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