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.
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