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.