Читать книгу His Enemy's Daughter - Terri Brisbin, Terri Brisbin - Страница 14

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.