FEARLESS: Book Two: Age of Conquest

by Tamara Leigh

  “If he aided in taking the city, he is not so arrogant to believe the Saxons’ victory is great enough to go unanswered,” Guarin said. “He will protect his own, taking them back under to wait and watch whilst those alongside whom they fought boast and revel.”

  She smiled over how well her worthy husband regarded her worthy man, wished they could be as brothers. “If he would come to us, places could be made for him and his followers.”

  “Providing they did not draw attention. Unfortunately, what Harwolfson gained from the king is not likely to be granted another, especially if the ill York portends comes to pass.” Guarin sighed. “When God wills, may the end be good. But I should not allow such talk. Let it be just the two of us.”

  He was right. Numerous were the hours ahead to ache over what was to come, not these that belonged to husband and wife only. Or nearly so…

  She pushed up on an elbow. “Do you forget it is seven months ere there is any possibility we shall truly be alone again?”

  He chuckled, swept aside the golden hair fallen between their faces, and tucked it behind her ear. “As told, our child is exceedingly small, but when the swell of my wife’s belly provides further proof Norman and Saxon have become one, I shall need no reminding.”

  She lowered her head and touched her mouth to his. “I require no more proof. Already you and I are one. And many to come.”

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  Dear Reader,

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  What a merry chase this tale led its writer, but despite hair pulling and nibbled nails, it was a wonderful journey—and such fun to seed the Age of Conquest series with heroes and heroines and their ancestors from my other medievals. Those who have blessed me with their readership throughout my romancing of the Middle Ages will recognize Maxen Pendery, Rhiannyn, Edwin Harwolfson, and others from LADY OF CONQUEST, and the names Lavonne and De Balliol from THE REDEEMING and THE LONGING. As for the lovelies who have championed Sir Guy Torquay as worthy of his own tale, I think that was him I glimpsed atop a destrier alongside King William in the next book in the series.

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  Thank you for spending time with Sir Guarin and Lady Hawisa. If you enjoyed the second Wulfrith origins tale, I would appreciate a review of FEARLESS at your online retailer—just a sentence or two, more if you have time.

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  For a peek at NAMELESS, the third book in the AGE OF CONQUEST series, an excerpt is included here and will soon be available on my website: www.TamaraLeigh.com. Now to finish that tale for its Autumn 2019 release.

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  Pen. Paper. Inspiration. Imagination. ~ Tamara

  For new releases and special promotions, subscribe to Tamara Leigh’s mailing list: www.TamaraLeigh.com

  NAMELESS EXCERPT

  THE WULFRITHS. IT ALL BEGAN WITH A WOMAN

  From USA Today Bestselling author Tamara Leigh, the third book in a new series set in the 11th century during the Norman Conquest of England, revealing the origins of the Wulfrith family of the AGE OF FAITH series. Releasing Autumn 2019.

  PROLOGUE

  Normandy, France

  Spring, 1067

  You are baseborn. Despite my every effort to remedy that beyond our walls, it cannot be undone. No matter how many masses a man attends, no matter how many prayers he prays, in the absence of much effort to change his heart, he will act in accord with that to which he is disposed.” Baron D’Argent paused, sighed. “It is the same with women, Dougray.”

  “Non, Godfroi,” his wife beseeched.

  The man who possessed but a forelock of black hair to evidence he had ever been other than shockingly silvered, looked from her son before the dais to where she stood alongside the high seat in which he had been settled minutes earlier. “It must be told.”

  “Must it?” she whispered.

  He took her white-knuckled hand in his and returned his regard to the one forced to his knees to prevent him from further injuring the men-at-arms. “It is not only Adela’s sire who rejects you, Dougray. It is Adela.”

  His words did not surprise, but they were not to be believed. Dougray had not betrayed his conscience by aiding the Duke of Normandy in stealing England's crown and lost half an arm to a battle axe for this to be the reason the one for whom he had done those things stayed away. It was her sire who kept her from Dougray’s side all these months while he fought infection that threatened to put him in the ground. Her sire who, as learned this morn from servants’ gossip, meant to wed her to one of legitimate, noble birth and sizable lands. This very day.

  Suppressing the impulse to resume his struggle against those who kept him from her, a slender thread of reason warning it would result in further humiliation, he growled, “You lie.”

  “It is a hard truth, but more true because it is hard, my son.”

  “My son? Non, as you say, I am baseborn. As you say, it cannot be undone.”

  “Dougray!” His mother stepped forward.

  It was good the baron drew her back, though it would be better had he sent her away when her son was returned to the castle.

  Despite the anger raking Dougray, he did not want his mother hurt more than already she had suffered these years of whisperings over the conception of her third child. Albeit an act of indiscretion, it had been forgivable under the circumstances—though few men other than Godfroi D’Argent would have pardoned her. And as Dougray needed none to put the question to him, would any other have given another man’s child his name and raised him alongside legitimate sons?

  Continuing to clasp his wife’s hand, the baron leaned forward. “Even do you reject me as your sire, you are my son—another hard truth, though only hard in this moment of believing yourself betrayed.”

  Feeling ache in his knees against the stone floor, though not as great as that felt in his absent lower arm, Dougray said, “I am betrayed.”

  “Not by your mother or father.”

  “Am I not? You ordered me ridden to ground, bound, and returned here like a criminal. You speak lies of Adela. And unless you let me go to her, this day she will be wed to a man she does not love.”

  “But of whom her sire approves, as does she.”

  “Another lie.”

  “Non, Dougray. Do I let you go to her, all you will find there is humiliation at best when it is confirmed I speak true, grave injury at worst when her kin and betrothed retaliate for your offense. And think of what might be believed of Adela. If you succeed in stopping the wedding, it will be only until it is verified she is not your lover.” The baron raised an eyebrow as if he himself questioned that.

  That he thought it possible his son had dishonored her moved bubbling anger toward boiling. Here a reminder Lady Robine D’Argent had been tainted by a dishonorable man, as evidenced by Dougray’s untimely birth that announced to all the babe was not of her husband. The sins of the father…

  Longing to break free of those who held him, he glanced at the hand gripping his right arm. Bloodied, doubtless from being drawn across a broken nose, and the man-at-arms holding his left arm surely ached over fractured ribs. But though Dougray was tempted to accept those injuries as confirmation he could throw off these men, he knew he had landed those blows only because they had not expected them and, afterward, were loath to injure one who bore the name D’Argent.

  The body and reflexes that had made Dougray a warrior capable of besting most opponents had suffered much wasting these months abed. Of a weight he had not been since his youth, he was at their mercy—rather, that of the man who sat in judgment of him.

  “Adela is where she ought to be, Dougray.”

  He returned his gaze to the baron who but appeared the formidable warrior he no longer was. From the muscular breadth of his upper body, one would not know his legs were emaciated and immovable beneath the blanket. Though none witnessed the rigor to which he subjected his torso and arms, daily he exercised the muscles yet under his control.

  “I know you wished to tell him when he is more fully recovered, Robine,
” the baron said, “but it must be done now, and I think it best heard from me.”

  “Non, I was there.” She drew her hand from his, pressed her shoulders back. “It is for me to do.”

  Where had she been? Dougray questioned as she descended the dais. And what was for her to do?

  “Release my son,” she commanded the men-at-arms.

  They hesitated, then receiving a nod from their lord, did as bid and took a single step backward.

  Skirts gently billowing, Lady Robine sank to her knees before Dougray. The pain in her eyes and that lining her face was greater than he had seen since his brother, Cyr, returned her maimed son to Normandy and told no further word was had of her eldest son’s fate. Though three of her four sons had survived the battle of Hastings, and she clutched at hope Guarin had as well, she mourned. And this day, she hurt more for whatever she meant to reveal.

  For her, rather than take advantage of his release, he kept his knees to the floor.

  Cupping his bearded face between her palms, she smiled sorrowfully. “Dearest Dougray, your father does not lie. Had you been awarded a sizable demesne in England the same as Cyr, it is possible Adela’s sire would have relented and allowed you to wed, but even then she herself would not have you.”

  He curled his fingers into fists, felt the ache of both hands though one was absent. “She loves me, does not care I was born on the wrong side of the sheets.”

  “I do not question once she loved you, but I believe she does no longer. Hence, her love was not worthy of our son.”

  The strain of keeping his muscles unmoving causing them to tremble, Dougray said, “What lies would your husband have you tell?”

  Her eyes flooded with tears, and the baron barked, “Dare not speak—”

  “Non!” She twisted around, raised a hand. “Let me do this.”

  His face was so dark it appeared he was in the throes of apoplexy, but he acceded with a jerk of his chin.

  She turned back. “The week after Christmas, while you were so senseless with infection we thought we would lose you, Adela came.”

  Dougray startled. “Why did you not say?”

  “Because we needed you to have something to live for, and that day she snatched it away.” She swallowed loudly. “When she saw you lying there, so thin and pale she could not conceal her distress, she…”

  “What, Mother?”

  “She cried out and turned away, but I told her there was hope you would recover and persuaded her to sit beside you, myself set her hand upon yours. But when you began to rouse and drew your left arm from beneath the cover as though to reach to her, she saw.”

  Dougray narrowed his lids. “You did not prepare her?”

  “Tidings of your loss was not cast far and wide, but since she had stayed away, we assumed she knew and, like her mother…”

  “Like her mother, what?”

  “Ever beauty is the first consideration. Adela’s mother could have wed any of a number of godly men, but she chose the most handsome—and the most ungodly.”

  “Adela is not the same.”

  “Is she not? As told your father, I was there. Upon her face I saw revulsion that could no longer disguise itself as shock as when first she looked upon you. I saw how quickly she loosed your hand and departed. And I heard tale of how horrid she thought your injury and what a pity you should be so unmanned—”

  “Lies!” Dougray thrust to his feet, causing the men-at-arms to take back the step given. He pointed at the baron who was surely wishing legs beneath him so he could pummel the offender. “Lies he has you tell to keep me from her.”

  Lady Robine rose. “Were they lies, they would be mine alone. They are not, Dougray, and it feels a dagger to the breast to tell what I prayed I would not have to. Unfortunately, loose lips gave you false hope ere unbreakable vows could be spoken.”

  He did not want to believe it false hope. If he could get to Adela, she would go away with him, and he would make a life for them beyond Normandy.

  “She is undeserving, Dougray,” his mother said. “There will be one more true who does not first see your loss but, rather, first her gain in taking you to husband.”

  “Heed your mother,” Baron D’Argent said. “If a wife you desire, when you are fully recovered, I shall make a match for you. A lady of constancy, kind heart, wit, beauty, and a good dowry—perhaps even lands.”

  As Dougray stared at him past his mother’s shoulder, he ordered his face so it would not reveal he took stock of his chances of overwhelming the men-at-arms who were the only ones present capable of intercepting him. Make it past them and he had only to make it to one of the horses tethered in the inner bailey. Make it to the drawbridge before it was raised and he had only to make it to Adela’s home. Make it to her side before his pursuers arrived and he had only to make it to the cover of the wood. Then they had only to decide whether to head north, south, east, or west.

  Non, not west. Never again would he cross the channel. Never again would he set foot on English soil choked with the blood of thousands of his countrymen. And when Cyr returned from the pilgrimage undertaken to atone for those slain in the great battle, neither would he return to England. Providing still there was no word Guarin lived, he would assume his place as the D’Argent heir, and the lands awarded him in England…

  Hopefully, the duke who was now its king would award them to one other than the brother who administered them for Cyr. Dougray did not wish the youngest denied lands of his own, but better Normandy lands acquired by way of marriage like that proposed for the baseborn one.

  “Naught to say?” the baron said, and Dougray sensed he suspected what was behind this mask.

  Lull him, he told himself. Tell him what he desires, and the sooner you, Dougray not of the same silvered hair as your brothers and sister, will be away from here.

  He drew a deep breath, but before he could spend it on conciliatory words, the baron swept a hand in his direction. “Confine him. At peril of your positions, he is not to leave his chamber without my say.”

  Dougray was moving before those last words were spoken—as were the men who sought to seize him as he swung away from his mother who protested her husband’s orders.

  Though he had not mastered what was required to efficiently move a body whose one side was out of balance with the other, he made it to the doors. But as he reached to them, one swung wide with the entrance of a young woman.

  “Dougray!” Nicola exclaimed, then shrieked when a man-at-arms slammed into her brother and carried him to the floor.

  With fist, elbows, knees, and feet, Dougray fought his one assailant who quickly became two.

  “They will hurt him, Godfroi!” his mother cried.

  “Get off him!” Nicola screamed, and he glimpsed her dragging on the tunic of the man-at-arms who struggled to subdue Dougray’s upper body, felt the one grappling with his legs jerk as if she kicked him hard.

  Sanity prevailed. Though angered it must to ensure she was not harmed, Dougray went still and was pinned as thoroughly as when he fell at Hastings. Strange he had not been able to feel his lower left arm then, though still it had clung to the upper, but he could feel it now though it was long removed.

  He did not resist when he was dragged upright, merely made a fist of the hand no longer visible and looked to his sister who was met halfway across the hall by their mother. Staring at the young woman who demanded to know the reason her brother was set upon and the older woman seeking to soothe her, Dougray made the baron wait on the regard of one who ought to be grateful first, repentant second.

  He was grateful for all afforded the son of the man who cuckolded Godfroi D’Argent, but repentant? Not possible in this moment—if ever.

  “Silence, Nicola!” the baron commanded, and when his daughter’s impassioned words ended on a squeak, looked to Dougray. “I know you are not entirely healed. I know your loss makes it difficult to think right, but you offend—more than me, God.”

  Dougray stood taller. �
�God? Be assured, I but return the favor.”

  “Enough!”

  “You say He knows what is in my heart,” he disregarded the warning, “so what harm in letting you know it as well?”

  The baron gripped the chair arms as if to keep himself from lunging out of his seat. As if he did not have cause to question God.

  “I answered our liege’s call to invade England,” Dougray said, “salving my conscience over the longing for land with assurance the duke had the pope’s blessing, and yet I lost the use of an arm to a heathen on whose side God should not have been. We lost an uncle and possibly a brother to more heathens on whose side God should not have been. Thousands of our people lost husbands, sons, and brothers to thousands of heathens on whose side God should not have been. And I offend?”

  Red-faced, the baron said, “I feel those losses more than you, and more I shall feel them if Guarin is lost to us, but I hold to God. If you are determined to reject what I taught you, at least honor the memory of Hugh by remembering what he taught you.”

  Godfroi D’Argent’s twin brother. More ungodly than godly, he had trained up his nephews, son, and scores of other young men in the ways of the warrior. Were it to be believed, he had suffered a less than honorable death on the same battlefield where Dougray fell.

  “Were your uncle here,” the baron continued, “he would say—Let not your heart make a fool of you.”

  He would, after delivering a blow to impress those words on the offender.