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

by Tamara Leigh

  Nor you, Theriot knew his brother was thinking.

  “We came to retrieve Theriot,” Guarin said, “and that we have done with no loss of life on either side.”

  The king grunted. “Admirable and testament to the good spoken of your family. Now let us—”

  “What of our bargain, Malcolm?” Gerald called. “Does it stand?”

  “Almighty, if only Hendrie were not almost a brother to me,” the king muttered.

  “As told, I am the one responsible for all,” Pepin’s father called with what sounded greater desperation. “Providing my son lives, this day the vendetta ends.”

  “The bargain stands, Gerald,” Malcolm answered. “Your boy goes free, but know this—if an hour hence you do my man harm, no matter how far I must venture into Le Bâtard’s kingdom, I will pursue Pepin and do worse to him. And if he returns to Scotland, he will be a dead man days—nay, weeks—ere I permit him to draw his last breath.”

  “Then release him so the hour may begin counting down again,” Gerald shouted.

  It was Maël who unbound Pepin, and the moment the gag was removed, the knave demanded, “What of my sire?”

  “His end is here,” Malcolm said. “Now that you know the terms, it is for you to decide whether to hold to them and live or break them and die.”

  “But—”

  “Your son questions the terms, Gerald! I would not have my man die, but give me no choice and it will cost two Norman lives for one Scotsman’s.”

  “Leave, Pepin! Now!”

  Though Theriot could not see the emotions working Pepin’s face, he felt them—and anguish amid anger.

  Then Marguerite’s cousin put heels to his horse. When the sound of his retreat faded, silence reigned beyond an occasional muttering from the Aetheling and Dubh’s impatient whimpering as she paced between the king and Theriot.

  It was Gerald who determined the passing of an hour. “That suffices! Now as I keep my word, King of Scots, keep yours and leave my son be.”

  “He has released Hendrie,” Dougray said, and Theriot made out what appeared one figure becoming two, the forward one advancing with a slight hitch and the one behind…backing away.

  “Gerald!” Malcolm bellowed.

  “The terms are kept, barbarian! My end is here. And now.” He took another step back and dropped into the ravine.

  “Wretch!” Malcolm barked. “He denies me the satisfaction of—” His tirade ended abruptly, and he chuckled. “Better for both of us. He is no longer a threat, and I do not have to hide from My Pearl what I would have done to him. Now let us finish this, Baron Wulfrith. After you show me where you bound my other men, you will retrieve yours from the dock, take your brother, and leave my country. And I shall try to forget the ruin nearly made of this day.”

  “What was your answered prayer this day?”

  Theriot released the princess’s hand he had drawn to his lips, and as he set his gaze in the vicinity of hers, felt the brush of Dubh settling alongside. “A prayer answered as hoped, Princess.”

  She put her head to the side. “And yet you are leaving us?” she said as if hopeful his prayer on the day past that Marguerite’s feelings for him be lifted had been replaced by one in which he made a life with her in Scotland.

  Theriot nearly shifted his regard past her to where that lady was among her countrymen who stood at attention though it was mostly formality now the D’Argents and their men prepared to depart.

  Assured their conversation extended only as far as the princess and Malcolm at her side, Theriot said, “I praise the Lord for the answer given in accord with my prayer for full restoration of my unnatural sense. That was done this day. As for your prayer for a future for Marguerite and me, still I do not believe it can be answered well.”

  “Of course it can be—you can answer it well!” The force of her response reminded him of Hugh who snatched his seven-year-old nephew up out of the dirt and commanded that never again he claim only the Lord could do what was asked of this D’Argent—that he do and do again until all that could be done was done.

  Then Hugh had forced Theriot’s fingers around the lance tossed aside and told if it took all day into night for him to prevail over the quintain whose sandbag continually knocked him out of the saddle, so be it. It took until dusk shadowed the training yard for the boy to defeat the quintain a dozen successive times, but he had done what he declared only the Lord could do.

  “Forgive my passion,” the princess said. “What I am saying and as I believe you know, is it is not enough to beseech Him to put this right so you can do that, put that right so you can do this. ’Tis not all for Him to do.”

  Unlike his uncle, her faith was great, and yet like Hugh she placed much value in doing for one’s self. As taught Theriot, he did as well, but regaining sight was different from the relentless practice and teeth-grinding strategy required to effectively wield weapons—and exercising caution to protect the warrior as he had failed to do that night in the village, albeit for selfless reasons.

  She set a hand on his arm. “Just as I am certain restoration of your keen sense was not all of the Lord, who I believe more delights in aiding His children than in heaping gifts on them, I am certain what yet eludes is within your grasp. Though ever your sight may be impaired, by way of acceptance you can make good of it—and better than most for the Lord preparing the way by long ago gifting you that extra sense.”

  It was as if the Almighty had known he would require it and made provision for him—that He was no mere observer. Though neither was He a granter of hopes and desires, there was comfort in knowing prayer was answered ahead of its need. Certes, lacking his unnatural sense, his blinding would be…

  Possibly beyond redemption, he thought, and assured himself if sightlessness was to be his fate, in time he would accept his loss as his sire had accepted his own. But though with the aid of kin he would find ways to negotiate life with the least amount of assistance, that did not mean he would be fit for a future like those of his brothers. To be a burden to wife and children…to suffer the humiliation of being unable to properly provide for and defend them…

  “Beware of pride,” the princess said softly. “It can cost you things most precious.”

  Once more marveling over the insight and wisdom surely gifted her in preparation for the day she became Scotland’s queen, he said, “I shall beware,” and turned to Malcolm. “I thank you for the trust and privileges afforded me, and for Grendel.”

  Those high and broad shoulders shrugged. “He is Norman the same as you, and you won him.”

  Theriot inclined his head. “I regret I shall not attend your wedding, the occasion of which will surely be momentous. In my absence, know I wish you and your wife happiness, many a lusty babe in arms, and long lives.”

  “Much appreciated, Sir Theriot.” The king paused. “And know this—ever you are welcome at my court, whether you but visit or remain a time.”

  “I am honored. Now with your leave, I shall speak with Lady Marguerite.”

  “I insist.” Malcolm called her forward and drew his betrothed aside.

  Marguerite did not come alone, on one side a warrior whose hitch revealed it was Hendrie, on the other side Cristina.

  “I have enjoyed your company,” the princess said and touched his hand as had become habit during their acquaintance.

  Alerted to where he would find hers, he took it and kissed her knuckles. “As I have enjoyed yours, Princess Cristina.”

  “Godspeed,” she said and moved toward Malcolm and her sister.

  “I am well with you, Chevalier,” Hendrie said. “Are ye well with me?”

  “I am.”

  The Scotsman leaned in. “Do right by the lass,” he rasped. “Even if she sees you not again, leave yer heart in her keeping as she leaves hers in yours.”

  The opposite of cruel now, kind later…

  Hendrie clapped a hand to Theriot’s arm. “Godspeed, Norman.”

  As the Scotsman followed Cristi
na toward his liege, Marguerite stepped near. “Though I wished this day soon come and gone, ’tis too soon. Like death around a corner one thought yet distant, there is too little warning to truly prepare for it. Is it too soon for you?”

  Cruel now, kind later, he commanded himself. And disobeyed. “It is what I sought, but—oui—too soon.”

  She stepped nearer yet, causing Dubh’s tail to wag so fiercely it knocked the backs of Theriot’s knees, tilted her face higher, and whispered, “Tá mo chroí istigh ionat.”

  He closed his fingers into his palms, but what they should not touch, his words did, defying him as Hendrie would approve. “Tá mo chroí istigh ionat.”

  Marguerite stared at the man who gave back words pronounced perfectly as if practiced. “You…” She swallowed. “Do you know the meaning?”

  “Hendrie told me.”

  Feeling as if she came up out of sleep to find herself someplace unexpected, she said, “Then you have a great care for me as I have for you?”

  “I do, but still I go.”

  She moistened her lips. “But loving me, you will return?”

  “Only if the warrior once capable of protecting and defending others is restored, and…”

  Movement at his side drew her regard to Dubh who ran her tongue over Theriot’s hand. The same as the hound, Marguerite felt his turmoil. He did not believe he would be restored to the extent required of himself, and his next words confirmed it.

  “Do not wait for me. Many will be the suitors of Malcolm’s sparrow. Choose well and live well.”

  “Without a heart?”

  “You have mine. Be kind to it as I shall be to yours.”

  Though aware of the audience made of her people and his on the estuary’s shore, she moved so near her feet were between his.

  “Marguerite?”

  She set her hands on both sides of his face and pushed to her toes. “I am being kind to your heart—and mine,” she said and pressed her lips to his.

  At worst, she thought he would push her away, at best be unresponsive, but he put his arms around her and made her inexperienced kiss one of great experience. It did not last long, but she assured herself it and his profession of love were enough to hold dear for however long this was all she had of him—even if he did not return.

  He set her back, and when she peered into his clouded eyes, the lips that had been on hers were pressed thin. “It is not enough that at this distance I can see the shape of your face. So I say again, do not wait for me.”

  Vision blurring, she lowered her gaze and saw an edge of the cloth tucked beneath the neck of his tunic. Impulsively, she drew the ends free.

  “Marguerite?”

  “You are much favored by God—and me,” she said and knotted the cloth at the base of his throat so it was more felt. “Will you grant me a boon?” At his hesitation, she prompted, “It requires only a moment, but it would mean much to me.”

  “I will do it.”

  “Ere you go from my sight, look back as I looked back the first time we met. Even though you may see naught of me, know I am here where you leave me, praying for your return.”

  “It is the same my mother asked of her sons when we rode to join Duke William in making England Norman.” He nodded. “I will look back.”

  She was grateful he did not tell her again not to wait for him. But then, likely he thought it discouragement enough to reveal her request was no different from that of his mother to whom he had not returned these four years.

  “Stay, Dubh!” he said and turned away.

  Though Marguerite felt like hanging her head the same as the hound who closed the distance between what was wanted and what must be accepted, she kept her chin up and watched Theriot gain the saddle.

  “Tá mo chroí istigh ionat,” she whispered, and as she waited for him to look around, began praying him back to her.

  She was where he had left her, though as she had known, he could not see her on the shore before the estuary’s sparkling waters. Having looked back, he and his kin ought to resume their journey, but he remained unmoving atop Grendel.

  “I thought if I saw the mute Margaret again, it would be in Derbyshire,” Dougray said, drawing alongside, “and she would be wife to he who fathered me. It must have surprised you as well to learn she is Marguerite of Scotland who I understand sings more beautifully than a sparrow.”

  Movement on the shore indicating Malcolm prepared to deliver his betrothed to Edinburgh, Theriot held his gaze to where he believed Marguerite watched, Dubh at her side. “It did surprise, and much there is to that, Dougray.”

  “As told by your kiss.” There was a smile in his brother’s voice. “I look forward to learning all that transpired as likely you learned from Marguerite how I came to be husband to the rebel, Em.”

  Tugged toward memories of their time in the hut, Theriot murmured, “She told me.”

  “My brother loves.”

  He did, but this was not a conversation for now or the near future. “How did you learn I was Malcolm’s prisoner?”

  Dougray chuckled over the attempt to sweep away Marguerite who could not be swept away. “We shall save the details for later. For now, know it required persistence, discovery of a horse of unusual color and eyes who awaits his master’s return, and patience when our plan to sooner bring you out of Scotland was thwarted by tidings Nicola required our aid.”

  It was on Theriot’s tongue to tell he had hoped the steed would point the way to him, but fear for their sister brought his head around. “Nicola is well?”

  “As there is much tale to what befell you, there is much to hers though, more often than not, Nicola befell Nicola. But be assured she is as well as our cousin, Maël, whose exploits are also worthy of hours before a campfire.” He gripped Theriot’s shoulder. “You have missed a great deal, but we shall enlighten you. And once we return to Wulfen Castle, it begins.”

  Hearing resolve in his voice, Theriot understood the meaning of that last, but he said, “What begins?”

  “Just as you and Cyr demanded of me what was needed to begin reclaiming the warrior who lost an arm at Hastings, this one who no longer believes himself nameless shall be fearless, merciless—even heartless—in ensuring whatever is lost to you that can be restored is restored, whatever cannot be restored, replaced.”

  Theriot felt resentment that would surely go deeper when his brother sought to make good his vow, but he had to smile. “All that and reckless as well, Dougray?”

  “Reckless?”

  “Recall the fist I took to the face when you proved unreceptive to my efforts.”

  “I thought my knuckles broken.” Dougray chuckled, then said, “Oui, if necessary, reckless. And when we are done, you must speak with our sire.”

  “As I find myself in similar circumstances, I think often on seeking his counsel.” Theriot frowned. “Did you after losing your arm?”

  “I did not, but seeing I was drowning in self pity, he ventured where he was not welcome, and I rejected what he shared. But as you are receptive, I believe the tale told me in full will be of use to you.”

  “The tale?”

  “Of Godfroi and Robine—before the illegitimate Dougray and after.” He sighed. “Now we should ride. The journey is long, and the sooner we complete whatever work must be done, the sooner you may venture beyond that kiss.”

  Theriot nearly rebuked him for seeing a future almost certainly lost to this D’Argent since he would not return to Marguerite unless the warrior was well enough restored. Instead, he looked to the shore and touched the cloth knotted at his throat. “Is she still there, Dougray?”

  “She is, the hound at her side, and Hendrie leads a horse to her.”

  “I have told her not to wait for me.”

  “And yet I believe she will. But lest I am wrong, when you wish to strike Guarin or me, work harder, little brother.”

  Theriot grunted, then turned Grendel and rode out of sight of the one to whom he had given the keeping of his h
eart.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Castle D’Argent, France

  Late Autumn, 1070

  The King of England had released him from his service, underestimating him just as Theriot had underestimated himself when he feared he would not fully recover his sight, but that was as planned should it become feasible for this D’Argent to depart England—and not merely to journey to Normandy as done two days past.

  During William’s recent pause at Wulfen Castle, the conqueror had been given no reason to believe Theriot would be of further use to him. Though his esteemed warrior and scout had moved well about the great hall, it was with the aid of stick and hound, the former grudgingly wielded in poor light and unfamiliar surroundings, the latter less instinctual than Dubh but progressing well in guiding its master clear of obstacles.

  Thus, as Theriot was now of little consequence to his liege, he would not be missed, unlike Maël who had disappeared shortly after he and his cousins departed Scotland. Also as planned, William believed ill had befallen his captain of the guard en route to returning to his service, unaware Maël had crossed to the continent to begin life with a woman whose threat to the conqueror’s rule had necessitated it being made to appear she had died.

  As Dougray told, quite the tale that, and one that rivaled Nicola’s, though potentially more dangerous for the deception worked to escape the reach of one of the most powerful men in Christendom. But as the links of that deception had held these four months since Maël took his bride distant from Normandy, it seemed unlikely their welds would break.

  As for Theriot’s deception, he was fairly confident it would hold when William learned where this D’Argent made his home. It was not misfortune rumor had reached the king that during his scout’s imprisonment he became entranced with his Scottish healer. William had pried at that while at Wulfen, unaware he himself had met her once. When all he gained was acknowledgement Lady Marguerite was winsome, he had pronounced it greater folly for a Norman to join with a barbaric Scot than a Saxon.