FEARLESS: Book Two: Age of Conquest

by Tamara Leigh

  England

  Six days rather than seven.

  With urgency, Hawisa rode into camp, wearing her usual tunic and chausses and sparing her captive but a glance as he and the woman with whom he traded blows paused to ponder the unexpected.

  “Trouble,” Rosa said as she lowered her sword.

  Normans, Guarin guessed and would not be surprised if they rode on Wulfenshire in response to the crime for which he believed Jaxon responsible.

  Rather than continue out of sight to the stable, Hawisa and her men reined in and dismounted. After another glance at her captive, she and one of her escort strode to Jaxon and Vitalis who had surely been summoned by the sound of her arrival. Words were exchanged, then the four disappeared down the beaten path.

  Guarin moved his regard to the escort left behind and the horses that were one of two things required, Vitalis’s absence the second. But now there was a third—the meeting that was to have taken place on the morrow.

  Silently, he cursed the loss of an opportunity greater than any hoped for. Were it Normans who roused Hawisa, better it would benefit him had they come a day hence. Much shortened his flight would be if he made for their ranks. However, were Vitalis otherwise occupied this day and Hawisa could be persuaded to speak with her captive…

  “Rosa, I have a boon to ask of you.”

  She scowled, but he saw interest in eyes that no longer shone with hatred—at least, not of the strength that told she wished him dead. “I owe you naught,” she said.

  He tapped his dull blade against hers. “Only sword skill that rivals many a man’s.”

  “As easily gained in setting my blade against a pel, Norman.”

  He grunted. “Mighty warriors those wooden posts, but they cannot better me.”

  “You flatter yourself.”

  “I speak true.”

  She sighed. “What errand would you send me upon?”

  “I wish to speak with Lady Hawisa.”

  “You saw the same as I she is not long for here.”

  “I did, but I believe I know what delivered her in such a flurry, and what I know could be of use to her.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You make it sound as if you would aid her.”

  “Then you hear me well.”

  “For what would you help her?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You do not suspect the same as others?”

  Her flush of exertion deepened. “I do question your feelings for her, but I know how treacherous you Normans.”

  God willing, that last he would further prove ere long. “Pray, carry word to her. Let her decide whether to heed it.”

  “What of our practice? ’Tis barely begun.”

  He grinned. “As you say, the pel is a worthy opponent.”

  She made a sound of disgust.

  Thinking she would refuse him, he decided to offer what thus far he withheld—and hoped he would not have to deliver on it since she was not ready. “Do this for me, and I will begin instructing you in wielding sword and dagger at once.”

  Her eyes widened. “Even if my lady refuses to come?”

  “Even if.”

  She stepped to the side, as she secured her sword on her belt called to the men who kept watch, “I am not done with him. Let no one take my place.” Then she hurried away.

  Heart pumping with more vigor than when he sought to keep blades from it, Guarin withdrew to the post and set a shoulder against it.

  If Hawisa came, here he would break with routine and, succeed or not, forever end it—no further meetings nor rebel training. All would change, and he would do everything in his power to ensure life rather than death was his end.

  Either Rosa had difficulty locating her lady or had to wait on her, but when finally someone appeared on the path, it was Vitalis on horseback.

  As Guarin watched the warrior spur past Hawisa’s escort and their mounts and away from camp, he smiled. All aligned, and better than imagined. “Now come to me, Hawisa,” he rasped. “Give your prisoner his long overdue reward for good behavior.”

  When finally she appeared, she was alone. That meant he must overpower only three—the two who would release him from the post and the distant housecarle who attended the horses. There was also Hawisa, but she would continue past to await him near the cave.

  Providing he wasted no time putting down the three, he would be astride before she reached him and he had only to let run the swiftest horse who knew well the route out of this place.

  When it was clear Hawisa approached her captive, signaling to Vitalis’s men to prepare him for the meeting, Guarin straightened from the post. As required, he cast his sword distant and swept his arms behind with a ring of chain from which he would soon be released. By his own hand.

  “No need for rope,” Hawisa called as she neared. “I will speak with him in the cave.”

  Not routine, but though Guarin nearly cursed the hitch in his plan, it could be overcome. Just as he had intended to overpower the rebels before they bound him with rope ahead of removing the chain attached to the post, he would do so when they commanded him to his knees to manacle his ankles, between which would stretch a chain so short he could do little more than shuffle.

  Hawisa continued past Guarin, next the rebels who were so assured of the usual routine they were far from alert.

  Hoping he would not be forced to kill Vitalis’s men, Guarin watched as one removed his sword from its sheath and the other veered to their prisoner’s back, the latter leaving his sword on his belt while he readied manacles and chain to secure one they would curse no matter the outcome.

  Horses present.

  Vitalis absent.

  Post behind.

  Hawisa distant.

  Lowering to his knees.

  Before touching ground, thrusting upright.

  Using the force in lengthening calves and thighs, Guarin swung around and drove an elbow into the face of the man who bent to manacle him. Then he unsheathed that one’s sword before he fell onto his back.

  With the rebel divested of blade clutching at his bloodied face, Guarin turned in time to deflect the other one’s sword that sought to open his abdomen.

  Having excess chain with which to maneuver, he countered with a backward stroke that sliced the man’s sword arm.

  As the rebel bellowed and stumbled back, Guarin took stock of the others—the housecarle running forward with drawn sword, the broken-nosed rebel struggling to rise, Hawisa shouting his name as she came at him from behind.

  It was now or would never be.

  He landed a booted foot to the head of the rebel who had made it to hands and knees, leapt back alongside the post, and thrust his manacled arm up, causing the chain to slap the wood. With the keen-edged blade, Guarin delivered two blows to links he had weakened these months with an occasional errant swing whilst engaged with the worthiest of those sent to him. Much they had enjoyed those displays that made them feel superior.

  The links fell away, releasing him from the bulk of chain attached to the post, then once more he was forced to defend himself against the rebel whose sword arm he had injured. He knocked aside a thrust to his thigh, dealt a slice to the ribs, and brought the hilt down on the man’s temple. As the rebel dropped, Guarin looked to Hawisa.

  Eyes wild as she ran at him with sword before her, she ought to be next since she was nearer than her housecarle who had left the horses unattended, but Guarin had no intention of harming the woman once likened to Boudica who now looked as he imagined that warrior woman.

  He snatched the dagger from the belt of the rebel at his feet, ran to engage Hawisa’s last man standing to be all the nearer the Norman destrier who would carry him to his people.

  Come, anger! he gave that dark emotion permission to rise and cast itself against the warrior he now faced.

  The housecarle was swift and vicious, but Guarin’s store of the same was greater as needed to ensure he did not have to turn his blade on Hawisa or others who were becoming aware somethin
g was amiss at the camp’s edge.

  “Stay down!” Guarin commanded the warrior who had dropped to a knee when dealt a blow to his back that sliced through tunic and muscle.

  “Guarin!” Hawisa shouted.

  She was too near. Rather than ensure her man did not come at him again, Guarin ran.

  “Non!” she cried. “Do not do this!”

  He launched himself onto Anglicus’s saddle and snatched up the reins.

  “Guarin!” Her feet nearly skidded out from under her as she slowed to draw back the sword she meant to use against him. But though she righted herself quickly, she did not swing to meet the blade with which he would counter.

  For a moment they stared at each other, and Guarin thought how ironic now he was the one astride, she on the ground.

  “Pray, do not do this,” she beseeched. “My people—”

  “It is done,” he said and, catching the sound of those soon to appear on the path, drove his heels into the horse’s sides.

  As Anglicus prepared to burst forward, Hawisa screamed, “Non!” and grasped its halter.

  She should have swung her sword, but again she hesitated, which would have cost her all were he of a mind to spill her blood. Instead, her defeat would be paid in the currency of humiliation and discomfort, but she gave him no choice with rebels running to aid her.

  Guarin raised his booted foot and thrust it against her collarbone.

  She cried out, lost her grip on the halter, and fell backward. As she hit the ground, he jabbed his heels into Anglicus’s sides and let the destrier run.

  The rebels would follow, but not far if Normans were on Hawisa’s lands. Thus, soon he would be back among his own and would himself learn the fate of his kin. And Hawisa’s fear for her people?

  He would not think on that now. Now was for riding hard and evading capture. Now was for putting the rebellious Dotter behind him. Now was for becoming his own man again.

  Chest aching, vision blurred by tears of anger and fear, Isa pushed her mount hard and cursed Guarin D’Argent for making this day the one in which he was done biding his time.

  He was well out of sight, as was she from whichever rebel had mounted the third destrier to aid in retrieving her captive.

  If only it were Vitalis, she wished, but she had sent him to deliver tidings to Jaxon’s men who patrolled the eastern reaches of Wulfen.

  An hour earlier, one of her housecarles had overtaken her hunting party and told a sizable contingent tasked with rooting out those responsible for the murder of the Norman family had arrived at Balduc. After sending Wulfrith back to the castle with the majority of her men, she had ridden to alert Jaxon and Vitalis.

  Since this day’s patrol was distant from the abbey, it was decided to return the men to camp if possible. Jaxon was well with that. What he was not in accord with was her determination the rebels hunker down to await the departure of the trespassers. Jaxon wanted Vitalis to send out sorties to harass William’s men, but Vitalis agreed that would add to the belief the murderers could be found on Wulfenshire and cause the Normans to extend their search to the shire’s farthest and deepest reaches.

  “Please, Lord,” Isa prayed into the air rushing past as she left the ravine behind. “We have no time to decamp and hide. Give loving answer to this as You would not upon Senlac. Help me stop Guarin ere he reveals us.”

  She reined in, sent her gaze around the land bordered on one side by wood, the other by rolling hills, and in between a meadow whose grass swayed, causing small, brightly-colored flowers amid the green to disappear and reappear.

  There—movement at the wood’s distant edge. A lustrous dark grey coat and pale mane, atop the destrier a rider of silvered dark hair come unbound.

  “Cur! Knave! Miscreant!” she named him—and nearly added poltroon. But no coward was Guarin. He was a man and warrior unlike any she had known. A wolf.

  Let him go, a voice urged as she pressed her mount to pursue the one entering the wood.

  I cannot. If he reveals us—and why would he not?—we are all finished. More blood. More loss. And Wulf yet to be reunited with his sister.

  “Wulfrith,” she corrected as she neared where Guarin had disappeared among the trees.

  Slowing, she guided her mount over ground to which Anglicus had set hooves and peered over her shoulder.

  She longed to wait on the rebel coming to aid her, but the greater lead her prey gained could be the difference between overtaking him and not. Thus, she entered the wood of long shadows, sparingly pierced by sunlight forcing its way through the leaved canopy.

  Look, listen, smell, taste, she commanded her senses, and as she visually narrowed her search for sight of Anglicus’s pale mane, remembered the gold of her hair and drew from beneath her belt a black cap and donned it.

  Deeper into the wood she ventured, chest aching more from worry and desperation than the thrust of Guarin’s boot that momentarily stole her breath.

  Catching no glimpse of the destrier she had made her own, nor of the Norman whom Jaxon had made her captive, she beseeched again, “Lord, forsake me not. Deliver him so I may…”

  Finding her hand on her sword, she shuddered. Were she capable of besting Guarin in the absence of aid and trickery, she did not think she could slay him—even to save the lives of many.

  Then for what are you here? That voice again.

  She shook her head, halted her mount upon hearing a sound that did not belong—metal on metal. In other circumstances, she would think it chain mail or a sword exiting its scabbard, but as Guarin was somewhere near and yet wore a manacle and several links of chain, it must be him.

  She urged the destrier onward, and knowing she had little chance of bringing her prey to ground, whispered, “Lord, if I could but speak with him, persuade him…”

  She muffled a laugh, silently demanded, What? Persuade him to return to camp, once more submit to chain and manacle and suffer punishment Jaxon and his followers will demand that could see him dead?

  Futile, and yet she swept her gaze all around in search of him.

  “Halt, you!”

  The command came from the right, the words and accent Norman-French, but not Guarin’s, and when she peered over her shoulder, she saw a mail-clad warrior riding at her.

  Her first concern for how near William’s men were to the camp, she veered left and urged the destrier to greater speed, causing the trees and foliage to blur. She must draw him away, and if he overtook her, hope his discovery she was a woman rendered him vulnerable to her blade.

  Though during Guarin’s escape she had been unable to bring herself to wield her sword against his, this unknown Norman who had likely killed, ravaged, and pillaged was a different matter.

  “Halt!” he called again, and she assured herself the Wulfrith in her who had slain William’s companion could—and would—shed this enemy’s blood.

  She heard what sounded a whistle, gasped when pain tore through her shoulder.

  Bereft of breath, she lowered her chin. She could not see what protruded above her collarbone, but she did not doubt an iron tip responsible for the glistening crimson spreading down her tunic.

  First blood to the Norman. And more would go to him and others of his ilk if she did not escape. Were the Lady of Wulfen revealed as a traitor to the one who named himself King of England, her lands would be scoured, rebels discovered, all forfeited.

  “Lord!” she beseeched, then demanded of her mount what Anglicus could have given—and had, carrying Guarin away from captivity. Away from her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  How many times must he curse himself for being Hawisa Wulfrithdotter’s fool before he let be what would be?

  Once more and never again, he angrily vowed, then spurred Anglicus out from behind the trees where he had taken cover upon realizing he was not alone. He had prayed he shared the wood with Normans rather than Vitalis or the rebel patrol, but no sooner was that prayer answered than Hawisa appeared and drew the attention of the one who
put an arrow through her.

  Shortly, he drew alongside Hawisa whose chin was down, a white-knuckled hand on the saddle’s pommel, the other shaking on the reins she gripped.

  As the Norman once more commanded the quarry that had become two to halt, Guarin said, “I am here, Hawisa,” and leaned to the side, hooked an arm around her, and dragged her onto his mount. If not for the arrow protruding from her back that forced him to position her sideways to avoid jostling the shaft, the transfer would have been almost effortless—and if not for Anglicus’s protest.

  The destrier whinnied and veered right, its skittishness proving fortuitous when an arrow streaked to the left of Guarin and embedded in a tree. But as that turn decreased the distance between pursuer and pursued, which could see the next draw of the bow land an arrow to Guarin’s back, the Norman would have to be slowed.

  Guarin pulled the dagger from his boot, reined around, and as the soldier nocked another arrow, flung the blade. And prayed his fellow Norman stayed the course to ensure the dagger did not pierce his heart.

  The blade landed true, causing their pursuer to reel backward. Dagger protruding from his upper arm, he stayed the saddle by releasing the bow and turning his efforts to bringing his mount under control.

  “Pray,” Hawisa choked, “do not let him see it is me.”

  “Silence!” Guarin growled and turned Anglicus forward and applied his heels. He knew what Hawisa feared. If she fell into Norman hands, she would be recognized and much would be made of her attire and attempt to outride the Norman. Were she not already suspected of supporting the rebels, she would be—and likely blamed for the deaths of the Norman family. At the least, she would lose whatever property she retained, at the worst, her life.

  She lifted her head, and as she dropped it back, the cap slipped off, revealing a surfeit of golden hair and—blessedly—no spill of blood from her lips. “My people!”

  “Still your tongue, else I will myself fit you with chains.”

  “I would not begrudge you,” she rasped, then her head rolled and settled on his shoulder.