LAWLESS: A Medieval Romance (AGE OF CONQUEST Book 7)

by Tamara Leigh

  Standing alongside his horse center of the men chosen to accompany them, Guy was more relieved than astonished Alvilda had heeded his counsel to look the lady. The great surprise was the extent to which she made use of the two hours.

  Her lightly tanned face was clean, marked only by abrasions. She had removed the bandage, washed and dried her hair, and worked golden brown tresses into two purposely loose braids that pooled on her shoulders, coursed her breasts, and whose ends brushed her abdomen.

  Though her looks so paled compared to Elan’s he had thought her almost plain, now that she did not peer at him from behind a mask of mud, was not drenched nor soiled, and wore fine garments—his own—he saw the pretty about her. And when she halted, silencing the chain, he smelled it as well. Though sage was more a man’s scent and one he favored, she wore it well.

  She adjusted the green mantle over her arm, raised her chin, and with a tilt to her mouth that seemed amusement, said, “Since you granted permission to go through your packs, I did. Though as you warned, I discovered naught to aid in my escape, much I found to better present as a lady. Pray, tell you are not vexed I went beyond what was expected, Sir Guy.”

  He knew he should nod and lift her astride, but he drew back and ran his gaze down her. “I did not know my finest tunic, which I have had rare occasion to don since its fashioning”—and in which I thought to wed, he silently added—“could be made to look a lady’s gown.”

  “I did what I could with what I found,” she said of that which was not only broader of shoulders than his squire’s, giving it an appearance of short sleeves above those of the chemise extending to her wrists, but of greater length, causing the hem to fall mid-calf above her undergarment’s lower edge.

  She had done much with what she had, though not enough, he thought as he lingered on feet over which she had drawn hose that also belonged to him. As she had possessed only one boot when he pulled her from the water and he had disposed of it, from somewhere he would have to acquire slippers.

  Moving his gaze back up the tunic of dark red linen whose hem was embroidered all around with silver diamonds against a black background the same as the neck, he paused again, this time on his spare purse fixed to a belt different from the one he had left her.

  Wondering what caused the former to bulge slightly, he considered the belt. Made of wide leather and studded all around, she had looped and cinched its excess length, revealing though hers was no tiny waist a man’s hands could easily span, it was narrow enough to emphasize the fullness of breasts above and hips below.

  The next thing that caught his eye was that with which she tied off her braids. Yielding to impulse, he lifted the end of one, causing her to startle when his fingers brushed her abdomen. “I am thinking this lacing was taken from my black tunic and the other…” He glanced at the second braid. “…the white and blue.”

  Her gaze wavered. “You know your garments well, Chevalier. I hope you approve of my efforts, and I thank you for your generosity.”

  “I approve, and be assured I am not vexed by your foraging. However, I am curious as to what else you took.”

  “Paste to clean my teeth.” She showed them briefly, but it was enough to note that though they were not dainty like Elan’s, they were even, likely for having more room in which to grow.

  Unbidden, it occurred he would like to see them displayed in a smile. But what chance that?

  “And bandages,” she added.

  He shifted his regard to the side of her head the physician had stitched closed beneath her hair.

  She snorted. “I think I shall not need to bind that again, Chevalier.”

  Then she expected other injuries to be done her when she stood before his king?

  Further evidencing her thoughts traveled the same road, she said, “For that possibility as well, I suppose—albeit useful only if I am permitted to retain them.” She patted the purse to indicate the bandages inside, then glanced around at her escort and the few in the camp excused from arms practice to recover from injuries sustained during their withdrawal from the causeway.

  Returning her regard to Guy, she leaned up and said low, “Certes, soon they shall be needed for my courses, an event so dependable ever I know the passage of four weeks.”

  Talk of her woman’s flux warming his neck and face, inwardly Guy berated himself for not exercising better control.

  Alvilda stepped back and grimaced. “Oh, my my—” She caught her breath, cleared her throat. “I have shocked you. It seems the lady you instructed me to unearth must needs dig up more of her old bones. I am all apology, Sir Guy.”

  Her mockery would have offended did he not prefer it over fear and helplessness that had earlier nearly reduced her to weeping. Face cooling, he said, “And yet you delight in discomfiting this warrior.”

  She shrugged. “I would not name it delight. Merely, I take hold of whatever small pleasure can be found amid the dark.”

  He nodded. “A good thing—in the right company. Just as I advise you to look the lady, I advise you to play one whilst in the wrong company.”

  She looked away, and he knew fear had slipped out from behind her shield. When her eyes returned to his, once more that vulnerability was hidden. “As I am unable to mount a horse”—she shook a manacled ankle—“am I to ride with you?”

  “Providing you have no objection.”

  She considered the others of her escort as if a lesser evil might be found among them, then frowned. “Correct me if I err, but methinks the young man whose garments I decline to wear and who looks upon me as if I am the pig, is the same squire who defied your command the night we first met.”

  “’Tis Jacques,” he said.

  She grunted. “He who despises me, though he is more responsible than I for Hereward keeping hold of Ely.”

  Guy raised his eyebrows. “It sounds you believe I could have defeated your cousin.”

  “You hear wrong. The only way you might have defeated he whom many call The Last Great Englishman is if you and your squire had worked together to prevent my cousin from reaching the boat ere your other men arrived.”

  “Speculation—a thief of time better spent strengthening one’s position for the actual battle,” Guy said and turned alongside his mount. “Now, if you are well with riding with me rather than Jacques, ’tis time we depart.”

  Remaining unmoving, she asked, “How is it you are so well-acquainted with my language you can also shed much of your accent?”

  It irked that she ignored his prompt to get astride—until it occurred this might be fear once more come out from behind the shield. Forcing a smile, he said, “That tale must save, Lady Alvilda,” and extended a hand.

  She glanced at it with disdain, but after drawing the mantle from her arm and fastening it around her shoulders, shuffled forward, causing the chain links to jangle.

  “And so to his reckoning,” she said, sounding courageous. She was, but she was also other things she did not want the enemy to see. And he almost wished he did not see.

  Unable to suppress protective instincts, he bent near. “I shall do all in my power to accompany you to that reckoning, Lady.” Then he averted his gaze from brightening eyes, parted the mantle, and fit his hands to her waist.

  He thought he would have to tell her to hold to his shoulders, but she gripped them, and he lifted her with less effort than expected. Once she settled sideways on the saddle, he swung up behind her and put an arm around her waist.

  As he drew her back, she asked, “How far, Sir Guy?”

  Retrieving the reins, he nudged his mount forward. “A quarter league.”

  “Is that all?” she said so softly he nearly missed her words.

  As his men fell in behind him, silently he agreed, Would that it were farther, Lady.

  Chapter Ten

  Royal Manor at Brampton

  Huntingdon, England

  It was farther. Much farther.

  Sometime between sending word to deliver her to Le Bâtard
and her arrival, the usurper ordered his camp dismantled and had taken his guard west. The leader of the contingent left behind to supervise the loading of baggage wagons and escort them across the Fens had passed along instructions that Sir Guy continue to the royal manor at Brampton and provided his party provisions to ensure fewer stops.

  Every league traveled over ground notoriously of two minds—one stretch accommodating, the next unobliging—was felt by Vilda for how much distance must be covered to ensure she arrive before nightfall. But greater these leagues were felt with regard to rescue.

  If Hereward learned she lived, which was possible for how often he infiltrated camps ahead of raids and foraging off isle, it would be nearly—if not entirely—impossible to retrieve her so distant from the heart of the Fens and in territory controlled by Normans.

  Like a drunkard, throughout the ride her emotions staggered, finding firm footing one moment, losing it the next. The firm footing was of anger and defiance, the lost of helplessness and fear. Then there was the footing in between, that of the brooding chevalier whose protection was all she had, making her long to cling to him each time she nearly toppled—and pray that even if he could do naught to aid her, he would stand with her during the reckoning.

  Thus, assuring herself there would be time aplenty to regret what she did, at last she had yielded to what she ought not. Rather than the chevalier holding to her, she had turned into him and, wrapping her arms around him, tried to sleep away dread alongside weariness. It was mostly futile, but there was comfort in the beat of his heart and that he neither discouraged her nor reacted in any way to indicate he found close contact distasteful.

  Now, feeling the draw of his breath, she was not surprised when he spent this one on words. “We have arrived, Lady.”

  “I know it,” she said and removed hands placed atop each other on his back, sat up, and turned forward.

  Beneath a dimming sky, the gate in a massive timber wall enclosing a broad hillock was being swung wide while torches around a walkway were lit in advance of the night.

  Since they were ascending from lower ground, the roof of the manor was barely visible above the wall, but that glimpse made her shudder. Soon she would see the building in its entirety, then what was inside—rather, who.

  Though their pace was easy enough she no longer needed Sir Guy to stabilize her, once more his arm slid around her waist, and she hoped it was habit rather than in response to the quake she did not wish him to feel.

  Then his face was alongside hers. “Calm your breath, Lady, else such rapid draws could find you at the feet of my king where I am certain you do not care to be.”

  Though aware she quaked, she had not realized she panted.

  Oh, Vilda! she silently berated. If you cannot hide your fear, be not the hare put to flight who seeks only its hole. Be the boar who turns and guts as many as possible ere being skewered.

  She turned her face toward his and was grateful he drew back when she realized how near their mouths would have been. But that did not stop her from being the boar. “Sir Guy, as you are about to give me into the hands of my greatest enemy, do not advise me as if you are my savior.”

  He tensed, and she told herself it was good she offended, but her words did not rouse an angry retort. “I think this the time,” he said.

  She leaned away to more easily view him across her shoulder. “What time is that?”

  Further he slowed his mount, causing his men to fall back to form columns two abreast to enter the gateway though they must wish to spur the remaining distance to sooner end the journey for which none had been prepared. “You asked how I am so well versed in your language.”

  So she had, and though he had indicated he would answer at some future time, she had expected either he would deign not to enlighten her or her loss of a future would preclude an explanation.

  Glancing at the walls rising before them and the gateway through which could be seen a portion of the manor beyond the outbuildings, she said, “As we are nearly there, it must needs be a short tale.”

  “It is, and shorter yet do you know the name The Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings.” Her catch of breath confirming it ahead of words, she said, “I know it, just as I am aware he was given command of one of the largest Norman forces in the Fens.”

  He inclined his head. “Better he is known to me as Maxen Pendery, and he has been my good friend for nearly as many years as I have lived.”

  Here the answer to his ease with her language. Like Pendery, he had been raised in England, possibly born here. And therein the greater tragedy that both had wielded arms against people surely better known to them than those of their native Normandy. Too, how could this man of greater honor than most Normans be a friend to such a fiend?

  “Aye, your language is nearly as much mine as Norman-French,” he said. “Aye, my family’s oath of fealty to the Duke of Normandy stands me William’s side rather than yours. But also true as your cousin must accept is that once my liege sank his teeth into this country by slaying King Harold and the majority of England’s fighting men, there was little chance of prying open his jaws. And none now, I believe.”

  Vilda raised her chin. “Then you excuse your crimes against people who were your friends and neighbors by telling yourself that as soon as those who continue to resist cease resisting all will come right? That your people and mine shall heal the great rift and live in harmony? You forget that just as Normans are not saints, neither are Saxons whose struggles are tenfold what they were before the conquering now the rewards for their labors have been lost to thieves?”

  Though she knew they passed through the gateway, she continued, “’Tis not harmony that sprouts from that but resentment at the least, vengeance at the worst. Even if all Saxons are yoked by Normans, our oppressors will not walk easy in the day nor sleep well at night knowing the moment they let down their guard is the moment the oppressed back out of their yokes and fit them upon the enemy.”

  When she paused to fill her lungs, he said, “Your breath yet comes fast, Lady, but as it has more substance than before, methinks it less to your detriment.”

  She blinked at the realization that though she was more roused than he must have expected, for such he had determined this was the time to reveal his past. Hence, to his own detriment he had aided her in becoming the boar.

  Smiling tautly, he inclined his head as if confirming that and reined in.

  Vilda looked around, first acknowledging the presence of two score folk in the bailey, half of whom were warriors, then settling her gaze on a manor of good breadth and height and of two levels.

  Now her ordeal would begin in earnest.

  “Lady…” His voice was in her ear again, and how she wished it repulsed as had those of his countrymen the day of her wedding that had become a funeral. “I do not dispute your grievances, but my king will do more than dispute them if you do not content yourself with spilling them on my doorstep alone. I entreat you, just as all will go better do you look and behave the lady, so it will if you withhold such accusations from a man who lost hundreds of warriors to the resistance last eve and for it gained only a handful of rebels.”

  The boar made of her did not care to do that, but so moved was she by the seriousness of his warning and depth of concern that she acceded the hare had its uses as well—until she took better measure of her circumstances.

  She peered over her shoulder at a face that lost little of its appeal, though it was so stern he appeared older than a man ascending the ladder of his twenties. His life could not have been as hard as Hereward’s these years, ever the spoils taken by the victors filling the pits of life even if they must fight onward, but she was fairly certain he had enjoyed little ease and suffered losses of his own.

  Telling herself the injury to her head was responsible for the longing to know more of his past, she said, “I shall heed you as best I can. Now let us not keep Le Bâtard waiting any longer.”

  His brow furrowed. “I know that name i
s preferred by the resistance, but heed me in this as well—better you offend by naming him naught than naming him that no matter how much satisfaction it brings in the moment.”

  “Wise counsel,” she murmured, and when he released her and swung out of the saddle, felt strangely bared though she had made his garments her own.

  His men having dismounted, she noted his squire held back though one who served in that capacity was quick to his lord’s side to offer assistance in removing packs and leading the beast to the stable.

  Because of me, she thought. To avoid being near this rebel, he disrespects his lord.

  “My packs, Jacques,” Sir Guy said sharply. “Be quick about it.” Then he raised his arms to Vilda.

  Knowing with too little chain between her ankles she was likely to shame herself if she tried to dismount on her own, she reached. He gripped her beneath the arms and drew her from the saddle, but before her feet touched ground, his mount sidled and knocked her against him, causing her to slide down his body.

  “Jacques!” he snarled.

  “Forgive me, my lord. Overly burdened throughout the ride, your horse is as skittish as he is weary.”

  An insult to her, but the chevalier did not let it pass. “It may be exceedingly late ere my audience with the king is done, but do not take meal nor seek your rest until we have spoken.”

  “My lord—”

  “Until we have spoken, Jacques!” Sir Guy ordered, then looked down at Vilda.

  Only then did she realize she had not moved and was so near that her feet were between his. As she hastened back with a clatter, something flickered in his eyes. She could not name it, her only certainty that it was not what would have flooded his squire’s eyes were she so near him. Then came a flash of what looked confusion, next a slight smile. “You were breathing much easier, Lady. Do not stop now.”