FEARLESS: Book Two: Age of Conquest

by Tamara Leigh

  “That is the least of my afflictions,” he muttered, “and of little concern if my fate is a merciful death or a violent one.”

  He caught the sound of her tongue coming off her palate. “You heard all of it—Jaxon, Vitalis, me?”

  “Only Vitalis and you. Though much was unclear, I understood enough to know you risk much in keeping me alive. And I concur.” He coughed again, this time against a dry throat.

  “Pray, drink,” she said.

  He shifted forward a body that spoke with the voice of chains. Once the worst of his thirst was answered, he would use what remained of the water to soothe aches by pressing wet cloths to cuts and swellings, then clean away the blood and stench of a long unwashed body. Lastly, he would satisfy his hunger with bread and cheese. A simple life of mere survival…

  The cold water refreshed and numbed his throat, but it further chilled a body across which hairs prickled. As he returned the basin to the floor, he was wracked by a shudder that snapped his teeth and slopped precious water over the rim.

  “Almighty,” he rasped and pressed his arms tight to his sides to suppress the next quake that sought to further unman him.

  Something of good weight landed on his legs.

  “You are in greater need than I,” the lady said defensively.

  Though pride demanded he toss back the thick, woolen mantle, he felt his sire’s great hands on shoulders beginning to broaden, and heard him say, Let not pride be so powerful as to be the death of you, Son.

  He lifted the mantle, suppressed a groan as ache tore through his side, and dragged the wool around his shoulders. Ahead of feeling the lady’s warmth settle over him, he caught her scent above that of a long-stored garment. It was slight and in no way perfumed.

  Containing the next shudder, he considered her figure clothed in close-fitting tunic and chausses. Too close, as if fashioned for a boy of good size, else a very young woman.

  “A mantle for a dagger,” he said. “Ere this day, I would have scorned such a trade.” And had he yet his mail tunic and sword, of which he had been divested, he would be tempted to trade them as well.

  “You will not be cold again,” she ignored the opening given to reveal what had become of his dagger. “Henceforth, you will be afforded proper bedding, clothing, drink, and food.”

  He stared.

  “And light,” she exclaimed. “One cannot live in darkness.”

  “I have,” he said more sharply than he should considering she provided confirmation of answered prayer—that she was the weak of the rebels, thereby his best chance of escape. “For near on three months.”

  “You are fortunate to have survived. But winter is upon us, and long it will be dark and cold.”

  “God is on my side,” he spoke the same as Duke William had in rallying his troops. Words Guarin had questioned then. Words questioned since when he felt most abandoned.

  “If that is so, how is it you are here?” she challenged.

  Though he wished the answer simply that time and chance happened to all as found in scripture, he knew his decision to aid in conquering England was the beginning of this end. Still, he said, “I followed my God-given conscience in aiding you, rather than the flesh and heart urging me to sooner find kin. I trust eventually the Lord will make clear His reason and plan.”

  “That is the same expectation of Saxons yet capable of believing God will return to their side,” she said, then almost to herself, “A pity He cannot stand both our sides.”

  Guarin had not considered that, but now he did and would have been tempted to hopelessness had not his sire imparted the belief God knew no limits, that whatever He deemed worthy was possible.

  The woman started to return her dagger to its sheath, then once more set it before her. “Recall your word given me, and I shall bring your food and the cloths nearer. Then we can speak of the morrow.”

  “My word stands.”

  She tossed the cloths to him, then set the platter of food near and pushed it forward with her dagger.

  Loath to lose any of the heat gained from the dark blue mantle whose return she would soon demand, he did not move. When she left the cave, he would eat and tend his injuries.

  As she settled on the end of the slab and set the dagger across her lap, he said, “I think it time you reveal how long I am to be treated more a man than a beast and what is required in return—which, be assured, will not be betrayal of my own.”

  “What is required of you I do not think betrayal but, rather, instinct.”

  “Instinct?”

  “No different from what has kept you alive these months, defending yourself with all means available, not the least of which is remaining strong. Vitalis believes it is how you protect your innards.”

  “Lady,” he snapped, “cease your circling and tell what you and that knave have devised.” He regretted his loss of patience, but he knew he would not like her solution.

  “As you must know, I cannot release you. Thus, the only way to keep you alive is for you to remain useful to our cause.”

  He waited.

  “By encouraging the recruits to beat you, Jaxon gave them a taste of revenge and the hope of righting wrongs. Thus, you proved useful, but I will not tolerate further treatment of that sort. Unfortunately, Jaxon answers to me only so far. And I need him.”

  Guarin longed to lie back, instead parted the mantle to let in a breath of cool air lest he yield to the seduction of wool.

  “Thus, one post, one chain,” she said. “And you will be armed with a dull sword.”

  She need tell no more. He was to aid in training her rebels, providing experience with how a Norman fought—and satisfaction in bettering one.

  “I am guessing my Saxon opponent will not be chained to the other post,” he snarled, “nor his blade dull.”

  She started to avert her gaze, firmed it. “Your opponents will not be chained, but I think it safest for all, regardless of skill, dull blades are used both sides.”

  It was more than a concern for safety, Guarin thought. He could do great damage with a sword whose blade was wanting, but far greater damage with a keen one he did not doubt he could wrest from many a rebel. “And should I decline to give my enemies an advantage over my people?”

  “Then they will beat you unto death. But do you defend yourself, you will live.”

  “For how long, Lady? I may not know your name, but I know your face and your body. I know these are your rebels.”

  “Do you do as Vitalis proposes, you should survive long enough to be sent back across the sea with others of your kind.”

  He leaned forward as if to impart a secret. “That sea is now William’s, as is his right now he wears England’s crown.” At her blink of surprise, he continued, “I am not entirely isolated. Joy of which your rebels have little and anger of which they have much loosen lips with such volume and speed words fly like bats to the back of this cave.”

  She stood, walked around the slab and, with it once more between them, returned her dagger to its scabbard.

  “We are done?” he asked.

  “I will come again. When I do, you will be alive, swinging a sword, and teaching my rebels how a Norman fights.”

  He knew he should not argue, but her words sounded a command. “I will not play your game.”

  “It is no game, D’Argent. It is instinct. It is life. And did you not already grasp that, I would be speaking with a corpse. You will fight.” She turned and started toward Vitalis who was visible to Guarin now he had risen to sitting.

  At the center of the cave, she turned and said with what sounded pleading, “As Jaxon seeks your death, I know not how else to keep you alive, Guarin D’Argent. Pray, defend yourself. And live.”

  Though angered that regardless of how dull the blade seeking his blood, she was right—instinct would drive him to do all in his power to preserve his life—he was moved by her determination he live. And her grieving over the one who did not. “Did you find your son upon Senlac, La
dy?”

  “I did.”

  No joy in her voice, only sorrow the same as Saxons who arrived at the camp to build on a foundation of grief the anger and vengeance of a rebel. Had Guarin to wager, it would be on a boy having died on that battlefield beneath the blades of men. Pity the one with the death of a child on his conscience—had he a conscience.

  “I am sorry,” he said.

  “For what?” She was defensive again, as if he had lost the wager.

  He did not think so. As she started to turn aside, he considered saying naught of what she left behind, but she would return for it, and he wished to be done with her—for now. “You forget your mantle.”

  “I do not.”

  Then he had her sympathy, a weakness to be exploited during the wooing. “Much appreciated, Boudica.”

  “Do not call me that!”

  “A name, then. Or are you so uncertain of your ability to hold me you fear I shall use it to seek you out when I escape?”

  “I will hold you. You will not depart without my leave.” A long pause, then, “But I shall give you a name. I am Dotter.”

  He nearly called it a lie, but though it was not what he sought, there was some truth to it. Unlike the Normans who had begun taking surnames as Guarin’s sire had done in choosing a reference to the silver hair by which he and his sire were known, beyond their Christian names the Saxons were mostly known by whose son or daughter they were.

  Before freeing himself, he would learn exactly who had sired this woman who might not be a warrior but was nearer one than any of the fairer sex he had met.

  He frowned. Was it possible…?

  He narrowed his eyes at her, deemed it very possible that of the midland shires in contention for the camp’s location, this was Wulfenshire. Were it, the lady might not merely be Dotter but Wulfrithdotter.

  He smiled, called, “Come again, Dotter.”

  Dotter.

  She had not lied, though neither had she given him what he asked. Though she had spoken with confidence, were any capable of escaping Jaxon, she would guess it was Guarin D’Argent. And seriously she took his sideways threat to seek her out.

  As evidenced by him learning the loathsome duke wore England’s crown, it could prove impossible to hide behind the name of Dotter. And per orders Jaxon disliked as much as Vitalis being given charge of their Norman prisoner, now that D’Argent was to be more often amongst his enemies, he would have further opportunities to uproot her.

  Though Isa had told Jaxon and Vitalis to instruct the rebels that in his presence they were not to speak of her nor the lands upon which they trained, so many could not long guard their tongues.

  D’Argent would learn her name and that of her demesne, and for this Jaxon was right to protest him training rebels. But only this. She hated D’Argent as she must, but she could not allow the torture to continue nor grant even a merciful death.

  If only she had come after Jaxon gained from the Norman the satisfaction he sought—

  She gasped at so evil a wish D’Argent was gone from this world.

  “All is well, my lady?”

  She nearly startled over Ordric’s presence at her side where she had turned her destrier to look back. Glancing first at the housecarle on her other side, she saw from his frown that neither had her reaction to so heinous a thought escaped him.

  “All is well,” she said, then once more considered the ravine to assure herself there was nothing to indicate the encampment lay at the opposite end beyond dense growth.

  If one knew the path down through that rocky place, its every twist and turn and the light to be found at the end of long stretches of God-hewn tunnels, the troops of Normans reported upon Wulfenshire would uncover the resistance. And her rebels would die before they had the opportunity to add their strength to others across England.

  Again she was struck by the thought that supported Jaxon’s belief D’Argent was better dead. Again, horror over ending the life of one who was not the same as others subjugating her country—he who had sounded sincere rather than taunting when he sought confirmation of what he believed her son’s death. And there another reason she could not release him, but providing care was taken to ensure she kept hold of D’Argent until the Normans were ousted, he could do her no harm.

  But his duke could. To thwart the crown-wearing usurper, she must begin preparing mind and heart to bring into her home a boy for whom she would care naught but would call son when the Normans came.

  Chapter Eight

  Lillefarne Abbey

  Wulfenshire, England

  Informed of the elderly abbess’s passing, Isa had known there would be a new one at Lillefarne. But this surprised.

  The woman who had stepped from the center of a long line of nuns, named herself Abbess Mary Sarah, and welcomed her patroness, appeared so young it was unlikely she matched Isa’s twenty and five years. In looks only though, her pretty face and slim full-chested figure contrasting with a severe and proper demeanor befitting one aged two score.

  Smile slight as if to appear serene, the woman said, “I would be honored, my lady, did you come out from beneath this foul sky and ease your thirst and hunger in my apartment.”

  Remaining astride in the courtyard to which she and the hooded Vitalis had been admitted, Isa glanced heavenward. The clouds’ bellies were middling grey to dark grey. Hence, there could be no lingering.

  “I thank you, Abbess, but we are for a long day of travel and can spare only a quarter hour. I shall return another day so we may become acquainted.”

  The woman arched an eyebrow toward hair that peaked lower on her brow than most. “I marvel you bothered to pause here, my lady. What small thing do you require of this humble house of God?”

  Though loath to dismount for a short time that could stretch longer were the urgency imparted by staying the saddle lost, it was rude to continue talking down on the godly woman.

  Isa swung a leg over and dropped to the ground.

  Lids narrowing, the abbess considered what was revealed by the parting of Isa’s fur-lined mantle. “You are dressed as a man, my lady, not as God would see you clothed.”

  Isa longed to say it was in the skin of a woman God had clothed her and she yet wore that beneath woven threads, but she said, “I find such garments best for hours in the saddle. Now, two matters bring me to Lillefarne.”

  The abbess tucked her hands into opposite sleeves. “The first, my lady?”

  “Ere I tell, let us save time by preparing for the second. Pray, have one of your nuns summon my former maid, Aelfled.”

  “At this hour of morn, she is at prayer.”

  “She may return to her conversation with God once I have spoken with her,” Isa said.

  The abbess’s nose twitched, but she ordered a middle-aged sister to collect Aelfled. “Now how may I serve you, my lady?”

  “I would speak of the Saxon women who seek sanctuary here to escape the invaders’ attentions.”

  “Though I have only recently arrived at Lillefarne,” Abbess Mary Sarah said, “this past sennight we have taken in two—a lady and a commoner—adding to those who arrived following the great battle.”

  “Then within these walls is much to tempt men of ill repute.”

  “Aye, my lady. I have heard of the breaching of several abbeys across England, their occupants defiled and several ladies carried off and forced into marriage.”

  “I would not see that happen here, Abbess. Thus, the need for a stone wall like that which surrounds Wulfen Castle.”

  “Stone! But the cost—”

  “I shall bear it. My grandsire funded this abbey, and I will not neglect his good work of providing women needed refuge.”

  “Generous, my lady. Such consideration I will not refuse.”

  Only a fool would, Isa thought, unsure whether this woman warranted like or dislike since something about her did not ring true. Hopefully, it was only her youth, which evidenced her position was gained by way of favors.

 
; “When will construction begin?” the abbess asked.

  “As soon as plans are drawn.”

  She inclined her head. “I will be pleased to offer suggestions on how best—”

  “I thank you, but I would not take time from your charges. With the enemy upon us, more than ever they require godly guidance.”

  Hesitation, and was that a flicker of resentment?

  Isa knew she trod on the woman’s authority, but the wall had another purpose beyond keeping Lillefarne’s occupants safe, and the fewer who knew of it the better. And here came one who would be entrusted with that knowledge.

  Aelfled halted alongside the abbess and in her sweetly husky voice said, “My lady?”

  Having not seen her since leaving her here en route to returning Wulf’s body to the castle, Isa noted she looked older and thinner. Of course, the same could be said of her lady.

  Aelfled suffered, and Isa wanted to be glad of it since it was due one whose failure had caused the death of five boys, but she hurt for the young woman who had been a friend and confidante.

  Remember why you are here, she reminded herself. “Let us walk, Aelfled.”

  Unlike in the past, the young woman did not draw alongside. Once they were distant from the others, Isa turned to her.

  “I am glad you have come, my lady,” Aelfled said.

  “Are you?”

  “Aye, so I may see for myself you are well.”

  “And?”

  She moistened her lips. “I know it is too soon to forgive, but…I ache for how much you hate me.”

  Isa was so vexed by how deeply she felt her maid’s pain she nearly loosed words of cruel assurance hope was wasted on forgiveness. Instead, she said, “I have a use for you.”

  Aelfled’s eyes widened. “Anything.”

  “Anything? You would kill for me?”

  The young woman gasped. “My beloved lady would not ask that of me.”

  “But if she did?”

  Her moist eyes sending a bolt through the heart, Isa determined to speak elsewhere, but before she could reveal the reason for her visit, Aelfled said, “I am sorry, my lady, but I could not kill for you. Pray, ask anything else of me.”