LAWLESS: A Medieval Romance (AGE OF CONQUEST Book 7) Read online

  “Norman pig! Unworthy of Saxon slop!” she cried and nearly laughed bitterly over how much she looked like one given to wallowing.

  The chevalier had stilled, and though she caught the glitter of his eyes, she more felt than saw his gaze upon her.

  She raised her chin. “Knave! Thief! Miscrea—!”

  “Get here, V!” Hereward shouted. “Now!”

  She did not want to get there. She wanted to continue berating Torquay, but as night and the widening water choked him down along with fellow Normans come to assist, she gave him her back.

  Moments later, she dropped onto the bench facing her cousin. “I know. I do.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I should not have broken my word. Forgive me, but I could not simply watch when I saw you and the others veering away. I had to…” A sob escaped, then she heard the oars he released thump the rings through which they were threaded and felt his hands on her shoulders.

  “I thank you for breaking your word,” he said gruffly, “but never again disobey me.”

  “I will try not to.”

  “V!”

  She snapped up her chin. “I can only try. Until the moment is upon us that is not as certain nor safe as the moment in which we agree to do one thing and not another, that is all we can do—try.”

  Unlike the eyes of Sir Guy, she could see enough of Hereward’s to be certain he glared, but then he sighed. “We must get past the blockade, which will not be easy with those on the nearest boats aware ill has befallen fellow Normans. Once we are safely through, we shall put this night behind us.”

  “Aye, ’tis done,” she said and hoped it was so.

  But the night’s ordeal was not done. Though they made it through the blockade, more ill befell them before reaching Ely, and now it came from the enemy this side rather than the other—several weary, desperate survivors who had lost six of their friends proclaiming their cause hopeless and predicting soon Le Bâtard would sweep the rest of them off the playing board made of England.

  Hereward was not of a mood.

  Chapter One

  The Fenlands

  Mid-Summer, 1071

  Elan. Elan Pendery. Now Elan Harwolfson. Another man’s wife, mother of another man’s child, perhaps even children now.

  Why did she persist in visiting him when the dark without darkened that within, making his heart feel hollow? It was two years. Two long, bloody years that, if they felt a dozen to him, surely felt scores to Saxons who continued to struggle beneath Norman oppression.

  “Two years,” Guy breathed out as he stared across moonlit waters at the Isle of Ely whose torchlit shores allowed glimpses of patrols who rebuffed every attempt to wrest from Hereward that kingdom unto itself.

  Memory returning Guy to a riverbank north of here where months past he had come face to face with the man outlawed by his own people while old King Edward yet ruled, he ground his teeth. He had saved his squire who tried to be a warrior in full before his time. For that, the opportunity was lost to end the rebellion in the Fenlands and gain great reward for delivering the last eminent resistance leader to King William.

  God willing, the last, he silently conceded.

  Two years ago, it was believed Edwin Harwolfson was the last of note, and when finally he yielded to William, gaining Lady Elan, their misbegotten son, and Blackspur Castle, peace would come to England. But as there were others before Edwin, there were others since, and might be more after Hereward was brought to heel the same as Vitalis of the Rebels of the Pale who accepted Norman rule a year past.

  What Guy had lost in no way compared to the losses of the English whom he had aided in subjugating as commanded by the Duke of Normandy who was now England’s king. And even less that comparison since Guy’s greatest loss was a woman he could not have loved as well as believed. Indeed, he should not have loved her at all, though he had wanted her as much as she seemed to want him.

  Elan had been spoiled, demanding, temperamental, guileful, and—Lord help him!—beautiful. And more beautiful when her tears were genuine as when first they met and it was revealed she carried Harwolfson’s child. Months later, stars swam in her eyes again as she cradled the son whose well-being she unexpectedly placed ahead of her own and broke her betrothal to Guy to wed Harwolfson after he bent the knee to William.

  In one way, Guy had been glad she turned from him—that it proved she was not as self-centered as feared. But vying with relief was greater sorrow he would not better know that side of Elan that evidenced she could have loved the children made with Guy as well—if not more than—the one made with that rebel.

  Though the pain in his heart no longer felt a lance gone through one side to the other, its point remained sharp, its reach long. “Leave me be, Elan,” he rasped.

  “Be of good care, Chevalier,” drawled the knave who believed himself Guy’s superior.

  He was, though only because he was more favored by their liege who valued men lacking conscience over those who sought to remain true to their faith. At this time in William’s reign, he who was desperate to keep hold of his kingdom believed he was better served by grasping men, but eventually he would reap the treachery whose seed he allowed to be strewn far and wide.

  Guy shifted shoulders weighted by chain mail, glanced left and right at where the men he had stationed along this stretch of shore were cloaked in shadows, then looked behind.

  The Sheriff of Lincolnshire, who was the first sent to the Fenlands to quell the uprising, had appeared a half hour past. All stagger and slur, Ivo Taillebois had shouted curses across the water, belched, slumped down the trunk of an ash tree, and begun to snore.

  Doubtless, he was well-sated by drink and possibly the carnal, a sennight having passed since last he reported what was learned from his spy—his favorite for what he boasted he also got from her besides information that occasionally provided the Normans time to defend or move camp before an assault.

  Though her reports would be more valuable if they provided a way for William’s forces to take Ely, they saved lives this side of the river, in their absence many the isolated groups of Normans caught unawares and slain. The rebels who dared venture here were not without their own losses, but always they numbered far fewer—or nearly always.

  The night a muddied harpy with skirts knotted up around her thighs scolded him across the water, early warning of Hereward’s attack on the camp resulted in injuries on the Norman side, whereas the rebels suffered five deaths. If not for the greed of warriors who answered to one other than Guy, all those come to harass the enemy might have been taken. However, when the tattooed arms of Hereward were glimpsed among encroaching rebels, rather than adhere to Guy’s plan, many had sought the glory of taking the rebel leader, providing the outlaw and his men time to flee. Though those who broke ranks were severely punished, it was of little comfort to others who had long suffered these savage Fens.

  “Did you not hear me, Torquay?” prompted Taillebois whom Guy was fairly certain had been visited this night by the traitor he called his pretty eel since afterward he drank heaviest as if to blot out his desire for one of a race he detested.

  “Of what should I be cautious, Sheriff?” Guy asked.

  Sitting in moonlight, the man uncorked his wineskin, shook the last drops onto his tongue, and cast the skin aside. “The witch who would curse the rebels of Ely for a purse of silver converses with the air the same as you, Sir Guy.”

  She who dwelt in a hovel two leagues west of Ely and with whom the pretty eel had acquainted Ivo.

  Taillebois chuckled. “Doubtless, the Church would go to terrible lengths to cure her of speaking with the unseen, and possibly even a Norman for indulging in such.”

  Though tempted to do something pleasingly painful with the hand on his sword hilt, Guy who should enjoy as much royal favor as Ivo was denied that for failing to prevent the marriage of King Malcolm of Scotland to the Saxon princess, Margaret. Thus, rather than ascend to the position of captain of the king’s guard last summer,
he was given command of the smallest force sent to Ely. Though practice and discipline had transformed his men into the most formidable contingent here, earning them the status of elite, it still stung to have lost his captaincy.

  Blessedly, his recent loss was not as desired as the first which Edwin Harwolfson now possessed. Outside of kicks to the pride at being ordered about by those who were not his betters, what he regretted most was the twelve months lost to chasing Hereward and his growing band of Saxons who were not only of the common but of the fighting nobles dispossessed of lands and exiled by the hated Norman king, most notably Earl Morcar of Northumbria who had delivered a small army to Ely.

  Unlike the Normans, most of those on the isle were acquainted with this easily flooded, marsh- and bog-ridden land as if it were but rooms in a house they built. Though the men sent here, first commanded by Taillebois and now William de Warenne, had sought to put an end to the rebellion by blockading Ely, it was to little effect. Not only was the isle of good size but exceedingly fertile and abundantly stocked with animals who provided meat and milk to its inhabitants. Still, Hereward and his men came and went, slipping past blockades, whether to bring over more disaffected Saxons, gain supplies of weapons and other items, or harass the enemy.

  “Methinks you ignore me, Torquay,” Ivo said.

  Having returned his regard to Ely, Guy cast over his shoulder, “Am I wrong in believing it is better I heed De Warenne’s order for me and my men to keep watch for another of Hereward’s forays than attend to talk of an unholy woman with whom you—not I—spend time?”

  Ire billowed across the silence, then Ivo laughed scornfully. “As these Fenlanders are a superstitious lot, the crone may prove useful.”

  “You think our king would resort to such?”

  “I would make use of her, and William and I are much alike, doing whatever is necessary to keep what is ours.”

  “Then when he arrives, you will propose he set aside plans for reforming England’s Church? That he enlist one who curses and casts spells to rid him of his enemies by evil means rather than God’s favor and might, both of which he claims gave him victory at Hastings?”

  Guy’s words silenced Ivo, whether they required too much thought for one whose mind was blurred or the man recognized the danger of proposing William resort to the unholy. Regardless, Guy was relieved when once more the sheriff fell to snoring.

  Settling into his heels, he narrowed his eyes on the distant shore. Someone carried a torch between fortifications fashioned of peat and wood, from behind which were launched arrows, javelins, and stones when Normans ventured too near in flat-bottomed boats De Warenne and Taillebois had either confiscated from outlying Fenlanders or forced them to build.

  Often when Guy and his men were given this watch between the hours of two ere middling night and two after, he saw that figure who paused at each fortification and guessed this was the cousin of Hereward who Taillebois’ informant warned kept the night vigil that side of the isle, ensuring no rebels succumbed to sleep. Admirable, but the efforts of one said to have accompanied Hereward the night he lost five men here—she of muddied face, pale thighs and legs—would be to no avail in the end.

  The morrow, Guy mulled what was coming and for which Taillebois would have to sober. All changes when Le Bâtard arrives to do what we have not. God help you, Hereward’s followers. You may thwart him a while longer, but those fortifications will be breached and Ely will be William’s even if ever the mud runs red. Flee now or your only flight will be toward what comes after this life.

  Isle of Ely

  “Awaken!”

  When those who knelt, heads resting on arms folded atop the block of dried peat muttered across unearned sleep, Vilda wanted to scream, these but two of ten men she had awakened this night—her, a woman scorned for not stirring the pot, tending fires, and mending clothes! A woman who ensured her own sleep was plentiful enough to remain alert and knew better than to drink to excess before performing her duties.

  “Fools!” she hissed and shoved the end of her torch in soft earth, stepped forward, and kicked one man then the other.

  The former slid to the side, and as he gave a yelp of surprise, the latter sprang upright and came around with a drawn fist.

  Though she jumped back, she would have suffered a blow had not torchlight identified her to the commoner transformed into a defender of England.

  “Lady!” He dropped his arm. “That is not the way to bring a fighting man up out of sleep.”

  Though she longed to denounce his claim to being a warrior, she reminded herself it was hard to go from living a relatively gentle life to a violent one—in his case, fighting battles not against hunger when crops yielded too little but against Normans who took those crops and all else to which they could lay hands.

  Looking to the other man who had also arisen, she said, “I am sorry for that indignity, but methinks you will agree better a kick than a Norman’s blade.”

  “Aye, Lady,” they said.

  She snatched up the torch and hastened toward the next fortification.

  “You will not tell our commander, will you, Lady?” one called.

  As she reported only repeat offenders, she turned and said, “Providing you do not fail your fellow defenders a second time, I will say naught—and if you cease naming me a lady.” She did not know how many times she had reminded him and others not to speak a title that chafed for how mocking it sounded under these circumstances. “Until England is ours again, that I will not be.”

  “Apologies,” he said, then added, “Alvilda.”

  Resuming the duty she had assigned herself months past when warming weather made it easier for Normans to seek a way onto the isle, she traversed the shore. Keeping to the firmest footing where grass and reeds rooted, often she glanced at the distant boats bobbing on still water when one of their occupants moved greatly.

  The blockade sought to isolate this interior isle from the rest of the Fens, denying the resistance supplies and reinforcements. With regard to supplies, it was effective only insomuch as it prevented rebels from coming and going in great numbers. Still they continued to break through the lines, and most disastrously for the enemy when the aim was to relieve Normans of lives and weapons. Of course, sometimes that disaster turned on the resistance as done the night she accompanied her cousin across the river.

  Seeking to cast out memories of the five slain left behind and the one dead who returned to Ely in the bottom of the boat, Vilda moved her thoughts to the matter of reinforcements that, before the blockade, steadily delivered fighting men to the isle. Now they trickled in, most who sought to join the resistance unable to get past the Normans unless Hereward personally led them over. In this the enemy succeeded though, God willing, not to the extent they would take the isle. For that, Vilda was here. She could never come close to counting herself God’s right hand, but if she could serve as a portion of a knuckle on His smallest finger, it would be worth whatever she must sacrifice.

  A quarter hour later, discovering no others sleeping at their posts, once more she shoved the torch into soil, then continued past the last fortification of this stretch of western shoreline. Once she was distant from men watching the waterway and shore opposite, she abandoned the quick of her stride. Since twice more before dawn she would do what already was done thrice, she would rest a short while.

  Unconcerned the second of only two gowns she possessed would be dampened and dirtied by silt and grass, she lowered to sitting, gathered her knees to her chest, and dropped back her head.

  It was a beautiful sky, the black made deepest blue by a half moon, the stars near that great light winking shyly, stars farther out staring boldly without blink.

  Was God staring as well, no blink about him no matter how great His Saxons suffered?

  “How much longer?” she whispered. “What do You require to make it end? Could this not be just a terrible dream—a portent of things to come do we not turn opposite the way we go? Will You not
open our eyes upon the year 1066, allowing us to do different whatever offended?”

  She lowered her lids. “Aye, 1066. Away from here, back to Lincolnshire ere my grandsire was slain…ere my husband was slain…ere my wedding…ere the Normans came…ere the Norwegians came…” She drew a tremulous breath. “…ere that star dragged its long, forked tail across the dark.”

  Recalling what had been said of the persistent smear of light that appeared every cloudless night for weeks, some believing it a sign of good, others a sign of bad, Vilda eased onto her back as done many nights to marvel over the star long gone.

  “Back to Lincolnshire, before that light came and went,” she murmured.

  For a long time, she remained in the dark behind her lids and imagined arising from this dream as if pushing off the bottom of the river and gliding toward the surface. But when she opened her eyes, still she was on Ely, far to the right the torch left behind and beyond it dimly lit fortifications.

  She blinked away tears. “Mayhap You will be more accommodating on the morrow, Lord.”

  Breathing in air that tasted of summer near the side of autumn, she reflected on the harvest ahead that would supply Ely’s inhabitants throughout the winter, though likely there would be some scarcity due to how greatly refugees and those of the resistance inflated the isle’s population. But no matter how many times Hereward and his men had to defy the blockade, he would provide.

  It was good he was their leader. Despite being a youth so rebellious he was exiled by his own family for being a danger to them and their standing among England’s nobility, when survival required him to turn mercenary on the continent, he had matured into a man of stunning competence and fearsome strategy.