by Tamara Leigh
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Pride due my sire. He was—”
“Formidable, oui. But you are not your father.”
Offense flew through her. “You say Jaxon is my better?”
“As England—and Wulfenshire—now stands, I do. His facility with weapons, ability to command, and reputation that finds him in the company of those determined to see one of King Harold’s line take back the throne, are more valued than your claim to your sire’s name. Do you not rid yourself of him, he will rid himself of you.”
She longed to argue, nearly did, then sighed. “I fear you are right.”
“You should have let me kill him.”
Even chained, she believed it possible he could have done so and was not certain his victory would have been due to wielding two swords. This fearless Norman had survived Hastings where thousands had fallen, endured weeks of torture, was of muscled breadth and great height, and young relative to Jaxon.
“We should return him to the cave, my lady?”
She looked to those Vitalis trusted to keep watch over her captive, but before she could confirm they do their duty, Guarin said in their language, “Nay, Lady Hawisa and I have six months of silence to fill.”
Though tempted to refuse him, she said, “I will speak with him.”
“In the cave?” one of the men asked.
“Outside,” Guarin answered again. When she shot her gaze to him, he said, “The cave is better kept than when first you came to me there, but remains dim and foul.”
“Very well. Unchain him.”
“My lady!” Vitalis’s men protested.
“Once he relinquishes his swords, I believe it sufficient to bind his hands behind his back,” Isa said. And that belief was supported by their last visit when he could have done her great harm.
She glanced at his wrists, not for the first time noted the scraped and raw flesh above the manacles. Would he be scarred for life?
“Much appreciated, Lady Hawisa,” he said and cast the swords at her feet and swept his arms behind his back.
Muttering beneath his breath, one of Vitalis’s men uncoiled a length of rope. When he had bound Guarin’s hands, his companion unfastened the manacle.
Isa led the way to the immense rocks scattered to the left of the cave’s entrance, seated herself on one whose surface was warmed by the autumn sun, and gestured at another ahead and to the right.
As Guarin lowered, the men positioned themselves on either side of him.
“Return to the cave,” Isa ordered.
“But my lady—”
“As long as you keep watch, he will not harm me,” she said, though fairly certain even if she sent them away, she would be safe, especially since Vitalis was not here to prevent Jaxon from making much of aggression against her.
For further assurance, she slid her dagger from its sheath and set it across her thighs. “Leave us.”
With glances over their shoulders, they retreated. Providing Isa and Guarin spoke low, their conversation would remain between them.
She waited for him to reveal the reason for his summons, but he closed his eyes and turned his face up, causing silvered hair to fall back and reveal a thick column of neck across which coursed the large vein Jaxon wished to sever.
“I thank you,” he said. “As often I question my humanity—even God—it is good to feel more man than beast.”
Pained by a heart that should be as empty of feeling as her life was empty of Wulf, Isa said, “I wish it could be different, that you had left me to my fate upon Senlac.”
“I wish it as well.” He continued to let the sun warm his face. “You know not how many times, especially during the beatings, I rued forcing my protection on you.” He lowered his chin, met her gaze. “One year since first we met, Hawisa. One year since I sacrificed my freedom and dignity. One year since I became acquainted with manacle, chain, and gutted pride. One year since my family began to fear me dead and now surely believe it.”
Knowing how near he was to one of his brothers, she averted her gaze.
“You think your loss greater than mine,” he said, “and even if now I am absent a brother as well as an uncle, I would not argue you have more to mourn in losing a child. But it is time to right the wrong done me.”
She looked up. “I cannot release you.”
He shifted his jaw, and she felt the anger he contained as she did not believe her sire could have done. “The word of a D’Argent—”
“I cannot! Were I the only one at risk, I would chance it, but it would be unforgivable to endanger those I have been entrusted to protect. And so I ask that you bide with me.”
His nostrils flared.
“I do not dispute your integrity nor good intentions, Guarin D’Argent, but we all have weaknesses that make us do things of which we would not have believed ourselves capable. My son was my weakness, as were—and are—my people. The same vulnerabilities afflict you, and I will not have innocents pay for the trust you would have me gift you.”
He sat forward, causing the muscles of his shoulders to bunch as his bound hands strained against the movement. “It has been a year, and even in the absence of King William, England remains Norman.”
Then he knew the usurper had yet to return from celebrating his victory in Normandy. He heard too much, though what did it matter as long as he had no means of escape?
“What chance has Gytha to place one of her grandsons on the throne?” he pressed.
“We thought the same of your kind,” she retorted. “What chance had Normans of stealing the crown? But just as we underestimated your duke, you underestimate the Saxons’ resolve. We will topple William.”
“I do not believe it. I know him and that he is far more the wolf than I. Not only did he sink his teeth into your island kingdom, he swallowed it whole. Unless Gytha and her followers are able and willing to reach into his belly and risk being devoured, their cause—yours—is lost. The sooner Saxons accept Norman rule, the fewer will suffer and die.”
She was tempted to yield to his argument, so hopeless did he make her cause sound, but she would be a traitor to her own if she freed him. And with a portion of her lands in the hands of his brother, how was she to keep hold of what remained with Guarin aware she was Dotter? Were the rest of her lands not taken, she would find herself on her face alongside a grasping Norman, his ring on her hand, a pall stretched over them as the wedding mass was intoned.
She stood. “I cannot give what you ask, and I believe my decision is the same you would wish your sister to make.”
His eyes hardened. “Then we are done, Hawisa Wulfrithdotter,” he said, but as she started to turn away, asked, “Have you further word of my family?”
She almost wished she had moved her one conversation with Theriot D’Argent to talk of his family so she might reveal the fate of Dougray to allow Guarin to be at peace or begin mourning. “I have made no further inquiries.”
“And will not?”
“If I can without arousing suspicion, I shall.”
He nodded. “As I am to remain your captive, benefitting your lesser rebels whilst ever watching for the day Jaxon turns on us both, I seek payment.”
She startled. “Payment?”
“Rather, a favor.”
Sensing the wolf before her, she said, “You look well enough clothed and fed. What do you require?”
“Once a week when you come to train, I would keep company with you.”
“For what?”
“To know you better.”
“To what end?”
“I may wish I had not aided you, but I believe I would do so again, just as I believe I shall do so again.”
She snorted. “I do not foresee requiring further aid.”
“You will if you stay the course.”
“I will not!”
As if she had not spoken, he continued, “Do I yet live, I shall be there to keep you from King William’s wrath and myself bring the Lady of Wulfen into the Norm
an fold.”
She glowered. “You are becoming loose of mind, and I am sorry if I am responsible.”
“Not loose of mind, but you are responsible for all this.” He looked to the cave. “But in time I shall forgive you as the Lord would have me do—certes, all the more imperative if I am to prove a good husband.”
Husband.
A taunt to which there could be truth though Guarin had let her believe as she would. Once more manacled and back to the wall, he wondered what she had believed.
Emotions had lit her grey eyes and moved the muscles of her throat, but no further word had she spoken. When she strode opposite, he had called to her, reminding her of the payment that would find them together seven days hence. She had not answered, but he believed she would come.
The lady he wooed disliked him for a Norman, and that was all. Though her resistance to releasing him tempted him to rage, he understood. He had given her good reason to trust him with her life and mostly believed he could trust her with his, but neither would he risk his people were he captor and she captive.
Still, her guilt over his circumstances and the debt owed him made her vulnerable in a way he was not. Thus, given more time he might turn her from her course—hopefully well before this need to protect her saw him wed to a Saxon when it was a Norman lady with whom his sire wished him matched.
As the heir of a sizable demesne, the forging of his manhood fairly recent, and of attractive face and form, Guarin had many ladies to choose from. Of greatest consideration was one who stood apart from Hawisa—a lady of ten and seven who possessed childbearing years aplenty and was of great height to birth sons as tall as he. True, she was of many words and little thought, but their sons would be warriors of one mind rather than two were he to join with a Saxon. Providing another had not taken the Norman lady to wife during his captivity, he might.
Guarin picked another piece of cold venison from the wooden platter, followed it with coarse brown bread, and washed them down with ale.
“One year.” He nodded. “Long ere the passing of another, I will be home.”
Wulfen Castle
England
Husband.
He taunted. Of course he did. And she would have it no other way. Never would another Norman’s name replace Wulfrithdotter. As told the faith-breaking Bernia, it was a Saxon to whom she would bind herself, ensuring wife and husband were of one mind—if she wed again. And she would not.
Then your sire’s line ends with you, spoke dissent which would see her bound to one of Gytha’s choosing.
Isa read again the missive delivered to Wulfen whilst she was at camp. Harold’s mother wished Wulfrith’s heir to wed her nephew and planned to send him a month hence. Isa recognized the name of one a dozen years older than she who, for reasons unknown, had not been at his cousin’s side upon Senlac. But just as she would refuse Guarin D’Argent did he not merely taunt, she would refuse Gytha’s kin.
She heard boots and turned to Wulfrith.
The boy smiled, less shyly now. “I have completed my lesson,” he said succinctly to demonstrate which one.
“Your accent improves daily,” she answered in Norman-French. “And the written word?”
He halted before her where she stood with her back to the fire, wrinkled a nose longer than that of the one whose name he had taken. “I try, my lady, but it is difficult.”
All the more so for having little exposure to reading and writing before arriving at Wulfen. “Then you must work harder, Wulfrith.”
“I do not think I have the mind for it.”
“Of course you do.”
He sighed. “I prefer training at arms.”
“As did Wulf.” It was said without thought, and when thought followed, so did pain.
The boy was not oblivious, and she was both grateful and resentful for the sympathy in his eyes. He was kind, as of one yet too innocent to exercise caution in the casting of compassion, and he overstepped in feeling for her what only a son of the blood ought to feel.
“Forgive me,” he said.
And another thing he was—too conciliatory. Was his sister the same? Rather, had she been? Doubtless, no longer now she served the vile Campagnon who abused the people of Balduc, though surely not as greatly as he made his slave suffer. One thing was certain—no matter what was done the young woman, no matter how apathetic she presented, she had fight in her.
Isa had been angered when Vitalis revealed he had enlisted a Saxon stable lad to recruit Em in passing information to the rebellion and persuasion was delivered with assurance her brother was safe amongst the rebels of England.
As the leader of the rebellion on Wulfenshire, Isa ought not care how information was obtained, but she feared Em would pay with her life were she caught. Determined to reunite brother and sister, she had instructed Vitalis to have the stable lad pass a message to Em that if it became too dangerous, she should send word and an attempt would be made extricate her. She had responded that for as long as possible she would aid her people. And much she had.
“If I have displeased my lady, forgive me.”
She returned the boy to focus. “Do not apologize. I first misspoke, not you.” She waved a hand. “Go to the training yard and practice at the quintain.”
“I thank you, my lady.” He turned and hastened across the hall.
A gift she had given him, since he liked going astride and tilting at the straw man attached to a post. Though Jaxon resisted adopting the practice of fighting on horseback at which Normans excelled, that training was underway at Wulfen Castle—and soon Vitalis would begin training those of his sorties though the technique was mostly unknown to the English. Even Roger, who should have been versed in such, had lacked proper training and not sought to rectify the deficiency. Thus, it fell to Isa.
When the doors closed behind Wulfrith, her thoughts moved to Guarin who would know how to fight on horseback. Unfortunately, it was too great a risk to enlist his aid. Astride and unbound, he would escape.
She slid her gaze to Gytha’s missive. An answer was due, and she would ink it this day to ensure the woman’s nephew did not venture anywhere near her walls.
Chapter Seventeen
Wulfenshire Rebel Camp, England
Late Spring, 1068
Their routine was nearly unchanged these seven months. Had he a weapon to hand when she came prior to departing camp, he thrust it distant, swept his arms behind, and was bound. Though he had yet to turn her from her course, he had determined to make good use of the routine when time and circumstances were right.
Soon, he assured himself. He but required two things align—the presence of horses and the absence of Vitalis who kept watch over his lady’s conversations with her captive when he was available.
During the weekly meetings with Hawisa, not once had either broached the subject of marriage his parting taunt had introduced. It was as if never spoken. Instead, she herded their discussion in the direction of the women and new recruits, but so conflicted was he over those he trained to battle his own, he did not long play the sheep.
When first the rebels had beaten a defenseless man whilst listing their grievances, he had rebuked himself for feeling sympathy for them. But since he had begun instructing only women and men of so little promise their own lives would number among their losses were they not versed in defense, more and more he felt for them. Too near he was to their pain, whether they cast blame at him or but told of their losses as if in voicing them they might heal.
Since Guarin rarely rose to Hawisa’s queries about those he trained, mostly the two discussed England, which he prompted by probing things overheard or revealed by rebels. Never did she stay beyond a half hour, and all the sooner she departed when she became aware of attempts to move their conversation to more personal matters. Thus, mostly he added to his knowledge and understanding of her when something slipped from others.
If not for the promise their routine held, lulling his captors into a state of vulnerability, Gu
arin did not think he could have continued to suppress his anger and suspected even were he able, the strain would crack his mind. Neither warrior nor wolf could long remain caged without becoming something more dangerous and ungodly—even if let out on occasion to vent restlessness and frustration.
Though he remained in control, at times his emotions threatened to break free, as nearly they had days past when he heard the name Theriot D’Argent spoken by Jaxon’s men. As if feeling the sharp regard of the chained Norman, they had looked around. And hastened away.
Now as Guarin was led to the meeting place by a rebel on either side who would ensure a good distance between the Norman and their lady, he wondered how to entice Hawisa to reveal what she knew of his brother.
He considered her where she sat on her rock, noted her garments were fouled the same as his from practice over ground soaked by rainfall on the day past. But when she looked up from the dagger across her thighs, of greater note was how pale her face and shadowed her eyes.
When her men withdrew, he said, “You look tired.”
“Appearances do not deceive.” She pulled the pins securing the braid to her head. As that golden tail of many crossings uncoiled over her shoulder and slid down her breasts, he became aware of the beat of his heart and warmth beyond his exertions this spring day.
Leaving his own hair bound at the nape, now of a length that required a leather thong to keep it out of his eyes during practice, he said, “What has happened?”
The corners of her mouth pinched. “First tell what has reached your ears since last we met.”
Deciding to wait on broaching the subject of his brother, he said, “Something terrible has occurred on Wulfenshire.”
She nodded. “A Norman family passing through en route to lands awarded by William has been slain, including four children between infancy and ten.”
“Was it your rebels?”
