Reckless a medieval roma.., p.16
RECKLESS: A Medieval Romance (Age of Conquest Book 5), page 16
Did Daryl’s men, whose ranks Abbot Turold had increased following the delivery of Zedekiah’s head, continue to move deeper into East Anglia in search of Vitalis? Or did they accept their prey had gone elsewhere?
“The latter, Lord,” she said on the exhale which flew the arrow that, if it came close to skimming the tree behind which the bird pecked, would land true.
That it did.
She wanted to ignore Vitalis as was best for both beyond discussing matters related to her return to Wulfenshire, but she looked to where he was visible only because she knew where to find him. And she had to smile, so great her thirst for the light expression denied herself since the declaration of love she refused to regret.
Vitalis inclined his head, and being nearer the bird, retrieved it.
A half hour later, their meal roasting over the flames, Nicola lowered opposite Vitalis. “Better tidings this day?” she asked as she smoothed her man’s tunic over the boy’s chausses Vitalis purchased for her on his last trip to town.
He ceased drawing a hand over his beard as she now knew to be habit when he delved his thoughts. “Not what we seek, but worthy tidings.”
Wishing her gaze were not drawn to his mouth, as more it was since the whiskers above and below had lightly abraded her lips, she said tautly, “Tidings of what?”
“Your family.”
Breaking the promise made herself to temper her behavior as would one capable of love over infatuation, she exclaimed, “Tell—and quickly.”
His eyebrows arched, lending a bit of lightness to his own face that was as grim as hers these days.
Seeking to pull back from the Nicola of old, she said, “Forgive me. I yearn for good news and am hopeful that is what you shall deliver.”
“It is good. First, it is told the fighting Lady of Wulfen who bowed to a Norman—your brother—has—”
“She did not bow to Guarin. As you know, theirs is a love match.” Immediately, she regretted her interruption, and more so when disapproval shone from his eyes.
“Aye, a love match,” he said, surely with pain for not making that match himself, “and fortuitous that since your king commanded they wed.” He paused as if to give her space in which to speak more words she would regret, then continued, “I do not say Lady Hawisa bowed to Guarin, Nicola. Others—smug Normans and disaffected Saxons—say it. I but repeat tidings. Now would you like to hear the truth of them?”
“I would.”
“The Lady of Wulfen has given birth and fares well.”
Nicola could not subdue her smile, its stretch so broad and lacking practice it was uncomfortable. “And?” she prompted.
“A boy for her and her husband, the D’Argent-Wulfrith heir.”
“Of course a boy.” She nodded. “And?”
He opened his mouth, turned words into a frown.
It was difficult to sit still, but she did. “What else, Vitalis?”
“A girl,” he said on a sigh as if accepting he told nothing she did not know.
She shot to her feet, hugged her arms about herself, and dropped her head back. “Praise the Lord!” she exclaimed, then refusing to yield to the woman who had no place in this moment, spread her arms and cried, “Much praise!”
A shadow covered her despite it being a cloudless day, and she lowered her chin and saw Vitalis approached.
“We are secluded here,” he said, halting over her, “but that we shall no longer be if your voice carries to ears we would not have prick to prey in the wood.”
He was right. She lowered her arms. “Again, forgive me. These weeks have been so dark, all the more your tidings are welcome.”
He narrowed his eyes. “How did you know the lady carried twins? She thought it so and told you?”
“Nay, I thought it so and told her, and confirmed I believed within her cradle one of each sex by sending two different caps over which I labored. And see…” She loosed another smile. “…I was right.”
“How did you know?” he repeated, and now that he was very near, she glimpsed what appeared sorrow in his eyes and wished she had considered what was joyous to her drove deeper the blade of the loss of his first love who was also his last.
Will you never learn, Nicola? she rebuked herself. Think first and long, especially when you do not wish to.
Struck by her own counsel, which sounded a lesson her aunt or one of her brothers would impart, she could not help being a bit pleased with herself.
Which has no place in this moment, she counseled again and clasped her hands at her waist and settled into the heels of the boots Vitalis had gifted her. “My brother, Theriot, possesses a sense beyond the natural that aids in keeping him apprised of danger others might believe, at best, something to watch for. Me…” She shrugged. “When I make the effort to be very still and closely attend to what can be seen as well as felt, it is as if the Lord opens a door to allow me to peer through its crack and see what eludes others. Sometimes it is small things, such as your aversion to needle and thread.”
She could see he did not like that, but he nodded for her to continue.
“Other times, big things, such as the greatest hope of uniting our two peoples—Saxon-Norman babes, and two in one womb.”
“Ever you are proved right?” he asked.
As he came first to mind, she hesitated, but he knew what she felt, even if he named it infatuation, just as she knew what he did not feel for her. “Not always. Recently, what I sensed was one thing proved another.” Seeing understanding in his eyes, she added, “Still, I was not entirely wrong since there is a degree of relation between love and desire, is there not?”
Without awaiting a response he would not likely give, she glanced at their spitted meal, stepped around him, and tossed over her shoulder, “I am grateful for the tidings. Now all we need is that which allows us to depart this wood.”
“There is more to tell, Nicola.”
She halted, then beseeching the Lord that what he had yet to speak would not make her cling faster to the good of Guarin and Hawisa’s blessing, turned. “I listen.”
“These tidings are of your cousin, Maël, and the Abbess of Lillefarne whom Prince Canute ransomed to Bishop Odo.”
Worry seeking to strangle joy, she waited.
“They were taken to Stern Castle, Sir Maël to make preparations to resume the task of capturing me and returning the mantle piece to William”—he glanced at the purse on his belt—“and Mary Sarah to be questioned in the expectation she will reveal where King Harold’s queen and infant son fled following his death at Hastings.”
She frowned. “How would she know?”
“’Tis said she, who I do not believe to be a holy woman in truth, served as keeper of the queen’s wardrobe ere the Battle of Hastings.”
Nicola hesitated, then said, “Though I did not know she served at court, it is true she only played an abbess. Her name is Mercia, and she is the illegitimate daughter of one of Countess Gytha’s sons, perhaps even King Harold.”
Vitalis considered that, nodded. “Now sense is made of the rest of the tidings. When she would not—or could not—tell the whereabouts of the queen and her babe, Odo ordered her to wed the son of your king’s companion, De Grandmesnil, who is little more than a youth.”
Then here evidence William knew what blood—albeit illegitimate—flowed in Mercia’s veins, Nicola concluded. Hence, he sought to ensure King Harold’s kin could never be used to rally further Saxon resistance.
“Did she wed him?” she asked, hopeful Mercia had not since there was another Norman to whom she would be better wed.
“Nay. When she rejected the boy ten years younger than she, Odo made a game of it, encouraging her to believe she could choose her husband providing he was Norman.” Vitalis’s eyebrows rose. “She chose Sir Maël.”
Another gasp, but the joy of it was short-lived since he said it was a game the bishop played.
“Although of no consequence,” Vitalis continued, “your cousin refused her.”
Of no consequence, but still Nicola hurt for Mercia being rejected by one who seemed determined to remain unhappy.
“Shortly after Sir Maël departed Stern Castle, Mary Sarah—rather, Mercia—escaped with the aid of—”
“She did?” Nicola gasped. “How?”
Annoyance clipped across Vitalis’s brow over joy that made her seem the girl when, had she behaved the woman, already she would have her answer. “Danes stole her from the castle, and it is said they put her on a ship to Denmark where she is to join King Harold’s exiled mother.”
Not as much joy in that as there would be had Maël also played a game and been the one to steal her away, especially as Mercia’s grandmother ill-treated her, but surely better the woman was subjected to kin who sought to make use of her rather than the enemy.
“Thus, not only do Daryl and Abbot Turold’s men search for me,” Vitalis said, “but once more your cousin. And that is a good thing.”
“Good?”
“I have you and the mantle piece, and I believe Sir Maël honorable enough to take both and give me time enough to distance myself while he returns his cousin to Stern Castle and evidence of his king’s shame to William. That is all I shall need to ensure Daryl works no revenge on me.”
To which he was far more vulnerable as long as he protected her, Nicola knew.
“Before I work mine on him,” Vitalis added.
“Then I have become your prisoner? Your hostage?”
“Non, Nicola,” once more he spoke in her language. “You remain my charge, the exchange I would make with your cousin giving us what we both want—your return to Wulfenshire and my freedom to choose my path without endangering others.”
She thought she could be well with that if the path he took was forward, but set as he was on revenge, it wound backward in the direction of Daryl and Abbot Turold.
Accepting one side of their meal would be overcooked, even burned, she set a hand on his arm. Feeling him stiffen, she said, “I also wish justice for Zedekiah’s death, but can you not let it be God’s justice? His revenge? Can you not find your soul’s rest in honoring your friend and his sacrifice by staying alive and rebuilding your life as he would want you to do?”
His nostrils flared. “How does one rebuild a life torn down, Nicola? How is that possible when the materials needed are in Norman hands and behind Norman blades and walls?”
“Other persecuted Saxons have fled to Flanders, Paris, Spain, even Italy. You could—”
“That is your answer? Run rather than help my people? Though once I considered leaving England, all that lies across the narrow sea is survival as a sword for hire. If I am to fight for others, then they will be Saxons.”
Nicola thought only enough to accept what she did would disappoint the one she strove to be, then lifted her hand from his arm, set it on his jaw, and shivering over the prick of his beard, peered into his eyes.
She saw the gold in the brown before he narrowed his lids to warn her away, but since it felt to her what was in him leaned toward what was in her, once more she did what she should not. She pushed onto her toes, and when no words of rejection were spoken, returned her gaze to his. “I care not what you call it, care not that you make little of much, still I say it is love I feel for you.”
His lids began to rise, and seeing his pupils enlarge, she would have smiled had he not once more gone distant as if rebuked for finding life in the midst of mourning.
“I beseech you, do not disregard my heart as Hawisa disregarded yours, Vitalis. Have a care for it, even if it is only pity, keeping it safe by keeping yourself safe from Daryl, Abbot Turold’s men, and William.”
That he would not do. It was there in his eyes.
“Stubborn Saxon,” she whispered, then slid her hand around the back of his neck and set her lips on his.
When he tensed and held his mouth firm, she stepped nearer and kissed his upper lip, lower lip, then the corners long denied smiles.
He did not respond.
“Stubborn Saxon,” she repeated and more firmly set her mouth on his.
His lips parted, and she gasped in his warm exhale and thrilled when he deepened the kiss. But a moment later, he stilled and against her mouth said, “Do not do this, Nicola. Aye, I want it, but when it is done, this is all there will be of us. Naught else.”
She peered at him through her lashes. “You think so little of memories? I do not—at least, not memories like this. Memories of a kiss and… Will you not put your arms around me. Vitalis?”
“Nicola,” he groaned.
It sounded surrender to her, and so she slid her other hand up his side and between their chests to feel the pound of his great heart.
This time his groan ended on a growl, and he pressed forward, wrapped his arms around her, and took control of a kiss that had been benign compared to what he made of it. And might have become much more had he not ended it—blessedly, not cruelly, which would have made her feel rejected as Mercia must have been with Maël.
Vitalis pressed her face between his neck and shoulder, and setting his own between hers, continued to hold her so close there was only enough room for shallow breaths to fuel the heart careening about her chest.
“This changes naught,” he said. “I go my way, you go yours.”
“Yours being toward vengeance,” she whispered.
“Name it vengeance or justice, it will do what God does not—protect innocents who shall otherwise suffer at the hands of those who murdered Zedekiah. And I believe my friend would be well with that.”
Neither spoke again until, seemingly reluctant, he lifted his head and eased her back. “What words passed between Zedekiah and you in the boat ere we docked?”
She had thought him unaware of their exchange. Seeing no harm—perhaps even advantage—in revealing what the warrior had said, she moistened her lips. “He spoke as if death was nigh, and when I told him not to yield, said he accepted what came. And…”
“And?”
Should she reveal Zedekiah named her Vitalis’s vixen? Deciding against it, she said, “He asked me to stay your side regardless of your anger, even if you faulted me for what he believed more you would fault yourself. He said I was to hold you to your word to return me to Hawisa.”
“And the rest?”
“He believed the Lady and Lord of Wulfen would aid you in reclaiming your life.”
Vitalis released her and crossed to the fire. After turning the spit, revealing the bottom side of the meat had charred, he settled on a log. “I believe you and I make progress, Nicola.”
Then what she had revealed of Zedekiah caused him to rethink his plans? Their kiss had changed things? Fiercely hoping he would not disappoint, she said, “What progress?”
He nearly smiled. “Stubborn Saxon—far preferable to Saxon pig.”
Disappointment then.
He raised his eyebrows. “Can you guess my response when a wee Norman woman sprang from beneath Stern’s portcullis, named me a swine, and threatened to slay me should her brother die?”
“Doubtless, you laughed. And more so when the men-at-arms snatched me back.”
“I may have laughed, but what I thought was very much I would like to see the silvery-haired termagant try to make good her threat and humored myself by concluding death at the hand of a fiery maiden was far better than death by blade at Stamford Bridge or Hastings.”
Nicola glanced at the meat whose pale underside would soon turn golden like those places in Vitalis’s eyes, then brown like the dark of them.
Though she knew it best to sit opposite while they waited for their meal to finish cooking, she lowered beside him, only distant enough it would require the reach of an arm to touch him.
“How did you survive the battle at Stamford Bridge as well as Hastings, Vitalis?”
It seemed an innocent question, but there was no mistaking he did not like the answer he gave. “I fought at neither.”
If he hoped to render her visibly surprised, she did not disappoint.
“Aye,” he said, “at Stamford I should have been at the side of Lady Hawisa’s first husband. Had I, perhaps he would have lived, and again I would have battled alongside him at Hastings. I am here today because I sustained an injury before my liege rode North to aid King Harold in beating back the Norwegians who, the same as your William, sought to pluck the crown from my king’s head.”
“What was your injury?”
Recalling that day, Vitalis said, “It was done my sword arm at practice when Wulfen’s foremost trainer, Jaxon—” Seeing understanding on her face, he inclined his head. “Aye, the same. He sought to demonstrate a new technique and ordered me to assist. We sparred, and I watched for what he meant to spring upon me, but though he worked much trickery in trying to catch me unawares, I turned aside every stroke and delivered my own. I could see I frustrated the one who had taught me much, but I refused to be falsely bested since it would reflect as poorly on him as me. He conceded the technique needed refining and lowered his sword. Since it was only practice, I did the same. Then he swung again. As I bled before all, he proclaimed that though such a technique was dishonorable, it should be used against enemies given to attacking from out of the shadows.”
“Enemies like him,” Nicola spat. “Deceitful even then, and a coward.”
“Since I admired him, it was a struggle to believe that,” Vitalis said, “but there was something he wanted more than my admiration. The following morn, it was his son who rode at our lord’s side to Stamford, and I was relegated to delivering Lady Hawisa south lest the Norwegians could not be stopped.”
“Jaxon wished his son the honor and glory of fighting alongside Hawisa’s husband,” Nicola also saw what the lady’s first husband—far different from Guarin—had not seen, accepting Vitalis’s injury as the unfortunate incident Jaxon named it.
“Though King Harold won that battle, many were his losses,” Vitalis continued, “including Hawisa’s husband and Jaxon’s son. I might have perished as well had I been there, though I prefer to believe I would also have fought at Hastings when William and his forces landed days later.”
