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

by Tamara Leigh

  “Ha!” Taillebois crowed. “You think William will be pleased with such an arrangement?”

  “He will not be,” Maxen said, “but ever he has known when to negotiate and when to fight. Once he is told what transpired here, I believe he will agree that to save those who aided him in gaining and keeping the English throne, it was better to seek terms and fight another day.” He looked to Hereward. “If further bloodshed is necessary.”

  Movement drew Guy’s gaze to Vilda, and he saw her shift against Taillebois’ arm as if held tightly. But of greater note was the way she looked at Maxen. She had been shaken by the anger Hereward directed at her, but she seemed more shaken now, and he guessed she warred between suspicion and confusion over words and behavior that were no fit for the Bloodlust Warrior.

  “An interesting proposal, especially from one who made rivers of Saxon blood at Hastings,” Hereward said, “but after what your king did to those on Ely, I find greater appeal in ensuring as many Normans as possible accompany me to the grave.”

  “Cousin, those of the resistance who did not flee Ely were pardoned,” Vilda beseeched.

  And earned more scorn. “Ignorance is unworthy of you!”

  As dread further transformed her face, Guy tensed over what his king had done the morn after Ely was won while he paced before surviving leaders who refused to bend the knee. It might have happened even had one not cursed William, but their fate was sealed when the king halted over that man. Rather than being cowed, the Saxon had named him Le Bâtard and spit on him.

  Vilda swallowed loudly. “Tell me, Hereward.”

  “Your William pardoned common soldiers and simple folk, but not the leaders who remained to hold the isle. The few who accepted him are imprisoned, those who did not were maimed and bled out.”

  Her stricken gaze swung to Guy. At his nod, moisture flooded her eyes.

  “Hence, much appeal in joining our two peoples here by way of spilled blood,” Hereward said.

  “Including that of your cousin whom Taillebois will be as quick to put down as Theta?” Guy asked sharply. “Is that what you want for her and your men who might make lives elsewhere even if you wish an end to yours?”

  The outlaw glared, but some of the dark drained from his face, and he said, “Truly, the earl is bound for imprisonment in Normandy, the bishop confinement at Abingdon?”

  “As my king commands.”

  “I doubt that was the deal made with those who betrayed me.”

  “It was not.”

  Hereward chortled. “And you ask me to believe you and the Bloodlust Warrior will keep the bargain made with me? I am to trust the moment I withdraw my men, you will not set upon us?”

  Guy inclined his head. “You have my word.”

  “And mine,” Maxen said.

  Hereward considered his men, then nodding as if in agreement with his thoughts, said, “You are quiet, Taillebois. Not that it would matter what passed your lips were you talkative. Even did I half believe Sir Guy and Baron Pendery, not even a quarter would I believe you.”

  Taillebois smiled venomously, drew Vilda nearer.

  “You are very pleased for one who seeks the protection of a woman,” Hereward said. “I wonder what your men think of that. And what would your king say knowing such behavior is representative of his rule?”

  The knave narrowed his eyes.

  Hereward looked to Guy. “As this kingdom has become hostile to the last true Englishmen, leaving our country is a consideration. However, were we to make that bargain, for the sake of those who entrust their lives to me, I need more than your word.”

  “What would satisfy?”

  “Something that requires you to trust me to keep my word. With all major ports guarded by Norman forces, security is required to ensure we are not detained nor slaughtered.” He returned his regard to Taillebois. “You and your men were destined for the coast to put Earl Morcar on a ship, so it will not be out of your way to accompany us.”

  This time Taillebois’ response was of outrage, and in Hereward’s language, he said, “You think to make hostages of us?”

  “I call it security, and this is how it shall be do you and your men wish to live—when we reach the port, you will secure passage for the earl as well as me and my men. Once we are aboard, you will be released, and your king will think you most courageous for ridding him of his greatest enemy.”

  “Non!” the miscreant spat.

  “Then we do battle, and you will be among the dead since I will come for you first regardless of whether you bleed my cousin.”

  “Taillebois!” Maxen warned.

  That man’s gaze flew to him, and after a visible struggle, he said, “If I agree to this, what security have I the outlaw will not slaughter me en route?”

  “That of knowing for certain you shall die do you not agree,” Hereward scorned.

  Vilda looked between her cousin, Pendery, and Guy. Sensing an impasse, she said, “And there is me.”

  “You?” her cousin voiced the disbelief rising on Guy’s face.

  “As your relation, I can serve as security—a means of retaliation should ill befall Taillebois and his men.”

  Hereward thought on that, looked to Guy. “Once I prove more trustworthy than a Norman, she would be released to accompany me to the continent?”

  “Nay,” Vilda said. “As convent life will allow me to remain in England, I am well with it.”

  “I am not, V. You are young enough to find happiness on a different shore.”

  “After what these years have wrought, I believe I can be satisfied with contentment.”

  “Then I know you better than you know yourself. If you stay in England, you will want more and be miserable for lack of it.”

  More, she thought, and should not have glanced at Guy for how observant Hereward and what he knew of her feelings. “Even so, I will stay”—she looked to Baron Pendery—“providing after my cousin departs I am delivered to a convent of my choosing.”

  He nodded. “I believe the king will find these terms acceptable. Taillebois?”

  Vilda felt the jerk of that knave’s chin.

  “Hereward?”

  “Only if we add to the terms. Lady Alvilda does not wish to live out her days in a convent, but what else is there for a Saxon noblewoman in your king’s England?” He raised his eyebrows. “Marriage.”

  Vilda gasped. “Hereward—”

  “Hence, the agreement is amended. As the unmarried Sir Guy proved honorable during my cousin’s captivity, and I trust he will provide a better life for her than one of contentment, he shall wed her.”

  “Nay, Hereward!”

  “Taillebois gets his security, and a Saxon reclaims the life stolen from her. What say you, Torquay?”

  Vilda looked to the one who withheld his gaze from her. Was what tightened his face the anger of one hunted into a corner?

  When he inclined his head, her heart felt as if put through. It was sorrowful enough not to be loved in return, more to be seen as the altar upon which one sacrificed himself. Straining against Taillebois’ arm, she said, “Pray, do not do this to him, Hereward.”

  Guy turned his regard upon her. “I do this to myself,” he said and managed a smile. “I will wed you, Lady.”

  “This day,” Hereward said.

  “This day.”

  “Then we come to terms, and to ensure both parties remain true, my man, Martin, will accompany you to the nearest chapel to bear witness to vows while we make for the coast. But be warned, should anything prevent him from overtaking us this night and giving good report, what has been averted here will prove merely delayed.” He turned to Taillebois. “Loose my cousin.”

  Vilda’s side was pinched so hard, it took all her will to suppress a reaction that would not escape Hereward. When the miscreant withdrew his arm, she sprang down and ran to her cousin. “Pray, do not—”

  “Short of further betrayal, the course is set,” he spoke over her, once again counting his words of great
er import than hers. Then he leaned down, cupped her face, and for her ears alone said, “Forgive me the anger loosed on you. After this last betrayal…” His eyes moved past her to the earl and bishop, then he closed them. When he raised his lids, there was such pain there she nearly wept.

  Setting a hand atop his on her jaw, she whispered, “No need for forgiveness.”

  As if to disguise his trembling jaw, he blew breath up his face. “I am truly done here. If ever England was my home, no longer. And so I return to my Turfida.”

  The wife awaiting him on the continent who Vilda prayed could heal the wounds dealt him in England. “You will not return?”

  “Do you truly love the chevalier?”

  “I do, but—”

  “Is he honorable as told?”

  “He is.”

  “Then providing he keeps his word—marriage, which I will have to trust sealed by consummation—I see no reason to come again to these shores. As long as I know you are—” He broke off, chuckled.

  “What, Hereward?”

  “Only now I realize I prophesied when I said had Torquay compromised you, he would find himself at the church door with my sword at his neck.” When she started to protest, he said, “I know he did not dishonor you, but it ends the same. He will do what is required, not to preserve his life but the lives of others.”

  “Cousin, you need not force me on him. I will go with you.”

  “V—”

  “’Tis not fair to him!”

  “Forbid something is unfair to a Norman!” he snarled, then snapped his teeth and between them said, “Your argument rouses no sympathy. Worse, it so angers you count yourself unworthy of that Norman I am tempted to draw this sword, put it through Taillebois, and let happen what will.”

  “Very well!” She gripped his hand tighter. “I will speak no more against the marriage, and you need not fear Sir Guy will abandon me. Were he such a man, I could not feel for him.”

  He nodded, then in a strained voice said, “Pour the thick of your Saxon blood into the thin of his Norman blood by way of children. You will do this for me?”

  She blinked. She had not thought beyond speaking vows with Guy, but a whole life lay on the other side of this one—lying down with him every night, awakening beside him every morn, making and raising children, being his partner throughout whatever came of Norman-ruled England.

  “V?”

  “I will do this for you,” she whispered, “and for Alvilda of the Saxons and Guy of the Normans.”

  That last made his brow furrow. “Be assured I do not leave you unprotected. I shall set a watch over you, and if ever I believe you are in need, I will return and make things right.”

  Of course he would. “As long as I am under Sir Guy’s protection, a watch will not be necessary, but as I know you will not be dissuaded, I thank you for the consideration. Now go to Turfida.”

  He withdrew his hand and sat back. “Once you are astride with your betrothed.”

  Wishing he had come down out of the saddle so she could hug him, she said, “Go with God,” and turned away.

  Guy’s solemn gaze awaited hers and, as she neared, he extended a hand. When she set hers in that which would later touch her as she had thought never to be touched by him, he closed his fingers over hers. And when she slid her foot atop his in the stirrup, gently he drew her up and set her sideways before him.

  Vilda swept her gaze all around, and seeing some regarded her with pity, others resentment, she put across her shoulder, “I am sorry for this, Guy.”

  Drawing her deeper into the cradle of his thighs, he said, “This is a good end. I am well with it.”

  As told, he was honorable—thus, would make the best of what ensured no more blood was shed this day.

  Hereward commanded his servant to his side, and after attending to his lord, Martin urged his horse near Guy’s.

  “Fare thee well, Vilda!” Hereward said, then turned his attention to Taillebois. “Now to the coast where we shall part ways and never again suffer the other—providing you and your men behave.”

  “It is you who shall answer for this, Pendery and Torquay!” Taillebois called.

  They ignored him and, shortly, the two parties went separate ways.

  Though the pace set by those moving south was relatively sedate, no further words were spoken between Vilda and Guy until hours later when they stood before the door of a small village church and exchanged vows. The mass that followed saw both prostrated before the altar with foreheads to the floor and a pall stretched over them, two of four corners held by Pendery and Martin.

  As minute after minute gathered into a quarter hour and began to gather into another, a fatigued Vilda realized she was moving toward sleep when a hand curled over the one clenched alongside her shoulder.

  Opening her eyes, she looked sidelong at Guy who had turned his head toward hers. She did the same, settling her cheek to the floor. As the priest continued praying over their union, she tried to make sense of Guy’s expression, but the shadow of the pall permitted her to see only the glitter of his eyes, the line of his nose, and the pale of his mouth amid whiskers.

  “I am sorry for this,” she whispered.

  “Not how I imagined my wedding,” he rasped, “but I am not sorry.”

  Earlier, he had said he was well with marrying her, just as she had said of convent life—something tolerable under the circumstances—and yet she detected no apathy nor anger. That surprised, and more greatly when he drew her hand near and kissed her knuckles.

  “Truly, I am not, Vilda.”

  A half hour later, they resumed their southward journey as Martin spurred opposite to deliver tidings to Hereward.

  Once more seated before the one now her husband, his ring on her finger clenched in her palm to keep it from slipping off, Vilda struggled against her body’s attempt to convince her it was middle night. How much longer she would have resisted she did not know, for as if well acquainted with the one to whom he was betrothed and wed in the same day, Guy urged her head beneath his chin.

  Throughout the remainder of the day, mostly she slept, coming fully awake when they made camp and only long enough to sip and nibble at what Guy placed in her hand. Then seated beside him before the fire, she huddled into the blanket he draped around her shoulders and, when he drew her against his side, closed her eyes, prayed for her cousin and his men, and slept again.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Etcheverry Castle

  Sussex, England

  The wife of the Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings was beautiful. Vilda had thought the same of Lady Nicola, but that Norman lady nearly paled compared to this Saxon of perfect eyes, cheeks, nose, mouth, flaxen hair, and figure. And Lady Rhiannyn’s embrace was like…

  Like what? Vilda wondered as she breathed in the scent of roses where her head brushed that of the mistress of Etcheverry. She had no sister, so that could not compare. She had female cousins, but this felt more than that. Once she had close friends, but still this was not that. This was…

  Like the clasp of my mother, she thought. But that was all wrong, this woman not only of an age near her own but a stranger.

  Rhiannyn released her, and the woman’s second smile was lovelier than the first given when Guy drew Vilda forward and introduced her. “Lady Alvilda, wife of my husband’s dearest friend, you are well come at Etcheverry.”

  Vilda tried to return the smile, but it felt dull, and though she told herself it was because the ride had been as long as that of the day before, it was more than that. It was the unknown of this place, its people, and the night ahead. Especially the night ahead.

  Were Guy and she given their own chamber, there would be no excuse not to consummate. Though she was not certain she was ready for that, more she questioned if he was. He had been considerate throughout the journey, but the distance between them had grown with each league and she feared it was born of regret. It was no cause for resentment, but it made her ache.

  “Lady Alv
ilda?”

  As if a half-wit, she had drifted away. Feeling the gaze of all, she said, “Forgive me, ’twas a long journey. Much gratitude to you for your kindness, Lady Rhiannyn.”

  The woman took her arm. “My husband having sent a messenger ahead of your arrival, a chamber has been prepared for you and Sir Guy. Come.”

  As Vilda was drawn away, she sought her husband’s gaze. Would he share the room with her this eve or sleep elsewhere?

  Hardly had their eyes met than another claimed his attention.

  “Sir Guy! You are returned!”

  He looked to one who entered the hall by way of a door at the far end and traversed the distance with a limp.

  Lady Rhiannyn having halted their progress, she turned Vilda back. “My brother-in-law, Christophe,” she said, and in response to a frown, added, “Aye, he bears little resemblance and is of far different temperament from my husband. You will like him.”

  The young man embraced Guy and asked, “What is this about you bringing a bride to Etcheverry?”

  Guy nodded at her. “Ere Lady Alvilda withdraws to refresh herself, I shall introduce you.”

  He who came to stand before her was of far slighter build than his brother, boyishly handsome, and exuded an ease she could not imagine the Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings had ever known though she had yet to glimpse that side of Maxen Pendery about which callous Normans composed songs.

  “Well come, Lady.” When she set her hand in his, he kissed the backs of her fingers and said in her language, “A fitting name for one so lovely.”

  And he is a flatterer, she thought as she withdrew her hand. Lovely is possible at my very best, and this is nearly my worst.

  Feeling more bedraggled, she said, “That is kind of you…” Unable to recall his name, inwardly she groaned.

  “I am Christophe—simply and happily Christophe.”

  Movement at her side alerting her to Lady Rhiannyn’s departure, she looked to the woman who crossed to her husband, noted Guy also watched, and returned her gaze to the young man. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Christophe.”