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

by Tamara Leigh

  “It is she!” Jacques exclaimed and Guy swung his gaze to dark red and green amid an abundance of russet and tan.

  So it was. Mantle flying back off her shoulders, no gown beneath the red tunic, Vilda wore chausses and tall boots, and her long hair was confined to braids that swung wildly as she ran to the central bulwark—a bow in one hand, arrows in the other, on her belt a scabbarded dagger and what he guessed a sling and pouch of rocks.

  Again, she had lied. Though he could not recall her exact words and thought it likely a lie of omission, so greatly it angered he imagined putting a fist in Hereward’s face for not sending her away. Once more Vilda might escape death, but if this third seige went as it seemed it must, she would be William’s captive again. And what would he do with her?

  “God’s rood,” he rasped.

  “I cannot like her, my lord,” Jacques said, “but now more I understand why so many Normans take Saxon wives. I thought our women formidable, but those like Lady Alvilda… No beauty, but woman enough.”

  There being grudging admiration in his words, Guy could not rebuke him. Too, he had other matters to think on, foremost that of keeping his men alive.

  God be with you, Vilda, he silently sent across the water to where she had gone from sight behind a fortification. This day, you and yours have greater need of His mercy than I and mine.

  Further evidence of that was had when immense, flat-bottomed boats riding low beneath the weight of siege engines appeared far left and right as those traversing the causeway neared the river’s bank beneath a barrage of arrows and stones.

  Lord, help them all, Guy sent heavenward and urged his horse forward to position his men to make the crossing behind those under Maxen’s command.

  Just as she had seen him, he might have seen her. But she could not think on him now—not with the stench of betrayal all around that saw the most passable underwater causeway put to use by the enemy. And in Hereward’s absence.

  Having exercised greater caution since Theta’s betrayal weeks past and questioning of his leadership by Earl Morcar, Bishop Aethelwine, and Abbot Thurstan, her cousin had held close the real reason he departed Ely with a great number of men this morn.

  Under the pretense of foraging, he journeyed near Peterborough to meet with over a hundred warriors who, having learned of his successes against Le Bâtard, had sent word they would join him. If he determined all was as told, he would escort them to Ely to strengthen the resistance and be better prepared for the next assault. However, he was not prepared for what came this day—and neither were those left behind who flocked here. Surprisingly, Earl Morcar and his men had yet to appear, but something told her they would not.

  Vilda breathed deep, shot up from behind the barricade, and loosed another arrow, this time at a foot soldier to the right of those approaching the end of the causeway that refused to catch fire.

  Having aimed low lest the small gap between shield and warrior closed or the breeze adjusted the arrow’s flight, once more she put her missile through the leg of an enemy. Unlike the first who had tipped sideways, his cry of pain muted by water, this one fell to his knees. But when the warrior coming behind kicked him out of the way, he also went in the water.

  “Take cover!” shouted someone to her left, and she saw the siege boats had drawn near enough to launch missiles. Soon arrows, rocks, and fire would be loosed on the defenders to allow those on the causeway to gain the shore as unopposed as possible.

  Hopeless. That word resounding through Vilda as it must others here, she tensed in preparation to flee.

  Coward! she rebuked. In Hereward’s absence, this was all. If she and the others ran, Ely would be lost. If they persevered, perhaps their efforts would provide her cousin time to reach them. It was possible he had returned and even now made his way to this side of the isle.

  Vilda snatched up another arrow whose tip she had thrust in the soil, sighted it, and released. It found its mark, but her victim remained upright and, limping, continued forward.

  As other rebels continued firing on the enemy, she loosed two more arrows in quick succession. One struck a shield thrust low, the other swiped a leg in passing when she jerked as the first stones launched by the siege boats slammed into the barricade before her.

  Having no more arrows and the warriors on the causeway coming off it into knee-high marsh, she wrenched her sling from her belt, loaded it with a stone from her pouch, and sent it flying. It struck the Norman’s helmet, turning him to the side and into the path of another who pushed past him.

  Vilda could not know the fate of her target, arrows flying ahead of those trudging the mud toward the shore causing the man beside her to snatch her down.

  As more rocks landed, pained cries arose from those whose fortifications were not high enough to keep missiles from striking flesh and bone. Then another barrage of arrows, and fleeing defenders began falling between the shore and treeline.

  “Nay!” Vilda yelled, but her protest did not stop foot soldiers from coming ashore as those on siege boats cleared the way for them. Then William’s cavalry arrived at a good pace, confident of being mostly unopposed.

  “Mostly,” she rasped and reloaded her sling.

  “’Tis done, Lady,” said the man beside her. “Now we run, and if we are the fortunate ones, stay ahead of them until we find cover.”

  He was right, a glance both sides revealing the fallen were outnumbered by the fleeing, many of whom would suffer the same out from behind the fortifications, but she had a pouch of stones eager to make their acquaintance with Normans. Too, she would not be alone in remaining a while longer, a score of others continuing to defend against the trespassers.

  “Alvilda?”

  “Go, and I will follow,” she said and silently added, when my last stone soars.

  “Stay close!” He turned and ran.

  Fearing his would be one of the bodies she would weave among when she had done all she could, Vilda turned her attention to the enemy who had gained a firm footing on the shoreline.

  Each time a defender’s arrow flew into their ranks, scattering those near whomever it struck, she cast a stone, and many found their mark.

  Still, the enemy came, and soon the mounted ones would be leaning out of their saddles to slash at any who continued to fight a battle lost.

  “Retreat!” shouted a rebel to her left and ran opposite with others who had held until foot soldiers were thirty feet distant.

  She still had three stones, one cupped in the sling, and she could snatch less worthy ones from the ground. However, as any chance of escape would be lost, she ran, tears burning paths down her cheeks.

  Had not the rebel ahead collapsed with a dagger protruding from his neck, she would not have looked back and made more memories of the horror. But his convulsing as crimson sank into the dirt around his head made her turn to seek out his killer.

  It was impossible to know who had flown the blade, but it mattered not who paid for it.

  Seeing beyond the foot soldiers the cavalry on the shore, glad Guy had to be somewhere in the rear, she adjusted her fingers in the sling’s straps, then screamed and sent the stone flying.

  It struck her target’s forehead with such force he fell onto his back.

  Not dead, she told herself and, swinging away, wished it did not matter she might have killed since they did not concern themselves over the deaths of Saxons.

  Weaving among the fallen, she thought the Lord must be with her to see her reach the cover of trees without injury or capture.

  She was wrong about injury, though she did not realize someone had drawn blood until she paused on the road forking one way toward the abbey, the other toward the town, and saw on the latter the dust kicked up by Saxons running ahead of her.

  Why did they not seek sanctuary at the abbey that was considerably nearer? she wondered and, feeling a sting at her neck, drew a hand across it. Staring at blood on fingers and palms, she guessed its loss more responsible for lightheadedness than fa
tigue and fear. Thus, best she go to the abbey.

  Minutes later, she understood the reason the others had made for town when she was denied entrance. Those of this holy order had turned their countrymen away as if they were the enemy. Considering what had befallen the impregnable isle of Ely, perhaps that was what the resistance had become to Abbot Thurstan.

  That possibility nearly made her follow the others, but fearing she would encounter pursuing Normans and uncertain as to the extent of her injury, she beseeched the monk peering at her through a grate to inform his abbot the cousin of Hereward was wounded and required sanctuary.

  Shortly, Thurstan admitted her, expressed concern over her injury, and once she surrendered the weapons on her belt, led her to the infirmary where she was surprised to find there rebels who had fled well ahead of her. But only six.

  As the abbot gestured her toward a bed distant from the men, she said, “Did you turn away others, Father?”

  “’Twas necessary,” he said, the only good of it he did not feign ignorance. “Now take your ease and your injury will be tended.”

  As he turned away, she realized the other rebels here had something in common. They were leaders of men, not followers, and of greater import to Hereward the same as she.

  “Abbot?”

  He looked across his shoulder.

  “What else was necessary besides turning away common soldiers of the resistance?”

  He averted his gaze. “The day is not done, Lady, but you may rest in the knowledge soon all will sleep better than they have in years.”

  She gulped down a sob. “Not all, and certainly you shall not sleep well if you are truly a man of God.” She drew a shuddering breath. “Would I could say you knew not what you did, but I believe you are well aware and that the Lord does not approve.”

  Seaming his lips, he left her staring after him and wanting to hate him. And she was fairly certain she did.

  Vilda lowered to the mattress, pressed fingers to her neck where an arrow had sliced flesh near the great vein, and pulled them away. Though she continued to bleed, the fresh blood atop that which had dried was spotty.

  Had God spared her? If so, for what? Like the others Hereward had left behind, she had failed to hold Ely. When he returned…

  “Do not,” she whispered. “Leave England and start anew with your wife whose arms have too long awaited you.”

  “You know we are prisoners, do you not?” said someone to her right.

  It was he who had taken the name of Boar, and such sorrow lined his face she thought him ten years older this day. But he was also in pain, the bandage wrapped around his upper arm seeping blood.

  “I know,” she said.

  He nodded at the others. “Our only chance is to slip away ere Le Bâtard and his men arrive. You must come with us. If there can be any redemption for running from Normans, it will be found in safely delivering you to Hereward.”

  Struggling against the temporary reprieve of apathy, she glanced at the white-robed monk moving toward her with a basket over an arm. “When he is done, you shall tell me of your plans, Boar.”

  He pivoted, and she gave herself into the hands of the holy man who, with tears in his eyes and disgust among his words, said he was sorry the needs of the Church came before the needs of those for whom they prayed. After cleaning, salving, and bandaging her neck, he rasped, “Now I will be so busy tending other patients, I will not soon enough see what goes behind me to raise an alarm.”

  She stared as he retrieved his basket and moved to the far side of the room, then she crossed to her fellow rebels and learned of their plan—a simple one providing it was brought to completion before Normans arrived.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Where is she?”

  Guy thought it peculiar that should be the first question put to Abbot Thurstan after William cut short their introduction in the courtyard, but he was glad.

  Past those going ahead of him onto the isle, Guy had watched Vilda’s desperate defense of the shore while most rebels fled. He had seen the bright of her face and heard her scream when she slung her last stone that should have killed but had not, that warrior regaining his feet as the elite force came off the causeway.

  Arrows and rocks had followed her up the incline to the trees, landing on all sides of her and felling a half dozen rebels also in retreat, but not her. Guy had nearly shouted a warning that would have come too late when he glimpsed an arrow streak so near he was certain she would be put through. But without falter, she had gone from sight.

  Had she sought sanctuary here? It was as William suspected when she was not found among those who fled to the town and surrendered after token resistance, hopeful the king would keep his word those of the common, both citizens and soldiers, would be pardoned if they yielded.

  Abbot Thurstan having given no answer, Guy looked closer at the holy man who had betrayed Hereward and saw hatred in his eyes and stubborn about his mouth. He did not like what he had done, he did not like Norman rule, and he did not like the disrespect shown him by William refusing to observe the rules of formal introduction between men of power.

  “Well?” demanded the one who no longer had reason to gain the favor and good will of a Saxon whose position at the abbey would likely be awarded to a Norman as had so many since the duke donned England’s crown. “Am I to assume vengeful rebels removed your tongue, Abbot Thurstan? I see no evidence of it, but it must be so since it would be unpardonable to make the King of England wait so long on an answer.”

  The abbot forced a smile. “Forgive me. As you are a man of the sword, you may not be able to appreciate it being no easy thing for a man of God to turn his back on a handful of his flock to save an armful.”

  William stepped nearer and thrust up a hand with three fingers raised. “At the moment, I am concerned only with those you conceal in your palm.” He tapped the first finger. “Earl Morcar. Where is he?”

  The abbot moistened his lips. “Prostrated in the chapel, and before you ask after Bishop Aethelwine, he does the same.”

  William grunted, dropped his hand. “Do you think more they pray for forgiveness of the betrayal of their own or assurance of my forgiveness?”

  Thurstan’s brow grooved. “As they aided in delivering Ely into your hands as required of them, surely they have no reason to question your leniency.”

  The king settled into his heels. “As neither should you, eh?”

  The abbot swallowed. “As neither should I. Trusting the word given by England’s king, I acted on it.”

  “But not only to save that armful,” William reminded, and when once more he raised his hand, one finger remained upright. “Where is Lady Alvilda?”

  “In the infirmary with six of Hereward’s leaders also granted sanctuary.”

  “The infirmary?” the king asked what Guy wished answered.

  “One of the men may lose an arm, but otherwise minor injuries, including that sustained by the lady, though whatever sliced her neck came near the great vein.”

  The arrow Guy had believed had passed clear. “Praise the Lord,” he breathed and, catching Maxen’s nod, looked sidelong at his friend who bore fewer marks of battle. Those dealt both men required cleaning and dressing at most, victory assured the moment the cavalry reached the isle. And likely before nightfall, all other towns across Ely would yield to the army sweeping over them, including the camp of refuge where many lived in tents and crudely constructed huts.

  Refusing to be offended by Maxen’s knowing look over what he believed of his friend’s feelings for Vilda, Guy returned his regard to the king and abbot.

  “After my men and I are refreshed in your refectory,” William said, “have her brought to me there.”

  “For what?” Thurstan asked. “Though she is Hereward’s cousin, I do not think that Daughter of Eve will be of use in bringing him to heel.”

  “That I shall determine,” William said, then called Taillebois to him. “Send men to the infirmary to keep watch over
the rebels. If they do not yet know I have come, soon they shall, and I would not have them scurrying for cover.”

  Though Guy was tempted to volunteer himself and his men, he knew the decision was made and the offer would only amuse William.

  “Set men over the chapel as well,” the king said. “Morcar and Aethelwine are faithless subjects. For their sakes, let us remove the temptation of turning on me again.”

  Ivo chose four for the infirmary and two for the chapel, and when the abbot assigned novices to show them the way, remained behind to accompany William and three score men to the refectory that had been prepared for the abbot’s guests in advance of their arrival.

  The wine was beginning to flow when one of the men-at-arms sent to the infirmary reappeared. “Lord Taillebois! They are gone, and the lady with them.”

  As relief swept Guy, both Ivo and William gained their feet, the latter turning on the man seated beside him. “What is this, Abbot?”

  Thurstan pushed upright. “They were there an hour past. You have the word of this man of God.”

  “The same word given Hereward when you and others invited him to make Ely his base?” William demanded, and before the abbot could respond, called, “Torquay!”

  Knowing what would be commanded of him since the elite force knew this isle better than other Normans, Guy rose. “My liege?”

  “If they are yet inside these walls, find them. If they have escaped, find them.”

  Guy gestured to the four he had chosen to accompany him to the abbey, and as they strode from the refectory, Ivo called, “I go with you, Torquay.”

  Guy wanted to refuse him, but that was for the king to do, and he did not. Were there any chance of once more aiding Vilda, little chance now.

  Hoping she and the others were beyond these walls and would soon be plying oars, Guy and his men stepped out into waning daylight.