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

by Tamara Leigh

  The footsteps neared, and she was fairly certain not only were they of three men but rebels since she heard no shifting of mail that was usually eschewed when striking at Normans to more easily steal upon them. Unless Guy’s fellow countrymen had shed their armor the same as he had…

  When they were fifty feet distant, his hand tightened over her mouth and movement on her opposite side drew her gaze to his other hand. Somewhere between hearing those who approached and rolling atop her, he had drawn his dagger. She did not doubt between thrusting upright and assuming a fighting stance, he could as easily bring his sword to hand, but being unarmored and seeking to protect her, would he prevail against three?

  Lord, whether Saxon or Norman, turn them aside, she silently beseeched.

  “As he wore no armor, likely he is one of us,” said a man whose voice was familiar for the sound of rocks rattling about his throat.

  Now nearer by ten feet, here was one who called himself Gilbert the Great in mockery of the usurper.

  “Likely, but if he is the enemy,” said another Saxon, “he heads toward the boats.”

  It did not surprise boats had been used to quickly transport great numbers of rebels across the river, likely both east and west and far enough from the Norman camp to allow them to slip past blockades. Though Vilda had guessed they would be moored distant from the underwater causeway, she would not have sought them lest those who kept watch believe her a traitor. It was into Hereward’s hands she must give herself, and from her mouth he would learn of Theta’s deception.

  “Be still!” growled the third man, and their boots went silent much too near the Norman and Saxon who would be sighted if the moon had its way.

  Barely breathing through her nose above Guy’s hand, Vilda moved her gaze to his face. The shadow between them too deep to see his features, she could only feel his eyes on her, and that made her more aware of the press of a body whose muscles remained taut in readiness to transform him into a blade-wielding warrior.

  “I hear naught,” Gilbert rumbled.

  When the other two murmured agreement, they continued east.

  Guy remained unmoving, and though her breathing was strained, she thought she could stay thus a while longer.

  “Now it seems I must trust you,” he said low and lifted his hand from her mouth.

  Her deep breath causing her chest to expand against his, on the exhale she said, “You can trust me.”

  Then he was off her, denying her his warmth and surely less warm himself for garments having absorbed the damp of hers. “We follow them,” he said as she sat up.

  Vilda gasped. “Why?”

  “I shall secure one of the boats, and you will take it upriver far from Ely.”

  Though alarmed by what he would risk in doing so, whether he suffered capture, injury, or death, she knew it was futile to protest. Thus, she said, “I cannot leave the isle. ’Tis the only home left to me.”

  “I know it does not seem it this night, Vilda, but the resistance will topple. Until William gets what William wants, over and again he will return, and when he succeeds, your people will pay much for every one of his failed attempts.”

  His warning was the same as Herba’s and Sir Roul’s, as if all three had conspired to render her very alone in the world.

  She moistened her lips. “Hereward must be told about Theta. If she—” Struck by what was possible though she believed Guy’s concern for her was genuine, she caught back her words.

  And he let her. “You must leave the Fens,” he pressed.

  So she not alert the resistance to the traitor in their midst? But if she did not, she would betray as well, and should Theta prove the resistance’s downfall, Vilda would bear responsibility for doing nothing when she could have done something.

  “Do you hear me?” Guy said sharply.

  She longed to ask if more he cared for her well-being or that of his people, but she knew the answer. Hurtful though it was, she should not begrudge him doing what was best for the men under his command, which was to end the stand on Ely.

  “I hear you,” she whispered and hoped he took it as agreement she would abandon her cousin and his men.

  “Good, now we must silence the chain.” Swift in applying his dagger to the hem of his tunic and in threading the severed length through the iron loops between the manacles, he was not long in rising and reaching to her.

  Determined not to dwell on the fingers pressed to the heart of her palm, Vilda marveled over the ease with which he raised her. But it also disturbed. Thus, it was good he loosed her and distraction was provided by keeping pace with him as cautiously he followed the rebels who believed they followed him.

  Again, seconds passed like minutes—until Guy said it was time. Then every second they had to reach the nearest of a dozen boats before the patrol passed near again flew. It was no easy passage, the resistance having chosen this shore for terrain easily defended by those familiar with it.

  Natural hillocks interspersed between open ground offered cover for the two tasked with keeping watch over the boats. Rocks abounded, the sounds of their skittering sure to carry, and several small bogs were glimpsed when moonlight pressed through thin places in clouds whose rain misted the air.

  For a half hour, the three rebels aided by the patrol here had searched the area to ensure the one glimpsed on that other shore had not come this way. Concealed with Vilda behind foliage outside that perimeter, Guy had spoken no word, and she knew the strategist within the warrior was engaged.

  Now, those three having departed, the cover of clouds impenetrable, and Guy acquainted as much as possible with what must be traversed, he led the way.

  Often their course had to be altered to avoid places unseen until they were nearly upon them. For that—and more—Vilda was grateful he kept hold of her. She thought herself observant, but his skill was honed, perhaps even innate for how many times he saw what she would have blundered upon.

  For all those detours, the time allotted to reach the boat was too little. When Guy pulled her behind spindly trees and onto her knees beside him, she knew to be silent and calm her breathing and was grateful he did not press a hand over her mouth.

  The older and more formidably built of the patrol appeared to the right. As trained into him, he was mindful of his movements, prepared to swing his sword if an enemy came against him.

  Vitalis would be proud of him, Vilda thought. Before taking Lady Nicola from Ely, he had himself transformed this former miller into a defender of England.

  The man being enraged over the loss of two sons to the conquering, she prayed he would not get between them and the boat. He was a warrior now, but unless Guy erred greatly, the rebel would become another casualty if singlehandedly he sought to confront this chevalier.

  “Pray, do not kill him,” she whispered and felt Guy’s grip tighten. Though the rebel was well enough past he could not hear her, he would if she raised her voice.

  When he went from sight, knowing the second on patrol would not be long in coming behind, they continued forward. Once more restricted by the reach of her legs, staying low and going around traitorous ground, they made it to the flat-bottomed boat anchored by mud.

  As she sent thanks heavenward and tried not to think on never again seeing Guy, he growled, “Get in the boat.” Then drawing his sword, he lunged down the shore.

  Trying to make sense of what he had seen or heard, she guessed the rebel ahead had turned back, but it was not him. The one toward whom he sped had come out of the water between boats, doubtless having concealed himself amid reeds. The patrol here did not number two but three—or more.

  “Lord, help us,” she whispered as this rebel raised the hue and cry.

  Then Guy was upon him, and there came the sound of steel meeting steel. Almost immediately, one of the two dropped without protest as if struck unconscious, and she hoped as a Saxon ought not that Guy was not the one on the ground.

  “In the boat!” he shouted, this time in his language. />
  Relieved he lived, she started to turn away but caught swift movement beyond him. “Behind you!”

  Already he was turning toward the man trained by Vitalis, and the other patrolling the area would soon be here as well.

  More clashing of blades, and from what she could see, these two were well matched—for a short time. Both grunting and shouting, mostly with anger but what she also suspected pain, one gained ground then the other, sometimes so near she could not guess which was which. Other times, they were so distant she knew Guy prevailed at least in some measure since his opponent’s movements became less fluid.

  Then it was over, the Saxon on the ground the same as the first. And the third rebel who answered the call to arms later than expected ceased his advance.

  From what Vilda had glimpsed when earlier he passed near where she and Guy awaited the departure of the three, she knew he was too young to be battle hardened. Thus, no shame in hesitating over alone confronting an enemy who had put down warriors more capable than he, and no shame in fleeing, though to his end days, likely he would suffer guilt.

  As he bolted opposite, Guy sheathed his sword and ran to Vilda.

  Despite the dim, blood was visible on his tunic that could not all be his for how easily he moved.

  “God’s rood!” He took hold of her and began drawing her to the boat. “I told you to get aboard.”

  “I could not!” she gasped, and realized not only did tears moisten the mud on her face but drizzling rain.

  Breathing heavily, Guy paused and peered at her. “As you asked of me, I did not kill him nor the one come out of the water,” he said, surely believing she cried for them. She did, but for other losses as well—in the past, present, and future. “Thus, as both will come around and the third will return with help, we must be as far from here as possible.”

  It sounded he was going with her, but she knew he could not. He would return to Le Bâtard’s service just as, unbeknownst to him, she would return to Ely. But if he would go away with her and far from the Fens…

  “Make haste!” He pulled her into the water. When a foot caught in the chain and she stumbled, he swung her into his arms as if she were a girl, waded to the bow, and lifted her over the side.

  She longed to stay in his arms, but she did her part, turning and dropping her knees to the planks.

  Considerate as ever, he gripped her arm to steady her against the boat’s shifting. The vessel did not find its center again with her leaning to the side, but it stabilized enough he could have released her.

  Staring into his face level with hers where he stood in water lapping at his lower thighs, Vilda recalled being here with him before—or nearly so. That night he had been on the shore and she had not been alone in the boat. Among the surviving rebels had been one dead before Hereward could get him aboard. And she had hated this chevalier for that. No longer.

  “I am remembering when first we met, Guy Torquay.”

  A corner of his mouth rose. “As am I, lady who wore mud on her face then just as now.”

  She smiled sadly. “Strange something can so greatly change without affecting true change in one’s life.” Seeing his brow gather, she explained, “You are not the foe you were then, and yet standing one side whilst I stand the other, never can you be my friend or…”

  As if to discourage feelings for him, he released her arm. But rather than leave her to begin rowing amid rain that was becoming more than drizzle, he said, “Or?”

  Impulse made her release the rail, a check on impulse gave her pause. Then knowing more she would regret not doing this than the shame of revealing how much she wanted him, she set hands on either side of his face.

  “Or more,” she whispered, then leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

  He did not return the kiss, and she knew it was not because of the urgency of getting her out on the water. He felt some attraction, but not enough to repeat the mistake of a passionate embrace in the absence of true passion.

  She drew back. However, dread of what would be on his face fled when she saw what she had done, and it nearly made her laugh. “Oh, my my me, Sir Guy. That is a kiss you will not forget, though not as intended.”

  He drew fingers across his smudged nose and beneath his lips, raised his eyebrows. “Now I wear mud as well.”

  “Aye, and you look a…” She trailed off, unable to say what was in no way true.

  “A Norman pig,” he said.

  As she had named him that night. “Nay, you do not look that, though I have no doubt I do, albeit of the Saxon variety.”

  His gaze became weightier, then he murmured, “Never,” and pulled her to him and closed his mouth over hers.

  Her gasp drew his breath into her, but rather than return him to his senses, it seemed to render him more senseless. Though he had to know this should not be happening just as he had said of that first intimacy, he gathered her nearer and deepened the kiss as if concurring theirs was a painful farewell.

  Knowing they had no time for this and fearing he would regret whatever lusts of the body made a substitute of her, she told herself to push him away. But it was the whispering of some small hope she listened to—that which suggested he felt more attraction than he ought. Thus, as she would not have believed herself capable of doing, she kissed him back fiercely and well. At least, it felt that way, and he did not dissuade her. Not immediately…

  Wanting to believe the need to evade the enemy made him pull back, though she did not hear nor see the approach of any, she peered at him through raindrops. Then this time with forced lightness, she said, “How is it kissing this sturdy Saxon widow once was not enough for you, Guy?”

  Was his silence born of regret? It was too dim to delve an expression that might confirm it, but she was fairly certain it was that. Though not unexpected, it hurt.

  Vilda drew a shuddering breath and on the exhale said, “Should that kiss not have happened as well?”

  She startled when he raised a hand, shivered when he set it on her jaw. “I think it had to happen, Vilda. As good a parting as possible, hmm?”

  For each to remember the other by? Was that what he was saying? If so, did their farewell pain him half as much as it did her?

  He lowered his hand. “Now to oars, Lady.”

  “To oars,” she said softly and swung her joined legs over the forward bench and settled on the center one. As she turned hands around oars that had been drawn in, Guy began pushing the vessel. With a sharp sucking sound, the bow came free of mud, then he was guiding the boat over and between the reeds toward open water.

  When the river was at the height of his chest, he said, “Go upriver as far as you can get from Ely.”

  Which she had not promised to do. “Upriver,” she said and silently added, only as far as it takes to find a landing place where I can remain out of sight until Hereward returns to the isle.

  He gave one last push. “Fare thee well, Vilda.”

  “And you,” she said and began plying the oars. Once more moving backward and away from him, she watched him gain the shore, turn west, and go from sight.

  “Oh, my heart,” she whispered, “Forgive me for not protecting you better. Rest now. We shall talk on the morrow.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Royal Manor at Brampton

  Huntingdon, England

  Victory twice denied. That was ill enough, but to have suffered greater losses during the second assault despite better planning and more powerful weaponry was a humiliating blow.

  Of the score of men gathered in the royal manor’s hall, all of whom bore marks of the debacle from which they had retreated more than a dozen hours past, not one could be surprised William was taking the defeat poorly. But since he had heeded the advice of the warrior who had managed to remain upright when he stumbled against the dais minutes earlier, the king had no one to blame but himself and Taillebois whose bloodied nose and reddened jaw would bear the purpling of royal wrath for days.

  If William owne
d to any fault for ignoring the majority who urged him to wait, it would not compare with what he heaped on the man who ought to be better acquainted with Hereward and the Fens than any others here.

  Guy shifted his cramping jaw where he stood alongside Maxen who was more bloodied than most for what had been required of him and his men to defend the path kept open for fleeing Normans. Though hundreds and hundreds of lives had been lost to fire and pursuing rebels, many had been saved by his efforts and foresight, among the latter his release of horses stabled around the camp. Having fled encroaching fire, beasts seized by those in retreat had sooner delivered their riders distant from that shore.

  “Almighty!” William barked and ceased pacing the dais side to side. The hand kneading the back of his neck stilling, he stared at the floor. Then he pivoted, lunged back the way he had come, and halted so near Taillebois surely every odor of his filthy, perspiring body singed the nostrils. “You said we were ready! You assured your king that as we were tenfold better prepared than before, we would prevail against that outlaw and his wretches. We were not prepared! What say you now, Taillebois?”

  The warrior pressed his shoulders back. “We were prepared. Even had those miscreants infiltrated and learned of our plans—”

  William gripped the front of his tunic. “You think they did not come into our camp—move amongst us in the guise of workers?”

  So they had, Guy recalled when Vilda exposed the chain between her ankles, revealing to someone the state of her captivity. As suspected then, now more he believed she had lied about that.

  Considering all the Normans slain on the night past, it so angered he sent heavenward, Dear Lord, the lies of women. Just like Elan, she—

  He stopped there. In comparing her to his former betrothed, he wronged and dishonored her. And in begrudging her that lie and others, he made a hypocrite of himself. Were he in her position and Maxen had infiltrated the resistance, he would have protected his friend just as she had protected one of her own. Regardless of what he felt for Vilda—and now was not the time to think on exactly what had twice made him kiss her as if she were as desirable as once he found Elan—still they stood opposite sides. It might feel betrayal, but it was not.