by Tamara Leigh
“If not, ere long—providing the one holding them is as merciless as told.”
Cyr. After what Rosa revealed, Guarin was not surprised already his brother moved to end the rebellion. And now better he understood the reason Jaxon was here. It was not merely to taunt him over Rosa’s death. He sought assurance Cyr would show his captives no mercy, thereby taking responsibility for their deaths which Jaxon himself may have set in motion.
Guarin’s thoughts shifted to Hawisa. Without Vitalis’s support and protection, what would become of her, especially with illness making her more vulnerable to entirely losing control of the rebels?
Determining deception was in order, though it might not benefit her, Guarin gave a grunt of laughter. “If Vitalis and his men yet live, their breaths are numbered. Whether last eve, this day, or the morrow, all are dead to your cause.”
Likely a lie, Guarin mused as the man’s eyes narrowed. Cyr’s greatest flaw was a competitive bent that often blinded him to grace due others even when the contest was clearly his. Unless Hastings had greatly changed the second-born D’Argent—and it was possible—the title of merciless earned at tournament and in battle was mostly exaggeration since it did not take into account the name of D’Argent by which Cyr was far longer known. Merciless, but not cruelly so.
Jaxon heaved a sigh. “As feared, but some good can come of nearly every bad does one look deep enough.”
Guarin waited.
“The more Saxon blood spilled, the greater the rebellion’s desire to oust the invaders. Then there is our Norman guest whose departure is long past due, do you not agree?” He smiled. “Soon you shall leave us.”
Guarin flexed his hands. “If your lady wills it,” he pushed in the thorn he hoped Jaxon would seek to remove by revealing his plans for Hawisa. “Or do you intend to betray the trust her sire placed in you to keep his line safe?”
His smile dropped, and he took a step forward. “I am not the betrayer. ’Tis she, the blood in her veins wasted on one who believes herself a man’s equal. She who is good only for birthing a single Wulfrith. She who should never have had charge of her son. She who is responsible for his—”
His teeth snapped, but it was too late to hide how deep the thorn and how much blood it drew, just as it was too late to keep from confirming Hawisa had given her Norman husband only the one heir who died upon Senlac. Thus, the boy Jaxon wished to wrest control of was an imposter, doubtless enlisted to ensure Hawisa retained whatever lands William left to her and avoid another marriage.
Had there been any possibility Guarin would survive in the absence of Vitalis, it was gone. He knew too much.
Am I of a mood? he silently questioned as he had not had occasion to in a long time, then cited, Rosa dead, Vitalis and his sortie captured, Hawisa the next victim. He breathed deep, withheld his gaze from the weapons on the Saxon’s belt. If I can move him to recklessness…
He took another step forward, inciting Jaxon to lower his arms and close his hands into fists. Now to taunt him. “So the mighty Wulfrith instructed that should his daughter be unable to withstand the losses incurred by an invasion, you should abandon her? Betray her?”
Jaxon bared his teeth. “She is willful, weak, unworthy.”
“Willful? Aye. Weak? Unworthy? I do not see that in her. But in the betrayer before me…”
Jaxon stared his hatred at Guarin, then removed the belt from which dagger and sword hung. Not reckless enough, but there would be satisfaction in landing blows, proving even a chained Norman could pain an unchained Saxon.
“As told, your departure is past due, D’Argent, but with so much to be savored, let us not be hasty in parting ways.” He cast the belt behind and lunged.
Prepared for the barrel of muscle and bone, Guarin ducked, drove a fist into Jaxon’s side, swung up his other arm, and whipped a length of chain into his face.
Bloodied nose. Broken teeth. Not satisfaction enough, but though more was to be had as they grappled, testing the strength and range of the chains, Guarin’s disadvantage served Jaxon well. Both were bloodied and bruised when the latter landed an elbow to his captive’s ribs that allowed him to break free of the arm pressed hard to his neck.
Cursing himself for losing hold of Jaxon over a few broken ribs, Guarin lurched forward. The miscreant’s tunic slipped through his fingers.
Once beyond reach, Jaxon swung around. Chest heaving, face and beard a crimson mess, he said, “I could kill you now, but that would be like quickly eating a fine meal.”
Refusing to bend to the pain radiating from his lower ribs, Guarin glanced at the cave entrance where a dozen rebels had appeared to witness the clash, several among them Vitalis’s men who had not participated in last eve’s sortie. As the one to whom they were loyal had been captured and they were themselves outnumbered by men loyal to Jaxon, they would not challenge the camp commander even if he drew his sword to dispatch Guarin.
“We are not done, Norman,” Jaxon said as he girded his belt. “I shall visit again.” His grin was red-rimmed. “And savor again.”
“As shall I, Saxon.”
Jaxon swung away and, weaving slightly, exited the cave.
When all had departed, Guarin felt a hand across his ribs. At least one broken, several cracked. “And so it begins,” he murmured. “Again.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Wulfen Castle
England
It was Vitalis.
She had feared trickery when Ordric awakened her from an early night’s sleep to which she had yielded after two days’ worry over those taken prisoner by Cyr D’Argent—and this day’s excitement over the assurance they were hours from completing the passage.
Isa ran, at the center of the hall flung her arms around the disheveled, begrimed man.
“My lady!” He returned her embrace and set her back.
“I…” She shook her head.
“We are all well,” he said.
She peered past him at the empty space. “All?”
“I, alone, Cyr D’Argent released to strike a bargain with the rebels, but the others fare well.”
She caught her breath. “He knows I am Dotter?”
“Great his suspicion, but be assured, I was not followed here.”
She started to press for details of the bargain, but though it appeared those bedded down in the hall slept, she gestured for him and Ordric to accompany her.
When they had the fire-lit kitchen to themselves, Vitalis said, “First, I must tell who betrayed us. The one who rendered us vulnerable to capture was Sigward.”
“Jaxon,” she whispered.
“Aye, there is no doubt he moves against you—that you, the boy, and all of Wulfen are in danger.”
Here further proof of what she had achingly accepted following two days of Jaxon ignoring her summons.
“I do not believe he is alone in betraying you, my lady.”
“Gytha.”
Vitalis inclined his head. “Still her man makes the rounds of England, inciting Saxons to rebel and rebellions to act.”
“What of Edwin Harwolfson?”
“Rumor is he gains ground, and though likely he entertains Gytha’s man, I do not believe he bows to Harold’s mother.”
She nodded. “Tell me of the bargain Cyr D’Argent wishes to make.”
“Nineteen captives, twenty including the body of Sigward.”
She caught her breath. “He is dead?”
“Not by the hands of Normans. By the hands of those imprisoned by his betrayal.” He breathed deep. “It was a frenzy—one I led.”
Feeling him tugged between assuring himself he was justified and judging himself a murderer, Isa said, “Surely it was not planned.”
“It was not. All lost control—including Cyr D’Argent—when Sigward injured Aelfled.” At Isa’s gasp, he raised a hand. “I have been assured she will recover.”
“Praise the Lord,” she heard herself speak words that had become foreign to her, then assured him, “What
happened to Jaxon’s man cannot be changed and, perhaps, ought not be. Now tell what can be changed.”
“Cyr D’Argent believes the sighting of Guarin is true and those of Dotter hold him. He says he will trade all the rebels for his brother—if he lives.”
Just as no longer was there doubt Jaxon betrayed her, there was no doubt he would rid himself of her captive. Had he not already…
Heart clenching, Isa feared she would be ill, but she told herself Guarin lived and she would make good her promise to see him returned to his family.
“I agreed to his terms providing he release my men to me alone,” Vitalis continued. “Are you in accord, my lady?”
Beyond seeing Aelfled released as well, there was naught to consider, only how it was to be done. “Of course.”
“I shall have to steal into camp and bring out his brother,” Vitalis said. “There is naught for it, even if I must…”
Take another Saxon life, he could not say.
“Providing you have adequate reinforcements,” Isa said, “there should be no spillage of blood. Vitalis, refresh yourself. Ordric, choose eight men and instruct the master of horses to prepare enough mounts to also accommodate Cyr D’Argent’s captives.” She swung away. “We depart a half hour hence.”
“We?” Vitalis demanded.
“We, Vitalis.”
Wulfenshire Rebel Camp
England
One more beating? Non, two—perhaps three—he could endure, even if only to deny Jaxon the satisfaction of an easy kill the miscreant would attribute to Norman inferiority.
“Three,” Guarin rasped, then laughed at himself. If he survived one more, it would be a miracle.
Would the Lord intercede? For what? So one who had lost nearly two years of his life suffer further? Again, for what? To test the utmost limit of Guarin’s faith? To discover what was required for him to turn from it? Did the Lord truly wish to know?
Guarin did not.
Shallow breath after shallow he drew, occasionally a deep one, and less for need of a greater amount of air than to make the pain of smaller breaths tolerable. So tormented was he when he filled his chest as much as he could bear, for a short time afterward he was merely discomforted by the effort to sustain life.
He ought to be dead. Had he not kept fit, he would be. But that which protected his organs weakened with each beating. He would not be surprised if the blows last dealt had gone deep enough his innards bled amongst themselves.
Trying to distract himself from shallow breaths that must soon be fed an agonizing one, Guarin wondered how many men would accompany Jaxon to the cave come sunrise. As few as one, as many as three. Perhaps four for the final beating. But then sooner it would be done, in the end almost merciful.
“Lord,” he breathed out. “Lord,” he breathed in. And stilled.
A sound not of night opened his eyes, one eye more than the other. On his back, head and neck supported by the folded mantle of the lady lost to him and possibly herself, he looked to the side. Though the sudden movement made him hurt, he searched the dark.
Above the rock slab, only the upper portion of the cave’s moonlit entrance could be seen. Hence, whoever entered absent a lantern or torch would have to draw near before the shadowed figure took form.
Not Jaxon nor any of his men, Guarin was fairly certain. With Vitalis gone and the majority of the rebels loyal to the camp commander, they had no need for stealth—indeed, enjoyed announcing their approach that foretold a beating.
Two pairs of feet, Guarin detected. And since his visitors negotiated the dark cave without incident, they were familiar with the uneven floor and obstacles. Might one of these be Zedekiah who had led others aligned with Vitalis in protesting the loss of their watch over the Norman? The confrontation had not been visible to Guarin, but he had heard the argument. And the lies that ended it.
Jaxon had said Vitalis and all those of the sortie sent north were slain by the Baron of Stern and that the Lady of Wulfen was on her deathbed. Thus, henceforth they were accountable to he who answered only to the future Saxon king’s grandmother. Might their silence since have been but a biding of time? Was it possible they defied Jaxon?
Or do I but fashion hope out of nothing? Guarin questioned his wits.
Two figures appeared, one tall and broad, the other the height of Zedekiah but not the width. Had Guarin to wager, he would say neither meant him harm, but he tensed in anticipation of wielding fists, manacles, and chains to prolong whatever remained of his life.
They came around the rock and halted. Though they knew where to find him, they would be able to see little—if any—of him where he lay against the wall. “D’Argent?”
Guarin stiffened. That one’s voice he had not thought to hear again. What did it mean? As for the question asked, surely it was intended to give Guarin pause if he meant to attack before being attacked—else confirm Hawisa’s man addressed empty space at best, a corpse at worst.
Of a sudden, exhaustion overtook pain that had denied him the comfort of sleep. As he began to drift, he pondered how Vitalis had escaped, next if Cyr had truly held Hawisa’s man. More of Jaxon’s lies?
“D’Argent?” the warrior repeated.
Respite slipping through his fingers like the water denied him two days, Guarin opened his eyes. “I live,” he growled past a parched throat made raw as much by suppressing shouts of pain as loosing those impossible to keep down.
The slighter figure broke from the other and dropped to his knees beside Guarin. Rather, her knees. She who was not abed and dying. She who was not lost to him—though he might soon be lost to himself.
Such a potent mix of relief and anger burst behind his eyes, he careened toward unconsciousness.
The hand Hawisa set on his shoulder tugged at him, the scent of her when she bent near wrenched him back to her. “What has been done you, Guarin?”
He did not think it a question needing an answer, but he said, “Jaxon.”
“Dear Lord, I prayed he had not yet moved against you. How badly are you beaten?” She moved her fingers to his face and began probing the cuts and swellings.
With a clatter of chain, Guarin caught hold of her hand—and nearly groaned over the movement. “You are healed?”
She hesitated. “Mostly I am myself again.”
Far more than he was himself. “For what do you come on silent feet in the dark of night?”
Rather than seek her release, she closed her fingers over his thumb crossing her palm as if for fear he would escape her. “Those of Jaxon will name me a traitor, but it is time to return you to your family.”
He narrowed his gaze on where he knew her face was, but no matter how he strained could not see past the shadows. “You are sending me back across the sea as ever you wished?”
“Did I?” she said so low he wondered if she knew she spoke aloud.
“Did you?” he clipped, anger beginning to surface.
She hesitated, then said, “The manacles, Vitalis.”
Her man moved to Guarin’s feet. As blindly he searched for the keyhole of the iron plates fastened around the right ankle, Guarin released Hawisa’s hand and coughed. Again. And again.
She slid a hand beneath his head and raised him. “Drink.”
The spout seeking his lips trickling wine down his cheek, he turned his head and fit lips around it, gulped.
“Slowly, Guarin.”
So great was his thirst, it was hard to be satisfied with less than his body demanded, but to ensure he kept it down, he drew back.
“This day’s journey will not be long,” she said. “When you are recovered you shall return to Normandy. And that…will be the end of us.”
His attempt at laughter feeling like a blade to the side, he said, “You think it possible? To end us?”
He sensed her searching gaze, knew it would fail the same as his, and shuddered when the manacle parted and fell away.
“Soon you shall learn how entangled our lives have become,” she s
aid as Vitalis moved to the other ankle.
Already he knew, as revealed by Rosa and confirmed by Hawisa in assuring him the journey ahead would be brief relative to crossing the channel. Before the next setting of the sun, he would be reunited with Cyr.
“It is necessary to end us,” she said. “Thus, I beseech you—embrace your freedom and go from my shores, live as ever you were meant to.”
“Ever,” he mused. “That is in the past.”
She swallowed loudly. “You will avenge yourself?”
“Were I to confess such”—he winced at his slurred words, realized he drifted again—“would you leave what remains of me to Jaxon?”
“Non.” No hesitation. “Once we have taken you away, never again will you set eye nor foot here.”
Would he not? he questioned as the fog rising through his mind thickened. Were not demons best laid to rest where spawned?
“Move aside, my lady,” Vitalis alerted her to the second manacle’s removal.
Freedom, Guarin thought. But not to live as once I was meant to. Hawisa Wulfrithdotter has changed all.
“D’Argent?” Vitalis said, and Guarin realized his wrists were free of manacle and chain. “Can you stand?”
Ashamedly, that could prove beyond him, but not for want of trying. He rolled onto his side and closed his throat against a shout of pain. Teeth ground, he made it to his knees. And there remained, panting.
“He cannot,” Hawisa said, then she was on one side of him, her man on the other. Gripping his arms, they raised him.
Keenly feeling an absence, Guarin rasped, “The mantle.”
“You are cold?” she asked.
He was feverish. “Bring it,” he growled, vexed as much by what it revealed of him as his inability to retrieve it himself.
Hawisa gave all his support to Vitalis, moments later draped the mantle over his shoulders and came around to fasten the ties.
Staring at her bent head, remembering when they were nearer in the wood, her lips beneath his, Guarin drew a breath of her. An end to them? Necessary perhaps, but possible?