BOUNDLESS: A Medieval Romance (AGE OF CONQUEST Book 6)

by Tamara Leigh

  The lady unbent. “Now food and…” She trailed off.

  He knew the reason, having set his mind on what lay ahead to distract himself from fingertips moving across skin overly sensitive to her touch. Whether beneath the eyes of her and her men he fumbled over cup and platter or her eyes alone and with her aid, his thirst and hunger would be satisfied—and the opportunity to win her to his side exploited.

  “Bind me,” he said.

  When it was done, the guards withdrew.

  “The name of your dog?” Theriot asked.

  “For the color of her fur, she is called Dubh.”

  “A Gaelic word?”

  “Oui, it means blackness or darkness.”

  Hearing the catch of her breath, he knew her thoughts collided with his own—that Dubh and he had something in common. Lest anger was roused again, he said, “My horse is named Ciel for the color of his eyes.”

  “Sky,” she translated, then said disbelievingly, “Blue eyes?”

  “Pale blue, like a sunlit sky.”

  “I have not heard of such.”

  Confirmation Ciel had not accompanied him to Scotland. A good thing. Even were the horse not sighted by those who came looking for the king’s scout, in addition to this chevalier of silvered dark hair being described to those questioned, mention would be made of the rare beast. And people would talk.

  “I am hungry, Lady.”

  She lowered beside him and reached to the platter.

  When last had a woman carried drink and food to his mouth? he wondered as, between her own sips and nibbles, she raised and lowered the cup of ale and put pieces of bread and cheese to his lips.

  Three years of age and done by his mother, he was certain. And each time Lady Marguerite’s fingertips brushed his mouth, more he wished she was the age of that fine woman.

  Thus, he was grateful when his formerly dry mouth and empty belly agreed they were content. Though the throb behind his eyes had eased, of a sudden he wanted sleep. “I will rest now.”

  The lady moved to the foot of the bed, tugged the blankets from beneath his legs and spread them over him. “I shall go to the physician and tell of your sight. Should I arrange for a bath?”

  “Non.” He lowered his lids and, finding comfort in that dark with which he was longer intimate than that of milky white and grey smudges, murmured, “The morrow.”

  Chapter Seven

  She had hoped to find only the physician and Hendrie in the sick room at the rear of the palace, but another was present and not merely visiting. It was her Saxon escort who had taken a blade to the shoulder during the brief encounter with Normans two days after departing Derbyshire, to which Stephen had put an end.

  Now seeing how flushed and moist the man’s face where he stretched on the bed opposite Hendrie’s, here was confirmation that, as feared, infection had set in.

  “It does not look good, Lady,” the physician said in Gaelic as he rose from a bench behind the table upon which were arrayed pots and instruments. “Still, I believe his arm can be saved providing healing is given its due.”

  She understood. Though the Saxons were to pass a sennight here before journeying home, now it could be weeks—even months—ere they departed. The other two would not like it, but they would wait on their companion, it safest to travel in groups amid the harrying.

  Marguerite crossed to the man. When he raised his lids, she said, “We will see you healed, and you will go home to England and your family.”

  He gave a barely perceptible nod and closed his eyes.

  “How fare thee, Hendrie?” she asked, turning to the Scotsman who sat against a pillow.

  “Better than he who stuck me. Our king tells I must be satisfied with that. The Norman recovers?”

  “That is why I am here—to discuss his injuries with Colban.” She lowered beside Hendrie and noted the bandage around his waist showed no crimson. “It appears you heal well.”

  “Better now I am home.”

  She glanced up as the physician drew alongside and glimpsed in his eyes what she had seen before going south to bring her mother home—admiration of the courting sort. She had not been averse to it, but now… Though he was of good disposition and fair looks, it was less welcome.

  “Lady?” he prompted.

  After reporting Sir Theriot was fully conscious and what he had revealed of his vision, she asked, “Will he recover his sight?”

  He shrugged. “The eyes are among the body’s greatest mysteries. Though I have seen vision restored following similar damage, most often not—at least in full. And with Sir Theriot, there is also the blow to the back of the head which decreases his chances.”

  “The swelling has lessened.”

  “A good sign, but…” He shook his head. “The Lord knows better than I.”

  “Will you come to him again soon?”

  His hesitation bothered, resentment likely the cause. By Malcolm’s decree, just as it was the duty of the guards to watch over her while she tended Theriot, it was the physician’s duty to care for the Norman who had nearly slain Hendrie.

  “For you, Lady, soon,” Colban said.

  She thanked him, departed, and called for Dubh when she entered the hall.

  The dog rose from beneath a table where other hounds stretched, but rather than reluctantly plod forward as often done when denied the company of fellow canines, it loped across the rushes.

  She patted its head. “Very fine, Dubh,” she said, and as the porter opened the door, felt a prickle in her nose. Sniffing deeply, she stepped outside.

  He had slept the day away. Now, amid the dark, he awakened. “Marguerite?”

  She was only drifting, having earlier been roused by the chill slipping beneath the door that prompted her to move her pallet to the fire pit. Untucking her chin from her blankets, she hesitated over the sight of Dubh alongside the bed, then rasped, “Theriot?”

  Just as she did not remind him of her title, neither did he remind her of his when he rumbled, “My need is great.”

  She understood, having worried over that bodily function when he had not roused once following her visit to the physician—even when Colban entered, examined him, and confirmed his earlier diagnosis. “I shall call the men inside.”

  Though it was warmer at the pit, she shivered when she came out from beneath the blankets and knew the chevalier’s need to relieve himself was not the only thing he required.

  She snatched up one of her blankets and wrapped it around her, then with Dubh at her side, exited the hut and hastened to the guards huddled by their fire. When she asked the two to unbind Theriot to allow him a man’s privacy and build up the fire inside, the men who were younger than those of the day’s guards agreed without complaint. A quarter hour later, they exited, and once more Marguerite and Dubh closed themselves in with the chevalier.

  The fire lent much light, allowing her to look upon Theriot over whom covers had been drawn—and the hound who returned to the place made for herself alongside the bed.

  “I thank you,” the chevalier said, light glancing off unearthly eyes before he narrowed their lids.

  It once more appearing he looked upon her, she considered his vision might not be as impaired as reported, and for that he would not allow his eyes to be covered.

  Was it a ploy to ease the guard over him so he might escape? Possible. And she hoped it more than possible, even if he recognized her as the woman who made herself bait.

  “Have you drink?” he asked.

  She hastened to the bedside table. Letting the blanket slide from her shoulders, she lifted the pitcher, filled a cup, and lowered beside Theriot.

  He raised his head, and when she set the rim to his lips, drank every drop.

  “More?” she asked.

  “Non.”

  “Bread?” She reached to the piece wrapped in cloth following her solitary evening meal.

  “Non,” he said again, and she felt him quake.

  The room warmed, but not enough for o
ne who had gulped down cold water and whose bed was distant from the fire.

  Marguerite retrieved her blanket from the ground and spread it atop the others covering him. It would help, but more so were his arms beneath.

  Though tempted to unbind him, she did not dare. Even if his vision was better than told and he escaped, he stood little chance of avoiding recapture in the wilds of a foreign country. And Malcolm was unlikely to indulge her a second time.

  Determining on the morrow she would request fur blankets lest the bitter cold persisted, she straightened.

  “Again, I thank you,” he said, then asked, “The physician?”

  She tensed. “He came after the nooning hour.”

  “And?”

  “He says it is a good sign the injury to your head heals well, but it is too soon to know what shall come of your sight.”

  “To know. What of his guess?”

  Here another truth halved since she did not believe this the time to tell him sight was rarely restored following such damage, and even less likely with a head injury. “All he said was the Lord knows better than he what is to be.”

  His nostrils flared. “I do not know if more I feel or smell your lie.”

  So greatly perceiving his anger it was as if hands moved toward her throat, she crossed to her pallet and cast over her shoulder, “Since only a few hours remain ere morn, let us return to our rest.”

  As she settled and huddled into the one blanket remaining to her, she was flushed with gratitude that what had been embers were now flames.

  “Who are you, Lady?”

  His question jolted, less for who she was in truth than who she was to one rendered sightless. She considered feigning sleep, but it would not be believed, and from his tone his anger seemed mostly resolved.

  She rolled to her side and thought how striking he was with firelight tracing the silver in his hair and playing across his face. However, so narrow were his lids, barely a glimmer reflected in his eyes. Likely, the light pained him.

  “As well you know, I am Lady Marguerite of the Scots.”

  “But not entirely of the Scots.”

  “Not entirely.”

  “Then?”

  “It is very late, Sir Theriot. The sooner to heal, you should sleep.”

  “I am fully awake now. As I dread the long hours of boredom, would you not indulge me?”

  Though she feared yielding lest fatigue cause her to reveal what she dare not, it occurred she might gain more from him than he from her were he as receptive to giving as taking. “I am curious about you as well. So answer me a question, and I shall do my best to answer yours.”

  He grunted. “Not only do you seek a trade, but one in which you shall do your best?”

  “Some things are more easily answered than others, but I shall expect no more from you than I can give.”

  “Then ask.”

  Surprised she was to go first, it took a moment to decide how to proceed. “I know you are of an honorable family—especially compared to most Normans.”

  “I am a D’Argent, and though the English have good cause to name the majority of my countrymen foul, it is not so. Now your question.”

  “Though Hendrie believes you were among the Normans who burned the village, Princess Margaret expressed doubt. Is she correct, or were you one of those who carried flame while pursuing the Aetheling?”

  “I did not carry flame.”

  She believed him. However, recalling Hendrie’s words that were he a scout and had he set the contingent after the Aetheling, he was as responsible for the fires, she said, “How did you come to be in the village so soon thereafter?”

  “Now my question, Lady. Who are you?”

  She drew in her feet beneath the chemise in which she usually slept and the gown in which she did not sleep unless cold or modesty demanded it. “I am Scots the side of my sire, Diarmad the Mad, and—”

  “The Mad?”

  She smiled. “Mostly of the axe, though perhaps a little of the head. He was a great warrior who stood the side of Malcolm when our liege came of age and returned to Scotland to take the throne from the one who stole his birthright.”

  “Macbeth whom Malcolm slew,” Theriot said.

  “Oui, and also the stepson who succeeded Macbeth. Ever my sire was at Malcolm’s side, averting blades and shafts, hammers and fists. For it, when the rightful king was crowned, he renamed his faithful man Diarmad the Shield. Though my sire answered to that which was meant to honor him, still he preferred Diarmad the Mad, and not even the king ceased naming him that whilst my sire lived.” The last a whisper, she nearly pressed a hand to her chest.

  “I am sorry for your loss, Lady.”

  She nodded, then recalling he could not see, said, “I thank you.”

  He gave her some moments, then asked, “Was your mother Norman?”

  That pain greater for how recent the loss, she determined to leave the second part of his probing unanswered the same as he had done hers. “The question is mine again. How is it you were in the village so soon after Edgar’s pursuers attacked?”

  “From a distance, I saw the fire and determined to give aid.”

  She frowned. “A lone Norman helping English set upon by his countrymen?”

  “With much caution, of course.”

  She did not believe he lied, only that he also told half truths. “I am thinking the question asked of you is one of those less easily answered, Sir Theriot.”

  “It is.”

  Glad he did not deny it, she said, “Were you able to help anyone?”

  “Once more, the question is mine.”

  Recalling what she had yet to answer, she said, “Oui, my mother was of your people. Long ere your duke determined he would be king and populate England with those of Normandy, her family crossed the channel with the exiled Edward who was summoned home to accept the crown his family had lost to the Danes. Now my question.”

  He started to shift onto his side, but his restraints were too taut. “I found the village deserted except for what sounded a child at the farthest reach.”

  Though Marguerite’s escort who searched those homes had reported hearing no further cries from the one greatly aflame and told the other two were empty, still she had feared a child was quieted by smoke and fire.

  “Was it a child?” she prompted.

  “It was not.” As silently she praised the Lord, he added, “A cat was the beginning of my downfall, and hardly had it sprung out the window than my fate was sealed by a woman.”

  He spoke of Edgar’s boast the trap she had set to prevent a Norman from harming a child was of his own doing. Though Marguerite did not wish to further pursue the events of that night, lest her lack of curiosity rouse suspicion, she said, “The Aetheling told he made it appear a village woman was pursued by your fellow Normans to draw you out.”

  “That she did, and I fell into his trap.”

  My trap, she thought. “You sought to aid her?”

  He frowned, and she expected he would remind her the next question was his, but said, “I did. Do you believe I meant her no harm?”

  In the hope of more deeply burying her involvement in his loss, she was tempted to remind him she knew his family only by way of Princess Margaret, but she chose another half truth over a lie. “As I am inclined to believe your family honorable, I think you speak true.”

  And I think you deceit wrapped in something sweet, Theriot silently pronounced over her evasion to which he might have been deaf as well as blind had she not hastily retreated from talk of the physician’s diagnosis. To keep anger from overwhelming his remaining senses, he had thrust that emotion deep and dropped a door over it, but the simmer was coming to a boil again, causing heat to escape the seams.

  Cool thyself, he counseled that which could impede what was needed to gain his freedom.

  “It is your question now,” she said.

  Having forgotten their bartering, he sought to look closer at the dark of her against firelight,
but there was no face to be seen nor a good rendering of her shape. Feeling the door to his anger shudder, he decided he was done with this trade…game…whatever it was.

  “I am cured of sleeplessness, Lady Marguerite.”

  “Oh,” she said with obvious disappointment.

  I have her attention, he congratulated himself as he turned his head opposite, and I shall make something useful of it.

  He heard her settle, and before long her deepening breaths between the hound’s soft snores.

  Far from cured of sleeplessness but warm at last, out of habit more than an attempt to go inside himself, he lowered his lids. And was drawn to that door. He knew it would be hot, and it was. He knew it could prove hot enough to blister, but though it seemed evil on the other side, it intrigued for the insight offered he had not realized he lacked.

  What he felt must be akin to what Dougray had experienced over the loss of an arm, Maël over a disfigured face, and Guarin over captivity by Saxon rebels. He had known their suffering was great, but this was a different kind of knowing. Despite the intrigue of something unfamiliar becoming familiar, it was painful. And if, like his kin who could not regain what was lost, neither could he, more painful it would be.

  Prayer, he told himself. With much prayer, God will continue to favor me.

  “Lord, let my will be Your will,” he whispered and began praying the night away.

  Chapter Eight

  Though Marguerite was more favorably disposed toward Princess Margaret than when first they met, the same could not be said of the lady’s mother and sister.

  The older woman having become more confident of her place at court, she was haughtier in manner and speech. Marguerite was spared none of it, though it was expressed less in words than what Agatha exuded through scrutiny of the king’s favorite—from Marguerite’s head down to her toes.

  Cristina was said to be as devout as her older sister, but from the beginning she had been disdainful of her accommodations, letting it be known Malcolm’s palace was crude compared to Westminster. But now there was something else about her that bothered. Her resentment was more keenly felt when she believed herself unobserved as she looked upon the future queen. Jealousy or not, possibly here further proof that just as she was not as beautiful as her sister on the outside, her insides were lacking.