Reckless a medieval roma.., p.12
RECKLESS: A Medieval Romance (Age of Conquest Book 5), page 12
Not if you remain with him, the thought startled, then repelled for how impossible it was. Should Zedekiah pass, the longest Vitalis would tolerate her was until he passed her into the hands of her family—providing he could stay true to his word.
Slowing the boat, deftly he worked the oars to turn them into the cove.
Zedekiah gave a sigh of relief, possibly over confirmation he had not guided Vitalis wrong, possibly over the prospect soon they would ride upon Wulfen Castle.
As Vitalis maneuvered around the bend, she saw his eyes searched for enemies in this area of the fens where more trees and foliage took root than upon Ely.
Reminded there would be no safety until they reached Wulfen, Nicola peered out from beneath her own hood. Unlike the land directly bordering the waterway, much of what lay before them was cleared of dense vegetation on both sides of a sizable structure erected a short distance from the dock. As the grass was long and the ground ascended from the bank, only the building’s upper portion and roof were visible.
Dismissing it, she aided Vitalis in searching left and right, looking for signs they were watched by any who intended harm by way of blades rather than teeth and claws. There was movement, but it was flitting and fleeting and either well above or well below the height of a man.
Vitalis having concluded the same, he traded oars for the ash pole that would move them through shallow water to bring them alongside a dock infected by mold and rot.
When another breath of relief slumped Zedekiah’s shoulders, Nicola set a hand on his arm. “Hold, mighty Zedekiah. Ere much longer you will be home, your injuries properly tended and—”
“Home,” he said low, the sorrowful light in red-rimmed eyes and his strained smile silencing her. “I think you are right, and that never again will I know pain like this.”
Struggling to keep her voice from reaching Vitalis, she said, “That is not what I meant.”
“But that is what will be.”
“You must not think like that. You must believe you will heal, that the morrow will be a better day than this, and the day beyond even better. Do you yield to—”
“I do not yield. I accept what comes. And you, Vitalis’s vixen…” The catch of her breath gave more strength to his smile. “Aye, remain that to my friend, even if he pushes you away and faults you for what even more he will fault himself.”
“Cease,” she beseeched, a glance at Vitalis confirming he remained fixed on guiding the boat and watching for danger.
Zedekiah set a hand atop hers gripping his shoulder. “No matter how great his anger, stay his side. Make him keep his word to return you to Lady Hawisa. She…” He closed his eyes, opened them wide. “…will know how best to aid in reclaiming what remains of the life William stole from him.” His swallow was dry. “Your brother, Guarin, will aid as well. Vitalis was good to him—kept others from slaying him when he was held by the resistance.”
This Nicola had learned after Vitalis delivered Guarin to Stern Castle. When she had seen how near death her brother walked, anger had caused her to name Vitalis a Saxon pig, but that emotion had been swept away by joy upon learning the red-headed warrior was not responsible for her brother’s injuries.
It had not been the first time Nicola looked upon Vitalis, though none would know it for how stealthy she had been when earlier another of her brothers captured him and a number of his rebels and secured them in a paddock inside Stern’s walls. Upon hearing Vitalis led an assault on one of own his men for injuring a Saxon woman, curiosity had drawn her to the inner wall where shadows allowed her to remain out of sight.
No one had to tell her which was Vitalis whose lead his men had followed when he set upon the rebel who did not survive the assault. Then she had been a girl who thought herself a woman, and all the more for a stirring in her breast for the mighty Vitalis. Regrettably, no matter how much more he stirred her now, perhaps still she was more girl than woman, as evidenced by her being here with Zedekiah who believed he approached the end of his life.
The knock of the boat against the dock jolted Nicola and the injured man. And further she was jolted when Zedekiah set his face near hers. “Be the vixen, not the termagant, Nicola D’Argent. The vixen is the one he shall need. You hear me?”
The desperation in his voice and tears in his eyes made her throat tighten. Though she did not believe Vitalis needed her, vixen or otherwise, she nodded.
“Make haste, Nicola,” Vitalis commanded.
Glancing past Zedekiah, she saw he jutted his chin at the dock.
“Should ill befall you, Zedekiah, I will do as bid,” she whispered. Then she stood and reached for the post around which Vitalis secured the boat’s rope. With her other hand, she raised her skirts, then briefly stepped on the boat’s railing. When her feet landed on the dock, she was reminded of her lost slippers as aged wood attempted to press splinters into her tender flesh. Until she gained footwear, she would have to bind her feet in cloth.
“Carry what you can,” Vitalis said and tossed the first pack on the dock. There were five in all, four of which she could carry, but not the last that required some of what would remain of Vitalis’s strength and balance once much was lent to Zedekiah.
That pack was long and weighty, and as she knew from when she found the dagger there, it held another, a bow and arrows, and two swords in addition to the one Vitalis now slid into its scabbard. If she slipped one of the swords beneath her own belt beside the dagger Vitalis had returned to her when they evaded the Danes on the day past, less his burden.
As she removed a sword, he paused in assisting Zedekiah from the boat. “Leave it, Nicola. I will carry it.”
She wanted to argue, but would that not be the termagant?
Clasping close the vixen who, yet quarrelsome, was more the elegant, cunning, protective fox as Vitalis had once named her, she slid the sword beneath her belt though twice more he ordered her to return it to the pack. Then she filled her arms with the other packs.
As Vitalis bore much of the weight of Zedekiah who was determined to gain the stable upright rather than over a shoulder, he had no choice but to permit her defiance. And must have wished to curse when the injured man insisted he be fit with the remaining sword that, like the one Nicola wore, lacked the craftsmanship of the one he had lost when the Danes left him for dead.
Once it was beneath Zedekiah’s belt, Vitalis took two packs from Nicola, tucked them under an arm and, supporting his friend, said, “Follow closely, Nicola.”
Vixen, termagant, or otherwise, he would not allow her to lead the way, but she was not offended. If danger lay ahead, better he would defend them than she, even though he supported Zedekiah. Still, she could not help imagining herself as Lady Hawisa who was as capable as many a warrior.
Though she knew that was the girl beneath the woman, she secured the two packs in one arm and set her other hand on the sword hilt. As she followed Vitalis and Zedekiah up the beaten path between cove and stable, she prayed she had no cause to play the warrior.
Chapter Eleven
He felt watched. But by whom? The old man who dwelled here? Fenlanders from the nearby village? Normans? Danes?
Not the last two, Vitalis silently prayed as they moved between low walls of swaying grass toward the stable. Though he tried again to take more of his friend’s weight, the warrior resisted.
“Who do you think watches?” Zedekiah said low.
The only surprise of his question was he felt eyes on them despite the ache of injuries and the effort expended to move his legs. But perhaps vulnerability made him more sensitive.
“Hopefully, the eyes are of one who is of the fens,” Vitalis said and looked behind at Nicola.
When she did not answer his gaze, he realized she attended to their surroundings.
As they neared the thatch house and its stable, still the old man did not appear though the doors of both were open as if to let in summer air to dry out the moisture of winter and spring past.
“I do not like this,” Zedekiah spoke Vitalis’s thoughts, then pulled his arm from his friend’s grip.
Vitalis nearly took hold of him again but forced himself to respect the warrior of Zedekiah who was determined to support himself and apply a hand to his sword hilt. Too, it was not much farther, and if trouble awaited them, more easily Vitalis could defend his charges were he able to move freely and draw the enemy away.
Feeling a twinge of ache where Nicola had sunk her blade and a slight hitch in his step now he no longer supported Zedekiah, Vitalis advanced ahead of the two.
No trouble at the stable, it appeared when he saw through the wide doorway two horses stretching their heads out of their stalls to eat from large buckets hooked over the gates. Though these were the mounts they had come to collect, it did not feel right.
“Remain here,” Vitalis ordered and entered the building. He moved swiftly, searching corners and stalls. Confirming the horses were the only occupants, hoping the old man riding about his land was the one who watched and was wary because of this warrior’s size and that the man who had paid him to keep their mounts was unrecognizable in his injured state, Vitalis drew the horses from their stalls.
He saddled and bridled them, but as he affixed packs to the back of his mount’s saddle, movement in the doorway brought his head up.
Zedekiah and Nicola hastened inside.
“Four riders approach,” the latter said. “Blessedly, distant and not at great speed.”
Then best to mount inside rather than outside to avoid sooner coming to notice if the riders were of ill intent.
Vitalis took the packs Nicola carried. “Get astride my horse,” he commanded and moved to Zedekiah’s mount. After strapping on the packs, he assisted his friend into the saddle.
Were speed not of great import, it was Zedekiah with whom Vitalis would share a horse to ensure the other man’s seat, but the weight of two warriors on one mount would make it difficult if not impossible to outrun pursuers.
Once Zedekiah’s feet were in the stirrups and reins in hand, Vitalis strode to where Nicola awaited him, but before he could swing into the saddle, the trap was sprung. And not by the riders whose horses had yet to be felt and heard. Three men came on foot, possibly from the house or around its backside, and one of those who carried torches was Sir Daryl.
Vitalis unsheathed his sword and lunged forward to cut down the short-haired Norman who swung the hinged door closed. Though he could not reach it before it settled in its frame, there was a chance he could before the bar sealed them inside and provided the grinning Daryl time to torch the stable.
“Burn Vitalis, King William’s enemy!” the traitorous Saxon called. “Burn, Zedekiah the smithy! Burn, Bjorn’s woman!”
The door slammed into place, and the sound of the bar sliding toward the bracket sounded like a death knell.
Vitalis threw his weight against it, and it gave, but he would never know if that alone kept the bar from crossing the seam and fitting into the iron bracket. What he knew was Zedekiah’s command of his mount ensured the door did not remain in its frame, his rearing horse landing its hooves on the planks and reversing the turning of hinges.
As the chevalier who closed the door stumbled back, Vitalis swung up behind Nicola who had shown sense in urging his mount forward.
“Head down, arms in!” he commanded as he snatched the reins from her, knowing the smaller she made herself, the greater the range of movement and force of the sword he would wield against the three who, no longer able to murder with fire, had traded torches for blades.
Zedekiah forging ahead, leaning to the side to extend the reach of his sword, caught the man to Daryl’s right across the forearm, causing the Norman to spin away and drop to a knee.
That left two for Vitalis. “Ride, Zedekiah!” he bellowed, knowing it unlikely his friend had more fight in him even were he taken with bloodlust. But as Vitalis slashed at the chevalier who had failed to bar the door, his misguided blade finding no pleasure in grinding its edge across a mail-covered abdomen, Zedekiah came back around and set himself at Daryl.
“’Tis time to join your sire in hell, whelp!” he shouted.
“Nay, Zedekiah!” Vitalis roared, all the more angered for missing his mark because of the woman before him who could not make herself small enough to avoid interfering with his swings.
But his friend paid him no heed, determined to make a path for Vitalis and Nicola. And that he would have done had he the speed and strength possessed before Danes left him for dead in the alley.
The sword with which Daryl defended himself not only turned aside Zedekiah’s blow but spun the Saxon’s weapon out of his hand. Then the injured chevalier who had been dropped to a knee was on his feet again. As Zedekiah struggled to remain in the saddle and turn his mount aside, the man leapt forward, swung high, and opened up the neck of the smithy-turned-warrior.
Like an echo in a distant valley, Vitalis heard Nicola scream above the raging of his own blood and the pained shout of the Norman who now paid with his life for what he had done to the worthiest Saxon.
As a slash to the place between the chevalier’s neck and shoulder dropped him on his face, Vitalis turned to aid Zedekiah and saw his friend was being dragged from atop his frantic mount by the Norman whose chain mail had saved him from Vitalis’s blade. Zedekiah’s eyes met Vitalis’s and he shook his head on his bloodied neck before landing hard on the ground.
If not for the woman before Vitalis and that Daryl was a heartbeat from thrusting his sword into one or both, no amount of pleading would have kept Vitalis from slaying the chevalier who dealt Zedekiah another blow.
Something far from sanity prevailing, Vitalis turned aside with no time to spare, as told by his horse’s enraged cry when the blade intended for its master cut its haunch.
Vitalis spurred away, and as Nicola convulsed and gasped, reined in at a distance.
To fix the evil in his mind, he told himself. And yet, if not for the riders whose appearance Nicola and Zedekiah had warned about, he might have flung himself back into the frenzy of Daryl and his man who desecrated Zedekiah’s body as if they believed it would turn their true prey suicidal.
Darkness that cared not if it proved the death of Vitalis as long as he proved the death of Daryl, poured through him.
“Vitalis,” Nicola entreated where she unfolded against his chest. “The riders.”
They came for him as he wished them to do. Just as he wished to get Nicola off the horse and put finish to their lives, next the two standing over his friend’s body.
“See there,” Nicola gasped, “Zedekiah’s horse.”
As if in fear of its own life, it galloped toward them, further tempting Vitalis to return to the stable since he could put Nicola astride and send her opposite. But he heard the voice of Hawisa’s sire telling him to be Wulfen-worthy, and more loudly Zedekiah’s urging him to finish what was begun.
That he would do, and once the termagant was out of his hands, put finish to this day.
Hunted like deer ahead of howling hounds, Vitalis was forced to alter the plan of heading directly to Wulfenshire since that was expected.
Though it would distance him days from delivering Nicola to safety, it was the only hope of covering their scent from the four who became six once Zedekiah’s murderers overtook the Norman chevaliers who Vitalis was certain were Abbot Turold’s men.
In the beginning, the enemy had caught sight of their prey several times, but never were they able to overtake them, likely because Nicola had gained Zedekiah’s mount and was an excellent rider.
Two other things were of benefit—the desperation of being greatly outnumbered, which kept fatigue from slowing them, and the cover of night that permitted Vitalis to turn further east toward the coast without alerting Daryl and his men they had abandoned the northern route.
If the enemy picked up the lost scent, it would not be during what remained of the dark nor, hopefully, the day to come.
Lest the rush of the river where they paused to water the horses prevented Vitalis from hearing things in the night that should not be there, he had taken them farther yet.
Shock and what should be guilt over Zedekiah’s slaughter served Nicola just as well as Vitalis’s training which wrapped iron bands around this terrible sorrow and rage—closing their mouths and making them press onward though words flung themselves against the walls of their minds and their bodies ached to trade the saddle for the firm of the ground.
Now, beneath the moon moving across the heavens, Vitalis dragged on the reins. Nicola did the same, halting just behind and to the side.
In this place of open grassland and few trees behind which enemies could conceal themselves, they would pass what little remained of the night.
Vitalis swung out of the saddle, peripherally saw Nicola follow his lead, and heard her catch her breath as if pained by aching muscles. He refused to pity her, and though he almost wished she sought that from him so he could refuse her, he did not believe it. He had seen how affected she was by Bjorn’s death, watched how conscientiously she tended Zedekiah, and past his own pain, felt hers when his friend yielded up the scraps of his life to ensure the others escaped what he could not.
Vitalis did not want to like Nicola D’Argent and he did not. He wanted to hate her and yet could not. But better dislike that allowed him to more easily keep his word and honor than hatred which could render him unworthy. Not that being worthy in this Norman-diseased world mattered. After all, what use honor when one’s opponents had none?
Eyes and throat burning, he refused to attend to the answer that would serve him were he of a mind to listen to the Lord who did not listen to him, Zedekiah, nor thousands of Saxons who had suffered the unimaginable and might suffer evermore.
I ought to be done with You, Lord, he sent heavenward as he removed packs from his saddle. And I shall if I can break the habit of You.
Once he secured his horse, he left Nicola to tend hers while he made his bed before a scattering of large boulders—mantle wrapped around him, a pack for a pillow, and hand gripping his sword.
