by Tamara Leigh
“It is, My Lord.”
“Perfect.” He held it out to Guarin who, without a glance, closed his fingers around it.
William chuckled, demanded, “Now where is that priest?”
Chapter Forty-One
Go to her, Baron Wulfrith. Make me Wulfriths mightier for their Norman blood.”
I must be well with this, Guarin told himself as he exited the tent and lengthened his stride to sooner distance himself from William.
“Guarin!” Cyr called.
Equally resentful he was followed and relieved it was not also Maël and Theriot, Guarin did not break stride. But when his tent on the outskirts of camp came in sight and the footsteps quickened, he turned.
Cyr halted so abruptly a cloud of dust arose. Amid flecks shimmering in the last of day’s light, he held up a hand. “Peace be with you, Brother.”
“Peace?” Guarin said. “Brother?”
Cyr sighed. “Whether you are Guarin D’Argent or Guarin Wulfrith, ever we are brothers.” He jutted his chin toward the tent. “Peace now she is yours as Aelfled is mine. True, at the expense of your pride, but I recall how great your concern for her after she and Vitalis freed you, just as I do not forget our conversation when you were installed at Wulfen.”
Guarin ground his teeth.
“You made it sound a jest that England suited you and I remain our sire’s heir, but she is what you want. Some will talk of what you yielded for such a woman, but that is just it—such a woman as they have never seen and can never have. And then there are her lands. Jealousy will fall from men like scales from a snake, but it is jealousy worthy of what you have gained. Break some teeth, break some ribs, break some limbs, and it will dry up.”
Guarin wanted to accept the balm he offered, but he could not drag himself all the way down from the heights of anger to which a pride trampled one too many times had carried him.
Cyr set a hand on his arm. “Though it appears you are angry with Lady Hawisa and much it satisfies William, you are not. When I was told for what I was summoned, I was displeased, but throughout the ceremony I weighed her offenses against her losses and the return of my brother who lives because she willed it. When Father Fulbert led from the tent a woman so downcast one would think a cold cell and chains awaited her, I accepted the only thing for which I can fault your wife is blaming mine for the loss of her son when it was the boy’s guile that led to his death.”
Recalling his defense of Hawisa when Cyr had shared what Aelfled had withheld from her lady, grudgingly Guarin said, “More than your wife, she blames herself for the loss of her son.”
“Regardless, when it is well between you, I ask the truth be revealed no matter how it hurts or angers her. Before I take my family to Normandy, I would have her and Aelfled further reconciled so my wife does not unpack that burden in the home we make with father and mother. Perhaps it will even lighten your wife’s guilt.”
“I will tell her, Cyr. But are you truly pleased to be our sire’s heir?”
“Much I care for my wife’s country, but I yearn for Normandy. As she is willing to go where I go, that is where we belong.”
Guarin looked to the tent where his own Saxon bride awaited him and knew she was where he belonged though she was not as biddable as Aelfled—or perhaps because she was not. Fire there, he had told Dougray, one only a man of foolish pride would seek to put out.
Lord, he silently beseeched, more than ever, let not pride be my downfall.
“And I believe Wulfenshire is where you belong,” Cyr said.
Guarin nodded. “It seems I must set my mind to titling myself Baron Wulfrith without hesitation or resentment.”
Cyr stepped near, clasped Guarin’s arm. “Peace be with you, Brother.”
“And you, Brother.”
Cyr smiled. “Now release your bride from her prison.”
“Providing she has not battled her way past Father Fulbert and fled, I shall,” Guarin said, not entirely in jest.
Cyr chuckled and turned on his heel.
“She is what I want,” Guarin said as he watched his brother go from sight. “What Baron Guarin Wulfrith wants.”
“He comes, my lady!”
Isa jumped up from the pallet, bent to retrieve the blanket sliding down around her calves.
“Leave it!” Father Fulbert sliced a hand where he stood alongside the tent flap. “You are modest enough.”
She straightened. As she smoothed the bodice of her chemise, she caught the crunch of boots. Then Guarin tossed back the flap.
“Baron.” The priest inclined his head, gestured at Isa. “Your lady wife and the bed—er, pallet—are blessed and blessed again. Be fruitful.” He ducked outside, only the sound of the settling flap testament to him having been within.
Were she not so tense, Isa would smile at how different he was from the priest who had seen Roger and her put to bed, a task so solemn and lengthy she had nearly screamed.
As Guarin peered over his shoulder at where Father Fulbert no longer stood, she traveled her gaze from his long, silvered hair, to the dagger finally returned to him, to his boots. When she looked up, his eyes were on her.
“A peculiar priest,” he murmured, then perused her—making her wish she had loosed her braid as the priest had suggested.
“Your hand?” he asked.
She followed his gaze to her bandaged fingers and palm. “Naught broken. All will heal.”
He nodded. “I wished to tell you sooner, but there was no opportunity. The boy, Eberhard, has been in my keeping since last eve when Maël and I discovered him near the king’s tent.”
She gasped, and became so light of head she nearly lowered to the pallet. Her boy was safe. Here answered prayer, the Lord surely having set Guarin in Eberhard’s path.
“Welcome tidings,” the man now her husband said.
“Most welcome! When we could not find him in Harwolfson’s camp, it was hoped he had returned to Nottinghamshire. Where is he?”
“When King William summoned me, I asked Dougray to keep watch over him. No harm will befall him.”
“I thank you. Eberhard is vexed, not only with Campagnon for abusing his sister but me for not sooner reuniting them.”
“He will come around.”
Would he? she wondered, but in the next instant all wonder—and apprehension—was for the man striding toward her.
Though her chemise was of tightly-woven thread, she longed to cross her arms over her chest, a gesture that would make her appear painfully chaste though she was familiar with a husband’s touch.
Guarin halted and raised a hand.
Reflexively, she stepped back, causing him to open his palm as if to assure her he would make no fist of it. Of course he would not. He was honorable. Worthy. A man as God intended him to be.
“I wish only to look,” he said, then lifted her chin and examined the bruises on her neck whose colors she could only feel.
“They are unsightly?” she asked.
He met her gaze, and she saw the hard of his eyes had softened. “Unsightly only to one who was not quick enough to prevent them.”
She moistened her lips. “Where is your anger, Guarin?”
“I make peace with it.”
“I am grateful, but after all I caused you to lose and the humiliation you are made to bear, I would not begrudge you anger. Still, I would have you know the words I flung upon Darfield were not intended for you. Ere you slew Jaxon, I knew already I was in William’s power as ever I was meant to be. I spoke them only to deny him more control over us after once more you proved you cared for me—and at the cost of relations with your cousin.”
The corners of his mouth grooved. “I did not take Maël unawares. Lest I find myself removed by William’s guard, we made it appear I yielded to reason. Lest my cousin incur the king’s wrath, it was agreed were it necessary to defend you, I make it look I overpowered him.”
Remembering what once he had told, she said, “First, in between, and in the end,
you are D’Argents.”
“So we are. As for the arrow, I flew it first for you, Hawisa, second for William.”
“You knew what Jaxon intended?”
“It took no strain of the imagination, and neither for the king, I believe. But though William was wary, I think it possible Jaxon could have landed a blade. You knew it as well, did you not?”
“When he had me on my knees, he said that was his intent.” She glanced at her bandaged hand. “Though tempted to yield the dagger, I feared the meadow would become a battlefield if William fell.”
“So you accepted your plight—to become his pawn.”
“The same as you.” She nipped her lip. “I am sorry for your lost inheritance and that you are forced to take my name.”
“Wulfrith…” His shoulders rose with breath. “My pride suffers for it, so much it will be difficult to shake out its creases and mend its holes, but I know what my sire will say once he accepts his son is to be known by a name not his own—injury to hubris is a good thing in the eyes of the only one whose opinion ought to matter.”
“The Lord,” she said. “And yet still you have cause to be angry.”
“Only over my pride.”
Her hopeful heart swelled. “Truly?”
“Truly. As told, I make peace with it—much gratitude to Cyr.”
She recalled Aelfled’s husband standing between Sir Maël and Theriot D’Argent during the exchange of vows. A glance revealed one unhappily bearing witness, but when next she looked, Cyr had offered a sympathetic smile.
“What has he done, Guarin?”
He released her chin, caught up her hand, and considered the ring of the departed Queen Emma. “Wulfrith red,” he murmured. “I would prefer D’Argent blue on your hand.”
“The sapphire.” She glanced at his dagger.
He nodded, then said, “Cyr reminded me you are what I have long wanted, so much I would wish to return to Normandy only were you denied me. There is a cost, as there should be for something precious, but now you are mine as Aelfled is his.”
Her throat tightened. “Is it possible you love me as much as I love you?”
He set her hand on his chest, and she felt the thump of his heart. “Mayhap better the question—Might you love me as much as I love you, Hawisa Wulfrith?”
She loosed her breath and leaned in, as he gathered her close remembered how impossible this had been. “When you kissed me at the stream,” she whispered, “I believed that was the most I would have of you.”
“And now you find yourself wed to another Norman.”
As she had wished never again to be, but the man she loved was far more than a Norman. “I feared that, but you have made good your claim to keep the Lady of Wulfen from William’s wrath, and though you have brought me into the Norman fold, it does not feel a yoke.”
He slid a hand up over her back, brushed fingers across her neck. “Never that for one who is to me what Matilda is to William, though I am determined to be more deserving of my wife.”
She lifted her head. “The king does not regard Matilda as chattel?”
“I know it is difficult to believe, but she is so beloved none can carry tales he defiles the marriage bed, and so much he esteems her, he entrusts her to govern Normandy in his absence.” He narrowed his lids. “I wonder if his regard for his wife’s strength and determination saved you more than did his desire for Wulfrith training.”
“Certes, not as much as you saved me.” She frowned. “Do you think we have fooled him?”
“I think it possible we have as much as I think we have not. Regardless, he has the Wulfrith training he wants, but more on our terms than his.”
“Because of you.” She pushed onto her toes and considered his mouth. “I am wondering if my husband’s kiss is as breathtaking as…”
“…your captive’s,” he said what she caught back, then, “I would live the past again to be here with you, Hawisa.” He raised a hand, and the cuff of his sleeve fell back. “If ever you question how much I love you, look upon these scars and know I am glad for them.”
Looking upon them now, remembering all he had suffered for her, she did not understand how he could forgive her—more, how he could love her. “Guarin,” she breathed, then took his hand and pressed her lips to his wrist.
“Nay, Hawisa, here.” He caught up her chin and moved her mouth to his. Then he kissed her so deeply the world with all its troubles and sorrows began to recede.
And now we shall become one, she thought as his hands explored the small of her back, curve of her hips, dips of her waist.
Strange his caresses were more unfamiliar than familiar. Roger had touched her the same, but she had not felt then as she did now.
Because this man I want. This man I love.
Breathing in his scent, she began her own exploration of the one with whom she would spend her life.
And then he set her back just as he had in the cave.
As she watched, he bent and reached past her, straightened and drew the blanket up over her shoulders. “Long I have waited for you, Wife. I can wait a while longer.”
“Why?” At his hesitation, she said, “Because of what I am not certain William’s companion did?”
He brushed the backs of his fingers down her cheek. “That and all you have endured this day. Just as I would give you time to prepare mind and body to lie with me, I would have you rest and heal.”
She parted the blanket and reached a hand to his jaw. “It is almost three years since Senlac.”
“And yet when you stood before William, I saw and felt the memory of it.”
“Ever it will be with me, but less the assault on my person. That is mostly haze. What affects me is regret—rather, moments.”
“Moments?”
“Moments I could have used to better defend myself had I more practice at arms. Moments Roger denied me by banning me from Wulfrith training though much counsel he required after my sire’s passing. He said such is not for ladies, even those born of Wulfrith—that it is for men to protect them. But that night it was only I on the battlefield. Until there was you.”
“And I came too late.”
“You did not. I saw the others coming for me—of the same intent as William’s companion. You appeared when you were needed most. And now you are needed again.”
He searched her face.
“You for whom I have long waited, Guarin. You for whom I can wait no longer.” She settled her body against his. “I would make love.”
“You know not what that does to me,” he growled.
She leaned up and brushed her lips over his. “I do know. That is why I do it. Now, pray, give answer, Husband.”
Once more his arms came around her, once more he claimed her mouth, once more he learned her curves. Then he eased her onto the pallet, and as night drew curtains around the camps on both sides of Darfield, she drew the curtain of his silvered hair around her. And silently beseeched the Lord that were there Wulfriths in her womb, He would make D’Argents of them.
Worthy sons and daughters…
Chapter Forty-Two
Her feet atop his. Again. Her back to his front. Again. But this time, the only chain between them was that which bound hearts one to the other. And all the stronger it was that it seemed not even a shadow of what had happened to her on that hill cast itself across their nuptial night. In equal measure, his wife had given and taken.
“Hawisa,” he spoke into the dark lightened by the moon and torches beyond their tent.
She curled her toes over his. “Husband?”
“Once you told our lives were entangled—and rued it.”
“Because you were soon to learn a portion of my lands had been awarded to Cyr, thus how very near your family whilst you were my captive. But I do not believe our lives entangled now.”
“What, then?”
“Intertwined, gently twisted together, yet stronger in the absence of snarls and knots.”
He slid his hand
to her abdomen. “Strong, as will be our children.” Feeling her unease, he pushed onto an elbow. “You wish children with me, do you not?”
She turned onto her back, and he saw the sparkle of her eyes. “I do, but ’tis only possible if God is done punishing me.”
“Punishing you?”
“And my people—my loss of Wulf, the Saxons’ loss of England…”
Guarin nearly chided her for thinking such but recalled his own struggle to believe otherwise during captivity. “You accept our Savior, do you not, Hawisa?”
Her breath caught. “Though your William further justifies his invasion by claiming Saxons are heathens in need of reform, I am Christian the same as you.”
He cupped her jaw. “As thought, but you are mistaken to think God punishes us. As my sire impressed on me, because of our Lord’s sacrifice, God corrects us as a father does a beloved child, allowing us to suffer consequences for our actions in the hope we return to Him and respond differently the next time.”
“Still, it feels punishment,” she said, “and cruelly unjust for the thousands of Saxons who have suffered for sins not their own.”
“It does, but as also explained to me, we err in believing because we follow God He will keep us from trials and danger. I forget which scripture was given me, but it ends on sorrowful assurance that time and chance happen to all. Sinner and saint. Norman and Saxon.”
“Then you never questioned God for what befell you for aiding me? The caging? The chaining? The beatings? You never rebuked Him?”
Guarin sighed. “You catch me out. Far easier to preach another back to God’s grace than one’s self. Aye, I questioned and rebuked Him, especially in the beginning when I was so angry it was with much grudging I acknowledged I suffered for the consequences of raising a sword against your countrymen—and later when, having confessed my sins, He made me wait on deliverance. But ever I knew He was not to blame, just as I know if we are not blessed with children, it will not be because He punishes us.”