LAWLESS: A Medieval Romance (AGE OF CONQUEST Book 7)

by Tamara Leigh

  She needed air but was determined to reach cover before yielding. She made it, but whereas she had seen the causeway projecting downward, she missed the flat-bottomed boat that displaced far less water.

  A moment after surfacing, a Norman-accented shout brought her head around, and through water-clouded eyes she saw warriors swing their bows toward her.

  She dove, expecting if anything struck it would be an arrow, but it was something else. Broad and dull-edged, it slammed into the side of her head.

  If not for pain and wavering consciousness, she would have more greatly felt the burn of water flooding her nasal passages—and a second strike to her shoulder with what had to be an oar.

  Deeper and to the other side, she commanded herself. Air there, then you shall do your worst in breaking up the causeway.

  Amazed she yet held her dagger, she propelled herself downward, but as she gained the shadow of the causeway’s underside, someone grasped her from behind.

  She feared it was a Norman, but sensing it was no such beast, she suppressed the instinct to struggle and allowed herself to be towed along.

  To her surprise, they did not surface on the other side where more boats lurked, but beneath the causeway in a gap between logs—rather, two sections being separated by the efforts of those who had thus far escaped the enemy’s arrows. And when the wrist of her dagger-wielding hand was gripped and she was spun around, there was Hereward.

  His gaze swept from the side of her face which she imagined was tinged red by blood running from the wound beneath her hair. “You promised to obey, V!”

  There was no time for sentiment, but throwing her free arm around him, she hugged him and said, “I told I would try.”

  “Stay near!” He pushed her away and moved toward a rebel who struggled the same as three others to saw his blade through a center hide.

  Hereward should not be here, and she was to blame, and more she would be if he lost his life. After sending up a prayer they survive and turn back the conquerors, she asked, “What section is this?”

  “The third nearest our shore,” said a half-toothless Saxon. “Have they not these pieces to pass over, they will go into the deep and only those able to shed their armor will gain the surface. Then easily they shall fall to our arrows.”

  Blessedly, Hereward’s own strength was many times that of others, and when the hide was cut free, they set upon another.

  Head throbbing amid bouts of dizziness, Vilda stayed near but did not further overstep.

  Only when the gap between the sections suddenly widened as the hide to the far left broke free under the strain of holding all together, did the Normans discover those likely believed dead were very alive and busy. Now shouts that had been relatively subdued rang out across the water, and as a boat came into view in the opening jaws between the three sections and the greater bulk, arrows flew.

  “Retreat!” Hereward commanded.

  Though they had not severed the last hide to the far right, it was not necessary. It but served as a hinge now and would likely tear free before the Normans arrived. To those who filled their lungs full before diving under the causeway, great the hope they had done enough.

  Greed or panic. Which one more greatly affected Sir Deda could not be known, but he had not been moved by the king’s command issued moments after he spurred forward—a command to increase their pace the sooner to reach the isle, which Guy countered when he saw the boats gathering at the end of the causeway had failed to protect it, the lowermost sections swinging wide.

  He and his forces had halted just past the three-quarter mark, meaning the elite force and others were now on the causeway, but it was possible an orderly retreat would see all safely back to the shore—if they heeded him rather than more blows on the horn that repeated the order to proceed.

  “We go back and with great caution!” Guy commanded warriors who could better see what those on the shore behind could not. But they hesitated to obey, either because they struggled with heeding their commander over the king, greed that tempted them to do the same as Deda, or panic. In the end, all could prove the doom of many when some on foot began pressing forward and others pushing opposite.

  As the mounted warriors who could not easily come about were forced toward the isle, the causeway lurched.

  “Be still!” Guy shouted. “Firm your footing!”

  But were he heard above the rising din, few responded, those determined to proceed continuing to do so the same as those seeking to flee. Then sections began to collapse, others threatening to overturn.

  It was like hearing thunder following the stab of lightning—a warning come after the fact. What was done was done, and all each man could do now was try to save his own life.

  Of a sudden, the horse gone skittish beneath Guy like those of the rest of the cavalry, lunged forward to escape the danger behind, uncaring if greater danger lay ahead where Sir Deda neared the end of the shortened causeway.

  The beast resisted attempts to bring it under control, and perhaps that saved Guy when sections behind dumped warriors into the marsh. However, when the one over which his mount sped tore free of the greater expanse, all stabilization was lost and, as it swung to the side, horse and rider went in the water.

  Praising the Lord for casting him distant enough he did not suffer thrashing hooves, Guy struggled to keep water from entering his lungs as he began ridding himself of chain mail that would make it difficult to keep his head above water once he surfaced. In this the Lord also proved merciful.

  As muffled cries and shouts sounded down through the water, he came free of his hauberk and his feet touched bottom. It was not mud dragging at his boots and seeking to hold him under but what felt rock.

  He pushed off and quickly emerged to the painfully clear sounds of others in the distance seeking to escape death. Worse was what was seen beyond his mount swimming toward the shore in the light of dusk—flailing, bobbing, and floating men that made a hearty soup of the thick broth of this marsh.

  Hoping those bringing up the rear, among them Maxen and the elite force, had time to return to the shore, he snarled, “Accursed William. You—”

  “Sir Guy!”

  Panting from anger rather than exertion like that of fellow warriors he was unable to save, Guy saw one of the boats neared. Whereas they could safely pull him from the water, even if they could get to the others in time, they would not dare lest a horde of desperate men capsize the vessel and all were lost.

  Hauled over the side and beginning to feel the chill of soaked garments in the absence of sunlight, Guy set a hand on his sword hilt and looked to Ely’s shore that was just out of arrow range.

  “The rebels—among them Hereward and that woman—cut away the last three sections of the causeway,” one of eight men said. “Lest Sir Deda did not see it, we called out a warning, but he did not slow—”

  “The woman?” Guy interrupted. “You speak of Hereward’s cousin?”

  The man hesitated, likely thinking Guy should be more concerned with the chevalier’s fate. “Oui, I recognized her as the one who saved that other woman thrown in the water. As I was working an oar when she came up near the causeway, I struck her twice and she went under. I thought I killed her, but…” He trailed off.

  Aware he exuded anger he ought not after all the Norman losses to be counted up this eve, Guy breathed deep and said, “Continue.”

  “When we saw the causeway was severed and brought our boat near, she was there with Hereward and others and all went under ere we could stop them.”

  “Then she made it back to the isle?”

  He shook his head. “Her cousin called to her and searched the water. He did not find her.”

  Another rebel among the thousands lost to the conquering, Guy thought, and yet more tragic it seemed for that woman who twice named him a Norman pig as she would not do again.

  “Hereward did not return to the isle empty-handed,” the man continued. “Weighted by chain mail, Sir Deda was unable t
o escape the outlaw and we could not reach him in time.”

  “Hereward slew him?”

  “Non, he knocked him unconscious and towed him back to shore.”

  No great reward for you, Sir Deda, Guy thought. Though you are the only one to make it onto the isle, it was not without aid and you did no injury to the enemy. Rather, you aided them by causing Normans who might have turned back to press onward.

  “And so once more the unpredictable Hereward and his rebels prevail,” Guy muttered and could hardly begrudge them, especially as William in commanding the forces to advance and Deda in leading the way handed them victory on a platter of Norman lives that should not have been served at this banquet—nor Saxon lives—had William heeded Maxen and Guy and waited.

  “I think this battle is done, Sir Guy,” said the boat’s commander who had been content to let his man tell the tale. “Permission to return to the blockade and await the king’s instructions.”

  It was said with beseeching, neither he nor his men wishing to pilot their craft among what could prove hundreds of drowned men and the rage and chaos that followed great tragedy, which could turn against those who had failed to keep the causeway intact. But it was also a reasonable request, at this time the greatest aid they could offer being that of strengthening the blockade lest the empowered rebels struck back this eve and claimed more enemy lives. Too, the other boats which had flanked the causeway were withdrawing.

  “Granted,” Guy said, and accepting a blanket from one of the archers, draped it around his shoulders and moved to a forward bench. Before he could lower, a shout sounded from a boat ahead, then the vessel slowed and altered its course.

  “They have found something,” the captain said and ordered his men to follow.

  Not something, but someone, Guy realized when one of those on the other boat cried, “I think it is her!”

  He was surprised by how welcome those words—until it struck him Hereward’s cousin might be dead in the water, and that was worse than not finding her at all. But when the captain of his boat eased past the other one, the rising moon showed she struggled to tread water as if having expended nearly all her strength.

  A pale face plastered with wet hair turned toward those in the first boat, eyes wide like those of a beaten dog backed into a corner. Besides a lack of defiance, there was something else about her that did not fit Guy’s first two encounters. She appeared confused as if she could not determine if it was friend or foe surrounding her. Had she not suffered considerable injury, she could be succumbing to the cold and wet.

  “We will retrieve her,” Guy called, and when the other boat’s captain began to protest, added, “Be assured, credit will be given you.”

  With grudging, the man inclined his head.

  “Careful,” Guy warned as his boat maneuvered near the woman who made no attempt to flee—indeed, began to sink, arms no longer visible, chin slipping beneath the surface, then her mouth.

  “Keep your oars clear,” Guy commanded, then called, “Hold, Alvilda. We are here.”

  Moments later, he cast off his blanket and, leaning over the side, plunged both hands in the water and caught her beneath the arms. It was no struggle to get her aboard, though neither was it easy for her inability to offer assistance. Too, she was not slight like Elan.

  Though of good figure as he knew the same as those here who were present when Theta duped her into going into the water wearing only a chemise, her bones were solid and muscles developed as if the lady she had been before the conquest was born a commoner who toiled day and night alongside menfolk.

  She moaned as Guy swung her up into his arms to ensure her legs cleared the side. When her head rolled against his chest and she began coughing, he lowered to a bench and swept up the blanket given him. As he drew it over her, he saw blood seep from beneath her hair and across her cheek, likely a result of the oar that struck her.

  “Sir Guy?” the captain said.

  He knew what was asked of him. “As more easily she can be tended in the camp, continue past the blockade to the dock.” What Guy did not say was that it would better prepare her for the wrathful king when he learned that for all the warriors lost, he had gained only a single rebel to wield against Hereward.

  Though William would relish the unexpected, if the resistance leader remained true to his mission, Alvilda would be only a nibble of vengeance. The conqueror would have to gain the isle another way, and this quaking woman whose capture could not be hidden…

  As the boat resumed its course and moonlight shifted across her face, Guy found her eyes upon him and wished that just as he had done all he could to ensure the English princess who was now Queen of Scotland did not fall into his liege’s hands, he had been able to do the same for this woman.

  Her brow furrowed, then her eyes widened. “Oh, my my me,” she rasped, “’tis the Norman pig.”

  Which he had thought she would never again name him. “Rest, Alvilda. This shall be a long night.”

  Her lids fluttered and lowered. “I am aware,” she whispered. “If only I had not lost my way.” Then something thumped against one of Guy’s boots and slid to the planks.

  Leaning to the side, blindly he reached and, fortunately, gripped the handle rather than the blade of what proved a dagger with which she could have stuck him had she wished to—rather, been able. He straightened, considered the wicked blade, then slid it beneath his belt. Now he had two daggers from her, and neither had drawn blood. Yet.

  With each pull and push of the oars, Hereward’s cousin relaxed against his chest, and when the boat docked with a thump, she burrowed deeper and whispered what sounded, “I would die first.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Fenlands

  The water was murkiest here, the black of it warm rather than cold. Discovering she could breathe through it, she determined to stay under until her muddled thoughts and memories came right—or longer for how much it soothed now the sounds torn from desperate men were so muffled she could no longer discern their terror.

  Though that terror heralded the suffering of the enemy rather than her countrymen, she was not so cold as to delight in Normans being given their due. Despite wanting to hate all those from across the sea as she had after speaking vows with—

  Vilda whimpered. For a long time after that she hated them all, but in the years since, a good number had proven they were not evil when they gave aid to the subjugated or protested the injustice. Some had even departed England to avoid further witnessing the barbaric acts of their own people.

  Few were personally known to her, and only one in good measure—Nicola of the family D’Argent whom Vilda was quick to scorn when the Danes brought that lady to Ely. She had been far from evil, warning the Danes were not Hereward’s allies and association with them would harm the resistance whom Nicola should have wished devastated.

  Then there was Sir Guy, a Norman Vilda hardly knew beyond two—now three—brief encounters. Though details of that last swirled in this muddy water, there had seemed safety in the arms that pulled her onto the boat moments after she accepted the marsh would be her grave. And he had not been harsh when once more she named him a swine.

  More fully recalling having spoken those words, the fish she had become caught her breath. Oh, my my me, she had prefaced the insult with a playful expression of derision that had not passed her lips these five years. Until this eve. Were it still this eve…

  Curiosity bidding her rise above the waters, fear encouraging her to remain oblivious, when she began yielding to the former, she shook her head and rasped, “Stay here.”

  Something brushed her sore shoulder, and she startled when warm breath swept her neck. “Lady, methinks you can hear me. It is Sir Guy who pulled you from the water,” he said in her language and with better facility and accent than she possessed with Norman-French. “A reckoning comes, but better ’tis received in daylight than the dark of night while anger boils over as it shall for many hours. Pray, do as I bid—stay behind
your lids and breathe as of one yet lost to the world.”

  Disobeying him as she had her cousin who, hopefully, had made it to the shore as she had not when she became disoriented from the ache in her head, she cracked open her eyes. Struggling to focus on the lightly bearded face near hers, she caught her breath when the blur sharpened and a shift of eyes set hers upon ones that looked to be brown.

  Displeasure there, and she did not care if it was for her role in the deaths of fellow Normans or disregarding his warning. She needed an answer. “Hereward? Is he—?”

  “He and the others made it ashore. Now do as told.”

  No sooner said than from beyond this place a man bellowed in Norman-French, “Where is she?”

  “Play dead,” the chevalier rasped, and when he drew back she saw his imposing, disheveled figure against the interior of a tent.

  “Where is that lawless Saxon whore?” the voice came again.

  Doubtless, it belonged to the one who stole England’s crown. Though she longed to rage and set him aright about the state of her body his countrymen had failed to defile, when Sir Guy bent near again and more gently urged, “Trust me, Lady,” in that moment she did.

  Lowering her lids, she turned her head opposite the tent’s entrance and began slowly inhaling and exhaling.

  She counted the three strides that carried the chevalier across the tent, heard him thrust back the flap, and stopped breathing when Le Bâtard said, “She had best be in chains,” and entered ahead of another who stopped just inside the tent.

  Breathe, Vilda silently commanded. No expression. Breathe in, breathe out. And dare not tremble. But how her body longed to betray her when the usurper’s shadow stole the light penetrating her lids and his boots delivered him to her side.

  “The physician tended the injury to her head and bandaged it,” Sir Guy said.

  “She is unconscious?” Le Bâtard demanded.