NAMELESS: Book Three: Age of Conquest Read online

  NAMELESS

  Book Three: Age of Conquest

  Tamara Leigh

  www.TamaraLeigh.com

  THE WULFRITHS. IT ALL BEGAN WITH A WOMAN.

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

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  A NAMELESS NORMAN

  Born of scandal, Sir Dougray of the family D’Argent defies his illegitimacy by championing the oppressed—until the prospect of winning the hand of a lady persuades him to join the Duke of Normandy in conquering Saxon-ruled England. When an injury sustained at the Battle of Hastings causes the woman he loves to reject him, an embittered Dougray turns his efforts to uprooting Saxons resistant to their new king. But among those he must bring to heel is Em, an escaped slave-turned-rebel whose suffering at the hands of a fellow Norman tempts him to reclaim the man he was before he betrayed his conscience. And captivates him though he vowed never again to fall prey to a woman. Might yet another D’Argent warrior take a Saxon bride? Or will the one who made a possession of Em destroy what remains of her?

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  A FUGITIVE SAXON

  Forced into slavery to ensure her siblings’ survival following the Norman invasion, Em escapes her abusive master and joins the Saxon resistance. Now trained in the ways of the warrior, she is determined to never again suffer the depravity of men. And will not, providing she can stay ahead of the one intent on recovering his property—and the usurping King William’s warrior scout, Sir Dougray, who also seeks to capture her. But when he appoints himself Em’s savior, thwarting an attempt to once more enslave her, she glimpses an honorable man beyond the conqueror and begins to feel that which is forbidden enemies—worse, forbidden one as ruined as she. Or so she believes until his kiss more thrills than frightens. And threatens to break a heart she would not have believed capable of being touched by a Norman.

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  From the Saxon victory at York, portending the fateful Harrying of the North, to the walls of Wulfen Castle, Sir Dougray and Em’s tale unfolds in the third book in the AGE OF CONQUEST series revealing the origins of the Wulfriths of the bestselling AGE OF FAITH series. Watch for HEARTLESS: Book Four releasing Spring 2020.

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

  NAMELESS: Book Three (Age of Conquest) Copyright © 2019 by Tammy Schmanski, P.O. Box 1298 Goodlettsville, TN 37070 [email protected]

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  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.

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  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.

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  Cover Design: Ravven

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  Print ISBN-13: 978-1-942326-42-7

  Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-942326-41-0

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Heartless Excerpt

  Pronunciation Guide

  Glossary

  Also by Tamara Leigh

  About the Author

  The son shall not bear the iniquity of the father, neither shall the father bear the iniquity of the son: the righteousness of the righteous shall be upon him, and the wickedness of the wicked shall be upon him. ~ Ezekiel 18:20 KJV

  Prologue

  Normandy, France

  Spring, 1067

  You are baseborn. Despite my every effort to remedy that beyond our walls, it cannot be undone. No matter how many masses a man attends, no matter how many prayers he prays, in the absence of much effort to change his heart, he will act in accord with that to which he is disposed.” Baron D’Argent sighed. “It is the same with women, Dougray.”

  “Non, Godfroi,” his wife beseeched.

  The man who possessed but a forelock of black hair to evidence he had ever been other than shockingly silvered, looked from her son before the dais to where she stood alongside the high seat into which he had been settled minutes earlier. “It must be told.”

  “Must it?” she whispered.

  Taking her white-knuckled hand in his, he returned his regard to the one forced to his knees to prevent him from doing further injury to the men-at-arms. “It is not only Adela’s sire who rejects you, Dougray. It is Adela.”

  His words did not surprise, but they were not to be believed. Dougray had not betrayed his conscience by aiding the Duke of Normandy in taking England’s crown and lost half an arm for this to be the reason the one for whom he had done those things stayed away. It was Adela’s sire who kept her from his side all these months while he fought infection that nearly put him in the ground. Her sire who, as learned this morn from servants’ gossip, meant to wed her to one of legitimate, noble birth and sizable lands. This day.

  Suppressing the impulse to resume struggling against those who kept him from the woman who had pledged her heart to him, what remained of reason warning it would only humiliate him further, he growled, “You lie.”

  “It is a hard truth, but more true because it is hard, my son.”

  “My son? Non, as you say, I am baseborn. As you say, it cannot be undone.”

  “Dougray!” His mother stepped forward.

  It was good the baron drew her back, though it would be better had he sent her away when her son was returned to the castle.

  Despite Dougray’s anger, he did not want the one who had suffered from years of whisperings over the conception of her third child to hurt more. Albeit an act of indiscretion, it had been forgivable under the circumstances—though few men other than Godfroi D’Argent would have pardoned her. And even fewer would have given another man’s child his name and raised him alongside legitimate sons.

  Continuing to clasp his wife’s hand, the baron leaned forward. “Even if you reject me as your sire, you are my son—another hard truth, though only hard in this moment of believing you are betrayed.”

  Feeling ache in knees pressed hard to the stone floor, though not as great as the ache of his absent lower arm, Dougray said, “I am betrayed.”

  “Not by your mother nor father.”

  “Am I not? You ordered me ridden to ground like a criminal. You speak lies of Adela. And unless you allow me to go to her, this day she will be wed to a man she does not love.”

  “But of whom her sire approves, as does she.”

  “Another lie.”

  “Non, Dougray. Do I let you go to her, all you will find there is humiliation at best when it is confirmed I speak true, grave injury at worst when her kin and betrothed retaliate for your offense. And think of what might be believed of her. If you halt the wedding, it will be only until it can be verified she is not your lover.” The baron raised an eyebrow as if he himself questioned it.

  That he thought it possible his son had dishonored the lady moved bubbling anger toward boiling. Here a reminder Lady Robine D’Argent had been tainted by a dishonorable man, as evidenced by Dougray’s untimely birth that announced he was not of her husband.

  The sins of the father…

  Longing to break free of those who restrained him, he glanced at the hand on his right arm—bloodied, doubtless from being drawn across a broken nose. As for the soldier gripping what remained of Dougray’s left arm—fractured ribs.

  Though Dougray wished the injuries earlier dealt his captors confirmed he could throw them off, he had landed those blows only because they were not expected and the men were loath to injure one bearing the name D’Argent.

  The body and reflexes that had made Dougray a warrior capable of besting most opponents had suffered much wasting these months abed. Of a weight he had not been since his youth, he was at their mercy—rather, that of the man who sat in judgment of him.

  “Adela is where she ought to be, Dougray.”

  He returned his gaze to the baron who only appeared formidable. From the muscular breadth of his upper body, one would n
ot know his legs were emaciated and immovable beneath the blanket. Though none witnessed the rigor to which he subjected his torso and arms, daily he exercised those muscles yet under his control.

  “Robine,” the baron said, “I know you prefer to tell him when he is fully recovered, but it must be done now, and I think it best heard from me.”

  “Non, I was there.” She drew her hand from his. “It is for me to do.”

  Where had she been? Dougray wondered as she descended the dais. And what was for her to do?

  “Release my son,” she commanded the men-at-arms.

  They hesitated, then receiving a nod from their lord, did as bid and stepped back.

  Skirts gently billowing, Lady Robine sank to her knees before her son. The pain in her eyes and lining her face was greater than he had seen since his brother, Cyr, returned her maimed son to Normandy and told there was yet no word of her eldest son’s fate. Though three of her four sons had survived the battle of Hastings, and she clutched at hope Guarin had as well, she mourned. And this day, she hurt more for whatever she meant to reveal.

  For her, Dougray did not take advantage of his release. For her, he kept his knees to the floor.

  Cupping his bearded face in her palms, she said, “Dearest Dougray, your father does not lie. Had you been awarded a sizable demesne in England the same as Cyr, it is possible Adela’s sire would have allowed you to wed, but even then she would not have you.”

  He curled his fingers into fists, felt the ache of both hands despite the absence of one. “She does not care I was born on the wrong side of the sheets. She loves me.”

  “I do not question once that was true, but I believe it is no longer. Hence, her love was unworthy of our son.”

  The strain of remaining still causing him to tremble, Dougray said, “What lies would your husband have you tell?”

  As tears flooded her eyes, the baron barked, “Dare not speak—”

  “Non!” She twisted around. “Let me do this.”

  Godfroi’s face was so dark it appeared he was in the throes of apoplexy, but he jerked his chin.

  “The week after Christmas, while you were so senseless with infection we feared we would lose you, Adela came,” she said.

  Dougray startled. “Why did you not say?”

  “Because you needed something to live for, and that day she snatched it away.” She swallowed. “When she saw you lying in bed, so pale and thin she could not conceal her distress, she…”

  “What, Mother?”

  “She cried out and turned aside. I assured her there was hope you would recover and persuaded her to sit with you, myself set her hand upon yours. But when you roused and drew your left arm from beneath the cover as if to reach to her, she saw.”

  He narrowed his lids. “You did not prepare her?”

  “Tidings of your loss was not cast far and wide, but since she had stayed away, we assumed she knew and, like her mother…”

  “What?”

  “Ever beauty the first consideration. Though Adela’s mother could have wed any of a number of godly men, she chose the most handsome—and most ungodly.”

  “Adela is not the same.”

  “Is she not? As told your father, I was there. Upon her face was revulsion that could no longer disguise itself as shock as when first she looked upon you. I saw how quickly she loosed your hand and departed. And I heard tale of how horrid she thought your injury and that it was a pity you should be so unmanned—”

  “Lies!” Dougray thrust to his feet, causing the men-at-arms to take back the step given. Pointing at the baron who surely wished legs beneath him, he said, “Lies he has you tell to keep me from her.”

  His mother rose. “Were they lies, they would be mine alone. They are not, and it is a blade to the heart to tell what I prayed I would not have to. Ill it makes me that loose lips gave you false hope ere unbreakable vows could be spoken.”

  He refused to believe it false hope. If he could get to Adela, she would go away with him, and they would make a life together beyond Normandy.

  “She is undeserving, Dougray. In time, there will be one more true who does not first see your loss but her great gain in taking you to husband.”

  “Heed your mother,” the baron said. “If a wife you desire, I shall make a match for you when you fully recover. A lady of constancy, kind heart, wit, beauty, and good dowry—perhaps even lands.”

  As Dougray stared at him past his mother, he put order to his face lest it reveal he calculated the chance of overwhelming the only ones present capable of intercepting him.

  Make it past the men-at-arms and he had only to make it to one of the horses in the inner bailey. Make it to the drawbridge before it was raised and he had only to make it to Adela’s home. Make it to her side before his pursuers arrived and they had only to make it to the wood. Then they would decide whether to head north, south, east, or west.

  Non, not west. Never again would he cross the channel. Never again would he set foot on English soil choked with his countrymen’s blood. And when Cyr returned from pilgrimage to atone for those he had slain in the great battle, neither would he return to England. Providing still they had no word Guarin lived, Cyr would assume his place as the D’Argent heir. As for the lands awarded him in England…

  Hopefully, the duke now its king would grant them to one other than the youngest brother who administered them for Cyr. Dougray did not wish Theriot denied lands of his own, but better Normandy lands acquired by way of marriage like that proposed for the baseborn one.

  “Naught to say?” the baron asked, and Dougray sensed he suspected what was behind this mask.

  Lull him, he counseled. Tell him what he desires, and sooner Dougray not-of-the-same-silvered-hair as his brothers and sister will be gone from here.

  He drew breath, but before he could spend it on conciliatory words, the baron commanded, “Confine him. At peril of your positions, he is not to leave his chamber without my permission.”

  Dougray was moving before those last words were spoken—as were the men who sought to seize him as he swung away from his mother. Though he had not mastered what was required to efficiently move a body whose one side was out of balance with the other, he made it to the doors. But as he reached to one, it swung wide with the entrance of a young woman.

  “Dougray!” Nicola exclaimed, then shrieked as a man-at-arms slammed into her brother and carried him to the floor.

  With feet, knees, elbows, and fist, Dougray fought his one assailant who quickly became two.

  “They will hurt him, Godfroi!” his mother cried.

  “Get off him!” Nicola screamed, and he saw her drag on the tunic of the man-at-arms who struggled to restrain Dougray’s upper body, felt the one grappling with his legs jerk as if kicked hard.

  Sanity prevailed. Though angered it must in order to ensure his sister was not harmed, Dougray ceased struggling and was pinned as thoroughly as when he fell at Hastings. Strange he had not been able to feel his lower left arm then, though still it clung to the upper. Stranger, he could feel it now though long removed.

  He did not resist when he was dragged upright, merely made fists—one visible, the other no longer—and looked to Nicola who was met halfway across the hall by their mother. Staring at the young woman who demanded to know the reason her brother was set upon and the older woman seeking to calm her, Dougray made the baron wait on the regard of one who ought to be grateful first, repentant second.