by Tamara Leigh
“Naught!” She shook her head, and he wondered if more she sought to convince herself than him. Regardless, she had suffered enough that, despite her aggressive stance, she might be near emotional collapse.
“Hear me,” he tried again. “We must get you away.”
A thrust of the dagger. “He did naught!”
He shifted his tightening jaw, glanced between the Normans who had begun their ascent of the hill—one on the right, the other far left—and was grateful they were slowed by bodies the same as he had been.
As he took another stride forward, she jerked back and one of her braids lost what remained of its crossings. Like a curtain of the finest weave, the hair swept down over that side of her face. Though in moonlight she did not present as beautiful, that softening of what had appeared stern made him stare, then rebuke himself and slam himself up against the reason he was here when he ought to be elsewhere.
Jutting his chin at the man who had taken a blade to the throat, he said harshly, “You tell he did naught? That for naught he is dead?”
She blinked. “I…” He heard her swallow, saw her eyes begin to lower then quickly return to his. “I slew him ere I could…ere he could dishonor my…I vow I did.”
Though her words were a swiftly-moving stream rerouted time and again by thoughts thrusting up through disturbed silt like jagged rocks, it gave him time to make sense of them. Time he did not have.
“You must…” He struggled for the right word. “…permit me to see you away from here, else what this one began others will finish.”
“And you will not do to me what…?” She choked on a sound of distress, then kicked the corpse again, causing its head to turn toward Guarin. And his fear for her to treble.
A wealthy chevalier and lord, indeed, but one thing more and of greater import—here was one of the duke’s companions, so esteemed that even if Guarin bore witness the man sought to ravish the Saxon woman, William’s wrath could prove deadly.
Certain the time for persuasion was past and the woman would present no better opportunity to subdue her, Guarin lunged. An instant ahead of catching the wrist of her dagger-wielding hand and yanking her forward, he felt a sting across the underside of his jaw. Then her feet caught on the body between them, toppling her toward another Norman who sought to capture her though for a far different reason.
He let her drop to her knees, certain the jolt would loosen her grip on the hilt. It did. As she screamed and pushed upright with the other hand that had taken some of the impact from her knees, he tossed aside her keen weapon.
“The word of a D’Argent I give,” he said and caught hold of her other wrist. “I will not…” Another elusive word that gave him pause. “…harm you. I will see you to the wood and that is all.”
No reasoning with her. He saw it in her wide-flung eyes a moment before she became all teeth, hands, knees, and feet. Using that gift of a moment, he released one wrist, drew back a fist, and said in his language, “Pardonne-moi. C’est nécessaire.”
All of her jerked when his knuckles struck her jaw, then her chin dropped, and he caught her up against him.
He had never had cause—nor desire—to strike a woman, it being an abhorrent act against the weaker sex, but surely he was justified. He but tried to keep safe this Saxon whose warranted fear of assault by another of her enemy and the lack of time and occasion to prove he sought to aid her had earned him no trust. No choice had he.
Feeling a trickle down the side of his neck, he swiped a hand across it and considered palm and fingers bloodied by the dagger that had sought to do to him what had been done William’s companion.
“No choice,” he rasped, then wiped his hand across the back of her mantle, the material of which would better clean it than his chain mail.
It was no easy thing to put the woman over his shoulder, not because of her size and weight, though she was no tiny thing. The difficulty was his side injury that shot pain to his hip as he raised her.
A moment later, her arms flopped against his armored back, and he knew were she conscious she would grab at the weapons on his belt. This was for the best, the bruise sure to rise on her jaw dealt to aid rather than harm as had other bruises gained from her attacker.
“Eh, chevalier!” called the Norman on his left nearing the top of the hill. “A good blow to the Saxon witch. When you are done with her, let your good friend, Guillaume, teach her further respect of her Norman betters.”
“And your friend Joan,” shouted the second Norman who was no more a friend—nor acquaintance. “A better lesson I shall teach her ere doing to her what she did to our countryman.”
No choice at all, Guarin reaffirmed, then shifting her into a more comfortable position, called, “I share with no man, friend or foe. What is mine is mine.” He anchored her with his left arm around her upper thighs, drew his sword lest these common soldiers challenged him. “When I am done with her, I shall ensure she bleeds no more Normans.”
He turned. Hoping when he came back around both would be in retreat, he flipped William's companion onto his belly with the thrust of a booted foot that further pained his side. And belatedly realized it was a waste of time to hide the identity of the slain man. The soldiers had only to search the area for the warmest body in the freshest pool of blood to see the man face up again. Certes, they would discover him, not only for curiosity’s sake but because this place provided some of the best pickings for those bent on desecrating the dead.
However, here was the means of ensuring these two did not challenge him. Guarin turned back and did not like how near they had drawn. “Better your efforts spent on relieving our enemies of all the gold around their necks and silver on their belts ere others sniff it out.”
Both halted, looked around.
“Many a woman’s favors you can buy with such spoils,” Guarin said and began descending the hill toward the horse earlier noted in the midst of slaughter, seemingly untouched by death beyond the potent stench of blood and its master’s collapse over its neck.
The men did not continue their pursuit, and shortly Guarin had the unfortunate chevalier off a dark grey destrier that appeared too young to be battle-hardened and likely suffered from shock.
Getting astride took more time, not only because the animal was exceedingly skittish, but the unconscious woman had to be settled atop without setting the horse to flight before Guarin could mount behind. Once done, he adjusted the woman’s seat between his thighs, causing her head to tip back and unraveled hair to fall away from a face fully exposed to moonlight.
It was cut, scratched, bruised, and bloody, but not so much it disguised her looks and age. Though her face was strong boned, it was pretty with large eyes and a mouth whose lower lip was full beneath an upper lip that would present as thin if not for high arches reaching toward a fine nose dilated by breath. She would live and…
He glanced at her hands in her lap, saw she wore a wedding band, hoped this day she was not made a widow and her children fatherless. Were she, the lady ought to have little difficulty acquiring another husband, especially had she lands to her name. But as it was not his concern, the sooner he delivered her off the battlefield, the sooner she would become another man’s problem and he could resume his search for Cyr, Dougray, Theriot, Maël, and Hugh.
CHAPTER THREE
Descent of the hill and negotiation of the meadow was slow to avoid further alarming the quivering horse, trampling the fallen, and to remain clear of scavengers, but finally the wood into which surviving Saxons had fled was before Guarin.
Having stayed far right of that section of Andredeswald that had swallowed the majority of the defeated and a great number of victors who gave chase and met their end at the bottom of a fosse known only to Saxons, he entered the trees.
There were Saxons here. Though likely too seriously wounded to flee beyond their enemy’s reach, Guarin’s senses confirmed they watched. Keeping one arm around the woman, he released the reins and, continuing to guide the d
estrier forward with the press of his thighs, drew his sword.
He would take the lady only far enough to ensure she did not become easy prey to men who would do to her as William’s companion had done, then send her and the horse opposite. That would be the end of it, allowing him to return to his duty and her to praise the Lord she had escaped far worse than whatever she had suffered—and return home to a world she would soon find much changed with the duke’s foot firmly on England’s throat.
Reaching his senses in all directions, Guarin urged the destrier deeper into the wood. Minutes later, as they passed beneath a gap in the leaved canopy that shone moonlight over their path, he caught movement and sounds not of nature but neither from a distance. Right in front of him, in fact. The woman had regained consciousness, though she was quick to still and quiet as if gone under again.
Likely, she assessed her situation and would offer further resistance, but he did not tighten his hold lest he alert her to his own level of consciousness. Thus, she was not as cautious as she might have been in reaching for his dagger.
“Lady,” he growled, “do not.”
She did not, though he sensed she would once she adjusted her plan and expectations of the Norman who had struck her senseless.
Readying his hand around her waist to intercept hers, he said, “I did not like to do it. I but wished to see you off the battlefield. Ahead, I shall…” He did not know the Anglo-Saxon word for démonter. “I shall get off this horse, and you will ride it to your home. That is all, Lady.”
As evidenced by her grab for his dagger, no more did she believe him now than before.
He gripped her hand, but she was as prepared for his defense as he was for her offense, shooting the other hand past and seizing his dagger’s hilt.
He released the first hand and captured the second before she could fully unsheathe the weapon. As he thrust the blade back to the scabbard’s depths, she cursed him for a Norman, twisted around to face him, and drove an elbow into his injured side.
The pain, hesitation over further harming her, and determination to hold to his sword that was his best defense against any lurking among the trees handed her the advantage—until the young destrier protested the skirmish on its back and swung to the side.
The only way to retain hold of the woman capable of finding his vulnerable places past chain mail was to release his sword. With a curse, he tossed it aside and grabbed the saddle’s pommel a moment before the destrier reared. The return of its hooves to the ground was so forceful both riders lurched over its neck and the woman cried out. Now, given the chance, the beast would run.
Guarin straightened, snatched hold of the reins, and dragged on them, causing the horse to whinny, toss its head, and turn side to side before shuddering to a halt.
Seeing his sword lay ahead to the left, its blade reflecting moonlight, Guarin determined it was time to part ways with the woman. He gripped her tighter—even cruelly—pinning her arms against his chest. “We are done,” he growled. “Now you go your way, I go mine.”
She strained backward, raised her face. So much hatred masking fear there, but if his life depended on knowing one thing about her character, it was that her hatred was directed more at herself for her fear of him. Her eyes flicked left and right of his face, and he saw in them the question to which he was long accustomed the same as nearly all his kin—how was it possible one of relatively few years had so much silver in his hair?
She blinked, hissed, “I do not believe you, barbarian.”
Reminding himself another had given her cause to name him that, he loosened his hold. “Turn forward, Lady.” When her eyes widened ahead of argument, he snarled, “You have the word of Guarin D’Argent. It will have to be enough.”
Further hesitation, then she jerked around and he felt the strain of her arms testing the strength of the one preventing her from gaining his dagger.
When she settled, he said, “Do you not move, all the sooner you shall be rid of this barbarian.”
She gave a defiant jerk of her shoulders.
“Be still!” he growled, then released her and, retaining hold of the reins lest she try to trample him beneath the horse, swung a leg over. Grinding his teeth against discomfort, hoping his side did not bleed again, he dropped to the ground.
The woman watched as he moved to the destrier’s head. Though he would have liked to immediately retrieve his sword and start back, ever he had been good with horses, and this one who had survived what its battle-hardened fellows had not, needed reassurance were he to accept a woman rider and heed her commands.
Guarin smoothed its pale mane, patted its great jaw, in his language said low, “You will see her safely home, eh?”
The great steed eyed him.
“Indeed you will. You are Norman-bred, brave, true. It is your duty and privilege to aid this lady and prove to her what she will not believe of me.” Feeling the animal’s quivering begin to ease, he looked to the Saxon and glimpsed what seemed uncertainty before she lifted her chin and peered down her nose through narrowed lids.
It was a show. Though she made it appear her fear was in retreat, it remained nearly as present as though there were a third person here with them.
Taking hold of the bridle, he led the horse to where his sword lay, bent, and swept up the weapon. “I leave you now, Woman. This fine destrier will carry you well.” He frowned. “You will return home, will you not?”
No answer.
He stepped nearer, causing her to shift opposite. “I did not suspend my own search for family to bring you here that you return to where you are not welcome. For the family that remains to you, Lady, await the duke’s…” He fumbled for the word. “…permission to seek your dead.”
“My son is my only family,” she rasped.
“Then for him—”
“He is upon Senlac. But ten winters aged.”
Correctly he translated what confirmed her son was yet a boy as he must be for one as young as she, but Guarin failed to make sense of what sounded as if he might be found on the battlefield. He nearly asked for clarification, but he was too long in being reunited with kin.
He looped the reins over the saddle’s pommel and drew his dagger, causing her lids to spring high. He paused over relinquishing something so cherished, which would not have been necessary had he not cast her weapon aside, then extended it hilt first. “Should you need it. Now go home.”
She blinked and so forcefully snatched at it, she took his hand with it.
He pulled free, and she caught up the reins and put heels to the horse.
Here the end of it, Guarin assured himself. And a moment later discovered he was very wrong on two fronts—the first when she turned the horse back the way they had come, the second when a half dozen bearded and long-haired men came out of the trees.
For him.
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed this excerpt of FEARLESS: Book Two in the Age of Conquest series. Watch for its release in Spring 2019.
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PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
Aelfled/Aelf: AYL-flehd/AYLF
Aethelflaed: EH-thul-flehd
Alfrith: AAL-frihth
Bernia: BUHR-nee-uh
Boudica: BOO-dih-kuh
Campagnon: CAHM-paan-yah
Chanson: SHAHN-sahn
Cyr: SEE-uhr
D’Argent: DAR-zhahnt
Dougray: DOO-gray
Em: EHM
Mary Sarah: MAA-ree-SAA-ruh
Merle: MUHRL-uh
Fortier: FOHR-tee-ay
Fulbert: FOO-behr
Gerald: JEHR-uhld
Guarin: GAA-rahn
Gytha: JIY-thuh
Hawisa/Isa: HAH-wee-suh/EE-suh
Hugh: HYOO
Jaxon: JAAK-suhn
Maël: MAY-luh
Nicola: NEE-koh-luh
Ordric: OHR-drihk
Raymond: RAY-m
ohnd
Rixende: RIHKS-ahnd
Roger: ROH-zheh
Sigward: SEEG-wuhrd
Theriot: TEH-ree-oh
Vitalis: VEE-tah-lihs
Wulf: WUULF
Wulfrith: WUUL-frihth
Zedekiah: ZEH-duh-KIY-uh
PRONUNCIATION KEY
VOWELS
aa: arrow, castle
ay: chain, lady
ah: fought, sod
aw: flaw, paw
eh: bet, leg
ee: king, league
ih: hilt, missive
iy: knight, write
oh: coat, noble
oi: boy, coin
oo: fool, rule
ow: cow, brown
uh: sun, up
uu: book, hood
y: yearn, yield
CONSONANTS
b: bailey, club
ch: charge, trencher
d: dagger, hard
f: first, staff
g: gauntlet, stag
h: heart, hilt
j: jest, siege
k: coffer, pike
l: lance, vassal
m: moat, pommel
n: noble, postern
ng: ring, song
p: pike, lip
r: rain, far
s: spur, pass
sh: chivalry, shield
t: tame, moat
th: thistle, death
t~h: that, feather
v: vassal, missive
w: water, wife
wh: where, whisper
z: zip, haze
zh: treasure, vision
GLOSSARY
ANDREDESWALD: forest that covered areas of Sussex and Surrey in England
ANGLO-SAXON: people of the Angles (Denmark) and Saxons (northern Germany) of which the population of 11th century England was mostly comprised
BLIAUT: medieval gown
BRAIES: men’s underwear
CASTELLAN: commander of a castle
CHAUSSES: men’s close-fitting leg coverings
CHEMISE: loose-fitting undergarment or nightdress