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

by Tamara Leigh

  He took a step forward and reached to her.

  Though she had to see his hand, she held her gaze to his and narrowed her lids as if searching for things unseen as her mind worked this forward and backward.

  Guy gave a nod of encouragement, raised his hand higher.

  She lowered her eyes to it, but still questioned, still struggled.

  Much anger I exude for my man who may die, he guessed.

  At last, she stepped forward and reached her blood-tainted hand to his.

  He closed his fingers over hers, and as she came nearer, sharply drew her toward him and twisted her around so her back was against his front. Amid her gasp and startle, he searched his hands down her. Though he expected her to protest or struggle once the shock was past, as if she were already bound hands and feet, she did naught.

  “Where is the dagger that gutted my man?” he demanded, continuing his search down her hips and thighs.

  She did not answer, but need not, his left hand encountering the ridge of a strap at her calf. Raising that side of her skirt, he removed the dagger.

  Vilda’s bones feeling more liquid for the brush of his fingers across her flesh, she had to lock her knees to remain upright as Guy straightened with proof that had she not killed one of his own, she had severely injured him. As revealed by his deception in reaching to her as if to offer comfort, then his rough search, she had trespassed too far for him to continue championing her.

  It hurt, and yet it was for the best since otherwise he could thoroughly compromise his standing with Le Bâtard.

  Remaining so near she felt the brush of his body at her back, he bent his head, causing breath to sweep her neck and turn about her ear. “You should have left Ely,” he said for her alone. “God help you for deceiving me.”

  She shuddered, not from fear of what sounded a threat but the restraint required not to turn into him and hold tight. Even if only for one moment, she longed to believe he was where she belonged.

  “Listen to me, Vilda. You must—”

  “Sir Guy!” shouted someone near the chapel’s entrance.

  They were not alone. Of course they were not. However, that acknowledgement made her reconsider Guy’s behavior. Rightfully, he was angry, but perhaps he exaggerated for the benefit of those who saw her only as the enemy, especially Taillebois who had been—and perhaps remained—Theta’s lover.

  Guy gripped her arm. As he turned her to face the one striding down the nave’s center, sidelong she saw him slide her dagger beneath his belt—and to her left, the warrior she had struck down rise to sitting with a hand to his head and mouth a grimace of pain.

  “You break faith, Taillebois,” Guy called.

  The man snorted. “You have the murderess in hand, and as she is alone, no longer must I heed one who has not earned the right to tell me which way to turn.”

  Murderess. The word resounded through Vilda. Were it true she was that, it was unlikely he referred to those who had fallen beneath the flight of her arrows and stones. That had been battle. Those who slew during such confrontations were said to have killed, both sides accepting the inevitability of death as other than unlawful and premeditated. Unlike murder…

  Hence, Taillebois referred to the one whose blood she wore, meaning he was dead.

  “Lord, forgive me,” she breathed and again locked her knees though she knew Guy would support her if she crumpled.

  “Be silent,” he repeated and called a name she did not know, then came the tread of one earlier heard in the passage.

  A glance confirming it was a Norman who had eschewed his weighted step to steal upon her, Vilda whispered, “I am tired.”

  “Quiet,” Guy growled.

  Only when she looked up did she realize they moved toward the nave, her feet having obeyed him without consulting her mind.

  “I did not mean to kill him, Guy. I only—”

  The tightening of his hand silenced her, providing more evidence of anger. He did not wish to suffer her excuses, and it was wrong to ask it of one who surely felt responsible for the death of his fellow Norman for making it possible for her to wield that dagger.

  Whatever came after they left the chapel, she could not recall. She knew only she did not suffer the humiliation of being caught up in arms that did not wish to hold her and carried to whatever place she found herself some time later.

  A monk’s cell, she guessed from its humble size and austere furnishings—a pallet stuffed with straw, a stool, and a basin for the body’s unmentionable needs.

  Had Guy said anything to her before parting? she wondered as she turned onto her side to consider the door with a grate at a height that allowed one to peer inside by opening a hinged cover. All she could remember of him being here was his back in retreat and Ivo Taillebois in the doorway.

  “Matters not,” she whispered and shifted her thoughts to Le Bâtard’s judgment—death for death. When the accusation of murder was leveled, she would offer no explanation, only admitting to putting the dagger in Sir Guy’s man. She feared the punishment to come, but hopefully the matter would be resolved immediately so she not suffer long.

  I am done here, she assured herself of what ought not be a lie. Truly, I am. Even if denied heaven, this place I leave behind has become its own abyss.

  Her next thought nearly expelled bitter laughter. Might the Lord feel the same—wanting to be done here? If so, why was He not? Why persist with so much evil in the world and growing even before the conquest? Why not draw all to a close now, rather than later?

  She knew what her grandsire’s priest would say—that as God would have none denied the chance of genuine repentance, allowing them to reach the place Jesus prepared for believers, the greater the trials, the greater the opportunities for those not yet in His will to seek, choose, and follow Him.

  “This I know,” she whispered, “but even if not by my own will, by another’s I am done here. That I accept, just as I must accept Guy is not lost to me for having never been found.”

  Memory of him reaching to her outside the vestry arising behind her eyes, she shook her head, but when the scattered pieces reassembled, she yielded to them.

  In his eyes she had seen what she hoped was not anger though she knew it must be. In the space between them, she had sensed strain to keep that emotion on his side. And in the hand he reached to her, she had seen what she wanted to see—safety, understanding, fidelity, affection. And all of it fierce as if…

  “As if he loves,” she said then told herself, You have only to remember what came after to know that is impossible. Think not on the hand he reached to you. Think on the hands he searched over you to ensure you did not do to him what you did to that other Norman. No matter how much that was for the benefit of others, you laid ruin to whatever kindness he felt for you when the thrust of your dagger slew his man. Murderess.

  Her breath caught, but that was the only sob she allowed herself. Determined to sleep away however many hours lay between now and the usurper, she drew up beneath her chin the hand she had set in Guy’s, pressed her fingers where his had been, and closed her eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Much depended on whether Sir Humphrey lived. Though the blade struck nothing vital, the physician told the amount of blood lost made a slender thread of the chevalier’s chance of recovery. However, if he survived the night, the grey of his face regained color, and lucidity was restored, that slender thread could become a cord of many strands.

  For the chevalier’s sake, Guy prayed the morrow would see healing begin in earnest. For Vilda’s sake, he prayed the same, William having said if the Norman died, she would as well. For his own sake, more prayer for his part in his man’s undoing.

  The fury he had mostly managed to suppress having lowered to a gentle boil during the first of his prayers and a simmer during the remainder, Guy and William’s personal chaplain followed a monk down the corridor of this section of the dormitory that lodged those needing correction of a strength that required bei
ng secured in their cells.

  Novices mostly, the monk had told Guy, and revealed one of those spending time with the Lord here was the abbot’s secretary whose drink-induced senselessness caused a precious candle to burn throughout the night into a puddle of wax.

  The monk had clicked his tongue and said the shame of being roused to find one’s head stuck to the table by hardened wax should have been punishment enough. But nay, Abbot Thurstan was of poor temperament these months. Thus, though normally there were no more than a few in seclusion here, now there were five—six if one included the lady who, also locked out of sight, could rouse no carnal feeling in the holy men here.

  Halting before her door, he opened the little shutter and called through it, “Lady, Sir Guy and the king’s chaplain have come to escort you to King William. Have you need of a few minutes of privacy to conduct your ablutions?”

  Guy heard the pallet rustle and footsteps. “I am ready,” she said.

  The monk lifted the bar and shuffled backward as he opened the door.

  She stood on the threshold, as disarrayed as when he left her two hours past, having made no attempt to appear more appealing for her audience with the king she had to know was forthcoming. However, eyes that had been dull when last he looked into them and realized she was barely present were lit again—not brightly, but she saw him. And in that moment, something that had previously moved him jolted.

  Vilda was not beautiful, but the unpretentious, careless, and wild of her was breathtaking, as was the fearless amid the fear. It made him wish they were alone though he told himself it was only because there were things she should know to prepare for William, foremost that the one whose blood she had spilled yet lived and Hereward and his men had returned and as quickly departed upon finding Ely occupied by the enemy.

  The king had raged at those who bore tidings of the outlaw’s ease of getting on and off the isle without impunity and struck one when told a chevalier and three men-at-arms had been slain and a score of others injured during the encounter.

  It might bode well for Vilda the Norman she severely injured yet lived, but that could be heavily outweighed by Hereward’s latest triumph amid tragedy.

  Guy inclined his head and motioned her to follow.

  Lips seamed, she stepped from the cell between him and William’s chaplain.

  It was a circuitous walk from the dormitory to the cloister the king had commandeered for the erection of tents, having determined he would pass the night here rather than accept the offer of the abbot’s living quarters.

  It was not the respect it looked, Guy’s liege nearly as disgusted with Thurstan as he was Bishop Aethelwine and Earl Morcar. The weather being fine and the cloister beautifully landscaped, this temporary court had better suited William’s mood—until tidings of Hereward.

  As the three traversed the path bordered by tents lit by the last light of day, Guy glanced around and saw Vilda took in all with an expression of resentment it would be wise not to show William.

  Though the chaplain might report this chevalier continued to show too much consideration for the lady Taillebois named a murderess, Guy slowed. When she drew alongside, he leaned in. “Though great victory for my king this day, you are in more danger than while at Brampton. Do not test him, Vilda. If you cannot be civil, do not be disrespectful.”

  The eyes she shot to him reflected disbelief, likely for continuing to give aid despite anger shown her in the chapel. Though he thought to dispel it by revealing developments since her recapture, the chaplain appeared on her other side.

  “Ere you meet with the king,” he said in heavily-accented French, “would you like me to hear your confession, Lady?”

  She shook her head. “No need. As I have spoken with God, already forgiveness of my sins is under consideration.”

  The little man yelped as if someone had stepped on his toes, then color running up his face, he said, “For such heathen beliefs, the Almighty set faithful Normans over your people.”

  She halted and, when he turned back, ignored the hand Guy set on her arm and said, “If that is so, He knows not what He does, but as I am certain He does know even if I cannot fully understand His ways, methinks it is the pope who knows not what he does—that or willfully he placed his interests ahead of God’s by granting papal approval of the invasion.”

  Guy pulled her past the chaplain lest the man swung the hand twitching at his side. “God help you, Vilda,” he rasped. “You will not keep your head if—”

  “It is already lost,” she said, making no attempt to keep her words between them. “My neck and all below just do not know it.”

  As the king’s tent was directly ahead, guards posted both sides and the chaplain coming behind, Guy had only enough time to enlighten her on one matter. “My man yet lives.” She gasped, and as defiance slipped off her face, he added, “When all is not lost, let not pride and anger render it so.”

  “Not yet dead. But that does not mean—”

  “It means not yet dead,” he snapped, and when one of the guards swept back the flap, ducked to clear the opening and pulled her inside.

  Then they were in the presence of William who sat center in a chair familiar for having been the abbot’s high seat in the refectory.

  As Guy released Vilda, the chaplain scurried to the king who raised his ear in answer to the man’s lean. Moments later, the fingers drumming the arms of his seat ceased and William moved his gaze between Guy and Vilda and twice more before raising a hand that caused his chaplain to step back.

  “I have you again, lady who flies arrows, sling stones, and wields daggers,” he said. “Of ill benefit to you, these circumstances are more grievous than the others, and will be worse if Sir Guy’s man dies.”

  She clasped her hands before her.

  “Will you not deny it was you who put a blade in him—tell it was one of those whose escape you aided?”

  When she shook her head, he gestured her forward. When she ignored him, he growled, “Lady, did not Sir Guy warn of my foul mood?” Then he smiled the smile those acquainted with him knew to be worse than a snarl.

  As if she recognized it, she advanced until he raised a hand.

  Eyes watchful, he said, “Your cousin returned to Ely.” As if pleased by her startle, his mouth moved toward a more genuine smile. “It is so,” he prompted her to question the fate of Hereward and his men.

  She did not.

  “Alas, yet more deaths and injuries.”

  She swallowed loudly but did not question who shed the most blood, letting him play both sides of his game.

  “Though fearfully curious, you are stubborn,” William pronounced.

  “I am,” she surprised, “but as it will not change what has become of my cousin nor what is to become of me, I see no reason to relieve the boredom of a king.”

  He slapped a hand on the chair arm, causing her composure to falter again and Guy to stiffen in expectation of wrath. “A king!” he exclaimed. “At last, the lawless one affords me my rightful title.” He leaned forward. “Lady Hawisa Wulfrith struggled with the same, but as you know, she has accepted it is her Norman husband who holds her leash and that I, in turn, hold his. So you see, we make good progress, you and I. Now let us make more.”

  He dropped back in his chair. “As I left the isle to be secured by lesser men who left it to be done by lesser men, your cousin returned and caught unawares warriors who will be fortunate if they leave my service whole of body. Certes, only because they routed the rebels after sustaining losses is that even a consideration.” He turned up a palm. “Ely, the last bastion of resistance, is mine again. Now all that is needed for Normans and Saxons to live and work peacefully is for he who believes himself the last true Englishman to cease stirring dissent and spreading false hope. So I ask—will you aid in bringing Hereward to my side?”

  Vilda stared at the man who would still have cause to look at ease when she refused him. Of course he wanted to wrap his victory with the most impressive bow
made of her cousin, but the same as the three men here, perhaps even Hereward, she knew that had there been any real hope of returning England to Saxon rule, it died this day. Those who had lost their country were too weary to expend more effort and emotion on insurrection when acceptance of Norman rule offered a greater chance of some return.

  “Will you aid in bringing your cousin to my side?” Le Bâtard repeated.

  “Truly, you think it possible to make Hereward your man?” She shook her head. “It is not. Hence, if I knew where to find him, I would not say.”

  She glimpsed anger, but it seemed to swim in the shallows as if her response was expected. “As told, your circumstances are more dire, Lady. Even if Sir Guy’s man lives, such treason as that dealt your king justifies the harshest punishment.”

  “This I know and accept.”

  “Then you will give no excuse for what you did that you said you could not when Sir Roul and his men came for the tribute?”

  She had told herself she would offer no defense, but for how much it hurt that Guy thought the worst of her, she said, “I…”

  At her hesitation, the usurper held up a finger, called his chaplain forward, and whispered something that sent the man from the tent.

  Having looked around to follow his progress, she met Guy’s gaze and glimpsed in his eyes the man with whom she had been best acquainted before this day.

  Very well, she silently acceded, in the hope you think less ill of me, a defense.

  “Continue, Lady Alvilda.”

  “It is true that by my hand Sir Guy’s man was terribly injured, but…” She shook her head. “He surprised me, and as the dagger was at my side, I reacted with so little thought at finding myself faced with the enemy it feels I but witnessed what happened. I am sorry and more so the chevalier did naught to warrant such—at least in that moment.”