by Tamara Leigh
She commanded her arms around him, as best she could embraced him as she had last embraced Wulf. And ached even more for the one she would never again hold.
Hearing Vitalis cross the room, she composed her face and looked up. She did not hide her emotions well, as told by the hand he set on her shoulder.
Determining she would correct him later, she lowered her chin and breathed in the scent of this quaking boy who was as motherless as she was childless.
Lord help them both…
Chapter Ten
Wulfenshire Rebel Camp, England
February, 1067
Instinct.
She had known it would give her what she required of him. He had known it as well—that his desire to live and the rebels’ desire to thwart him would see the tip of his unworthy sword rise from the dirt and beat back his enemies. And beat them back he did despite his left wrist remaining manacled and the chain between it and post providing only ten strained feet in which to maneuver.
Dotter had known though he abhorred being made an instrument that gave his enemy an advantage—one that might see Normans dead—he could not resist. But had she guessed how much satisfaction he would derive from remaining alive? How exhilarating to strike back at those who had beaten a defenseless man? How gratifying to make them shout, hurt, and bleed?
Though the Saxons he now faced were no mere recruits, having been afforded training and wielding weapons of steel rather than flesh and bone, very little satisfaction did he provide them. Not so with Jaxon who liked to end training sessions by demonstrating techniques on his chained opponent—acts of vengeance against one who often bested his best.
Guarin ached to challenge the man unchained and with a keen blade. How long anticipation of that contest and his altered state of imprisonment would sustain him he did not know, but it was enough. For now.
He almost smiled over two seemingly benign words that had become his daily bread. But in their every stroke was a world of what came after. He would survive, escape, and justice would be his.
In the four weeks since Dotter discovered her savior lived and his reward had been torture, much he had healed as had often been impossible between beatings. To the detriment of those he was forced to train in order to mark another day, he grew stronger, quicker, and more focused.
When next she came, she would not find a man struggling to keep his pieces together but a warrior—albeit not yet of the strength of the one met on the battlefield.
When would she come? he pondered as he allowed himself once a day while being secured prior to his return to the cave.
Beyond healing, warmth, food, and drink, one basic need was denied him—to see her again. Not to express gratitude nor threaten her, though at times he longed to, so angry did he become as he had not when first they were reunited. To her benefit, he had been too beaten to further exhaust himself in expressing anger, but of greater benefit to him, his relatively passive demeanor had gained her sympathy as evidenced by the mantle around him day and night.
So for what did he need to see her? he asked himself as he had many times, lied as many times, and cursed himself many times when he glimpsed what lay beyond those lies. As he did now.
“Hold!” shouted the Saxon who supervised his transfer from post to cave, he whose sword Guarin would welcome against his own though the warrior showed no inclination to do to his prisoner what Jaxon did.
Standing akimbo throughout those demonstrations, Vitalis watched—excepting the one time he intervened when the camp commander landed a blow with his keen-edged blade that sliced open the chausses and flesh of Guarin’s upper calf. Before the older man could gain another piece of the Norman whose loss of footing at the farthest reach of his chain presented the temptation of an exposed neck, Vitalis had lunged and shouted, “By command of Dotter, cease!”
Now again he spoke for her, Guarin guessed when he caught the sound of approaching horses he had not earlier for the ringing in his ears dealt by Jaxon’s glancing sword.
He turned from observing Zedekiah who had begun securing his ankles.
Once more astride the Norman horse with a man on either side, he felt Dotter’s eyes on him. And hoped she felt his on her. As she and her escort reined in, Zedekiah tested the chain once more run between Guarin’s ankles and straightened.
“Leave him secured to the post,” Vitalis called and strode forward to greet his lady.
Guarin expected him to aid in her dismount, but Dotter was out of the saddle a stride ahead of his arrival.
Distracted from searching for fault in the binding of his body that might later be exploited, Guarin stared at the woman whose gaze was now upon Vitalis.
Though once more garbed as a man, these clothes more visible now she wore a short, fur-lined mantle in place of the long one given him, she was more comely. She still appeared underfed, but her face was fuller, she had color in her cheeks, and hair that had been darkened by neglect was the gold he had first looked upon.
She exchanged words with Vitalis, then stepped past and returned her eyes to Guarin. They moved down him, up, and shoulder to shoulder before settling on his face.
“Leave us, faithful Saxon,” she instructed Zedekiah as she halted out of reach of the chain.
The man moved in the direction nearly all had gone once Jaxon finished his demonstration—out of sight of Guarin where they partook of the nooning meal before venturing to a more distant place of training as evidenced by great sword song.
“By invitation I have come,” she spoke Norman-French in a voice he had not known was so honeyed.
Guarin had no cause to smile, but mischief tugged at his mouth. He had told her to come again. Though he did not believe it was he who commanded her presence, he was certain he was among the reasons she was here.
He inclined his head. “Dotter,” he named her, though great the temptation to speak Wulfrithdotter and savor her reaction. So certain was he this was Wulfenshire and it was Wulfen-trained warriors who afforded such excellent training that men born to the soil were quickly transformed into men who fought, he would almost wager his life on it. But better his enemy think he remained ignorant and powerless for not knowing south from north and east from west in this foreign country.
He did not believe deception—could this be called that—among his strengths, but under these circumstances it was necessary.
Though the lady’s hands were beneath her mantle, from the jut of her upper arms he guessed she clasped them at her waist as if settling into a conversation. “You look much improved, Guarin D’Argent.”
If she expected gratitude, she would be disappointed. It was due him, not her. Then there was the matter of an apology to which he did not believe she could ever do justice. “As do you, Dotter.”
“I am eating better, sleeping better, thinking better. I am told it is the same for you.”
Beginning to feel the cold as his perspiration-dampened garments turned icy, he crossed his arms over his chest to conserve heat and save himself the indignity of shivering. “Much better now the torture has mostly ceased and the fighting dog made of me is not entirely lacking teeth and claws.”
He nearly laughed triumphant when she averted her eyes, but a moment later they returned to his. “Vitalis says you are of good benefit in training our rebels, that you are as admired and respected for your skill at arms as you are detested for your Norman blood.”
“If you think to swell me with pride, you think wrong, Lady. It is as you named it—instinct, the desire to survive all the more powerful for the desire to see justice done.”
“In that we are the same,” she said, “both of us staying this world to see it made right. Once England is Saxon again, I will return you to your country, and you will have to be content that, unlike those of your kind who burn and kill and ravage, your life remains yours to finish at your leisure. And my people…” She breathed deep. “Too great our losses to see us even halfway whole, but our children’s children shall be.”
&nb
sp; After all Guarin had endured, he did not wish to feel for the plight of those who had lost their country to stronger swords, cunning, and resolve, but despite a heart much hardened these months, it yet boasted soft places where the torment of innocents slid through like blades into flesh.
Grudging though his sympathy, it prevented his faith from slipping through clasped hands. True, his prayers for escape remained unanswered and conversations with the Lord one-sided, but they suppressed rage on a scale that might move him toward madness and horrible acts that would render him unredeemable.
“I will release you, Guarin D’Argent.”
“Generous,” he said with so slight a taint of sarcasm it might slip past.
Her lids narrowed. “Is there anything you lack?”
“Much.”
“I speak of necessities. More food, drink, blankets. Perhaps a razor since your kind prefer short hair and beardless faces.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You would trust me with a sharp blade?”
“I see no risk whilst you are chained. One can be tossed to you and tossed back.”
“Tempting, but I grow accustomed to the warmth hair and beard afford in this accursedly cold country.”
“Then I shall see you returned to your cave.”
Loath to let her go though there was naught more to be said, movement beyond the watchful Vitalis provided an excuse. “You have grown attached to one Norman.”
“Attached?” she exclaimed. “What makes you believe I could become attached to one such as you? Just because I removed the noose from your neck and ordered you treated like the human you barely are does not mean—”
“I refer to the horse, Lady.”
Her words dried up, and she loosed a breath that clouded the air, but not so much it masked her mortification.
Was there not some saying about how great the lies to be found behind unwarranted protestation? Guarin had not sought to rouse such a response, but it revealed she felt for him beyond pity, even were her emotions rooted in gratitude for what he had done for her and remorse for what she had done to him. Somehow he would make use of it.
The cold beginning to nip, he said, “It is your attachment to the destrier I speak of, not this vile Norman who gave him and a most precious dagger into your keeping.”
He heard her swallow, was glad he discomfited her.
“I do grow attached to him,” she said, “possible only because he is not Norman.”
He grunted. “Norman-bred and trained is Norman, and for that a worthy mount he has proven no matter you deny his origin. You are wise to once more entrust your well-being to one from across the sea.”
As evidenced by the snap of her teeth and the back she turned on him, he offended when better his time and words were spent on wooing. But he was too weary and uncomfortable to think in a straight line.
Lord, I grow cold, he spoke heavenward as she stalked to Vitalis.
After ordering the warrior to have his men return Guarin to his cave, she directed her escort to water and feed her horse—a horse she loudly called Anglicus.
Latin for English, Guarin mused. He could not know if it was in that moment the Norman destrier was named, but he suspected it. And laughed.
Chapter Eleven
Wulfen Castle, England
March, 1067
A month since she left the boy’s training to others to further her own at the camp. A month since being jolted by her encounter with Guarin D’Argent who had nearly looked the warrior first encountered on the battlefield. A month and still she heard his laughter that made her want to scoop it from the air, close her fingers around it, and sigh over its rumble against her palm as the girl of her had done the flutter of a butterfly’s wings.
Witless, she named herself. But she wanted it.
Vitalis reported with each passing day their Norman captive became a more formidable opponent, that the strength returned to him had prompted inspection of the rings bolted into the cave wall whilst he trained Saxons. Upon discovering they were loose, possibly days from being wrenched free, the smithy Zedekiah had replaced them with ones twice as stout and sunk twice as deep.
D’Argent had not raged as expected, which Vitalis said would have been satisfying compared to the laughter he loosed.
In that Isa felt a kinship with her man, especially now that laughter returned to her when she ought to be focusing on something of greater import—Le Bâtard’s men stepping past the porter, sullying her hall with the click and clop of their boots, many of which she would not be surprised to learn were taken from the stiffening feet of Saxons.
Face forward, she moved her gaze over her housecarles on both sides of the dais. Fifteen strong, they were fully armored and armed to defend her if needed. Next, she looked sidelong at the boy who stood to her right, his bottom lip becoming chapped as he scraped his teeth over it.
“Peace, Wulfrith,” she whispered. “You have only to stand my side and say oui or nod when I tap the chair arm with one finger, say non or shake your head when I tap with two, smile at three, frown at four.”
“Aye, my la—” He silenced himself as if remembering there were only two words he was to speak in the presence of the enemy. His lessons in Norman-French progressed well for the intelligence with which he was gifted, but it would be a year or more before he was sufficiently fluent to provide further proof he was sired by a Norman.
Isa returned her gaze to the dozen who neared the dais where the high table perched and from behind which she and her son would receive them.
Advancing slightly ahead of the others was a tall broad-shouldered chevalier. Like his companions, he had yet to remove his helmet, and his chain mail was so polished the light cast by a dozen torches licked its every link.
William’s man halted two strides from the dais, and amid the helmet’s shadow on either side of its nose guard, she caught the glitter of eyes.
She unstuck her tongue, spoke words rehearsed in the hope they sounded sincere. “I, Lady Hawisa Fortier, welcome to Wulfen Castle the representatives of King William.”
She looked to the boy, smiled, returned her regard to the enemy. “Here the son and heir of my Norman-born husband, Roger Fortier, who fell upon Stamford Bridge. He who bears the esteemed name Wulfrith also welcomes you.” She tapped a single finger on the chair arm below the level of the table and out of the corner of her eye saw the boy nod stiffly. Wishing she had created a signal to let him know he did well so he would exude confidence, she said, “I pray you and your men are at ease in my home.”
“Much gratitude.” The chevalier unbuckled his helmet’s chin strap, causing his men to do the same. Within moments, the visages of all were revealed.
Blessedly, the first thing that made Isa startle was good cover for the second. One side of the face of the man before her was terribly scarred, the more lightly disfigured side evidencing how great a loss he had suffered. The damage to his handsome features recent, she guessed it gained at Senlac.
Of greater note—and shock—was his hair. Short on the sides and longer on top in the style favored by the Normans, it presented as the black of the night sea beneath a moon casting silver light across cresting waves. Only once before had she seen a man below the age of thirty so silvered—the same whose laughter she wished to catch in her palm.
Cool green eyes going cold, Le Bâtard’s man bowed. “Chevalier Maël D’Argent.”
Of course he was. Heart hammering, she struggled to compose her face.
He smiled crookedly. “Pardon the fright, my lady. What can be done has been done to mend the injury dealt by your countrymen. I am assured when the flesh’s ire cools, it will not be as unsightly.”
She was almost ashamed by her reaction though it was not truly for what was done this Norman who had paid a great price for stealing a country—though not as high a price as that demanded of thousands of Saxons who had died from their injuries.
Grateful her horror could be blamed on his ruined face, she said, “It is I who must be
pardoned. One would think never have I seen such grave misfortune, though I assure you I have, especially in recent months.”
As she awaited his response, she wondered if it was coincidence the usurper had sent a D’Argent to collect her tribute—an unconscionable amount of coin to redeem her lands, in the absence of which they would be subject to forfeiture. Or was this man here because someone on the battlefield had recognized the lady with whom the silvered warrior shared a saddle? If so, surely one of her own had survived and been made to talk. Were that so, she was being baited.
“Understandable,” Maël D’Argent finally said. “These are dark times for all.”
And shall grow darker for you, she silently warned.
“As I am certain you are eager to resume your journey, Sir Maël, the tribute is here.” She gestured to where the chest sat atop the table. “And drink and viands are on the sideboard.” She nodded at the long table against one wall, a simple offering presented in unadorned vessels to downplay the wealth accumulated over scores of years, much from training the sons of monied men. Thus, she gave these Normans little reason to linger so her Saxons could sooner resume work on extending Wulfen’s underground passage to the wood.
The chevalier settled into his boots. “Your king thanks you for honoring him with a great tribute and his men with a fine feast.”
“I but do the same as would any loyal subject,” Isa said, detesting the inference she was that to William of Normandy and fearing whatever held this chevalier unmoving.
“There are two other matters, one regarding your lands,” he said.
Campagnon. As Gytha had told, he was to be awarded a portion of her holdings. It was good she was prepared. Still, she made no attempt to appear light of heart and face. “The lands of my Norman son, Wulfrith Fortier. Your—my—king would part them from the heir though the tribute is paid in full?” She tapped four fingers to elicit a frown from the boy.
