FEARLESS: Book Two: Age of Conquest

by Tamara Leigh

  “For what? I know your lady lives.”

  “How?”

  The stretch of Guarin’s smile stung, his lower lip split open above where Hawisa had pressed her thumb. “I am chained, of no great threat nor challenge. Your sword remains sheathed, as does my dagger.” He looked to the latter. “That you have not cut my throat means she shall recover.”

  The Saxon warrior dropped to his haunches. “My lady would have me deliver a message.”

  Hating how muddled his mind, wondering how muddled hers—if she remembered what he had said to distract her from the arrow’s snap, how long he had held and encouraged her to yield to senselessness, most of all their kiss—Guarin said, “I am in need of sleep.”

  Vitalis clasped his hands between his knees. “She regrets your captivity, says she would release you did she not fear for her people.”

  As already he knew.

  “She regrets all you have suffered in service to her. She regrets, henceforth, you are to remain chained in the cave. She regrets it may be many months ere your people surrender the crown and take you back across the narrow sea.”

  Months, Guarin silently scorned. Years, Hawisa. If ever. Though you refuse to accept how wily, tenacious, and brutal your new king, those who continue to test him will reap the most bitter harvest.

  “So many regrets they sound a disease,” he said, then tipped his head back and peered at the man who, though his land was conquered, did as he willed in the absence of fetters.

  Is this resentment? Guarin questioned. It was. Is this jealousy? It was. Anger? Undoubtedly. And all hungered.

  Not caring what price he paid for feeding dark emotions, he said, “As your lady is not dying, do you think she also regrets asking me to kiss her?”

  The man’s face darkened, and the hands he clasped went white. “You lie.”

  “I do not believe she regrets it,” Guarin said. “What was it she spoke when she refused your sentence of death? He is mine. To do with as I please.”

  Vitalis made one of his hands into a fist, moved his thumb across the knuckles. Then he straightened. “I would put to my lady whether she regrets asking that of you were it not cruel to speak of things done whilst one is too senseless to think right, be it from a great quantity of drink or loss of blood.”

  But would he dare ask what had come of her request? Guarin pondered. And decided he would not provide the answer. Though not proud of the resentment and jealousy gripping him, he was not ready to repent—did not know when he might sincerely beseech forgiveness for ungodly feelings and thoughts.

  “Per my lady’s instructions, you are to remain under watch of my men.” Vitalis turned away, moments later stepped into the maw of night.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Wulfen Castle, England

  Summer, 1068

  She had named the boy Wulf again, then quickly turned aside so she not suffer his smile. He could not replace her son, but a great comfort he had been these weeks of confinement. Long hours he had sat by her bed, speaking of progress made in his training at arms, demonstrating growing proficiency with the written word while reading from her psalter, and telling of his life before this one.

  Though that last made her yearn to reunite him with the sister whom he remained unaware was near and of aid to the rebels, she could not. But God willing, soon. Until then, he would become worthier of defending family and country—and this day accompany her across Wulfen.

  Anxious for her people though Vitalis assured her all was well in the villages and camp, Isa was done heeding the physician’s order to remain abed. Three weeks had passed since the arrival of William’s men, and now a sennight since their departure. Only a single confrontation of any account could be reported to their king—that of one who was thought to be a man beneath cap, tunic, and chausses whose escape was aided by one most believed a fellow Saxon.

  Most. Not Theriot D’Argent.

  Long-haired and bearded though Isa’s savior had been, the silvered hair of a man far from aged had been reported to the keeper of Stern. Believing it his lost brother, several times he and his men had searched Wulfenshire.

  “My lady?”

  She forced a smile to clear worry from the boy’s brow. “That is all.”

  He hastened from the solar to deliver orders to her housecarles to prepare to ride.

  As the curtains swung closed, her thoughts moved to Guarin who often filled them though ever she pushed him away with the reminder Vitalis would ensure he did not escape again—nor suffer Jaxon’s men—but as usual, Guarin pushed back.

  Just as when she had demanded the truth come out from behind Vitalis’s eyes, she felt a stab that once more her savior paid more than the price of captivity for aiding her, this time in the Wulfenshire wood when left with the patrol so Vitalis could deliver her to the physician.

  Because Guarin had resisted, her man had assured her, too that his injuries were dealt by fists and no more severe than those he dealt Jaxon’s men. And just as the rebels soon recovered, so had he.

  “Still, I do not know I can face him,” she whispered. But she would. Determined to unburden her conscience, she swept open her clothes chest. And gasped, let the lid drop, and pressed a hand above her collarbone.

  The physician told she healed well, but here evidence beyond what had become dull discomfort that it would be months before she regained what she had lost to an arrow.

  A glance at the tousled bedclothes was the beginning and end of all consideration to suffer further idleness. Beyond her meeting with Guarin, matters long-neglected must be addressed—rallying the rebels, coordinating efforts to resume harassment of Campagnon who had resumed persecution of the people of Balduc with the departure of William’s men, visiting villages to assure her people she had not abandoned them, establishing contact with agents in Lincolnshire and Nottinghamshire who would purchase Balduc hay and grain crops that appeared lost to the scythe of fire, and inspecting the passage believed to have reached the wood.

  She must move slowly and carefully, that was all.

  It was not all. But two hours later, she and a bright-eyed Wulfrith reined in ahead of their escort and dismounted.

  As expected, Vitalis was not pleased to see her, eyes ablaze, a jerk in the stride carrying him down the path. “You ought to be abed, my lady.”

  The jostle of the ride having made her grateful for the pound of hooves masking groans and whimpers, there was no way to hide she hurt, only the extent. Fortunately, neither Wulfrith nor her escort knew how great her distress since she had led throughout.

  Isa had yet to look to the cave, and she did not now, the man who halted before her having two days past questioned her feelings for Guarin after reporting on the rebels and state of the demesne.

  He feared she was captivated by the Norman. As did she—and wished she had no cause. But throughout her days abed, something wonderfully calming yet fearfully exciting had teetered on the ledge between things remembered and things forgotten. Having thus far refused to pull it off the ledge for scrutiny, her heart beat faster in anticipation of doing so—and certainty Guarin had heard her arrival and awaited her appearance.

  “My lady?” Vitalis said.

  Though it hurt to press her shoulders back and stand taller, she forced a smile. “Fear not, I am much improved.”

  To ensure his next words did not reach her entourage nor the half dozen rebels present, he bent near, causing his bound auburn hair to shift across his shoulder. “For all your exertions, you are more grey than flushed, my lady. You may fool others, but I know how much the ride cost you.”

  “I thank you for your concern, but I am well enough recovered to resume the duties owed my people.”

  His nostrils dilated. “You risk undoing these weeks of healing. Do you worsen—”

  “Better I know my body than you.” Though not much, she silently acceded, certain already she had undone some healing. But she also knew she was needed here, and she knew her man. Thus, all was not as well as he
told. “As there is much to do ere we ride on the villages, I give Wulfrith into your keeping.” She nodded at the boy who toed the dirt. “Show him all that has been accomplished here to aid in taking back our country.”

  “Whilst you do what?”

  He knew what, but she said, “I would see how our prisoner fares,” and began unhooking the gown fashioned for ease of removal when she concealed men’s garments beneath. Rather than loosen side or back laces to draw the garment off over her head, she had only to unfasten hooks running bodice to hem and exit it the same as a mantle.

  “As told, my lady, D’Argent is long healed.”

  “Still, I shall meet with him.”

  “His mood is foul this day.”

  “Considering his state of captivity, that does not surprise.” She folded the gown, shoved it in her saddlebag, and turned away. As she strode toward the cave, she called over her shoulder, “Inform Jaxon I shall meet with you both an hour hence.”

  Silence, then she heard Vitalis direct her escort to stable the horses and the boy to follow.

  “Remain outside,” she directed the men at the cave and stepped past them.

  Isa was grateful the rocky interior was well lit by torches and daylight, requiring no adjustment to the dim to permit her to look upon Guarin where he stood facing her.

  As she advanced, stepping lightly to keep discomfort from her face, that which perched on the ledge between remembering and forgetting caused her mouth to go dry. Fortunately—or perhaps not—she was distracted by the strength of the wolf’s anger. But though the dark upon Guarin’s face tempted her to stay this side of the rock, she continued forward and halted before him.

  Foolish? She was, even if, in the absence of escape by way of threat to her, vengeance did not move him to harm her.

  He looked well, no evidence of injury about the face nor neck, the muscles of his chest defined beneath a damp tunic. Since the cave was not warm enough to account for the material clinging to him and he lacked the cast of one taken with fever, she guessed her arrival had interrupted exercises that prepared him for his next escape.

  Eyes further adjusting to the dim, she noted something else about his tunic. It was stained down the left side. Her blood.

  She swallowed “I am sorry, Guarin.”

  “Yet more regret,” he drawled. “Perhaps it is, indeed, the disease you named it in the wood.”

  Had she? Remembrance returning her to the stream, trees, scent of loam and that of the man she had pursued, she felt Guarin’s arms around her, saw his face above hers, heard him urge her to give over. And in that same wood, she heard herself speak of the bane of regret, then feeling…

  That ledge again, something she did not wish to remember but neither to forget. “Regret can become a disease,” she said softly.

  “Especially when it is as great and numbers as many as yours.”

  Which she had added to in tasking Vitalis with delivering her regrets to Guarin after the physician closed up her wound.

  “And when it is as great and numbers as many as mine,” he added.

  She lowered her gaze. And hesitated over his mouth.

  “Do you regret that as well, Hawisa Wulfrithdotter?”

  The image that leapt to the side of things remembered was dim, but not the wonderfully calming and fearfully exciting sensation. She looked up. “You kissed me.”

  “As beseeched.”

  She swallowed denial. Though she could not recall all that had gone between them, he did not speak false.

  “That you not regret my kiss, you wished assurance you were not long for this life,” he shook her memory. “And when I told you were not dying, still you offered your mouth. So I ask again, do you regret it, Hawisa?”

  She could not lie, but she could not be entirely truthful. Confirming Vitalis’s men kept their backs to the cave, she stepped near and set her palm on Guarin’s chest. “What I regret is you are Norman.”

  He raised his eyebrows as if amused, but there was no lightness about him. “A better answer than expected.”

  Too much of an answer. Not only did she acknowledge she liked his kiss but wanted more beyond the sharing of breath. A match with Roger she had not wished—to walk at his side in day and lie at his side in night—but were Guarin a Saxon…

  “What is it you want, Hawisa?”

  Feeling his perspiration against her palm, the powerful movement of his heart beneath muscle and bone, she said, “Though now you have less chance of escape, I fear still you will try and next time forfeit your life. What I want is time to free you without risk to my people.” She breathed deep. “I do not want you gone from this world.”

  “I am a Norman. Why does it matter?”

  “As told, you are different from your countrymen. Pity my people there are not more like you, that you stand alone.”

  “I do not stand alone.”

  “Then why is there no end to our suffering?”

  Her question softened the steel in his eyes. Here another reason she wished more like him. He was not cold to the plight of others, even that of his enemy.

  “Who else stands with you, Guarin? Who else is as honorable?”

  “Many, including those of my family.”

  She was inclined to believe it of the brother who had aided Aelfled, as well as Theriot who was a far better lord than Campagnon. But the others?

  Realizing she veered in a direction she was not prepared to go, she tried to turn back, but she recalled this day’s ride when she had looked around half expecting to see Wulf and laid eyes on a boy purchased at auction—all because of the most dishonorable of Normans.

  She drew a deep breath. “You refer only to the living of your family.”

  “I speak of all D’Argents, those living and those lost.”

  “Even your uncle?”

  He frowned. “What have you not told, Hawisa?”

  Again she could not turn back. “Hugh D’Argent’s death was not one due an honorable man.”

  Guarin had gone so still that only when his hand turned around her upper arm did she become aware of his chains. “Speak,” he commanded.

  “It was Aelfled who found my son upon Senlac. Her arms who held Wulf as he slipped away the same as the village boys who accompanied him to work vengeance on the invaders. She who confronted the chevalier who came looking for kin and found an aged warrior felled by boys whom he also felled.”

  Seeing disbelief replace Guarin’s anger, she said, “It is so. The chevalier was Cyr D’Argent, the aged warrior your uncle.”

  Guarin gripped her other arm and drew her to her toes. “Never would he—”

  Lest her cry rouse Vitalis’s men, she clamped her lips closed.

  For all his anger, he noted her response, but though he did not release her, he eased his grip and set her back.

  She pressed a hand to the injury that had protested the bunching of her shoulders when he raised her.

  “I did not mean to harm you,” he said, then demanded, “What blind fool allowed you to take to the saddle?”

  “I am neither blind nor a fool. What I am is sore. That is all.”

  He released one of her arms, lifted her chin into the light. “You have not regained your strength. I saw it in your stride and felt it in the tremble of your hand. But your eyes and face… You are far from recovered, Hawisa. You ought to be abed.”

  She pulled her chin free. “I am better acquainted with my body than you,” she said and winced at the realization it was less true with Guarin than Vitalis to whom she had also made that claim.

  Guarin swept aside the neck of her tunic and peered at the bandage. “I do not think you are better acquainted. You bleed.”

  Looking down, she glimpsed darkness against pale linen. “I did not know.”

  He slid the material back over her shoulder, released her other arm. “Go home and do not rise from bed until you are fully healed.”

  “My physician says I heal well.”

  “And yet, I vow he is
displeased over what you do this day—else unaware.”

  The latter, but the former as well once he returned from the village where he sought to save the leg of a young man who was not as proficient with a scythe as believed.

  “Guarin, I would have your word you will make no further attempt to escape, that you will bide with me so I may see you returned to your family.”

  “Bide with you?”

  “It should not be much longer.”

  “What is long to you?” He jerked so hard on the chains she was certain the men outside peered within. “Another year and a half? Two?”

  She asked much of him, but there was naught for it. “I am certain it will not be—”

  “You are hopeful, not certain! Whereas I am certain—of William. Go home. When you are healed, we will speak.”

  Were he still here, he did not say. Hoping desperation would not provide Jaxon an excuse to end him, she departed, not to return home but to seek out the camp commander and Vitalis ahead of all else that must be done this day. This eve, the physician would admonish her, tend her, and accept her days abed had come to a close.

  When Hawisa went from sight, Guarin gave a scornful laugh. Bide with her? Like a tame dog sit at her feet hoping for scraps that might never fall from her hand?

  Should he find another opportunity for escape, he would take it—of greater urgency since her slow recovery meant more than before his life was in the hands of Vitalis and Jaxon. Providing the former stayed true to his lady, the warrior presented little threat, but as long as Guarin’s greatest finery remained chains, he was prey for Jaxon.

  He would bide, but not with the Saxon woman who would not likely give her body adequate time to heal. Just as neither would he were his world upended.

  “Were?” he scoffed and laughed again.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Wulfenshire

  England

  He came, the dust of hooves gently billowing above the road’s distant rise and the slight vibration felt through thin-soled boots suggesting one of two things. Either he numbered far fewer than the two score reported, else he advanced at a leisurely pace.