Reckless (Age of Conquest #5) - Tamara Leigh Page 0,2

and evermore.”

It should be easy to argue the opposite since Zedekiah had saved Vitalis’s life two years ago, but accepting he would fail, Vitalis began the trek to the tunnel he hoped remained passable.

Had he, a warrior who was not rash, been rash?

He had, and it would be a lie to entirely blame it on this sickness. More responsible were the years of injustice and cruelties dealt his people—worse, the recent harrying of the North that stole the lives of thousands of innocents and destroyed their homes.

Thus, it was no easy thing to allow the man before him to live. But that he would do and seek contentment in shaming the conqueror in a manner that mocked his justification for putting England to the sword. The Saxons were not ungodly as claimed, and had their churches been in need of reform, surely less so than those of the Norman invaders.

Vitalis peered across his shoulder into the dim where one of many tunnels let into the cave and saw the shadow of Zedekiah. Feeling the man’s unease and disapproval, he inclined his head then lowered to his haunches before a rock barely visible in the pale light entering the cave.

While William refastened his mantle, still unaware he was not alone in this place where he had sought privacy to relieve himself, Vitalis drew through his fingers the cloth cut from the usurper’s garment and noted the raised embroidery unseen by the eye.

Just as when first he saw who entered here, his thoughts moved to a tale of David of the Bible. If ever he had questioned God’s acquaintance with irony, no longer. Had the cloth David sliced from King Saul’s cloak in a cave to prove he could have slain his enemy been as fine as this? More, as distinctive as this could prove? Likely not.

When the pretender who called himself King of England stretched his long legs to exit the cave, Vitalis drew his dagger, let its blade catch light, and called in Norman-French, “Le Bâtard!”

Though the warrior would be ashamed for allowing an enemy so near he ought to be gasping his last, his reflexes were above reproach. Of a sudden he faced Vitalis, in his hand a great sword that merely whispered of its parting from the scabbard beneath the ruined mantle. Doubtless, shock shone from eyes that landed on the enemy who had stolen upon him, but far greater that shock once he learned how near death he had been.

“Ere summoning your guard to defend you, consider this, Duke of Normandy,” Vitalis continued in that one’s language. “The possibility a Wulfen-trained warrior is accomplished at landing a blade where he wishes. And more certain that when the neck of his target is long and broad.”

By the light slanting into the cave, Vitalis saw William’s eyes narrow in a fierce face, then the man said in an obscenely guttural voice, “Wulfen-trained.”

Vitalis raised his other hand. “Now consider this, Le Bâtard.” Unlike when first he named him that, this time he felt the usurper’s anger over what could see the offender relieved of hands and feet. All knew he was illegitimate, but one who had much to lose should never speak it in his hearing.

“Is that a piece of cloth?” William demanded.

“It is, and of royal—albeit self-proclaimed—origin. Were you to look near on it, you would know it.” He rose, ground his teeth over his gut’s spasming, and stepped further into the light to reveal his unmatched height and breadth and the red of his hair and beard—but not his face lest the cast of sickness render him more vulnerable than already he made himself.

William gave a bark of laughter. “At last we meet, Vitalis of the Rebels of the Pale.”

“At last, Duke of Normandy.” Vitalis sighed heavily. “I must tell I expected something more.”

“More?”

“An opponent not easily bested. I am disappointed.”

The usurper adjusted his stance, causing light to streak his blade. “Be assured, do I deem you worthy of meeting me at swords, you will learn I am not easily bested. Indeed, never bested.”

Vitalis reached the cloth to the side where light more boldly tread. “You are certain of that? As told, this scrap is not common. That from which it was cut was woven of the finest wool and embroidered under the direction of a lady most high—if not her own hand.”

After a long silence, William said, “What is your game?”

He supposed it was a game, albeit a deadly one. “Regardless what one calls it, Duke, I