by Tamara Leigh
“Wh-why do you ask?”
“Your color returns, but ’twas as if all the blood went out through your feet. What troubles? Are you unwell? Or is it you are haunted by Senlac?”
She was ashamed, and yet she wanted to pull him to her and hold tight. But that he wished it as well for a different reason than the need to feel safe returned her to her senses. “How can I not be haunted by that horror when even the enemy must suffer great sweats and groaning in reliving memories of that battlefield?” She forced a smile. “Be glad you were not there.”
It was the wrong thing to say, but effective, causing him to step back.
“I did not mean to offend, Vitalis. I know you would have been with Roger at Stamford if not for your injury and, surviving that battle, would have accompanied King Harold south and defended him well.”
He strode to her bedside table, turned. “I wish it so, just as I wish I had been the one to deliver you from that battlefield, not…” He looked to the dagger. “…Guarin D’Argent.”
Deciding it best they return to the place from which they had veered, she said, “It was from Campagnon Aelfled learned her savior is known amongst his own as Merciless Cyr. Strange, considering the aid he—”
“Why do you keep Guarin D’Argent’s dagger at your bedside, my lady?”
She struggled against defensiveness, but he needed to be reminded of the boundaries. “Of what concern yours? You are not my husband.”
“I could have been. Could yet become.”
The first was true, so fond had they been of each other whilst he trained under her sire. But when Wulfrith wed her to another, she had put away the possibility of becoming more than friends. And now that possibility was packed so deep and the dirt of Senlac stamped down on it that all she wanted from her old friend was loyalty.
She stood and crossed to the bed. “If ever there was a time for us, it is long past. Pray, be my man and friend, thinking not on caresses and kisses. If you cannot, we must part ways, and I do not want that. But I shall accept whatever you decide.”
After some moments, he said, “I shall remain your man and friend, but rid yourself of that dagger. Even if you filed off the initials, it would be too distinctive. Should a Norman discover it in your possession, and more likely that with D’Argents upon Wulfenshire…” He raised his eyebrows. “Much ill.”
She closed a hand around the hilt, and as ever remembered when first she had done so. “It does present danger in my keeping, but not in the keeping of a housecarle turned rebel.” She extended it. “Do with it as you will—wear it as a reminder of all the Norman blades you shall remove from our throats, destroy it, secrete it that it may be returned to D’Argent when he departs England. I care not.”
He slid it beneath his belt alongside his own dagger and talk turned to the boy she yet struggled to call Wulfrith and his progress that was good but must be better, especially with his training at arms. Then in greater depth, they discussed the lessons to be imparted to Raymond Campagnon and Theriot D’Argent—regardless of who was responsible for assaulting the novices.
Chapter Thirteen
Wulfenshire Rebel Camp
England
Nay, Woman! Do you wish to die?”
The Saxon whose training was of no credit to her fellow rebels glared.
“Do you?” Guarin demanded in the language with which he was increasingly familiar.
“I am not afeared of death,” snarled the black-haired woman of short stature and as many as thirty years. “It would be an honor to give my life to save my people from the devil’s spawn.” She stepped nearer than she ought and spat in his face the same as her first day here that had been his final day of torture.
Anger and pride clasping hands, Guarin was tempted to bring the hilt of his dull sword down on her head. But though it would take little force to crack her skull and reduce the rebels by one, for what? Retaliation for the spit running jaw and neck? To prove his superior skill over that of one nearly unskilled who boasted no care for remaining this side of death’s door?
He drew a deep breath. “You will aid no one, not even yourself, standing as you do and holding a blade in that manner. Indeed, you will be a hindrance, endangering others.”
Her upper lip curled. “What care you?”
“That my time and skill not be wasted.” He looked past her to the men standing in the shade of a tree.
Leaning against the trunk and picking at his teeth, Jaxon watched this sorry contest, while beside him stood his weasel. Though the latter had no hope of proficiently wielding a sword, he possessed stealth, recently having entered the cave unheard though Guarin slept the half sleep of one surrounded by the enemy.
Only that once had Sigward dared trespass, and he would have achieved his end if not for what felt a tap on the shoulder that roused Guarin in time to knock from the man’s hand a dagger destined for his throat. Worse than a blow to the nose would have been the Saxon’s fate had he not snatched up his blade and scrambled over the rock.
Might Jaxon have ordered him to take Guarin’s life? It would not surprise, there being two things the camp commander hated. One was Normans, the other women who aspired to learn the deadly power of sharp edges and how to make fists, elbows, knees, and feet into crippling weapons.
Here another reason Guarin would not take the life this woman seemed eager to sacrifice. Too much it would please Jaxon, ridding him of one of a handful of females and providing believable cause to slay the Norman. Since Jaxon had sent away all but Sigward before ordering this woman to test her skills against the chained enemy, only he and his weasel would bear witness and bemoan the mistake of granting her permission to feed the need for vengeance.
Guarin returned his regard to his opponent, swept up his manacled hand, and caught the wrist of hers gripping a sword somewhat keener than his own.
She cursed and strained opposite.
“Attend to what I tell,” he said low, “and master what Jaxon does not believe you capable of learning.”
She stilled, narrowed her eyes.
He glanced past her again. “Though I have hold of you, the mighty trainer of men but watches, cares not if I put through one far from prepared to face me.”
She blinked.
“Aye, you belong here only insofar as you achieve what the men he sets at me cannot—cause to slay me.”
A flicker of uncertainty.
“As I will not take the life you wish to sacrifice, here may be your only chance to learn from this Norman. Do you want it?”
Her eyes circled his face, then she nodded.
He dropped his dull sword alongside worn boots. “Then ease your hold on the hilt.”
She tightened it. “Why?”
“So I may reposition it. As you grip too near the pommel, you lack the balance required to swing well and land true.”
At her continued hesitation, he said, “Already you are defenseless and neither Jaxon nor Sigward come to your aid. What have you to lose?”
She did as told, and Guarin repositioned her fingers and stepped back.
Another glance at Jaxon, a slight smile for the woman. “He is not pleased either of us lives, will be even less so when I instruct you as he does not.”
“He says women are best for baiting traps.”
“He is right.” Before the ire returning to her eyes birthed venomous words, he added, “But only as you stand now, not as you can stand.”
She considered him. “Make good your boast, Norman.”
“First, payment.”
Her teeth began to bare.
“A name. Even if it is not your own, I would have one.”
“For what purpose?”
“I do not mean to insult your sex, but it is unsettling to impart skills most often reserved men to one I can but name Woman.” Only partially true. More true was the hope of bridging her hatred so he might learn things he could not decipher nor discover no matter how many hours he mulled or strained to catch words spoken beyond his cave.
Dotter was the greatest of those things eluding him. Though he had no glimpse of her these two months, he was certain she visited. The sound of horses was no rare thing since Jaxon’s rebels patrolled the area in four shifts, but once a sennight at earliest morn, Guarin heard hooves. In the afternoon, shortly after his return to the cave, he heard their departure. She had no wish to see him, but he wished to see her, and greater that desire these past days since the dagger worn by Vitalis came to notice.
“You do insult my sex, Norman,” the woman said, “but Rosa is how I am called.”
He inclined his head. Then keeping her in sight lest she try her blade against his exposed neck, he bent with a rattle of the chain fixing him to the post and retrieved his sword. “Let us begin, Rosa.”
“What is this?” Isa demanded. “For what does D’Argent face one unequal to the challenge of a warrior?”
“I would know as well.” Vitalis glanced at where she halted alongside him in the shade of an oak, next Jaxon and Sigward who had retreated toward the training yards upon realizing they were no longer alone in this portion of the wood. “As Jaxon only sets against the Norman those he believes skilled and angry enough to have a chance of taking his life, and this woman is among the least proficient, ’tis possible he wishes to rid himself of two undesirables.”
Isa ground her teeth. Of course Jaxon wanted D’Argent dead, even at the cost of one of their own, and all the more acceptable were she one who dared believe she could be more than bait.
Even in an England ruled by Normans, the most esteemed of Wulfrith’s trainers had not changed his view on the place of the fairer sex, one of the few things on which Roger and he mostly agreed. Thus, Jaxon seethed over women among the rebels and that Isa had resumed her own training—five days a week with her housecarles and the boy, one day a week at camp.
“You also think that his motive?” Vitalis asked.
“Aye, that grave injury or death to Rosa would justify slaying our captive. But he does not know D’Argent as…”
“As you know him, my lady?”
Her cheeks warmed. “He lives only because I am acquainted with his character beyond his ungodly place of birth and the one to whom he owes fealty.” She nodded curtly and returned her attention to the man and woman at the posts.
For a quarter hour, Vitalis and she observed, during which D’Argent often interrupted swordplay to catch Rosa’s arm and set her back, speak words of instruction, and demonstrate with his own blade. More than once, something nearly a smile appeared on her face. Rosa hated him but enjoyed herself, and not by way of vengeance as Jaxon intended. Likely, she felt empowered, even in awe of the Norman.
What a force you are, Guarin D’Argent, Isa mused. If only you were born this side of the channel. Much my sire would—
Thrusting aside such thoughts, she set herself to assessing his demonstration of the proper stance for a backhanded upward cut. A moment later, he stopped his dull blade near Rosa’s throat which otherwise would have collapsed her airway.
Isa was not surprised he refused the bait Jaxon dangled. Had she thought he would harm Rosa, she would have put an end to this contest, but on Senlac he proved he was no animal. And even had he become one following months of torture, he had to know Rosa’s death would warrant his own.
That woman drew a sharp breath as if to fill lungs emptied by surprise, then blurted, “Almighty, ’tis true what they say! Though you be bound, it is the sharply clawed paw of a wolf manacled and chained. A wolf out of Normandy.”
Now it was Isa’s lungs absent breath. Catching Vitalis’s muttered curse, she rasped, “The rebels call him wolf?”
A muscle spasmed in his jaw. “At first in jest, but it begins to stick.”
“He is not a wolf!”
“Neither does it sit well with me, but the more who challenge him, the more the truth of it. He is…” He did not want to continue, but as if to defend the rebels for equating the enemy with her family, he said, “He calls to mind your sire, my lady. Strong, fearless, cunning, and yet… Though he engages with our men to preserve his life, strengthen his own skills, and vent his anger by taunting those who taunt him, it is different with the women.”
“How?”
“He does not exploit their weaknesses, instead corrects their errors, even to his own detriment.”
She followed his nod and set eyes on the two a moment ahead of Rosa setting eyes on them.
The woman’s smile fell, and she jumped back from D’Argent. “Lady Hawis—” She clapped a hand over her mouth.
And then Isa was staring into eyes too distant to see their green.
D’Argent did not smile, but she glimpsed a tug at his mouth and knew Vitalis and she did not only now come to notice. He had known they watched from beyond shafts of spring sunlight amid the shadows of trees beginning to pass from bud to leaf. A wolf, indeed.
In tunic, chausses, and boots begrimed by her training out of sight of D’Argent, Isa strode forward with what she hoped an air of disregard though she teemed with alarm and awareness of a gaze not felt in over two months.
Shoving her sword beneath her belt, Rosa hastened forward. “I am unworthy.” She halted short of colliding with her lady. “Pray, forgive me.”
It took effort, but it was a gentle hand Isa set on her shoulder rather than one given to shaking so hard the woman’s teeth rattled. “Not unworthy, only loose of tongue. Go to the training yards and see it tightened.”
Rosa ran, and Isa looked to D’Argent. As reported, he had healed well and appeared nearly as powerful as when first they met. But though his hair had grown longer and seemed more silvered, the beard he had deigned not to shave was closely trimmed—a dark, glittering shadow down the sides of face, across chin, above lips.
“Dotter,” he said, then in Norman-French, “Or have my efforts to make your men and women of the soil into men and women of the sword earned me the right to more intimate address?”
“They have not.”
“Then I shall reward myself, though I must decide which I like better—Hawise Wulfrithdotter or Hawisa Wulfrithdotter.”
“Knave,” Vitalis rumbled while she put much effort into an expression of indifference.
How long had D’Argent known he was held upon Wulfenshire? When had he guessed her lineage? Only now the woman he had charmed spoke nearly all her lady’s name?
He tossed his sword distant as was required before his return to the cave. “Have you a preference, my lady?”
She considered the excess chain between post and manacled wrist and, deciding a distance of six feet provided ample safety, said across her shoulder, “I go alone, Vitalis.”
“My lady—”
“Alone!”
Though legs fatigued by the day’s training begged a short stride, she stretched them long and halted just this side of a small stone she visually marked as the right distance between her throat and D’Argent’s hand.
Not only could she now see the green of his eyes but amusement there. “My preference is Dotter. But should a hundred years from now peace rise between your people and mine, I would not object to being addressed as Lady Hawisa.”
His nostrils dilated as if he took in her scent, and once more she saw what his opponents saw—the wolf. “I like it better than Dotter, which is…impersonal.”
“Considering our relationship, Dotter is more appropriate.”
“I disagree, albeit on the same grounds—in consideration of our relationship. I am, after all, at your mercy though great the debt due me.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “It is questionable whether you saved my life in forcing me off the battlefield. It is not questionable I saved yours in providing a reason to keep my people from spilling every drop of your blood.”
He laughed, and that rumble felt in her own chest was more disturbing for how many teeth he presented. He sighed. “Pardon, Lady Hawisa, but you will have to think me an ungrateful wretch.”
“Then I am unworthy of being c
harmed the same as Rosa?”
His eyebrows rose, and she regretted not considering her words as often she advised Aelfled to do. “You wish me to charm you, Lady?”
She snorted. “I would but welcome the effort.”
He moved his eyes over her. “Though methinks you far more resistant to smiles and kind words, you are worthy. You look in excellent health and of fewer years than two months past. Had I to guess, I would say your appetite returned, sleep more restful, and much time spent strengthening your body and skill at arms.”
“I am of Wulfrith. Still, I doubt you approve of such pursuits, like Le Bâtard would see me fit with the yoke of another Norman husband.”
The narrowing of his lids made her realize she had revealed already a marriage was made with one of his people and another could be made due to the end of that marriage.
He smiled. “It was not required I instruct Rosa in the basics of defense and offense which Jaxon neglects. Though on many an occasion I could have slain her, instead I added days, perhaps weeks to the life of my enemy who thinks to be a sacrifice for her people.”
“In order to gain information,” Isa retorted.
“Of some benefit, but more to give her a chance she has not as the bait of men. Unlike Jaxon, I am not threatened by women’s instruction in defense of self and loved ones. Indeed, to my mother’s distress, sire’s discomfort, and uncle’s disgust, I taught my sister to wield a dagger and loose arrows capable of finding their marks in living flesh.”
Clearly, he was not done speaking, but his lips seamed.
Hating she had revealed her distress, Isa realigned her mouth and blinked eyes that had widened at mention of the one who slew Wulf.
“Speak, Lady,” he said.
“Of what?”
“I believe mention of my uncle sucked the air from between us. What know you of him?”
She nearly turned away, but what harm in revealing that one’s fate? Too, though she argued D’Argent was more indebted to her than she to him, she did not believe it. “I have made inquiries about your family who fought upon Senlac and learned your uncle…” She frowned. “Hugh D’Argent, is it not?”