by Tamara Leigh
“A wife and mother again,” she said. “Under Norman rule.”
“As I do not believe there will be an end to it, aye, Norman rule.”
Tears threatening, she said, “Whilst there is a chance to take back what is ours, only a coward would yield, and I will not be that. Harwolfson—”
“He may be a great warrior and leader, Hawisa, but he is not William who has put down every challenge to his crown these two years, who wearies of the uprisings, who believes too long he has been conciliatory, who will soon reveal what lies farther beneath his surface than ever the English have seen. Hence, for the sake of your people if not yourself, accept him. If you cannot, go nowhere near Harwolfson.”
She trembled, as much for fear of what further terror William would unleash as the effort to contain emotions threatening to wet her face. “I hate him,” she hissed.
“I understand, but hate him from a great distance and live as once you entreated me to do.”
She had, and so he had done. And forgiven her. “I can promise only I shall do all I can to persuade my people to remain in Nottinghamshire.”
She sensed further argument, then his grip on her shoulder eased. “You will come to me if you need anything? Even if only word of how the castle folk and villagers fare?”
“You would have me risk making it appear you conspire with the enemy?”
“By way of the underground passage,” Guarin said. “Though it is being rerouted, the first of several gates to be installed along its course has been placed at its current outlet near the falls.”
“As told by my scouts.”
He showed no surprise. “Leave word there, and I will come to you here.”
Until he returned to Normandy…
“I am grateful,” she said, and thinking it time to depart, pushed off the wall. But he eased her back against it.
“What is it, Guarin?”
“You.” He slid his hand from her shoulder to her neck, hooked his thumb beneath her jaw. Might he kiss her?
“Have you ceased breathing, my lady?”
She had.
Now his other hand was in her hair, cupping the back of her head. Now he was pulling her to him, settling her chest against his. Now his mouth was on hers, nothing gentle about his kiss. As if…
He hungers, she thought, as do I. Seeking to fill hands she could not remember ever feeling so empty, she gripped his waist and rose to her toes, drew palms up over muscled ribs and sighed into him, slid her hands around his back and whispered his name, pushed fingers into his hair and pressed their tips to his scalp.
Not until Guarin groaned, “Hawisa,” did she realize how close the fit of their bodies and she was as responsible as he—if not more.
Then he was easing her arms from around him and setting her back against the wall. But rather than follow her there, he kept his arms extended, hands on her shoulders.
Though she knew he was right to do so, she did not feel her usual awakening self. This was how she felt coming up out of a rare, welcome dream that made her question what harm in returning to it for a short while.
“Hawisa, we ought not—”
“Isa,” she said. “That is as my familiars call me.”
He drew a shaky breath. “I am honored to be that to you, but you are not Isa to me.”
Then he did not wish her to be his familiar? She was wrong to think he felt more than attraction? “Why, Guarin?”
“As ever you have been Hawisa to me, regardless whether my eyes are open or closed, ever you shall be.”
She wanted to ask what he meant, but she was awake now and moving beyond reach of that rare dream. As long as Guarin was the side of William, it was of no consequence what she was and was not to him whether in the light or the dark. Thus, he was right to pull away before there was more to regret than the impassable narrow sea.
He released her and turned. “We are too long out of sight,” he said as he strode opposite. “If your men do not come out of hiding, soon they shall.”
Grateful he was more firm of mind than she, Isa followed and they exited side by side. “Stand down, Dougray!” he shouted.
“Stand down, Ordric!” she called.
In neither instance was there evidence they were heard—no sound or movement, as if they commanded ghosts.
“Show yourself, Dougray!” Guarin commanded.
Far ahead, a figure dropped out of a tree and straightened to a good height. Unlike his brother, he was blond of hair and carried no bow—a weapon useless to one who had but a single hand with which to wield the weapons on his belt.
However, the others ordered to show themselves held bows fit with arrows. In all, a half dozen Normans to match her half dozen Saxons. Or nearly so…
Though fairly certain Guarin did not know what she knew, she shivered at how great the danger to her men were harm intended them.
“Hawisa,” he urged.
She cleared her throat. “Show yourself, Ordric!”
He and his five appeared. Nearer than the Normans, all were vulnerable to attack from behind, and from their wary—albeit combative—stances, knew it. Just as they knew they were not entirely without recourse.
Guarin looked to Isa. “Now we know where each of us stands—”
“Do we?”
His frown was fleeting. “Vitalis,” he said gruffly.
She returned her regard to the wood. “Vitalis!”
The big man who dropped from well behind Guarin’s brother straightened to his full height, a bow in hand. As he tossed back the hood that had ensured neither his hair nor beard betrayed him, Isa noted now Guarin’s men had turned wary—except Dougray. He looked angry. But then, the master of stealth had been bettered by the man he had bettered in infiltrating the sortie at the abbey. She did not have to look close upon Vitalis to know how much he enjoyed being at Dougray’s back.
“Now we know where each of us stands,” she said and was surprised by what seemed pride shining from Guarin’s eyes.
“So we do, Wulfrithdotter. I wonder you tolerated Jaxon as long as you did.”
His acknowledgment the ousted Lady of Wulfen did not need her sire’s man to best the invaders was a balm.
“I am thinking Vitalis rode to the camp ahead of the others,” he said. “He came a way known to few and, lest any lay in wait, used the distraction of your other men to ascend the tree unseen to watch their backs. And yours.”
“You think right.”
“You are more worthy than you believe, Hawisa.”
Was she? These past months it was that toward which she aspired more than ever. Her time no longer divided between administration of Wulfen and the rebel army, she had sought to prove those she trained in the ways of Wulfrith could flourish as well beneath her instruction as they had with Jaxon—and Vitalis, though for a time he had kept all guessing if he would emerge from the tent where the physician tended him.
“William was wise to seek a union between you and my brother,” Guarin said. “Your sire’s training of warriors paired with my uncle’s might have proven unmatched in all of Christendom.”
“Were I willing to betray my own,” she reminded.
“I do not doubt there are bad—even worse—days ahead, Hawisa, but if your country’s destiny is to become Anglo-Norman, there will be no betrayal in raising up warriors to defend a reborn England. As already begun, Normans and Saxons will fight side by side to protect their families and homes.”
Her belly clenched. More and more, William demanded military service from Saxons. Grudgingly or otherwise, most came when called lest they lose what remained of their possessions. Hence, it was not only Normans who put down rebel uprisings.
As Guarin intended, she questioned what she did and if, in the end, all she would have to show for her efforts was more spent Saxon lives.
Doubt, she silently rebuked, also a disease, then said, “Since we cannot know what the ages will tell of these days, each of us must do as we believe right.”
“The
n this is where we part, Hawisa. For now.”
Though it would be better were it evermore, she lightened at the prospect of seeing him again. “My men and I will leave peaceably,” she said, “and I think it best ahead of you.”
“I am well with that.”
She adjusted her belt, tugged at the tunic bunched above it, and hoped their audience had not noticed its disarray by hands that should not have strayed where they had. “To me!” she called to her men.
“One thing ere you go,” Guarin said. “As Dougray will not ask it of you, I shall.”
She raised her eyebrows. “If I can answer, I will.”
“Aelfled mentioned Campagnon’s slave was at Wulfen the night of Jaxon’s attack.”
“She was.”
“Cyr tells Dougray was moved by the young woman’s plight when he witnessed Campagnon’s ill treatment of her at Balduc.”
Swept with guilt over what Em had suffered—and never spoke of—Isa said tautly, “Continue.”
“I would know if she is with you still, and if not, whether you can get word to her.”
“Of what?”
“As told, Campagnon has sold his sword arm and those of his fellow mercenaries to William. It is said when he is not earning coin, he searches for his slave and that her unusual eyes will prove her undoing. I would but see her warned so she may take herself far from these lands.”
“She will be warned, but do not expect her to allow Campagnon to dictate where she goes, nor for her to fall victim to him again. Better than when she found herself on an auction block separated from her brother for the pleasure of that knave, she knows how to defend herself. Now is there anything else Dougray wishes me to pass to her?”
He shook his head. “I will inform my brother.”
“Godspeed, Guarin.” She strode past the posts she did not doubt would be removed the same as their fittings.
As she swung atop Anglicus, six of her men drew around her.
“He has agreed to allow the castle folk to return to Wulfen,” she told them.
Ordric glanced at where Guarin stood unmoving. “Then we go south.”
“We shall speak of that later.” She looked past him, saw Vitalis slow as he drew even with Dougray.
The two exchanged words obviously of a hostile nature, then Vitalis laughed and lengthened his stride. To ensure the way he had entered the camp was not easily discovered, he would depart with her and the others.
As he neared, he called, “D’Argent!” acknowledging the Norman no longer the captive over whom he had charge. With the exception of Dougray whose offense was too great to forgive, Isa’s man had little cause to dislike the D’Argents beyond their Norman blood.
“Vitalis!” Guarin answered, and added, “I trust you will give your lady good counsel.”
“Ever I do.” He gripped Anglicus’s bridle and led Isa and the others from the camp toward the horses tethered beyond the ravine.
“We will meet again,” Guarin said as Hawisa went from sight.
Out of the corner of his eye seeing Dougray approach, he turned. His brother paused before the posts, considered them, then Guarin. Had there been any doubt he understood their purpose and that of the cave despite little evidence of fettering, there was none when he halted before Guarin.
“And yet you want that viper,” he said with less accusation than expected. “Careful, big brother. Our king might suffer Cyr taking a profitless Saxon to wife, but she who set against him Rebels of the Pale? Never.”
“Careful, little brother,” Guarin growled. “You offend in treading ground absent foundation.”
“Then it was just a kiss of gratitude? Thank you, Dotter, for releasing me when I had little hope of returning to this side of death’s door?”
He was only guessing—another thing at which he excelled—but Guarin was tempted to reverse the curve of his mouth. Fortunate for Dougray, there was a less painful means than a fist to be rid of that smile.
“She is most comely,” Guarin admitted, “and you must concede there is something exciting about one of the fairer sex possessing a facility with weapons.” He nodded. “Fire there, and of the sort only a man of foolish pride would put out were it even possible.”
Dougray’s lids narrowed.
“From what the lady tells, you should expect the same of…” Guarin feigned searching. “…Em, I believe Campagnon’s slave is called.”
Dougray’s mouth flattened and teeth parted as if to respond, but he did not. He now knew the young woman lived, remained with Hawisa, and was being trained in the art of weaponry.
He pivoted and stalked toward the others, a moment later, turned back. “Dotter is aware Campagnon paid no price for his treachery, that once more he and his men are loosed on the Saxons?”
“I told her. She will inform her people of the danger.”
Dougray resumed his stride.
“I think you will see her again,” Guarin murmured. “Then better you will understand Cyr and me. And if that is where you wish to go, perhaps you shall gain what I cannot.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Nottinghamshire, England
Late Spring, 1069
Your blood, Woman! My blade laps it up!”
Back slammed to the chest of the man who required no sword to slay her, Em kept her chin up while lowering her gaze to the flat of the sword whose length jutted from beneath her jaw and tapered to a point past her left shoulder. No blood on its edges, though there ought to be—and would be were she once more a warrior’s plaything.
“Tell, Saxon”—his breath in her ear made her throat close—“what will you do?”
What twice now she had failed at, she determined and slowly slid her left hand over her abdomen and between her breasts. Then she exhaled and shot her fingers up and around the blade alongside her jaw. Feeling no pain, she thrust the blade forward while driving her right elbow back into muscle-clad ribs. As her assailant grunted and jerked, she lunged forward, released the blade, and ducked beneath its sweep.
Her shout of triumph doused by their audience’s boisterous response to a contest that had seemed no contest at all, Em whirled around to ensure her opponent did not set himself at her again.
Never before had she seen Vitalis smile so large it could be known his lower teeth were crowded unlike the upper. He was handsome in a way other men were not, features so hard-boned and rugged she imagined Goliath of the David story had looked the same, though likely the one felled by a perfectly slung stone had lacked red hair.
“Better a bandaged hand than a slit throat,” he said and tossed aside the sword that was unmarked by her blood only because it was wooden, its edges rounded.
Glancing at her fingers and palm, she acknowledged the pain would be great were they sliced. But he was right—still she would live.
She might have returned his smile if not that she yet felt his body against hers and it required effort to keep from retching water and bread that was all she had allowed herself in anticipation of this lesson. That humiliation she would not suffer again.
“Well done, Em.”
Those words spoken above the commotion of the others returning to their training, brought her around. “I thank you,” she said as Lady Hawisa halted before her. “Have you decided if I should join Vitalis’s sorties or your patrols?”
The former, she hoped. Though the daughter of Wulfrith was formidable, her skill at arms surpassed by only a handful of male rebels, Em’s respect waned with each refusal to lead the Rebels of the Pale in joining Edwin Harwolfson now the castle folk were no longer a consideration.
Month after month, Hawisa reminded those who tired of waiting that not only were they needed here, but they must increase their ranks and skills for what lay ahead. However, most believed the same as Em it was past time they went south.
As for Jaxon whose presence at Harwolfson’s side was confirmed five months ago, surely past offenses and vendettas would be set aside, it being imperative Saxons unite. The Rebels o
f the Pale might not be great in number, but their fierce reputation had spread beyond this southeastern corner of Nottinghamshire where they vanquished Normans who trespassed, stole, maimed, and murdered. Hence, all these present would be welcomed by Harwolfson and, in turn, Jaxon.
“I have not decided where to place you, Em, though Vitalis concurs the patrol may be the best fit.”
“But my lady—”
“’Tis not decided.”
Em glanced past her to Eberhard who, having added more muscle and half a hand’s height since his reunion with his sister, increasingly looked the warrior. “My little brother is of the sortie. Should I not be as well?”
“Enough, Em.”
Once more it rose to mind Hawisa was as jealous of Eberhard’s sister as his sister was jealous of the woman who had played his mother, but Em told herself, I am grateful she kept him safe. Even if she knew.
Hawisa stepped nearer and set a hand on her shoulder. “Patience is among the most difficult virtues a warrior must master. This is a good occasion to practice it.”
“That I shall do,” Em said with as little grudging as possible.
Hawisa gestured at Eberhard. “Your brother would like to engage you at spears.”
Engage, meaning instruct. It was wrong to be offended that she who was grown should be taught by one who was not yet a man. True, he had more experience and skill, but it grated, especially as she was refused the sortie after successfully escaping Vitalis.
Lest anger make her sound a girl she should have been longer and never would be again, she strode toward Eberhard—long, unhampered strides, the advantage and protection of men afforded her since she had flung off her gown and wrenched on chausses and tunic. Never again a man’s plaything!
Isa stared after the young woman whose training had progressed poorly in the beginning, though not for lack of desire and courage. So affected was Em by close contact with men, it had been necessary to match her only with those of her sex. But no longer. If one looked closely, they could see she remained affected, but now she well enough tolerated contact that if still she shamed herself, she did so out of sight.