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

by Tamara Leigh

  Beginning this day, they would be cleared and interred. Once that was done, in keeping his vow to found and endow a Benedictine abbey here as penance and a memorial to the dead, building would begin.

  “Battle Abbey,” he spoke aloud the name his wife, Matilda, had suggested. It was fitting.

  Drawing a breath of cool air that tasted and smelled of the sea Hereward had crossed to the continent five years after William and his army crossed to England, the Conqueror turned all around on the spot where the high altar of the abbey church would be erected to mark where the false king had fallen.

  He stamped a foot, smiled. Not exactly here—indeed, quite a distance away—but it was good ground, and there was satisfaction in knowing all who came to pay homage to one undeserving of it would hold in high regard this place William built.

  He breathed deep the air that belonged to him the same as all of England below, then proclaimed, “I am Le Bâtard, Duke of Normandy, King of England, William the Great. My claim staked, my sword swept wide, I made history go right when others heaved left. I changed all. Now I am history, never to be forgotten.”

  He set his head back, eyed the heavens looking down upon him, and with wonder he ought not feel, shouted, “Never!”

  Epilogue

  Stavestone-on-Trent

  Derbyshire, England, 1075

  Four babes in four years. They ought to begin taking precautions, but his wife would have none of it. A dozen Anglo-Norman children, she had said she would give him even if a girl was never placed in her arms.

  Might the one now pressing forth weeks earlier than expected be of that sex? More, why had Guy not eschewed all argument they journey from Boltstone?

  Hand on her burgeoning belly, Vilda had protested when he said they must decline the invitation to renew their acquaintance with Lady Nicola and Vitalis who visited Guy’s cousin and overlord at Stavestone.

  A short and easy ride, she had said. When he had remained firm in his decision, an argument had ensued that, the same as most, ended with compromise. This time it had swung in Vilda’s favor when she proposed they leave their children in the care of Guy’s sister who now lived with them, and they pass two nights at Stavestone rather than one to give her time to rest.

  And so here they were the day after their arrival, Guy pacing the hall while Vilda labored abovestairs, all attempts to distract him with conversation abandoned by Dougray and his sire, Michel Roche, as well as Vitalis.

  So little sounded from above Guy almost wished she who had grunted their first three children from her womb would shout this one into the world.

  Minutes later, she screamed.

  “Lord!” He ran for the stairs.

  “It is natural!” Dougray called and Vitalis agreed.

  “Not for my woman,” he barked lest any think to drag him back.

  They let him go, doubtless certain the ladies assisting Vilda would keep him out of the chamber. They tried, Nicola attempting to close the door on him, Em commanding him to leave as she hastened from the bed to add her shoulder to the effort, and Lady Pilar calling that the mother was well and it would not be long now.

  “Out!” Lady Nicola cried and kicked at Guy’s boot between door and frame.

  “Out!” Lady Em commanded and gave his shoulder a shove.

  “Let my husband in!” Vilda called.

  They hesitated, then jumped back lest the door slam into them.

  It did not, Guy having enough control to ease it open, but not enough to cross the chamber with measured steps. Halting alongside the bed where Vilda sat center propped on pillows, a blanket draping her lower body, he said, “You screamed.”

  “Shouted, not screamed.” She reached to him. “Methinks…” She blew breath in and out. “…this babe bigger than…the others.”

  Another boy, then, he thought as he closed her hand in his, and was glad for a son though he wanted for his wife a child ever at her side, learning all a mother could teach a girl until she became a woman and wed.

  “The head!” Lady Pilar pronounced and, moments later, “Now a shoulder. Another push, Vilda. Two at most.”

  Guy kissed his wife’s perspiring brow. “Should I go?”

  She shook her head. “I do not know why men…ought not be in the…birthing chamber. I am so glad you are here.” Then she gripped his fingers as if to crush them, strained, and shouted again.

  “One more!” Pilar urged.

  Vilda fixed her eyes on Guy’s and pushed.

  “Your babe is here! And—oh!—she is beautiful.”

  “She?” mother and father gasped in unison.

  “A girl, and most blessed she came early,” Pilar said ahead of a hearty wail that announced to all in the donjon the daughter of Vilda and Guy was here. In the space between that wail and another, the lady passed the babe to Em and added, “Such a sturdy girl child.”

  Silence between husband and wife as their eyes met, then smiles.

  “Sir Guy,” the lady said, “as the birthing is not quite finished—”

  “Lord!” He snapped his head around. “Surely there is not another in there?”

  The pretty woman at the far end of her middle years chuckled. “For this, men ought not be present. Non, this is what comes after and will make ready the womb for the next babe. Though I foresee no difficulties, it is best you return belowstairs.”

  “Do not!” Vilda tightened her hold on him. “Stay my side.”

  He did, stroking her face and soothing her with words of love throughout what followed and Nicola and Em’s cleansing of the babe whose cries had mostly subsided.

  When all was done, Guy lifted his wife from the mattress to allow the sheet to be replaced, then resettled her on pillows Em stacked against the headboard and drew the coverlet over she whose every curve he adored as they grew a bit more round with each child.

  Then Nicola stepped forward and placed the swaddled babe in its mother’s arms.

  Peering at their wide-eyed daughter, Vilda breathed, “Oh, my my me.”

  Guy lowered to the mattress. “Indeed,” he said. Though the babe’s head seemed no larger than had those of their newborn sons, as told, no frail being this. Sturdy.

  While Vilda put the babe to her breast, the ladies cleaned the chamber and placed all evidence of the birth in a large basket.

  “Methinks it time to deliver joyous tidings to our husbands,” said Pilar as the three moved toward the door, her own being Michel Roche, the former lord of Stavestone whom she had crossed the channel to wed two years ago after waiting half a lifetime for the man she loved.

  “I shall return shortly with refreshments,” said Dougray’s wife, Em.

  “Nicola!” Vilda called to the wife of Vitalis whom first she had met upon the Isle of Ely.

  As the others exited, the lady turned. “Vilda?”

  “’Tis a blessing to know you again, and I am glad for your happiness and the family you make with Vitalis.”

  Though a shadow appeared on Nicola’s face, Guy knew it had naught to do with her marriage and children but the recent death of one dear to her husband and her—the favored second son of King William whom Vitalis had trained into a warrior, Richard’s young life claimed by a hunting accident.

  The shadow passed, and the lady smiled. “Who knew, hmm?” Her eyes shot heavenward. “Well, down here? I hope you shall stay many a day so we may grow our friendship.”

  Vilda nodded at the babe who was nearly asleep at the breast. “That we shall.”

  The door closed.

  “She would have made you a good wife,” Vilda referred to the tale long ago told of when William had considered matching that reckless young woman with this chevalier. “Of course, I am grateful Vitalis gained her and you gained me.”

  “As you are fond of saying, it could not have gone better.” He stroked the little one’s cheek, then Vilda’s. “Four gifts you have given me, Wife.”

  “And more to come.”

  He winced. “After what I—”


  “’Twas a shout, not a scream, Guy.”

  “Regardless, each birth presents a risk of losing one for whom I did not know I waited so long until she was mine.”

  “Surely you do not speak of your sturdy wife?” she teased.

  “I do not. I speak of my beautifully sturdy wife.”

  Her smile broadened. “Unless you wish no more children because five would begin to be too many, methinks we ought to leave it in God’s hands.”

  Which were exceedingly capable, he silently acceded. “If He provides, then one more, Vilda.”

  She glanced at their daughter who now slept, laughed softly. “Or two…or three…or…”

  Guy bent his head. “In God’s hands,” he said and kissed his Saxon bride.

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for joining me in the age of conquest. If you enjoyed the seventh tale in this series, I would appreciate a review of LAWLESS at your online retailer. A few sentences is lovely. A few more, lovelier yet.

  Regarding the final book in a series that stepped back in time to give the origins of the Wulfrith family of the AGE OF FAITH series, the release of DAUNTLESS in Autumn 2021 will take an additional step back to reveal the origins of the D’Argents. Oh, what a ride this has been—and is yet to be!

  Coming soon: The 14th-century AGE OF HONOR series and more Wulfriths. Ever more Wulfriths! ~ Tamara

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Dear Readers,

  So many myths surround Hereward that separating fact from fiction often seemed insurmountable. Having pieced together accounts of The Last Great Englishman to give the reader a good sense of who he was and the events for which his leadership is credited, my hope is the seams of my patchwork quilt are strong.

  As for the site of the resistance’s last stand to regain control of England, like Hereward, there are vague and various accounts of the sieges mounted by William the Conqueror to reclaim the Isle of Ely. There appear to have been three attempts to achieve that end, the first two by military might alone that included the use of causeways, one of which a chevalier named Deda did cross, with the final attempt dependent on betrayal of Hereward by Abbot Thurstan, Earl Morcar, and others.

  Regarding the aged witch said to have fallen to her death after cursing the resistance from atop a tower during the second siege, as history is usually written by the victors, this author took the liberty of reimagining this Saxon by giving her a name, shaving off some years, and providing motivation for cursing her own people—and of course, making her kin to my fictional Theta.

  The first seven books in the Age of Conquest series having covered the major events from the Battle of Hastings in 1066 to the resistance’s last stand on Ely in 1071, what about the eighth book? I think we must take a step back to that oft-mentioned tale of Godfroi and Robine whose son wed Lady Hawisa of the Wulfriths. An excerpt of DAUNTLESS is included here.

  If you would like to know more about Maxen Pendery, his friendship with Sir Guy, and the woman who drove out the Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings, that tale is told in LADY OF CONQUEST.

  Dauntless Excerpt

  THE WULFRITHS. IT ALL BEGAN WITH A WOMAN

  From USA Today Bestselling author Tamara Leigh, the eighth and final book in a series set in the 11th century before the Norman Conquest of England, revealing the origins of the Wulfrith-D’Argent family of the AGE OF FAITH series. Watch for DAUNTLESS Summer/Autumn 2021.

  PART I: CHAPTER ONE

  Castle D’Argent upon Valeur

  Normandy, France

  The Year of Our Lord 1036

  Two things this day would remedy. Of greatest import was bestowal of the Barony of Valeur on its rightful heir. Of lesser import was an end to hostilities between the family D’Argent and the family L’Épée. The first would be achieved by way of combat, the second through marriage. What both entailed held no appeal, but would be finalized before sunset.

  “God help us,” rasped the one face down before the altar, then he rolled to his back and opened his eyes on the bounded ceiling of his mother’s private chapel and wished himself outside beneath the boundless blue.

  Though often the priest had assured the boy he no longer was that prayers were as easily heard through weighty stone and wood as through weightless air—the same as desperate beseechings of the mind—Godfroi yet imagined the Lord straining to catch words spoken here. And that seemed a great imposition for one whose intercession was sought, especially when the petitioner was not as faithful as he ought to be.

  Turning his face toward the small window unshuttered following his brother’s departure, Godfroi knew from the cast of light he had missed the breaking of fast in the hall below. Not that he of great appetite could boast that this day. Too much hinged on these next hours to burden his body with viands washed down with quantities of ale and wine that would slow his thoughts and reflexes. Unlike his brother, his body lingered over alcohol, and that it could not afford to do this day.

  “Godfroi.”

  He did not startle to find he was no longer alone, but it disturbed he had not heard her enter. “You ought not be here,” he said, holding his gaze to the sky visible through that narrow opening. “Your blessing was given last eve. I need no more.”

  Slippered feet moved from his left to his right, and now he glimpsed skirts.

  “Mother, this is not in accord with what was decided was best. You must leave.”

  “I was the one who decided what is best,” she said, then with a rustle of descending skirts, lowered to her knees beside him and sat back on her heels.

  Her stern face blocking his view of the outside, he sighed, pushed onto his elbows, and raised his eyebrows. “Then already you have had a private audience with Hugh, else you shall when you are done with mine.”

  “Non, I seek only you, my son.”

  He frowned. This was out of character for Lady Maëlys who had determined to raise her boys without benefit of a father to replace he who died under questionable circumstances when Godfroi and Hugh were ten.

  Unlike most widowed noblewomen with lands and children in need of protection, she had not wed again, relying on her youngest brother and a garrison of highly trained chevaliers and men-at-arms to impart skills needed to transform her sons into warriors worthy of swinging steel. There had been a terrible price for that, of which she had paid the greatest portion, but it cost her sons as well, forcing them toward manhood before boyhood was fully behind them.

  “Why do you seek only me?” he asked.

  She gave a helpless shrug that was no fit for the forceful, decisive woman he had longest known, then said so softly he questioned if he heard right, “Love.”

  In that moment, she looked so fragile that when he pushed to sitting, it took restraint not to catch up her lax hands. “You make no sense.”

  Sorrowful laughter parted her lips. “That is my burden, Godfroi—holding close this love so it not make soft the sons of a great man.”

  He did not question her sorrow over abandoning that beautiful side of her known to him and his brother before attainment of their eleventh year. What he questioned was that she recalled where she had buried it and dug it up this momentous day.

  “Here and now, I am a mother again as is necessary have I hope of not losing the joy of the day I delivered two boys worthy of the silver-haired warrior who took me to wife.”

  Godfroi began to understand, but before he could seek confirmation, she gripped one of his hands.

  “You are the stronger warrior,” she whispered as if fearful of being heard and with the urgency of having little time to impart what must be told. “Hugh is formidable, but best he excels at speed and a sense of an opponent’s vulnerabilities.”

  Godfroi knew that, having trained alongside him all these years and daily tested his own skills against his brother’s. Then there were the battles fought side by side since attaining their youth to prevent circling vultures from devouring D’Argent lands. The bond of brotherhood first forged by their sire was their greatest strength
, as had been imperative to one whose relations with his own brother had been weak and eventually severed when the eldest was passed over as heir due to a penchant for unjustified violence and excessive drink.

  Turning his hand up in his mother’s, Godfroi squeezed hers and said, “It almost sounds you favor me, and yet a show of preference is to be avoided at all costs.”

  “I do not show preference!” Lady Maëlys exclaimed. “My feelings for you and Hugh are different in some ways, but they are of the same strength. For that, this day you must gain the title.” She hesitated, then pulled her hand from his and set it on his jaw as not done in years. “You wish to be your sire’s heir, do you not, Godfroi?”

  “It is what I have trained for, not only to keep our lands from those prowling them, but to prove worthier than Hugh.”

  “And you will, oui?”

  He felt every ridge of his frown. Were he not sighted, he would not believe this his mother—indeed, would pride himself on senses sharper than the blind Isaac of the Bible who was fooled into giving his blessing to his younger son, Jacob.

  “Mother, this is not at all like—”

  “You must win!” Her eyes moistened, another rarity. “That is the greatest chance both my sons survive this day.”

  Inwardly, he groaned. He had been certain she shrugged off whispers of those who long anticipated this contest, many expecting the worst—that the twin who prevailed would slay the other to prevent future challenges, whether by the defeated or his children. Losing would be a blow, but just as Hugh could believe Godfroi would not intentionally slay his brother, Godfroi did not believe his greatest friend would seek to end his life.