His Enemy's Daughter. Terri Brisbin
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Название: His Enemy's Daughter
Автор: Terri Brisbin
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
Серия: Mills & Boon Historical
isbn: 9781408923634
isbn:
‘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 СКАЧАТЬ