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

by Tamara Leigh

“Has been since shortly after we pulled her from the water, my liege.”

  The only warning of what was to come was a sweep of foul breath, then a hand gripped her jaw and turned her face into the light. Somehow, she maintained the pretense, even when he thrust her chin opposite as if disgusted.

  “Still I want her in chains. She is no prize, but I will not be denied making good use of her. Come, Torquay.”

  After the three departed, she did not open her eyes. Fear kept them closed, as well as the ability to more easily focus on what was spoken distant enough from the tent that it could be heard only with great straining.

  Lord, I am in a den of thieves, she sent heavenward. Help me make use of what I listen in upon—and use of Sir Guy who should have no care for my fate. He may be better than other Normans, but he is the enemy, even if the least foul among swine.

  Great the relief when Guy had seen it was Maxen who accompanied William to the tent, and greater when the look exchanged with his friend confirmed the elite force had survived, likely due to him being the one who led them onto the causeway.

  It had made Guy question if those who perished under his own leadership would have been fewer were they commanded by Maxen who had trained them these months.

  Possibly, he had acceded, but not significantly since Deda would have done as he had and William would have urged the forces onward since damage to the causeway would not have been visible from the shore. And even had the king been aware of it, still he might have issued the order, so impatient was he to take Ely.

  Now, standing alongside Maxen beneath a moon chased by clouds that had begun appearing when the physician was summoned to tend Alvilda, Guy waited to be told how this warrior had once more disappointed the King of England.

  “You believe you know tactics better than I, Torquay?” William finally spoke.

  Guy held his gaze to the other man’s. “I do not know them better. As you surely learned, I countered your command, though only because I had a vantage denied you and knew if we did not cautiously retreat, the shortened causeway would be our end.”

  William took a step toward him, seeking to impress on his vassal his superiority that allowed him to play a god among mortals. “You could have progressed faster—reached the end of the causeway ere the rebels cut it apart.”

  Though Guy was tempted to point out they could have moved faster only if time was given to better construction and greater stabilization, argument would rouse William to greater anger were he reminded he had disregarded the warnings of those who dared speak them aloud.

  “Had we moved faster, my liege, sooner we would have gone into the water,” he said and silently acknowledged that might not have been a bad thing. Since they would have been nearer their own shore, more of their men might have survived.

  Guy let the silence swell, and when it seemed William remained in control, decided it was time to learn the extent of what had befallen those he was forced to leave behind. “How many dead?”

  The king swung away, came back around. Though now moonlight was diffused by clouds, Guy caught a glimmer in the other man’s eyes. Whether the king’s tears were more a result of disappointment over his failed undertaking or men lost, Guy could not know with certainty, but he would wager coin on the former. He did not believe William bereft of emotions for those who gave their lives in service to him, but for one such as he, failure to gain another victory over the resistance was more deeply felt.

  “Hundreds upon hundreds drowned,” he snarled, “among them half the baron’s force given you to lead.” When momentarily William closed his eyes, Maxen gave Guy a shake of the head as if absolving him of guilt and offering assurance his anger over losing command of his men was past.

  The king shook his own head so hard the bones in his neck crackled. “God help those in the boats who did not adequately defend the causeway. They are more to blame than any others our side. Do I not flay them unto death, they will regret failing me to their end days.” He turned, jabbed a finger toward Guy’s tent. “And that whore and her kin…”

  Maxen’s hand on his friend’s arm pulled Guy back before he realized he had taken a step he should not—one that could see him more severely punished than those who failed to protect the causeway.

  William came around and, with eerie calm, said, “I shall send my man to chain her so she yet wiggles when I dangle her before that outlaw.” He nodded as if assuring himself of the bounty he would reel in. “For now, I leave her with you, Sir Guy. Do with her—use her—as you will. I care only that she who names my men pigs not escape.”

  He strode past, and as he moved toward the great destrier between one that had to be Maxen’s and those of his personal guard who remained mounted, light flared to the left. He halted, and as the voices of the elite force returning to camp rose, William looked toward the marsh beyond the shore.

  Then another flare. And another. The firing of causeway sections yet floating or embedded in mud was but one more stab dealt the conqueror by those who refused to be conquered.

  With spitting and cursing, William mounted and spurred toward his camp that lay farther inland.

  Feeling weighted as if he had not shed his mail, Guy said, “As I wish to be done with this day, may we speak more on this later, Maxen?”

  His friend gripped his arm, nodded, and departed for the camp where he would find many of its tents empty this night, as surely they would be until replacements for the fallen men arrived.

  For a long time, Guy stared at the fires, some of which would still be burning come morn for all the timber wasted on the causeway—possibly even throughout the day as the bodies of Normans were recovered not only to be given proper burial but ensure their weapons and armor did not fall into rebel hands.

  Then Guy lowered his head and began praying for all those lost and their families, next those yet to be lost.

  He did not rouse until a horseman rode down the center of the camp past the tents of men too disheartened to long observe the Saxon’s final response to the great undertaking. Here the blacksmith who traveled with the king.

  It was good Guy ducked into his tent before the man reined in. William’s captive was on the ground at the rear, heavily-wrinkled chemise pooled around her where she sat back on her bare heels, bandaged head hanging between outstretched arms whose palms braced her upright.

  Though certain the smithy would not enter without permission, Guy wasted no time on approaching her with caution. Bending, he swept her into his arms.

  Her head dropped back. Half-hooded eyes peering at him, she made a sound between a whimper and bitter laughter. “Oh, my my me, ’tis that Norman pig,” she said huskily. “He will not leave me be.”

  As he carried her to the cot, he nearly named her a fool for attempting to escape, injured as she was, but considering she was in the power of the conqueror, she would be a fool not to try.

  He lowered her to the thin mattress and turned the blanket over her. Then leaning near, he said, “William’s blacksmith is here. He has been sent to—”

  Like a striking snake, her hand emerged from under the blanket and gripped his tunic. “I listened. I heard. I know what Le Bâtard intends to do with me, just as I know though much Hereward cares for his cousin, he will not sacrifice the many for one.” Tears wet her eyes. “What I do not know is what you will do with me. Pray, do not use me, Sir Guy. Prove in this you are even more a Norman above others.”

  It offended she feared being subjected to his carnal appetites, but it did not rouse anger. Too many precedents had been set by others of his countrymen for her to believe she would not be ravished, especially since William had granted his man permission to do just that.

  Guy did not know what moved him to push the hair off her brow, which was too intimate a gesture toward one who sought assurance she would not suffer his attentions. And more he regretted it when fear flickering in her eyes leapt.

  “I am a man, not an animal,” he said, and when her lids narrowed and there came the soun
d of chain links whose cruel music would only be appreciated by those who delighted in the suffering of others, gently pried her fingers from his tunic and set her hand beneath the cover.

  “As the smithy will report to the king what he finds here, I bid you once more feign senselessness if you can,” he said, knowing it would be more difficult whilst being shifted around to fit manacles.

  “I can,” she said. “I have learned these five years to be very still when necessary.”

  And so she proved. When the blacksmith departed, he had no reason to suspect she had been conscious. And she remained so silent and unmoving it was not until Guy lowered before the tent’s entrance and wrapped himself in a blanket that he was dissuaded of the possibility she had truly lost consciousness.

  Chain links sounded, and she said, “I thank you.”

  Whether for remaining true to his claim he was no animal or because he had persuaded the smithy to bind only her feet, Guy did not know. “Sleep, Lady.”

  “Lady…” she whispered as if the title were unfamiliar, then turned her back to him.

  Chapter Nine

  Upon awakening, her first thought was this captive, whose fitful sleep throughout the night had been punctuated by rattling chain and chafing manacles, remained unmolested.

  What she did not know was whether it was further proof Sir Guy was honorable or he found her undesirable. She was no beauty. At best, it might be said she was pretty, though that was more believable when she made an effort as she had not in years.

  Her second thought was Hereward would think her dead, likely put through with an arrow and decaying at the bottom of the marsh—at least until he learned she was held captive.

  Her third thought, which would have preceded the others had not her sense of survival remained askew, was she was not alone in the tent whose canvas was penetrated by the pink of dawn.

  Was it Sir Guy here or another? Perhaps the blacksmith returned to manacle her wrists as well?

  As she was on her belly, face turned toward one she was fairly certain stood near the end of the cot, she raised her lids slightly.

  Sir Guy stood in profile. The damp of his short, dark hair and his unsoiled face attesting to a morning bath likely in a nearby pool, he frowned over a pair of chausses held in one hand. Then he muttered, “Where is your head, Guy?”

  Had Vilda warning that something roused him to her wakefulness, she would have seamed her lids before he shot his gaze to her, but it would be of no credit to a woman who had previously been proficient in feigning unconsciousness.

  Opening her eyes fully, she said, “Be assured, your head remains on your shoulders, though for some moments last eve, it seemed your king intended to see it parted from them for your refusal to lead more men to their doom.”

  The curve of his mouth flattened. “You heard more than thought, Lady. Thus, you know I have cause to wish you made a tool of vengeance.”

  Struggling to keep fear from her face, thinking to bolster courage by once more naming him a swine, with a protest of chain she turned onto her back.

  As the first word formed on her lips, he added, “That is, were I one who blinds himself to the right of the oppressed to fight their oppressors. I do not, though as you are aware, my oath of fealty makes me one of the latter.”

  She closed her mouth, and when he stepped alongside the cot, she saw he held a tunic in his other hand.

  “I believe I shall keep my head on my shoulders, but I am less certain of yours. For that, these since there is a scarcity of gowns in the camp of fighting men.” He dropped tunic and chausses on the cot. “Not only will the garments supplied by my squire save you the indignity of facing my king wearing only a chemise that does little to shield your modesty, but the better you present, the more respect he will afford you.”

  Vilda’s throat had gone tight. Fear, she told herself, certain his talk of her standing before Le Bâtard was no uncertain event—that he had been commanded to deliver her this day. But something else made it hurt to swallow, and that was his concern.

  “Unfortunately, I was off in my estimation of what to acquire for you.” He glanced at the garments. “With the chain between your ankles and my king possessing the key, the chausses are of no use. You will have to make due with the tunic covering you past your knees and your sullied chemise covering you down to your ankles. Too, I will provide a belt and mantle.”

  The chain sounded again, not from voluntary movement but the strain of controlling emotions that made her quake.

  “Lady?”

  She pressed her lips to keep a sob inside and closed her eyes to block sight of an enemy she almost wished would give her greater cause to dislike him since hating Normans was easier than not. Indeed, it was far easier and more acceptable than this longing to go into his arms and hold tight.

  Lord, where is my head? she silently bemoaned.

  He touched her shoulder. “What is it you need, Lady Alvilda?”

  Lifting her lids, she thought how attractive this man who stared at her out of eyes of brown lightened by grey. But such was not for her, even were he other than Norman. Noble men of his standing and appearance sought women who were at least their equal in both, stepping down to one less desirable only if considerable financial reward could be had.

  Shocked by meandering thoughts that were no fit for her circumstances, Vilda pushed to sitting. Pressing the blanket to her chest to impart modesty her worn chemise failed to do, she raised her chin. “What I need is for you to cease naming me a lady. Once it would have afforded me honor. Now ’tis mockery.”

  His dark eyebrows nearly met. Concern having fled his eyes, he bit, “’Tis not meant as such. I but speak in truth that will serve you well if you take every opportunity to impress on the king you are of the nobility regardless of what was stolen from you. Aye, Saxons born high have been brought low as well, but greater the chance that pretty head of yours will stay put if you reinforce his belief those born noble are nearer to God whom he hesitates to greatly offend.”

  It took her some moments to reel back the words he spoke after naming her pretty, but once she deemed his assessment of the sturdy virgin widow mere thoughtlessness, she swung her manacled feet to the floor and stood.

  He stepped back.

  Clasping the blanket close, she jabbed a finger to his chest. “I am to believe Le Bâtard has high regard for Saxon nobility when last eve he granted permission to use me as if I am only a body for slaking the victor’s thirst?”

  A muscle convulsing in his jaw, he lowered his gaze to where her finger touched his breastbone, behind which beat a heart that did not pound erratically as she had heard Theta boast her lovers’ hearts did at her touch.

  “For that—my king’s attempt to make you less than you are to salve his anger—’tis all the more imperative you not agree with him you are only a body to be passed around on his whim, Lady.”

  She stared.

  He sighed, closed a hand around hers, and lowered it. “We must depart two hours hence for the king’s camp.” He gestured at a table on which sat basins, a pitcher, and towels. “For your ablutions, and be assured no one shall enter until it is time for us to depart.”

  He turned aside and crossed to where several packs lay on the floor. From one he removed a belt and a mantle of thin green cloth suited for summer wear. Both he tossed on the cot, then retrieved his squire’s chausses that could not be donned over manacles and shouldered the largest pack. “You may explore the other packs if you wish, Lady Alvilda, but you will find naught there to aid in your escape.”

  It had occurred to root through them. “I thank you for saving me the time, Sir Guy.”

  “Make good use of it so as much as possible you look the lady.” He turned away.

  “Sir Guy?” She did not understand what possessed her to call him back, and though she reconsidered her words, when he raised his eyebrows, she said, “Is it truly honor that left me unmolested? Or merely that I do not appeal?”

  Now Guy stare
d, uncertain how to answer what was asked of him by this bold woman whose feet and the short length of chain running between them were visible beneath the blanket. Of course the answer was honor built on the foundation of right over wrong, but unless he also addressed the other option, she might fear honor would eventually collapse beneath the weight of temptation if she remained in his custody. Best to be honest both sides of the coin.

  Imagining the beautiful and delicate Elan standing alongside the relatively plain and hardy Alvilda, he said, “Even were you to my taste, Lady, honor would win out.” And if that offended, at least she had some assurance she could rest easier in his presence as she had not on the night past when she and her chains permitted him only snatches of sleep.

  Thrusting back the flap, he stepped out, and as he strode to his squire, looked across the lowland to the marsh. Whereas a half hour earlier some flames were still visible, by the light of the rising sun, all that could be seen now was smoke rising from charred pieces of causeway.

  “The chausses will not be needed, Jacques.” Guy extended them. “The lady thanks you for the use of your tunic.”

  “That she may keep,” the young man said with disdain, aware Alvilda had been present the night his disobedience shamed him when he gained a scar that evidenced death would have drawn nearer yet had his lord not struck a bargain with Hereward. It was a hard lesson learned, and Jacques was better for it—occasionally questioning but no longer challenging commands and putting greater effort into becoming a warrior who might one day prevail against one such as the resistance leader.

  Guy nodded over his shoulder. “Providing you mark her movements by the sound of her chain, it will suffice to keep watch before the tent.”

  “I shall do so, my lord.”

  Guy inclined his head and strode toward the training yard where his men assembled to give account of what their commander had been unable to witness from the opposite end of the doomed causeway.

  She shuffled, and her proud bearing fortified by her appearance made what was done her seem more a crime as she crossed from the tent toward those who would deliver her to William’s camp.