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

by Tamara Leigh

  At last Taillebois found words. The soles of his boots remaining in contact with the floor, though likely he strained to keep from being yanked to his toes, he said, “It is possible they infiltrated our camp. But even if they did, what happened on the day past should not have. We were prepared.” His heels came off the floor.

  “Then why were my forces defeated?”

  “Divine intervention, my liege!”

  The king jerked. “You say I have displeased the Lord, and this His punishment?”

  “Would that God made known His plans, but His ways are—”

  “You preach what you have heard, not what you believe!” William thrust him back, once more strode the floor, halted, pondered, and with great strides returned. “If I have displeased the Lord, it is because you sowed, fertilized, and watered the seed.”

  “Never, my king!”

  “Never?” William laughed bitterly, then in a voice that had to strain the throat for how high the pitch, he said, “A witch to curse and denounce them. And look, already she is here, ready to rouse fear and superstition so sooner victory is yours.” A growl returning his voice to its natural depth, he continued, “Victory? Still they came. Still they burned. Still they slew. Still they laugh at me. And still I am here when I am needed elsewhere.”

  He drew back a hand, but this time it was no fist he landed. He delivered a slap as if Ivo were a rebellious boy. And possibly for that humiliation, the warrior’s feet went out from under him and he landed hard on the dais.

  Leaning down, William jabbed a finger in his face. “For making use of your witch, my conscience is battered, God’s displeasure earned, and I am made to look as if luck gained me England’s crown. You did this, and I will not soon forget it!”

  He straightened and turned to others against whom he might now rage. Face livid, his mouth was twisted as if with disgust at seeing them in such disarray though he looked no better, having put his sword through many so he could live to fight another day—which already he was doing in his head, no doubt.

  “Torquay!”

  Guy stepped forward.

  “Hereward’s cousin? Dead the same as the witch, or did she escape?”

  “I know not, my king,” Guy risked a lie, aware some of his men—and certainly his squire—might suspect he had gone in search of her when he left them under Maxen’s command.

  William cursed. “Though she was of little use, and less so after displaying her with the witch so she appear but another traitorous Saxon—” He snapped his chin around. “Your advice again, Taillebois!” When the man did not respond, the king returned to Guy. “Still, I would have liked to keep hold of her.”

  To vent his anger upon? Guy wondered. Or merely in the hope of finding some means of using her against her cousin? Either way, it was good she had gone upriver. God willing—or was it Vilda willing?—she would remain out of William’s reach.

  And yours, said a voice within.

  “De Warenne!” the king called forth he whose advice should have been taken well ahead of Taillebois’.

  That leader among leaders who, of all those here, did not stand at attention, straightened from alongside the hearth and strode forward. Halting before William, he said, “Under such circumstances as these, how might I aid my liege?”

  “Find me another way onto Ely. And quickly!” The king pivoted.

  “I believe I have one, Your Majesty.”

  William came back around. “Speak!”

  De Warenne settled into his heels. “It is not the warrior’s way, but neither is it dishonorable to make use of dishonorable men, especially if sooner our sovereign may wipe his hands of this matter.”

  “You speak of rebels willing to betray their own?”

  “I suppose they are rebels since they are among those who invited Hereward and his men to make the isle their base.”

  Understanding shone from William’s eyes. “The holy men of Ely’s abbey.”

  “Oui, given the proper incentive, they can get us on the isle at a time most conducive to the resistance’s fall.”

  “I would hear more.” William gestured his man to follow. “We shall speak in the solar.”

  Upon their departure, many the sighs of relief. All here ached, hungered, and thirsted, and not a few hurt from injuries that needed tending. It was the same for warriors in the bailey and beyond the walls whose numbers would continue increasing as more followed their king to Brampton to learn what next would be asked of them.

  “I must see to my men,” Guy said.

  Maxen inclined his head. “And I to mine.” As they crossed the hall, he said, “The same as you, I hate this, and that every time we see an end to it, it proves but a corner turned with another stretch ahead.” He thrust a hand back through his dark hair. “I weary of questioning the belief one day I shall take up arms only to defend my family and those who work my lands.”

  “More difficult for Normans raised among the English,” Guy said, “but I have to believe it will be done and soon.”

  As they neared the doors, a pinch-faced squire entered. “Sir Ivo!” He pushed past those who placed the welfare of their men above filling their bellies.

  Taking offense for an injured warrior ahead who stumbled when jostled, Guy snatched hold of the young man. “Show respect!”

  The squire scowled. “Loose me, else my liege will—”

  “Respect, whelp!”

  The young man breathed deep. “Forgive me, but I have tidings of import to deliver.”

  Guy pushed him aside, and as he and Maxen passed through the doorway, heard him call, “My lord Taillebois! A Saxon at the gate asks for you—one you will want to see.”

  Was it the one come first to mind? Guy wondered. If so, the warning he had dissuaded Vilda from delivering to her cousin would have come too late.

  With the crowing of the witch atop the tower and feeling the noose tighten around a throat that spewed deception, likely Theta had fled Ely to avoid answering for her betrayal. Now she sought refuge with the Norman who had made good use of her. And it was to be seen if Taillebois had further use of her.

  “Oui,” Maxen said as they descended the steps, “we are thinking the same.”

  Isle of Ely

  He did not appear surprised to see her, but neither did he look pleased. Because he doubted her?

  Martin, to whom Vilda had shown herself after waiting hours to catch sight of her cousin, drew her to a halt at the center of the lower floor of an inn that this day served the war council.

  Hearing the murmuring of those left and right and feeling anger amid suspicion, she realized how she felt must be similar to what Theta experienced the day charges were leveled against her.

  Except I am innocent, she thought, keeping her eyes on Hereward.

  He eased back in his chair, jutted his chin. “Lift your skirt.”

  She blinked, then hitched it up to reveal the chain Guy had muffled, the fabric woven through the links as muddied as the hem of her undergown.

  “There!” He looked to those who stood in judgment of her. “Further proof my cousin was Le Bâtard’s prisoner. It matters not how she came to be in his power, only that she had no choice and our isle remains unbreachable for her keeping its secrets. Now I would speak with her alone.”

  As Martin began ushering them toward the door, Earl Morcar called, “Hold!”

  All halted.

  “I have a question for the lady.” He landed his gaze on her. “You were seen being aided by a Norman—”

  “Enough!” Hereward commanded as her heart pounded painfully hard. “I shall speak to her of that, and when I am satisfied with her answer, the matter ends. Now leave!”

  Bishop Aethelwine, who had accompanied Earl Morcar to Ely, stepped toward the resistance leader. “As all know you care for your kin, you cannot be impartial. Leave the lady with us, and she will unburden her conscience by gentle means.”

  Hereward sprang upright. “Two victories against the unconquerable! My leadership g
ave you that, and you dare question it? Dare believe I did all that only to throw it away on sentiment? What say you, Morcar who lost his earldom without a fight? Aethelwine who lost his bishopric after giving much aid to the usurper? All you who are with me because I am your best hope to take back what fear and incompetence lost?”

  No answer, but just as it seemed he would only have to stomp a foot to scatter all, Aethelwine cleared the fear from his throat and looked around. “Abbot Thurstan?”

  Catching her breath, Vilda followed his gaze. Though she had thought to have accounted for all those here and been relieved none of Hereward’s best men were lost on the night past, she had not noticed the Abbot of Ely who rarely left his House of God. Though it was out of shadow he stepped, she should have caught sight of him.

  Shoulders more bowed than when last she had seen him, he halted alongside his fellow churchman, and in his scratchy, high-pitched voice said, “As the bishop tells, ’twill be by gentle means we learn the truth, my son.”

  “Out!” Threateningly, Hereward strode past Vilda and halted, needing to go no farther with all heading for the door.

  When the last departed, she stepped toward her cousin, ready to explain the sighting of her with a Norman. But he came around and grabbed her.

  For a moment she feared he meant her harm, but his hands were on her waist, and a moment later hers were on his tattooed shoulders as he lifted her off the floor and swung her around. “Once more, triumph, V!” He flashed well-kept teeth and lowered her. “Do we remain strong and united, it is more possible than ever we shall oust the usurper.”

  She drew a shaky breath. “What I witnessed last eve was amazing. Now allow me to explain about the Norman who aided me, as well as give warning—”

  “It is true you were seen. One of our men plucked from among the dead told the same enemy he fought aided you when you survived the fall the witch did not.”

  That Norman, she thought. Sir Roul, not Guy.

  Hereward grunted. “Doubtless, he but tried to please God knowing he bled out.”

  She moistened her lips. “What he did was more than that, and there was another who aided me.” She set a hand on his arm. “I will tell all that happened the night I got lost in the water and was captured, but first we must speak of Theta.”

  “Aye, the niece of the witch I refused to enlist lest I anger God.” He spat to the side. “’Twas kind of Le Bâtard to himself anger Him.”

  Vilda wanted to defend Herba, but it must wait. “Hereward, Theta—”

  “I know what she is. When I learned the usurper intended to use the witch against us, I pondered how he found her, and the best answer seemed that deceitful harlot who I am now certain can swim well.”

  Vilda exhaled relief. “What have you done with her? Does she…?”

  “Live?” he said sharply. “Would I could say nay, but she is gone. She had to know Le Bâtard’s use of the hag would point to her.”

  Not a hag, Vilda thought and hurt for the woman’s sacrifice. “Wicked Theta,” she murmured.

  “If ever I get my hands on her, I will not be able to remove them.” He blew breath up his face. “Now your tale, starting with how I lost you in the water. One moment you were there, the next gone as if dragged to the depths.”

  “As there is much to that and I am weary, may we sit?”

  It took an hour to tell her cousin all he needed to know about her capture by Guy and the protection afforded her, her removal to Brampton, encounter with Sir Roul, the board and mind games played with the conqueror, her accompaniment to the Norman camp, the Herba she came to know in too short a time, and what happened atop the tower and after the two landed near its base.

  Throughout, Hereward mostly listened, and when she ended with how Guy secured a boat for her in the belief she would not return to Ely, he stared hard. Not looking for lies, she knew, looking for what she left out. Of course he was, ever able to see what was not visible and hear what was not spoken.

  She leaned toward him. “The one I named a Norman pig is a good and honorable man.”

  “So good you think yourself in love?”

  She eased back. “Unseemly, but I feel for him. Too much, I know.”

  “What does he feel for you?”

  She shrugged a shoulder. “Attraction with some heart, I think, but not in any great measure.”

  His eyebrows dipped. “How far did he take this attraction? Did he—?”

  “Nay.”

  “Then?”

  “Only kisses.”

  “For his sake, that is good. Otherwise, Sir Guy Torquay might find himself at the church door, my sword at his neck.”

  Vilda could not help laughing, though it was a stuttering thing and wet her eyes.

  Hereward rose and took her arm. “To the smithy. The sooner you are out of those manacles, the sooner you are abed.”

  When they stepped from the inn, beneath the eyes of the curious and suspicious she looked around and up at the window of the room where she would sleep away her fatigue—the same place Lady Nicola had been held and Vilda had tended her.

  “Though I am glad to see you,” Hereward said as they crossed the street, “you should have done what you led Sir Guy to believe you would do.”

  For this, he had been displeased to see her, she realized. And she was not surprised he wanted her far from here. Though victory over the conquerors was nearer than it had been in a long time, so much could go wrong after all that had gone right.

  “Why did you release Sir Deda?” she asked. “You could not have believed Le Bâtard would deliver me to a convent.”

  He looked sidelong at her. “Just as the usurper likes his games when the mind grows parched for entertainment, so do I. And I enjoyed treating the only Norman who made it onto the isle—with my aid—as a guest. I showed him all I wished him to see and carry back to his liege, and naught of what I would not have him see.” He chuckled. “He was an excellent guest and scraped low to this outlaw to ensure he remained that and not a prisoner—or dead.”

  A moment later, he turned her into the smithy’s shop. “Now let us set you free, V.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Fenlands

  Early Autumn, 1071

  The messages were sent. The answers received. And all boded well in the world of William the Conqueror.

  For the better, Guy told himself. Though what the king had done stank of all things underhanded, what was truly honorable in war? If executed properly—and William was determined not to rush toward defeat a third time—what would transpire this afternoon would save lives and end the resistance on Ely. Great hope for that with Taillebois not only excluded from the war council but considerable attention paid to the advice of those most experienced in battle, including Maxen and Guy.

  In the end, it was determined three things must align beyond knowledge of the best crossing to Ely. The first was that Hereward be foraging off isle and distant from the place of ingress near the abbey. Accompanied by a goodly number of rebels, he did so this day, his victories of weeks past and the relative silence of the Normans who had withdrawn all but a handful of blockading boats lulling him into a sense of security.

  The second thing that must align was for the guides promised William to slip off the isle as soon as it was learned the resistance leader had departed and lead the Norman army through some of the most treacherous Fens that offered little support for man or beast attempting to negotiate it. That the holy men had done, then scurried for cover knowing once the Normans were spotted on this shore, the defenders behind their fortifications would stir to life and send word for reinforcements.

  The third thing that must align now aligned. Though this crossing also required a bridge, this one was half the length of the longest of the others, as was its width, there being no need for great stability with much of it underpinned by a natural, unseen causeway. And so quickly were the sections put in the water and joined that reinforcements on that shore had only begun to arrive when De W
arenne’s foot soldiers going ahead of Maxen’s cavalry with shields raised began the crossing.

  Grateful Vilda was long gone from Ely, Guy silently prayed, Almighty, let it be done this day with as few deaths as possible.

  “The day is ours, my lord,” said Jacques at his side.

  Guy felt the young man’s excitement that was not in line with those of the elite force who were to come behind the frontline to aid in gaining the high ground of Ely. This being no play of wooden soldiers whose toppling could be corrected with a pinch of fingers, Jacques’ enthusiasm needed tempering.

  “The day is not ours until it is firmly in hand,” Guy said. “Believe otherwise and it may be no injury you sustain but death.”

  As Jacques turned his face away, likely to hide a scowl, William bellowed, “Onward!”

  The trumpet sounded for those out of range of hearing, then the warriors on the causeway surged forward with much faith in the men manning the boat ahead who would unfurl the last section when there was little chance of the defenders wreaking destruction on it—and much hope for the plunder promised once they took the isle.

  Unsurprisingly, arrows began flying and sticking in the shields of those who did not falter in their advance, even when some missiles slipped through vulnerable places and sent Normans into the water or beneath the feet of their countrymen.

  “Engines!” William commanded, and the trumpet blasted again, these notes instructing those piloting siege boats to deliver them here. And they would be needed to bombard the bulwarks behind which more defenders gathered.

  By Guy’s estimation, three score now reinforced what had likely been a dozen, and more were coming through the trees and foliage bearing weapons—swords, daggers, hammers, scythes, slings, bows. Whether the weapon was real or makeshift, every one was deadly in the right hands.