Reckless a medieval roma.., p.19
RECKLESS: A Medieval Romance (Age of Conquest Book 5), page 19
“I am done!” Blood-tinted saliva flecked the air. “I will not try to kill you.”
Vitalis pulled him forward and released him. “I am glad we are of an understanding, Richard—providing your word is as good as mine.”
Another nod. “More so the word of a prince, the son of King William.”
If that made him more confident of the vow given, so be it. “Then I am satisfied.” Vitalis offered the youth his sword.
Dragging the back of a hand beneath his nose, staining his tunic’s cuff, Richard eyed the weapon as if fearing trickery. “Am I not to be your prisoner—a hostage?”
“Only if De Warenne’s men come for you ere I depart.” Vitalis made a show of listening. “As there are but two of us here, I see no reason to hold one who will hinder me.”
Richard frowned. “Only two here? Sir Daryl told you stole Lady Nicola of the D’Argents from Ely. Is she not in this wood with you?”
Vitalis raised his eyebrows.
“I believe the same as he that she is here,” the prince said. “Thus, for the lady’s sake more than my glory, I came for you.”
Containing his mirth, Vitalis reminded, “Your sword, Prince.”
Once again the youth considered what less he coveted than avoiding the feared consequences of reaching for it. Returning his gaze to Vitalis, he demanded, “Have you dishonored that Norman lady, Saxon?”
Were not his disdain for the English learned at his father’s knee, then it was learned from another as intolerant of those whose wealth and power had been stolen at Hastings.
“Have you?” Richard pressed.
“This my answer upon which all lies told of me ought to be impaled,” Vitalis said. “As told, I am Wulfen-trained, not Norman-trained. Unlike De Warenne’s men who frequent Red Castle’s hall, I do not view women—be they common or noble—as objects to be used and their remains discarded.”
Once more, he offended, but this offense appeared short-lived, as if Richard was struck by the truth of the sins Vitalis cast at men who dishonored the sisters of the young man crippled for defending them.
Vitalis stepped nearer, drew the precious dagger from his belt, and extended it alongside the sword. “Take your weapons and return to Red Castle.”
Hesitantly, the boy accepted his sword. Once it was in its scabbard, he reclaimed the dagger. That blade he did not sheathe but lowered to his side to appear less a threat.
A thought struck Vitalis, and he said, “I have a gift for your sire.”
As wariness once more leapt from Richard, Vitalis pulled from his purse the cloth upon which coins had nestled. “Much William desires this. When next you see him, if you have the courage to reveal the truth of how it came to you, mayhap he will have the courage to tell how it came to me—and better choose those who foster his son so never again does he fall victim to such dangerous circumstances.”
Curiosity and confusion crowding Richard’s face, he took the mantle piece and examined the beauty diminished by heedless handling which had frayed its cut edges and snagged its embroidery.
“Have you the courage?” Vitalis prompted.
Richard glowered. “Were I without courage, and I speak of the sort that matters—not humbling myself to make you feel superior—this son of a king and this beaten rebel would not be conversing.”
Vitalis narrowed his lids. “As I hoped the whelp before me was not overly drunk on privilege granted rather than earned, I am disappointed. I care not for your bloodthirsty, thieving sire, but one thing he has which I believe he failed to pass to his spare heir, is courage not found in a name nor worship of the blood in one’s veins that is as red and thick as any man’s. I speak of courage born of what one himself makes of his name and blood. And that is not even true courage.”
It was apparent the boy struggled not to ask after that, but he said, “What is true courage?”
Vitalis had spoken more than intended, but the resentment in Richard’s eyes that had become dismay, next grudging interest, made him feel once more a trainer of those whose clay must be carefully and thoughtfully shaped into men first, then molded into warriors. Though this youth was Norman and even less desirable for being William’s son, instinct suggested it might not be too late to make Richard of Normandy a great defender of England—given proper training.
“I wait,” the youth said with the impatience of one whose time is more precious than that of the one he waits upon.
Vitalis stepped nearer.
Richard stepped back and raised the dagger.
Vitalis laughed, a sound so long lost to him he would have been only mildly surprised to find someone behind him.
But it was rebuke enough for the prince to return the dagger to his side, push the cloth into his purse, and in a nearly respectful tone say, “I know you to have been a great trainer of warriors, Vitalis of Wulfen, and as I wish to be a warrior worthy of my sire, I would know what true courage is.”
Feeling a lightening about his soul, different from that felt in Nicola’s arms and she in his, Vitalis said, “As told, courage is what one makes of his name and blood. However, true courage is when it has the…” He hesitated over what came more easily to his tongue than his heart whose faith had come near to drowning over the loss of Zedekiah. In the days since, that faith had begun to resurface, but the shore remained distant.
“That which makes courage true is when one allows their thoughts and deeds to be guided by the Lord, which is no easy thing. Indeed, it is so difficult that does one attain true courage, still it can be misplaced, and then it is even harder to find.”
“Have you found it again, Vitalis?”
Such a question would have been impertinent were it awash in accusation for the Normans whom Vitalis had slain these years, but the one who asked it did so absent sarcasm as if he understood this Saxon had acted in defense of his country and people and knew the code followed by Vitalis and those he had led. Mostly followed.
“I did find it again,” Vitalis recalled the events since Sigward’s death. “But of recent, I struggle to keep hold of it.”
That last a reminder Daryl was very near and the strength of any courage, true or otherwise, could not be tested until Nicola was safe, Vitalis said, “You have a long walk ahead, and much to think on do you avail yourself of that one piece of Wulfen training.” He jutted his chin. “Go.”
As if already he turned that lesson over like a rock whose backside proved more fascinating than the front, the young man blinked as if surprised to find he was still here, then frowned. “Have you no horse upon which I may return to Red Castle?”
Vitalis sighed. “It is good you do not seek Wulfen training, Prince Richard. It saves you the disappointment of being denied entrance.”
His eyes hardened. “Why would I, the son of—” He snapped his teeth, sucked breath between them, then asked levelly, “Why would I not be accepted at Wulfen?”
“Many the pre-dawn runs through the wood to challenge and strengthen your body in preparation for each day’s training. No horse to carry your load. Only you and the determination to prove worthy. If this wood is daunting, that wood…” He shook his head. “And near every day that run is made…”
Richard raised his chin higher. “As easily as I can run this one, I could run that one—and more.”
“Then do so, Prince. And do not stop until you are inside Red Castle’s walls, for I am not the only danger here.”
The young man sheathed his dagger and turned.
“Dagger out!” Vitalis commanded as if Richard were his responsibility. Far from it, but he was young and yet innocent enough to benefit from his enemy’s experience and counsel.
The prince halted his hitched advance and peered across his shoulder. “One would think you have a care for William’s son.”
“Not for William’s son,” Vitalis said gruffly. “For you, Richard who requires better training than thus far received.”
The youth drew his dagger and feigned an interest in the blade before returning his regard to Vitalis. “I see no need to reveal to De Warenne nor Sir Daryl where I have been these hours, though a better story and more to my credit it would be to confess I faced the mighty Vitalis and survived by skill and cunning, then lead them to this place that must be near your camp. However, as that does not sound true courage, I shall tell that my horse threw me whilst I hunted and save the rest for my sire, as well as your advice regarding my fostering—and the cloth.” He nodded. “Thus, when the King of England captures you and sentences you to death, mayhap it will be a swift, relatively painless one for having shown me grace.”
Vitalis did not know whether to admonish him or laugh, and so he stared.
Richard inclined his head and ran with good speed despite his injured leg.
Having remained distantly aware of Nicola, Vitalis snatched up the rope and coiled it as he strode in her direction. When she did not show herself, he thought she might have returned to camp. But he sensed her, and when he came around the tree she leaned against, she straightened and peered up at him through dark lashes.
“I broke my word.” She nodded. “I knew it was dangerous, but…” She tossed up her hands. “Well, I would have you know I hesitated, and not merely for a moment—for minutes. Many minutes. And I struggled to stay put and await your return. How I struggled! But as I could not know when you would appear and, clearly, a boy was in danger, I had to come.” She touched sword and dagger on her belt. “Prepared as you see, and with great stealth.”
There was nothing to smile about, and yet he nearly did. In the space in which she drew another breath, Vitalis said, “I understand, Nicola.”
“And it is not as if—” Her lashes fluttered. “You understand?”
“I do not like that you placed yourself in danger, but I understand.”
“Oh.” Her lips curved. “I am glad. So very glad.” She sighed, then looked across her shoulder in the direction the prince had gone. “Richard has grown more arrogant, yet I think I like him better than when he was younger.” She swept her gaze back to Vitalis. “Methinks you liked him as well.”
“Certes, he is not yet his father,” Vitalis acceded and turned to talk of what mattered. “As you surely guessed from our exchange, this morn’s riders were led by Daryl—and great their number to extend the search for me here.”
“Then we must leave now.”
He was pleased she grasped the urgency of not delaying their departure, whether because she did not trust the prince to hold close this day’s adventure or understood the necessity of putting as many leagues as possible between them and their pursuers.
“We go north toward Wulfenshire, Vitalis?”
“We shall seek to do so. If God is with us…” He trailed off at thoughtlessly placing the burden of their fate on Him who either refused to bear it, else found in favor of others. Further evidence his faith was strengthening, even if only just.
“He will be with us,” Nicola said firmly.
Vitalis turned to start back to camp, but moved by the certainty that whatever came in the days ahead would see them parted, their lives never again entwined, he offered Nicola his hand.
Her green eyes and smile widening, she leapt forward and slid her fingers over his.
Certain words teemed in her head, he steeled himself for their speaking. However, Nicola D’Argent who professed to love him spoke only when they reached camp, and only what was needed to sooner see them packed and astride.
And bound for Wulfenshire.
Chapter Eighteen
The Lord was with them. And then He was not—rather, not with Vitalis. But of greatest import, the word given Lady Hawisa was kept.
Due to an abundance of Normans belatedly sent to East Anglia in answer to the Danes’ arrival and the sack of Peterborough Abbey, Vitalis and Nicola’s northward progress on the day past had been hindered. Often they veered off course to take cover, and the one time they were sighted, it was necessary to go to ground for hours that bled through night into dawn.
Lest word had been sent to Daryl of the possibility the two who evaded capture were those he sought—had the prince not already alerted the traitor his prey was in the wood—this day Vitalis and Nicola had ridden hard to distance themselves beyond the single league gained. Then more riders appeared ahead. Though they numbered four and were armored, two of the Normans were silvered the same as Nicola and one’s head was crowned with gold.
After she confirmed they were her kin, they had continued forward—unaware that as soon as the two parties drew rein, a third would appear, this one over two score strong.
“Almighty!” snarled Guarin, as he peered past Vitalis at pursuers yet distant enough those Normans could not know for certain the identities of the six upon open ground, but not so distant a great spurring would not confirm it.
“You have returned Nicola to us as promised, Vitalis,” Hawisa’s husband said. “Now get yourself to safety. Ride!”
Safety, Vitalis silently scorned as he looked behind to those surely led by Daryl. Though only half advanced, there was little chance of escape. Not only had the cover offered by wood and vegetation thinned the farther they traveled from Thetford, but the enemy were numerous enough to surround and flush him out. Better this, astride and back straight when Zedekiah’s murderer came before him than he become the rabbit Vitalis had thought William’s son.
Nicola gripped his arm. “They draw nigh!” Tears dampened her voice. “Pray, heed my brother. Ride and do not look back.”
He turned his head, not in her direction but that of Guarin, a Norman prisoner over whom once he had been given charge, next Nicola’s half-brother, the fair Dougray who had sought to slay Vitalis as Vitalis sought to slay him, then her cousin whose attempt to retrieve the mantle piece had led to Sir Maël’s capture by Danes and his ransoming, lastly, Hawisa and Guarin’s adopted son, Squire Eberhard.
“Non, I will not run,” he said in Norman-French and dropped his hood to reveal the red about him. Returning to Sir Maël, he saw in this enemy’s eyes that the same as Guarin and Dougray, no longer was he Vitalis’s foe. Were this rebel to run, at best the king’s man would make a pretense of giving chase.
“I think you know that is the traitor, Daryl, who comes for me,” Vitalis said, “that he seeks to gain William’s esteem and gratitude for delivering me to him ahead of you.”
The chevalier inclined his head. “This I know.”
“Just as we know he slew Zedekiah and profaned his body,” Guarin said with anger that revealed he also felt the loss of the smithy he had aided in shaping into a warrior.
Nicola yanked on Vitalis’s arm. “Pray, go!”
He pulled free and, holding Sir Maël’s gaze, said, “I yield to you and trust you will deliver me to your king.”
“Non!” Nicola cried. “Ride, Vitalis!” When he did not respond, she beseeched, “For my sake, make him go, Maël.”
Vitalis snapped his head around. Out of the corner of an eye confirming what his ears told of those thundering forward—that if there had been a chance of escape, it was past—he said, “Enough! As promised, you are returned to your family, and I am resolved to use this opportunity to draw near Daryl ere your cousin passes me to William.”
She gasped, and he looked from tears brimming in her eyes to her menfolk. They understood. Fairly certain they would not interfere were it possible for him to gain what he wanted, he turned his mount sideways so Daryl could witness the moment what he wanted was lost.
He drew his sword from its scabbard, and when Sir Maël accepted it, noted something else different about the one whose face had been disfigured at Hastings. That side was no less scarred than when the trade of Nicola for the abbess went wrong, and yet it seemed a better match for the side that evidenced how handsome the whole of it had been.
It was as if the darkness within the Norman had taken on light between him being made a captive of the Danes and ransomed alongside the false abbess who would soon be in Denmark.
After Sir Maël secured Vitalis’s sword to his saddle, he accepted the dagger and said, “Both of you, behind us.”
Vitalis knew he had no right to resent being commanded like the prisoner he made himself, but the appearance of hiding behind other warriors made him stiffen as he guided his horse around. He hated this, especially for how much more impotent he would feel when Zedekiah’s murderer was within reach.
This being far from how he had imagined their next encounter, he halted his mount behind Sir Maël’s and Guarin’s. Withholding his gaze from Nicola as she came alongside, feeling the press of her leg against his, he watched those ahead slow their advance.
Daryl was at the fore, and for all of Vitalis’s angst at being shielded, satisfaction was had in the anger splashed across the traitor’s face. Quite the blow it must be that after so many weeks of seeking to snatch the prize from Sir Maël, what the knave had been nearer was snatched from him. And as Nicola’s cousin was William’s captain of the guard, there was naught Daryl could do. He had the numbers to overwhelm the D’Argents, but little chance of persuading the knights to do his bidding since first they served the king.
“Sir Maël!” Daryl called as cruel jerks on the reins caused his horse to sidle. “That is my captive. You have Lady Nicola, for whom you ought to thank me for herding your direction. Now send our king’s enemy to me.”
Untenable arrogance, unbridled ambition, Vitalis silently named but two of Daryl’s defects. He ought to know the game made of Vitalis’s life was lost, but either he refused to accept it or blinded himself to the limit of his power and influence.
Sir Maël nudged his horse forward. When that great animal was muzzle to muzzle with the knave’s, grunting and snorting, flanks quivering as if whatever its rider contained would find its release in the horse’s attack upon Daryl, the chevalier set his hands on the saddle’s pommel and leaned forward as if to converse over the weather.
“It is true Vitalis of Wulfen is our king’s enemy,” he said. “Where you err is in believing my king approves of the knights lent to Abbot Turold being lent to you as if highly trained men of the sword are but carts passed between farmers.”
