FEARLESS: Book Two: Age of Conquest

by Tamara Leigh

  He stepped forward, halted when she flinched. “I have grown, as have you.”

  She looked to Isa. “Is it really him?”

  “Aye, it is Wul—” Nay, Em did not know him by that name, just as Isa did not know him by the name given him at birth, having let it slip from memory after burning his papers.

  “Eberhard,” the boy spoke what he had not forgotten. “Your brother parted from you as he should not have been.” He raised a hand, splayed it. “I could not reach you.”

  Her eyes widened, the contrasting brown and blue as intense beneath the sunlight come through the windows as those same colors on her skin which had incited her to stick Raymond Campagnon with a blade.

  Did that poltroon live? If not and the young woman was captured, her sentence for slaying a Norman would be death.

  “Ebbe?” Em said.

  “Aye, Em. ’Tis your Ebbe. Then came Tristan, next wee Flora.”

  No surprise it took Isa longer than Em to realize he referred to the siblings whose survival had depended on the eldest selling themselves into slavery. No surprise it was that which persuaded the young woman he was of her blood.

  She landed hard against him. They clung to each other as if oblivious to all others, and it was the boy—the young man—who drew back. “You are only recently arrived at Balduc?”

  Isa wished the revelation requiring much explanation could wait. But her deception by omission was about to be laid bare, and there was naught she could do but hope they would understand.

  Em cupped his face between her hands. “I was brought from the auction to Balduc and have resided there since.”

  “All this time? It has been a year and a half, Em.”

  Her frown was fleeting, as was her smile. “Is that all? It feels I should be an old woman.”

  The one who had long answered to the name Wulfrith glanced at Isa and she knew his sharp mind was traveling all paths possible to make sense of his sister’s presence.

  “Dear Ebbe,” Em said. “Though I was told you are with the rebellion, and I need not fear for you, how is it you are here now? At Wulfen Castle?”

  “I am with the rebellion. The same as you, I have been upon this shire since the Lady of Wulfen’s coin purchased me.”

  Her glance at Isa brimmed with curiosity rather than malice. She did not like that she and her brother had been reduced to slavery, but as with most Saxons, she accepted the trade in humans that was long abolished in Normandy—one of few things Isa admired about England’s conquerors. And perhaps the only good thing William would bring to his reign should he survive attempts to oust him.

  Em drew further back from her brother and considered his finery. “You are not clothed as a slave. You appear noble.”

  “I…” He frowned at the one who played his mother, and she was pleased he sought permission to reveal the truth.

  “All will be explained,” Isa said, “but first we must tend your injuries, Em.”

  It appeared she would protest, but she nodded. “I am tired and sore, my belly so empty it grinds.”

  Isa took her elbow. “Whilst a chamber is being prepared, let us slake your hunger and thirst.”

  “Ebbe as well?”

  Isa was tempted to send him back to the training yard where he belonged at this time of day so she might first ease his sister into the explanation owed them, but the set of his jaw told he would argue. More, it was cruel to part them so soon.

  “Ebbe as well.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Stern Castle

  England

  Consciousness. It beckoned. It tugged. It pulled. Blessedly, a shake of the head freed him of the pain awaiting him on the surface.

  Sinking back to benevolent depths, he wondered if the voices of his sister and aunt were imagined. If not, he was returned to France, and not only had he lost days of his life but…

  He saw her face in moonlight, felt her hand on his jaw, heard her beseech him to live, longed to pull her to him—until anger once more drew him back from the edge of Hawisa with the reminder it was not mere days lost to him but months that numbered nearly two years.

  “Is it not wondrous?” His sister again. “He is returned to us!”

  Refusing to become pain’s plaything, Guarin attempted to kick back from the surface, but he was thwarted by the one who answered Nicola.

  “I will kill Vitalis.”

  That voice and those words did not beckon, tug, and pull. They wrenched. And cast Guarin on a jagged shore of pain.

  “If you do not,” Nicola said, “I will.”

  Cyr was here, meaning this had to be Stern. Hence, their sister and aunt who should be in Normandy were not.

  Guarin groaned, rasped, “Beware Vitalis.”

  “I will kill him,” Cyr repeated, boots sounding across the floor. “He will pay for every—”

  “It was not him.” Narrowly, Guarin opened his eyes, struggled to focus on the tall, broad figure striding toward the bed. “He did not do this.”

  “Not Vitalis?” their sister exclaimed. “Truly?”

  He shifted his gaze from Cyr to the girl who sat on the mattress beside him. And remembered his arrival outside Stern—some of it clear, some merely smoke.

  His cousin atop the wall revealing Cyr might not return until nightfall and assuring Vitalis he had the power to act on his behalf.

  Vitalis’s re-negotiation of the trade to include the release of Hawisa’s maid.

  Glimpsing Aelfled above, then below when she and the rebels passed over the drawbridge.

  His mount carrying him beneath the portcullis.

  Being eased out of the saddle in which he had struggled to remain upright lest he find himself delivered like a sack of grain over its back.

  And what else?

  Nicola, though only her voice. She had called to Vitalis, named him a pig, and said she would kill him if her brother died.

  The Saxon warrior must have laughed, unaware she was not all threat. The girl—or was she a woman now?—had a good bite. And her brothers, foremost Guarin, had sharpened those pretty teeth as much as their parents allowed for one destined to become a wife and mother.

  “It matters not if it was done by his hand,” Cyr returned him to the present, “or he ordered another.”

  Shifting his regard to where the second born had halted alongside the bed, their aunt hovering near, Guarin was jolted by Cyr’s appearance—exceedingly familiar for how long they had been brothers, exceedingly strange for how long since Guarin had looked close upon one of his own.

  Though no longer was Cyr’s silvered hair cropped on the sides as when they had crossed the channel, and his jaw was darkened by whiskers, he was groomed enough none would mistake him for a Saxon. Not so Guarin whose mirror all these months had been his reflection in others’ eyes and basins of water on the rare occasion light entered the cave at the right angle.

  The concern lining his brother’s face deepening, Guarin recalled it was Vitalis of whom they spoke and his brother yet believed him responsible for these injuries. “Not by his orders,” he croaked, throat so parched a swallow of saliva provided little relief.

  A moment later, a cup was at his lips. “Drink,” Cyr ordered.

  Guarin gulped it dry—and more when it was refilled.

  “God’s sweet mercy,” Cyr said, “I am glad you are returned to us. We feared you dead.”

  Slowly, Guarin filled his lungs. “Far from it, though had Vitalis not…” Ache crossing from one side of him to the other, he groaned and drew shallow breaths until the worst was past.

  “If you can,” Cyr said, “tell me what I ought know about the knave as quickly as possible, for I must pursue him whilst there is yet light.”

  Despite anger over his captivity this last beating had loosed from his depths, Guarin hesitated. Am I a traitor to my own that I do not want that? he mulled. Is it not my purpose—my right—to see rebellious Saxons brought to heel and justice done?

  The answer was Hawisa who had l
ost a husband and child to those who came into her country uninvited. The answer was Vitalis who must have lost loved ones but taken no part in tormenting Guarin. The answer was Rosa who lost all she loved and her own life. The answer was her fellow rebels who beat a Norman chained like a dog whilst accusing him of murder, destruction, hunger, and theft. The answer was all they cast at him was true, even if not dealt by this Norman.

  “He is a knave,” Guarin agreed, “but he is not the dangerous one. Rather, not as dangerous as…” He saw that one, still could not say if the light in those eyes was of evil or madness. “…Jaxon.”

  Cyr stepped nearer. “Jaxon?”

  “The first in command ahead of Vitalis. I believe it was he who ordered the deaths of the Norman family passing over Wulfenshire.”

  “He answers to Dotter?”

  Guarin stiffened. “Oui, but only if he determines Gytha would approve. If he thinks not, he answers to himself.”

  “You speak of King Harold’s mother?”

  He nodded. “She remains determined to return her family to power.”

  “Continue if you can.”

  “Long Jaxon has wished me dead, but ever Dotter and Vitalis stay his hand.”

  “For what if not ransom, a demand for which we never received?”

  Gratitude and guilt, Guarin silently named Hawisa’s motives. And were I to believe her, that she feels the unforgivable for her enemy.

  “I cannot say.”

  Suspicion shone from Cyr’s eyes. “What else can you tell?”

  Though every breath made Guarin long for the numb place from which he had been wrenched, he said, “Jaxon seeks to come out from under the watch of Vitalis that Dotter sets over him, even if it means turning on her and sacrificing the lives of rebels.”

  “Lillefarne,” Cyr said. “You heard Vitalis and his men were captured there?”

  “Oui, and I saw the look on Jaxon’s face that told he was not displeased. I am guessing it was his man, Sigward, who set all in motion.”

  “You guess right.”

  “Thus, he turned on Dotter, and sure of his success set to ridding himself of me. But no swift death, though I nearly wished it these past days when he and his followers beat a chained man unable to defend himself.” Seeing Cyr’s face darken, he reminded, “As told, Vitalis did not do this. Had he—” His throat closed, and the cough required to open it was so forceful he gave a shout of pain.

  “Enough, Cyr,” Aunt Chanson said. “Your brother must—”

  “Non, I covet sleep,” Guarin said, “but when I awaken it may be too late.” He looked to Cyr. “Had Vitalis not stolen into the camp and brought me out, this eve would have been my last.”

  Cyr’s eyes widened. “You are not saying he is your friend?”

  “Non, but neither is he the murderer Jaxon is. Vitalis has a reason for what he does that I would act on were I in his place.”

  “And Dotter?”

  “I believe her actions more justified than William’s in gaining England’s crown.”

  “You have met her?”

  Were this not his brother, he would lie. Guarin nodded.

  “You know whose face she hides behind?”

  Even greater the temptation to lie…

  “Do you protect your captor, Guarin?”

  He did. But how far? Farther than he trusted Cyr?

  “You know the woman who was traded for you is Lady Hawisa’s maid?” his brother prompted.

  Guarin drew another breath, felt his cracked and broken ribs shift. “I know.”

  “On the day past, I wed her.”

  Guarin jerked. Cyr wed? To a Saxon? To the one who had served Hawisa?

  “She is Lady Aelfled D’Argent,” his brother added.

  And she had been traded for his brother. “I did not know. And I am guessing neither did Vitalis.”

  A muscle in Cyr’s jaw convulsing, he said, “Where would he take her?”

  “Not the camp from which he freed me.”

  “Where?” he demanded.

  Guarin shook his head. “Methinks he will not harm her.”

  “Where, Guarin?”

  He narrowed his lids. “You care for your Saxon wife?”

  “I do, though I would have done the same as Maël to safely deliver you inside these walls.” His shoulders rose with breath surely meant to calm him. “When there is time, I shall tell you how we came to be. Suffice to say, I want her back.”

  Was it possible he who loved the wielding of arms and his merciless reputation loved one not of steel and accolades but a woman forged of flesh? And so soon? Or was this desire that would run its course and leave Cyr bound to one he did not want? Regardless, the truth must be told.

  “As you have guessed, Lady Hawisa is Dotter, and I believe she tasked Vitalis with retrieving her maid, but not to do her ill. As the lady does not know you, nor that Aelfled now has the protection of your name and position, she must fear for her.”

  “Then it is from Wulfen Castle I ought to retrieve my wife.”

  “I believe so, but be of great care, Brother.” Guarin lowered his lids. “I would guess Jaxon and his men destined there seeking Vitalis who they likely believe stole me from them.”

  Cyr gripped a hand over Guarin’s. “Ere I ride on Wulfen, I shall send word to Theriot and Dougray at Balduc you are returned to us. Rest well.”

  Mention of Dougray halted Guarin’s descent into sleep. Here proof the third brother had also survived Senlac. Including Maël, they remained five. “Much praise,” he breathed, then was struck that nearly all his family were in England. As if we were born to this land, he mused. But were we, we would be the conquered. We would be the rebels. And I would not be Hawisa’s enemy…

  Jolted by the sound of Cyr’s boots in retreat and the realization Hawisa would soon face Normans and, likely, Jaxon, Guarin called, “I want your word!”

  “Anything.”

  “Whatever happens, keep the Lady of Wulfen safe, whether it be her own come against her or ours.”

  His brother inclined his head. “I shall do all I can. We will speak more later.” Then he was gone.

  Lord, Guarin silently entreated as he returned to the depths, keep safe Cyr’s lady. Keep safe mine.

  Wulfen Castle

  England

  Under siege. An offense—nay, abomination.

  The enemy were not Normans. They were her own. Her rebels, led by her man. An abomination, and yet…

  Light in the dark of this night, bright as if shone from the face of God—as if He were with the besieged. Was He?

  Certes, much favor was shown Isa and her people that the betrayal came as no surprise…that they were prepared for the attack following her refusal to admit Jaxon…that as the rebels loosed flaming arrows into the outer bailey, Vitalis and his rebels returned from Stern as told by Aelfled who had stolen into the castle…that if the attackers took control of the outer bailey, there was food and drink to sustain all inside the donjon for weeks…that were the inner bailey also lost, the underground passage would deliver them from the blades of those now more the enemy than Normans—and keep the young man longer known as Eberhard out of Jaxon’s hands.

  Aye, much favor shown them, Isa conceded as she led the way out of the passage revealed to Aelfled. It had to mean the Lord was with them.

  Drawing a forearm across her brow, assuring herself it was moist from exertion rather than fever, she and her former maid stepped from behind the tapestry into the solar.

  Those earlier gathered here to give counsel had been joined by another whose report shook her certainty the Lord was with them. Despite the efforts of Vitalis and his men, their numbers were insufficient against Jaxon’s five score or more. The outer bailey was breached, and it was feared the inner would be taken as well.

  Knowing the donjon’s doors would not long resist the besiegers, Isa issued orders to prepare the castle folk for departure and the warriors defending the inner bailey to retreat the moment it was lost.


  Her men hastened from the solar, as did Aelfled whom Isa, believing her in need of protection, had endangered by requiring her release with the rebels captured by the Baron of Stern. No safer place could she have been than beneath the roof of the Norman she revealed she had wed.

  Rather than angered, Isa had been shocked by what was told her in the passage. And ashamed by envy.

  Lady Aelfled was now of greater standing than the Saxon widow Lady Hawisa. More, she who no longer had cause to do Isa’s bidding was much desired if not loved by a D’Argent—all the more enviable were Cyr as honorable as Guarin.

  I am happy for her, she told herself and, determined to see Aelfled restored to her husband as soon as possible, crossed to the brother and sister who stood before the hearth. “Em?”

  The young woman looked up from hands so tightly knit they brought to mind the slain warriors upon Senlac whose colorless flesh gripped weapons they would never again wield. But there was naught colorless nor lifeless about the eyes delving hers.

  “My lady?”

  “Take yourself to the hall and aid Aelfled.”

  Em blinked. “What of Eberhard?”

  “He will aid me.”

  Seeing protest in the brown and blue, Isa said, “He is safe with me, as he has been since the day you parted.” Then she addressed another of the young woman’s concerns. “’Tis true those outside seeking to come inside are Saxon-born the same as we, but they are dangerous—in this moment, more than Normans. When there is time, I will explain. For now, trust me to do what is best for those within these walls.”

  Em looked to her brother.

  “Lady Hawisa has been as a mother to me,” he said. “I am well with this.”

  Not entirely, she knew, feeling his reluctance to be parted from his sister and sensing the turning of his mind that formed questions whose answers would be difficult to cast in a good light considering all Em had endured.

  Will they forgive me? she wondered as his sister crossed the solar. In the dark ere dawn, she had pondered the same of Guarin. How many more had she wronged in defying William’s rule to relieve her people’s suffering? When all was done, would it be said she had hurt more than helped?