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

by Tamara Leigh

  Marguerite looked one last time at Theriot and saw his stance was the same and expression nearly so. Still, he did not appear to indulge in satisfaction over Edgar’s trounced pride but interest in what he could hear but not see.

  Turning, she slipped around the corner. “He will leave us,” she whispered. “Whether by Malcolm’s decree or his own efforts, he will go. Blind or sighted, he has no reason to stay.”

  Not until she descended the glen by one of several footpaths and crossed the wooden bridge to the other side of the river did she recall the princess’s instructions.

  Turning, she saw a figure in an upper window. It was too distant to see Meg’s expression, but Marguerite saw the hand raised in acknowledgment before the lady lowered her chin and began to pray.

  “Aye, breathe peace upon me, Lord,” Marguerite entreated and started up the side of the glen whose rise was more gradual than that upon which the palace was built.

  Though Malcolm could be violent and grasping like William, Theriot did not think he was the same as the conqueror beyond the formidable ability to take by force what he believed his due.

  Indeed, one moment Scotland’s ruler called to mind Theriot’s uncle who had trained him into a warrior, the next his sire whose great debility allowed him only to supervise that training when he was not imparting tenets of faith.

  I could come to like him, he thought as he measured his footfalls according to Malcolm’s on his left and a guard’s on his right—and hoped the ground before him was as unobstructed as theirs.

  Since beginning his exploration of the bailey beneath the enemy’s watch, humiliation over his limitations had become fairly common due to stumblings and encounters with the immovable. Though he did not believe it possible to grow accustomed to being an object of derision and much was required to control frustration and anger, still he could not bring himself to sweep a stick to ensure his path was clear. It would save him one sort of humiliation, but not that of a warrior made to look a helpless beggar.

  Pride was a failing of his on which both sire and uncle had agreed though for different reasons. Godfroi had believed it exaltation of one’s self above others to which he confessed having indulged as a younger man to his detriment and that of loved ones. Thus, he had advocated lessons in humility which Theriot had struggled to master since much in life came easy to him.

  In contrast, Hugh had thought pride—even in excess—a good thing, but only in a seasoned warrior who boasted greater wins than losses. However, young Theriot’s confidence in his unnaturally developed abilities was not the only thing that made him test his uncle who named him arrogant for believing he was favored by God. There was Hugh’s resentment toward Dougray for bearing the family name of which he believed him unworthy due to his illegitimacy—a much loved brother whom Theriot did not believe needed the blood of D’Argents to be one of their own.

  The skittering of pebbles returned him to the present in time to correct his footing and save him from one more lesson in humility of which Hugh would approve—and more he would approve for God having yet to restore the arrogant one to great favor despite much time at prayer.

  Though there was improvement in Theriot’s vision and unnatural sense, neither was significant, but he pressed onward in search of opportunities to gain his freedom should all align.

  Malcolm did not trust him entirely, especially after his prisoner’s raging following the physician’s diagnosis. However, the control Theriot had exhibited since had made the king receptive to requests such as the one that allowed him to venture outside the wall this day.

  Now he knew the exact location of the iron door in the wall, that it was guarded by a single man-at-arms, the number of steps and turns required to reach it from his hut, and that its protesting hinges could reveal one lacking permission to use it. Further, he knew some of what lay outside the palace’s eastern wall, most prominently the training yard. Unfortunately, there was more that must be known and greater patience required to learn it.

  “Methinks you plot,” Malcolm said when they were what Theriot believed a dozen strides from the iron door.

  Mindful of loose earth beneath his boots, he turned his face to the king. “Without cease, Your Grace.”

  “I am glad you do not think me a fool,” Malcolm said and chuckled. “Now that you have mapped more of my palace, would you like to map the glen?”

  Having expected that concession would be difficult to gain, Theriot hesitated. Might this be a game of offering something only to refuse it? Immediately, he rejected the possibility, fairly certain the king was not that sort of man. “I would like it.”

  “Then we shall walk it.” Malcolm halted near the door and ordered the guards to return to their posts.

  From their delayed responses, they seemed as surprised as Theriot, but whatever passed between them and their liege did so outside of words. Then the hinges groaned, and as the men entered the bailey, something exited in a rush.

  “Accursed dog,” one of the guards muttered, and from its scent Theriot knew it was Dubh.

  “Yer mistress left you behind, eh?” Malcolm said as the hound excitedly turned in front of him. “Most unkind to keep you from doing your work.” Then as he conversed in his native language with the one who stood watch over the iron door, Marguerite’s dog sniffed the prisoner.

  “Oui, you know me,” Theriot said when her snout began the return journey up his legs.

  Dubh swiped her tongue over his hand.

  As the door resettled in its frame, Malcolm said, “She is a fine judge of character. It bodes well she likes you.”

  “It is mutual,” Theriot said and hoped he would not have to ask the question uppermost in his mind.

  “I am told Lady Marguerite departed the palace,” the king accommodated him. “She did not speak of her plans, but since she went alone, likely she visits her family’s graves. Though we shall not go as far as that lest we disturb her, there is still much area to cover.”

  Theriot inclined his head.

  “Lead on, Dubh!” Malcolm commanded, then said, “For now it is safe to continue side by side, but ere we begin our descent of the valley in earnest, you will have to take hold of me.”

  That stung, but in these circumstances, pride could be a terrible enemy. For this, had the king sent the guard away? “I shall, and I appreciate the consideration shown me.”

  “As I was also raised up into a warrior, D’Argent, I have only to imagine your suffering over a life so changed.”

  Loathing his pity, Theriot splayed hands at his sides to keep them from becoming fists.

  “It is good you are determined not to lose control again,” the king said.

  Then he sensed—or saw—his prisoner’s ire. “The more dangerous I am perceived, the less effective my plotting, Your Grace.”

  “Ha! I could come to like ye well, D’Argent.”

  Remembering he had recently thought the same of this man, Theriot nearly smiled.

  “A pity you answer to William of Normandy who is… Well, it cannot be known exactly who he is, just as it cannot be known exactly who I am. Like your liege, much ill I have done and for it been condemned—though sometimes rightfully, more often wrongfully. When I returned from a raid of Northumbria with an abundance of Saxon slaves this past winter, my betrothed was horrified by the fate of her people. Doubtless, the same as your William, I explain myself to few, but I set her aright. Though oft I clash with those of her people over the border, I did not make chattel of them to fill my coffers. I provided them a chance to survive the harrying that would have seen them slain or starved. I did it for her, and now they settle in Scotland to begin putting their lives back together, which will be impossible in William’s England for years to come.” He sighed. “Does your king justify his actions the same?”

  “When he justifies them at all. As you believe, he is not wont to explain himself.”

  They fell into what felt companionable silence, and Theriot used it to engage the senses availabl
e to him and create a map of the glen into which they had begun their descent amid birdsong.

  So gradual was the decline, cut more sideways than downwards, it had to be a steep valley wall atop which the palace was raised. It was not without vegetation, the scents of winter replaced by those of budding spring. And the shadows of trees they traversed before the path’s first turning provided proof groupings thrived here as well.

  Narrowing lids against the sun’s glare, Theriot turned his attention to what his hearing revealed. Many the woodland creatures here, but most prominently the coursing of water below. A stream, he was certain, though at other times possibly a raging river.

  “It is a good-sized waterway,” Malcolm said, “though this day it is little more than a stream and easily forded on foot.”

  Theriot’s smile was genuine. “Might you seek to aid my plotting, Your Grace?”

  “I do, in part making as level as possible a battlefield that cannot be leveled.”

  A battlefield across which a sighted warrior takes measure of an opponent lacking sight, Theriot thought. “The other part?” he asked.

  “I do it for my betrothed and my ward. As neither approves of you being my prisoner, it feels more you are my guest. Of course, feeling and being are different things.”

  Silence returned, during which Theriot mostly attended to their footfalls and those of Dubh ahead.

  “Here you must hold to me,” Malcolm said.

  The brush of an arm alerting him to where support could be found without the humiliation of being taken hold of, Theriot gripped it. That was enough humiliation, but more was to come. As they continued their descent, several times he nearly lost his footing, but he suppressed curses—until what felt firm ground became rolling rubble that caused Malcolm to halt and himself take hold of Theriot’s arm to keep him upright.

  Once they were moving again and the sound of water revealed they neared the bottom, the king said, “Such words, D’Argent! My betrothed would not approve.”

  Neither would my sire and mother, Theriot thought, his curses having been more foul for the fleeting wish to have Marguerite’s walking stick to hand. “Now better I understand why you allow me to map the glen. Though I could negotiate it alone, it would be impossible to do so with the speed required of one pursued.”

  “That is as it stands now, but mayhap practice will make the impossible possible.”

  Theriot grunted. “I do not anticipate I will be at Dunfermline long enough to learn this glen. Do you?”

  “Though I am of a mind to return you to your family, as the aftermath of the harrying is a poor time to do so, I shall take the weeks or months ahead to consider it well. And ere you ask, my decision will have some to do with my betrothed, her brother, and my ward.” The king slowed. “We are at the bottom. I do not believe you require further aid.”

  Theriot released him and drew a deep breath of sweet, cool air that made him hate the thought of returning to his smoke-ridden hut.

  “It is a beautiful place, though I did not fully appreciate it until I saw it through the eyes of Princess Margaret,” Malcolm said. “Often we walk here, and ere we return to the palace, we sit and she reads scripture to me.”

  “It sounds the warrior king loves.”

  “He does. The marriage is of advantage to both, but our joining will be more than that.”

  “You are to be congratulated.”

  “I thank you.” Malcolm moved away. “Ahead is the bridge. The hill on the other side is fairly gradual and atop it is my private chapel. If you would like to speak with the priest, we could go there.”

  “What of Lady Marguerite?”

  “The graveyard is mostly out of sight of the chapel, and likely she will be there a long while. Thus, she will not know we are near.”

  Though Theriot preferred to better learn the lay of the land than seek the words and prayers of the priest, he said, “I would like to go to the chapel.”

  It should have been fairly easy to match Malcolm’s footsteps and keep pace with him and the dog, but it was tiring, Theriot acknowledged after they crossed the bridge and were partway up the hill. He was not unfit, having subjected his body to strenuous exercises that warmed him better than any fire. The problem was that in the absence of good vision to mirror the other man’s movements, it took much straining of senses that were now far from boundless to ensure he placed his feet well.

  “Let us speak of Lady Marguerite,” Malcolm said.

  Theriot was not surprised.

  “As a man can only grant grace as he sees fit, Chevalier, forcing it can make it impossible to truly forgive another. Thus, I worry over she who feels as responsible for your injury as you believe she is. It will be tragic should you not recover your sight, but had it happened to another, I believe you would concede that under the circumstances and in the absence of malice and recklessness, there is little to forgive.”

  Having given it much thought, Theriot knew that just as he was inadvertently responsible for the village being burned, so was she for his loss of sight. However, still there was her deception.

  “I have watched her and see she is burdened,” Malcolm continued, “and greater because it is more than guilt she feels for you. Thus, my efforts to match her with the physician are to no avail.”

  Theriot frowned. “She asked you to speak on her behalf?”

  The king halted and, when Theriot ceased his own advance, said, “She did not, nor would she. For love of the daughter of my departed friend, I wish her to be at peace and make a good match with a worthy man.”

  “You believe my forgiveness will free her to accept your physician?”

  “I do not, but I think it a good beginning.”

  Theriot nodded. “I concede the part the lady played in what was done me is forgivable, just as the one who dealt the injury is forgivable, but her deception… As you say, forgiveness cannot be forced.”

  “That is something, Sir Theriot. Let us continue on.”

  Hoping Marguerite would not further intrude on his mapping of the glen, Theriot followed in the footsteps of a king whom love had made malleable—worse, vulnerable.

  May I never love like that, he thought, especially now I am more vulnerable than ever thought possible.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Once again, no warning given, though this was very different from being denied tidings of her mother’s death.

  Having halted the moment she saw something was amiss, gripping wildflowers barely ripe for the picking, tears trembling on her lashes, she stared at four headstones that ought to number five—one each for father, mother, and baby brothers.

  This was not desecration, and yet the absence of the headstone most familiar to her felt that.

  Enough, she rebuked. Go forth and see how beautifully Malcolm honors your parents.

  She continued toward the stones of remembrance that would not forget her loved ones as long as they stood, and halted. By name, she acknowledged the little ones who appeared to have been buried at their father’s feet though they were here first, then sank to her knees between her parents’ graves.

  Releasing the flowers to her lap, she moved her gaze over embellishments in each corner of a large headstone she had expected to be two smaller ones. Now, just as her mother and father had been one in life, they were one beneath a wide stone that had replaced that which remembered her sire alone.

  “I am here,” she said. “Forgive me for not coming sooner.” Then she read words engraved in stone that were Malcolm’s gift to those who were as far out of his reach as they were to the last of their line.

  Here Diarmad the Mad, Diarmad the Shield,

  husband of Lady Marguerite

  Here Lady Marguerite, wife of Diarmad the Mad,

  Diarmad the Shield

  Here their tale—

  Love seized Love

  Love walked beside Love

  Love rejoiced with Love

  Love mourned with Love

  Love healed by Love

/>   Love parted from Love

  Love reunited with Love

  Love walks beside Love

  Again

  Marguerite tried to read it through again, but unable to see past her tears, lowered her head and began emptying emotions over all she had lost and what she had yet to lose—even though the latter was never truly hers.

  She wept, and it pleased—as would the tears to come and greater pain than that of the heart.

  “I could not ask for better,” Pepin rasped and looked from the woman who had finally ventured to the graveyard, back to the men and hound ascending the hill. “You make me Your arm of vengeance, Lord.”

  Minutes earlier, he had been on the verge of leaving the cover of trees to seize his cousin who was as much his prey as Scotland’s king, but one of the two mounted to his left had ordered him to wait.

  He had nearly ignored the man who was no longer fit to command anything, but out of respect had paused to look where told. And quite the sight—the murderous king with only an aged, weaponless man accompanying him unlike the other times when an armed escort followed. Were this avenger alone, he would not challenge so great a warrior as Malcolm Canmore, but he was not alone.

  We are six, four of us warriors whole of body, one of us half of body but dark of vengeance, and the other slippery as an eel, he assured himself. That and surprise are enough.

  “There is something not right about Malcolm’s companion,” said the slippery foreigner regarding the one whose death would be mercifully quick unlike the king and lady. “He is too straight of shoulder and firm of stride to be as old as told by silvered hair. And yet mostly his head is up, eyes ahead without stray to the ground. Do you think him blind?”

  Pepin looked nearer and noted the same and something else. The man’s stride was nearly identical to the king’s which, were the silvered one truly without sight, meant not only did he trust Malcolm to make a way for him, but he was accustomed to using other senses to move through the world one of a build and presence that would have made a formidable warrior of him.