Reckless (Age of Conquest #5) - Tamara Leigh Page 0,48

it would turn their true prey suicidal.

Darkness that cared not if it proved the death of Vitalis as long as he proved the death of Daryl, poured through him.

“Vitalis,” Nicola entreated where she unfolded against his chest. “The riders.”

They came for him as he wished them to do. Just as he wished to get Nicola off the horse and put finish to their lives, next the two standing over his friend’s body.

“See there,” Nicola gasped, “Zedekiah’s horse.”

As if in fear of its own life, it galloped toward them, further tempting Vitalis to return to the stable since he could put Nicola astride and send her opposite. But he heard the voice of Hawisa’s sire telling him to be Wulfen-worthy, and more loudly Zedekiah’s urging him to finish what was begun.

That he would do, and once the termagant was out of his hands, put finish to this day.

Hunted like deer ahead of howling hounds, Vitalis was forced to alter the plan of heading directly to Wulfenshire since that was expected.

Though it would distance him days from delivering Nicola to safety, it was the only hope of covering their scent from the four who became six once Zedekiah’s murderers overtook the Norman chevaliers who Vitalis was certain were Abbot Turold’s men.

In the beginning, the enemy had caught sight of their prey several times, but never were they able to overtake them, likely because Nicola had gained Zedekiah’s mount and was an excellent rider.

Two other things were of benefit—the desperation of being greatly outnumbered, which kept fatigue from slowing them, and the cover of night that permitted Vitalis to turn further east toward the coast without alerting Daryl and his men they had abandoned the northern route.

If the enemy picked up the lost scent, it would not be during what remained of the dark nor, hopefully, the day to come.

Lest the rush of the river where they paused to water the horses prevented Vitalis from hearing things in the night that should not be there, he had taken them farther yet.

Shock and what should be guilt over Zedekiah’s slaughter served Nicola just as well as Vitalis’s training which wrapped iron bands around this terrible sorrow and rage—closing their mouths and making them press onward though words flung themselves against the walls of their minds and their bodies ached to trade the saddle for the firm of the ground.

Now, beneath the moon moving across the heavens, Vitalis dragged on the reins. Nicola did the same, halting just behind and to the side.

In this place of open grassland and few trees behind which enemies could conceal themselves, they would pass what little remained of the night.

Vitalis swung out of the saddle, peripherally saw Nicola follow his lead, and heard her catch her breath as if pained by aching muscles. He refused to pity her, and though he almost wished she sought that from him so he could refuse her, he did not believe it. He had seen how affected she was by Bjorn’s death, watched how conscientiously she tended Zedekiah, and past his own pain, felt hers when his friend yielded up the scraps of his life to ensure the others escaped what he could not.

Vitalis did not want to like Nicola D’Argent and he did not. He wanted to hate her and yet could not. But better dislike that allowed him to more easily keep his word and honor than hatred which could render him unworthy. Not that being worthy in this Norman-diseased world mattered. After all, what use honor when one’s opponents had none?

Eyes and throat burning, he refused to attend to the answer that would serve him were he of a mind to listen to the Lord who did not listen to him, Zedekiah, nor thousands of Saxons who had suffered the unimaginable and might suffer evermore.

I ought to be done with You, Lord, he sent heavenward as he removed packs from his saddle. And I shall if I can break the habit of You.

Once he secured his horse, he left Nicola to tend hers while he made his bed before a scattering of large boulders—mantle wrapped around him, a pack for a pillow, and hand gripping his sword.

Expecting Nicola would soon seek her own rest, he closed his eyes and listened to her movements more to keep his mind from playing again Zedekiah’s death than to remain apprised of her activities.

She lingered over the horses, and when he lifted his lids, he saw that just as she had tended Zedekiah’s wounds,