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

by Tamara Leigh

  She frowned. “Why do you not send only one of the guard to deliver your message?”

  His mouth curved. “The release of the Lady Sparrow of Dunfermline shall serve as proof of my goodwill.”

  It would take some of the sting out of the offense dealt Malcolm, but enough? Marguerite turned to the warriors surrounding the princesses.

  There was fire in their eyes as expected since they were trapped before the dock with no hope of returning their two remaining charges to the ferry without giving their backs to the enemy. All they could do was protect the princesses, and if a clash ensued, quite possibly sacrifice their lives to warriors of greater number who also had the advantage of being mounted.

  Dubh at her side, she stepped before a Scotsman of medium build and looked to his sizable captain. “You are well with this?”

  Grudgingly, he inclined his head.

  Marguerite turned. Certain the hound would protest her mounting the horse held by Eberhard, she called to the young man, “Send it forth.”

  The baron nodded at his son who released the beast and smacked its rump.

  As the warrior she had chosen swung into the saddle, Marguerite looked to Meg. “You will remain safe. I am certain of it.”

  “As am I,” Malcolm’s betrothed said.

  Still Dubh did not like her mistress going astride, and Marguerite half-expected the hound to clamp teeth on an ankle, but the Scotsman swung his charge up behind him. Moments later, with Marguerite holding to him and Dubh following, they went wide around the D’Argents and their men.

  Once they reached the beaten path, the Scotsman said over his shoulder, “Hold tight, Lady. We ride as if the devil breathes down our necks.”

  That was how it felt, the spurring so jarring and the dust so dense that when she looked behind it was through a cloud that rendered indistinct the forces facing each other.

  “Lord,” she sent heavenward, “give them no cause to do more than that.”

  Theriot had known Marguerite was to come to Edinburgh, just not like this.

  One moment Malcolm had been pacing his horse before the city gates and grumbling over the chapel repair merely sufficing, the next he was spurring beyond the walls to meet those the sentry in the tower announced rode at great speed on a single horse—a Scots warrior and a lady accompanied by a hound.

  A dozen of the king’s guard had followed, their duty to protect Malcolm of greater import since earlier he had tossed off his chain mail to labor alongside the workers. And two others came after them—Theriot to whom Grendel had proved worthy during the journey from Dunfermline, and Edgar who announced he would not learn secondhand the reason the royal party was not on that road.

  Now that the reason was given by Marguerite and the soldier surrounded by those come from the city, the storm of Malcolm gathered.

  “Almighty, he dares!”

  Sympathetic to his rider’s angst, his steed snorted.

  “He steals into my country! Threatens my betrothed and her guard! Sets terms for their release!”

  “Your Grace,” Marguerite beseeched, “Baron Wulfrith and his kin do no more than would you were your brother held in England.”

  “Donalbane? That—!” Theriot heard his teeth snap, doubtless on words of no credit to his sibling.

  “Still, you would go for him, Your Grace,” she said with what sounded less certainty. “And as told, until the princess informed the D’Argents you intended to release Sir Theriot, they believed him yet a prisoner and surely saw evidence of ill-treatment in his blinding.”

  “Evidence gained by sending a spy into my hall—trespassing on me and my guests!”

  Hearing the jangle of spurs and seeing the blur of the King of Scots advance on him, Theriot straightened from where he had leaned down to stroke the hound who had come to his side.

  Malcolm drew his horse near, then as if this D’Argent had trespassed, demanded, “What say you, Sir Theriot?”

  “That the princesses are safe with my kin, the D’Argents will keep the terms set, and since already you agreed to release me, you have all to gain in adhering to Baron Wulfrith’s terms—above all, a beautiful, godly wife on the morrow.”

  He heard the king breathe deep, then Malcolm chose four men to accompany him.

  “They are my sisters,” Edgar said. “I go as well.”

  “You are suggesting I replace one of my guard with you?” the king growled.

  “I will not fail you, Your Grace, and especially not my sisters.”

  Theriot expected Malcolm to refuse, but he said, “Very well, I shall trust you to behave a man and warrior, ensuring ’tis a wedding I attend on the morrow, not a funeral.”

  They should have started for the dock, but Marguerite said, “I would like to accompany you.”

  “Marguerite!” Malcolm warned.

  “Baron Wulfrith specified a guard of four,” she rushed on as if fearing he would give her no time to persuade him. “I cannot be counted as one of them, nor do I believe he will mind if I return with you.”

  “The lady may ride with me,” Theriot said and, amid the restlessness of men and horses eager to depart, heard her gasp. Too little thought he had given words birthed by the emptiness of knowing he would not see her again and that it gaped larger on this day that came earlier than expected, but he would regret them later.

  “I am well with this,” Malcolm said. “Now get astride, Sparrow. We ride!”

  Though surely she expected to mount behind, when the Scotsman drew his horse close, Theriot extended a hand and said, “Before me, Marguerite.”

  She set her palm in his, then with a lean, a rustle of skirts, and a twist, she crossed from one horse to the other and settled across his thighs.

  Curving an arm around her waist and cupping the soft span between ribs and hip, Theriot said low, “I will not hold you again, Malcolm’s sparrow.” It was honest, but when he felt her quake, he knew he should not have revealed this was more than kindness.

  She turned her head, and he felt her searching gaze. “You would if you made me your sparrow.”

  Just as he should not have spoken, neither should he have shared his mount. Hoping to correct his error in some measure, he said, “That would require I make myself your burden.”

  That turned her forward and moved her to convulsive tears as he gave Grendel his heels and Dubh followed.

  Cruel now, kind later, he excused what he did. But more than ever it rang false since he had created this situation.

  Selfish, he silently rebuked and set his faulty gaze on movement and color that confirmed they brought up the rear.

  Patience was an exercise in pain, this day the pain so great Pepin had come close to dishonoring his sire, a man increasingly more burden than help since his warrior’s flame was extinguished when Marguerite passed through the sieve of her pursuers with the aid of the Rebels of the Pale.

  Though Pepin’s sire barely survived that encounter, he continued to command his son this way and that, and often the wrong way. For that offense, the need to avenge slain kin, the destruction of their home, and the loss of the slippery Patrick who determined the risk was too great to gain Marguerite, Pepin had nearly shouted at the shell that remained of his sire when Gerald ordered him to wait on letting death fly.

  Had he yielded to impatience, he might have been heard by the opposing forces before the dock whose exchange was witnessed by these noblemen forced to turn mercenary. Then this vantage farther down the road from where the D’Argents and their men earlier concealed themselves would have been revealed.

  Now as all came together with the appearance of half a dozen horses and riders on the road, Pepin was glad his sire had insisted they wait not only to see what came of Marguerite’s flight to the city but use the time to gain leverage lest all go wrong. Much gratitude to the D’Argents for making that fairly effortless.

  Pepin peered over his shoulder at the horses secured fifty feet distant. Though saddles and packs fit the backs of two, it was a bound an
d gagged warrior beyond his middling years who fit the third.

  From among the Scotsmen the D’Argents had secured in the wood, this one was chosen for several reasons—that he was of some import and much culpability for having been at Malcolm’s side when destruction was wreaked on the noblest of Norman families, and he was well enough past his middling years to be manageable. Unfortunately, that last proved illusion when a slam of the forehead nearly knocked Pepin’s jaw out of joint and the only way to get the warrior over the horse’s back was to render him unconscious. Now, should leverage be needed, father and son were not empty-handed, which greatly improved their chance of surviving what his grandfather had not.

  Remembering the old man standing before the mass grave from which the bodies of those with arrows in their backs were removed, feeling those rheumy eyes on the wood where he had commanded his grandson to take Gerald who had yet to heal from injuries dealt by Saxon rebels, hearing again the barked order that if the old man did not escape the barbarian’s wrath it was for Pepin and Gerald to avenge him, the youngest of his line ground his teeth—and harder when he recalled his grandfather toppling into a grave distant from holy ground and shared with commoners.

  Suddenly aware of what sounded a panting dog, Pepin sealed his lips and so deeply drew breath through his nostrils the passages closed. His exhale opening them, once more he focused on those en route to the dock.

  Though Marguerite whose back had earlier presented a fine target was now lost to revenge, not so the King of Scots who wore no chain mail and precisely followed instructions as if Baron Wulfrith had pierced his nose with a ring, hooked a finger through it, and wrenched him forward.

  Or did he follow them precisely?

  As Pepin shifted his gaze to the rider bringing up the rear who looked to be two, another among Malcolm’s guard gave him pause. No Scotsman that.

  “Prince Edgar,” he rasped, then narrowed his eyes on the rider at the rear. Including the King of Scots, the Aetheling, and Sir Theriot, it was seven who came, and the woman sharing the latter’s saddle had to be Marguerite. Further evidence of that was the trailing hound likely so fatigued it would be of little use in protecting her.

  Pepin turned against the ancient tree that provided cover and shoved his lower face into the crook of an arm.

  “What is it?” Gerald demanded.

  Pepin wished the laughter he muffled was not joy of the morbid order, but since likely he would never again feel true joy, he indulged himself.

  His sire gripped his shoulder. “Tell me!”

  Pepin dropped his arm to his side. “Much gratitude to the D’Argents, though they know not what they do.”

  “What do they?”

  “Fill this bucket of clear water with fish aplenty.”

  “Do not speak in riddles!” Gerald snapped.

  His sire’s sight being too poor to clearly see those approaching the dock, Pepin said, “Not only is Malcolm absent chain mail and Marguerite shares the saddle with the blind D’Argent, but the greatest threat to our king’s throne is among those come from Edinburgh.”

  “Edgar,” Gerald said. “Much reward if we put down that dog.”

  Providing we survive to collect it, Pepin thought. He did not excel in flying arrows, but was proficient enough he could loose several with good accuracy before he and his sire must regain their mounts to outrun those likely to give chase.

  As if he had spoken aloud, Gerald said, “With greatest aim, my son—Malcolm first, Edgar second, and Marguerite have you time to let another fly.”

  As thought, though he did not have much chance of extending vengeance to his cousin since the Aetheling was to fall ahead of her. Possible if she rode behind, but she sat on the saddle’s fore, making a small target—and even less a target if the blind D’Argent turned his horse when Malcolm and Edgar dropped. But since his sire accepted the possibility of that failure, Pepin was well with it.

  As was required of him, he did not like Marguerite, but he saw enough through the thick of vengeance to know the King of Scots was more responsible for what befell his family than she who had overpowered their uncle, Claude—a man ever a weight around the necks of all.

  “Malcolm, Edgar, then Marguerite,” Pepin agreed.

  “And ere the trade to ensure fewer pursuers.”

  Though Pepin need not be told that, certain when the arrows flew those guarding the princesses would close tighter around them and hold their positions, he echoed, “Ere the trade.”

  Then he drew arrows from his quiver, shoved the points of all but one in soft earth between the tree’s roots, raised his bow, and nocked the first. Leaving the string lax, he turned and, keeping a shoulder to the tree, considered Malcolm’s cautiously advancing party.

  Just before they came off the road to begin their descent to where the D’Argents awaited them, they would be within range of a well-drawn arrow.

  “It will land true,” he rasped, then said over his shoulder, “Be ready to run for the horses. Once I put them to ground, the others will come for us.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Even had Theriot not known what lay ahead, his senses would have been heightened by the unnatural one alerting him to blood spilled and yet to be spilled.

  Oui, danger where the ferry docked this side of the estuary whose blue waters sparkled beneath a summer sun. Naught unusual there, danger inherent in enemy forces facing each other. However, it did not emanate from that direction alone. Senses of a strength not felt since before the Aetheling led his men through that northern village warned of greater danger to the left and farther ahead.

  If not for the sudden sensation of being leagues distant from here, Theriot might have thought it more of Guarin’s men among the trees. It was not. “It feels I am in the glen again.”

  “In the glen?” Marguerite alerted him he had spoken aloud.

  It was habit to look down into the face she turned to him, but not fruitless, the sun angling across it allowing him to ascertain its shape. “Aye, the glen. Now be still so none guess what I tell and we lose the advantage of advance warning. I sense your kin here.”

  She gasped. “Where?”

  “The wood opposite the dock is the only cover available. Methinks soon they will make their presence known.”

  “But with so many of Malcolm’s and your brother’s warriors here, their numbers would have to be great to present a threat. Likely they but keep watch, awaiting an opportunity—”

  “This opportunity, Marguerite. Malcolm is here with fewer to watch his back than those who protect his future queen, you are here, and if they recognize Edgar, he could prove opportunity as well. I feel they are not many, but they are vengeful.”

  “But if they are not many—”

  “How was your Scots escort slain when you sought to return your mother to Scotland?”

  She shuddered.

  “Oui, arrows,” he said, gripped by so great a need to protect her it was difficult to think clearly about what was best for all. As if…

  As if she is a D’Argent, he silently yielded. First, in between, and in the end, a D’Argent.

  This must be how his brothers felt for those they wed—that they would as fiercely protect their wives as any whose veins ran with D’Argent blood. A different kind of love from what was felt for Dougray who also possessed only the family name, and yet the same, Theriot expected.

  “I need you to tuck into me to make yourself smaller, Marguerite.”

  When her arms were around him, head pressed beneath his chin, he was struck by how different it felt to be held rather than to hold. And wished he did not want more of this.

  Certain his kin would not move against Malcolm knowing this D’Argent was the one who disregarded their instructions, Theriot spurred Grendel toward Malcolm.

  As Dubh gave a bark and leapt alongside, the king snapped his head around. “What do you?” he demanded. “If ye think to—”

  Theriot slowed. “No deception, Your Grace,” he said only loud enou
gh for the five here, certain the king’s guard would move against him if he trespassed further. “I am the same man you have known these months, and you will have to trust me on that since there is no time to further prove myself.”

  “I am not of a mood—”

  “The threat does not come from my family but Marguerite’s.” Then more for Edgar than any other, Theriot added, “Do not be obvious in looking for what you will not see, but methinks they are in the wood beyond the dock.”

  Amid the silence of consideration, Marguerite said, “You have trusted his senses before, my king, and he has earned trust beyond them. Pray, continue, else what happened to my escort and Cannie may happen here.”

  “You are certain of this, Sir Theriot?”

  “Only certain I feel again what was felt when we were in the glen, though more anger and desperation now and I believe they are fewer. Thus, arrows.”

  “Almighty!” the Aetheling rasped.

  “Silence, Edgar!” Malcolm commanded, then to Theriot, “Are we within range?”

  “I do not know, though likely the D’Argents and their men are, perhaps even the princesses. Much depends on their exact location and bow skill. Regardless, they must remain unaware they are found out so they not act ahead of us.”

  “I shall slaughter them!”

  That Theriot did not doubt—providing the King of Scots was not put through.

  “Further I shall have to trust you, Sir Theriot, but I believe I know the man you are. Albeit instructed to halt on the road directly above the dock, we do so now though we shall be more distant in making the trade.” He reined in, as did the others.

  “Yer kin do not like this,” he reported what Theriot could not see. “Let us assure them this is no trickery. For Marguerite’s protection, I send you forth, and not by way of the road. Immediately turn off it, shielding her with your back, and ride at good speed while my men draw around Edgar and me. If arrows fly, we shall know whence they come. If they do not, inform your kin what goes and as recompense for the offense dealt me, command them to aid in bringing the miscreants to ground.”