by Tamara Leigh
He nodded. “She is right, though she may not fully understand why it is so important it is done now.”
“Tell me.”
“It was difficult to lose Elan and Blackspur Castle, but there was something else I lost.”
She did not have to think long on that. “You speak of your friend.”
“I do. Though I could have remained in service to Maxen when his sister wed Harwolfson, for as hurt and angry as I was, I thought it best to distance myself. Thus, not only did I leave Etcheverry behind but great friendship. Having renewed it in the Fens, this day I protested cancelling Elan and Edwin’s visit in the hope of sooner removing all barriers to it.” He sighed. “It was selfish, and I saw that before Maxen confirmed it. Hence, had it been possible to rouse you from sleep, much weight would have been given to your feelings.”
She smiled. “I thank you, but I would have been well with whatever you and the others determined was best. Has the messenger been sent?”
“He has. It being unfair not to alert Elan and her husband that I am here with my bride, by now they know. Thus, they shall decide whether to deal with the awkwardness on the morrow or in the future. Will you truly be well with it if they come?”
“Even did you not love me, I would since it is rare that good comes of delaying the inevitable,” she said, and more she believed that now Ely was lost.
“Be assured, no matter what the morrow holds, my love is yours,” Guy said and touched his mouth to hers.
That being too much invitation not to accept, with joy Vilda had thought never again to feel, she shifted around and dropped a knee on either side of him. But as she reached to take his face between her palms, the ring slid toward her finger’s tip.
“Oh, I shall lose it!” She snatched her hand back. “’Twould not portend well.”
He chuckled. “That sounds of superstition.” At her grimace, he said, “Soon I shall replace it with one worthy of Lady Alvilda Torquay.” He raised a hand between them. “Now as I anticipate loving my wife much this eve, I think it best I wear it.”
Heart thundering, she returned the ring to his finger. When that hand slid around and up her back, drawing her chest to his, she angled her head and kissed him. That was where it began.
Mouths learning mouths…necks…shoulders…
Hands learning curves…hollows…wondrously sensitive places…
Murmurs becoming whispers…whispers becoming gasps…gasps becoming words…
Then Guy rasped, “Hold to me, love.”
She wound her arms about his neck, and when he rose from the chair, hooked her legs around his waist.
Standing alongside the bed, holding her as if she were the slightest of women, again and again he kissed her, then he eased her onto the mattress. Leaving only enough space between them for the shedding of garments and the wandering of eyes, he said, “You are my story, Lady.”
“As you are mine, Chevalier.”
Later, when their vows became more than vows amid the last flickers of candlelight, Vilda clung to her husband and put in his ear, “Oh, my…my…me…”
How strange to feel almost a child after being made to feel fully woman, Vilda marveled. Wearing the chemise Guy had aided her in donning and the blanket he had drawn around her shoulders, perched atop the table where he had set her while he moved about the fire-lit kitchen gathering viands to quiet her growling belly, she flicked from her fingers the crumbs of an apple tart and smiled at he who watched her across the top of the cup they shared.
He reached it to her. “More?”
She slid her hand over his, and together they tilted it to her lips. Once she had her fill of wine, he finished off the last of it. “Now no reason to arise early,” he said.
She warmed over thoughts of what they could do with those hours while others broke their fast, then recalling what the day ahead might hold, reminded, “Unless Baron Pendery and his wife receive more guests.”
He grunted. “I forgot about that.”
She was pleased, hopeful it meant all of him that mattered to her had been here until she let in Elan. Of course, did that not mean all of her had not been present? It did, but she had something of an excuse in that Guy need not worry over any past love of hers.
“Vilda?”
She returned him to focus, and the understanding in his eyes made her heart ache. He knows me, she thought.
Stepping nearer, he pushed love-tangled tresses back over her shoulders, lifted her chin. “As I wish you at my side when Elan and Edwin come, and I would not have you suffer great discomfort, it can wait until next we are at Etcheverry.”
When I am more secure in his love, she thought. “What if they do arrive on the morrow?” she asked, and remembering already it was that though it yet shone night, corrected, “Rather, this day?”
“Since we have a long ride ahead, it would not be unseemly to depart a few days before planned.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, having been unaware he intended to leave so soon and given little thought to what came after. Deciding to wait on the question of his reunion with Elan, she said, “Where are we bound?”
“Derbyshire. My family is there, including an uncle who, though he shall pass his lands to his son, wishes me to serve as keeper of that portion known as Boltstone.”
“Your cousin is well with this?”
“He is, and a good man. You know his family by way of his sister, Lady Nicola.”
She frowned. “But if he is a D’Argent, then you…?”
“I am not of that family, and though Dougray is much loved by the D’Argents, that blood does not course his veins since he was sired by my uncle rather than Lady Nicola’s father.” As if he saw her mind seeking to make sense of that, he chuckled. “All will come clear. For now, let us decide the matter of Elan and Edwin. If they do ride on Etcheverry, should we have done with it this day or another?”
She considered the ease of his face and light in eyes she believed shone for her. “This day,” she said and sighed into him when his mouth covered hers.
Chapter Thirty-Four
She was as lovely as remembered—perhaps more so for having gained weight, likely from two births. However, Elan held little appeal beyond something pretty to look at. Guy had been fairly certain of that, but there had been enough uncertainty he had prayed naught would show on his face that might hurt the woman he loved.
He shifted his regard from Edwin Harwolfson who lifted his wife from the saddle to Vilda at his side. Seeing and feeling her tension, he squeezed the hand he had enfolded in his as they descended the donjon steps to greet Maxen’s sister and brother-in-law.
Vilda looked up, and the wariness in her eyes made him want to kiss it away. Did she think herself less beautiful, disregarding that what was on the outside ought to be but an invitation to look closer on what was on the inside?
How he wished privacy in which to tell her that even had Rhiannyn and she not taken much care with her appearance—a gown of deeper red than the tunic he had given her and hair arranged in braids of more crossings than ever he had seen—she could not be more beautiful than when she awakened in his arms entirely bare, thoroughly tousled, and smiling as if relieved to find what was precious was not lost.
“I love you,” he said low.
Her lips curved. “And I you.”
“Well come to Etcheverry,” Maxen called as he and his wife advanced on their visitors, the former with their daughter in the crook of an arm, the latter their infant son.
“You did not bring your children?” Rhiannyn said as she and her husband halted before the two.
Not for the first time, Elan looked to Guy—a glance only, a bit more for the woman at his side. “We thought it best they remain behind,” she said after embracing her sister-in-law. “The littlest is teething so fiercely, sometimes it feels my ears bleed.”
She turned toward her brother, and when he finished greeting Harwolfson, hugged him and kissed the nose of the little girl he held. “I know we impos
e in adding to your guests, but I could not miss the opportunity of seeing again my good friend, Sir Guy.”
Good friend, Guy mulled. He had been that, but as all knew, he had been more. And yet it did not offend, and he did not think it was meant to—that it was consideration to ease the discomfort of all.
“And here he is with his bride!” She stepped from her husband’s side and glided forward, something at which she excelled when not given to moods that made her stamp her feet and make quick work of steps to sooner be seen and heard.
When she halted before Guy, he said, “Lady Elan.”
“Sir Guy.” She extended a hand.
He took it as he would any offered, bent, and hesitated. Not because he meant to offend. Not for fear of renewing forbidden feelings. Because he was very aware of the other hand he held. When Vilda squeezed gently as if to assure him she felt no threat, he brushed his lips across the lady’s knuckles.
As he released her and straightened, he noted some strain in Elan’s smile, but she brightened it and turned it upon Guy’s wife. “Lady Alvilda, I am pleased to meet the Saxon who managed to capture this fine Norman chevalier.”
Now slight tension in Vilda’s hand. “As I am pleased to meet the Norman who managed to capture one of the greatest leaders of the Saxon resistance.”
The music of Elan’s laughter was barely out of tune, but Guy heard it, and a glance at Edwin, Maxen, and Rhiannyn revealed they did as well. But none rushed to make right what this woman could make wrong, and he was grateful they did not.
“Alliances between enemies,” said Harwolfson’s wife. “Increasingly the way of things, and though there may not be love in the beginning, with time it can grow, as has my husband’s for me and mine for him. I hope it will be the same for Sir Guy and you.”
Evenly, Vilda said, “Why do you assume it is not already?”
Elan’s gaze jumped to the joined hands of husband and wife. “Even had we not received intriguing tidings ere departing Blackspur, there is the ring you wear.”
Guy tensed. Though he had known news of the battle averted after the fall of Ely would travel and could include the condition of Vilda’s marriage, and that tidings would follow of what had come of Hereward and Taillebois’ journey to the coast, thus far naught had reached Etcheverry. But it had Blackspur whose lord had surely been intent on the fate of a fellow resistance leader.
“Since the ring is too large, and I recognize it as being from Sir Guy’s hand, it evidences you wed in haste. And so you did if what was told my husband is true.” She raised her eyebrows. “You are Hereward’s cousin, are you not?”
Had ever a man been so glad to have lost a woman he loved? Guy wondered. If not for how steady Vilda’s voice when next she spoke, he would have thought the tightening of her fingers anger like that rising through him rather than an attempt to calm him.
“I am kin to Hereward, and were your husband told my cousin’s terms included securing my future with the man who came to love me as I did him whilst your king held me captive not once but twice, then it is to be believed.” As Elan’s eyes widened, Vilda put a tilt in her chin and smiled, causing pride to displace Guy’s anger. “It is true we wed in haste, but why tarry when God moves within reach the person with whom you ache to spend your life?”
Elan continued to stare as restrained smiles rose on the faces of the three who watched from a distance. And there was nothing Guy wanted more in that moment than to be alone with his wife and divest her of that fine gown and undo those braids.
“I…” Elan cleared her throat. “That is…”
“Wondrous, Elan!” Christophe made known his presence, to Rhiannyn’s distress having gone missing when word came of the arrival of Blackspur’s lord and lady. “See what tale you have uncovered that Sir Guy and his bride withheld from us. Certes, we must hear more of it.”
He descended the last steps, came around Vilda, and embraced his sister who fiercely returned his hug as if he were a rope thrown to a drowning woman. “I am glad you and Baron Harwolfson have come.”
When he drew back, Elan’s smile faltered. “Surely you did not just awaken, Christophe?”
“Of course not. You know if I do not rise ere the sun, I rise with it.”
Her eyebrows arched. “Then someone has been testing the strength of your hair from scalp to ends.”
“Ah!” He chuckled, smoothed what had been tidily fastened at his nape on the day past. “Merely a habit when I have much on my mind.”
Doubtless, a certain maid who Maxen believed would soon become Christophe’s wife.
“A habit, hmm?” Elan snorted, then leaned in. “A bad one. Enjoy yourself, little brother, but be cautious. Our sire would not be pleased if an indiscretion produced—”
“Elan! I would not so dishonor a woman!”
She straightened. “Good. Keep it to kisses and there shall be naught to worry over.” She looked around. “Sister, I pray you have refreshments prepared. It was a long ride.”
“They await you,” Rhiannyn said.
As she, Maxen, and Harwolfson strode forward, Christophe turned. And that young man winked at Guy before hastening back up the steps—quite possibly to sooner return to the one who had not only mussed his hair but flushed his lips.
Edwin halted alongside his wife and inclined his head. “Sir Guy.”
Sensing no hostility, Guy did the same. “Baron Harwolfson.”
Next, the Saxon looked to Vilda. “All went as devised, Hereward’s cousin—a strained but successful parting of ways at the coast and perfect weather for a channel crossing.”
A small cry escaped her, then she released Guy and caught up one of Harwolfson’s hands between hers. “Much gratitude, Baron.”
“What is this, Edwin?” Elan exclaimed.
Ignoring her, he said, “I am glad to have eased your mind, Lady, and that you have made a good marriage with an honorable Norman.” He withdrew his hand.
“You did not tell me!” his wife cried.
Taking her arm, he said, “I have told you now,” and as he led her past Guy, muttered with what sounded chagrined affection, “Vixen.”
Maxen and Rhiannyn passed smiles between Guy and Vilda and followed the new arrivals up the steps.
Vilda stepped in front of Guy. “It could not have gone better, could it?”
Thinking how wonderful it was to feel the warmth of the autumn sun as he could not remember ever feeling it, he set a hand on the curve of her face. “It could not have.”
She grimaced. “I know I exaggerated in telling how long you have loved me, but—”
“You did not, Vilda. Even if I did not recognize it as love then, I know now it was the beginning of it.”
Her breath caught. “Truly, you felt that for the sturdy virgin widow?”
He drew her near. “Aye, you who are no longer a widow and no longer a virgin. You who are a wife and now one with me as I am one with you.”
Laughter escaped lips that would soon be beneath his. “But still I am sturdy.”
“Beautifully sturdy,” he said and, lowering his head, added, “Just what a man needs in this fragile world.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Battle Abbey
East Sussex, England
He should be raging. He was not.
He should send men across the sea to hunt down the outlaw and bring back his heart. He would not.
At worst, he should string up Taillebois, at best strip him of his lands. Again, he would not.
That was a king’s prerogative—to weigh in the balance what was best for him against what was best for his country, just as he had weighed that one condition of Hereward’s that aided in averting a clash whose victory would have cost the lives of men needed to ensure what was now fully the Conqueror’s remained his.
He could snatch back Lady Alvilda. Even had the marriage been consummated, which was certain since he knew what each felt for the other, he could lock her away in a convent. However, that vengeance worked on
Hereward would be petty, unwise, and unsatisfying.
Petty because there was naught of value to gain from it, unwise because though the outlaw was thoroughly defeated, even a fly buzzing about a sweating face could wreak some havoc, and unsatisfying because this king admired Hereward’s cousin, having seen in her character a melding of the good and clever of his beloved Matilda and the strength of the Conqueror which he wished for their daughters.
Thus, he would let stand another marriage between Norman and Saxon and seek more, certain there was no hardier thread with which to mend the cloth of England, especially when those two strands were joined by a third of great feeling like that between Guarin and Hawisa Wulfrith—and, he believed, Lady Alvilda and Sir Guy, a chevalier he also admired despite his failure to prevent an English princess from becoming Queen of Scotland.
That last made him growl. In years to come, there could be powerful princes who sought to assert their claim to the English throne that absolutely must pass to William’s son—likely his second, Richard, who completed his training at Wulfen Castle under the direction of Vitalis. Hence, one more thing this king must make right to ensure that succession, but he would.
Leaving the future for another day, he returned to this one. Here another thing to be made right.
Standing atop the narrow ridge overlooking the meadow where the great clash—now called the Battle of Hastings—had been fought, he harked back to that gloriously bloody day when he ended Saxon rule.
Though five years gone, there remained evidence of those who had bled and died here. Most Normans had been buried, and though many Saxons had come for the bodies of loved ones, not all were found or satisfactorily identified to ensure hallowed ground embraced their remains.
Still, nature had been kind, seasonal torrents and wind causing great shifts of soil and fortuitous fertilizer encouraging grasses and other plants to spring up in greater abundance than when this place was chosen as a battlefield. However, from this vantage, bones resistant to the decay of flesh, muscle, and organs they supported could be glimpsed among the sway of tall stalks and low-lying bushes.
