by Tamara Leigh
Wishing you many more hours of inspiring, happily-ever-after reading. ~ Tamara
Author’s Note
Dear Readers,
I hope you enjoyed Sir Theriot and Lady Marguerite’s love story as well as a look at the pious Princess Margaret’s journey to becoming Queen of Scotland that led to her being canonized as Saint Margaret. What you may not know is that though her brother never regained the crown lost to William, Margaret and Malcolm’s daughter—the Aetheling’s niece—wed the conqueror’s son, Henry I. Thus, in their children flowed not only the blood of Normans but Saxons, returning the latter to the English monarchy. The daughter of Henry I and Matilda of Scotland was the mother of Henry II, the king who often appears in my Age of Faith series. And so you see, the world keeps turning—or perhaps it’s better said, circling back.
Lawless Excerpt
THE WULFRITHS. IT ALL BEGAN WITH A WOMAN
From USA Today Bestselling author Tamara Leigh, the seventh book in a new series set in the 11th century during the Norman Conquest of England, revealing the origins of the Wulfrith family of the AGE OF FAITH series. Releasing 2021.
PROLOGUE
The Fenlands, England
Late Spring, 1071
Could she stick a blade in a man? This time do what she had failed to do four years past? This time be the one who did not hesitate to take life? This time not be the one responsible for the death of a loved one?
Holding a whimper behind her lips, one hand convulsing on the dagger at her hip, the other gripping the rail of the boat alongside which she knelt in the mud, Vilda peered across the fairly level ground at the northernmost camp whose position remained known only by the glow of the Norman invaders’ warming fires—as it ought not.
Though under attack, the bursts of fires all sides of the camp had yet to be seen and, she feared, were not forthcoming. More frightening, the foray was not to have lasted this long. As with most night raids, this one’s goal was to harass the enemy by slipping past their patrol and putting down those who caught sight of rebels who excelled at playing ghosts, setting alight supplies, and disrupting the sleep of warriors already disheartened by the inhospitable fens.
But most frightening of all was that the defenders’ shouts and cries she had been told to expect were punctuated by the clash of blades which evidenced some of the voices belonged to rebels who should be here now, putting oars in the water and sending the flat-bottomed boat gliding back across the river toward their refuge, the Isle of Ely.
Hand quaking on her dagger, Vilda beseeched the Lord to give strength and discernment to her countrymen, ensuring once more they prevailed over the forces of he who had crowned himself King of England—William the Conqueror, more aptly known to the conquered as Le Bâtard.
Whether or not in answer to prayer, there was a shift in the clash between Saxons and Normans. Though shouts continued to sweep across the night to where she shivered in water lapping at her waist, no longer were they accompanied by the clang of steel on steel.
Holding her breath, she searched for figures moving in her direction, which would have been more easily seen had her cousin and his men succeeded in setting their fires.
They had escaped the confrontation, she assured herself. Though likely some were injured, making it more difficult to negotiate the dark at a speed that allowed them to evade pursuers, they came toward her. Or did they?
In their desperation to escape, they might go wide of where they had disembarked, but if she—
Nay, you were given one task only—to stay with the boat, she reminded herself. And you promised.
“Pray, Hereward,” she rasped, “come.”
As she continued to watch for movement, wondering if as many minutes passed as it felt, once again she was tempted to leave the boat. She would go no farther than onto the bank where better she could see anyone moving toward the river and, if needed, alert them to her position.
Removing her hand from the dagger, she touched the mud her cousin had smeared on her face to hide the pale lest it catch an enemy eye—the same he and his men had done before the boat carried them from Ely—and discovered what had dried and made her skin itch had begun to crack and peel.
Having accompanied Hereward and his men to the dock where the youth who was to remain with the boat began coughing, Vilda had offered to go in his place lest his malady reveal the presence of rebels to those on vessels blockading the isle or patrolling the shore before which the Normans encamped. To avoid the delay of sending for another youth, which could have jeopardized the foray whose timing was imperative, her cousin had agreed.
“And you promised to do as told,” she whispered even as she pushed the bow deeper into the mud to anchor the boat. Continuing to hold to the rail to leverage out of sludge sucking at her knees, she moved her bent legs up the bank and onto grass her weight flattened.
As she reached for more mud to ensure the pale of her face remained hidden, above the distant sound of angry Normans in disarray she heard movement—that of men running through grass slapping at legs and soft soil squelching beneath boots. Hopefully, they were the rebels, though likely some of the enemy came behind.
Frantically, Vilda searched the land. There—farther left than they ought to be—men moved at a good pace though not as rapidly as they would were they uninjured. Since they made for the shore, they had to be those she awaited.
“Lord, let them be my own,” she breathed. Then lest seconds prove the difference between escape and capture, she determined it was more important she was seen than not, even if by pursuing Normans.
Lurching to her feet, hearing the skirts tied up around her thighs suck at water as they emerged, she dragged an arm across her face to expose more of the pale, thrust arms high, and waved.
If she must, she would add her voice to alerting the rebels to the need to alter their course. Blessedly, almost immediately they veered toward her. Eight, she counted. Only eight, meaning five had fallen to the enemy.
Nay, three, two others following at a distance—unless they were Normans.
She waved more vigorously, and when the rebels were near enough she was certain the stout one at the fore was her cousin, she swung around and thrust her weight against the boat’s bow to get the craft off the mud. When it floated free, she sprang over the side, swept up a pole, and jabbed it down through the water into the mud to steady the boat for boarding.
Moments later, Hereward was there. Though the night was dim with little moon and his tunic dark of color, she knew he wore blood, hopefully the enemy’s alone.
Sparing her no word, he thrust his sword in its scabbard, then splashed into the water, took hold of the boat to further steady it, and commanded the others aboard. As they clambered over both sides to prevent the vessel from capsizing, Vilda knew from their movements, groans, and curses which among them wore their own blood—and felt that stickiness across the back of a hand when one took the pole from her and told her to get low.
“Almighty, he is down!” Hereward snarled as she started to hunker between two benches, then he sprang onto the bank and ran to the man who had dropped to his hands and knees. But those figures bringing up the rear whom Vilda had hoped were two of the five missing rebels were not. As they drew dangerously near, she could hear the ring and rustle of chain mail and see bits of light glance off it.
Straightening, she stepped over a bench to the bow. When she saw the Norman running ahead of the other was too near for her cousin to heft his man onto his shoulder and get him to the boat before he arrived, she cried, “They come, Hereward!”
He turned from his injured comrade, once more brought his sword to hand, and ran forward.
“Non, Jacques!” shouted the Norman at the rear. “To me!”
But the one nearest Hereward, whom she guessed a very young man when his shout cracked as did those voices which had yet to attain the full breadth of a man’s register, kept coming.
“To me, Jacques!” the command came again, and when Vilda looked the direction
of the warrior whose accent was not as thick as some but voice deeper than most, she glimpsed more Normans beyond him. The only good of it was the latter were distant enough it was possible Hereward could put down both enemies here and be well off shore before the others arrived.
The young man gave another cracked battle cry, then swung his blade in an attempt to take her cousin’s sword arm.
It did not surprise when Hereward evaded the attack by ducking, pivoting, and sweeping up his own blade, but still Vilda feared for him—and more so when he was the one to land a blow to that limb which meant all to a warrior. Though his victory caused Jacques to lose hold of his sword and grip his bleeding arm as he toppled onto his side, it gave her cousin little time to defend against the second Norman.
Pray, not too little, Lord, she silently pleaded as she looked between Hereward and the one who would surely prove formidable, being a man of good height and breadth and moving with ease despite the weight of much chain mail that evidenced the rigor and discipline to which he subjected his body.
When Hereward did not run at that warrior, she knew it was not for lack of courage. He wished to engage him at swords—to beat out frustration, anger, and hatred on yet another Norman—but he had to know if he did not soon get his injured comrade aboard, he would be overwhelmed by more of the enemy. And those who would not leave without him, including Vilda, would be captured as well.
Wrenching his injured opponent upright, her cousin hooked a tattooed arm around the neck of one who convulsed with silent tears as he cradled his sliced limb, then Hereward set his blade across the young man’s abdomen. As surely hoped, the second Norman ceased his advance.
“What remains of me and mine are leaving here as whole as possible,” her cousin announced in Norman-French to the one who faced him with one leg behind in preparation to push off it and sword drawn back the sooner to thrust it forward. “If you and this lad wish to do the same rather than be granted a warrior’s death, you will take this Jacques before his arm bleeds out and innards spill, and I will take my man and go back to my isle.”
The Norman whose mail hood was down around his neck, revealing enough of his face Vilda could see he was lightly bearded, glanced behind—to gauge how soon his fellow Normans would arrive, she thought as she glimpsed in profile dark hair upon a broad brow, a boldly straight nose, and a firm chin.
Following his gaze, she saw the other Normans would not arrive as soon as they would if the slam of blades yet guided them here.
Silently, she thanked the Lord. Though still the enemy headed this direction and they looked to be a half dozen, they were as far left as the rebels had been before she showed herself.
“You trust me to honor such a bargain?” the chevalier asked, not in Norman-French but the language of the Saxons, his accented tongue across her words and depth of his voice increasing the shivers coursing her head to toe.
Reverting to his own language, Hereward said, “As I know you to be one who is not as Norman as your countrymen, I trust you as much as it is possible to trust an enemy.” He shifted sideways to cast more of the miserly light on the blade against the young man’s abdomen that required a single slice to see yet another conqueror buried in the fens, though likely it would see these Saxons interred here as well. “Now ere I do what cannot be undone, decide if you wish to save your squire, Sir Guy Torquay.”
Vilda startled. She knew his name for the necessity of avoiding the elite force he commanded. Though they numbered fewer than other forces, making their small camp seemingly the most vulnerable, that had been disproved several times to the detriment of rebels who slipped in to take lives and wreak havoc but could not slip out—at least without having something with which to bargain.
Torquay did not sacrifice his men, even if he must trade several rebels for the life of one Norman. Thus, Hereward was counting on him to value a lowly, foolish squire above the leader of the resistance and his men—and cousin, though that last Torquay could not know even had Vilda removed all the mud and there was adequate light to look well upon her where she leaned forward in the bow, one hand on the rail, the other gripping her dagger. And for a moment, she thought it possible he did look upon her, though likely it was the others toward whom he turned his face, those yet whole of body having drawn blades the same as she to let them fly were they provoked.
“Release Jacques and take your injured,” the chevalier said, though his stance and sword remained at the ready. “And be quick about it, Hereward.”
Hardly was that last spoken than the squire was thrust forward, staggered sideways, and fell to his knees before his lord.
“Does the Norman not turn deceitful, leave him be!” Hereward commanded his men, then hefted onto his shoulder the slack rebel who, God willing, had only lost consciousness.
He did not will it, as told by her cousin after passing the rebel to two of his men and heaving himself into the boat. “He is gone from us,” he rumbled, causing Vilda to falter as she moved forward to give aid. “As soon as he was on my shoulder, I knew him for dead. Now pass me those oars.”
Having turned from the bow which poles had pried from the mud, Vilda stared at the one laid between two benches. She knew him as she knew all the men here—and his kindness. He was ten years older than she and protective when men showed her attention ever unwelcome when it crossed the line between civility and flirtation. Had he intervened in hopes of gaining her attention for himself, it had never been obvious. Now he was dead like so many others these five years.
Do not yield to hatred, Vilda told herself. Cover him, take his hand, and sit beside him as he passes over waters last traversed while yet he breathed.
She resisted a moment longer, then turned back into the bow that shuddered as the boat moved through dense reeds that, though easier to negotiate than mud, could still prove their undoing.
Torquay had his squire in his arms, and as he turned toward the Normans nearly upon him, she threw her dagger. Anger made her do it despite awareness there was now too much distance between them for her to make her mark. Or perhaps that was why she did it—to prove to herself she could, indeed, stick a blade in a man, even if it was all a lie.
“Norman pig! Unworthy of Saxon slop!” she cried and nearly laughed bitterly at the realization how much she looked like a swine given to wallowing.
The chevalier had stilled, and though she caught the glitter of his eyes, she more felt than saw his gaze upon her.
She raised her chin. “Knave! Thief! Miscrea—!”
“Get here, V!” Hereward shouted. “Now!”
She did not want to get there. She wanted to berate Torquay over and again, but as night and the ever-widening water choked him down along with fellow Normans come to assist, she gave him her back.
Moments later, she dropped onto the bench facing her cousin. “I know. I do.” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “I should not have broken my word.” Another lump needed swallowing. “Forgive me, but I could not simply watch when I saw you and the others veering away. I had to…” A sob escaped, then she heard the oars he released thump the rings through which they were threaded and felt his hands on her shoulders.
“I thank you for breaking your word,” he said gruffly, “but never again disobey me.”
“I will try not to.”
“V!”
She popped up her chin. “I can only try. Until the moment is upon us that is not as certain nor safe as the moment in which we agree to do one thing and not another, that is all we can do—try.”
Unlike the eyes of Sir Guy, she could see enough of Hereward’s to be certain he glared, but then he sighed heavily. “We must get past the blockade, which will not be easy with those on the nearest boats surely aware ill has befallen their fellow Normans. But once we are safely through, we shall put this night behind us so it is done and stays done.”
His words not meant for her alone, he was heard by all. However, she was the only one to respond. “’Tis done,” she said and hoped it was so.<
br />
But the night’s ordeal was not done. Though they made it through the blockade, more ill befell them before reaching Ely, and this time it came from the enemy this side rather than the other side—several of the weary, desperate survivors who lost six of their friends proclaiming their cause hopeless and predicting soon Le Bâtard would sweep the rest of them off the playing board made of England.
Hereward was not of a mood.
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed this excerpt of LAWLESS: Book Seven in the Age of Conquest series. Watch for its release in 2021.
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AGE OF CONQUEST PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
Abelard: AA-buh-lahrd
Aelfled/Aelf: AYL-flehd
Aethelflaed: EH-thul-flehd
Aetheling: AA-thuh-leeng
Aiken: AY-kihn
Alditha: AHL-dee-thuh
Alfrith: AAL-frihth
Alvilda: ahl-VEEL-duh
Ardith: AHR-dihth
Asbjorn: AHS-bee-yohrn
Asketil: AAS-kuh-tihl
Balliol: BAY-lee-uhl
Bayard: BAY-ahr
Bernia: BUHR-nee-uh
Bjorn: BEE-yohrn
Boudica: BOO-dih-kuh
Boursier: BUUR-see-ay
Campagnon: KAHM-paan-yah
Canute: Kuh-NOOT
Chanson: SHAHN-sahn
Ciel: SEE-ehl
Colban: KOHL-buhn
Cyr: SEE-uhr
D’Argent: DAR-zhahnt
Daryl: DAA-rihl
Diarmad: DIHR-maad
Dougray: DOO-gray
Dubh: DOOV
Dunfermline: duhn-FUHRM-luhn
Ebbe: EH-buh
Eberhard: EH-buh-hahrt
Edelwine: EH-duhl-wihn