FEARLESS: Book Two: Age of Conquest

by Tamara Leigh

  Her hands lowered and head came up, and it seemed just the two of them—as if each sought to impress this moment alongside all those come before.

  “It is done, Guarin,” she said softly and gripped his arm.

  For what seemed an ungodly distance, he supported enough of his weight to keep his feet moving, and that was all.

  Exiting the cave unfettered for the first time in what seemed a lifetime, relief tempted him to hang his head. But there was light here, the great moon perched in a cloudless sky above a kingdom no longer Saxon. Though he longed to look near on Hawisa, he feared the effort would drop him to his knees and whatever bled inside would bleed more, perhaps so greatly he would not be reunited with his family.

  “Jaxon’s sentries?” he asked. “His patrol?”

  “Bound and gagged,” she said. “But they will not be long in regaining consciousness.”

  Meaning he must move faster. But he could not. Never had he felt less a warrior.

  They continued forward and, after what seemed hours, Hawisa said, “We are here.”

  He raised his gaze from a ground mostly without form, saw what first he should have heard—three horses, all restless.

  Praise You, Lord, he sent heavenward. Had they to traverse more ground on foot, he did not think they would make it out of the ravine before he collapsed.

  Once he was astride, they began negotiating moonlit paths and deeply shadowed stone corridors. Vitalis ahead, Hawisa behind, Guarin hunched over his pain and tried to steel himself for the increased pace that would be required to distance them from those who might give chase.

  However, when they emerged from the ravine, of greater concern was a score of horses ahead, only half of which carried riders.

  “My men,” Hawisa said, reining in alongside him as Vitalis spurred ahead.

  Guarin looked to her, only then realized she rode Anglicus.

  “Vitalis shall lead them,” she said, moonlight on her profile evidencing though she was much improved, she gave little thought to her grooming and had yet to recover her proper weight. Lovely but careworn.

  “Lead them where?” he asked, then what he was certain he should know but was too tired to make sense of, “Why so many horses absent riders?”

  “They shall accompany you to your brother, the Baron of—”

  “Stern.”

  She gasped.

  He suffered for his chuckle. “Between the curious Rosa—God rest her soul—and the venomous Jaxon, I know much of what goes upon Wulfenshire.”

  Isa stared, shocked less by his knowledge than his appearance that was more terrible in full moonlight.

  The bend of his shoulders and pale of his face beneath dark bruises and livid cuts made her hurt. He had looked better the day she discovered he was being tortured. Might she be returning to his family one soon dead?

  His eyebrows rose. “It is possible.”

  “What?”

  “Jaxon will gain what he has long desired.”

  Had any man ever read her as well as he? “I pray not, that you—”

  “Ah, I am slow of wit.” Guarin rasped, his unswollen eye widening. “It is a trade you make, one brokered between Vitalis and Cyr—me for the rebels captured during the last sortie.”

  Feeling as if caught in a lie, she said, “Oui, but ever I have wished you returned to your family. You know this.”

  “Do I?” He looked to where Vitalis halted before the escort. “Would you have come for me had your rebels not been captured?”

  “I would have.”

  “When?”

  More accusation. “As Jaxon has ignored my summons since the sortie’s capture, I now accept he answers to King Harold’s mother ahead of me. Thus, I would have freed you. And soon.”

  “Not soon enough, Hawisa. Do I survive, it will be because you are here now—for your trade.”

  She hated he thought so ill of her, but she had no further defense. To ensure this was the end of them, better words were spent on dissuading him from vengeance.

  She turned in the saddle to fully face him. Glimpsing past the mantle given him the stain on his tunic that was darker than the grime, she reached to evidence of the second time he had sacrificed himself for her.

  “Your blood,” he said, and when she started to draw back, closed a hand over hers.

  She met his gaze. “Pray, Guarin, know I am sorry for what one noble beyond his birth has suffered. Know ever I am indebted for the aid given me. Know—”

  “Do you think to soften me, Hawisa?”

  She did, but that had not prompted these words.

  “To render me the same as your lovesick Vitalis?”

  She did not, and yet… Nay, an end to them was what she wanted. As if he had not challenged her, she continued, “Know I pray one day you can forgive me for all you have lost.”

  He flattened her hand against his chest. “Do you wish this to beat for you?”

  The thud of his heart caused her own to make itself felt. Eyes tearing at the realization she did wish it to beat for her, she said, “I cannot begrudge you your anger. Nor the truth.”

  “Truth?” His voice was so graveled, she tugged her hand free and reached to the wineskin on her belt. As she unfastened it, moonlight coursed the jeweled hilt of its traveling companion. She looked up, saw he looked down.

  When Guarin’s gaze returned to hers, rather than ask after what he had last seen in Vitalis’s possession, he said again, “Truth?”

  As if to do penance, she had nearly confessed her feelings, but he would think it an attempt to soften him.

  “Hawisa?”

  She extended the skin. “You are dry, the ride ahead arduous.” When he took it, she glanced at Vitalis and his men who awaited them. It was time to begin the journey that would take far longer than usual in Guarin’s state.

  “If you have something to tell,” he said, “speak so sooner I may reunite with my brother.”

  She breathed deep. “The truth is never have I felt for a man what I feel for you.” If her words affected him in any measure, his face did not reveal it. Suppressing the urge to put spurs to Anglicus, she continued, “These feelings are beyond my understanding. And unforgivable.”

  His uninjured eye narrowed. “Why unforgivable?”

  “We are…”

  “Enemies,” he said.

  Was that a statement or a question? she wondered, then asked, “You believe I lie?”

  He drank sparingly, then hooked the skin on his saddle’s pommel. “I know not what to believe. What I know is I will see you again.”

  “You speak of vengeance?”

  He drew a breath so ragged she guessed great injury had been done his ribs. “Restitution is the better word. And few would deny it is owed me.”

  It was a better word, but not without threat. “Though neither would I deny it, I beseech you again—turn your efforts to life in Normandy.”

  “When I am done with Wulfenshire.”

  With her. Hence, all the more imperative the underground passage prove viable. God willing, this day. “First you will have to capture me,” she said, “then you will have to hold me. For the sake of my people, no easy thing will I make it.”

  His lips curved. “I will capture the one who professes to feel for me. I will hold her. My word I give.”

  He was angry, his mind and body battered—perhaps even broken in places. Once he was where he belonged and healed, he would think right again, she assured herself. He would put Hastings behind him. He would put her behind him. He would cross the channel without a backward glance, grateful it was only two years lost to him rather than what could prove a lifetime for those he helped conquer.

  As Isa started to urge her destrier forward, she remembered the dagger. Would he turn the blade on one of her men? Nay, even were he capable of setting himself at other warriors—and he was not this day—he had no cause. He had only to complete the ride to secure his freedom and be restored to his family.

  She drew the dagger
whose sapphire winked in moonlight, offered it.

  His regard was cursory. “I shall collect it later.”

  Isa set her teeth, returned it to her belt, and gave Anglicus her heels.

  After instructing Vitalis to ensure Aelfled was amongst those traded, she looked to the man who was no longer her captive. Though he remained upright, his head was down, portending he might have to be strapped over the back of his horse before he reached Stern.

  Alive, Lord, she silently prayed, even if he comes seeking restitution.

  She drew alongside and touched his hand that gripped the saddle’s pommel. “Godspeed, Guarin D’Argent.”

  He turned his singular gaze on her, rumbled, “Until we meet again, Hawisa Wulfrithdotter.”

  She should have pulled back and reined around, but she moved her hand to his jaw and shivered at the rasp of whiskers against her palm. “Live,” she whispered.

  He stared, then dropped his chin.

  Throat tight, Isa turned Anglicus aside and, accompanied by Ordric, spurred toward Wulfen Castle.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Wulfen Castle

  England

  Glorious tidings, as if the Lord deemed her and hers worthy of answered prayer. Now if He would answer another—that Guarin reach Stern alive. And another—that Guarin heal. Yet another—that Vitalis and his rebels encounter no resistance during the ride to Wulfen.

  “My lady?”

  Isa swung around to face the boy who had stolen upon her, hopefully a result he was becoming a master of stealth rather than she was terribly remiss in watching her back. “Wulf?”

  “’Tis true? They have broken into the wood?”

  Wiping dust from her tunic, she strode from the tapestry she had come out from behind. “Aye, near the waterfall.” She halted, leaned in, and kissed his brow. When she drew back, he smiled broadly, likely more because of her show of affection than the passage’s long-awaited completion. She erred in being so familiar with one not of her blood. And yet…

  She allowed herself a small smile. “No longer can we be trapped inside these walls should the enemy lay siege.”

  “May I see?”

  “’Tis yet too dangerous.”

  He frowned, but before she could explain, understanding cleared his brow. “When will the timbers be set?”

  Supports that would greatly reduce the chance of collapse. “It is being done now. The master miner assures me it if is not completed this day, then the morrow.”

  “You think the Lord returned to us, my lady?”

  She wished her feeling of abandonment had passed over him lest it shook his own faith and distanced him from God. But he was no longer a child more given to hope than despair. He saw and felt what those older than he strove to conceal.

  “I believe He is with us.” But would He stay? she silently questioned. Or did He but visit, dangling hope against which they could only brush fingers ere it was snatched away again?

  “I believe it as well,” the boy said.

  The opening of the great doors beyond the curtain sounded, of no event if not for the urgency in the voice of the one who called to her. Had he word of Vitalis? Was it possible already he and his rebels had returned?

  She skirted Wulfrith, tossed back the curtain, and stepped onto the dais as the doors across the hall closed behind the youngest of her housecarles and one who struggled to break his grip on her arm.

  The woman cursed, stumbled, kicked at his legs.

  “Witch!” He flung her ahead, dropping her to her hands and knees.

  “What is this?” Isa demanded, motioning for the servants to resume their work as she advanced.

  “She was discovered in the back of a cart behind sacks of grain, my lady. Doubtless, a Norman spy.”

  “Never!” the woman cried. “A hundred deaths I would die first!” She thrust back on her heels, started to rise. “A thousand!”

  He gripped her shoulder and forced her back to her knees.

  Certes, she was Saxon, but no matter her protest, that did not mean she was loyal to her own.

  Isa halted before her. “At best I require a good defense for stealing into my home, at worst a confession and genuine contrition. So think well on your words. They shall determine how dire your fate.”

  The woman peered at Isa from behind a veil of tangled hair. “You are Lady Hawisa?”

  “You know I am. Think better. Try again.”

  “Are you…?” She drew a shaky breath. “’Tis said you bend the knee to William, but rumored behind closed doors you stand upright.”

  Alarm sounded through Isa.

  “Is it true you have not forsaken your people, my lady? That you merely bide your time?”

  The same as had Guarin, Isa reflected “More ill-thought words that offend and prick my patience,” she said and looked to her housecarle. Though she had threatened dire consequences were she not satisfied with the explanation, she ordered, “Set her outside my walls.”

  “Lady!” The woman snatched hold of Isa’s skirt as it whipped around—just as once Guarin had caught hold of her braid. “Pray, hear me!”

  Wishing herself back in tunic and chausses, Isa wrenched the material free.

  As if to defend against a beating, the woman tossed up her hands. “Forgive me. I know not who is my side, only that he comes for me. And should he find—”

  “Who comes for you?”

  “My…beloved lord.”

  As it was angrily whispered and made no sense, Isa thought she heard wrong. “Say again.”

  The woman sank back on her heels. “I want him dead. A slow death. Very slow.”

  “Who?”

  She dropped her chin and cradled her head in her hands. “My master. I have run from him. I am a…”

  “Slave,” Isa gasped, then fell to her knees before the one she had nearly sent away.

  The housecarle touched her shoulder. “My lady!”

  She glanced up at where he stood behind the woman. “She is Saxon the same as us. I am in no danger.”

  He loosed her but remained near.

  Isa drew the woman’s hands from her head and eased them into her lap, lifted her chin. She peered through the mess of hair, but her attempt to confirm that of which she was fairly certain was for naught. The woman’s eyes were squeezed closed, lashes wet with tears.

  Lest here was but another ill-treated slave, be her master Saxon or Norman, Isa prompted, “Em?” Receiving no response, she raised her voice. “Em?” And heard someone catch his breath.

  Looking to the dais, she saw the forgotten boy there—unmoving, eyes wide as if he wished to believe but feared great disappointment.

  Isa looked back at the woman, saw her shoulders convulse. This being far from how she had wished to reunite the siblings, she almost hoped it was not Em.

  Gently, Isa parted her hair. As she hooked tresses over the woman’s ears, she considered a lovely face beset with bruises, a swollen cheek, and scratched jaw. The visage of one who had firmly crossed the threshold into womanhood, it was youthful enough to belong to the sister carried from the auction block, desperately reaching to her brother.

  “Pray, open your eyes, sweet one,” Isa said.

  The woman muffled a sob, drew her head back, once more dropped her chin.

  Of a sudden it did not matter whether her eyes were mismatched. Foolish though Isa’s sire would name her, unworthy though Jaxon would deem her, dispensable though Gytha would sentence her, all that mattered was solace for a tormented soul.

  Isa slid her arms around her, and feeling her stiffen, murmured, “I will not set you out.”

  The young woman eased slightly.

  “I will not forsake you.”

  She shuddered.

  “I will not allow him to harm you again.”

  She sighed.

  “You are safe.”

  She tucked her head beneath Isa’s chin and sank into her.

  Isa held her, rocked her, hoped this was Em so she could beckon for
th her brother, giving the young woman what might greatly aid in her healing.

  She stirred, said low, “This day, he discovered I pass information to the resistance.”

  Further proof this was Em.

  “He attacked me…beat me.” She gulped. “I cut him, though not deep. If he lives, you will help me kill him?”

  Here the door to her identity that would either draw the boy from the dais or turn him away. Isa stroked her hair. “Of whom do you speak?”

  Her laugh was venomous. “He who is no longer Baron of Balduc.”

  Even if Wulfrith heard her muffled words, he would not know it was confirmation of what he hoped for, oblivious to how near brother and sister had been.

  Praying in time he would forgive her, Isa said loud, “You are Em.”

  As a cry sounded from the dais and boots hit the floor, the young woman dropped her head back and opened mismatched eyes. “How know you my name?”

  Isa smiled. “That tale will save. What will not is the one who longs for you.” Though tempted to smooth the lines grooving the youthful brow, Isa set the young woman back, pushed upright, and stepped aside.

  The air trembled as the boy rushed past and dropped beside his sister. “Em!” He reached to her, but the young woman recoiled so violently she fell onto her rear, slamming her back into the housecarle’s legs and causing him to step back.

  “Em?” He reached again.

  She scrambled backward, once more found her escape barred by the warrior.

  Isa touched the boy’s shoulder. “Slowly, Wulf.”

  “What is wrong with her?” he demanded.

  That which time and patience would remedy, she prayed, and hoped Em’s inability to recognize her brother was due to the passage of time. Not only had his voice, body, and face matured, but his hair was of a length neither Saxon nor Norman, skimming his shoulders, and the garments he wore were those of a noble.

  “As you no longer look the little brother—have become a young man just as she has become a woman,” Isa said, “you must proceed with care.”

  He nodded and, seeing his sister gain her feet, also stood. “’Tis me, Em, your brother.”

  Her eyes searched him, then she said, “I want to believe you.”