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

by Tamara Leigh

  He nodded. “You are right, and that it is no victory to reel in a wounded fish. Still, I hope you do not regret this fisherman hooking you. Had I not, another would have retrieved the drowning rebel and given her to my king since I was not the one who sighted you.”

  Knowing she had made rescue of her sound an accusation and it was not entirely unintentional, Vilda said, “I am glad it was you. Though my future is dim, I do not doubt it would be black had another given me into his hands. What I narrowly avoided at my wedding—”

  Return of those memories making her head feel heavy, she closed her eyes. And heard the chevalier return to her side.

  She expected the support of a hand again, not to be swept into his arms. The moment her feet left the floor, she exclaimed, “Non!” and twisted around to press her hands against his chest.

  It was not necessary to push him away. He let her slide down his body and lightly gripped her arms. “I meant you no harm.”

  She blinked up at him. “I do not question your intentions. I just…”

  Just what? she asked herself. The answer was threefold—she was not so weak she needed the enemy to carry her, she should not feed this attraction whose appetite grew with each kindness shown her, and she had enough memories of him without adding that of being in his arms.

  It was good he was departing Brampton. Now if only she were truly pleased. “As told, I am tired, but I am no frail thing. Your steadying hand shall suffice.”

  “Apologies, Lady. I did not mean to trespass.” Firming his hold on one arm, he led her down the corridor.

  When he released her, she reached to the door. Then impulsively—to thank him and look one last time upon this Norman should it be the last—swung around. Too quickly. Though a step back against the door countered her reeling, his hand was on her again.

  “I shall ask the king to send his physician,” he said, reverting to her language as if realizing conversing with the usurper in Norman-French contributed to her fatigue.

  Tears of gratitude pricking her eyes, Vilda said, “Nay, this is fatigue only, easily remedied by rest.”

  He looked uncertain but released her. “Then I will leave you to it.”

  She knew she should slip into her chamber and seek sleep so complete she would miss the turning of the key when the squire came to secure her inside, but she said, “You will be gone when I awaken, back to the Fens and…”

  “Aye, I will return there and do my duty to my liege.”

  She smiled sorrowfully. “Do you truly believe the fall of Ely will end Saxon resistance?”

  “That is the hope. Granted, time and again it meets with disappointment, but if our two peoples are to share this kingdom, a relationship must be forged—one at least tolerable to both sides—and that cannot happen until resistance ends.”

  Peace between Saxons and Normans…reconciled enemies living and working alongside one another… Was it possible after all her people had suffered?

  “We have good cause to hate this war more than you,” she said, “so much that resistance might end were we assured what came before will not come after, if atrocities like that which I…”

  Regret deepened the lines in Guy’s face that was young enough most had to have been gained from exposure to the elements, which was as much a part of daily life for an active warrior as a tiller of the soil. “I am sorry for what happened to you and your people that day, Lady. Some say assaults on innocents are simply part of war—the spoils of victors not only in search of coin but vengeance for their own losses—but I know it is wrong.”

  Tears burned. “I thank you,” she said, then reminded of what he had somehow rendered less unbearable, asked, “What threat did you make against Sir Roul?”

  She thought he might refute having done so, but he said, “I saw him slip outside last eve and followed. We exchanged words, during which I encouraged him to tell the truth that caused you to strike him with a platter. When he seemed receptive, we parted ways. I did not expect him to be as truthful as he was, and since his remorse seemed genuine, it is possible he would have been so without inducement. Regardless, you were spared punishment.”

  Feeling a different hurt now, as if that in her head had moved to her heart, she said, “I do not understand why you concern yourself with me, but I am more grateful than I ought to be.”

  He raised his eyebrows, and when that alluring mouth curved, she answered his unspoken question with too little thought. “I hardly know myself when I am around you.” Regret was immediate, giving rise to shame that warmed her as if she had made a declaration of love.

  “As I can attest, that is a most unsettling feeling,” he said.

  She stared. It had to be another of whom he spoke—the beautiful Elan Pendery lost to Harwolfson. But then why did his eyes lower to her mouth? Why did he step nearer?

  A sting in one palm alerting her she had pressed her hands to the door behind, she guessed a splinter had slid beneath her skin, but she remained unmoving and whispered, “Chevalier?”

  He raised his eyes. Glimpsing what appeared disbelief as if he were also surprised to find himself contemplating intimacy, to save both further discomfort, she said lightly, “Did I not know better, I might believe you truly tempted, Sir Guy. Now, I wish you Godspeed.”

  It surprised when he did not draw back to provide space for her to turn, and she startled when he raised a hand to her jaw and drew calloused fingers to her chin. “You do not know better, Alvilda,” he eschewed her title. “I am tempted.”

  Her heart beat faster, and when he touched his thumb to lips that parted, once more she felt the weak in her legs. The ache in her head was present as well, but she did not care. Tilting her face higher, she said, “I do not understand what this is, Guy.”

  He smiled as if pleased she was as familiar with his given name. “Naught else I shall ask of you but a kiss. May I?”

  She moistened her lips, and when she gave no answer, he lowered his head further.

  This Norman provides time to refuse, she told herself as his nose brushed hers. You ought to, Vilda of the Saxons.

  “May I try your lips, Alvilda?”

  She searched his eyes, and though part of her hoped to see the predator there, the greater part was rewarded by its absence. “Vilda,” she breathed. “Ask Vilda.”

  Breath fanning her mouth, he said, “May I try your lips, Vilda?”

  “Pray do, Guy.” Then her hands came off the door, splayed on his chest, and slid upward.

  When his mouth closed over hers with an intensity never experienced, her own kisses having been brief before she wed and one slightly longer after the vows, she gripped handfuls of his tunic and could not have said if it was she who drew him to her or he pulled her to him. Had she said anything, it would have been to ask him to show her more of what she knew only from stumbling on others locked in embraces. But no words were needed.

  As if she was what he wanted, he deepened the kiss, and one hand at her waist slid inward and up her back—gently kneading muscles and lightly trailing her spine.

  Is it supposed to feel like this? she pondered. So wondrous my body forgets all other aches save this one? Is this what makes harlots of women and lechers of men?

  That last disturbed, but as she tried to come back to herself, his fingers pushed into her hair. When he pressed their tips to her scalp, her own hands did as they wished, going around his neck and into his hair to hold his head near.

  “Vilda,” he groaned and slid his mouth off hers and over her cheek to her ear. “Vilda.”

  She had not thought she could be nearer him, but his arm around her waist tightened, leaving only enough space to draw shallow breaths. As long as she could hold to this feeling of being precious as she had not felt to anyone since the death of her grandsire, she needed no more, she assured herself. And a moment later found herself supported by the door again. No arm around her nor hands in her hair, she opened her eyes on the warrior before her.

  Not only had he set her back, b
ut he stood out of reach, and from his face shone regret as ought to be upon hers. Though it occurred she should don an expression even greater than regret—perhaps outrage—her pride would have to suffer since it would require too much effort to feign innocence, especially with the return of fatigue and ache.

  When he thrust a hand back through his hair, she saw it was disheveled—by her as was her hair by him, the weight of one braid draping her shoulder still felt, the other loosed. Then there was the shift of the tunic off her shoulder, exposing the homespun gown beneath.

  Imagining she looked wanton, recalling her scorn for Theta, and longing to lighten the moment, she said, “Oh, my my me, what have we done, Sir Guy?”

  Having settled his hand at the base of his neck, he dropped it to his side. “Forgive me. I should not have done that.”

  “We should not have done that,” she corrected. “Not only is it unseemly behavior, but despite the kindness and consideration shown me, you are and shall remain my enemy as I remain yours.” She tugged up the tunic’s shoulder. “And even were neither of those obstacles, still it would be wrong, for I am not her.”

  He frowned. “What say you?”

  Surely he knew she referred to his broken betrothal. Surely he did not need her to point out this Saxon possessed a plain face, and though her figure was nothing to be ashamed of, it was sturdy unlike what he must be accustomed to—delicacy that, shaken by the currents of adversity, required a man’s arms to relieve the burden of carrying light bones and slight muscles.

  Though more greatly feeling the weight of her own, Vilda straightened from the door. “Just as I am not a Norman but a Saxon noblewoman—and that in name only since what remains of my nobility is but dust in the corners—I have no wish to be Elan Pendery.”

  His frown deepened. “I did not say you were, Lady, nor did I think it.”

  Of course he who reverted to her title would not entertain such a relationship with her. But was that not the point? That what they had done was wrong in the absence of commitment regardless of how stout the wall between them?

  He set a hand on his sword’s pommel, and she knew soon he would be gone and all he would recall of what should not have happened was regret also to be forgotten. “Regardless, you are right to remind me of your place and mine,” he said. “Now I leave you.” He bowed and strode the corridor.

  When he went from sight, Vilda closed herself in the chamber and, dropping to the mattress, acknowledged that were she to attempt an escape, there could be no better opportunity than this and it would not last long.

  Still, she was face down when boots sounded, remained face down when the door opened to confirm she was within, turned her head to the side as the door closed, and sank into sleep when the click of the lock ensured she could not behave more recklessly than already done this day.

  It was not merely admiration for her strength that made him exceedingly aware of the beat of his heart. It was not only fear for her well-being that jolted what ought to remain still in the cage of his ribs. It was not all sympathy for her plight that softened what was best hardened. He was exceedingly attracted to Vilda.

  And that is not all, he silently admitted as he and his men rode toward night in the east while what remained of day passed overhead. Accept it, Guy, and once more you will know yourself well. Reject it, and you shall have no defenses at the ready should you find yourself alone again with one who professed to hardly know herself in your company.

  Closing his eyes, he saw her again and heard her express kindred feeling that had further drawn him to her as he should not have allowed lest it prove as dangerous—if not more—than foregoing the opportunity to prevent Princess Margaret from becoming Queen of Scotland.

  Then came memories of what followed after she granted him permission to be familiar with her name and intimate with her mouth. Suppressed emotions once more rising, Guy returned his gaze to fairly level ground that, in places, would become perilous as they neared Ely.

  He tried to immerse himself in the landscape and all that must be accomplished in preparation for the next siege, which he feared was being rushed the same as the first so sooner William could turn his attention elsewhere, but to no avail. As if once more Vilda perched on the fore of his saddle, she distracted him. Though he was able to push aside memories of their kiss and his hands on her and hers on him, he saw her where he had set her back against the door—garments askew, hair mussed as if from a night of troubled sleep, lips brightly flushed and slightly swollen.

  She was no beauty, but in the moments before she claimed as much responsibility for what happened between them as was due him, she had been fiercely lovely and more desirable. But then not only had she reminded him they were enemies, she had invited Elan to stand between them by asserting how different she was from that Norman lady. And there had been no arguing that.

  Vilda could not be more distinct from Maxen’s sister, and yet Guy’s attraction for her was of a depth he had not believed possible to feel for a woman whose stamp he would expect to see on the reverse side of any coin Elan graced. Strange that should appeal, but here more proof he did not know himself as once he had.

  It will pass, he told himself. The only thing of which he ought to be concerned with regard to the Saxon lady was that she not suffer the punishment to be dealt her cousin when the resistance collapsed. Unfortunately, even that he had little control over. The best he could do was what he had done after leaving her—sending the squire who earlier released her from the chamber to secure her inside.

  “Behave, Vilda,” he spoke into air rushing past him. And hoped it would carry his warning to her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Fenlands

  Early Autumn, 1071

  The only Norman who had made it to the end of the causeway that fateful night—and for it was believed slain—lived. And his strut told he was no more humble than when he spurred past Guy, his rashness encouraging warriors to forget their training and to whom they answered. For it, numerous bodies that had not been retrieved now formed an unholy causeway beneath marsh distant from this shore.

  Guy believed himself to be in good control of his emotions, but just as he had erred about what he did and did not feel for Vilda, he erred in not exercising restraint. Or he would have had De Warenne not intercepted him.

  “I know,” William’s commander growled. “I would also like to pound his face—and worse—but his captivity could be of benefit.”

  Guy peered across his shoulder through the scattering haze between this shore and the isle. On that shore, fortifications of peat and timber gave cover to the resistance whose numbers had increased when the Normans decided to launch their next assault from this place, the distance between the two shores shorter and the marsh of less depth than where the first causeway was floated.

  Looking back around and seeing Maxen approached, Guy waited until his friend arrived, then asked, “How did Deda escape?”

  “He did not,” De Warenne said. “In the early hours of morn, Hereward’s men rowed him over and left him bound and gagged on the shore.”

  Guy glanced at the knave who strode alongside Ivo toward the command tent erected days past when construction of all that was to deliver victory to William neared completion. “For what would Hereward release him?”

  “A show of good faith prompted by great arrogance. Surely by way of infiltration of our camps, Hereward learned his cousin was captured and wished her released, though not so she might return to Ely.” Before Guy could question that, he continued, “Deda tells that before he was offered in trade, he was treated like an honored guest and Hereward showed him around the isle.”

  Guy grunted. “The resistance’s attempt to mislead us with whatever that knave tells of what he learned of their defenses.”

  Maxen stepped forward. “Does Hereward truly believe William will release the lady for the return of one whose greed resulted in so many deaths?” He made no attempt to disguise anger over the loss of his men. “And w
hat of punishment due him?”

  De Warenne, who answered to no one save the king, did not appear offended. “I but repeat what Sir Deda told, Baron Pendery. As for punishment, I am in accord, but since the order was given to advance—true, after the chevalier took it upon himself—I do not think he will suffer much. As for the release of the lady to a convent of her choosing, neither do I believe our king will honor a bargain he did not make. Indeed, if he brings her with him when he arrives this day, she will be used as he wills.”

  Guy felt every muscle tighten. He had known she was likely to accompany William, even if only to bear witness to the assault. That was ill enough, but if the king had plans for her beyond that…

  “Come, Baron Pendery and Sir Guy,” De Warenne said. “If naught else, it will be interesting to see how Deda’s account of the isle compares to its mapping by the elite force.”

  An hour later, the chevalier before whom the leather map was unrolled was less smug. He was accurate about the locations of various towns, the abbey, and shoreline fortifications clearly visible to the eye, but he knew little of the main military camp and naught of outposts strategically placed between towns. Nor had he learned where the immense camp of refuge had been erected to accommodate those fleeing Norman oppression who could not be trained into warriors—old men, women, children, the debilitated, and those of holy orders who ministered to the people.

  Deda had been shown only what he was meant to see and, likely, what Hereward believed was already known to the enemy since the communities on Ely were established long before the isle became a base of resistance. Thus, had the chevalier even a distant hope of William rewarding him for crossing to the isle, only a great loss of good sense would see it done. Indeed, better he make himself scarce when the King of England arrived to witness victory he was determined would not be denied him a second time.