FEARLESS: Book Two: Age of Conquest

by Tamara Leigh

  Seeing Em had reached her brother, Isa shifted her regard to Eberhard who had left behind the last of the boy when they fled Wulfen. He was a fine young man, now of an age near that of Wulf when she followed her son to Senlac and…

  Isa’s thoughts ran to the man who continued to administer Wulfen for Le Bâtard. When last she saw Guarin, she had declared all she had left to her was her tattered name and what remained of her followers, but she had Eberhard. She knew better than to love him, but it was hard to resist motherly feelings for one who loved her despite the loss of Wulfen, their dangerous and arduous existence, and his sister’s disapproval that became most obvious when her brother defended Hawisa’s decision to delay joining Harwolfson.

  Restless Em. Resentful Em. Revenge-bent Em. Before long, she and others would go south—if it could be determined there was a greater chance of prevailing over being slaughtered. Should Isa add her numbers to those of Harwolfson, she hoped it would be after Guarin returned to Normandy. However, were he yet in England, it was possible they would not face each other across a battlefield since William had not summoned him earlier this spring to aid in relieving York of the rebel forces attacking that city.

  Was it tragedy or blessing neither had Harwolfson and his followers been present with Edgar the Aetheling who had sought to assert his claim to the throne? Had they joined the northern rebels, perhaps they could have taken and held the city—even so thoroughly defeated the conquerors Le Bâtard would have abandoned England. Conversely, they could have fallen alongside their fellow Saxons, snuffing out the resistance’s last great hope. Tragedy or blessing, it could not be known, but it was believed Harwolfson was weeks from challenging William for the heart and soul of England.

  For naught? Isa pondered. As Guarin had warned, would it be better if her rebels remained here where they excelled at relieving the common folk of Norman oppression and violence?

  “My lady?”

  She had heard the one approaching and known it was Vitalis from the muscled weight grinding dirt underfoot, just as she knew for what he came.

  “I am ready,” she said and turned.

  “Jonah! Edith!” he called to those who, unlike the others who had witnessed Em’s victory, had not returned to their own training.

  Together, the four strode to the crude structure that stabled horses nearly as numerous as rebels. The Normans who menaced the Saxons of this region might escape with their lives providing their injuries were not dire, but not their fine mounts—nor weapons, armor, and coin.

  A quarter hour later, Anglicus beneath her, Isa charged Vitalis to demonstrate for Jonah and Edith one of many techniques for wielding weapons astride.

  She shouted and swung her sword to meet her man’s. As her blade slid up off his, she ducked and continued past, then reined around and urged her mount alongside Vitalis’s—her side of strength with her right hand free to slash at her opponent, his side of vulnerability with his sword-wielding hand forced to cross over his mount to meet her steel.

  “Ho!” Isa shouted and slapped the flat of her blade against his left shoulder.

  He laughed and, as they slowed, said, “I have taught you well, my lady.”

  He teased. Though the techniques he began developing upon Wulfenshire were the foundation of their mounted combat, together they had perfected them to rival the Normans whose use of horses in battle had given William a great advantage at Hastings.

  “So you have,” Isa said, then they spurred to those who watched from atop their own mounts. Shortly, Edith charged Vitalis and Jonah charged Isa.

  Until dusk, the lady and the housecarle instructed those born to earth and plow in the ways of the warrior in the hope united Saxons would conquer the conquerors.

  “They amass!” Zedekiah shouted as he reined in, silencing all gathered for the evening meal—for a moment only, then they were on their feet, murmuring…chattering…shouting.

  Now, Isa thought, heart pounding as she watched the burly man swing out of the saddle. Two and a half years after Hastings, it should not feel too soon. But surely better that than too late.

  Lord God, let it not be too late, she prayed, then rose from the log she had settled on before the fire and commanded, “Be still!”

  Likely as much for her authority as the need to learn details of the amassing, the scores of rebels quieted.

  “Speak loud for all,” she directed Zedekiah.

  He halted alongside her. “Harwolfson and the usurper are to meet. The place—Darfield before Andredeswald. The day—five hence. The call—all able-bodied Saxons true to the blood, the bone, and the marrow are to rally to Harwolfson armed with whatever weapons can be brought to hand.”

  “At last we go!” someone cried.

  “All they have done to us we shall do to them!” another shouted.

  “We shall cast them into the pit, the dark, the bloody abyss,” yet another kindled embers that would birth fire.

  “Slit their throats, spill their innards!”

  A roar of approval sounded. And there the fire.

  Isa tensed at how quickly it rose through their ranks, but it was less disconcerting than the joy chasing it.

  “Quiet!” she commanded thrice before being heeded. But even then, not all quieted—until Vitalis threatened to relieve them of their tongues.

  “Hear me,” Isa said. “I would have this be what we have long awaited, but lest we end the same as our men at Hastings and those at York, we cannot go blindly into this.”

  “Blindly?” Em cried where she stood on the opposite side of the fire. “We see all we need see—the place, the day, and the call for true Saxons to add their strength to those worthy of taking back our country.”

  “Aye!” the rebels chimed as Isa looked between the young woman and her brother.

  Unlike his sister, Eberhard did not bristle with anticipation. At ten and two, he knew his limitations and those of the less seasoned among them.

  “I do not say we will not go south, Em,” Isa said. “I say first we look near on what we know and, as much as possible, learn what we do not.”

  “Five days!” exclaimed an aged Saxon whose fissured face appeared to have been mistakenly set atop the body of a fit young man. “That is all we have, and as most must be spent on the journey to Darfield, we can waste none looking for answers when we have one now. It is time our training benefit all of England.”

  “We will not risk our lives for naught,” Isa snapped.

  “Naught?” Em scoffed. “You think so little of our country?”

  “I think much of England, but ahead of the land, I think of the lives—ours here and the people of the villages we protect. I would not see them end as did all those at York whom Le Bâtard let rot where they fell.”

  “For which we shall avenge them,” Em countered.

  Isa strode forward, and the young woman advanced to meet her.

  “Do not!” Eberhard lunged between them, looked across his shoulder at his sister. “Lady Hawisa is our leader. She but wants what is best for us.”

  Em stepped alongside him. “Wanting and giving are two different things, and more right I have than many to question whether she knows the difference.”

  A chill went through Isa. Not here, she silently entreated. Not now.

  “What say you, Em?” Eberhard demanded.

  “Ask your beloved lady!”

  “Ask her what?”

  All but the three having gone silent, Isa said, “Let us speak in my tent.”

  “Nay, here.” Em narrowed her eyes. “Or are you so ashamed you cannot bear others knowing the truth—that you knew?”

  Vitalis stepped alongside Isa. “My lady?”

  She glanced up at the one who knew what Em sought to unveil before all. “So be it,” she whispered and nodded. “Aye, I knew, Em.”

  The young woman released her breath, in a quaking voice said, “How long?”

  A grunt of frustration sounded from Eberhard. “Of what do you speak, Em?”

&
nbsp; “I but ask Lady Hawisa how long she knew your sister was at Balduc, a slave to Campagnon—how long she kept you ignorant I was near.”

  “She did not know until the night you came to Wulfen.”

  “That is as she wished you to believe.”

  Eberhard opened his mouth as if to offer further defense, but Isa said, “Your sister is right.”

  He shook his head. “You could not have known long.”

  She swallowed. “As you are aware, I was at the auction. Unlike you who raged at being parted from your sister, I heard the name of the one who purchased her—the Norman rumored to have been awarded a portion of my lands.” Though pierced by the disbelief on Eberhard’s face shifting toward horror, she continued, “The rumor proved true the same as the expectation he would bring Em to Balduc.”

  His sister advanced another step. “And you made good use of me—persuading me to pass along information by assuring me Eberhard was safe among England’s rebels.”

  “That was my doing,” Vitalis said. “You were well placed to inform us of Campagnon’s plans and vulnerabilities, and knowing my lady would not approve, I had the stable lad enlist your aid. For it, your anger is my due. But what was done was done, and rather than outraged, you should be proud of how much suffering you averted.”

  “I am, but—”

  “You knew!” Eberhard stepped toward Isa. “You whom I came to love as a mother knew where she was—how she was abused—and said naught! Did naught!”

  If I have not him, I am all emptiness, Isa silently bemoaned. “Forgive me, Eberhard. Forgive me, Em.”

  “Forgive you?” his sister scoffed. “You kept us apart.”

  “Enough!” Vitalis snarled. “She is not to blame. The laws of slavery—”

  “As long I suffered beneath those laws,” Em shrilled, “be assured I know them.”

  “It was of your own choosing,” he retorted. “You and your brother sold yourselves into slavery—for a noble cause, aye, but it was your decision and you had to know what could happen to you.”

  Eberhard bared his teeth. “We were to be sold together so we could protect each other.”

  “As well you know, it was the auctioneer and lustful men who determined otherwise, not Lady Hawisa.”

  Some of the color drained from Em’s face, but not her brother’s.

  “Now,” Vitalis continued, “instead of being grateful what befell you was not as terrible as it would have been were Em sold to one who would have made a joy woman of her, and thankful you were given the protection of a noble life, you fling stones at the woman who made it possible for you to reunite.”

  Anger of a depth never before seen on Eberhard’s face surfaced, and it took all Isa’s will not to embrace him.

  “And do you forget you were offered a means of escape, Em? At great risk to herself and those who would have done her bidding, my lady sought to free you from that devil, but you declined, determined to strike at Campagnon in the only way available to you.”

  The young woman looked nearly stricken. Nearly. Vitalis’s arguments might be well founded, but fact and reasoning alone would not unwind to its good end the ball of anger she carried. She needed time, prayer, and only the Lord knew what else.

  Isa’s thoughts went to Dougray and his interest in this young woman—and veered away. Even if he could overlook she was Saxon the same as the warrior who had taken his arm, there was little hope Em could set aside he was Norman the same as the man who had abused her.

  “I am sorry,” Isa said. “Truly, I am.”

  “You should be,” Eberhard said. “Even could you not aid her, you ought to have told me where she was.”

  “I wished to but feared…” She raised her palms in a gesture so helpless she was ashamed.

  “Feared what?” Tears brightened Eberhard’s eyes. “I would choose my sister over your failed attempt to keep hold of Wulfen?” He nodded. “I would have. And had you refused to aid me, I would have myself freed her from that…ravisher!”

  Em gasped.

  “What?” he demanded. “You think the boy whose hand was torn from yours at auction reached to you only out of fear for himself? I knew what goes between husband and wife, and as we journeyed across England learned from the lament of many women those same things go between masters and slaves even if the slave is unwilling.”

  The young woman’s face now the pale of the moon, she clapped a hand over her mouth, whether to hold in emotions or the contents of her belly.

  Eberhard returned his gaze to Isa. “You knew what was happening to her—”

  “Enough, boy!” Vitalis stepped before him. “Even with all your training, this day you could not stand against Campagnon, let alone all those it would be necessary to get past to reach him. You talk big, but your mind”—he jabbed a finger to the young man’s forehead—“is small.”

  “Cease!” Isa cried a moment before Eberhard swung a fist.

  Vitalis caught it in his palm, closed his fingers over it. “Even smaller than thought,” he rumbled.

  Isa gripped his arm. “He is upset, and rightly so.”

  “I am not a child in need of defending!” Firelight convulsed across Eberhard’s contorted face. “And you are not my mother. You wished only to use me—never cared for me.”

  His declaration dropped her onto her heels.

  “Vitalis,” Em said softly. “Pray, release him.”

  He opened his hand, and the young man snatched his arm to his side.

  His sister stepped in front of him. “’Twas not as bad as you think—as I make it sound. Vitalis is right. Had you come for me, Campagnon would have…” She set a hand on his jaw. “You were safe with Lady Hawisa, and I was where I needed to be.”

  He lurched backward. “I may not be a man, but neither am I a boy. I will kill Campagnon for what he did to you, and as many Normans as I can put through for what they have done to England.”

  Heavenly Father, Isa appealed, he sounds like my Wulf. She reached to him. “Let us speak, Eberhard.”

  “No more talking! ’Tis time we do. When all make for Darfield, dare not think to leave me behind. I shall go with you, even does my life end.” He pivoted and strode toward the tents.

  All stared after him, and when he went from sight, Em said, “I did not mean that to happen, Lady Hawisa, but there is so much tearing at my insides trying to get out.” Momentarily, she closed her eyes. “Once he cools, I will make him see sense.” She dropped her arms to her sides and strode after her brother.

  Isa looked to her rebels whose fate must be determined—though not by her. “Let us gain our rest. On the morrow, we will speak of the great gathering in the South, but at the end of words, each man and woman decides their own way forward. As I shall decide mine.”

  Murmuring amongst themselves, the Rebels of the Pale began dispersing.

  Isa looked to Vitalis. “’Twas deserved,” she said. “As you urged, I should have told Eberhard and Em long ago.” She shook her head. “I feared this, and I have made it more terrible by letting it happen now.”

  “You love the boy,” he said as if that were all the excuse needed. “But you must not yield to him no matter how high he heaps guilt. He is twelve, and though great his skills, he is not ready to face warriors nor take lives.”

  “This I know, and that he will hate me all the more, especially if Em determines to go south.”

  “He may think he hates you, but he does not. You have been a mother to him as he has become a son to you. Given time, he will see that.”

  Wishing she could wrap her arms around his certainty, wishing she could feel for him what she felt for Guarin, she said, “I pray you are right.”

  “May the Lord grant you good rest, my lady.”

  He is Saxon, she told herself as he strode opposite. He is here. His heart wishes to beat in time with mine. Instead, my heart beats out of time with another.

  She peered at the night sky flecked with light. Would she look upon this same sky at Darfield before
the battle to be fought there? Would Guarin? Would next she see him on the side of her enemy?

  “Pray not, Lord,” she whispered, then lest she lose Eberhard as she had lost Wulf, went in search of him. But unlike her son, he did not lay plans nor await the right opportunity. The boy who was not a boy, but not yet a man, was gone.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  King William’s Camp

  Darfield, England

  She was not here. He had to believe it lest he compromise his ability to do his duty. His family’s lands in Normandy and those here depended much on how well the D’Argents conducted themselves. Better than most of William’s followers, better than Campagnon and his fellow mercenaries, they must make a good showing on the morrow when what was believed the Saxons’ last great stand was toppled, the rebels’ defeat paving the way for England to begin settling and healing.

  “God willing,” Guarin rasped.

  “God willing,” Cyr agreed.

  Guarin looked to where his brother stood to one side of him on the ridge overlooking the unsuspecting meadow that was to become a battlefield. Guessing Dougray and Theriot on his other side also heard, he considered Cyr’s face lit by moonlight and torches set around the immense camp.

  Do I but imagine he looks a father? Guarin wondered. Or are his eyes a brighter green? Have some of the creases of his face realigned, others deepened? Alongside joy and pride, surely that is greater concern now he lives not only for himself but his wife and the helpless babe presented him a fortnight past.

  “You fear the lady has come,” Cyr said so low the others would have to strain to catch his words. “You fear she is in yon wood at the right hand of Harwolfson.”

  “I do. Though my scout brought word the day ere we rode from Wulfenshire she and her rebels remain encamped, that does not mean they did not depart thereafter.”

  “You must not dwell on it, Guarin. I like it no more than you that come the morrow once more we set ourselves at those who conquered this land before us, but William has our oaths. If we do not honor them in defense of our lives and the lives of others who now make England their home, it will be our blood more greatly feeding the streams carved into the battlefield. And the Saxons with whom we are becoming one, who depend on us for protection and stability, may find themselves beneath the heel of one like Campagnon—or worse.”