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

by Tamara Leigh

  As the abbey grounds were extensive, he sent two men in the direction from which sounded the voices of Taillebois’ men and hoped Ivo would join them. Instead, he accompanied Guy and the other two toward the northern wall which would be most easily breached for the collapse of an upper section likely from a recent lightning strike since the abbey was well maintained.

  Be gone, Vilda, Guy rasped as they neared the place whose moist earth he hoped would show footprints so slight he alone noticed them, allowing the search to continue inside these walls to provide her more time.

  Finding no impressions, at a lingering pace made to appear thorough, he led the others in searching the remainder of the perimeter as done by the two who had joined Ivo’s men on the other side of the abbey. And hoped Vilda and her fellow rebels had found another way out.

  They were the hunted over their own territory—rather, what had been theirs before the abbot’s betrayal. They had needed another minute to reach the portion of the wall most easily ascended and descended, but that time had been thieved by Normans en route to the infirmary that forced Vilda and the others to take cover.

  Once the enemy entered the building, the rebels had resumed their flight. However, too soon shouts and curses were heard ahead of the enemy’s reappearance, forcing them to drop out of sight again.

  Blessedly, their pursuers had moved the search opposite after sending one of their numbers to alert Le Bâtard the rebellious remained rebellious.

  As the prey had continued to advance on the breach in the northern wall, time and again they were thwarted by monks moving from one building to another. But they had come so close to reaching their destination her heart had pounded less with fear than the thrill of thwarting the usurper. Then greater fear though still a small thrill when she saw Guy was sent to root them out.

  Even had Taillebois not been among those accompanying him and were she alone, he could not have chanced aiding her again. Nor did she desire to look close on anger for what he had risked to keep her out of his liege’s grasp only to find her upon Ely.

  “We could run for it,” whispered Boar when the Normans began searching for tracks farther along the wall.

  They could, and though some might make it to the other side, not all. This one whose arm was injured would require aid in getting over, providing their pursuers time to drag them off the wall. But were there a distraction…

  Hereward’s cousin, she thought, then accepted the freedom of movement enjoyed these weeks would likely be denied her again—and what came after would be no board game.

  Hunkered behind a low wall where herbs were grown in spring and summer, she looked between the men and whispered, “I shall draw them away.”

  Several caught their breath in silent protest, but they were outnumbered by those who breathed out relief as if opening a present and finding inside what was hoped for.

  Her resentment was doused by the reminder many yet had families who needed them, and she had only Hereward who did not need her.

  Retrieving the dagger Sir Roul had given her which the monks had not ventured to look for beneath a lady’s skirts, she said, “I shall go toward those searching near the infirmary. As soon as you hear my scream and the Normans here run that direction, all should be clear for you to go over the wall.”

  Most nodded—again, more with relief than uncertainty.

  “God speed your journey,” she whispered and leaned to the side to watch Guy and his men.

  Their backs were turned this direction, as were those of monks whispering between themselves as they strolled toward a corner of the chapel.

  The timing too good to hope for better, Vilda straightened just enough to get her legs under her. Then bent over and dagger at her side, she hastened opposite.

  She was not certain how, exactly, to execute her plan, but she must scream to send the rebels one way and Guy and his men this way.

  When she ran out of wall, there was other cover to be had and more when she altered her course in response to angry voices. Guessing the Normans who had found the infirmary emptied of rebels were just beyond the rear entrance to the great chapel, she slowed her advance to ensure she put eyes on them before allowing them to put eyes on her.

  But somewhere along the way she erred, as revealed when movement to her right spun her that direction. It was no monk who reached for her, but one immediately recognized as belonging to Guy’s elite force.

  Defense of her person was reflexive. If the chevalier did not underestimate her for being a woman alone, his guard was lowered by the belief she was unarmed since she had dropped the dagger to her side. Now the blade thrust before her found flesh beyond a tunic confidently shed of chain mail.

  She had longed to be able to do what she had been incapable of years past so never again would she or any dear to her fall victim to a barbarian, but there was no satisfaction in it, and the cost was horror beneath the weight of heavenly displeasure. And greater that burden in being on holy ground and so near the one whose blood she shed that when he lurched back off the blade and slapped a hand to his abdomen, she needed no reminder to scream. What needed reminding was to run and keep hold of the dagger though all of her recoiled except the instinct to protect herself and survive long enough to get the rebels over the wall.

  She did both, though it felt she was in the marsh again with only moonlight to guide her to a shore beyond reach.

  Thankfully, she was fairly acquainted with this abbey, having once accompanied Hereward here and found herself alone when Thurstan wished to speak to him in private. She was to have remained in the lane outside the cloister, but after a half hour, she had wandered within the buildings where the men of God lived, worked, and prayed, and outside in the spaces between them and the outer wall enclosing all to keep out the evil of the world—evil this day admitted with open arms.

  Both ahead and behind, Vilda heard Normans converging on her and knew she had only moments to reach the squat side door glimpsed the last time she was here when a monk who slipped out of the chapel’s nave had squeaked out a sneeze.

  Blessedly, it was not barred the other side.

  Hopefully, she seamed it behind her before being seen.

  Though tempted to lean back against it and listen for the passing of her pursuers, she dare not. She did not believe she would escape her mess, but the longer the chase, the farther her countrymen would distance themselves.

  Turning from the door, eyes slow to adjust to the shadows of the narrow passage reaching both sides of her, she went left as done before, knowing it would take her around the chancel with its pulpit and altar, the choir, and the presbytery whose turning at the rear led to a break in the passage on the opposite side of the chapel where the curtained vestry was located. That open expanse exposing her to any present in the chapel, she would have to be cautious in traversing it to return to the passage coursing the remainder of the nave.

  Shortly, having circled the presbytery’s backside and seeing the ceiling to floor curtains ahead in light cast by that within the chapel, she paused.

  Voices were heard—some raised, others at a normal register—but so muffled she was certain they came from outside the chapel or rooms abutting it.

  Lips parted by a breath of relief, she curled her hands into fists—rather, one fist, the other on the dagger alerting her to moisture there as well as that drying over and between her fingers.

  Blood, possibly of a dead man.

  A whimper shot up her throat, and though she suppressed much of it, what slipped past sounded loud. And yet it was a whisper compared to the dagger’s clatter atop the stone floor.

  It was hard to believe her hand had betrayed her, but it had, and if any who investigated found her here, sooner they would give chase to those who had to have gone over the wall by now.

  Though Vilda longed to leave the killing blade, it would be proof someone had been here who ought not and, bloody though it was, might yet aid her.

  Bending, she reached and faltered when the bit of
light slinking down the passage showed blood on palm and fingers and caused so violent a stir of bile she was sure if the clatter did not reveal her, retching would.

  She swallowed, snatched up the dagger, and slid it in the scabbard bound to her calf. As she straightened, she caught a sound. It was distant, but clear enough to originate in the nave near the great doors through which worshippers entered.

  She had known brethren might be in the chapel, whether at prayer or performing other duties, but the scrape of a thick sole alarmed for being singular as if whoever stood in that shoe stilled and held his breath the same as she.

  She eased her back to the wall to render her figure as slight as possible amid shadows, and waited for that one to move again. He did, though his next footsteps were so quietly executed she would not have heard were she not listening for them.

  A faint groan of hinges in need of oil sounded, and the light let in by windows momentarily brightened as the unseen door opened just enough to allow someone to slip out and close it.

  Vilda drew a slow breath, then nodded in acceptance of what was to come. Soon those searching for the rebels would be alerted to the possibility their quarry was in the chapel.

  There were a dozen small rooms off the passage in which to conceal herself to delay capture, but before she could turn back, she caught murmurs fairly near the end of this passage and the resumption of it beyond the vestry. One sounding familiar, she sidled forth and carefully peered around the wall.

  Recognizing the two prostrated before the altar as Earl Morcar and Bishop Aethelwine, rage ran through her. They had aided Abbot Thurstan, and now surely prayed they would be rewarded as promised.

  In that moment, she hoped that for all the lies Le Bâtard told, he did not yet have his fill of them. After all, why should such men be rewarded?

  “Vile,” she breathed and saw Morcar peer over his shoulder.

  As told by the shift of his eyes, he tracked movement, then the bishop did the same. When their eyes advanced her direction, she knew someone traveled the wall this side of the chapel—doubtless, a Norman. While another had gone for reinforcements lest all those who escaped the infirmary were here, this one came to investigate.

  As she must go back the way she had come, once more she would take hold of the dagger—

  Nay, not yet. Only if she must.

  Had not Aethelwine pushed to his feet, she would have begun her retreat. “I am as right with the Almighty as I can get,” he said and, turning from the altar, added, “I will not bear witness to blood shed in God’s house.”

  Then he suspected rebels here—and rightly feared them—as did Morcar who followed him toward the doors.

  As no protest sounded from the one staying as near the passage’s outer wall as she did its inner, Vilda started to retrace her steps. And was thwarted again, this time by a sound from behind. It was low, likely from stealth and losing its strength as it curved around the back of the presbytery.

  If it was of a Norman, had he—or they—entered the passage by way of that same squat door? If so, she wagered she had left evidence there, if not a footprint then the blood of the chevalier. But she was not entirely cornered now the traitors had gone from sight. If she slipped into the vestry, she might be able to conceal herself there until the nearest Norman moved past to search the passage’s other side.

  Which he might not do until he searches the vestry, she considered.

  It being her only option, she pushed off the wall and went behind the curtain. Immediately, she dropped low and caught the lower edge to still the telltale sway.

  Pass by, she silently beseeched when she glimpsed the shadow of the man’s feet above the curtain’s hem at the opposite end.

  Through her skirt, she touched the dagger, then straightened and looked around the rectangular room lit by daylight pressing through an opaque cloth covering a single small window. Precious things filled this place, including the vestments of the abbot, sacred vessels, and scrolls and books.

  She chose a weighty scepter. It was no bow and arrow, no sling and stone, but she could swing it hard. And that she did when the warrior swept aside the curtain three feet from where she stood. As he did so with his sword, it was that which she struck. Though he lurched sideways, he kept hold of his weapon.

  If not for Hereward instructing her in the basic use of a quarterstaff, likely the Norman would have corrected his footing and knocked her to the floor. Instead, after completion of the first swing, she stepped back and swung again, slamming the scepter against his head.

  As he spun around, his sword fell to one of several rugs carpeting the room, then just outside the vestry, he dropped.

  Vilda knew she should run, but once more she was jolted by what she was capable of at close range—more, the possibility this day, face to face, she had slain two men.

  “Nay,” she rasped, then cast aside the scepter, knelt beside the Norman, and searched his neck for a pulse.

  It had to be there. It absolutely must be there.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Fury. He had been so concerned with ensuring her escape that he and his men had no chance of keeping another of their numbers from a gutting that could see the man dead before nightfall.

  Still, Guy prayed Vilda had made it over the wall. As for the one responsible for spilling blood on holy ground, he ought to be on his knees soon since rebels were thought to be lurking in the chapel’s perimeter passage as reported by Ivo’s man given watch over Morcar and Aethelwine. Further evidence of that was had by a crimson smudge on the partially obscured door through which Guy sent a man to ensure that rebel entrance did not become a rebel exit.

  “What is this?” Taillebois demanded when they reached the front of the chapel and saw the earl and bishop stood before the steps.

  Guessing their other guard had decided to confront the rebels alone, Guy instructed a man to keep watch over the traitors and turned to the others. “We do not know how many are within, and best they know not how many we are and where we move. Thus, go in quietly and follow my signals exactly.”

  Only his men nodded. “You understand, Taillebois?” Guy growled and saw anger widen his eyes. Ivo ranked higher, but as William had given another command of the undertaking, he jerked his head.

  Having earlier removed their chain mail, they entered with swords drawn and the stealth trained into them that allowed those of the elite force to more easily survive the Fenlands.

  But it seemed their entrance was noted, movement drawing Guy’s gaze ahead to the right as someone went behind a wide curtain. Though it was only a glimpse, it was enough to identify the rebel wore skirts.

  Feeling a pang center of him, he saw another Norman had been felled, this one’s lower legs partially concealed beneath the curtain as if he had toppled out of the vestry.

  Fury stirred further, but he tempered it by assuring himself that as it was done by a woman, the man was only stunned—unless another had dealt what could be a killing blow.

  Guy looked to his men who saw what he saw. Though they might not have caught Vilda’s retreat, they had to have noticed the curtain’s movement. He signaled for them to hold their positions and paused over Taillebois. Though the man scowled, he remained unmoving.

  Since Guy and the others had been heard if not seen, there was no reason to soften his footsteps nor seek the cover of the nave wall as he advanced. Ten feet from the vestry, he breathed out relief when he saw movement about the man on the floor, then called, “Lady Alvilda, you and those with you will show yourselves.”

  Silence.

  “Now!”

  A hand curled around the edge of a curtain and her pale face appeared in the space she opened. With wide eyes, she considered him, his drawn sword, and the nave at his back. Then she took a single step forward, and as the curtains closed behind her, let her arms fall to her sides.

  As expected following her defense of the shore and retreat, she was disarrayed, tangled hair all about her shoulders and garments askew. As
not expected, more than dirt stained the red tunic he had given her, though he would have believed the blotches and streaks merely filth if not for dried blood on her right hand.

  Was it possible she had put the blade in his man’s belly? Certes, were the blood gained from the warrior here beginning to return to consciousness, it would not yet be dry.

  Heart pounding, he demanded, “Who is with you, Lady?”

  Her lashes fluttered, and he saw her eyes were bright as if tears needed shedding. “Having made a distraction of myself so the others could escape, I am alone.”

  Guy stared as two angers vied for dominance—that men had left a woman behind to save themselves and, providing she did not deceive, further proof she had done injury to both warriors.

  Pray, deceive, Vilda, he silently beseeched, then commanded, “Open wide the curtains.”

  She walked back one side then the other.

  The light that swept within showing no others there and hiding places exceedingly questionable out from behind shadows cast by curtains, Guy accepted she was alone and her sacrifice—and his complicity—had enabled the others to flee.

  Muscles tense, he glanced behind and confirmed those who had accompanied him remained unmoving, then looked back at Vilda and returned his sword to its scabbard, knowing those who watched would question the wisdom of doing so.

  Her shoulders eased slightly, and she looked to the man on the floor. “He lives. I feared—” Voice catching, she closed her eyes.

  The timing could not have been better, the chevalier sent into the passage by way of the blood-marked door appearing to her right. Guy’s shake of the head causing him to step back, once more the passage enfolded him in shadow.

  Vilda raised her lids. “Though I struck him hard, he…” She swallowed loudly. “I believe he will be well.”

  Unlike the other warrior, she did not say.

  Guy was certain she would not attempt to harm him, but the others had cause to believe her dangerous, and though he was angered by what she had done that would not have happened had she left the Fens, he could not abandon her. And so for their audience—especially Taillebois—a show not entirely all show that might permit him to remain near when she was brought before William.