BOUNDLESS: A Medieval Romance (AGE OF CONQUEST Book 6)

by Tamara Leigh

  Feeling her settle in, he released her. “Tell me more about yourself.”

  “Are we to barter again?”

  “If that is how it must be.”

  “It is fair, and more so this time that you pose the first question.”

  He nearly smiled. “How was your sire of Scotland joined with a Norman of Southern England?”

  “Not all those who followed Edward across the channel settled in the South. To protect his country’s farthest reaches, the new king awarded to his friends lands bordering Scotland. So it was with my mother’s sire.”

  “Your grandfather was friendly with the Scots?”

  Her laughter was both scornful and sorrowful. “He was not. Thus, from a distance my sire fell in love with my mother, and since her father would not allow a Scotsman to take her to wife, he took her.”

  Theriot raised his eyebrows. “You speak of abduction? Or was your mother willing?”

  “Abduction. Believing he stole her only because she appealed to the eye, she told him she would sooner wed a blind man who thought her voice beautiful than—”

  Theriot did not know if her words broke off because she realized how inappropriate they were for him or she felt him stiffen.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “And now surely you prefer the boredom of rest over my chattering.”

  He did, but since the reminder of his loss was unintentional, he said, “Did your sire force her to wed?”

  “Non. He brought her home to Dunfermline, gave her into his aunt’s care, and vowed that if after two months she had no love for him, he would return her to her family yet a maiden. Only days before he was to honor his word, he was walking with her in the glen to make memory of the time that remained and…” She paused.

  “What?” Theriot prompted.

  “My sire closed his eyes and said that more than the beauty of her face he loved the touch of her hands, the sound of her voice, and the smell of her hair. But most of all, he loved her heart and soul. So on the day they were to begin the journey that would return her to her family, they wed.” She sighed. “That is the tale told me.”

  “A pretty story.”

  “But not all pretty.”

  “You speak of her family.”

  “Oui. They learned who had taken her, and when I was in her womb, her sire and brother stole into Dunfermline and took her back though she told she was happily wed.”

  “Diarmad the Mad came for her again.”

  “He did, and with many men. However, to prevent harm to his wife’s kin, at great risk he entered the walls alone to bring her out. Unfortunately, ere they could reach my father’s men, my grandfather and his garrison surrounded them. My mother clung to her husband, trying to shield him though time and again he set her aside to challenge her sire, but certain it would be no fair fight, she would not leave him be. Had my father’s men of greater number not appeared, possibly both would have died. At the beseeching of my grandmother who feared she would lose not only a daughter but her husband, my grandfather withdrew. As he did so, he called on the Lord to punish my parents, gifting no boy child to Diarmad the Mad lest his blood further taint Norman blood.”

  Sensing great sorrow, Theriot asked, “Have you brothers?”

  “Three came after me—one stillborn, one aged a sennight ere sickness took him, one aged only days when he did not awaken from a night’s sleep. Then my mother could not bear to birth again and precautions were taken to ensure no more babes.”

  “Did your parents believe the Lord heeded your grandfather?”

  “Not Diarmad the Mad of more faith than his wife—surprising for a man who abducted a bride, I think you would agree.” At Theriot’s slight smile, she continued, “My father said the Lord would not be made a weapon of vengeance for one so ungodly. Though my mother spoke little of it, methinks she believed her inability to give her husband a male heir was because of the curse called down upon them.”

  When Marguerite turned silent, Theriot said, “I am glad to know how you came to be accomplished in my language, but now I am curious about your Gaelic. Though you must be more fluent in your father’s language, why do you speak no word of it to the men who tend me though it is best known to them?”

  Marguerite stared, relieved he could not see her dismay, then cleared her throat. “It is out of consideration to you I speak Norman-French,” she half lied. Or was that three-quarters of a lie?

  “I am proficient in the language of the Saxons,” he said, “and have learned the guards speak a form of it which they prefer over my language when we converse. Do you know it as well?”

  “Since many are the languages spoken at court, I am conversant.”

  “Then unless you wish to tell something you would not have them understand, I am well speaking that which makes it less difficult for them.”

  Did he suspect? she wondered. Were memories that stood between him and her secret surfacing?

  Tell him, her conscience sided with the princess. Now before he remembers or someone reveals you.

  “Providing you are comfortable speaking the Saxon language,” he prompted.

  Promising herself later she would delve her conscience, she said, “I am well with it,” then moved their conversation elsewhere. “Not only was my answer exceedingly long and complete, but other questions were answered without trade. Will you afford me the same?”

  “Speak, Lady.”

  What she wanted was confirmation of the belief that just as he was not among those who pursued Edgar through the village and set it afire, neither had he sent the contingent after the Aetheling. However, as he had eased her into revealing more than bartered, she would attempt the same.

  Wishing it was not necessary to deepen her deception with feigned ignorance, she said, “Would you enlarge the tale of the D’Argents beyond what the princess knows?”

  His mouth curved. “I am one of four brothers and have one sister and one cousin. Except for Nicola, I am the youngest.”

  That she knew. “The men are all warriors?”

  “We are and crossed the channel together and fought with William on the meadow of Senlac until King Harold fell to my duke.”

  “And stole his country,” she said with little thought.

  The bit of light about him beginning to darken, he inclined his head. “It did not seem so at the time, many of us certain a change of rule would bring needed reform to the Church of England. However, I am in accord with the rest of my family who now believe England was stolen rather than saved.” He paused, then added, “Still, forget not King Harold first stole it from the Aetheling as I believe Edgar would attest.”

  “He would, though were he honest, he would agree it was better that a seasoned warrior who commanded the hearts and loyalties of most be the one to rule and defend the country ahead of one who was only ten and four when old King Edward passed. And no good argument is it that, in the end, Harold could not hold England against your William. Most agree if the country had not first been attacked by Norwegians, exhausting England’s forces, Harold would have ended the duke’s bid for the throne.”

  “Or had Harold refused to be provoked into battle before his forces recovered and numbers were replenished,” Theriot added solemnly.

  She nodded, then remembering he could not see, rushed to words. “Had he waited, perhaps instead of the slaughter of him and his forces…” She trailed off.

  “Then the slaughter of William and his forces,” he finished what she did not. “And I would not be here with you now.”

  “I would not want that!” Once again speaking ahead of thought, she corrected, “That is, I would not wish you to have fallen.”

  “Why would you not wish this Norman who aided in stealing England not to fall?”

  Though likely she would regret answering, she said, “It is just that… It feels I knew you before I met you.”

  As if to ponder that, he went very still, then he smiled amid whiskers, allowing a glimpse of even white teeth. It was no sizable smile,
and there seemed uncertainty about it, but it made her heart beat faster.

  “Do you get your fill of my face again?” he asked, voice deeper yet.

  Though embarrassed, again she suppressed denial. “As told and well you know, it is a fine face.”

  “And as well you know, great the advantage you have over me.”

  She moistened her lips, and when he moved his clouded gaze to them, her breath turned shallow—and ceased when his hand rose as if to explore the face blindness denied him. However, his bindings were too taut.

  As if the tug on his wrist returned him to his wits, he lowered his hand. “I did not expect you to be so learned and opinionated about the conquering of England. Are these topics of conversation at King Malcolm’s court?”

  She swallowed. “Oui, and quite often.” Then leaving unsaid that further she had become intimate with them during her time with the Rebels of the Pale, she asked, “Would you tell me of your home in Normandy?”

  He considered that, said, “It is many years since I was—” He broke off and shifted his damaged eyes up to the side just as Dubh began rumbling.

  “Theriot?”

  “Men come, Marguerite.”

  She strained to hear footsteps, but the sounds outside the hut were indistinct. “It is mostly quiet out there. How do you know someone comes?”

  “Ere the riders, there was pattern and volume to what goes beyond—of the guards outside the door and those who patrol and work the bailey. When the riders came, there was the sound of horses and shouted voices. Afterward, a return to what was before. Now there is the still of attending to something of interest.” He returned his sightless gaze to her. “Oui, Lady, they come, and your dog knows it as well.”

  “It is likely the king,” she said.

  But it was not Malcolm, and it boded worse the voices of those who approached were Saxon, and when they were answered by the Scottish guard, their volume increased.

  “Cut my bindings,” Theriot commanded.

  Having turned toward the door before which Dubh paced, Marguerite snapped her head around.

  “I know you must have a dagger on you, Lady. Trust this D’Argent and free me.”

  She hesitated, but upon hearing Saxons demand entrance and throatier growls from Dubh, she took the dagger from beneath her skirt. As she sawed the blade through the rope binding his right wrist, threats were made on the other side of the door, then came the sound of struggle.

  When the rope fell to the floor, she reached to free the other wrist, but Theriot so quickly relieved her of the dagger she thought it possible his sight was restored.

  Dropping his feet to the floor on the opposite side of the bed, he whipped the rope free of the loop set in the rail. That corner of the room at his back, Dubh now barking ferociously, he yelled, “Get behind me, Lady!”

  She stared at the man whose urgent eyes were clearly damaged.

  “Behind me!” he repeated, the shouts growing louder and answered by others more distant. Then came the meeting of blades.

  Marguerite hastened around the bed.

  Hardly was she at Theriot’s back than something landed against the door, causing the planks to shudder.

  “Call your dog to you,” he commanded.

  “Dubh!”

  Almost immediately, the hound was between her and Theriot.

  “When they enter, tell what you see, Lady!”

  Lord, he is truly blind, she silently bemoaned. How can he think to defend himself, let alone me?

  And yet he looked capable despite eyes that saw but light and shadow and that his only bodily protection was poor fitting garments. His was a warrior’s stance, legs braced apart, back foot weighted in readiness to launch himself forward, in one hand the dagger, in the other the rope still affixed to that wrist.

  Marguerite yelped when the next assault on the door tore its hinges and dropped it and the Scotsman thrown against it to the dirt floor.

  “What do you see?” Theriot demanded as a burst of cool air vied with the fire’s heat.

  With so many men clambering to enter amid barking, it was difficult to make sense of it, but she reported what was most immediate.

  “One of the guard on the floor atop the door. He has lost his sword…is rising…drawing his dagger. Four Saxons entering, one face down outside. Dear Lord, their swords come before them.”

  “What else?”

  “Three Saxons now. The guard outside has dragged the fourth back and the guard within is nearly on his feet and—”

  “Oui, three Saxons.” His muscles bunched as if he saw the same and prepared to attack those of bared teeth and blades of longer reach than his own.

  Recognizing one of Theriot’s assailants as being among the sacrificial group sent from the village to lead the Aetheling’s pursuers distant, Marguerite gasped.

  Here were the men who urgently rode on the palace—likely the only survivors of an encounter with Normans who discovered Edgar was not among them. And what these Saxons did now was vengeance possible only because someone had named Theriot responsible for the deaths of their countrymen and told where to find him.

  You did this, Edgar, she thought. Anger due you averted, and now this D’Argent may die.

  “Stay where you are, Lady,” he said, then lunged at those who had slowed their advance as if questioning whether their prey would be as easy to put down as they were led to believe.

  Regardless, it would prove an impossible fight for the sightless, ill-armed Norman. Even though the guard outside kept the fourth Saxon engaged at swords, and the guard within was moving toward the nearest of the three, what hope had Theriot against two whose blades he could not see?

  “He is the king’s prisoner! Leave him be!” Marguerite cried and sprang toward Theriot, believing the Saxons would regain their wits when Malcolm’s ward came to notice.

  She did not get far, Dubh placing herself in her mistress’s path.

  As if guided by God, Theriot ducked beneath the swing of a blade. Coming upright and shouting for her to stay back, he sliced his opponent’s arm with her dagger, causing crimson to blossom through the Saxon’s sleeve. Then the whip made of Theriot’s rope struck the man’s cheek, snapping his head to the side and causing his body to follow.

  However, the second Saxon who had sidestepped to give his countryman space in which to complete the swing, lunged and arced his sword to deliver a backhanded blow.

  Once more, Marguerite acted, going wide around Dubh as well as Theriot who bellowed for her to fall back. Then she and the baying dog were between the two men.

  Sunlight slanting through a partially unshuttered window and the doorway ahead met upon the Saxon’s blade which could have taken her life had not the man whose chest slammed against her back flung an arm around her and swept her to the side.

  The second Saxon’s momentum carried the warrior past, but though he corrected his footing, Dubh sprang at him. Blessed that, for still there was no relief given by the Scotsmen who could only keep the other Saxons occupied, surely due to their advanced years compared to the night guard.

  “I am not your father, and you are not your mother!” Theriot snarled and thrust Marguerite to the side.

  Her shoulder struck the wall, and as she dropped to a knee, she understood. He believed her attempt to protect him was inspired by what her mother had done to keep the man she loved from being slain. Though Marguerite had not consciously done the same, he scorned her for it, doubtless feeling unmanned at being shielded by a woman.

  Now seeing the well-armed Saxons closing in on a sightless warrior who had only a dagger and length of rope with which to defend himself, realizing the dog was absent from the fray, she cried, “Dubh!”

  Slowly, the hound rose from against the far wall.

  Hoping she was only stunned, Marguerite thrust upright. Then once more placing herself between prey and predators, she threw her arms wide. “Cease! Pray, cease!”

  As if to heed what they had not before, the Saxons began
to quiet and still. But her pleading was not responsible she realized when what was likely a second roar sounded just outside the hut. And at the end of it, silence—until Theriot barked, “You!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Malcolm, King of Scots, had come.

  Theriot had never seen nor heard him, but he knew it was he whose bellow ended attempts to end this Norman’s life.

  It should be of greatest event that the one who held Theriot’s fate in his hands was here—a hulking shadow which rivaled that of Vitalis, leader of the Rebels of the Pale—but more this blinded D’Argent’s mind was on the lady. And who she was to him not in recent days but before he awoke on this side of the border.

  When she had pleaded with the Saxons in their language to cease their attack, his mind had yanked him back to the burning village and those words cried in a voice he now recalled had been of an accent between Scottish and Norman-French—no different from that of the woman now standing before him seeking to protect him as it seemed she had tried to do then, though he could not unravel why she would after agreeing to be Edgar’s bait. And how was it this lady of Dunfermline had been in the village though he had never seen a woman among the Aetheling’s entourage?

  Almighty! he sent heavenward. If only I could give form to the smoke of other memories from that night—could see again her face and figure as I must have.

  “Your Grace,” she said in Norman-French, returning Theriot to Dunfermline and making him aware of the dog passing near.

  “To me, Marguerite!” the king commanded in the same language far different from that of his men arriving outside the hut.

  “It is not as it appears,” she said. “These Saxons attacked—”

  “A Norman who is unbound as he ought not be, in possession of a dagger as he ought not be, and of danger to you as he ought not be. Come to me, Marguerite!”

  Theriot heard the scrape of her slippers, but rather than the smudge of her decrease in size, defiance of Malcolm enlarged it.

  Still she seeks to shield me! he silently raged. If she knew my mind is now open to her deception, she would not dare.

  “Forgive me, my king,” she said, further confirming she had drawn near enough Theriot could have the blade at her neck before Malcolm could stop him. “But until Sir Theriot’s guard tell what transpired that forced me to release him and lend my dagger in defense of his life, I shall remain here.”