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

by Tamara Leigh

  Guy frowned. “You told you wished something.”

  “Did I? I mean…” She groaned softly. “I did, but as ’tis not possible, why speak it?”

  He considered her, then said, “What Herba did at the springs was unholy, but just as I suspect she does not believe herself a witch, neither do I.”

  “On that we agree,” Vilda said, “but others believe it, and Taillebois thinks to use that to your king’s advantage, though it will displease the Lord regardless of whether she possesses such powers.”

  Before he could respond, someone called, “Sir Guy!”

  Both looked around, and weaving among the many was the squire who had no kind regard for her. And that impression was furthered when he halted and turned his shoulder to her. “King William orders you to attend the war council without delay, my lord.”

  With Guy’s attention on Jacques, Vilda met the gaze of her cousin who had moved ahead in line. To answer his unspoken question, she began easing up her skirt to give proof of what she hoped required no proof. Though it might appear she was here of her own accord, she was not.

  However, Guy’s next words made her release the material and return her regard to him. “Lady Alvilda, Squire Jacques will escort you to your tent.” His smile was slight. “I hope should we meet again, it will be under better circumstances.”

  She turned her head and, with exaggerated regard, considered the preparations being made to slay those who could not be yoked and yoke those who yielded so they not be slain. God willing, the Normans’ efforts would be for naught and the resistance would triumph again, but that could mean the death of this chevalier.

  “Better circumstances?” she said tautly. “That seems so unlikely, dare it be hoped for, Sir Guy?”

  He leaned near. “Regardless of what comes of this, I shall do all in my power to assure your safety.”

  Though she hated how their discourse must appear to Hereward, she did not draw back. “Then if your king prevails,” she said low, “you will escort me to a convent should I be allowed lifelong imprisonment over an early death in a cramped cell?”

  A muscle in his jaw spasmed. “The lesser of evils, aye.” He turned away. “Squire!”

  The young man stepped forward and gripped her arm hard.

  Vilda meant only to pull free, but when she sought to do so, he growled, “Be still, Saxon pig.” Though she knew first she had offended in naming his lord a pig after her cousin injured this young man, her free hand rose toward that fuzzed jaw.

  Guy saved him that humiliation, reappearing so suddenly and snatching Jacques away that Vilda guessed he had looked back—might even have heard what she was named. His intervention might also have saved Hereward, a glance in his direction revealing he had come out of line and stepped toward them. Once more still, his eyes were on the chevalier and his squire.

  Face thrust near the wide-eyed one, Guy snarled, “No matter your grievances, that is a woman and a lady. As she is under my protection and you are a reflection of your liege, you dishonor me by disrespecting her when I pass her protection to you. Such will not be tolerated, and if I must better teach you that by way of the fist, I shall. Are we of an understanding?”

  Suffering humiliation different from that of being struck by a Saxon woman, emotions convulsed across Jacques’ face—resentment, fear, even chagrin—then he muttered an apology.

  “More that is due the lady than me,” Guy said.

  The face he turned to Vilda was not well enough composed to disguise hatred, but others more distant might be fooled.

  Feeling the regard of one particular onlooker, hopeful the squire’s behavior offered further assurance she remained the side of right, Vilda clasped her hands before her.

  “Forgive me, Lady,” Jacques rasped.

  She nodded.

  Rather than immediately give the squire charge of her again to sooner answer the usurper’s summons, Guy drew Jacques aside. Whatever he spoke being too low to be heard, Vilda grasped the opportunity she had thought would be denied her.

  After assuring herself most of those drawn to witness the squire’s discipline had returned to their conversations and the ones who continued to watch were focused on Guy and Jacques, she looked toward her cousin. Having lost his place, he had moved to the end of the line which surely better served in assessing preparations for the next siege.

  Keeping Guy peripherally in sight, she fastened her eyes on Hereward, raised her hand low as he had done, then clawed up her skirt until she felt enough air on her ankles to evidence manacles and chain were visible.

  When he looked up, he nodded. Blessedly, before she could do the same, she caught movement to her right and released her skirts.

  Guy moved toward her as his squire hastened back the way he had come.

  Relief she had not been caught doing something untoward was short-lived. As he neared, she glimpsed suspicion in his eyes, and more evidence of that when they turned from her to where Hereward stood—rather, had stood. Like one of a hundred sparks from flames that would burn out before finding tinder to start its own fire, her cousin had disappeared among the many.

  Though she assured herself Hereward was one spark that would not burn out, to give him more time to get away should Guy act on his suspicion, she stepped forward with a rattle of chain and set a hand on his arm.

  Hoping the innocence fixed on her face was believed, she said, “Your king ordered you to come without delay, and I would not wish you to suffer his wrath.”

  “Jacques will deliver word that to ensure William’s captive is securely returned to her tent, I will be a few minutes late.”

  “But—”

  “Vilda, here the question you do not wish spoken—with whom were you communicating?”

  She knew she frowned too large and her flickering lids could be interpreted as difficulty holding his gaze, but to protect her cousin and his mission, she had to lie. “I know naught of what you speak.”

  Anger sparkled in his eyes. “You were not staring sightlessly in that direction.” He jerked his head to the side. “And the raising of your skirts was not to cool your feet but show your bindings.”

  Vilda was ashamed at having underestimated Guy. She had not allowed for the possibility he could be as observant as Hereward who did not let such things slip past—which was why he departed the instant he saw the chevalier knew something was amiss.

  “Who did you wish to know the state of your captivity, Lady?”

  She knew he but sought to keep his fellow Normans safe and especially those under his command whose lives depended on him making the right decisions, but she resented him—and that his address was formal again, though she had thought it better he did not use her familiar name.

  She nodded at those lined up for water. “Are not the ones pressed into Le Bâtard’s service my people?”

  His eyebrows pinched. “For them you showed what is beneath your skirts? Not one in particular?”

  Determinedly holding his gaze, she said, “For them.”

  Guy stared at the woman who had recovered what he had discomposed. And believed she lied—that someone was here who should not be, whether it was a common rebel gathering information or Hereward himself.

  Had he a good chance of discovering and overtaking the rebel to whom she had shown her bindings, he would have set off to hunt him down, but two things held him to Vilda’s side. From experience he knew once rebels of the Fens went to ground as this one had done, almost always the pursuers ended up empty-handed, seriously injured, or dead, their lack of familiarity with the landscape causing them to rush headlong into natural or constructed traps. And had he taken that chance, it would have required he leave Vilda in the care of a Norman he did not trust to treat her well.

  Knowing he would get nothing from her and William waited on him, he said, “Keep your secrets and follow.”

  Once they were moving side by side among the tents, he recalled what he had intended to say before he glimpsed behavior that revealed she had
an audience. “I apologize for my squire. He should not have been harsh nor spoken as he did.”

  She shrugged. “Though I do not doubt he recalls I named you a pig nor that he knows it was my cousin who did him injury, I find it curious one such as he serves you. I would have expected after he defied you that night, for which he is more responsible for his injury than any, you would have released him from your service.”

  As Guy pondered whether he should explain, he turned left past a cluster of tents, each of which accommodated a half dozen archers, then right and left again. And noted she did not falter as if she knew the way as well as he though she would have traversed it only one time and in reverse—providing the shortest route from her tent to the springs had been used. Either way, she had a good sense of direction as was needed in these wetlands.

  “Why does he squire for you still?” she pressed.

  Deciding there was no harm in telling her, he said, “Shortly after I arrived, my squire received tidings his older brother had passed. Named his family’s heir, he was called home to Normandy and De Warenne took it upon himself to find a replacement for me. Though I see some promise in Jacques, I would not have chosen him. Among my reasons is what you witnessed that night, it being the result of impulsive vengeance for the death of one of his kin years ago during a clash with Hereward and the few followers your cousin had then. Another reason is Jacques is a relation of De Warenne, and it is never good to have at one’s side a man of divided loyalties.”

  “Divided?”

  “Just because De Warenne and I are both Normans fighting Saxons does not mean we are without differences—just as Hereward and the leader of the Rebels of the Pale fighting Normans would have their differences.”

  “So they did,” she said. “When Vitalis came to Ely, it was but a means to an end. Having yielded to Norman rule, his means of getting on the isle was to train rebels for Hereward, his end being to aid in Lady Nicola’s escape from the Danes.” She raised her eyebrows. “And see, now he is wed to that Norman lady and trains up warriors for your people—including the usurper’s son as Le Bâtard told me.”

  “There is much to the tale of what happened after Vitalis saved Lady Nicola from Hereward’s allies,” Guy said, turning right again to avoid crudely constructed privies whose foul odors soaked the air. “I do not know Vitalis well, but he is no traitor. Having finally accepted how all this ends, he refused to lead more men to their deaths and determined to make a life with that lady in the hope their children know a better England than we. ’Tis true he trains up defenders of this country, but all are youths, including Prince Richard, and those at Wulfen Castle are equal numbers Normans and Saxons. It will be many years ere any take up arms in earnest, the hope being by then this country must only defend against outsiders.”

  Seeing moisture in her eyes, Guy had to remind himself a comforting hand on her shoulder would not be welcome.

  Not until they turned one last time did she speak again. “It sounds a dream my people will one day live peacefully with yours.”

  “It does, especially with what is to come here, but I am not without hope, and neither should you be.”

  When he halted distant enough from her tent they would not be heard by the guards, Vilda stepped in front of him. “Why do you champion me?” When no answer was forthcoming, she said, “I cannot argue your king’s claim you have made yourself my champion, but I question the reason, especially after…”

  Our kiss, Guy thought. “We both know that should not have happened, Lady.”

  She inclined her head. “Le Bâtard said that were it of benefit to him, he could order you to wed me.”

  Barely, Guy suppressed surprise likely to offend.

  “But he told he valued you too much to force such a union you would find less desirable than wedding Lady Nicola,” she continued. “Hence, why are you my champion? Because you are simply considerate as he concluded since he knows naught of our intimacy and believes you would join with me only under duress? And why were you not interested in wedding Lady Nicola—a beauty and one of your own like—”

  “Elan,” he said more sharply than intended. “Though further I anger the king, I will answer as I can, and then I must leave. I am your champion because I feel for your plight as I feel for all who have lost their country, and more so for having been raised among Saxons. That I do not and will not regret. What I regret is our kiss which I would have you know had naught to do with pity but attraction.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Attraction for which I have no answer, Vilda, having had little experience with what I felt the day I trespassed on you.”

  She swallowed loudly. “No answer because you knew you wanted Elan, and you know you do not want me?”

  Guy’s insides roiled. He needed to put this away—and now—not only because he kept William waiting, but he sensed she sought encouragement for whatever she felt for him, and he knew there was no hope for that even if he did want her.

  Which I do not as she herself states, he told himself.

  He stood taller. “It makes no difference what you or I want. It makes no difference what you or I feel. We are enemies and, regrettably, about to become more so.” He bowed and strode opposite, leaving Vilda in the hands of others as she should have been from the beginning.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I will not think of him. I absolutely will not.

  It was the same Vilda had told herself since Guy delivered her to the tent, silently repeating it as daylight hours dragged toward night—then between bouts of restless sleep that moved her mind to frightful dreams of the new day when the drawn curtains of war might once more be flung wide.

  Awakening at dawn, she had found Herba on her knees, eyes closed and gently rocking herself as she muttered. It had alarmed until Vilda realized it was no incantation but prayer. The woman who had been eerily quiet following the visit to the springs had much to say to the Lord, not only on her behalf but that of the resistance and Le Bâtard’s captive.

  When she had gone silent and let her head hang, Vilda had touched her hand and thanked her.

  Herba had drawn breath, raised her chin, and asked, “Have you prayed for me, Hereward’s cousin?” When it was confirmed, a sorrowful smile had curved her lips. “I shall need those prayers and more, this the day I am to curse our people ahead of and during the assault.”

  “It will not be Saxons you curse, Herba.”

  “Ah, but many of the resistance will not be certain of that,” she had said, then once more wrapped herself in a blanket of silence.

  Now with the sun in decline, Vilda gripped closed the neck of her green mantle as she followed Herba through the camp toward the imposing towers whose upper portions were seen above mostly vacant tents.

  She did not know what part she was to play when the assault commenced, having anticipated being left behind to pull at her hair over the battle she would only be able to imagine going one way or the other, but it seemed her imagination was not to be left to its own devices. She was to bear witness.

  “Lord, not to the destruction of the resistance,” she whispered, “and pray not in the company of the usurper.” Then once more her thoughts sidled toward Guy and where he was and what he did ahead of battle—only to be averted by the appearance of one she wished even less to occupy her mind.

  Having guessed Sir Roul remained in the Fens, she had been grateful to catch no sight of him, but better before this day than now.

  Standing center of two men-at-arms and appearing at ease, he looked to those escorting Herba and Vilda and jutted his chin. “By order of the king, we are to take them the rest of the way. You are relieved.”

  Them, Vilda pondered amid wariness over being in Sir Roul’s power again and fear his honesty and supposed remorse at Brampton would be of no use to her here. Was she destined for the tower as well, or would he deliver her somewhere else after Herba ascended the tower?

  When the men who had escorted them here departed, Sir Roul said,
“Follow.”

  Shortly, he and his men led them onto a narrow path toward the towers opposite the eastern ones. As they neared the shore, the war machines loomed larger above the tops of tents, while the din grew louder. Then they were out of the camp, and Vilda feared her heart would burst when she saw the result of all the activity during her time at Brampton and since her arrival here two days past.

  What she had been able to see of Norman forces from the shore of Ely during the first assault had shaken her, but this threatened to shatter her. It was not only the towers, three of which were mounted with ballistae and catapults. It was not only the second causeway whose pieces were arrayed on the shore between the sets of towers. It was not only those pieces were wider and better constructed than the first. Fearsome things all, but mostly expected. What was not expected were numerous mounds that would protect Normans from retaliatory bombardment and serve as fighting platforms should the resistance cross over to attack the war machines.

  They will if they must, she thought. And with all this, it may be the only way to keep the enemy off Ely.

  Blessedly, as evidenced by Hereward’s infiltration of the camp on the day past, as much as possible he was prepared for what he and his men would face should they move the fight here.

  It would begin with fire, she was fairly certain, it being her cousin’s preferred method of attacking large groups of Normans. With the Fens’ abundance of highly flammable peat, fires were easily set, and more so when the enemy poorly chose the ground on which to erect a camp or fight.

  In the night and distant from Norman forces, the peat in strategic bogs was lit, the flames traveling underground without the need for torch bearers to venture dangerously near the enemy.

  The resistance had enjoyed varying degrees of success with such, the greatest being when first the Normans came to take Ely. A mid-sized camp had been destroyed by fires that suddenly sprang up all around in the night. Though most of the warriors had roused and escaped fire sweeping through their tents, many had fled into the paths of rebels who slew those who had time to retrieve their chain mail hauberks but not don them.