by Tamara Leigh
Immediately Cyr’s hand itched for his own dagger opposite the sword on his belt, but the intent of hers proved neither offensive nor defensive.
She dropped to her knees, planted the blade’s tip in the ground, with great sweeps of the arms cleared the thin layer of leaves, then retrieved the dagger and began assaulting the earth.
“Surely you do not think to bury him?” he barked.
A shudder moving her bowed shoulders, she turned her face up to his. “But a depression covered over with leaves to conceal him should your kind come to the wood.” She swallowed loudly. “They will, will they not?”
Some would, whether to search out fellow Normans felled by Saxons during their retreat or plunder. “They will.”
As she resumed digging, Cyr unsheathed his dagger and paused to consider the intricately fashioned pommel, hilt, cross-guard, and blade. The rising sun scantily penetrating the canopy did not light the latter’s silvered length, though only because he had not wiped it clean the same as his sword.
He stared at the stained steel and saw again those who had fallen to it when it had been necessary to wield two blades to preserve his life and the lives of other Normans. The shedding of blood was inherent in being a knight and certainly not unknown to him previous to the day past, and yet in that moment it seemed almost repugnant, and more so when he looked to the one at his feet.
For the first time he noted that, unlike the others pulled from atop Hugh, this boy was arrayed in finery not of the common. A chain was visible above the neck of his tunic, garments were fashioned of rich cloth, boots cut of good leather, belt buckle shone silver, and the empty scabbards at his hip were faced with polished horn.
“Who is he?” Cyr asked.
The woman stabbed the earth again but did not pry the dagger free. Wisps of perspiration-darkened hair clinging to her brow, she tilted her face up. “A child.”
He gnashed his teeth, said between them, “Is he of noble blood?”
“He is—rather, was.” She nodded as if to force the clarification on herself. “Just as he was of your blood.”
It took Cyr no moment to understand, but he could not think how to respond.
The corners of her mouth rising in an expression too sorrowful to be a smile, she said, “Oui, on his sire’s side.”
Then he was born of a union between Norman and Saxon, the former likely drawn from one of the families who had long resided in England. If his father had sided with King Harold as seemed likely, he would forfeit all when Duke William ascended the throne—had he not already on the battlefield the same as his son.
“Who were you to him?” he asked.
“Were,” she breathed, then in a huskier voice, said, “Maid to his mother and, on occasion, his keeper.” A small sob escaped her. “As fell to me on the day past.”
Did she count herself responsible for his death?
“If only we had not come south. Had we remained in Wulfenshire as my lady…” She squeezed her lids closed, shook her head.
“Wulfenshire?” he turned the name over. Though during the fortnight since the duke’s army arrived on the shore of Sussex he had become familiar with the names of places within a day’s ride of their encampments, here was one he had not heard. Wondering if it was near Yorkshire where England’s usurping king had defeated Norwegian invaders days before the Norman landing and for safety’s sake her lady had brought her son south, he asked, “How far north?”
The woman’s eyes flew open, and there was alarm in their depths as of one surprised to find she was not alone. Then came resentment, and she dropped her chin and reached to her dagger.
Cyr did not understand why he wished to know how the boy had come to be here, but what he did understand was it was not for him to question.
Huffing and grunting, the woman returned to driving her dagger into the land to which she had been born. Again. And again.
Cyr knew he ought to leave her, but he muttered, “God’s mercy!” and pulled her upright. As she drew breath to protest, he said, “Do you stand aside, the sooner we shall both be done here.”
“I do not need—”
“Stand aside!” He pushed her toward the boy, then it was her enemy on his knees. With one hand he plunged his blade into the ground, with the other scooped out displaced loam and rocks. Though reviled at making a tiller of soil one of two weapons that had elevated him above many a chevalier, there was satisfaction in the thrusts and twists that cleaned the blood from the blade as the wounded earth yielded up the depth sought.
One foot, Cyr told himself, then I shall leave her to whatever fate she chooses.
So intent was he on a task unbecoming a man of the sword, once more he committed the deadly error of exposing his back to the enemy—not the woman but any number of her men lurking in the trees. However, not until he heard rustling leaves, skittering rocks, and labored breathing did he heed the voice urging him to attend to his surroundings.
Thrusting upright, he swept his dagger around. But as he closed a hand over his sword hilt, he recognized the one come unto him. The cause for the woman’s great draws of breath was the boy she carried, he who had tried to crawl back to his mother, he who had aided four others in severing Hugh’s life.
And whose young lives your uncle severed, his rarely examined conscience reminded. Mere boys.
Murderous boys, he silently countered, but with so little conviction it yet served, rousing anger better suited to the nephew of a dead man. “What do you?” he demanded.
Near the boy Cyr had conveyed to the wood, she eased her burden to the ground, sat back on her heels, gripped her knees, and raised a face tracked with tears. “He also has a mother, as do the other three.”
Darkness once more rising through him, Cyr looked to the depression in which he stood. Did she expect him to enlarge it to accommodate all who had spilled Hugh’s life? Hugh who had yet to know such consideration? Hugh whose body might even now suffer plundering?
“It must be widened,” she said.
He thrust his dagger into its scabbard, growled, “Not by my hand.”
She pushed upright. “Then by mine.”
“So be it.” If she had no regard for herself, why should he?
As he started past her, she said, “It would be a lie for me to thank you.”
He did not believe that. Not only had she drawn back from expressing appreciation earlier, but he sensed her declaration was an attempt to convince herself they were enemies. Still, it was good to be reminded they stood on opposite sides of the great fire set on the day past. Just as Normans would rebel against any who sought to yoke them, so would Saxons. Indeed, were the fire well enough fueled, it could rage for years across this island kingdom.
“Just as it would be a lie for me to welcome false gratitude,” he said and, assuring himself he would think no more on her, strode toward the battlefield.
“Norman!”
He cursed, turned.
Hitching her skirts clear of her slippers, she hastened forward and held out the psalter.
Cyr spared it no glance, instead looked nearer on a face the rising sun confirmed was as lovely as thought—so much he was tempted to brush aside blond tresses to view all of it. And she surely saw the temptation, wariness softening the hard light in her eyes and causing her to retreat a step.
Still, she extended the psalter. “Take it.”
He flicked his gaze over it, lingered over the blood. Was this spite? An attempt to bait him? Punish him?
“For what?” he asked.
“Prayer and guidance, of which methinks you are in greater need than I.”
The warrior wanted to reject that, but the man who felt twisted and bent out of a shape so familiar as to be comfortable could not.
“It is in my language,” she said.
He frowned. “I know less of the written than the spoken, so of what use?”
She tilted her head, causing a tress to shift and expose more of her slender neck. “Do you and yours not le
arn the language of the conquered, how will you govern your new subjects?” She raised her eyebrows. “Or is that not your duke’s intent? Does he—do you—mean to kill us all?”
Baited, indeed. And yet he snapped at her hook. “It is not our intent!”
She thrust the psalter nearer. “I dare not ask for your word on that, but if you speak true, here is a good place to start—a means of enlightening your kind on how to rule those from whom you have stolen lives, hearts, even souls. And of course, let us not forget land.”
He could not. Though he wished to believe he and his younger brothers had accepted the invitation to join Duke William’s forces more for the Church than the possibility of becoming landed nobles the same as their father’s heir, it was a lie.
Perhaps that was what made him yield though the woman greatly offended—and further offended when their fingers brushed as he accepted the psalter.
She snatched her arm to her side and, setting her chin high, said, “Methinks you will not mind the stain, Norman.”
As if he rejoiced in the blood of her dead. As if he had not shown her mercy and compassion. As if he had not sought to protect her.
Anger his only comfort and defense, he flung the psalter at her feet. “Take that and be gone.”
She lowered her gaze, stared at her offering until raucous laughter sounded from the battlefield.
And so it began. “They come,” Cyr warned.
She shifted wide eyes to his, and he was glad for the abundance of fear if it meant she would leave this place. “So they do,” she said softly and turned away.
He stared after her as she moved toward the fallen youths. Though it was past time he left her, he longed for reassurance. “You will depart?” he called.
For answer, she stepped into the depression and began plying her dagger. Were it only to accommodate the second boy, he would leave her to it, but if she intended to collect the other three…
As he strode forward, he glanced at the psalter fallen open to a page of precise text on one side and a simply-rendered cross on the other.
Halting before her, he demanded, “Will you take yourself from here after these two are covered over?”
“I will not.”
He dropped to his haunches, but she continued to drive her blade into the ground. “For the love of God—if not yourself—leave the other boys!”
“Non.”
Then it is on her, he told himself. But when she stabbed her blade into the ground again, he closed a hand over her fist gripping the hilt. “Unlike your lady’s son, the others possess nothing worthy of plunder.”
Her head whipped up. “Still they could suffer desecration, and if their bodies are moved they may not be found again.” She swallowed loudly. “They must go home. They absolutely must. Now”—she jerked free—“collect your dead and leave me to mine.”
As she resumed her assault upon the earth, Cyr straightened. Assuring himself he had done all he could to save her and vowing he would forget her, he strode opposite.
Also by Tamara Leigh
CLEAN READ HISTORICAL ROMANCE
THE FEUD: A Medieval Romance Series
Baron Of Godsmere: Book One
Baron Of Emberly: Book Two
Baron of Blackwood: Book Three
LADY: A Medieval Romance Series
Lady At Arms: Book One
Lady Of Eve: Book Two
BEYOND TIME: A Medieval Time Travel Romance Series
Dreamspell: Book One
Lady Ever After: Book Two
STAND-ALONE Medieval Romance Novels
Lady Of Fire
Lady Of Conquest
Lady Undaunted
Lady Betrayed
INSPIRATIONAL HISTORICAL ROMANCE
AGE OF FAITH: A Medieval Romance Series
The Unveiling: Book One
The Yielding: Book Two
The Redeeming: Book Three
The Kindling: Book Four
The Longing: Book Five
The Vexing: Book Six
The Awakening: Book Seven
The Raveling: Book Eight
AGE OF CONQUEST: A Medieval Romance Series
Merciless: Book One (Winter 2018/2019)
INSPIRATIONAL CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE
HEAD OVER HEELS: Stand-Alone Romance Collection
Stealing Adda
Perfecting Kate
Splitting Harriet
Faking Grace
SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT: A Contemporary Romance Series
Leaving Carolina: Book One
Nowhere, Carolina: Book Two
Restless in Carolina: Book Three
OUT-OF-PRINT GENERAL MARKET REWRITES
Warrior Bride 1994: Bantam Books (Lady At Arms)
*Virgin Bride 1994: Bantam Books (Lady Of Eve)
Pagan Bride 1995: Bantam Books (Lady Of Fire)
Saxon Bride 1995: Bantam Books (Lady Of Conquest)
Misbegotten 1996: HarperCollins (Lady Undaunted)
Unforgotten 1997: HarperCollins (Lady Ever After)
Blackheart 2001: Dorchester Leisure (Lady Betrayed)
*Virgin Bride is the sequel to Warrior Bride; Pagan Pride and Saxon Bride are stand-alone novels
For new releases and special promotions, subscribe to Tamara Leigh’s mailing list: www.TamaraLeigh.com
About the Author
Tamara Leigh signed a 4-book contract with Bantam Books in 1993, her debut medieval romance was nominated for a RITA award, and successive books with Bantam, HarperCollins, and Dorchester earned awards and places on national bestseller lists.
In 2006, the first of Tamara's inspirational contemporary romances was published, followed by six more with Multnomah and RandomHouse. Perfecting Kate was optioned for a movie, Splitting Harriet won an ACFW Book of the Year award, and Faking Grace was nominated for a RITA award.
In 2012, Tamara returned to the historical romance genre with the release of Dreamspell and the bestselling Age of Faith and The Feud series. Among her #1 bestsellers are her general market romances rewritten as clean and inspirational reads, including Lady at Arms, Lady Of Eve, and Lady Of Conquest. In winter 2018/2019, watch for the new Age of Conquest series unveiling the origins of the Wulfrith family. Psst!—It all began with a woman.
Tamara lives near Nashville with her husband, a German Shepherd who has never met a squeaky toy she can’t destroy, and a feisty Morkie who keeps her company during long writing stints.
Connect with Tamara at her website www.tamaraleigh.com, Facebook, Twitter and [email protected].
For new releases and special promotions, subscribe to Tamara Leigh’s mailing list: www.tamaraleigh.com