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  MERCILESS

  Book One: Age of Conquest

  Tamara Leigh

  www.TamaraLeigh.com

  THE WULFRITHS. IT ALL BEGAN WITH A WOMAN.

  A battle. A crown. The conqueror. The conquered. Medieval England—forever changed by the Battle of Hastings. And the rise of the formidable Wulfriths.

  AN HONORABLE NORMAN

  Chevalier Cyr D’Argent convinced himself he joined Duke William’s invasion of England to reform its church and place its rightful king on the throne. But after a decisive Norman victory, the truth of his quest is revealed when his search for fallen kin leads to a Saxon grieving a boy slain by one of his own. Certain the defiant young woman will become the pick of the plunder, he forces her off the battlefield. Following a pilgrimage of penance, Cyr returns to England to seek his missing brother and claim the barony awarded by King William who stipulates he end the rebellion on his lands. He agrees, only to discover the woman he cannot forget is among those he must vanquish—and may even be their leader.

  A REBELLIOUS SAXON

  On a fateful autumn day in 1066, Aelfled of Wulfen’s mistake leads to the death of her lady’s son. Unforgivable—as is the silver-haired warrior who tempts her to put a blade in his back then does the unthinkable in protecting her from his fellow Normans. Now under the usurper’s rule, faith crippled by her people’s suffering, she finds her sanctuary threatened when she becomes a pawn of the rebel leader—and destroyed when betrayal delivers her into the hands of the man who haunts her dreams. As the fires of unrest scorch lives and lands, Aelfled struggles to shield her heart as well as her people. But perhaps love can unite Normans and Saxons. Perhaps she is meant to be here…with him…for such a time as this.

  Thus begins the AGE OF CONQUEST series revealing the origins of the Wulfriths of the bestselling AGE OF FAITH series. Watch for FEARLESS: Book Two in Spring 2019.

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

  MERCILESS: AGE OF CONQUEST: Book One Copyright © 2018 by Tammy Schmanski, P.O. Box 1298, Goodlettsville, TN 37070, [email protected]

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogues are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

  All rights reserved. This book is a copyrighted work and no part of it may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photographic, audio recording, or any information storage and retrieval system) without permission in writing from the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the author’s permission is illegal and punishable by law. Thank you for supporting authors’ rights by purchasing only authorized editions.

  Cover Design: Ravven

  eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-942326-33-5

  Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-942326-34-2

  Contents

  Also by Tamara Leigh

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  FEARLESS EXCERPT

  Pronunciation Guide

  Glossary

  Also by Tamara Leigh

  About the Author

  Also by Tamara Leigh

  CLEAN READ HISTORICAL ROMANCE

  THE FEUD: A Medieval Romance Series

  Baron Of Godsmere: Book One

  Baron Of Emberly: Book Two

  Baron of Blackwood: Book Three

  LADY: A Medieval Romance Series

  Lady At Arms: Book One

  Lady Of Eve: Book Two

  BEYOND TIME: A Medieval Time Travel Romance Series

  Dreamspell: Book One

  Lady Ever After: Book Two

  STAND-ALONE Medieval Romance Novels

  Lady Of Fire

  Lady Of Conquest

  Lady Undaunted

  Lady Betrayed

  INSPIRATIONAL HISTORICAL ROMANCE

  AGE OF FAITH: A Medieval Romance Series

  The Unveiling: Book One

  The Yielding: Book Two

  The Redeeming: Book Three

  The Kindling: Book Four

  The Longing: Book Five

  The Vexing: Book Six

  The Awakening: Book Seven

  The Raveling: Book Eight

  AGE OF CONQUEST: A Medieval Romance Series

  Merciless: Book One

  Fearless: Book Two (Spring 2019)

  INSPIRATIONAL CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE

  HEAD OVER HEELS: Stand-Alone Romance Collection

  Stealing Adda

  Perfecting Kate

  Splitting Harriet

  Faking Grace

  SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT: A Contemporary Romance Series

  Leaving Carolina: Book One

  Nowhere, Carolina: Book Two

  Restless in Carolina: Book Three

  OUT-OF-PRINT GENERAL MARKET REWRITES

  Warrior Bride 1994: Bantam Books (Lady At Arms)

  *Virgin Bride 1994: Bantam Books (Lady Of Eve)

  Pagan Bride 1995: Bantam Books (Lady Of Fire)

  Saxon Bride 1995: Bantam Books (Lady Of Conquest)

  Misbegotten 1996: HarperCollins (Lady Undaunted)

  Unforgotten 1997: HarperCollins (Lady Ever After)

  Blackheart 2001: Dorchester Leisure (Lady Betrayed)

  *Virgin Bride is the sequel to Warrior Bride; Pagan Pride and Saxon Bride are stand-alone novels

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

  THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO…THE WULFRITHS

  Is it silly to dedicate a tale to the family of other tales culled from my imagination? So be it. Silly me dedicates MERCILESS, the first book in the Age of Conquest series, to the Wulfriths of the Age of Faith series who kept me company during long writing days for six lovely years. I hope the Wulfriths forged during the 1066 Norman Conquest of England are worthy of those who sprang from them, readers beautifully generous with their reading time, and above all, my savior who blessed me with the ability to weave God-honoring words into tales of men and women of ages long gone.

  Chapter One

  Sussex, England

  15 October, 1066

  The battle was done. England was on its knees. And in the space between horrendous loss and brazen victory, a new day breathed light across the dark. But no beautiful thing was it, that splayed wide to the eyes more terrible than the moon had revealed and the ripening scent forewarned.

  Bloodlust that had gripped thousands on the day past yet treading the veins of Cyr D’Argent, he felt it further displaced by revulsion and dread as he moved his gaze
over the grey, mist-strewn battlefield.

  Among the broken and torn bodies of numerous Saxons and numbered Normans, he glimpsed blue. But was it the shade that had eluded him throughout his night-long quest to recover the last of his kin?

  Might his eldest brother and uncle yet breathe amid the slaughter? Might they be found the same as the third D’Argent brother whom Cyr had culled from gutted Saxons at middle night—though cruelly wounded, yet in possession of breath?

  It did not seem possible a dozen hours after the death of England’s king so decisively ended the battle few would argue the crown was destined for Duke William of Normandy. Still, Cyr would continue his search until he had done all in his power to account for the fate of those he held dear.

  As he traversed blood-soaked ground so liberally cast with the fallen no straight path was possible, he questioned if his youngest brother and cousin remained among those searching for kin and friends. If not, it was because they succeeded where Cyr failed. Regardless, hopefully they would keep their swords close. Of greater concern than the daring Saxon women and elderly men retrieving their fallen were the profane of the Normans divesting the dead and dying of valuables.

  “Lord, let us not search in vain,” Cyr prayed. “Let my brother and uncle be hale and whole, merely seeking us as we seek them.” Possible only if they had gone a different direction since Cyr looked near upon all who had crossed his moonlit path.

  Another stride carrying him to a heap of bodies that boasted as many Normans as Saxons, he drew a deep breath and rolled aside two of the enemy to uncover the warrior garbed in blue. The face was too bloodied to make out the features, but the man’s build was slight compared to a D’Argent. The only relief in the stranger’s death was the possibility Cyr’s kin yet lived.

  He straightened, and as he turned from the sloping meadow toward the next visible blue, what sounded a curse rent the air and ended on a wail.

  Farther up the slope, an aged Saxon woman whose white hair sprang all around face and shoulders wrenched on the arms of a warrior she dragged backward. Was it a dead man she sought to remove? Or did her loved one yet live?

  Struck by the possibility his own sword was responsible for her struggle and heartache, Cyr was pierced by regret he did not wish to feel. It was the work of the Church he had done. Or was it?

  Before the question could infect a conscience holding its breath, he thrust it aside and started to sidestep one of his own—a chevalier with whom he had crossed the channel. Younger than Cyr by several years, his eyes had lit over talk of the reward he would gain in fighting for William and the hope it was sizable enough to allow him to wed the woman awaiting his return home. She would wait forever, a Saxon battle-axe having severed links of his hauberk and breastbone to still the heart beneath.

  Cyr swept his gaze over the bodies of long-haired, bearded enemies. Struggling against a resurgence of bloodlust that demanded justice for the young Norman, he reminded himself it was for kin he searched through night into dawn, not to wreak vengeance on the dead and dying.

  Purpose recovered, he considered the bordering wood of Andredeswald where what remained of the Saxon army had fled on the afternoon past. Had his brother or uncle been amongst the ill-fated Normans who gave chase into the trees?

  Only had they turned berserker, as sometimes happened to the most sensible and disciplined. That battle madness beyond courage had pried away Cyr’s control when two chevaliers fell on either side of him. Surrounded by axe-wielding Saxons, he had yielded to the fury lest he join his fellow Normans in death.

  Finding little comfort in recall of his superior skill and reflexes, he veered toward the wood where the ranks of dead began to thin. At the base of a hill to the right knelt a young Saxon woman.

  The soft mournful strains of her song stirring the mist surrounding her, she bent over one whose head she cradled. Regardless of whether or not her kin yet lived, she bared her heart to loss. And her body to violation if the Normans picking over the fallen determined to plunder her as well. Until the duke granted the Saxons permission to retrieve their dead, they risked much in venturing onto the battlefield.

  Concern for the woman distracting him from his purpose, he lengthened his stride to more quickly move past her.

  To the left, a half dozen Saxons sprawled atop Normans, beyond them one of his own crushed beneath a bloodied and bloated warhorse. Ahead, impaled on a single arrow, enemy embraced enemy. But no recognizable blue.

  As he neared the Saxon woman, more clearly he heard her song. Being ill-versed in the English language, her words held little meaning, but its lament made him ache such that were it not for what he glimpsed beyond her, he would have veered away.

  The mist hung heavier there, the bodies deeper. Thus, he could not be certain it was the blue he sought amid the browns and russets of Saxons, but something told him there he would find kin.

  Feeling blood course neck and wrists, hearing it throb between his ears, he moved toward the fallen with his sword going before him.

  Of a sudden, the woman’s song ceased.

  Cyr rarely faltered, but he was jolted when she raised her head and her sparkling gaze fell on one responsible for the death of scores of her people. Like a candle beset by draft, emotions crossed her face, including alarm when her regard moved to the blade he had cleaned on his tunic’s hem.

  Once more regret dug into him, but it eased when he was past her and fairly certain his search yielded terrible fruit.

  He sheathed his sword, and with strength he had thought nearly drained, cast aside Saxons who had met their end atop a Norman chevalier. The latter clothed in a blue tunic torn and blood-stained in a half dozen places, Hugh D’Argent’s head with its close-cropped hair lolled upon the removal of the last enemy whose long hair his enormous hand gripped. There in the place between neck and shoulder was a cut that had severed the great vein, confirming the eyes staring east toward home would never again look upon France.

  A shout sounding from Cyr, he dropped to his knees. He could not have expressed in words exactly what he felt for his uncle who had been coarse, hard, and demanding, but what moved through him dragged behind it pain that would go deeper only had the blue clothed his eldest sibling. He had cared much for the man who trained him and his brothers in the ways of the warrior. Now Hugh was lost to all, most tragically his son who would add another scar to the visible ones bestowed on the day past.

  Eyes burning, Cyr gripped a hand over his face. An arm one of two younger brothers had lost to a battle-axe. A handsome face his cousin had lost to a sword. A life his uncle had lost to a dagger. And the eldest D’Argent brother who should not have been amongst Duke William’s warriors? Whose fate would he share?

  “Accursed Saxons!” Sweeping his blade from its scabbard, he thrust to his feet.

  Bloodlust sweeping through him, his mind and body moved him to swing and slice and thrust, but somehow he wrenched back from a precipice of no benefit to any. Better he pursue those who had fled to the wood and yet had life to be let. However, as he stepped over a Saxon he had thrown off Hugh, he stilled over how slight the figure. And the face…

  He looked from one who could be no more than a dozen years aged to the others he had tossed aside. Boys. All of them. Boys who had given their lives to bring down the mighty Norman. Boys determined to defend what was now no longer theirs to defend. Boys who would never grow into men. Boys soon to return to dust.

  Another lay farther out. Smaller than the ones who had toppled Hugh, he sprawled on his belly, arms outstretched as if to crawl home and into his mother’s arms. And the fifth boy was the one over whom the Saxon woman bent.

  Her brother? Likely, for she was too young to have given life to one that age.

  Guilt gaining a foothold, he reminded himself of the papal blessing bestowed on Duke William for the invasion of England, as evidenced by the banner carried into battle. More than for the crown promised and denied William, more than for the land and riches to be awarded to his follow
ers, the Normans had taken up arms against the heathen Saxons for the reformation of England’s Church. Regardless of who had died on the day past, first and foremost they had done it for the greater good. Had they not?

  Trying to calm this roiling that was no fit for a warrior, he breathed deep, filling mouth, nose, and throat with the scent and taste of death never before so potent. He expelled the loathsome air, but it was all there was to be had. Breath moving through him like a wind, chest rising and falling like a storm-beset ocean, he sent his gaze up his blade to its point.

  Were we not justified? he silently questioned. Was I not?

  Images of the day past rushed at him—the flight of arrows, slash and thrust of blades, shouts and cries from contorted mouths, blood and more blood. And laid over it all, the faces of ones who could barely be named young men.