FEARLESS: Book Two: Age of Conquest

by Tamara Leigh

  She looked around, eyes moist searched his face as if to make sense of his presence, then said, “It was you. Your arrow. You—”

  “D’Argent!” Jaxon rasped past frothing blood that wended down his jaw and pooled in the hollow of his neck. “Who wins, eh? Not she whom you made a hostage.”

  So it might appear. Though Guarin had resisted interfering when her opponent dropped her to her knees, once the warrior gave William what he required—proof he could end her life—in that moment Hawisa became the hostage. And the arrow had flown to ensure the vengeful Saxon did not snap her neck.

  Jaxon moved his shuddering gaze to Hawisa. “I could have done it. If not the eye, the…great vein.”

  Confirmation the dagger she had not yielded was destined for William, a consideration secondary and distant to Guarin’s need to save her.

  “Traitor!” Jaxon gasped. Then his back arched, mouth worked like that of a fish plucked from water, and eyes rolled up.

  Their audience quieted, and Guarin knew William had commanded it.

  As death eased the warrior back to earth, emotions swelled through Guarin. Relief—indeed. Satisfaction—God help him. Regret—for the hostage Hawisa had become.

  He looked to where she sat back on her heels, head down, golden hair a mussed halo of braids clinging to her crown.

  “It was necessary,” he said.

  Her heavenward-facing hands resting atop her knees as if in submission curled inward.

  “I could not risk him killing you, Hawisa. And already you—”

  She slammed her hands to the ground, pushed upright, and turned to him as he rose beside her.

  “You and your revenge!” she cried in his language, eyes bright with tears, throat muscles straining, skin flushed where bruises would soon appear. “You could not be satisfied with anything less than his death, could you? And though I kept you from the worst of him and you profess to feel for me, look what you have made of me!” She flung a hand toward the king. “A hostage to that devil!”

  Guarin expected anger over her circumstances, but not directed at him alongside blame for what Jaxon and William had conspired to make her. “Hawisa—”

  She swung the hand that had refused Jaxon the dagger.

  He caught her wrist. And released it the moment he saw pain fly across her face. “Hear me, Hawisa!”

  “Hear you? Non, hear me! I did not want nor need your aid. Now I have no hope because you could not resist vengeance.” She drew a sharp breath. “Not only upon my sire’s man but me, hmm?”

  He delved her face, wondered what worked behind it. Had her feelings for him shifted so far? Or was she not thinking right? Did despair at her loss of freedom make her publicly cast words she would later regret? And one could not discount the effect of the contest. As with many a warrior who survived battle and the accompanying bloodlust, panic, desperation, and relief, it could be days before they came back to themselves—if ever.

  “That is it!” She laughed bitterly. “Because I resisted your efforts to woo me—could not stand the thought of your Norman hands on me—you did this.” She narrowed her eyes. “Leave my ruined country, return to your beloved Normandy, and think no more on the Saxon who rejects you.”

  I do not believe her, Guarin told himself. This has to be for William’s benefit, not mine.

  Or do you merely wish it to be? doubt suggested.

  He unlocked his jaw. “We will speak later.”

  “Non! I wish never to see you again.” She started to turn toward William, glanced past him. “Do not forget your dagger. If ever it was of use to me, it is no more.” She gave him her back. “Providing you are sated, My Lord, this hostage requires a physician.”

  I do not believe her, Guarin more firmly asserted. In sparing me no humiliation, she seeks to spare me worse.

  “Come, daughter of Wulfrith.” William beckoned. “We shall see you properly tended and attired as befitting a guest of the king.”

  Guarin turned. He had no difficulty locating the dagger that made its bed amid grass, its gold and silver a sharp contrast—and more so, the sapphire in the throes of entertaining sunlight. He hesitated, then closed his hand around the hilt and wondered that it did not feel foreign after all this time.

  He considered the initials that lacked evidence of an attempt at erasure. That Hawisa had not betrayed her keeping of the dagger beyond giving it to Vitalis did not surprise, but her man… That did surprise.

  The D’Argent dagger returned to its rightful owner, no infamy for having slain a king, Guarin started back toward Maël. As he did so, he looked to Harwolfson who, his cause having brought Hawisa south, bore nearly as much blame for her captivity as Jaxon.

  Still, it was impossible to hate the man who had made the right decision for the Saxons and Normans who would have ended their days here, quite possibly among them D’Argents—and Hawisa.

  Determining no matter the cost, he would speak with her, he continued forward and swept up his bow.

  Now to retrieve the young man he had kept from William’s clutches as he had not Hawisa.

  King William’s Camp

  Darfield, England

  No chains these, but still bondage.

  Isa ran her gaze over the ermine-edged sleeves falling from her wrists and guessed the gown belonged to one of the Pendery ladies.

  Lowering her arms, she looked down the bodice and skirts that were the blue of a sky passing from day into night—not as dark as the mantle given her captive, more the shade of the gem set in his dagger.

  “Guarin,” she breathed. Nearly yielding to emotions contained since William’s physician tended her injuries hours past, she distracted herself by continuing to inventory her appearance.

  Her boots of scuffed leather peeking from beneath the hem were no fit for the gown. The belt girding her waist was as plain as it was useless in the absence of keys, purse, and scabbard. And her hair… The best she had been able to do was unravel her braids, finger comb the tresses, and work a single plait that fell down her back.

  She dragged it over her shoulder, stroked the crossings, shifted on the stool she had sat upon since accepting no relief could be had pacing the tent’s confines while those posted outside talked and laughed.

  Will I laugh again? she wondered. Will Guarin?

  “How deeply did I wound you?” she whispered, hating it had been necessary to be cruel in denying Le Bâtard power over Guarin and her. But providing she was believed, threat to the man she loved could not be used to force her to give Norman troops the advantage of Wulfrith training. And should she escape—

  She choked back a sob. As a guarantor for Harwolfson’s conduct and that of the Saxons who remained with him, she could not seek her release.

  “You will behave, Hawisa Wulfrithdotter,” she said. “For however many years you are held, you will be silent and respectful, giving none cause to smile or laugh no matter how they taunt. Indeed, mayhap they will grow so bored you will be deemed a waste of time, clothing, and food, and they will set you out.”

  Or lock you away, reason snatched away hope.

  “Not entirely silent,” she amended. “Occasionally respectful, from time to time showing just enough Wulfrith to keep their interest the same as a…pet.”

  She pressed her lips to hold back another sob, and for the dozenth time since being left alone, moved her thoughts to Eberhard. How was she to discover if he was well? If he had, indeed, returned north? If he was able to reunite with Em?

  Since she did not believe the young woman would join Harwolfson in making a new life beneath the watch of Maxen Pendery, would she unite with others to continue the fight? Would she drag Eberhard into what seemed hopelessness?

  From outside the tent, a familiar voice amid the unfamiliar straightened Isa’s spine. His next words, “Stand aside!” made her jump up. The snap of the tent flap made her set her chin high.

  He straightened from ducking inside, and in two strides stood before her.

  Noting a bruise o
n his clean-shaven jaw, she guessed Guarin had dealt it in order to come to her aid.

  The chevalier’s own eyes moved over her, paused on her bruised neck, then her bandaged hand and wrist the physician believed suffered no broken bones. “Lady Hawisa.”

  “Sir Maël.”

  “I am to deliver you to our king.”

  “Then it is time.”

  “It is.”

  Doubtless, a spectacle would be made of choosing hostages. Would Le Bâtard line them up and, as done by buyers at auction, inspect them as if those for sale were the beasts? Whatever the humiliation, already she was among the chosen ones, and yet still she would suffer degradation.

  It is your lot, she told herself. You must become accustomed to it.

  “I have no good regard for one who made my cousin suffer things unimaginable for a D’Argent,” Sir Maël said, “and barely Christian tolerance after so worthy a man and warrior exposed himself to derision and punishment to preserve your life. But for Guarin who should not care what befalls you, I will do you a kindness.”

  She swallowed hard. “Much appreciated.”

  “You are to have a private audience with King William.” His eyebrows rose, the scarred right not as far as the left. “Or nearly so.”

  It was kind of him to ease her angst over being humiliated far and wide, but that did not mean his king intended her any kindness. Perhaps her fate was to be worse than that of the other hostages and he wished to savor it alone.

  “I thank you, Sir Maël. Lead and I shall follow.”

  The corners of his mouth rose. “Not an easy thing for a Wulfrith, I imagine.”

  “You imagine right, but you are wrong to imply such is exclusive to my family. None of my people, from the noblest to the least noble bows easily to brutes. Simply, some cannot resist as long as others. And I know it is the same with Normans as your cousin proved. And for that…” Momentarily, she closed her eyes. “…this is my due.” She started past him.

  He caught her arm. “Speak plainly, Lady.”

  “Of what?” she said though she knew she had led him this direction, albeit unintentionally.

  “You were cruel in rebuking Guarin before all, and yet still my proud cousin cannot hate you. Why? And do not tell me he is a fool.”

  She could not name Guarin that. Though she longed to refuse the king’s man further insight, perhaps if she unburdened some of what weighted her, she would be less vulnerable to William.

  She looked to the chevalier’s hand on her and, when he released her, said, “I fear Guarin did not believe me. Thus, I need your help. Not for me. For him.”

  Despite the distrust, perhaps revulsion on his face, it made the unmarred side no less handsome—unlike the other that was nearly sinister.

  “If he did not believe me,” she said, “and the bleeding of his pride was insufficient to make him cast off my confession, you must persuade him to leave England before he makes an enemy of William.”

  “What confession do you speak of?”

  “I did succumb to Guarin’s attempts to woo me, but it is more than desire I feel for him.” She moistened her lips. “It is love. I know he cannot feel as much for me, but I fear he may be moved enough to lose more than he has since first he sought to protect me. Pray, Sir Maël, make him go home.”

  His eyes were like knives, slicing away her layers in search of a different truth, but finally he said, “He is his own man, but I shall do my utmost to see him reclaim his inheritance.”

  “I thank you.” She smoothed her skirts. “I am ready for William.”

  He grunted. “No one is ready for William.”

  Not even Edwin Harwolfson and his great army, she thought. But they live, and I am happy for it. Much praise, Lord.

  “Come.” The chevalier started forward, then came back around. “What is it about the women of England that so ensnares, especially you with your warrior’s ways that ought not appeal in the absence of soft and sweet?”

  She peered into a face never before seen—almost childlike in his desperation to grasp what must be understood before another step forward could be taken. Though tempted to refuse him an answer, she said, “Perhaps the blood of long gone shield maidens yet courses our veins—the determined, hard, and fierce appearing when it is not enough for our men to defend family, home, and country. Perhaps you sense it. See it. Thrill to it.” She nodded. “Very possible, but you are wrong to believe there is no soft and sweet when armor and weapons are shed, Sir Maël. For the right man.”

  “God’s rood!” he muttered. “Does this not end with you, Saxon women may be the downfall of the D’Argents.”

  “Else salvation,” she said, thinking of Aelfled who had tamed a merciless Norman and whose child born of their union had forged a stronger bond between conquered and conqueror.

  “Salvation not needed,” the chevalier scorned. “Hence, I shall guard against going where my cousins have gone.”

  She smiled. “Guard away, Sir Maël, but do you truly find the women of my country offensive, best you return to Normandy. If you do not, you may never leave.”

  He glowered, motioned her to follow.

  Chapter Forty

  Bend the knee.”

  Hawisa remained upright, eyes on the one who had made her wait long before turning from the table he bent over—his perusal of the map of Darfield not feigned but neither necessary now the battle was averted.

  Upon entering the tent, other than a glance at Guarin where he stood in the back right corner, she had not acknowledged him. And so still had she gone, cradling her bandaged hand in the other, raised chin exposing bruises on her neck, one could almost believe her turned to stone.

  “I know you heard me, Lady Hawisa,” the king said. “Now let me witness with my own eyes you have become a loyal subject so I need waste no time verifying it should you betray again. Bend the knee—non, both knees.”

  Nearly all color except that of her bruises draining from her face, she remained unmoving. But as William’s shoulders rose to give volume to displeasure, she dropped so hard the ground shivered.

  “Both knees…My Lord.”

  William strode forward and caught up her chin. “You can do better. Try My Liege.”

  “My Liege,” she croaked.

  “Now Your Majesty.”

  Her nostrils dilated. “Your Majesty.”

  “You will master it.” He released her. “Assuming, of course, you have many an opportunity for practice.”

  Guarin stiffened, saw Hawisa also heard the threat. Whence did it come? Was she not to be a hostage? Deemed too divisive, imprisonment her fate? Exile? Surely not death, that a punishment William deemed barbarous—providing one was noble and had satisfactorily yielded to his superiority.

  Guarin looked to Maël where he stood alongside the table.

  His cousin shook his head, either at a loss or unable to offer insight at this time.

  “Are hostages not given the same consideration in your court as they were in King Harold’s and King Edward’s before him?” Hawisa asked.

  “They are, Lady. But I have learned something that may disqualify you from that comfortable life.” He looked to the guard opposite Maël, the same who had drawn near the king on Darfield. “Pierre de Balliol, tell again what you witnessed on Senlac following the battle.”

  Inwardly, Guarin groaned. Here more cause for his summons—not only punishment for interfering with the contest between Jaxon and Hawisa, but for not revealing who slew William’s companion.

  “Your Majesty,” the guard said, “upon the hill where the usurping Harold fell, I witnessed the murder of your companion.”

  Seeing Hawisa’s gaze waver, her throat convulse, Guarin gripped his fingers in his palms.

  “Though it was night and light was wanting, I saw a golden-haired woman stab your esteemed companion and a Norman warrior of an age to have silvered hair force her off the hill, onto a horse, and into the wood. This day, I thought it possible Lady Hawisa was that murderess,
but when Sir Guarin came to her aid, I knew it was not the first time he safeguarded her.”

  The king returned to Hawisa. “Tell me it was not you.”

  Her chest rose with breath and she raised her eyebrows. “Why would I deny it? It is as true as it is what was done your esteemed companion was justified.”

  “How can murder be justified, Lady?”

  “I came in search of my son, a child I did not yet know was slain by a Norman. Your companion attacked me, and you surely know what he sought. Thus, it was not murder that saw him slain but defense of my person.”

  William dropped to his haunches before her. “You say he violated you?”

  Rather than fling denial in his face as she had when Guarin probed the extent of the assault, she stared. Might she confirm violation, even if only to gain grace?

  “Lady Hawisa?”

  Her tongue clicked off her palate. “Violation was his intent.”

  “That is not what I ask. Did he or did he not ravish you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does!”

  Another deep breath, then, “I do not know.”

  William shoved to his feet. “This your confession—you slew my man for doing something he may not have done?”

  Now a sharp breath, and Hawisa thrust upright, so near the King of England that had she a blade he would be dead.

  It surprised he did not knock her down. Was he as stunned as the others? Or did he sense the warrior at his back would not think well before once more defending her?

  “You play with me, Lady Hawisa! How can you not know whether or not my companion violated you?”

  “That day was a dark one for those who fell and those who fled, but it was a darker night with few to answer the calls of the dying who but wished not to be alone as they passed amid carnage.” She swallowed. “That is what I walked through, my skirts so soaked in blood and gore I felt the weight in my shoulders as I prayed over and again none of it was my boy’s.”

  A tear spilled onto her cheek. “How can I not know what was done me? Unlike you, I felt much for what happened on a meadow more ravished than ever I could be. Thus, perhaps God in His wisdom chose to spare me remembrance that might…” She muffled a sound of distress. “Though the loss of my son is so unspeakable I am no longer whole, I am not broken as my enemies wish me to be. What I am is justified in defending myself, whether to stop your companion from ravishment or continuing to ravish.”