“I am guessing Jaxon accepted no responsibility for his son’s demise,” Nicola said.

  He recalled the old warrior’s anger and bitterness. “He knew what he wrought, yet he resented me as if my cowardice forced his son to take my place. Indeed, at times it felt he hated me as much as the Normans who succeeded where the Norwegians failed.”

  Nicola touched his arm as if to draw him back from memories of his days and nights in the Saxon rebel camp when Jaxon and he trained men and women into warriors they believed could defeat the invaders.

  “I was told that during his great betrayal of Lady Hawisa,” she ventured, “Jaxon nearly slew you when you sought to protect her and the people of Wulfen.”

  Feeling the wounds he should not have survived, whose scars should no longer itch, he said, “I live only because I was carried away before every last drop of my life pooled around my body—the one who saved me the smithy I trained into a warrior.”

  “Zedekiah.”

  He raised his tunic to reveal the ugliest and most jagged of his scars that started at his side above his chausses, crossed his taut abdomen, and ended beneath his breastbone. “That one he stitched to hold me together until he could get me to a physician.”

  Nicola set her fingers on it as he should not allow and began tracing its path. When she reached its end, she looked up. “That alone should have killed you,” she said softly, then with wonder, “Abandoned by the Lord though you may feel, He was there alongside Zedekiah.” Her brow convulsed. “May I look nearer?”

  Neither should he allow that, but he nodded and stared at her bent head as she shifted his tunic to examine the other scars, not all of which had been delivered by Jaxon’s blade. When she followed one beneath his arm around to his shoulder blade and began exploring those on his back, he said, “As you guessed, I am well-acquainted with needle and thread, and yet ever the experience feels new.”

  She lowered his tunic and started to resume her seat beside him, then gave a squeak of dismay and hastened to the fire.

  “’Tis very well-cooked,” she melded the first two words as was common in the Anglo-Saxon language, though never before had he heard her do so. “But edible,” she added with apology and kicked dirt over the flames.

  When once more they were on opposite sides of the fire, each picked away the burned portions and eased their hunger with edible bits. Fortunately, what Vitalis purchased at market supplied the rest of their needs.

  For the remainder of the day, no more was spoken of Zedekiah nor Vitalis’s scars. However, when they settled for the night, Nicola asked across the dim, “Was the reason you did not send Zedekiah away as you did the others because he would not go?”

  Pain lanced his chest, and when he felt an answering pain in his left hand for the fist made of it, here was further proof he was far from accepting his friend’s death. “Aye, ’tis hard to argue with a determined man who saved your life and is more a brother than any you have had.”

  “Yet you blame yourself.”

  “Certes, more than I blame myself for Sigward’s death.”

  “You speak of the one who did grave injury to Aelfled ere my brother, Cyr, wed her. Is that not right?”

  “Aye, after Sigward betrayed me and the rebels who sided with me over Jaxon, which led to our capture by your brother.”

  “Then you do not regret Sigward’s death?”

  “I did not say that, Nicola, only that more I regret the part I played in the loss of Zedekiah.”

  “As I also played a part.”

  “So you did.” He breathed deep. “But it all flows back to me.”

  “Zedekiah said you would bear the greatest burden when he was gone,” she reminded, then turned the conversation back to Jaxon’s man. “I was told what took Sigward’s life was internal bleeding, not from your attack but those of the other rebels.”

  Vitalis wanted her to leave it be, but more he wanted to be alone with his thoughts, and that was difficult while she was awake, even were she silent.

  He pushed onto an elbow. “I was their leader, Nicola. When a man leads others, it is expected he will be followed. Though I controlled my anger when I learned Sigward was the reason we walked into a trap, I lost control when he injured Aelfled. Aye, I pulled back, but not before my men followed my lead and finished what I should not have begun.”

  In her wide eyes the fire’s embers glowed.

  “I led, they followed,” he said. “Thus, his death is upon me.”

  After some moments, Nicola said, “Have you sought the Lord’s forgiveness?”

  He lowered to his back and, fixing his gaze on the blue-black sky, said, “Much forgiveness I have asked for my sins, and I believe I have been granted it, but Sigward… Many things I learned from my sire’s priest ere he sent me to Wulfen to be raised into a man and trained into a warrior, and two are these—do not insult the Lord by asking for forgiveness of sins you either do not regret or for which you have too little regret. The other thing—one’s regret should be for the wrong done, not the consequences borne by the offender.”

  “Then?”

  Though out of the corner of his eye he caught the streak of a star traveling the heavens, he did not move his gaze from above. “I do not believe the world worse for Sigward’s absence, Nicola. If anything, ’tis better, just as I believe it will be better when those who killed Zedekiah follow in Sigward’s footsteps. Now sleep.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  What think you of my kisses?”

  Vitalis halted, slowly came around.

  The words Nicola cast at him were not without thought. Much she had turned them in her head and heart since last they kissed. Their speaking would undo some of what her proper behavior had remedied these two days, but she had reasons for calling to mind the girl who threatened to kill him, one of which was more and more he distanced himself as if soon he would pass her to her family. And never again would they see each other.

  So why not ask and, even if only for a few moments, draw him back to her?

  “What say you?” he rasped.

  Once again he did not speak her name as he had been inclined to do when displeased or trying to stress the importance of what he told.

  She stepped forward, tipped up her face, and keeping her arms at her sides, tapped her fingertips in her palms lest they search out the rough of his beard. “I say what I said. Now pray, give answer.”

  A muscle jerked in his jaw. “You sound the girl again,” he said and started to turn away.

  She snatched his arm. “I speak of what caused this man to return this woman’s kisses.”

  He stepped nearer, doubtless to look down upon her like a father over a child who must be impressed with the seriousness of a situation. “We shall go there no more.”

  Still he would not speak her name. “I do not suggest we return there. As I have not had great experience with intimacy, I but wish to know if…”

  As if feeding patience, he breathed deep. “You wish to know if I found pleasure in your kisses? Be assured, where they began they would have ended had I not liked them, Nicola.”

  His use of her name easing some of her angst, she said, “I thank you.”

  He removed her hand from him. “I must tend our mounts ere departing for town.”

  Here the greatest reason she voiced that question. An hour past, the sound of horses riding on Thetford had penetrated deep into the wood, evidencing they were of great number and speed. There could be little doubt the riders were Normans, but were they dangerous or deadly? Either way, she wanted Vitalis to stay with her.

  When she started to follow to where their horses grazed, he turned back.

  Before he could send her away, she said, “I am aware ’twas unseemly to ask it, but I wished to know because you are not the first one I have kissed.”

  Another fill of the lungs. “I am guessing Bjorn was given that honor.” It was not said unkindly, and she realized he was thinking ahead of her—that the one she referred to would never again kiss a woman.

  She looked down. “Not him. I mean, he was the first man I kissed but not my first kiss. There was a stable boy at my sire’s home in Normandy.”

  “Was there, indeed?” he drawled.

  Was that a smile in his voice? Hoping it was also on his lips, she raised her gaze.

  It was not much of a smile, but more than she had seen in a long while. Though the tale would not reflect well on her, if it further lightened the air between them and held him here, more she had to win than lose.

  “It was planned.” Clearing her throat, she clasped her hands. “Years ago, at the king’s behest—well, he was only a duke then—I was betrothed to a man much older than I. Albeit balding, he was fairly attractive and fit, and I liked his horse from which he promised he would breed me a mare. At first, it seemed a good trade, but with the passing of each year that drew me nearer a marriageable age, more and more I thought it much in his favor until…”

  Vitalis’s eyebrows rose.

  She shrugged. “Until ’twas no longer a trade I wished to make. What remained of his hair had begun to grey, and it seemed he spent more time eating and drinking in the hall than practicing at arms on the training field. And were that not distressing enough, as I began to curve here and here—” Realizing she gestured at those places, she joined her fingers and gripped them at her waist.

  “Continue,” Vitalis said.

  If not for his smile—a real smile—she would have withdrawn. Ignoring the heat in her face, neck, and chest, she said, “Each time I looked at him and saw he looked at me in places his eyes should not go, I became uncomfortable. After all, I was not yet a woman. Too, increasingly he disapproved of my activities, rebuking Guarin for teaching me the throw of a dagger and pull of a bow.” Her voice having risen, she drew a calming breath. “So…”

  Vitalis’s smile broadened. Had she less restraint, and she was nearly there, she would have kissed it.

  “So you played the vixen and made good use of the stable boy,” he said.

  She nodded. “It was unkind of me, but not as unkind as you think. Often he gave chase and tried to kiss me. I simply made certain the one time he caught me was during one of my betrothed’s visits when his men were heading to the stables to prepare for hawking.”

  Smile disappearing, Vitalis said, “Did the boy survive the beating?”

  “No beating since I made certain my sire’s men were near and claimed I was the one who did the kissing.” She grimaced. “I thought that would be enough to clear him, but as an examination was required to prove it was only ever a kiss we shared, I submitted to that humiliation.”

  “Admirable.”

  She sighed. “As hoped, it was not enough that I remained virtuous. After my betrothed broke our marriage contract, I believed I had only to gain my parents’ forgiveness and that it would be granted in time—and not too much time since I had overheard my mother express doubt about the match and my sire agree and tell it would be best if my betrothed ended our agreement since the man had King William’s ear. I thought myself clever to effect that, never considering still there would be great consequences for my family and me.”

  “I am guessing your former betrothed was not humiliated sufficiently to hold close your indiscretion.”

  “You guess well.”

  “For that, when your brother, Cyr, crossed the channel to take possession of his English lands, you accompanied him.”

  She inclined her head. “Word spread that Nicola D’Argent was a harlot who, did any nobleman take her to wife, would have to be locked away to ensure any child she birthed was of his loins. Thus, since no good husband would I find in Normandy, and I did not wish to enter a convent…”

  “Exile.”

  “Of sorts. It was thought a suitable match could be made in England with a newly-landed Norman as yet unaware of what I had done. Though several were interested in wedding me, my brothers did not rush me to the altar, and now the tale is here as well. Thus, King William may order one of his grateful vassals to wed this D’Argent, most likely Estienne Lavonne who was given a portion of Lady Hawisa’s lands upon which Castle Balduc was raised.”

  “Which he has renamed Broehne Castle upon Abingdale, I have heard,” Vitalis said, then set his head to the side. “You do not seem overly sorrowful about being exiled.”

  She tugged her lower lip between her teeth. “My sorrow is in dishonoring my family and these years being denied my mother and father. Other than that, and despite England’s groanings and heavings, I like this country Guarin and Dougray make their own with the aid of their Saxon wives. Like you, I wish to end my days here.”

  Face tightening, he said, “Not like me, Nicola. There will be no advantageous match for this Saxon, no children to ride upon my shoulders and watch grow tall, handsome, and lovely as I grow stooped and grey.” As if sensing argument, he raised a hand. “I shall end my days here in England, but they will be naught like yours.” Giving her his back, he resumed his stride.

  Returned to worry over what awaited him in Thetford, Nicola called, “May I accompany you to town?”

  He looked around, and once more in her language said, “You may not, and still you will not hunt without me. You understand you must keep your word—absolutely must. Oui, Nicola?”

  Grateful for the distance between them that, hopefully, hid the moisture in her eyes, she said, “Upon your return, you will find me here trying not to tear out my hair.” She set her chin higher. “You understand you must return—absolutely must. Oui, Vitalis?”

  Seeing anger in his eyes, she knew he saw tears in hers. Perhaps for that, he did not further rebuke her. “Vixen,” he muttered and pivoted.

  Nicola tried to seal her lips. Really, she did. “Methinks we make good progress,” she called. “Vixen—far preferable to termagant.” Then she pivoted.

  Refusing to look behind to gauge his response, she crossed to the bed fashioned of a blanket tucked around heaped leaves at the base of a tree, dropped onto it, and leaning against the trunk, closed her eyes as if to rest.

  And prayed for Vitalis’s safe return.

  He trusted the woman, not only through observation and in the gut of him, but for what was told by others who answered seemingly offhanded inquiries about her.

  She who had urged him to live, who asked little coin for the foodstuffs he purchased, had much reason to hate Normans. Her son, a young man skilled in working iron the same as Zedekiah, had been crippled a year past during an encounter with several of De Warenne’s men. The cause for his crippling was an attempt to retrieve his sisters who had been taken to work in Red Castle’s kitchens, serving not only the appetites of the belly but the flesh.

  Aye, Vitalis trusted the Saxon, and because her daughters continued to labor at the castle, the information she passed to him as if in casual conversation was as reliable as possible. And that which was given this day would finally move him and Nicola out of Thetford’s wood.

  It was good the woman could be trusted since now she knew who he was—he had seen it in her eyes and heard it in the urgency with which she told him to run. And live.

  The head. Much favor that had gained him. Grisly though its delivery, making him retch in his mouth when he pulled it from the bag and swallow hard as he raised it aloft by blood-matted hair, he had been wise to himself present it to the abbot though one of Turold’s men had harvested it.

  For that, here his reward—sitting with De Warenne in Red Castle’s great hall, not at a lower table like the score of knights over which Daryl had been given command to hunt greater prey, but at the high table and only three places to the right of one of King William’s companions, which would be only two spaces if not for Prince Richard.

  Though the youth given into De Warenne’s charge to better his skill at arms and understanding of lordship had left the table an hour past, appearing bored with talk over efforts made to capture Vitalis that now extended to Thetford and its wood, the seat beside the Lord of Red Castle remained vacant. And with each passing minute that saw Daryl recede into the background, greater the temptation to trade this chair for that one.

  Would it be too bold, causing him to fall out of favor with the great warrior who had just called for a fourth pour of wine?

  Daryl chewed the side of his tongue as he watched a pretty Saxon of flaxen hair hasten from a lower table where men-at-arms had groped her while she poured ale. Though no longer did he count himself Saxon, that race having met its demise at Hastings when King Harold failed to keep the counsel of men like Daryl’s departed sire who urged him not to be drawn into battle before England’s forces recovered from the Norwegian invaders, he felt for the young woman. Whatever her life before the conquering, it had to have been better than this. When night came crawling across the floorboards, doubtless many a corner she was pressed into by those who would do more than touch and pinch. And it made Daryl want to—

  Be a fool, he silently rebuked as his sire would do were he here. That is her path, this is mine. Better to break bread with the conquerors than be the bread made of the conquered.

  He pushed up out of his chair. With the confidence of one worthy of becoming De Warenne’s equal, which all the nearer he would be when he, rather than Maël D’Argent, delivered the leader of the Rebels of the Pale to William, he crossed the back of the dais and halted between the prince’s chair and the high seat.

  Despite how much De Warenne imbibed, it hardly seemed necessary for the knight seated on the man’s left to bring Daryl to notice with a jut of his chin. But only then did the Lord of Red Castle sit back in what looked more a throne than a chair and acknowledge his guest.

  “Young Daryl.” The hitch of his mouth portending amusement, the light in his eyes annoyance, Daryl almost wished he had not abandoned his seat. De Warenne frowned. “I listened well to your account of the chase that foul rebel has led you on. Is it possible I missed some detail during the first recitation as well as the second?”

  He made it sound as if what was reported ere the meal was little more than boasting. It had not been, though Daryl was rightly proud of his accomplishments. “All is told, my lord. I but wish to discuss the morrow’s hunt of Thetford and its wood.” He nodded at the prince’s chair. “May I?”

 

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