by Tamara Leigh
As the rebel leader’s men reined around, the king returned his attention to Jaxon. “It occurs I shall be in possession of not one trainer of Wulfrith warriors but two. But how to choose between them—and choose I must since it would test the patience of your keepers to hold both, whether you are at each others’ throats or joining forces to work your worst on them.” William looked to Harwolfson’s men who neared the Saxon army.
Guarin’s heart doubled its beat, alternating between fear for Hawisa and anticipation of being near her again.
“A contest!” William exclaimed. “That will decide it. We shall, indeed, have a battle upon Darfield.”
All that implied made Guarin’s muscles cramp and his cousin’s grip threaten the bones beneath.
The king’s gaze landed on him. “Make no mistake, Guarin D’Argent, I know whom you would have be victorious and what tempts you to do what my vassal ought not. Your brother, Cyr, set me right on Hugh’s failure to overcome the influence of his nephews’ sire.” His eyes shifted to Maël’s hand on his cousin. “Oui, Sir Maël, I think you must, especially if you do not wish to earn your king’s ire.” He turned forward.
“Be still,” Maël said as his cousin’s breath poured in and out.
“Loose me,” Guarin growled.
Maël complied. He did not wish to come to blows with his kin, but it would come to pass if Guarin did not heed the lessons taught him—not all of which applied to Hawisa.
“See here, Dotter comes as commanded,” the king pronounced. “We shall yet tame this Wulfrith.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Were it possible to make an enemy of Vitalis, she had done so in refusing to allow him to accompany her to the gathering of hostages, a summoning that portended ill.
Just as her man had seen it in the eyes of those who came for her, so had she. The harsh words she had spoken to keep Vitalis from following she heard again above the voices of the Saxon army who pondered aloud her place in the giving of hostages as she urged Anglicus past.
Words that cannot be unspoken, only forgiven, she told herself as she set a sedate pace between her escorts, then pushed Vitalis to a corner of her mind and acknowledged she was to be a hostage.
She had been relieved when earlier Harwolfson called forth notable rebels he believed Le Bâtard would accept and she was not among them—nor Vitalis who not only rivaled Jaxon but had youth to his credit. That she was summoned meant William had noted the absence of one who might prove as desirable a hostage as her sire’s man.
She looked to Jaxon whose stance was defiant where he stood before the conqueror and thought how different his captivity would be from Guarin’s. He would not be chained nor beaten without cause. Watched closely and never allowed too near the king, he would be permitted to move among his enemy—providing he presented no obvious threat. But would he be able to push his hatred deep enough to await an opportunity to wreak vengeance on the greatest number of Normans possible? She did not believe it.
And this lover of one Norman who shall likely dwell alongside Jaxon may find herself at his mercy.
The distance between the Saxon army and hostages closing, Isa shifted her regard to Le Bâtard. Sitting tall in the saddle, mail coif lowered to reveal brown hair and a hard-boned, clean-shaven face, he watched her.
Hoping her slow progress frustrated him, Isa looked to Guarin mounted alongside his cousin—on his other side Maxen Pendery who had not been there minutes earlier. Had Le Bâtard ordered him there, or had he himself sensed the need?
She could not read Guarin’s eyes, but she knew his body, its tension further confirmation of her fate.
Control your emotions as I know you are capable of doing, she silently entreated. I could not bear causing you to lose more than already I have taken. I dug this path deep and wide. It is mine to walk.
She returned her attention to Le Bâtard, and when she and her escort halted behind the hostages, that one called, “Lady Hawisa Wulfrithdotter Fortier, we are pleased you deigned to answer our summons.”
He thought to bait her. And she thought to bite. “’Twas no hardship,” she said in her language, having heard his attempt to learn hers was proving more difficult than learning the lay of her country. “Already I was here and curious to look near on the one who confiscated the remainder of my lands though I paid the ransom—er, tribute.”
The hostages chuckled.
The usurper glowered. “You know my language, Lady. Use it!”
“Pardon,” she said in Norman-French. “As king of the English for nearly three years, I assumed you had conquered our language as long ago I conquered yours.”
She vexed him, but what had she to lose that she had not already? Thinking her reasoning sound, she repeated in his language what she had spoken in hers and added, “And a most generous tribute it was.”
“Sufficient for a loyal vassal, Lady Hawisa, but there is a cost for treason, and yours was forfeiture of Wulfen.”
“But that is not the only cost, is it?” She swept her eyes over the hostages, lingered on Jaxon who had yet to look at her. But they would have time aplenty to face the other in the years to come.
“You do know your place, Lady Hawisa,” Le Bâtard said. “That pleases me.”
The last thing she wished to do. “For my people, I accept a hostage’s yoke and assure you as long as you hold to the terms made with Edwin Harwolfson, I will give no cause to fear this Saxon amongst Normans.”
“Hostage?” He smiled. “Perhaps.”
Frowning, she nearly looked to Guarin, but too much it would reveal her. Instead, she shifted her regard to Harwolfson who sat before the hostages.
“Look to me to answer your questions, Lady Hawisa,” William commanded. “He can only guess, though a good guess, I believe.”
She sat straighter. “Am I or am I not to be your hostage?”
Some men shrugged their mouths as expressively as their shoulders. William was among them. “How can I know?” Before she could speak words she ought not, he said, “What do you think, Jaxon? Will you become my hostage or the lady you betrayed?”
No answer.
“And a dishonorable thing that, hmm? In betraying her, you betrayed her sire who surely entrusted her safety to you.”
In the Norman-French he despised, Jaxon spat, “It was his Saxon daughter entrusted to me, not a traitor to her own.”
William raised a hand. “Calm yourself. You shall have a chance to further betray.” He returned his regard to Isa. “You lied to Sir Maël—hence to me—when you professed you knew naught of training up warriors. And yet see what you have made of scrabble—men and women my warriors take the long way around when they pass over that portion of Nottinghamshire.”
There was no denying it now she sat before him in armor and wearing sword and dagger in place of psalter and keys that opened locks a lady required to keep her household in order. “Of course I lied. Would not your Matilda were Norman ladies capable of defending their homes and lives alongside their men?”
He ought to take offense, but he smiled. “Oh lady, I shall enjoy this contest. And you shall as well, Jaxon. Revenge, hmm?”
Isa blinked as the taunts and hints of what was to come slammed into place.
“That is correct, Lady Hawisa, much to the distress of Guarin D’Argent and Edwin Harwolfson, Jaxon and you shall meet at swords.”
Her sire’s man turned to her, and she saw no satisfaction on his face. But then, he did not believe in women possessing anything sharper than a meat knife. He might hate her for ending the Wulfrith line and finding good in some Normans, but great the shame of fighting a woman regardless of who won—and more so before an audience of Normans.
“I am as much aggrieved with Jaxon as he is with me,” she said, “and just as I am certain he will decline to entertain you with the slaughter of a fellow Saxon, so shall I.”
“I do not speak of a fight to the death.” He shifted in the saddle. “I wish to see your skill against that of an esteemed
warrior and Jaxon’s against that of one born of Wulfrith. And as you are wont to deceive and he near withers at the prospect of proving himself against a woman, we require great incentive to gain your cooperation.”
Though Isa felt Guarin’s gaze, she held hers to the man who was too pleased with himself. When he spoke no further word, she knew he required prompting. “What great incentive do you offer?”
“First, let me instruct my new subjects in something with which they are deficient—how to respectfully address their king.”
“I know how to address my king!” proclaimed a hostage she had been told was a former thane who led two hundred rebels east to join Harwolfson. “That I would do were King Harold not in the ground.”
Several concurred, but if William was angered, it did not show. “When you speak to me, regardless of whether I welcome your efforts to engage, you will begin or end with My King, My Liege, or Your Majesty. Even My Lord is acceptable though less preferred. Now ask me again, my lady.”
Heavenly Father, I hate him, she silently appealed. Give me strength. “What great incentive do you offer, My Lord?” That last was low, most of her breath spent on the words come before.
“Freedom. Whichever of you betters the other to the extent you could take their life will go free, while the vanquished becomes my hostage—not as valuable, but useful in ensuring Harwolfson does as told.”
Hope that had flickered through Isa flickered out. She was proficient at arms, but what chance had she of besting Jaxon? No matter his bones grew old and his speed suffered for it, surely his experience and greater strength would be impossible to overcome. And that was as Le Bâtard expected.
Hence, I shall be completely under my enemy’s control, Isa thought, just as Guarin was—
Not the same, she admonished. I may be confined for a lifetime, short though that of a caged bird, but what was done him will not be done me.
She longed to look to him, but just as she dare not for fear Le Bâtard would glimpse her feelings for his vassal and wield them as a weapon against her, she dare not lest her disquiet move Guarin to act against his self interest.
As she stared at William, she considered all she would give to see amusement wiped from his face if she did best Jaxon. If she won her freedom.
Her heart beat faster, muscles twitched, palm longed for the sword.
I can best Jaxon, she told herself. I am faster, lighter, a woman whose skill he underestimates. I am a Wulfrith.
“But no matter how you may wish to slay your opponent, do not,” William said, “for I require a hostage be made of one of you.”
Then a wrong slice would see the victor’s freedom disavowed. Le Bâtard was clever, easily overcoming their objections to entertaining him by offering liberty, playing the hand of benevolence in forbidding the death of the defeated, and ensuring no matter the outcome he possessed one knowledgeable in the ways of Wulfrith, even if that one refused to lend him that knowledge.
“’Twill not be me,” she whispered. “I will gain my freedom.”
For however long he permits you to keep it, a voice whispered.
Ignoring it, she said, “Your terms are acceptable…My Lord.”
Le Bâtard laughed, that deep ripple more genuine than before, and as she gazed at the man peeking out from behind the devil, she saw he was not as old as first thought. Mayhap only a dozen years beyond Guarin.
“I am thinking you will be a welcome addition to my court, Lady Hawisa.”
Further proof he believed her contest with Jaxon already lost.
“That is, if Jaxon prevails.” He looked to the warrior. “Are my terms acceptable to you?”
He laughs at us both, Isa thought and steeled herself for Jaxon’s gaze.
As she stared back, she wondered what he saw in looking upon her sire’s only daughter who had been of little consequence born after so many sons. Might he remember the teetering child…the girl of middling years…the girl on the threshold of womanhood…the young woman who survived every one of her brothers? Or did he see only the woman she presented now who donned clothing and weapons he found offensive and whose hatred of the Normans was unequal to his own?
Her throat tightened. Never had he been one to show affection, but he had been kind to her during the best of times, tolerant during the worst as when she rejected marriage to his son and shortly thereafter bowed to her father’s desire to wed her to a Norman of good stock—one who, following Wulfrith’s death, Jaxon found himself serving. He had detested Roger but remained at Wulfen, though only because she birthed a son to continue her sire’s line.
So much hope Jaxon had for Wulf. And so much anger when Isa’s weakness caused the grandson of his beloved lord and friend to pass from this earth.
“You do not believe me, Jaxon?” the usurper prompted. “You think the word I give is the word I take away?”
Jaxon flexed muscled arms bound behind his back. “You give your word loosely, William of Normandy,” he said in his enemy’s language, eschewing the title Isa knew would never pass his lips. “Many are my countrymen who, fools they proved themselves, bent the knee for naught.”
William’s eyebrows rose. “As I have learned from your countrymen and women”—he nodded at Isa—“bending the knee once does not a loyal subject make. Ever too much weight on the back leg of a Saxon. But enough petty talk. Accept my terms as I speak them or do not and two hostages of Wulfen I shall have in my stable.”
“I accept,” Jaxon said. “Now unbind me and give me a sword.”
“Non!” Guarin bellowed, and Isa’s heart nearly fled her chest that it was for her he lost control of emotions he had kept leashed during all the days and months of his captivity.
Seeing his attempt to spur his destrier forward was thwarted by his cousin on one side, the Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings on the other, she whispered, “Hold him back. Save him from me.”
He thrust with elbows and fists, drove a knee up into his cousin’s gut.
Cease, Guarin! she silently beseeched. This gives Le Bâtard power over you. Over me. Over us.
He slammed the back of his head into Maxen Pendery’s face, causing the horse beneath him to snap up one foreleg, next the other as if to rear. Then Guarin found his release and spurred toward her. But both Pendery and his cousin were fast after him, the former driving his destrier into Guarin’s and turning him into the latter’s path before veering away. A moment later, Maël D’Argent launched out of the saddle, slammed into his cousin, and carried him off the opposite side amidst a spray of arrows sprung from Guarin’s quiver.
They hit the ground hard, and as the voices of their audience rose, the king’s man who landed right side up thrust back and slammed a fist into Guarin’s jaw. But if he thought to knock his cousin senseless he failed, possibly because many were the blows Isa’s captive had sustained from vengeful rebels.
Guarin returned the favor of a fist, causing the one straddling him to lurch back, but as he wrenched at the hilt of his sword whose angled blade was pinned beneath him, his cousin drew a dagger. Its cross guard flashing blue, he swept it to Guarin’s neck.
Still Guarin dragged at his hilt—until Maël D’Argent bent near and barked something. All that could be heard of their exchange was the rumble of their voices, then silence.
There seemed more pleasure about William’s eyes and mouth than displeasure, and when he looked back at Isa, she knew he had verified Guarin’s ties to her were far from rooted in revenge. This was not all about Jaxon and the lady he betrayed, nor the rebel leader and the hostages who would ensure Harwolfson kept the vassal’s oath. This was also about Dotter and her Norman captive. Hence, though Guarin had satisfied much of William’s curiosity, she would not herself—not out of stubborn pride but to deny the usurper greater power in knowing she returned Guarin’s feelings.
But what will he do with what he has been given? she wondered. Naught if I can beat Jaxon. And I shall.
Maël D’Argent stood and offered a hand to his cousin.
Guarin clasped it and was heaved upright. He rolled his right shoulder, next his left above which the quiver on his back evidenced he retained few arrows. Then he drew his bow off, set its lower end in the dirt, and gripped the upper as if to support himself—support he did not need no matter how hard his fall.
Pray, do not, Isa silently appealed.
“I have set my cousin aright, Your Majesty,” Maël D’Argent called and waved a dismissive hand at Maxen Pendery who walked his mount toward them. “Your loyal subject accepts it is for his king to determine who challenges Jaxon for the freedom of one or the other of these Saxons. However, he requests you consider he has a greater right for having been the knave’s prisoner.”
“You propose to fight in the name of Lady Hawisa, Sir Guarin?” William asked.
Isa sealed her lips against protest, certain no matter who had more right, Le Bâtard would see her and Jaxon at swords.
“I do, my liege! Jaxon and I have unfinished business.”
“Ah, but if you prevail, your victory would earn the freedom of another of your jailers.” He jerked his chin at Isa. “How do you reconcile that?”
Guarin stared, and she was glad he made no attempt to deny her involvement, certain it would delight William.
“Worry not for the lady, Sir Guarin,” his king said. “Regardless the outcome, she shall live.”
Maël D’Argent’s hand was on his cousin again, and as more words were exchanged, Pendery looked to William.
His liege shrugged mouth and shoulder, jerked his head to direct him back to his side. “Ensure your cousin does not forget himself again, Sir Maël,” he called. “Though this is all very interesting, my patience thins.” He motioned two of his men toward Jaxon. “Unbind and arm him. And you, Lady Hawisa, dismount.”
She touched the hilt of sword and dagger, looked to the sparkle of blue on her belt.
You are with me, Guarin, she thought, and seeing William had turned his attention to Jaxon, ventured a look at the man for whom she felt and found he watched her. Is it possible you feel as much for me as I feel for you? Should I gain my freedom—