why did Stephen have to be right in his warning?

‘The loom fell,’ he explained, leaving out the part about his unleashed anger causing it. Incomplete. Inaccurate. It was as much as he was willing to explain.

‘She does not seem well, Soren,’ Stephen said as the wench continued grasping and crying. ‘Should I summon her maid?’

What else could he do at this point? There would be no consummation this night and he wondered if he’d made a mistake by taking her as his wife. He looked around the chamber at the damage caused and shrugged. Mayhap the women could calm her and even explain this to him.

‘Aye, get them and seek the healer.’

Stephen left and Soren observed her from where he stood. She had not moved from her place on the floor and did not appear to even feel or hear anything as she rocked and cried. When he heard the sounds of the women’s approach, he stepped slowly out the door, continuing to face and watch her. With a motion of his hand, he stopped them several paces from the door.

‘Stop,’ he ordered in a whisper. ‘You, you come here quietly,’ he directed to the older woman. When she walked to where he stood, he nodded. ‘Tell me of your lady’s behaviour.’

The older one leaned over and peeked in the chamber, gasping at the scene before her. When she moved to enter, he held her back with his arm.

‘Tell me why she acts as a madwoman.’

‘What did you do to her?’ the maid demanded.

Soren reached over and grabbed the woman by her garb, hauling her up close to him. ‘I do not explain my actions to a servant,’ he growled through clenched jaws. Pushing her away, he nodded at the lady in question. ‘Has she lost her wits?’

Her answer was interrupted by the healer, a man brought with them who understood how to treat injuries and heal with herbs. Brice’s wife had spoken highly of his treatments and Soren was pleased to find him still alive after the slaughter and brought him here to Alston for the time being.

‘My lord?’

‘Teyen, have you treated the lady for her injuries?’

‘Nay, my lord. Her maids saw to her while I saw to those more in need,’ he explained. ‘Should I now?’

Soren rubbed his forehead, trying to ease the shattering pain growing there in the face of this absurd situation. ‘What happened to her?’ Soren asked. ‘You, there.’ he nodded at the younger servant ‘. what are you called?’

‘Gytha,’ she stammered out.

‘Gytha,’ he said, ‘tell me how was your lady blinded?’

‘When you … the attack began, she was running to collect the children into the keep as Gareth directed. The wall shattered in front of her and struck her down.’

‘So she lost consciousness?’ he asked. Gytha nodded. ‘For how long?’

‘Until you … you broke into the keep. She’d just awakened then.’

He’d seen many men who became dazed and confused after head injuries in battle. Some forgot themselves for a time. Some believed they were other people and some even became violent or attacked others. Some never recovered. A head wound would explain much.

‘Teyen, see to her. A calming brew might—’ Teyen’s shaking head stopped his suggestion.

‘It is better not to let her sleep deeply, my lord. Some do not awaken after such an injury if left to sleep too long.’

‘Whatever is necessary. Let her maid go in first and see to her condition, then follow.’

‘Aye, my lord.’ Teyen stepped back to allow Gytha entrance.

When the girl gasped at seeing her lady huddled on the floor, clutching pieces of the broken loom, Soren grabbed her arm and shook his head. ‘If you cannot be calm, you cannot go in,’ he ordered. Soren waited for her to accept his words and then released her. He did not miss that Stephen stepped closer as he’d grabbed the girl and watched the exchange with an intensity that spoke of more than a casual interest.

The older woman approached as Gytha touched her lady’s shoulder and began to whisper in a soothing voice to her. Though she seemed too nervous to do it, the maid had the wench off the floor and walking to the bed within moments. She, Sybilla, now limped, he noticed, favouring her left leg and foot as she moved slowly. Just when Gytha guided her to the side of the bed and began to help her in, Sybilla began to shake her head and became agitated. Gytha quickly took her to a chair that remained standing and sat her there.

‘You asked if she has lost her wits, my lord?’

The older woman’s voice surprised him. Soren turned to face her.

‘The lady has lost everything but her wits, my lord. Her father, her brother, both lost in battle. Her mother lost years before that. Her future lost today. And now, worst of all, her sight.’ The woman took a breath before continuing. ‘Such loss cannot help but overwhelm a person of such kind spirit and good heart as my mistress.’

He watched as Gytha began to evaluate the lady’s injuries and tended to them. The older woman’s words brought a feeling into his heart he did not recognise at first. Many times the target of it himself, it took him some moments to accept that it pulsed through him now.

Pity.

He pitied his wife.

Worse, he pitied the daughter of the man who had destroyed his life and his future.

Faced with this emotion, one he did not wish to feel for anyone who carried the blood of Durward within them, Soren did what he needed to do before it could take hold and ruin his plans for vengeance—he fought it and walked away the winner.

‘What are you called?’ he asked, backing out of the room and crossing his arms over his chest. If it was a defensive stance, he would never admit it.

‘I am Aldys,’ she said, with a bow of her head.

‘I am holding you responsible for your lady’s care,’ Soren said. ‘See to it.’ If she questioned or doubted or misunderstood his command, he knew not, for he was down the steps before she could open her mouth and get words out.

Chapter Six

Although the darkness of Sybilla’s heart never lifted, the confusion of her mind eased as the pain in her head did over the next several days. Or, at least, she thought several days had passed. Without the ability to see the sun’s passage through the sky or the falling of dusk and night and without the regular duties of her life before his arrival, Sybilla did not know for certain.

She gave herself over to the grief that festered unreleased in her heart and soul and could do little more than sob or sleep the hours away. Truly, there was little else to do now. She could not see and she could do nothing for herself. She had nothing now that this invader had destroyed her home, imprisoned those set to the duty of protecting her and finished the task his king and other foolish men in power had begun by taking everything and everyone that mattered away from her. The worst moments were those she somehow remembered through the haze of pain and loss—the exact one when she lost control over her grief and her actions.

The loom.

Blind, with her thoughts muddled and with her only plan being escape, she’d stumbled in a panic around her chamber without being able to see her route. Though she’d lived in that same room for years now, without sight it became like a foreign terrain with no path to follow. She lost more self-control with each misstep until he dragged her to the bed. But when he destroyed the loom in the corner of her room, the only remaining remnants of her world came crashing down along with the wooden structure.

It was the last thing that connected her with her father and her brother, for they’d built it for her after her mother’s death in an attempt to assuage her grief and draw her back to the daily life in their household. It had been successful; working on the loom soothed her heart and kept her busy.

Now it and every other trace of her family was gone, save her. And from the sounds of his threats floating in the air, her life was also in danger from the man to whom she was now wed.

Her appetite fled with each passing day and the only sustenance she took was what her maids forced into her in a cup. Why bother sustaining herself when there was little to live for now? And her survival meant nothing to anyone here any longer?

Any hope, any tiny flare of it, had been dowsed when Teyen had removed the bandages and she’d managed to open her swollen eyes … and faced an obliterating blackness. Nothing.

No hint of light or movement.

Nothing.

She was truly blind and time would not restore her sight to her as her faithful servants had persuaded her to believe. So she let herself sink into that darkness a little more with each passing day. She hid from all those she’d sworn to serve and to protect, unable to face them as she was. Unable to offer them anything now that she’d lost everything. Then, just when she believed she could do no more than content herself to exist in this dark oblivion, he invaded once more, using the boy to bring his commands to her.

Her maids were more nervous than her—flitting around her chambers, arranging and rearranging her hair and clothing several times and fussing over her more than ever before. As though her appearance mattered when nothing truly did.

Sybilla sat in silent darkness, waiting for his arrival. The sound of his footsteps rumbled like thunder moving closer, but she could not seem to rouse much fear or any other feeling at all. These last days had emptied her of her grief and every other emotion. Like the husks left strewn on the ground after harvest, there was nothing left within her.

She heard the door open on hinges that clearly needed to be oiled and then silence filled the chamber. The shallow breathing of those waiting by her side sounded like the horses in the stables when she sneaked in on a cold winter’s morn to visit them. Laboured, low and fast, they grew more erratic as the seconds passed.

‘Out!’ he ordered in a gruff bark.

One word and her loyal servants abandoned her to him. Whatever he did to engender such obedience did not go unrecognised by her. Fear. Deep, abiding fear.

They’d described his horrible injuries in specific gory details to her, clucking over her marriage to him and alternately praying for her deliverance. They whispered rumours of his black deeds—the innocent crushed under his heels without mercy. They exposed their fears to her without regard for her own. But it mattered not, for she felt nothing.

He closed the door with no effort to be quiet and then strode around the chamber, his steps tracing a loud path until he stood at her side. She knew because she could now hear his breathing very close to her. Standing before him in the hall, she’d felt tiny, but sitting while he stood made her feel like a dog at his feet. Sybilla would have stood, but she was as yet unsteady on her feet, her balance thrown off by the lack of sight and her injuries.

‘Lady,’ he said in a tone more respectful than she thought possible from their last encounters, ‘are you well?’

‘What does your healer report to you?’ she asked in a voice unused to speaking. She’d had little to say over these last days.

‘Teyen said your wound no longer bleeds and the dizziness is lifting. Is that true?’

Although his words seemed to show an interest in her condition, there was no concern underlying them. She could hear that much. Strange, how she noticed that now. Without sight, she had only hearing to provide her with information about the world, and people, around her. Sighing, she nodded in reply.

‘And the pain?’ he asked. Sybilla noticed a slight inflection in his voice, one she might not have if forced to look upon him.

‘‘Tis not the worst I have ever suffered through,’ she said.

He grunted instead of answering then. She listened as he moved from her side and walked to the other side of the room.

Into that corner. It stood as empty now as she was.

‘There are things we must discuss, lady.’

Sybilla tried to feel something, anything—even fear would have been welcomed to show she yet lived—but nothing was there inside. Even a fool would have been afraid of what was to come.

‘Such as?’ she asked, simply to make this audience end sooner … so that she could return to her silent, dark world.

‘Your men will not answer my questions. I tried to … encourage them to do so, but they will not betray you.’

Dark threats swirled in his voice. Her men were alive? She clutched the arms of the wooden chair, curious for the first time in days.

‘Who yet lives?’ A tiny thread of hope to hear the names of those who’d done so much to protect her tingled deep within her heart.

‘Only a handful of your men were killed in the battle,’ he answered, with a tinge of insult echoing in his words. ‘It took little time or effort to breach the puny defences of this manor and keep.’

At another time she might herself bristle at the insult offered to her as lady of this manor and keep, but none of her past pride rose to fuel her ire.

‘How do you ask them to betray me?’

If he clenched his jaws any tighter, his teeth were sure to break. Soren held his anger in check and let out a breath. Did she know she tried his scant patience with every word she spoke?

He stepped away from her, walked a few paces and turned to observe her with a bit of space between them. Teyen’s reports over the last sennight seemed accurate—the lady did not appear ill, though the bruises on her forehead and face retained the dark purple shades and swelling of a still-fresh injury. He could not see her eyes, for clean bandages covered them. Even uncovered, her eyes did not see. Now, she gripped the wooden arms of the chair in which she sat and he noticed her fingers relaxing and tightening when he’d mentioned her men. It was the only sign of interest in anything he’d witnessed from her in days.

Oh, she might not know it, but he’d watched her many times since his arrival and since that terrible outpouring of grief had happened. She sat as she did now or remained abed for hours at a time—moving hardly at all, asking for or about nothing. The spirit he’d witnessed in the hall when she tried to protect her people from him had been extinguished like the flame of a candle in the wind.

But, correctly, he’d guessed that her people would be her weakness as much as she was theirs. With a few well-placed and timed threats, he’d forced their co-operation in repairing the damage done to the walls and in organising the stores of the manor. Soren needed more information, though, information that only the lady seemed to possess.

‘I need the rolls of the manor, to find how many owe service here and how many belong to the land. You know their location.’ He would have missed the slight nod if he’d not been watching her. ‘Where have you hidden them?’

‘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.

‘Even your boy-king has sworn allegiance to William and been shown lenience and respect.’ He watched the man listen to his words, but his eyes did not show acceptance. ‘Make peace with that or you and those who support the rebels will be crushed.’

Gareth neither accepted nor rejected his words, he just narrowed his gaze and then blinked. Soren’s outriders had found traces of rebel camps not far from the edges of his lands and Soren would do everything in his power to wipe them out. No urge within would force him to allow the rebel leader Edmund Haroldson to escape, if sighted or encountered again. Not like his friends had done—allowing softer feelings towards their wives to interfere with their duty to eradicate the enemies of William from the face of the earth. Soren had hardened his heart and would never let a woman stand between him and his duty.

‘Stephen, take him to Father Medwyn’s clerk and have him make a list of all who died due to his foolhardy attempts to keep me from my lands.’

Gareth fought against Stephen’s hold, shaking his head at Soren’s commands.

‘I will not betray my lady,’ he said boldly.

Soren laid him out with one blow.

‘Do not think to naysay my orders,’ he said loud enough for all to hear and so that none could mistake his claim. He shook out his fist, relaxing the hand that had delivered the punch. ‘I am lord here now and answer to no one, save my king. You are but a prisoner whose life and death I hold within my grasp.’ Soren turned and walked away, leaving Gareth to consider his decision. His patience was at an end.