FEARLESS: Book Two: Age of Conquest

by Tamara Leigh

  Had she chosen wrong? Her sire would have placed his most highly regarded trainer in this position, but that would have been a different time when Jaxon answered to one he respected. Too, her father would have ensured those who acted in his name did as directed.

  Hating the torture witnessed at too great a distance to sooner end made her aware of how alive she was and how great the need to arise from mourning, Isa stepped nearer Vitalis. “Why did you not tell me?”

  “My orders,” Jaxon answered for him. “He did as commanded, the same as all good soldiers. You may be of your sire’s blood, but that of your mother made you a daughter incapable of understanding the world built and ruled by men—”

  She whipped her chin around. “Go!”

  “My lady—”

  “Leave us!”

  He spat on the ground, pivoted, and strode into sunlight.

  Isa replenished her breath. “I know you, Vitalis, and unless much you have changed these months, you cannot approve of what he does.”

  Still he did not speak.

  She slapped him. “Defend yourself! Prove I have not misplaced my trust.”

  He turned his face back. “As Jaxon told, I acted on orders given by one who, alongside your sire, trained me into a warrior and to whom I answer in your absence. And your absence has been long, my lady.”

  “Because I did not know he did this!”

  “Of course you could not in the midst of great loss.” It was said with understanding, not condemnation. “But now you are done with mourning, aye?”

  The question tempted her to slap him again, but he meant well. “Never done with mourning, but I am done with hiding away.”

  “A good thing.”

  As evidenced by what she had ended this day. “I will have no more of this, and if Jaxon defies me—”

  “You need him, my lady. Tread carefully.”

  “Or what?”

  “To another he will give the protection his leadership affords you and your lands.”

  Her thoughts flew to Gytha, King Harold’s mother who would be pleased to gain Jaxon and might even attempt to wrest Wulfen from Isa.

  “No better trainer of warriors is there,” Vitalis continued.

  “You did my sire proud.”

  He grunted. “Perhaps eventually I can replace him, but not now whilst I better my own skills and those of the men I train.”

  “Then in time, if need be.” She nodded. “Henceforth, you are my eyes and ears. You shield me from naught.”

  “As you wish, but what of the Norman? If he is of no use to Jaxon, his life will be forfeit, whether by hidden or bold means.”

  Before this day, she might have questioned that, but no longer.

  “He cannot be released now he knows your face is the one behind Jaxon’s, my lady. Even were he released distant from here…” He sighed. “D’Argent knows enough it would require little effort to discover the area in which he was held. Thus, he would learn your identity.”

  She swallowed hard. “You suggest a merciful death?”

  “Better than a cruel one.”

  More of what she had witnessed this day, though this time a decisive end to that torture. “I will not allow it, but neither can I…” Momentarily, she closed her eyes. “I hate him for the Norman he is and for who he is.” The nephew of Wulf’s murderer, she did not say. “But he meant me no harm—indeed, sought to save me.”

  “And yet something must be done with him.”

  “I shall think on it.”

  He inclined his head. “Come, there is much to show you of which I am certain your sire would approve.”

  She looked to the distant, unmoving figure. “What of D’Argent?”

  “He will be provided a basin of water and towels to tend his injuries, food and drink as well.”

  “There is none to aid him?”

  “No need. He keeps himself fit, doubtless to survive the beatings and more quickly heal. Do not be fooled, my lady. He is very dangerous.”

  “He is chained, Vitalis, the same as when I happened upon this abomination.”

  “Not the same. Here, necessity warrants he be given much slack.”

  At her frown, he raised his eyebrows.

  More imaginings, these making her neck and face warm. “How very humane he is not made to eat in the same place he relieves himself,” she scorned.

  “Other than that he yet lives, it is the greatest concession gained from Jaxon,” Vitalis said. “Now come away.”

  Over the next hour, Isa struggled to show interest in those things of which she had been regularly apprised. The camp was well situated in this wooded area, sectioned into living spaces comprised of dozens of tents where scores of men and a handful of women slept at day’s end. In a shallow cave distant from the deep one occupied by the Norman, the rebels ate and received tidings of their occupied country and instruction of the sort delivered by way of words rather than weapons.

  The training yards in which they practiced at arms were not fenced as at Wulfen Castle, but great squares of forest had been cleared, their corners marked by posts hewn from thick branches. And all that had been empty upon her arrival were being put to good use now the ungodly exhibition had ended.

  The voice and shouts above all others was that of Jaxon who coolly acknowledged her before relieving one of his trainers to himself instruct a young man in when to thrust rather than swing a sword. Nearby was a crudely constructed stable and several wattle and daub structures for the storage of food, drink, and weapons.

  “Impressive,” she said as her man walked her back to her escort.

  “A good beginning, my lady.”

  She glanced at the cave and wondered if its occupant had regained consciousness. And what was to be done with one whose once handsome face bore bruises, cuts, and scrapes in various stages of healing.

  “As for the boy we seek,” Vitalis said, “once more the visit to Lincolnshire yielded none suitable.”

  That matter ought to occupy her, not her enemy. “One must be found, Vitalis. Do I not have a half-Norman heir to present when Le Bâtard’s men come, all may be lost.”

  He thought long on something, said, “I have heard slavers from Bristol will pause in Lincolnshire a sennight hence to sell off some of their stock before sending the rest overseas.” He raised a hand to stave off protest. “I know you do not approve, but as you say, do we not find a boy, all that belongs to you will be claimed by the usurper—and that may include your body.”

  She longed to upbraid him for suggesting she purchase another human, but he was right.

  “My lady, among those offered for sale, many will be boys. If one is near the looks, age, and size of Wulf, you can save him from the terrible fate another’s coin buys. And of good benefit, he is likely to have been taken from lands to the south and west. Thus, there will be none to reveal his true identity. He shall be…” Vitalis shrugged. “…a parchment scraped clean, ready for the words of a Wulfrith to be written upon it.”

  Distaste threatened to choke her, but the need to beat back the coming Normans handed him the victory. “You shall accompany me to Lincolnshire,” she said.

  “My lady, you need not be present.”

  “I shall choose the one to bear my son’s name.”

  A muscle in his jaw jerking, he inclined his head.

  She considered the cave again.

  “I think I know what to do with the Norman,” Vitalis said, and when she startled, added, “This past hour I have been nearly as absent as you.”

  He knew her well, that if half her mind had been on what he had shown her, it would be much. “Tell.”

  “Though I do not think you will like it any more than attending a slave auction, I believe it the best means of preserving the Norman’s life, restoring his dignity, and making good use of him. Providing he cooperates.” He led her to the posts where Guarin D’Argent had been chained.

  Looking around, first at her, then the few who had not withdrawn to the training fie
lds, he said, “Draw nearer, my lady. Should you agree to my proposal, it is best Jaxon believes ’tis yours alone.”

  When she halted alongside him, he laid a hand on a post with its large ring set in the side. “One post henceforth, my lady. Only one.”

  Chapter Seven

  The usual basin of water, cloths, viands, and drink had been placed on the rock slab to which he kept his back as was required—though no longer now the one who delivered them had departed.

  He thirsted more than hungered and longed to clean the dried blood from his face. More, he ached to drag his blankets around him to ward off the cold of the cave—further reason for remaining fit, the intensity of exercise delivering him from body-quaking chills, even if only for a short time.

  But having not heard the horses depart, he waited. Were the lady to return, providing an opportunity to make use of one whose appearance at the camp surprised as much as her anger over what was done him, it was best he continue to appear vulnerable.

  How long since Vitalis and she left? An hour? And who was she? What brought her here now that had not before? Had she been as gaunt that night at Senlac? Had she found her son? Or lost him?

  If only he had sooner regained his senses. It had taken the sound of a slap to pierce his darkness and her voice to reel him up out of it when she demanded Vitalis prove her trust was not misplaced. With what seemed reluctance, her man had acceded he but followed Jaxon’s orders, then submitted her grief as his defense for leaving her ignorant of the treatment of their prisoner.

  Grief for her son? Had the boy gone to Senlac as feared? Died there? Likely. But though Guarin was of those now her enemy, she remembered the good of the man forced to strike her to deliver her from harm. Hence, if there was a way out of Saxon captivity, she seemed the surest means. If she returned to this reeking cave that sought to become his tomb.

  Staring at the wall of rock, drinking in the convulsing light of torches rarely afforded beyond brief visits to deliver his meals, Guarin shifted his thoughts to things with which they were best occupied following a beating.

  First, prayer beseeching the Lord for deliverance, the importance of which his sire had impressed on him with as much passion as Guarin’s uncle trained youths into warriors worthy of serving Duke William. Next, an inventory of new injuries—brow, eye, nose, mouth, jaw, ribs. Then the gathering of resolve needed to heal sufficiently before the next recruits arrived.

  In the midst of that last, he heard footsteps, but they retreated and what sounded a whispered argument between that woman and Vitalis commenced. If the latter sought to dissuade the former from entering the cave, he failed. But the expectation the warrior would accompany the woman proved unfounded when only one pair of lightly burdened boots entered. Still, Vitalis would be near.

  The lady advanced, negotiating the ground between the entrance and the rear wall and halting on the other side of the slab on which those things delivered him remained untouched. Doubtless, she had been warned about the reach of his chains and would remain distant enough he could not catch hold of her.

  “I would speak with you, Norman,” she said in his language and with a fluency and accent so nearly true there was no doubt she was long acquainted with Norman-French.

  “You are awake, oui?”

  He could play at remaining unconscious in the hope she drew nearer, but if this battered body failed to capture her, he might not see her again, whether fear kept her away or Jaxon put an end to him.

  “Of what would you speak to me, Saxon?” he said wearily. Naught feigned about that, but it was calculated to appeal to she who admitted to Vitalis this Norman had meant her no harm.

  “Will you turn to me?”

  “You wish to gloat?”

  The silence was so drawn out he might have looked around to verify she had not departed were it possible to soundlessly traverse the cave.

  “I cannot…” She cleared her throat. “I will not apologize for what was done you, but hate you though I do, never would I permit it had I known.”

  “Hate,” he mused. “After what you beheld this day, you think you have more cause than I? The only ill I have done you is knocking you senseless to ensure no other man violated—”

  “He did not violate me!”

  With a clatter of chains to which Guarin had grown so accustomed they rarely awakened him in the night when aching places turned him side to side, he rolled onto his back. Making no attempt to mask his discomfort, he angled his face toward hers. “So you say now, Lady. So you said then.”

  Torchlight was at her back, making a silhouette of her mantled figure. Or mostly. Light reflected off the wall onto her face, allowing him to better see what earlier his wavering consciousness made him question—hollows beneath cheeks and fatigue about eyes that stared at his swollen, bloodied face. And where great offense must have shone from her moments before, horror, regret, perhaps even sympathy flitted across that canvas of grief.

  Deserved grief, Guarin’s anger pronounced judgment as if a sentence to be handed down though already it was carried out and still she served it.

  Revolted by how depraved his anger, silently he appealed, Dear Lord, forgive this beast who would savor her suffering. She may be responsible for my own, but never is grief deserved. He breathed deep. And if she is Your plan to release me from bondage, let me not ruin it by behaving the enemy.

  Now to make amends. However, before he could apologize for challenging her claim she had not been violated, she said, “Since many Saxon women are ill-used by Normans, it bears repeating I am not among their victims.”

  Perhaps not in that way, but in others. Hoping to move her to greater concern for him, he said, “I thirst. Would you bring the basin near?”

  “So I might come within reach of your chains?” She shook her head. “I am sorry for what was done you, but not so much I would deliver to you that which is accessible.”

  He gave a grunt of laughter. “After the beating you witnessed, do I look capable of besting one who not only dons the garments and weapons of a man but commands rebels the same as that woman of old Britain—Boudica, is it not?”

  “I will not be your prey, Guarin D’Argent. You are bruised, bloodied, and in pain. You may even be broken in places, but you are not wasting away. You have great strength, and for that you have survived every beating—thus far.”

  Thus far. Then the risk of leaving him alive was unacceptable? She had determined death the best option as Vitalis suggested?

  Anger once more pressing in, he rasped, “Speak my fate, Saxon.” He coughed to clear saliva that slid to the back of his throat. “Then leave me to it so you may sooner seek God’s forgiveness.”

  He felt the straining of her conscience, then she pushed the mantle off her shoulders so it draped her back. He believed the threat of the dagger worn on her belt, having seen her put one through her Norman assailant, but the sword… Likely more for show than use.

  He smiled, hardly felt the pain of cracked lips. “My very own Boudica.”

  The hand drawing the dagger from its scabbard faltered. “Do not call me that!”

  Was she offended at being equated with the ancient one who failed to eject Romans from her country? Or his claim on her? “Then what, Lady? I gave my name at Senlac, but the one I aided and for whom I suffer did not give hers.”

  “It is enough for you to know me as the enemy.”

  He coughed again, turned toward her onto his side. “Reveal my fate, Boudica.”

  He heard her teeth grind, then grasping the dagger in one hand, she lifted the basin in the other as if to come around the rock. And within reach of his chains.

  “Do you give your word you will remain unmoving,” she said, “the same word that proved true upon Senlac, I shall bring this nearer.”

  “My lady!” Vitalis called. “What do you?”

  She peered across her shoulder. “I but give a beaten, thirsting man water. Fear not, I am armed.”

  “But all is within his reach. You—�
��

  “Your lady commands you to come no nearer!”

  Vitalis’s footsteps ceased.

  Not a command Guarin would have followed were she his lady…

  Returning her gaze to him, she said, “Your word, Guarin D’Argent.”

  “It is yours, my lady.”

  She came around the rock.

  Were his body capable of responding to the demands made of it, he could be on his feet and, before attaining the full reach of his chains, upon her. But he was too beaten, she held a dagger she was capable of putting through a man, and this was a time of…

  Wooing, he thrust the word down the gorge of one far from a mind and mood to charm this Saxon. However, were it possible to work her to his will, the effort could save him a violent death as well as a merciful one.

  Was it possible? He was not yet wed or even betrothed, but it was not for lack of opportunities. Ever his esteem for and protectiveness toward the fairer sex had drawn girls and women to him. Though his ability to attract them had not been tested on an enemy, there could not be a better time to assess its effectiveness.

  She took two more steps, lowered the basin to the floor, and pushed it forward with the tip of her blade. “I have brought it nearer,” she said and withdrew the dagger which only then he looked near upon. There was no mistaking her unadorned weapon for the one given her before he was attacked in the wood. Did she yet possess that keen blade carried by all D’Argents who attained sword and spurs?

  “You will have to come the rest of the way,” she said and retreated to the end of the slab.

  She made it sound a simple task, but it would hurt. Moving slowly, as much to prevent further damage as to avoid alarming her, he pressed to sitting and ground his teeth to keep them from clicking as chill air more deeply penetrated the rag of what remained of his tunic.

  He considered the basin, glanced over his shoulder at the foul blankets bunched against the wall. He thirsted, but more he needed—

  “You are cold,” she said.