by Tamara Leigh
Since many were of Wulfen, a fortnight past they had begun answering to Guarin. And Guarin answered directly to the king who, angered by Cyr’s marriage, commanded the eldest D’Argent brother to remain in England and, once sufficiently healed, administer the demesne abandoned by Lady Hawisa. Without objection nor a brief return home to provide living proof the heir lived, Guarin had assumed the post.
Regarding William’s anger toward Cyr, Maël believed it was less for wedding a commoner than plans gone awry. The king had thought to match the Baron of Stern and Balduc with the Lady of Wulfen. Of course it was of no matter the moment her demesne was forfeited for the traitor William named her, though no proof of that had he from a D’Argent—certainly not the one long imprisoned who had identified only Jaxon as his captor.
Once more, Cyr wondered what had transpired between the lady and his brother, next where she and her people had taken themselves, including Zedekiah and the injured Vitalis who had been gone from Wulfen when Cyr brought Aelfled out of the wood that night—just as the corpse of the one named responsible for the murder of the Norman family had disappeared.
Debris had been removed from the passage in the event further collapse had covered Jaxon after Aelfled was carried out, but his body was not found. Since there seemed no reason Hawisa would take the betrayer with her had he lived, it was concluded he had dragged himself away. Were that so, he might have been in the passage into which Cyr had begun his descent when Aelfled called to him. And in that dark with moonlight at Cyr’s back, Jaxon might have slain the one who had slowed him with the throw of a sword.
More reason not to be lulled by peace.
More reason for the D’Argents to keep close watch on their backs.
More reason for Guarin to reroute Wulfen’s underground passage, ensuring its exit remained secret, and install iron gates along its course.
More reason to hunt down Jaxon who tempted William to make good his threat to harry the shire.
As for Campagnon, he had evaded the charge of attempting to burn Stern’s hay, allowing Merle and the others to take full responsibility—and punishment. Thus, once more the miscreant hired himself out as a mercenary and, it was said, searched for the slave who fled him. Hopefully, Em would remain hidden until her tormentor returned to France. If he returned. Whilst Saxons continued to spurn their Norman king, there would be work for men like Campagnon.
Blessedly, it was a good portent the son recently birthed by William’s queen had entered the world by way of Yorkshire—Henry, the first of their growing brood to be born on English soil. But though England might soon flourish again and Cyr believed he could make a good life here with the woman he loved, he yearned for Normandy which, until the night past, had seemed well beyond his grasp.
Over a goblet of wine, seated before the hearth where Lady Hawisa had first received Cyr in that great hall, Guarin had mused England suited him. Then in a tone too teasing for one of so altered a disposition, he suggested Cyr remain their sire’s heir.
Though Stern and Balduc were more extensive and boasted greater potential than D’Argent lands in Normandy and would nearly double in size were Wulfen stitched back to the other two baronies, it was not greed that sent those words from Guarin’s mouth. Had Cyr to guess, it was a woman, though before Aelfled never would he have thought the fairer sex possessed such power over men.
Did Guarin cede his inheritance, their sire would be disappointed. Though proud of all his sons—to a lesser degree the one not of his body—he could not disguise his greatest joy was his eldest whom he, rather than Hugh, had first begun shaping into a warrior, nor that among his greatest sorrows was that which removed him from the training yard and, for a time, the marital bed. As for the former, there were things in which a warrior must be schooled beyond weaponry, and Guarin had been their sire’s best pupil. As for the latter, to the surprise of many, Theriot and Nicola came after Dougray.
“There!” Aelfled jolted him back to the present.
Glad to return to her, he followed her regard to the golden-orange rim rising above the castle.
“Did I not name it spectacular?” she exclaimed.
He narrowed his gaze against the brilliance. “You did.”
As she lowered her hand, a ray glanced off gold, slid across plaited blond, black, and silver strands, glanced off gold again. To ensure the ring over which their vows were spoken was ever upon her hand, Cyr had commissioned one of gold with a channel all around into which the braided ring was set. Atop where the ends met, four prongs cradled a square sapphire.
She was his, he was hers. And so well they knew each other, he did not believe any secrets remained between them. Did any, then on her side only, though not her own secrets. And he was well with that.
She looked around. “I thank you for bringing me.” Her smile widened. “You know not how much I love you.”
“I know it is not as much I love you.”
“Should we argue?”
“We could, but I would win, Aelfled of the Saxons…of Wulfenshire…of Stern and Balduc.”
She wrinkled her nose as ever she did when he embellished her name.
Cyr’s teasing reminding him of Guarin’s, he said, “Do you recall what I told of my conversation with my brother last eve?”
“I was half asleep when you joined me in bed, but it was too curious a thing to forget.”
“The morning after our wedding night, you told it was possible you could be happier in Normandy. If Guarin wills it, would you become Aelfled of Normandy?”
“Nay.” It was said firmly and without hesitation, but before he could be unsettled by her change of mind, she added, “No matter where I am, ever I am Aelfled of Cyr. And that is all. And everything.”
He set his brow against hers, and feeling the new day’s sun upon them, said, “As ever I shall be Cyr of Aelfled.”
Dear Reader,
There being many wonderful books in one's to-be-read pile, I'm honored you chose to spend time with Sir Cyr and Aelfled. If you enjoyed the first Wulfrith origins tale, I would appreciate a review of MERCILESS at your online retailer—just a sentence or two, more if you feel chatty.
For a peek at FEARLESS, the second book in the Age of Conquest series, an excerpt is included here and will soon be available on my website: www.TamaraLeigh.com. Now to finish that tale for its Spring 2019 release.
Pen. Paper. Inspiration. Imagination. ~ Tamara
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Thus we have the eleventh-century beginnings of the twelfth-century Wulfriths of the Age of Faith series. I hope, dear readers, you enjoyed the journey back to the time of the Norman Conquest. I certainly did, though MERCILESS is not my first visit. If you have read LADY OF CONQUEST, you will recognize the characters of Maxen Pendery—the Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings—his sire Baron Pendery, Edwin Harwolfson, and the white-haired woman dragging a housecarle off the battlefield (yes, that was Dora and Edwin). Being mostly a seat-of-the-pants writer, I can’t say how much overlap there will be between these tales, but as I write FEARLESS, the second Age of Conquest book, once more LADY OF CONQUEST is making her presence known in ink upon paper. I look forward to sharing the next tale with you. And all those that come after. Blessings!
FEARLESS EXCERPT
THE WULFRITHS. IT ALL BEGAN WITH A WOMAN
From USA Today Bestselling author Tamara Leigh, the second 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 Spring 2019.
CHAPTER ONE
Sussex, England
14 October, 1066
Danger. With each drag of her hem over dirt, through blood and other things heretofore unimaginable, it seeped into this bodily vessel, filling eyes, nose, mouth.
Danger. It chilled, making her soul a quaking thing desperate to catch hold of the unsullied hem of the Lord.
Danger. It pressed in on all sides, sweeping over the silent dead in their heaps, the
groaning dying soon to join those above and below.
“Not my boy,” Isa Wulfrithdotter Fortier gasped as she veered away from a jumble of Saxons and Normans whose bodies were too great of size to include the one for whom she searched. “Lord, do I not find him, let it be he was never here, else returned to the wood…making his way back to safety…back to me.”
She halted. Clasping her short mantle at the throat to prevent the hood from falling and making a beacon of her hair, she stared.
A body slight of stature and clothed in red lay face down on one of greater height and breadth. But before her breaking heart could snatch back a soul straining to reach the Lord’s hem, she saw here was a Norman. Rather than long hair, his was cropped, the red he wore not of cloth but chain mail coated in crimson. So much blood, but not her boy’s.
“Praise You, Lord,” she breathed and swept her gaze around this portion of the battlefield she had been searching since shortly after her arrival on the meadow of Senlac where the forces of Duke William of Normandy had defeated the army of England after slaying its rightful king.
In the hours since, most of the victorious enemy had retreated from the carnage to celebrate, tend injuries, and rest. However, there were enough moving across the meadow, searching for their own or desecrating the fallen by relieving them of valuables, that she and other Saxons who had not yet received permission to retrieve their dead were in great peril—as was her maid, Aelfled, who had gone in a direction opposite Isa when the two ventured out of the wood at twilight.
Might she who had failed her lady have redeemed herself by finding Wulf alive and well? Or was he—?
“Nay, Lord,” she beseeched. “If the one most precious to me is here, let him not number among the dead.”
Breath catching, chest jerking, she told herself she would not be ashamed of this fear even were her sire here, then continued forward, altering her course when her path was blocked by bodies or she happened too near Norman scavengers who made her hand convulse on the dagger at her waist.
Once again, a figure more a boy than a man captured her regard partway up a gently sloping hill. Pinned beneath a heavily-armored Norman, he had hair of a familiar length and color.
She ran and dropped to her knees. “Wulf!” His name left her lips a moment ahead of her vision adjusting to the shadow cast across his face by the Norman atop him. They were not her boy’s unseeing eyes upon hers, not his cheeks, nose, mouth, and chin. Just barely a man, this defeated Saxon was another woman’s son.
“Well you served England in putting down this animal,” she said, though she could not know it was true. It could have been a nearby Saxon who felled the Norman pinning this warrior. “One less of his kind means one less we must battle to hold what they seek to take from us. Be with God, faithful defender.”
With trembling fingers, she closed his eyes, then dropped back on her heels, clasped hands over nose and mouth, and thanked the Lord there remained the possibility her son lived.
She started to rise, but the voices of those speaking in the Norman tongue stilled her. Looking around, she saw two moved in her direction, a third following at a distance.
She raised the hood that had dropped down around her shoulders and covered her hair. Knowing she would more easily come to notice if she retreated, she bent and placed her face near the dead Saxon’s. Between sips of air heavily fouled by death, she swallowed convulsively to keep the contents of her stomach from climbing her throat, hoped the dark lump made of herself escaped the enemy’s notice, prayed soon she would find Wulf.
“No more loss can I bear, Lord,” she whispered, “especially that of my son. If I am the last of the line of Wulfrith, I will break. If only for my departed sire, preserve his grandson.”
Blessedly, the Normans turned aside, as revealed by laughter in which only victors lacking heart would indulge in the midst of slaughter that included their own who whimpered, groaned, and cried out as death languorously claimed them.
She shuddered, certain such men would try to make her their reward for having survived the battle, just as they would do Aelfled who, seven years younger than her lady, of smaller frame, and having little training in defense, would stand less chance of escape and survival.
Despite how enraged Isa was with her maid for allowing Wulf and his friends to slip away from Trionne, she ached over the possibility Aelfled might become a play thing of the Normans.
“Lord, keep her safe,” she rasped. “Defend her life and virtue as you defend mine. Above all, protect Wulf. Reunite us.”
She opened her eyes upon the shadow her hood cast over her head, sat back and peered around. Dozens of figures moved over the battlefield, most of whom had to be Normans, all distant enough to allow her to resume her search.
She stood and began forging a winding path among the slaughtered to the base of the hill atop which a skeletal tree reached gnarled fingers to the heavens.
More suffering she heard here than other places she had passed, and the ground writhed with men whose struggles to rise or crawl would likely prove for naught.
Here a Norman. There a Saxon. Another Saxon. Yet another.
“Find your boy,” she commanded and began her ascent of the hill. Halfway up, her trailing skirt so firmly snagged on something her forward motion could not free her. Dropped to her knees, she slapped hands to the ground to keep from landing face down in a glistening stream of blood, twisted around to free her skirt, and stifled a cry when she saw the material was grasped by neither root nor rock.
Falling onto her backside, she snatched at her skirt to pull it from fingers clenched upon it. But the one who had her held fast to the hem whose dark material was darker than that above, having been soaked in blood and other evidence of death on which she had tried not to think and sought not to think now with her belly threatening to purge itself.
“Aid me,” the man said in her language.
She stilled in drawing her dagger, sent her gaze up the man’s hand to his head propped on the shoulder of the extended arm he lay upon, his face framed by long hair and short beard.
“Be merciful,” the Saxon said. “I must die…with my king. Pray, end it.”
A royal housecarle. Even had he a chance of survival, he did not wish to suffer the indignity of surviving King Harold whose life he had failed to preserve.
She knew what he required of her. She knew her sire would not hesitate. And from all the blood, the pale cast of his face, and the absence of a physician, she knew he had no chance of life beyond this eve and it would be merciful to end his suffering. But her heart and mind protested, splaying her hand off her dagger.
“Lady,” he choked. “Could I, I would do it myself.”
She shook her head.
A guttural sob opened his mouth wide, but he snapped his teeth closed and said between them, “Show me your dagger.”
“I do not—”
“You lie. Show me, Woman!”
Though she meant to refuse him, the tears pooling alongside his nose spilled onto the dirt before his extended arm. Great his pain, and greater if she left him like this, whether death circled for hours or the Normans made sport of him whilst divesting him of splendid mail tunic, gold necklace, rings, and fine leather boots.
He groaned, said more gently, “I am Edwin, Lady. Pray, your dagger.”
Beneath her short mantle, Isa touched the hilt of the deadly weapon she wore opposite that for cutting meat, moved her hand to the latter and drew it from its scabbard.
“A wicked little thing,” he said with what sounded approval, though if he saw the other dagger he would think this a dull thing. He released her skirt, moved his hand to his neck. “Here. The great vein.”
He will die regardless, she assured herself. It is not murder. It is mercy.
But horror over bleeding him was stronger than reason, and she said, “Forgive me, Edwin. I cannot do it.”
“Lady—”
“I cannot!” She leaned near and, taking the hand with which he
pointed the way to his demise, set the hilt in his palm and folded his fingers over it. “It is a wicked little thing, requiring less strength to do the deed than hold to my skirt.”
Seeing anger flash in moist eyes lit by the moon, she drew back and surged upright lest he catch hold of her again. “Forgive me,” she repeated. “I…”
His lids closed, and the hand holding her dagger dropped to the ground.
Praying his suffering was at an end, that he had not lost consciousness lest he regain it and suffer more, Isa left him the dagger should he yet require it and turned away.
Feeling sticky moisture and grit on her hand, she lifted it before her face. Blood and dirt, doubtless gained from the housecarle’s hand when she placed the dagger there—some of which he must have gained from her hem.
“Find Wulf,” she told herself but delayed further by dragging up her skirt. Aided by the deadly dagger, she cut away two hands’ width that bared ankles and lower calves beneath the hem of a short chemise. It was necessary, not only to prevent her from being distracted by the horror of that bloodied span of material but to keep others from seizing her as she passed.
She cast the jagged strip aside, returned the dagger to its scabbard, and refusing to look behind at Edwin, continued up the hill.
The nearer she drew to the tree, eyes delving the sprawled figures for a boy of good size though not yet eleven years aged, the more quiet and still it became. The voices of the dying were lower and of fewer number, the movement of their pained bodies sluggish in places, absent in others. But that was surely due to more blood and carnage here where the dead lay deeper. So deep her boy might—