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

by Tamara Leigh

  Guarin understood. Were Guy given the chance to deliver Princess Margaret to his liege and chose not to, more easily his dissent could be kept from William if use was made of mercenaries rather than the king’s men. But even that was a risk unless he slew his accomplices to prevent extortion, which Guarin believed Guy would not do. Hence, just like Maël must leave England to make a life with the woman he loved, Guy might have to do the same.

  “So a new plan,” Dougray said.

  Though already one was forming, when Guy revealed the size of the force accompanying Malcolm to Edinburgh, Guarin rejected it. Were it possible to extract Theriot, which would be more difficult with his impairment, too many could die both sides—a great risk were the life of the youngest D’Argent brother in peril, an unconscionable one since he was treated well beyond whatever had stolen his sight.

  “I see two possibilities.” This from Maël who leaned against the tree before which they had gathered distant from the others.

  “Tell,” Guarin prompted.

  “As it is best not to involve Sir Guy and his men since none of us wish the princess to fall into Willam’s hands, the first possibility depends on how many armed men deliver her across the estuary and whether or not Malcolm sends others to escort her from the dock to Edinburgh. The second…” He thought on it, shook his head. “Less likely to work. Thus, we make a trade, which could also fail if our timing is wrong or we lose control of outside forces.”

  As well Maël knew, having recently lost his bid to trade the woman to whom he was now wed for Guarin’s sister. Blessedly, all had shaken out better than expected for that D’Argent.

  “Let us pray the men loyal to us are all we need to take back Theriot without bloodshed,” Maël said.

  “And pray for restraint,” Guarin added. “No matter what was done him and how it was done, as testament to our faith and for the sake of our wives, we do only what we must. Hawisa awaits my return.” He moved his gaze to Maël. “Mercia awaits yours.” More heavily he set his eyes on Dougray. “And you have your beloved Em.”

  With less grudging than expected, his brother nodded.

  Not for the first time marveling at the power of love to heal and change the broken, Guarin turned to Guy. “Now we need an excuse for you to withdraw your men so none carry tale to William.”

  “I should not allow myself to be stirred to such excitement,” Meg said. “We are to store up treasures in heaven, not on earth where moths and rust corrupt and thieves steal.”

  Marguerite longed to reassure her that though Malcolm’s gift was here on earth, its fruits would reach to the heavens and bless thousands upon thousands, but what was unknown to the princess might become known, depriving the king of her genuine reaction to what a man made more godly by love had done to honor her great faith.

  Feeling color in her cheeks roused by an unclouded summer sun, Marguerite lowered her chin and looked to the woman who sat on the bench beside her facing the shore toward which the ferry moved.

  “I think it is good you are excited,” Marguerite said and leaned forward to stroke the hound who remained disgruntled at being left behind when Theriot accompanied the king to Edinburgh. “Does not the Lord delight in our joy, Meg?”

  “When ’tis not of the selfish, and I fear this is.”

  Sniffing down a sneeze, Marguerite withdrew her hand from Dubh. “No matter the nature of my king’s gift, I have no doubt his queen shall share its goodness with as many as possible.”

  Meg raised an eyebrow. “You make it sound as if you do not know what that gift is.” She raised a hand. “Not that I would have you tell.”

  Marguerite did know and that the princess would cherish it. “I am glad you do not wish me to say, for I would not break the word given your betrothed.”

  Meg nibbled her lower lip. “Aside from excitement, I am in the grip of worry over the change of plan that sees Malcolm at Edinburgh rather than here with me. He knows how much I dislike water travel.”

  “I know no more of his change of plans than you, Meg. What I know is that it is important the presentation of his wedding gift is flawless in your eyes.”

  The princess sighed. “Over and again, I pray he is not terribly disappointed I cannot put him ahead of my faith as he puts me ahead of his.”

  “I believe that is why he loves you so well. No purer wife could he have in word nor deed.”

  Meg turned thoughtful, and when the shoreline was more clearly in view, said, “I hope just as you so generously shared with all last eve, making hearts beat hard not with drink but awe and reverence of the gift with which you are blessed, so shall I, honoring the great commission given me by moving Scotland’s people to greater love and respect for our Savior.”

  Marguerite laughed softly, but before she could offer further assurance, Meg entreated, “Tell me you do not think it funny for believing I can be a worthy representative of the Lord.”

  Far more familiar with the princess’s confidence than lack of it, Marguerite set a hand atop hers. “It is not funny at all. It is inspiring, and for that I love you.”

  Meg’s expression reflected gratitude, then with teasing, she said, “But more you love Sir Theriot.”

  Marguerite longed to deny it, but not only was this woman undeserving of falsity, she could not be fooled. “Three weeks was not enough to correct the lean of this heart, but I shall see it straight again.”

  “See there!” Cristina exclaimed from her bench near the bow.

  Marguerite startled, not only because she had forgotten the other woman’s presence, but for her enthusiasm. Unlike her mother and older sister, she was not averse to water travel—even appeared to enjoy it.

  Cristina stood and pointed. “Our escort to Edinburgh. Look ere they go from sight.”

  As both women peered beyond the warriors accompanying them, they saw a half dozen riders on the road that followed a portion of the shoreline, the colors of their plaids barely visible. More visible were the riderless horses which would deliver the new arrivals to Edinburgh. At a leisurely trot, they descended the crest and went from sight.

  “’Tis too distant to know if Malcolm is among them,” Meg said.

  Marguerite smiled. “Soon you shall see him. Then on the morrow, ever you shall be his queen.”

  The new plan fell into place.

  King William’s Normans had broken camp and moved south when Guy announced their position was compromised with Malcolm’s forces expanding their patrol to protect their ruler and the Aetheling. They did not know the princess was expected to join her betrothed, only that the D’Argents would retrieve Theriot regardless of the risk.

  Now with minimal bloodshed, the six Scotsmen sent to escort the princesses and their guard to the great fortress had been subdued by sixteen, though not easily. Their leader, an older warrior, had fought so fiercely it was difficult to defeat him without landing a mortal blow.

  Taken into the wood distant from the road, the Scotsmen had been bound and gagged and their horses tethered nearby. There they would remain until the trade was made—the princess for a prisoner.

  Though Guarin knew the temperament of the King of Scots only by reputation, he did not doubt it would be no friendly exchange, but there would be an exchange. Hopefully, when the D’Argents and their men spurred away, the Scotsmen would clasp close their future queen rather than pursue those who had bettered them.

  “It seems two princesses shall come into our hands,” Dougray said, peering over the ridge where he lay between Guarin and his cousin. “Methinks the dark-haired lady of exceedingly fine gown is the younger sister.”

  “The one standing at the fore,” Maël murmured. “I think you are right.”

  “Then even greater the enemy we could make of William if he learns what we held and set free,” Guarin said and was pleased he had given much thought to which men accompanied him to Scotland—Saxons all and intensely loyal to his lady wife. More important in this moment, they were loyal to their Norman lord.

&nbs
p; He peered over his shoulder at where his men and Eberhard were concealed in trees bordering the road upon which those crossing the estuary expected six of Malcolm’s warriors would reappear.

  When Eberhard showed himself and shook his head to indicate no other Scots approached, Guarin looked back at the ferry that neared the dock and moved his gaze from the princess at the bow to the women center of the vessel. The fair-haired one had to be Princess Margaret, but what of the other? Likely one of her ladies, her gown less fine.

  “It is time,” he said.

  They raised themselves and, hunched, sped to the wood. There they added three Saxons of long hair and beards to their numbers to look the escort sent by Malcolm, drew around them plaid cloaks taken from the Scotsmen, and the two with silver in their hair covered their heads with mail coifs.

  “Forget not my lady wife’s code—mortal injuries only to protect our lives,” Guarin instructed. Then to the ten who would remain in the wood, one of whom held the lead to a riderless horse, he said, “The moment the women have disembarked and are off the dock, make yourselves heard with battle cries. And ride hard. Our disguises will not hold long.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It should be incomprehensible so beautiful a day could go wrong, but since Marguerite’s discovery her mother had passed, days like this had become more common.

  Swiftly, the men who had accompanied the three women across the estuary surrounded them as the six no longer believed sent by Malcolm drew swords and descended the road in a far from leisurely manner that turned Dubh’s barking vicious.

  Whether they were disgruntled Scots, vengeful Saxons, or conquering Normans in disguise, it mattered not. Despite being greatly outnumbered, they meant to attack. Or so it seemed until ten more warriors bellowing Saxon battle cries came out of the wood behind them.

  Fear of the six revised, it thought they but rode hard to offer further protection, not until they neared the places made for them among the princess’s guard was the lie of their plaids confirmed—and possibly first by Marguerite who recognized one whose face so resembled that of his youngest brother she did not need to see the hair concealed beneath a coif.

  Here Baron Guarin Wulfrith. Here his brother, Sir Dougray, who had no cause to cover his golden hair. Here their cousin, Sir Maël of disfigured face who had been present in the D’Argent camp when the rebel, Em, and Marguerite were given into the care of the misbegotten D’Argent. And with them three others, doubtless Saxons of Wulfen Castle, the same as the ten coming behind.

  Hoping she would be recognized, giving the D’Argents pause and her time to assure them Theriot was in no danger, Marguerite lunged from beside the stunned Meg and Cristina. As she and Dubh slipped between two guards, she cried in Gaelic, “Do not fear!”

  “Lady!” one shouted but could not catch hold of her.

  Fairly certain he and the others would not risk breaking the wall around the princesses, Marguerite called over her shoulder what she hoped would be heard above Dubh’s barking, “They but come for their kin, Sir Theriot!”

  She halted before horses being sharply reined in. Thrusting arms out to her sides as if to shield those behind, she was not surprised when Dubh lunged in front of her and assumed a muscle-quivering stance.

  As both hound and mistress were sprayed with dirt flying from beneath hooves, Marguerite cried in Saxon for all to understand, “See me, Baron Wulfrith, Sir Dougray, Sir Maël. No one need die here!”

  Amid the flash of swords and ring of chain mail covering the warriors shoulders to thighs, the six settled their mounts while the ten continued their advance.

  The eldest D’Argent narrowed his eyes on her, then turned his mount sideways and raised an arm, causing those coming behind to slow.

  Marguerite stepped alongside Dubh and set a hand on the hound’s shoulder. “Quiet!” she commanded.

  Dubh did not entirely obey, transforming howling into growling and once more turning her body in front of her mistress.

  “I speak true!” Marguerite called and looked between the three D’Argents whose faces reflected recognition, then glanced over the others that now included the ten come from the wood who had fanned out to enclose all. Returning her regard to the one at the fore, she said, “No one need die, Baron Wulfrith.”

  He dropped the coif down around his shoulders, revealing silvered dark hair longer than when last she was in his presence. “No one need die,” he said in French-accented Saxon. “On that we agree…Margaret.”

  She moistened her lips. “There is only one Margaret here—my king’s betrothed.” She looked around at the princesses standing behind the shield made of their guard, then settled her gaze on Sir Dougray who knew her best. “I am Marguerite, once of the Rebels of the Pale and friend to your wife, Em.”

  She expected his expression to lighten since the only ill between them was when she aided Em in escaping him, but he remained grim. “So you are and have found your voice.”

  “The mute thought to be a Saxon is a lady of Scotland,” Sir Maël said with what might be accusation.

  She inclined her head. “I am. And you yet live, Chevalier Maël.”

  This D’Argent did smile. It was slight but seemed genuine. “Vitalis and I have made our peace—as he has done with King William.”

  She frowned. “Then…?”

  “He has wed my cousin, Nicola, and returned to the service of Lady Hawisa.”

  Marguerite startled, both with surprise and joy for the mighty Saxon who had saved her life and the D’Argents’ bold, vibrant sister who she prayed would come to love Vitalis well.

  “And therein a tale ripe for the telling—were we not pressed to recover my cousin who is your king’s prisoner,” Sir Maël continued. His mouth flattened. “And blind, we are told.”

  Joy washed away by heartache, Marguerite said, “It is so, just as it is true the one who stands before you is at fault and no other should suffer for what was done him.”

  But for the hound’s growling and the shifting of men ahead and behind, silence fell. Then Baron Wulfrith said, “No other shall suffer for it, Lady Marguerite, not even you if you are, indeed, responsible.” He looked past her. “We are here, Princess Margaret, not to prevent your marriage to King Malcolm but to use the currency of you, your sister, and your guard to retrieve our kin. Unless there is resistance, no blood will be shed. You have my word.”

  “Stand firm, Cristina!” Meg commanded, and when Marguerite peered over her shoulder, she saw the younger sister clung to the older one’s arm. “Just as you know Sir Theriot to be a Norman of integrity, you know he honors his family’s reputation.”

  Though the crossing had put pink in Cristina’s face, she had gone pale, making her eyes appear unusually large as she moved them over the D’Argents and their men.

  “Stand firm,” Meg repeated and pulled free and stepped in front of her sister. “Baron Wulfrith, Sir Dougray, Sir Maël,” she acknowledged them. “Whilst in Dunfermline, Sir Theriot has been treated well and accorded the respect due a man of honor though he set a Norman contingent after England’s rightful king who shall soon be kin to Scotland’s king. It is true your brother suffered injury to his eyes while pursuing the Aetheling, and for that was tended by Lady Marguerite as well as King Malcolm’s physician, also true that though some of his sight is restored, far more is not and may never be. As for the prisoner made of him, that he is no longer, my betrothed having decided to return him to his family without ransom.” She raised her eyebrows. “So what you do is not only unnecessary but of great danger.”

  She was so beautifully spoken and persuasive, Marguerite believed herself convinced of that which she embraced already. However, when she looked back at the D’Argents, she saw the doubt of warriors whose survival depended more on actions being an indicator of truth than words in a world teeming with liars.

  “I do not believe knowingly you speak false, Princess,” Baron Wulfrith said, “but as I will not yield so great an advantage, it is King Malcolm
who must make this right.” He looked to Marguerite. “I require your assistance, Lady.”

  She blinked. “I will give aid however I can.”

  “Eberhard!” he called.

  Marguerite knew the name and visage of his adopted son who urged his mount forward, in his hand the lead of the riderless horse.

  He halted to the left of the baron. “I am pleased we meet again, Lady, and that you recovered your voice well enough to perform last eve.”

  She caught her breath.

  “Aye, my son was there,” Baron Wulfrith said. “It was he who learned of Theriot’s blinding, his eyes and ears that determined our course, though it had to be altered when your king left early for Edinburgh and my brother accompanied him.”

  Wishing she could sound as fearless as Meg, Marguerite asked, “How would you have me aid you?”

  “You shall ride to your king, assure him those sent to escort you to Edinburgh have merely been subdued, and give these instructions which, if followed, will ensure he weds the princess and no ill befalls her guard—he is to be accompanied by no more than four men and Sir Theriot. As soon as the dock is within sight, all weapons will be sheathed and his party will advance at a walk and halt on the road directly above the dock. He will send forth my brother, and when Theriot reaches middle ground, we shall withdraw and leave Scotland forthwith.”

  Lord, Malcolm will be angered, Marguerite sent heavenward. Though he is well with releasing Theriot, greatly the D’Argents trespass in holding the princesses hostage. Pray, let him do as directed so none fall to the blade and this is over for Theriot so he may heal better.

  “Lady?” the baron prompted.

  “I will deliver your terms.” She started toward Eberhard, but Dubh snapped her head up and growled.

  Then the eldest D’Argent said, “Though it appears safe for you to travel the road alone, especially with your hound running alongside, I will not chance it. Choose a warrior to accompany you, preferably one of lesser build since you shall share a horse.”