by Tamara Leigh
Though he heard the dying man’s Norman-accented words, there was no time to make sense of them. As he turned toward the Scotsman, the clouds thinned, casting more light on Theriot, his enemy, and the three who neared. Unfortunately, it was not enough to determine whether the latter were friend or foe.
“Almighty!” he called on the Lord and ran at the Scotsman who had retrieved his sword but had yet to assume a defensive stance.
A scream sounded, sending Theriot’s gaze to the woman who should be far gone—she of slim figure whose mantle flew off her shoulders and loosening braid appeared dark of color.
The distraction of her allowed the Scotsman to escape the blade that should have caught him across the neck. Worse, Theriot’s momentum betrayed him. Before he could come around, his enemy was at his back.
Instinct his only defense in the moment, he dropped to the chill ground, and the wind of the sword that could have sliced off his head passed over it—or so he thought ahead of shattering pain.
Had the edge or flat of the blade landed? If the former, had it cleaved open his skull and begun spilling out all he was beyond a soul that needed no earthly shell to survive? Likely the flat of the blade, for he remained conscious enough not only to deny his opponent his rest but give the accursed woman another chance to escape.
Hand no longer one with his sword hilt, he flipped onto his back. Pain doubling behind his eyes, he knocked aside the Scotsman’s next stroke with his mail-covered arm, and with the other closed fingers around the cross guard of his enemy’s sword.
As the warrior tried to wrench free, Theriot thrust the blade to the ground, forcing the man to his knees beside him. Though he attempted to roll to the side to wrest the sword from him, pain radiating from the back of his head and waning consciousness incapacitated him. And greater the threat of senselessness when the clouds parted and the moon shone so bright it felt as if he stared into the sun.
Feeling his hand on the enemy’s sword loosen, silently he appealed to his protector, Aid me, Lord!
A great weight thumped down on his chest, then a hand gripped his throat.
Not this, he sent heavenward, not after all You have brought me through. And yet here was death wearing the face of the Scotsman whose bound hair had loosened, its grey revealing Theriot D’Argent would die at the hands of one older than believed.
Receding consciousness moving him down a dimming tunnel, he heard his departed uncle who had trained him at arms shout, You cannot be well with such a death, son of Godfroi, nephew of Hugh! A D’Argent gives no quarter! Fight to the end!
Theriot strained the muscles of his throat and managed wheezes of breath aided by the bunched cloth around his neck that provided a thin barrier between his airway and the Scotsman’s hand.
Even if this is your end, take with you one who harms innocents, he told himself, then reached to his hip and turned his hand around his dagger.
“Pray, cease!” the woman cried, over and again in an accent Theriot thought of the Scots one moment, the Normans the next, then Saxon.
As he pulled the dagger from its scabbard and turned its point to drive it into his assailant, the Scotsman spoke words that escaped the one who intended to slay him. When the man turned his head to the side, Theriot looked that direction.
There the woman he had sought to aid. Despite her blurred edges, something was familiar about she whose mouth moved, arms reached, and hands splayed as if someone held her back. Someone did—a long-haired warrior, and he was no Norman, nor the other two who would surely arrive soon had they not already.
Theriot tightened his grip on the dagger and drove it into the Scotsman’s side.
Breath was returned to him when the older man released his throat, reared back, and loosed the sword rendered useless by the one who had somehow kept hold of the cross guard.
Determined if he could not escape death, neither would the one responsible for it, Theriot drew out the dagger’s blade to drive it in again. And missed when the man lurched forward and reached with open hands to his enemy’s eyes.
Theriot jerked his head opposite, and as he once more sought to drive the blade into the man’s side, the woman repeated, “Cease! Pray, cease!”
Feeling the give of flesh though it did not go as deep as before, he saw she was on her knees clawing at the earth as if to free herself. And she, for whom he gave all, was the last thing he looked upon before everything went black and the pressure on his eyes became agony that crashed into pain at the back of his skull.
Chapter Three
Central Lowlands
Scotland
One dead, two nearly so, and either because of a child who could not be saved or one who did not exist.
The latter, the villagers had assured Marguerite when they ventured out of the wood—rather, the few who would speak to her. And surely those had done so only because they hoped to sooner see the back of one associated with the Aetheling who brought the harrying to their village.
While their physician tended the two fallen warriors to allow them to travel beyond the reach of vengeful villagers, as well as murderous Normans who might return were it discovered Edgar was not among the pursued, Marguerite had sat amid shadows and wept as done too many times since departing Scotland.
So many deaths. And now one for which she was responsible—that of the Norman added to her escort to ensure their safe passage should they encounter King William’s forces. And ensure it Stephen had done, ending an attack a sennight past by identifying himself to his countrymen. Now that warrior was buried in winter earth far from home. What would prove even more tragic was if the two warriors who survived what Stephen had not were also lost. And for what?
Just as it was likely no child had been in danger, the one who first answered that cry was of no danger to any until he was set upon.
After Hendrie and the unconscious Theriot D’Argent she had too late recognized were loaded into a wagon, what remained of the Aetheling’s men and Marguerite’s escort had departed the village.
That was two days ago, and providing the morrow was as uneventful, by next eve they would be in Dunfermline where Hendrie could be properly tended by the king’s physician. And Sir Theriot…
Breathing in cold air, Marguerite turned on the bench whose lack of springs made her long for the saddle. First she looked upon Hendrie who slept away his pain and the wagon’s jostling. Pleased his color continued to improve, she shifted her regard to the brother of Sir Dougray and Lady Nicola of the family D’Argent with whom she had become familiar while in England.
What could be seen of his face showed the grey cast continued to deepen. Unlike Hendrie who awakened often, the Norman had yet to rouse. However, he breathed better than the man into whom twice he had thrust a dagger. To sooner heal, did his body cling to the dark behind the cloth covering his lids and the lids covering his eyes?
Would those eyes heal? What of his mind? Though there was only swelling at the back of his head caused by the unintentional turning of Hendrie’s blade that landed the flat, the injury could prove as deadly as fractured bone.
She shuddered. “I am to blame. Pray, forgive me, Sir Theriot.” Likely futile beseeching, whether because he did not survive to test the strength of his ability to forgive, else he lived and deemed her unforgivable.
A groan sounded.
Seeing Hendrie’s eyes were open, she swung her legs over the backless bench and dropped into the space between the men who had nearly slain each other.
“Is he dead?” Hendrie rumbled.
During his last awakening, she had revealed the identity of Theriot D’Argent that had caused her to plead for an end to their contest, which Hendrie had done only after damaging the Norman’s eyes. The revelation had settled the Scotsman sufficiently that his demands for the return of his dagger had subsided. Still, were it possible to slay the enemy with whom he was forced to share a sick bed, he might.
“He yet lives,” she said.
His nostrils flared. “Show me.
”
She slid an arm beneath his shoulders and narrowly avoided his forehead clipping her chin when the wagon lurched over deep ruts.
“He lives,” he muttered, and she followed his gaze to the face at the rear of the wagon, it having been deemed safer the enemies lie at opposite ends.
“I care not what ye believe of the D’Argents, this one is foe,” Hendrie said.
She eased his head back onto the blanket folded into a pillow and started to withdraw.
“Foe, not friend, Marguerite. Best left beside the road to fill the bellies of other beasts.”
She had deigned not to argue that when last they spoke, but seeing he was more alert and certain vengeful imaginings would keep him awake, she settled beside him. “As told, I cannot know why he was there, but even were he among those who pursued Edgar, if he is the same as other D’Argents, he did not seek to harm what likely he also believed a child.”
“If he is the same as those Normans you hold in high regard.”
As done often these past days, she recalled the first time she met the youngest D’Argent brother. Four months past, after the rebels gained and lost the city of York, the Battle of Stafford was fought with no better result for the resistance. That night, she had been among the defeated rebels Vitalis took to the D’Argent camp raised distant from fellow Normans who celebrated their victory with such exuberance one would not guess they also suffered losses.
Sir Theriot had stood apart, moonlight running the silver in his hair, stance that of a warrior prepared to wield his sword. But the same as his kin, he had maintained the truce that allowed the seriously injured Em to be given into the keeping of Dougray D’Argent who had a care for the rebel.
Vitalis having determined Marguerite would stay with the woman she had come to regard as a friend, caring for her until a physician was found distant from the battlefield, Sir Theriot had called her name and strode forward to assist in getting her astride.
She was not easily given to attraction and certainly not by physical appearance alone. However, the chevalier’s gaze that seemed to see beyond the shadow cast by her hood, confident swing of his arms, and reach of his stride had made something move through her at a speed and intensity never before felt.
And more it was felt when he gripped her waist, boosted her into the saddle, and slid one hand to the small of her back. As she had peered down at him, suppressing words of gratitude that would reveal she was not mute, moonlight intimate with his face showed a mischievous glint in eyes of an indeterminate color and a smile more comely for what it conveyed with so slight a curve.
It had occurred what she felt could be similar to that experienced by her formidable sire. Marguerite had thought sweet his insistence his heart had known her mother’s when first he set eyes on her, but she had believed it exaggeration.
That night it had seemed possible for how aware she was of Theriot D’Argent and his hand on her. When he removed it and wished her Godspeed, she had dismissed those feelings by naming them fanciful.
Still, as was habit when leaving behind something to which she wished to return, she had looked back as they departed the camp and saw he stared after them—of no great note since the others did as well, but then he raised a hand as if he knew that of all those in the camp, she looked back at him.
During the journey that delivered her and Em to the barony of Michel Roche, often she had thought on that and his smile. And afterward… Less so, though months after Sir Dougray and Em wed and Baron Roche provided Marguerite an escort to Scotland, Sir Theriot was wont to come to mind and make her heart feel lonely.
“Methinks you place too much value on that one’s kinship, Marguerite,” Hendrie said.
She cleared her throat. “I am fair certain this chevalier is the same as his brothers. You heard him when he believed I was pursued by Normans. He commanded them to desist. It surprised until you had him to ground and I saw he was young with the silver of the aged in his hair. It was then I recognized him as a D’Argent whom I briefly met while in England. And understood.”
“What ye wished to understand. It was no coincidence he appeared in the village after his countrymen set it afire. He must have been among them and turned back to see if the flames flushed out Edgar.”
It was hard to accept that, but were it true, surely it was because he served the usurper and must do as bid. “Even so, I do not believe he would have harmed the child had there been one nor made sport of me had my pursuers been his countrymen.”
Hendrie gave a grunt of disapproval, then a groan of discomfort.
Fearing for his stitches, Marguerite turned back the blankets.
“Ere we went for the one lurking amid the fires, I wagered he was a Norman,” he slurred. “I won that wager, just as I believe I win the wager he was there to finish what was begun.”
Pressing her lips, Marguerite raised his tunic and peeled back the bandage. The stitches held and discolored flesh appeared no worse than before—a good sign Theriot D’Argent’s blade had struck nothing vital with the deep thrust nor the shallow one.
Grateful to find Hendrie had returned to sleep, she tucked the blankets around him and crawled to the man at the rear of the wagon who she hoped would become a prisoner of the King of Scots rather than Edgar the Aetheling.
Before unbinding his eyes to once more assess damage which included swelling, burst blood vessels, and abrasions, she looked to those who rode ahead.
Thankfully, Edgar remained at the fore. Each time he brought his mount alongside the wagon and spoke aloud his hatred of the Norman, it turned her belly, as did that which he wore on his belt alongside his own weapons—the jeweled dagger that nearly ended Hendrie’s life.
Since surely he wished to thrust that blade into one who had aided in denying him the throne, likely the only reason he had not acted on that impulse was because Marguerite had claimed the D’Argent’s life as Hendrie’s privilege and asserted King Malcolm would look ill on any who challenged his man.
Next, Marguerite considered those riding behind the wagon. Though she had tried to persuade the three Saxons to return to their liege in Derbyshire, assuring them the Aetheling and his men would deliver her home, they had refused. Even in the absence of the fallen Stephen, they would see that with which they were entrusted to its end. When they were rested and their injured companion sufficiently recovered, they would return to England with tidings their Norman friend had been lost to a D’Argent.
“’Tis upon me,” Marguerite whispered to the man she crouched alongside, then began unbinding eyes whose color she could not see past the thick of clouds bordered by bleeding whites. And might never see.
Though she tried to set her mind on the task before her, continually her thoughts and emotions drifted. Still this attraction, as if she knew him beyond that first meeting, the second fateful one, and now this. Still she named herself fanciful—now pitifully so for what she had wrought. But were there a cure for these feelings, surely it would be Theriot D’Argent’s hatred when he learned who was responsible for his injury.
“Lord, help me,” she whispered.
Was this death? This darkness the place of those denied heaven? He did not believe it, and yet what else might such misery be?
He tried to shift his eyes in search of light, but that slight movement was so painful he nearly voiced it, and it was a struggle not to raise hands to his face to determine if this dark was beyond or upon him.
Feel! he told himself. What do you feel?
Something across his cold brow whose lower edge coursed the tops of his cheeks and nose. The pressure was minimal, but he was fairly certain this darkness was of a binding cloth. If so, he was yet of the world. But where in this world, and how was it he came to be here?
It hurt to search backward, and when the effort caused consciousness to recede, he returned to unraveling the moment by engaging senses that had ever been his greatest strength.
Cold air on his upper and lower face and around and in his ears rev
ealed he was out of doors. Beneath a sore neck, warmth lent by garments and blankets weighted him in the absence of chain mail.
The muscles of unbound feet and legs engaged when tensed, as well as those of hands and arms.
Still I am whole, he assured himself. I have only to allow time for my head to come right and remove the covering from my eyes, and I shall escape whatever ill is intended me.
Awareness of his body mostly restored, he lowered lids that felt as if they raked claws down his eyes. The grit of dirt, he thought, but rather than search backward to recall who cast it in his face, he focused on feeling beyond himself and questioned why everything was so still.
It was as if, long in motion, he had come to an abrupt halt. When his attempt to make sense of that sharpened the pain in his head, once more he turned from the past and commanded himself to listen.
A buzz became a drone, then just as one’s eyes slowly focus after sleep opens them upon a new day, he began to hear night sounds, which meant the dark above accounted for his inability to see through the cloth.
Next, he sought sounds not of creatures and foliage but of men. They were here, one so close his breathing told he slept alongside Theriot in the opposite direction. More distant were the sounds of others—snores, restless shifting, the night patrol’s quiet steps.
Concluding there were fewer than a score of men in the immediate area, Theriot attempted to determine which side of night they were on. Deeply, he pulled breath through nostrils and across a dry tongue. The first recognizable scents were of rich soil and trees ever green, next the mildewed straw beneath him, then that which drifted on the air. Though the sound of crackling fires was absent, he smelled and tasted the smoke and sweet sap of moist wood that must have required much persistence to light it.
