Master Of Surrender by Karin Tabke Page A

most ungracious body. The cause is lost, and I have my own people to attend to. I have no time for an unwilling patient.”
    Rohan had the good grace to scowl. He looked down at his man, and the giant growled again, attempting to sit up.
    “Milady?” Thorin said, stepping forward. His deep hazel eye glittered in the morning firelight. Her gaze traced his scarred face. She wondered what other scars lay beneath the leather patch. She thought of the pain he must have endured as recipient of such a wound. She looked past Thorin to the others, wondering again what horrible experience bound them.
    “Sir knight?” she asked.
    “Shall I hold the brute whilst you chop?” he asked with the straight face of a man bent on serious business.
    Manhku shot upright and called out to Thorin in rapid, strangely accented French. “Viking scourge!”
    The knights doubled over in laughter, breaking the thick tension. Isabel stood, calm, not understanding the camaraderie of men. “You jest with this man’s leg.” She wiped her hands on her dress. “And so I will leave you to tend him yourselves. I am done with it.”
    “Riders approach!” the tower lookout called.
    Excitement lurched in her chest. Was it her sire come home?
    As they were already mailed and belted, Rohan and his men instantly scrambled to attention. Isabel wondered if they slept thus. She warmed as she remembered Rohan’s barely clad body last night. Mayhap they did not. As Isabel moved to follow the knights, to see who came to Rossmoor at such an ungodly hour, Rohan turned to her. “Stay in the hall, and see to Manhku.”
    Frustration strangled her. How dare he command her?
    What if it were kin come for refuge? Isabel turned back to look at the abandoned Manhku. “Mayhap I will give you a second chance.” She glanced back to the half-open portal. “But first I will see who approaches.”
     

    Flanked by his men, Rohan stood with his hand on the hilt of his sword as the score of Norman knights approached. The crimson and black standard bearing the image of the boar flapped arrogantly in the chill of the English winter wind. The same coat of arms caught the morning sunlight on the lead rider’s shield.
    An anger he had thought long buried rose from deep inside Rohan’s belly. He gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly he could no longer feel his fingertips.
    “Your brother rides as if he is due the crown,” Thorin said from beside Rohan.
    “Aye, and if there is a way, leave it to Henri to find it.” Rohan stepped down into the courtyard, as one, his men followed.
    Henri’s big bay destrier skidded to a halt inches from Rohan. He remained motionless. In an arrogant show of confidence, Henri pulled his red plumed helmet from his head. A face much like Rohan’s stared back. The one defining difference, at least on the surface, was that Henri bore no scars. His face was clean, and Rohan knew how he would appear had he been the one born to a couple wed in God’s eyes.
    Henri’s contemptuous gaze swept past Rohan to each of his men alongside him before coming back to rest on his brother. In another great show of confidence, Henri dismounted. As his feet landed on the cobblestone, he sneered. “Whores’ sons, all of you.”
    “Take care who you call a whore, Henri. While I have no great love for the woman who bore me, William dotes on his aunt.”
    Henri scoffed and looked past Rohan to Rossmoor. His eyes scanned for a good long time the impressive edifice. “So, as the bastard’s henchman, ye think ye have the right to land?”
    “I do my liege’s bidding,” Rohan answered.
    Henri sneered, the twist of his lips so much like Rohan’s turning the angled planes of his face into jagged ridges.
    “Your liege will see his way to delivering lands and titles in this sodden piece of turf to his nobles, not by blow who have only a sword and horse to call upon.”
    Rohan pulled his sword and held it high. Sunlight danced off the honed edges. “My Blood Sword