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

by Tamara Leigh

  “Continue.”

  “I have no more to add.”

  “Then it is a poor defense. Had it happened in battle, I could be generous—or should you give aid in bringing Hereward into the fold—but regardless of the amount of thought given to the act, it is near enough murder to be called that.”

  “When done by a Saxon,” she said, certain she could make it no worse. “When done by a Norman, it is not called that no matter how blatant the thought ahead of such heinous acts. It is…” She put her head to the side. “What would you call what was done on my wedding day? Educating the English about the benefits of submitting to Norman rule as we are to believe the Lord approves? Non, that was in no way apparent that day. What was apparent is how greatly Saxons should fear our new masters who murder at will with rare consequence.”

  His eyes were very narrow. As for the man at her back who yet feared for her, so greatly he exuded that emotion she almost believed he spoke aloud in telling her to speak no more.

  I am nearly there, she silently assured him. “That was no battle Sir Roul and his men fought, King William, and they had far more time to think on what they did than I. Thus, in your England, murder is defined not by the motivation but the race of whoever takes the life of another.” She sighed. “And you marvel why my people have fought violence with violence these five years.”

  A moment later, Guy was at her side. “I think you must agree, my liege, the lady makes a good point.”

  That shocked. What did not was Le Bâtard springing out of his chair. “I must agree? By whose command, Chevalier?”

  Guy did not shrink from royal anger, and her sidelong glance revealed neither did he wince over the blast of breath that smelled of things slow to digest.

  “Certes, not by my command,” he said. “I speak of what I know from Bible readings, attending mass, and witnessing the disparity to which Lady Alvilda refers.”

  Sound rumbled about the usurper’s throat, but before he determined what to do with it, voices outside shifted his regard past Guy. “My next audience is here—for the moment good for you, not so for them.”

  As she wondered who would next suffer him, he pointed at a bench. “Both of you, there,” he said and returned to his chair.

  When once more Guy’s hand was on Vilda’s elbow, vividly she recalled his impersonal search for the dagger. But she did not pull free, and so quickly he released her the backs of her knees bumped the seat as she lowered. Then he went behind the bench and, standing to the right of her, crossed his arms over his chest.

  When the tent flap was swept aside, the chaplain entered first, bringing with him a cool breeze that made her aware this day drew to a close. And it would do so upon the three traitors who next entered—Bishop Aethelwine, Abbot Thurstan, and Earl Morcar, the latter looking fearfully wary. He did not trust the conqueror to deliver what had been promised for pledging himself and his men to the ruination of the resistance.

  Vilda could not feel for him. Perhaps if the situation on Ely had been hopeless she would have, but twice Hereward had defeated the usurper’s mighty forces and war machines. Though ousting the Normans from their country had remained doubtful, it had not been without hope as it seemed now.

  For what had to feel minutes, Le Bâtard surveyed the three before him, during which none looked Vilda’s way though each had noted her presence upon entering.

  “A fine partnership, Bishop, Abbott, Earl,” the usurper said. “See what can be accomplished when we unite? Such an inspiring example for my people and yours to work together in making England a better whole than ever it was before God chose me to rule it. Do you not think?”

  Their agreement murmured, he frowned. “What say you?” After clear words were added to their responses, he said, “Now the matter of how to deal with betrayal of your king—rather, treason.”

  So ominous were those words, the distress of all was felt. This was not what they had hoped for but what was feared.

  “Bishop, time and again you prove you cannot be trusted, one day my side, the next that of the resistance. I thank you for your aid, but you will have to be content in gaining great reward from God who is surely pleased for so little loss of blood in taking Ely.”

  “My king?” Aethelwine said in a pitch between confusion and beseeching.

  “For the good of all, I cannot have you roaming about England. Hence, in comfort you shall spend the remainder of your days tucked away wheresoever it pleases me—I am thinking Abingdon Abbey. There, without cease, you shall pray for our country.”

  A long pause, then just loud enough to be heard, that holy man named him something foul. It was a designation that had resulted in the loss of appendages by others who spoke it against the conqueror, but he shrugged and said, “That I am, and by the grace of God, I have been raised well above it.” He jutted his chin. “Step back.”

  When the bishop complied, Le Bâtard considered the abbot. “Though your alliance with Hereward is most serious, as it is your first offense against me, I am of a mind to be lenient. Thus, as agreed, I shall remove confiscated monastery lands from the crown’s holdings and return them to the Abbey of Ely—once the fine has been paid. Step back!”

  Thurstan stepped forward. “But my king, the agreement—”

  “Do not speak to me of promises unkept! Be grateful and satisfied I honor as much of our agreement as I do. Step back!”

  When he did so, it left only the earl. Though he raised his chin and leveled his shoulders, Vilda saw tremble in the hand at his side.

  “Morcar, Morcar, Morcar. Our friendship goes back quite far, does it not?”

  “It does, my liege.” There was a tremble in his voice as well.

  “And therein the greatest of disappointments.” Le Bâtard sighed. “Did I not treat you and your brother well, giving you places of honor at my court?”

  “You did, and we would not have left there if not for the needs of our people who depend on their overlords to ensure their well-being.”

  “What needs those, Morcar? Surely you do not say I have been remiss in providing good governance to those who work your lands?”

  The earl moistened his lips. “It is the governance of those Normans that concerns me, men who have made my people cry out for the return of their earl.”

  “You are saying I chose poorly those set over your people?”

  Though Vilda could not side with Morcar, she was tempted to remind Le Bâtard of the ones come to collect the tribute from her husband—too, that this day Hereward had slipped through his fingers because poorly he had chosen lesser men to secure the isle.

  The earl cleared his throat. “What I say is that it is my duty to protect my people and their interests.”

  “Admirable were it not too late for that, Morcar.”

  “My liege, your messenger assured me of a pardon and return to your favor if my men and I stood down. That we did, so surely you will honor your word and set me over my lands again?”

  William shook his head. “For the good of all, I am decided. However, rest easy in knowing my pardon stands, ensuring your life is spared.”

  “That is all?”

  “That is much. And here is more—the same as Bishop Aethelwine, in comfort you will live out your days removed from the temptation of working ill in my kingdom.”

  “But my liege—”

  “I have spoken! Step back!”

  “But—”

  “Guards!”

  They entered, and though Vilda expected forceful removal of the three, the sheep did not resist the shepherds.

  William turned his face to her. “Do you think I was fair in my dealings with those traitors?”

  Though they were traitors, indeed, she wanted to spit at him for naming them that for which his theft of England was responsible.

  Calm, she counseled and stood. “I am too biased to give a worthy answer.”

  “Should I have slain them?”

  “Non.”

  “Should I have more generously r
ewarded them?”

  “Non.”

  “Then there the answer—I have been fair. Now the question of how to be fair to you. What say you?”

  Fingers cramping for how tightly she gripped them at her waist, she pulled them apart. “That cannot be answered until the fate of Sir Guy’s man is known.”

  He shrugged his mouth. “True, but we ought to prepare for the best.”

  “The best?”

  “If he lives, I may pardon you even do you not aid with Hereward since I am inclined to believe you do not know where he can be found.”

  Did he speak true? If so, of what value to her? “And my pardon? Would it be the same as Earl Morcar’s—a comfortable prison?”

  “That or better.”

  “Better?”

  “Though it has been a long day, as I was prepared for a much longer one lest those three failed me, I am restless. Hence, I am thinking a game of chess will aid in deciding your future.”

  She did not understand how engaging in another match would make her fate any better, other than improving his mood should he triumph. Nor had she much reason to trust any promises made since he had just reneged on many. And yet, were there a possibility it would benefit her, she ought to accept.

  Before she could agree, he said, “If I win the game, imprisonment your fate.”

  She blinked. “If I win?”

  “Another game. If I win, exile your fate.”

  “If I win?”

  “One last game. Should I prevail, you enter a convent.”

  She was holding her breath. “And if I win that game?”

  “I shall free you.”

  She gasped.

  He nodded. “I admire your facility with baser weapons, but you are no real threat, and certainly less so than the common rebels I pardoned this day. Too, though you prick like a bed of nettles, knowing the ill worked on you and yours that surely made you what you became, I can bear you no great ill for being that outlaw’s relation.” He looked over his shoulder past the chaplain. “The game is in my chest,” he said of that iron-banded thing that could hold an entire family’s possessions and still have room for those of extended kin.

  “Accept,” Guy said low, his deep, entreating voice making her shiver.

  Three games, she mulled. Better him thrice and gain her freedom. Better him twice and enter a convent. Better him once and suffer exile. Better him not at all, and her fate would be imprisonment the same as if she declined—providing Sir Guy’s man lived.

  “I will play, if you give your word on your sword that all shall be as told.”

  “You do not trust me.”

  She nearly snorted. “I take my lessons from bishop, abbot, and earl, none of whom I resemble in the least.”

  Amusement turned his mouth. “Non, you are not like them. As told, you bring to mind my wife.” He clipped his chin. “You shall have my vow. And you, Chevalier, are done here.”

  Her heart leapt. Would he also send his chaplain away? Might he wish more than a game of chess?

  She could not see Guy’s reaction, but whether Le Bâtard read hers or that of the man behind, he understood. “Fear not, Lady. As ever I am faithful to my wife, your virtue is safe.” He looked to Guy. “Take your leave.”

  When he came out from behind Vilda and strode opposite, she followed his progress until he was gone from her. Perhaps forever.

  A quarter hour later, the chess set having been erected on a small table and the tent’s two occupants provided drink and viands, Vilda’s enemy gave his word on his sword hilt. Then they began the game that could be both her first and last this night.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Not one game. Not two. Three.

  Now, well past middle night, Vilda dragged what felt manacled feet down the corridor in the wake of the monk tasked with returning her to the cell. The light of his torch glancing wall to wall, the drag of his robe sweeping side to side, he spoke no word. And she was glad, being too near the edge of herself to respond.

  He halted before the cell whose door was open—unexpected since she had heard him close it when she departed—and said low, “You have a visitor.”

  So she did, one who stood center of the small room, back lit by candlelight within, front by torchlight without. Now feeling so near the edge a breath might tip her over, she whispered, “Guy.”

  “A quarter hour, Chevalier,” the monk said. “Then I shall return to secure her.”

  “A quarter hour,” Guy acceded and reached to her as done in the chapel.

  She stared at his hand.

  “I go only to corridor’s end, Lady,” the monk prompted. “You are safe.”

  “This I know,” she whispered and clasped her hands before her and stepped into the cell.

  As the door closed just shy of its frame and candlelight cast a glow over all, she halted and raised her eyes from Guy’s broad palm and fingers she longed to feel against her own. “Why are you here?”

  Was that regret on his dim face? Or frustration over ignorance of the outcome of her time with his king? He lowered his hand. “The sooner to give tidings of my man.”

  Certain it could bode no good for being delivered so late, emotion flooded her eyes. “I am sorry. So very sorry.”

  “Nay, Vilda, those are not the tidings. He is conscious, and the physician believes his chance of recovery better than before.”

  “Lord!” she gasped, then face crumpling into ugliness, dropped her chin. And saw Guy reach again.

  She wanted to ignore his offer of comfort as done before but could not. Blessedly, this time when he closed fingers over the hand set in his and drew her to him, it was gently and into his arms.

  The timing was perfect, allowing her to muffle sobs she regretted all the more for not being the first he must suffer. Just as she did not wish to be so hardened as to be undesirable for having no soft, feminine places about her, she did not wish to be so weakened as to be a burden for having no strength about her. But she could not quiet herself.

  “Naught is certain, Vilda,” he said, “but I wished you to know it is less likely William shall pronounce death—that you have much hope.”

  Realizing he mistook her relief as something turned inward, she shook her head. “’Tis not for—” Another sob escaping, harder she gripped the hand she could not bear releasing and with her other caught up a fistful of his tunic. “’Tis not for myself I feel relief. It is for your man.”

  He hesitated, said, “I am glad you do not wish him dead, but are you truly resolved to the possibility of death?”

  She eased back and raised her face. “Though I think I could be, I need not—if your king keeps his word.”

  “Leniency only if my man survives,” he reminded.

  She shook her head. “I speak of the word given me ere I left him this eve.”

  His frown made her long to smooth his brow. “What word? And what result the chess games that must have numbered more than one for how long you were there?”

  Answering the second question first, she said, “Three matches.” When his brow lightened, she added, “No imprisonment. No exile.”

  From the sudden still of his chest against hers, she felt the depth of his concern over that last match, but when she could not speak it, he did. “You are bound for the convent.”

  Her nod felt a drunken bob of the head. “Not a bad life, and more good in that it is guaranteed. If he keeps his word.”

  Though understanding leapt in his eyes, he said, “Tell me.”

  “Regardless of whether your man lives, your king says he will spare my life so I may live out my days praying for England.”

  He thought on that, said, “Though I am sorry you did not win the final game, I am grateful for those you won. More, I am thankful for William’s guarantee that, if ’tis not evidence of admiration, then perhaps token compensation for the wrong done you.”

  She laughed curtly. “He is unknowable, just as he wishes it. As for the games this night, my last loss makes me ques
tion all my wins. Though I am accomplished at chess, his victory was so quick and subtly ruthless I wonder if ever I truly won. Mayhap the matches in which I prevailed were but part of a larger game to make his ultimate victory more satisfying.”

  “It sounds William, but as you say, he is unknowable.”

  She should have shook off the question come to mind, especially as she did not know what she hoped to gain from his answer, but she said, “What of you? Are you knowable, Guy?”

  “You ask this because of what happened in the chapel?”

  “It being very different from what has happened here, that is part of why I ask.”

  As if he had not realized how different this was, he released her and stepped back. “I apologize for being rough with you earlier. Though with the injury done my man, it occurred you had been pushed to such desperation as to be a danger even to me, more I did it for the benefit of Taillebois.”

  She swallowed. “I hoped it was that, but I do understand how you might have doubted me.”

  His jaw shifted. “Tell the other part of why you ask if I am knowable.”

  Despite regret inherent in honesty when one has little if anything to gain, she said, “The other part is what I feel for you that I do not know you feel for me even half as much.”

  Wariness rose between them. “What do you feel for me, Vilda?”

  That asked of her not with hope nor anticipation—almost grimly—she wished she had not said anything, but it was too late. “’Tis not just that you are honorable, but that your touch, be it light or firm, is more felt than any I have felt. It is that your kiss makes the woman of me believe I am something where I had begun to think myself nothing. It is that in your arms I feel what was empty become a world within me. It is that”—she shrugged—“each time I believe I will see you no more, there is a still inside me that awaits your return.”

  He was silent so long, the warmth moving into her face was felt all the way down her neck and shoulders. Then he rumbled, “Are you saying you love me?”

  So this fool was. Lowering her chin, staring at the toes of his boots, she whispered, “Am I? As you have loved before—and greatly—you would know better. Is this love? And if ’tis, what am I to do with it, Guy?”