Читать книгу His Enemy's Daughter - Terri Brisbin, Terri Brisbin - Страница 12

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.