by Tamara Leigh
HEARTLESS
Book Four: Age of Conquest
Tamara Leigh
Tamara Leigh
THE WULFRITHS. IT ALL BEGAN WITH A WOMAN.
A battle. A crown. The conqueror. The conquered. Medieval England—forever changed by the Battle of Hastings. And the rise of the formidable Wulfriths.
A HEARTLESS NORMAN
Chevalier Maël D’Argent lost more than his striking looks when he aided the Duke of Normandy in taking the English throne from King Harold. As much by his own actions at the Battle of Hastings as those of the enemy, he lost his sire and his honor in breaking faith with his family. Believing himself unworthy of forgiveness, his ruined face the least due him, Maël now serves a ruthless man bent on subduing Saxons resistant to Norman rule. But when his mission to safeguard King William’s dignity leads to the rescue of a curiously familiar Saxon woman who causes the empty place inside him to strain its seams, he discovers he may not be as heartless as the one he serves—nor resistant to the wiles of one he ought to count an enemy.
A FALSE ABBESS
In the guise of Abbess Mary Sarah, the illegitimate Mercia has served the Saxon resistance for years in anticipation of learning who sired her. At last ordered to cast off the habit and veil, Mercia is told that revelation of her parentage hinges on acceptance of another role that could see her sacrificed by the noble family who refuses to acknowledge her. When she resists and is abducted by Saxon allies, her savior proves the scarred Norman warrior who spared her following the great battle. Once more, something sorrowfully empty in Sir Maël makes her long to fill his emptiness with what little she possesses, even if his captivity renders it impossible for him to forgive one as deceptive as she. Even if she never discovers who she is…
From the coronation of William the Conqueror at Westminster, to the amassing of the Danish fleet intent on dethroning England’s Norman king, Sir Maël and Mercia’s tale unfolds in the fourth book in the AGE OF CONQUEST series revealing the origins of the Wulfriths of the bestselling AGE OF FAITH series. Watch for RECKLESS: Book Five releasing Autumn 2020.
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HEARTLESS: Book Four (Age of Conquest) Copyright © 2020 by Tammy Schmanski, P.O. Box 1298 Goodlettsville, TN 37070 [email protected]
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogues are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.
All rights reserved. This book is a copyrighted work and no part of it may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photographic, audio recording, or any information storage and retrieval system) without permission in writing from the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the author’s permission is illegal and punishable by law. Thank you for supporting authors’ rights by purchasing only authorized editions.
Cover Design: Ravven
Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-942326-46-5
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-942326-47-2
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue-Excerpt-Prologue
Pronunciation Guide
Glossary
Also by Tamara Leigh
About the Author
Prologue
Westminster Abbey, England
December 25, 1066
William seethed. And well he should. Even a bad king, which he could prove, ought not suffer so inauspicious a coronation.
As if carved of stone where he faced an anxious audience of Normans and Saxons about whose feet smoke had begun to drift, he remained unmoving, only his eyes stirring when he caught sight of one of two D’Argents who had accompanied a dozen of his personal guard outside the chapel.
Chevalier Maël, returning by way of a side door, inclined his head, assuring his liege and what remained of his guard there was no need to halt the ceremony that was to see the Duke of Normandy crowned King of England. Rather, no need yet.
The service had proceeded smoothly and according to long-established tradition—William prostrated before the altar, anthems sung in praise of the one who would be king, and oaths sworn to govern his subjects justly and defend the Church. It was the next part that shattered the solemnity, causing the congregation to tense in anticipation of fleeing hallowed ground.
After the English archbishop asked if the people would accept William as their king, and the Norman bishop of Coutances translated his words into French, hundreds of Saxon and Norman nobles had shouted their approval.
Though William would be a fool to believe the enthusiasm of his fellow Normans was matched by Saxons who had lost their country when their king fell at the great battle, some of the latter were well with being a beaten people since there could be great gain in turning against their own. As for those who believed England’s throne lost to a thief, they but feigned acceptance of the conqueror in the hope of protecting themselves and preserving what remained of their possessions.
Unfortunately, the Saxon shouts elevated by the Normans’ had caused soldiers stationed outside to suspect an assassination attempt against William. For that, they set fire to nearby buildings. Or so said those confronted by the duke’s personal guard.
Maël did not believe it, nor had his cousin, Theriot.
If the soldiers truly feared William was in danger, sound reason and loyalty would have bade them hasten inside to defend him. Had Maël to wager, it would be that the duke’s mercenary soldiers seen emerging from homes and shops with bulging sacks had used the din inside the abbey as an excuse to return to burning and pillaging. And the temptation for William’s own liegemen to enrich themselves had been too great for many to abstain.
When the man soon crowned king learned his forces, rather than rebellious Saxons, had caused the disturbance, he would have much to say about the near ruination of his coronation. But it would be naught compared to his wrath were it necessary to halt the ceremony.
Having alerted William it was safe to proceed, Maël was eager to return to Theriot to aid in ensuring those out of control were reined in before Saxons fleeing ruined homes and businesses were moved from fear to anger. If that happened, rioting would ensue. And slaughter.
He had no love for the people of this land, and less so after losing his sire to them, but further bloodshed of city folk not given to warring would benefit none.
As the bishop once more translated the archbishop’s words, Maël started back toward the side door. And paused when he caught movement on the dim balcony above that provided an unobstructed view of William before the altar—and a path for arrows
and blades.
Through narrowed eyes, he sought the source but found none. Might it have been a bird searching for a way out? A rodent scurrying across the rail?
The rising shouts of those in the streets beyond the chapel and the sharpening scent of smoke causing the congregation to turn more restless, Maël hesitated. He was needed outside, but more here lest the coronation was interrupted not by the actions of greedy men but an assassin in truth.
Bypassing the side door, he nodded at one of the king’s guard whose presence there ensured the congregation remained seated. Hoping the man had not allowed someone to gain the balcony unseen, he stepped onto tightly-turning stairs. As they were constructed without regard to defense, providing little space in which to wield a sword, Maël drew the family dagger he continued to wear only so none question its absence from a warrior no longer worthy of the esteemed weapon.
It was wrong it should fit his hand so well, and the price paid for the momentary comfort was recall of his sire awarding it to his only son. Rather, legitimate son.
Thrusting aside that memory of the day his accomplishment was honored by the man who had commanded if Maël could not be the worthiest of the family D’Argent, he be among the worthiest, he climbed the stairs cautiously so he might hear and not be heard above the holy words intoned.
However, he was expected by the two who stood at the center of the balcony in the light of a single torch flickering at their backs.
Ladies, as told by veiled hair, embroidered skirts beneath mantles fastened with brooches, and noble bearing. Saxon ladies, as evidenced by their presence in a city recently surrendered to Normans. But the same as the young of these conquered people, a handful of whom were responsible for the corpse made of Maël’s sire, they could prove far from harmless.
Tossing out another memory, seeing no others here and that the hands clasped before the women were empty, he strode forward.
Their faces were mostly in shadow, but as he neared he discerned the one on the right was elderly, a hunch to her shoulders and the pale braids visible on either side of her veil thin and grey. The taller one was young, the lower loops of the braids brushing her shoulders thick and darkly gleaming.
From her sharply drawn breath, he knew the moment her eyes made sense of the side of his face come out of shadow. It was the same reaction of most women who looked upon a visage so ruined its contrast with the mostly unspoiled side shocked.
The king’s physician had assured Maël that, given time, the livid and swollen flesh would heal sufficiently so the monster made of him at Hastings would once more look the man, but it was assurance he had not sought. Worse should have been done him, and not merely the loss of a limb as suffered by a cousin. Rather, loss of life the same as his sire and, possibly, another cousin whose body had not been recovered from that godforsaken meadow.
Maël halted a stride from the women. “What do you here?” he demanded with just enough volume to be heard above the men of God and the congregation’s restlessness that boded they would make for the doors if what transpired outside was not soon resolved.
“What do we here, Chevalier?” the old woman said in a voice still melodious despite a crackle, and well enough accented it was obvious she knew his language well. “We mark this momentous day in the history of our country by bearing witness to what goes inside our abbey.”
Unlike the Saxons below, she was openly disaffected, a prerogative of the elderly who often believed they had little to lose—and unlike her companion who set a hand on her arm to calm her and for it was jabbed with an elbow.
As the young woman jumped back, Maël shifted his regard to that one’s face, and immediately the glitter in her eyes extinguished.
Since her proud bearing did not falter, he was certain she had not lowered her lids out of fear nor deference. She hid something. Unfortunately, it was impossible to look nearer on one whose features were mostly obscured the same as the older woman’s. However, of note was hair peaked on her brow and a generous mouth.
She might be pretty, she might not, but unlike before the great battle, it mattered not to one whose face would no longer give him the pick of women worth courting.
Returning to the old woman, he said, “Who are you?”
She snorted. “You are not quick of wit, are you, Norman? As should be obvious, we are Saxons.”
“Your names,” he growled.
She set her head to the side. “For what would you know? So you might persecute us the same as your countrymen and mercenaries who continue to set fires and pillage though this city surrendered to Le Bâtard?”
The young woman gasped, stepped in front of the older one, and raised her gaze. The glitter there of such height and breadth it bespoke large eyes, she said, “Forgive my grandmother. So dear and great the number of those lost to her at Hastings, it is difficult to see any good come of the rule of your people.”
Though her Norman-French accent was somewhat aslant, her speech was beautifully precise as of one given to much thought ere letting words off her tongue.
When he did not respond, she raised her chin higher. “Have mercy, Chevalier. Of an honorable age, my grandmother is of no danger to you nor your duke.”
“Her king,” he corrected.
“Her king—our king,” she acceded. And stumbled forward.
Certain a blow had landed to her back, Maël bit, “Cease, old woman, else your granddaughter’s pleading will be for naught.”
So quickly that lady came out from behind the other that were Maël incapable of swiftly assessing a threat, impulse would have caused him to wield his dagger against her. The old one was empty-handed, but were it not impossible for her to escape following a struggle that would alert the guards, likely she would have drawn whatever blade was fixed to her girdle.
Stepping so near his dagger’s point grazed her mantle, she spat, “Nithing! Thief! Murderer!”
As Maël wavered between delivering her to the king’s guard and honoring the younger one’s request by escorting them from the chapel, the decision was snatched from him by a rise in the commotion outside the abbey. Immediately, it was answered by the congregation. As if having held its breath, they expelled exclamations and cries. Then came the pound of boots and scrape of slippers.
Maël crossed to the railing. Though William remained flanked by the archbishop and bishop, monks, and personal guard, all was becoming chaos. Even before the doors were flung open to permit the panicked to flee, it was obvious the smoke’s penetration of the chapel had intensified. Still the duke did not stir. Naught but the certainty of death would prevent him from departing Westminster absent crown, ring, sword, scepter, and rod.
As more smoke entered by way of the congregation’s exit, Maël swung around. He had sensed no movement from the women, but he was surprised they were where he had left them—until he realized they had no cause to join the exodus. They had not slipped past William’s guard and ascended the stairs that delivered Maël here. Somewhere on the balcony was a concealed door that could have seen an arrow put through William were these two of murderous intent.
Thrusting his dagger in its scabbard, he returned to them. “Show me the passage, and you may depart the way you came. Refuse me, and the guard will detain you and themselves learn its location.”
As hoped, the young one yielded. “We are without choice,” she said and pivoted and strode past the torch.
Maël gripped the older woman’s arm through her mantle. “Make haste.”
“You dare!” she snarled as if not only were he the enemy but beneath her. Though she was mistaken to assume he was not as noble as she, he let it pass and allowed her to pull free.
Less hunched than before, she followed her companion.
The passage in the far corner was accessed by an empty sconce. Turned to the right, the wooden panel whispered inward to reveal descending stairs.
The young woman entered and reached behind. When her hand was slapped aside, she entreated, “We must not delay.”
The old woman turned back. Torchlight now upon her face, Maël’s cast in shadow, she said, “I pray it was one of mine who spoiled your comeliness, Norman.” She coughed, surely from the smoke. “A pity he did not also gut you.”
Since he was mostly in accord, her attempt to offend was wasted. “Go, Saxon.”
She grunted, swung around, and stepped into the passage.
As Maël closed the women into darkness, he assured himself if the elderly one continued to refuse aid and tumbled down the steps, it would be her fault alone.
After engaging the sconce’s lever that locked it in place so no longer could it be opened from the inside, he descended the narrow stairs and found the last of the congregation shoving past William’s guard amid smoke as eager to enter as they were to exit.
As he moved toward doors soon to be closed to allow the officiating clergy to complete the coronation, he looked behind.
No longer did William appear cut from stone, his color high and chest rising and falling rapidly. Doubtless, the reward to be distributed to the men who had greatly aided in seating him on England’s throne would be denied those responsible for making a mockery of his ascendancy that could prove impossible to remove from memory.