FEARLESS: Book Two: Age of Conquest

by Tamara Leigh

  He sensed disbelief as she considered that, then she said, “I disappointed Roger in bearing only Wulf, and more greatly I would have disappointed my sire had he lived beyond learning I was with child. But more than them, I fear disappointing you.”

  Guarin brushed back the hair whose crossings he had savored loosening during their lovemaking. “If children do not come of our love, I will be disappointed, but not with you. My feelings for you will change only to grow.”

  “You are certain?”

  “Once in anger, I taunted I would prove a good husband. Now, in love, it is my vow, Hawisa Wulfrith.” He kissed her.

  “Much you comfort,” she whispered against his lips. “Much you heal. As I pray, I comfort and heal you.”

  “You do, Wife.” He lowered to his side and drew her close.

  When a quarter hour passed and it was obvious she was no nearer sleep than he, Guarin said, “I remain curious why your sire wed you to a Norman rather than one of your own.”

  “Ah, that is quite the tale.” She drew back, raised her face to his. “And of great import.”

  “Even more curious.”

  She set a hand on his chest, traced the muscle up to his collarbone, slid her fingers over his neck. “When I was a girl and still my sire had male heirs, he considered matching me with Vitalis.”

  That did not surprise, nor a stab of jealousy. “You felt for him?”

  “Only ever as a friend, but I would have preferred wedding him rather than Roger—and certainly Jaxon’s son.”

  “Jaxon has a son?” Guarin did not temper his surprise.

  “Had. He fell at Stamford Bridge.”

  First came relief vengeful kin could not set themselves at Hawisa, next greater understanding of Jaxon’s hatred for invaders whether they were Norwegians or Normans.

  “His son was a brute,” Hawisa continued. “Fortunately, my sire agreed he was not a good match. And so…Roger. Not only did King Edward wish our union, but my sire. He had no great love for your people but, more than most Saxons, cause to esteem them.”

  “For what?”

  “As a young man, tragedy befell him, and it was men of Normandy who saved him. He thought them the most formidable warriors. And as Hastings proved and especially the D’Argents, he was right.”

  “Especially the D’Argents?”

  “Excepting your uncle, all your kin survived the great battle. And though Cyr and you earned William’s wrath, still you are well enough regarded to be placed in positions of authority.”

  “As with any ruler, one is either valuable or disposable, Hawisa. I came near to being the latter.”

  “Methinks that is as William wishes you to believe—his rules, aye?”

  “His rules,” Guarin murmured, then asked, “What tragedy brought your young sire into contact with Normans?”

  “He did not heed his sire’s warning as often his own sons—my brothers—did not heed his and my son did not…”

  In the silence drawn around her was opportunity to keep his word to Cyr, but despite her concession Wulf was at least partially responsible for his downfall, Guarin let it pass. They would speak of it another night.

  “Continue, Hawisa.”

  “My sire fled an argument with his father, recklessly riding unescorted from Wulfenshire into Lincolnshire. There he happened on slavers destined for the coast and determined to free one of the slaves—a beautiful young woman.”

  “Reckless, indeed.”

  “He was captured, beaten, and added to those destined for sale in the mediterranean. Had not a great storm grounded the ship on Normandy’s shores, likely our line would have ended since he was my grandsire’s only surviving heir.” She sighed. “My sire had cause to believe we are not a hardy lot. For all my family’s reputation, better we train up others to survive. We know what we ought not do and demand others learn self control, yet we yield to impulse. I fear we are reckless.”

  “If that is so,” Guarin said, “methinks the D’Argent joined with the Wulfrith can set that aright. Now tell how your sire escaped.”

  “Normans patrolling the beach determined to confiscate the cargo, and though their numbers were small compared to the ship’s crew and slavers, they were the victors. Upon discovering most of the cargo was human, the Normans slew the ones spared, naming it an offense against God to sell those made in His image, then freed the slaves. Thus, my sire gained the woman he desired and brought her home to wed—much to my grandsire’s objections.”

  “Because she was a slave?”

  “More because he thought her delicate. You recall when I spoke of the deaths of my brothers and told my sire feared our line weakened?”

  “I do.”

  “Fearing the same, my grandsire wished to wed his son to a woman of strong stock—tall, large-boned, generous of hips. However, my sire ignored his warnings, and though his wife gave him many healthy sons, only his daughter survived. I think recklessness more our downfall, but with each loss of a son he became more convinced he should have heeded his sire, and when I was all that remained, he determined to wed me to one of those he deemed worthiest. A Norman.”

  “Then he regretted wedding your mother.”

  “Perhaps, though I know he loved her very much.”

  “I am guessing it is because of your parents’ ordeal there are no slaves on Wulfenshire.”

  “You are right. Nevermore were slaves permitted on our lands. That is, until I purchased Eberhard, but I burned his papers and would have done so even had he not agreed to aid me in keeping Wulfen out of William’s grasp.”

  “It served, and the boy is better for it.”

  “Still, I have wounded him.”

  “Such wounds heal, as you shall see when he goes home to Wulfen with us.”

  “Home,” she drew out the word. “I did not know I could better like the sound of that, but you make it wondrous.”

  “As do you, my Wulfrith bride.” Guarin turned her onto her back, lowered his head, and once more claimed her mouth. His wife tasted of salt and earth, of sweet and soft, of longing and loving—but more, of the impossible made possible by God’s grace.

  Epilogue

  Wulfen Castle, England

  Autumn, 1069

  York had fallen. Though Edgar the Aetheling had failed last spring to take that city, he succeeded months later by joining forces with King Sweyn of Denmark when Harwolfson’s aid was not forthcoming. A great victory over the Normans, but greater the price to be paid for it.

  “More Saxon blood,” Guarin acknowledged what those who continued to rebel refused to accept. William the Great and his army were coming. Had they not yet passed over Wulfenshire on their journey north, soon they would. Within days, the rebellion would be defeated.

  “Non, decimated,” he corrected. Had the king any patience left before York fell to the rebels, it was in ashes.

  Gripping the missive whose seal he had yet to break though it could contain tidings of William’s progression, Guarin rasped, “Lord, let it be swift and done, the king and his men soon returned south.”

  He rubbed his temples, drew his hand over his head to the leather thong binding his hair.

  “Taken to ground!” called one whose voice soothed regardless were it whispered or shouted. “’Tis no more!”

  He turned Anglicus toward the woman whose booted feet forged a path through the grass between castle and wood. Upon setting eyes on his beautifully disheveled wife who had cause to struggle more with the battle to come than he, he smiled as he would not have believed possible in this moment.

  Within the donjon where she served as Lady of Wulfen, Hawisa wore gowns whose unlacing—at times gentle, other times fervent—pleased him. But upon the field where she personally aided in training those accepted at Wulfen, she wore tunics, chausses, and boots. There was pleasure in their removal as well, especially when they made the waterfall their bath following a long, arduous day.

  “My lady is quite the sight,” Guarin said as she neared, th
en looked past her to the boys and young men who had paused in their labors to watch the final strokes of her sword put finish to the wooden post whose only victory was that of dulling her blade.

  The ranks of warriors in training were growing, now fifteen Normans to fourteen Saxons. And on the morrow, once more Hawisa would balance the scales with the addition of a youth from the village of Ravven.

  Halting alongside Anglicus, she shaded her eyes against the sun at his back, denying him sight of the grey depths in which distress had resided these past days since word arrived of York’s fall. She did not exalt in the rebels’ triumph, accepting the same as he the lives lost on both sides would prove for naught. Bloody rumblings only.

  “Now the pel is taken to ground, does my wife feel better?”

  “I do,” she said with unexpected lightness.

  He leaned down and ran a thumb across her cheek, turned it to show the dark upon it. “You are a mess. At day’s end, we should venture to the falls.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Methinks I can be persuaded.”

  He wished to go there with her now, but there was much training to be done in the hours remaining of daylight.

  Hawisa nodded at the missive delivered minutes earlier. “You have not opened it.”

  “’Tis from Cyr.”

  “You think it tidings of your brothers and cousin?”

  Their whereabouts when York fell was unknown, but it was possible one or more was among the injured and slain Normans—just as some of her former Rebels of the Pale might be among the fallen and victorious Saxons. Even Vitalis.

  “That or William’s progress,” he said.

  She extended a hand. “May I?”

  He wished he had opened the missive, but though tempted to refuse, the protection afforded her would not be appreciated. Unlike Roger—and no matter the king’s disapproval—Guarin allowed her to be the Wulfrith she was born. There were limits, but he aspired they should never feel a yoke.

  He passed her the missive, and as she broke its seal, returned his gaze to the fenced paddocks outside Wulfen’s walls. He was not surprised their audience had not returned to their weapons and wrestling, Ordric and the other trainers having taken the older boys to practice in the wood—and with them Eberhard.

  Hawisa was a distraction, a curiosity to the younger, an attraction to the older. Thus, much discipline was required to keep them on task when she was on the training field, and though Eberhard had yet to fully forgive her, usually he was the first to rebuke and thump on those who showed inappropriate interest in the lady he no longer named his mother.

  Greater discipline being required as the boys grew nearer men, Guarin hoped when the blessing he and Hawisa quietly awaited was bestowed, she would be receptive to spending less time outside the hall.

  “Resume your training!” he bellowed.

  As pages and squires hastened to do as bid, Hawisa said, “There is no word of your brothers or cousin.”

  Guarin looked at where she bent her head to the unrolled parchment.

  “Cyr but says once confirmation is received they are well, Aelfled and he will pass Stern into our keeping and cross to Normandy.”

  Though grateful his brother had not immediately departed England after Darfield, it was too soon to lose him. Much he would miss Cyr’s companionship, but hopefully Dougray or Theriot would return to Wulfenshire to administer Stern. Until then, Aunt Chanson and her new husband would keep all in order—including their sister, Nicola, for whom a suitable husband had yet to be found.

  “Regardless of their departure,” Hawisa said, “they shall visit a sennight hence, and he asks that before then you keep your word to unburden his wife.”

  Guarin tensed amid the clang of swords, strike of pikes, grunts and shouts. Sooner he should have kept his word, but it was no easy thing to speak ill of the son of the woman he loved though she had acknowledged Wulf was not entirely innocent of his own death.

  She raised her head. “Of what does he speak?”

  He took the missive, read his brother’s words. When he returned to his wife, her eyes were wary as though she were halfway to the answer. “That which Aelfled never revealed. Cyr believes it will unburden her—perhaps you as well—and better reconcile you.”

  “Wulf,” she said and touched her abdomen as if remembering when he grew there. “Tell me, and do not spare me as Aelfled did.”

  He considered the boys at training, next the men-at-arms patrolling the wall who would keep watch over them. Then he tucked the missive beneath his belt alongside the dagger that was no longer of D’Argent but of Wulfrith and reached to his wife.

  She slid her hand in his, set a foot atop his in the stirrup, and settled in the saddle before him.

  Drawing her back against him, Guarin nudged Anglicus toward the wood. As they entered the trees, he recalled the first time he had been thus with her on this horse. Had he known three years after that battle this would be his life, would he change anything? He would not.

  When they reached the stream one had only to follow a short distance to gain the waterfall, Guarin said, “We shall speak here,” and dismounted. As if it were a gown she wore and delicate slippers, she awaited his arms.

  Guarin lifted her down, kissed her, and led her to the bank.

  The words chosen during their walk were ready to speak, but when they lowered side by side, they gave him pause. “You know my every breath is yours, do you not, Hawisa?”

  Though worry lined her brow, she smiled. “Just as my every breath is yours—no matter what you tell.”

  He took her hand and considered the ring on her heart finger, at its center the sapphire once set in his dagger. William would not like that his gift of the old queen’s ruby was no longer on Hawisa’s hand, but it had been put to better use, now set in the cross guard of the Wulfrith dagger. Just as Guarin was now a Wulfrith belonging to Hawisa, she was a D’Argent belonging to him.

  “I am ready to know,” she prompted.

  He met her gaze. “What Aelfled did not tell was the promise Wulf made after you accepted her offer to keep watch over him.”

  He thought she stopped breathing, but she nodded for him to continue.

  “He assured her if she did so from a distance, sparing him humiliation in front of his friends, he would behave. And so he did—until the day of the battle when he and four boys who also wished to play at warriors went out the back of the stables while Aelfled awaited them at the front.”

  Staring at her husband, desperately Isa tried to douse anger over what her former maid told of her beloved son—desperation because she knew it was instinct to protect the memory of her child by believing the best of him, even at the sacrifice of truth. But the truth was that anger over his sire’s death, cunning, and recklessness were more responsible for his demise than Aelfled, and that even in the absence of Guarin keeping his word to his brother, long that truth awaited acceptance.

  “She was not negligent in her duty, Hawisa. She was lulled into trusting one she loved too much to see what he planned.”

  “This I know,” she said and saw Guarin’s surprise. He knew her well enough to sense she was receptive to the revelation, but he had not expected her to so readily accept it. It surprised her as well, especially as once again the morn had begun with dread over Edgar the Aetheling’s victory at York. However, God in His wisdom had chosen this day to impart another revelation of which her husband remained unaware.

  Isa turned her hand up and squeezed his fingers. “Just as I know I should have given my son into the care of one more capable of ensuring he, a child, did not seek the revenge of men.” Seeing argument in his eyes, she said, “Do not defend me. Aye, I grieved my son’s loss of his father, but that does not relieve me of my responsibility as a mother.”

  Slowly, he nodded.

  “Though I fear I would have rejected the truth had I learned it sooner, I believe Aelfled. And another truth I have come to accept after meeting William—it is not the Lord who moves us.
We move ourselves, whether we step from one space to another or allow others to push us there. Sometimes our steps are wise, other times an affront to God. Sometimes a push is needed, other times ’tis our undoing.” She angled her body nearer. “Hence, often I go to my knees. And on days such as this, He makes it known my prayers are heard, gifting me with guidance—and forgiveness.”

  His frown deepened.

  Isa drew his hand to her abdomen. “I have been entrusted with another, Guarin. Ours.”

  He drew a sharp breath, splayed his hand upon her. “Almighty, you are with child.”

  “Only just learned.” She smiled at his confusion. “After felling the pel, I numbered how many I have taken to ground these months and, counting backward, recalled the one that bettered me because of the onset of my last menses. That was seven weeks past.” She looked to her hand on his and the D’Argent blue on her finger. “Our child is too small to feel, but he—or she—is here. We are three, Guarin.”

  The release of his breath across her brow brought her chin up, and his smile she had not thought could be broader than those bestowed when he carried her to bed was breathtaking. And more so against her lips.

  As his kiss deepened, she slid her arms around his neck.

  “Blessed,” he rasped and turned her in to him and lowered to his back.

  Settled atop her husband, Isa made more of their kiss, then knowing where it would lead, raised her head. “Unseemly. We are too foul for such.”

  “There is a pond nearby,” he suggested.

  “Is there?”

  Grinning, he scooped her up and set her atop Anglicus. At the falls, they bathed quickly, made love slowly, and afterward held each other in a world veiled from an England not yet tamed by the conqueror.

  But William was never far and ever eager to assert his presence and power.

  “I fear darker days ahead,” Guarin said as he stroked Isa’s damp hair where they lay atop their shed clothing, “that the fall of York will push the king past all mercy.”

  She ceased counting the beats of his heart. “If Vitalis is there…” She sighed over worry for him and other rebels who, having refused to go the way of Harwolfson, departed Darfield with Isa’s former housecarle. No backward glance, not even from Em who had been delivered word Eberhard was safe and would return to Wulfen to resume his training.