FEARLESS: Book Two: Age of Conquest

by Tamara Leigh

  “Of course not!” She glared as if to impress on him how ridiculous the suggestion, then said, “Still, those of Wulfenshire will be blamed, and I fear your duke’s eye will fall more heavily on us.”

  Which could be of benefit to Guarin. From previous conversations, he was well enough acquainted with what had transpired since the king’s return to England to know what she feared.

  At his Christmas court, William had awarded further grants of land to his followers, raising much concern—and ire—among Saxons not yet divested of their holdings. Then in the new year, William had summoned Saxon troops to aid in putting down a rebellion. Many had come, evidencing their acceptance of him as king, and in the depths of winter marched west to Exeter alongside Normans to prevent Harold’s mother from making that city a base from which to dethrone the conqueror.

  The king had blinded one of its citizens in full view of its defenders, but Gytha and her followers had not submitted, and a siege raged a fortnight. Though William’s army suffered great losses, Harold’s mother had escaped in the company of wives and widows of Saxon nobles.

  Once more victorious, William declared her property and her followers’ forfeit. If the murder of the Norman family did bring Hawisa Wulfrithdotter to his notice and it was believed she was involved—more likely if it was learned these rebels were in contact with Gytha—she would lose her lands. Or worse.

  “You are right to be concerned,” Guarin said. “And wrong to be certain your rebels did not commit the slaughter.”

  “It was not the work of our sorties.”

  That he believed, but there was a marked difference between those under Vitalis’s command and those not. “It could have been the work of the patrol.”

  She lowered her gaze to the dagger. “I pray not. Jaxon…”

  “What?”

  “As increasingly I prove worthy of my sire’s name, less he challenges me and more he follows my orders. He is adjusting to my leadership.”

  “In this, appearances deceive. Though Gytha’s man has visited less often since the fall of Exeter, still he comes—indeed, not even a sennight past. And now a Norman family is dead.”

  She slid a hand back over her head, gripped her neck. And spoke elsewhere. “You will be pleased to hear Matilda was crowned at Westminster on the feast of Whitsun.”

  Since Hawisa rarely introduced events of which he had no knowledge, this surprised, especially as it portended ill for the Saxons that William was so confident of his kingship he had summoned his wife from Normandy. How much longer could this lady deny the Normans were here to stay?

  “He is very certain of himself,” she said, “but I believe he will be less certain soon.”

  “Then Gytha continues to plague him,” he dangled what he hoped did not appear bait.

  “Even if she remains on the island of Flat Holm where she fled, that I do not doubt,” Hawisa said. “But it is another of whom I speak—Edwin Harwolfson, a royal housecarle who survived the great battle. He gathers rebels to him, and though they are as ghosts, it is believed Andredeswald is their base.”

  That great forest alongside Senlac in which Guarin had given all to protect this woman. “If Gytha could not draw to her side enough men of strength, what makes you think Harwolfson can?” he asked.

  “It is told he seeks to right the wrongs against all Saxons, not merely against…”

  “The house of Godwine,” Guarin named that to which Gytha belonged. If Harwolfson truly sought to represent all, there was merit in his cause since still Harold’s kin provided no relief to the people of this land. Saxons had to realize Gytha’s only concern was that of returning her family to the throne—no matter the cost to the common man.

  “The house of Godwine,” Hawisa breathed and looked past him.

  He followed her gaze to the three mounts led by her escort in readiness for her departure. At times they arrived here with her, other times in the midst of their meeting.

  The former—and Vitalis’s absence—must align for Guarin to set in motion his plan that would not be seen through this day, but perhaps seven days hence.

  “It appears you have made Anglicus your own.” He returned his gaze to hers and glimpsed suspicion that indicated soon she would depart. In the hope of holding her here and bringing her around to Theriot, he decided to answer a question several times she had put to him. “Though I wager your prize destrier did not wish to cross the channel, methinks he would remain with you given the chance to return home. Unlike this Norman.”

  Her eyes widened, and he knew she waited to learn his reason for joining William’s invasion. As some truth would serve, he said, “So much your company refreshes, I would see you linger. Hence, I shall reveal why I aided in setting the duke over England though I will have lands aplenty when I come into my inheritance.”

  When she did not prompt, he continued, “As you know, I have three brothers—providing Dougray survived—and one cousin, all in want of land. I thought it wrong they should gain it by taking from others, but as I am the privileged first born, my argument carried little weight.”

  An ache in his right shoulder, he rolled it. This day’s opponents had been worthy just as he had made them, the strength of their exchanged blows jarring his joints and making the strain on them more deeply felt now his hands were bound behind.

  “Why did you join them?” Hawisa asked.

  “The same reason as my uncle—to fight alongside them the better to ensure they did not fall. And that I did until we became separated amid the frenzy.” He frowned. “Have you further word of my brothers or cousin?”

  “I must be cautious with my inquiries, but though still I know naught of Dougray, I understand the others are well.”

  The knot in Guarin’s chest eased. “Were any awarded the land they sought? Are they yet in England?”

  She averted her eyes. “Only the whereabouts of Cyr is known to me. He is long returned to Normandy.”

  “As expected since it appears he is now our sire’s heir. You are sure you know naught more of Theriot?”

  Isa wished she could give a more convincing performance of ignorance, but she was fatigued and discouraged by the usurper’s grip on England, so much she longed to be sitting at the hearth with Wulfrith discussing his lessons, even if it hurt each time his words and actions brought another to mind.

  The boy who kept the Normans from her lands had yet to attain the build of Wulf, but he was a fine young man, and though it felt as if she betrayed her lost son, she grew fond of him. It was disconcerting, especially since recently she had called him Wulf and been sharp with him as if he were the one who trespassed on the affection reserved for the child of her body and heart.

  “I wonder at your silence,” Guarin pulled her back to him.

  She looked up and thought how attractive he was, perspiration causing his mud-splattered garments to adhere to a form returned to the powerfully muscled state apparent at Senlac. What yet remained distant from their first meeting was his hair and beard. Though once a week he was provided a keen blade to keep the latter trimmed close, he did not apply it to silvered hair that had grown so long it had to be bound to keep it out of his eyes and the hands of opponents.

  He raised his eyebrows, a reminder he awaited an answer.

  “I search my memory,” she said and shrugged, certain were she to reveal his brother dwelt at Stern, Guarin would refuse to train those who might raise a sword against his brother though, thus far, the younger D’Argent gave little cause to strike at him.

  She recalled their recent encounter. Battling illness of the chest, she had admitted Sir Theriot to Wulfen to give credence to her claim of being mostly bedridden. Though Wulfrith had not been permitted to speak freely, he had presented well, answering D’Argent’s seemingly innocent questions in Norman-French as he had been unable to do during Sir Maël’s trespass upon Wulfen.

  “You have remembered something?” Guarin asked.

  Jolted back to the present, she nearly ended their mee
ting, but it occurred if she dangled him a bit longer, she might gain answers to other unanswered questions.

  “Perhaps if I linger, I shall remember something. In the meantime, mayhap you would satisfy my curiosity over what caused you to risk your well-being to aid a stranger…your enemy…at Senlac.”

  He laughed, and though she knew it was at her expense, that rumble made her heart beat faster. “Be it ignorance or deception, I do not think you have anything to tell of Theriot. However, I will satisfy your curiosity if you satisfy mine, Hawisa.”

  Leave, she told herself. “What curiosity might I satisfy?”

  “You have yet to enlighten me about those of Wulfrith.” He held up a finger. “But I will speak first so you may earn my trust as I have earned yours. Agreed?”

  Again she told herself to leave, then assured herself it would do her rebels no harm to tell of her family. “Agreed.”

  “I would think my reason for giving aid evident. You were in need.”

  She nearly argued that, but it would be childish. “I was, and yet I do not believe it was aid your fellow Normans sought to provide me. Why did you?”

  “Ere Hastings, I thought my only great weakness was pride.” He glanced at the cave. “To my detriment, also I suffer a weakness for women in distress.”

  “Whence comes such?”

  “The weakness of pride—my uncle who believed a man could never be too prideful.” Though her stiffening at mention of Wulf’s murderer caused his lids to narrow, he continued, “The weakness of women—my godly sire.”

  “Godly…” She frowned. “You told your father was a great warrior.”

  “So he was.”

  “How could he be so different from his brother?”

  Now he frowned, and she thought he would count his end of the bargain done, but he said, “Have you time, I shall begin at the beginning.”

  “Then begin.”

  “My sire and uncle were twins. To their sire’s great displeasure, the midwife did not mark the one born first. Hence, it was decided once they earned swords and spurs, the heir would be determined by a contest of arms. Though it did not make for good brotherly relations, they had a care for each other. When it came time to secure the inheritance, so evenly matched were they and so fierce the blows dealt it was feared each might slay the other.”

  Guarin’s sudden smile alerted Isa how far forward she leaned and how wide her eyes. She could not contain a laugh. “I am enraptured. Pray, continue.”

  “My sire prevailed without taking his brother’s life though many believed he ought to have ensured never could Hugh present a threat to his lordship.”

  One moment she was warmed by how honorable his sire, the next wished he had not been. Had he put his brother to death, her son would yet live.

  Or another would have slain the vengeful boy and his companions, an unwelcome voice whispered.

  “My uncle departed to make his own fortune in service to Duke William. And many riches he gained—until great my sire’s need for his aid.”

  “Aid?”

  “Many were the private wars our young duke fought to retain hold of his duchy. Thus, my sire and his men provided military service. I was nearly three—Cyr half that—when my mother received tidings her husband was lost during one of William’s campaigns, albeit no body was recovered. Months later, whilst traveling to visit family, her entourage was set upon. I remember my brother’s wailing, the laughter of brigands, the screams of women, then the arrival of chevaliers on great horses who, I did not know then, prevented my mother and her maid from being ravished.”

  “Your weakness for women in distress,” Isa mused.

  “More, that it so greatly affected my sire, he impressed on his sons the importance of protecting women and children.”

  “Tell how he lived.”

  “A village priest found him on the battlefield, his legs rendered useless. For months, the man of God cared for the warrior, time and again prying him from death’s arms, and it was months past that before my sire remembered who he was and his loved ones awaited his return. Or so he thought…”

  Feeling almost a child, Isa pressed, “What happened?”

  “He had instructed were he to die in battle, my mother should wed again to provide a protector for her and their sons. And nearly she did. My sire returned a fortnight ere she was to marry one of the chevaliers who saved her. As she had believed her husband dead, my sire forgave her. What surprised is he forgave her for sinful intimacy with her betrothed and gave his name to the babe in her womb and raised him as his own—my brother, Dougray.”

  Isa caught her breath.

  “Though my mother counted him a good husband before, she says the one returned to her was more—that a godly man was made of the warrior lost to paralysis.”

  Swept by a longing to meet the one who fathered Guarin, Isa said, “I am glad to better understand you.”

  “The good of my sire but, as told, there is also my uncle, and not all bad.”

  “Your father recalled him.”

  “Not immediately. With the aid of his men, he undertook my early training, but eventually more was required for his heir and the sons coming up behind me. Thus, Hugh returned with his wife and son to make fierce and proud warriors of us all. Often, my sire and he clashed over our training, but I believe they found a good balance.” He breathed deep. “Now the tale of your family, Hawisa.”

  Her hesitation caused his brow to furrow, but though she was tempted to break their agreement, she would give him some of what he had given her.

  “Long the family Wulfrith has been esteemed for training up warriors. My grandsire and his brothers were formidable. My sire and his brothers were formidable. My brothers were formidable, and yet…” Seeing their bearded faces, hearing the growls, shouts, and laughter come out of them, she hurt over the loss of those who had tolerated the girl in their midst. “…all are dead. One to illness, the others to blades of lesser warriors—blow after blow dealt my sire who feared as his father had warned that—”

  “That?” Guarin asked.

  Though he had bared his family to her, she faltered. She was not ashamed—never that! However, this was not talk one shared with a mere acquaintance, let alone the enemy.

  Neither of which he is, spoke that voice again. Still, there was no need to elaborate on the warning her sire had not heeded. “They feared our line weakened.”

  Guarin’s eyes told he knew there was more, but he said, “And so you became your sire’s heir. Tell, for what did he so esteem Normans he entrusted the last of the Wulfriths to one of my people?”

  “He believed our union would strengthen the Wulfrith line.”

  “How did he come by that?”

  She shrugged, stood, and motioned to the men at the cave. “It is past time I departed.”

  He sighed. “Though I feel cheated, I am grateful for the time afforded me. Until next week, my lady.”

  She slid the dagger in its sheath and strode opposite. Once astride Anglicus, she looked back and saw Guarin was being led to the cave. He did not look around, and she sensed he knew she wished him to.

  Why do I? she wondered. And why this ache?

  Because he does not belong here, she told herself, because punishment rather than reward was given him for aiding me.

  Over a year and a half had passed since he was brought to Wulfenshire, chained, and abused. She had rectified the latter, but he remained a prisoner and only tight control and close watch ensured one who should never be caged remained thus.

  When Vitalis had warned their meetings posed a greater risk of escape, she had argued her captive knew even if he overpowered her neither she nor Jaxon would allow threat to her person to secure his release. And did he forego threat, bound and on foot he would not get far before being recaptured. Regardless, she would be a fool to believe the wolf accepted his fate. When finally he attempted to free himself, it would end badly were it Jaxon’s men who intercepted him.

  She looked to t
he path that delivered those who traversed it to the training yard and living area. Seeing her sire’s man at the farthest reach standing alongside the one named Sigward who lauded the camp commander as a Saxon true to the bone, the blood, and the marrow, she revisited this day’s meeting with Jaxon.

  He had shown no concern over the murder of the Norman family. Had he, less she would have believed his denial those under his command were responsible.

  The work of other rebels, he had said and suggested the perpetrators were from northern shires who occasionally crossed onto Wulfenshire and, without regard for Saxons in their path, slew Normans caught out in the open.

  On this day, Isa was less inclined to believe those perpetrators were his men. Ever he would dislike answering to a woman, but he had been fairly respectful and surprised her with the offer to instruct her at arms. It had occurred an accident might see her dead, but she had accepted.

  Vitalis and scores of rebels had watched the match in the training yard, and greater respect Isa gained for Jaxon. Though he was far from young, no greater challenge had she been presented nor better lessons in placement of feet and swing of blade. Vitalis was formidable, but not as capable of passing along skills mastered. To ensure the rebels the best training, Vitalis was right not to seek to replace Jaxon. Hopefully, it would not be necessary, but had Jaxon ordered that family’s slaughter…

  Dear Lord, she sent heavenward, help me see past the dark veils behind which murderers, usurpers, and deceivers hide. Help me keep my people safe as I did not keep my son safe. Help me hold to these lands and honor my sire’s name.

  She looked again to the cave, and the words, The wolf bides his time, sounded through her, words she was not certain were her own. Were they answered prayer?

  Regardless, to decrease the risk of escape that could see Guarin pay with his life or the rebels suffer discovery by William, it was best they meet in the cave henceforth, her captive manacled.

  “A sennight hence,” she murmured and urged her mount ahead of her escort.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Wulfenshire Rebel Camp