Reckless (Age of Conquest #5) - Tamara Leigh Page 0,71

the chevalier whom Abbot Turold honored and he did not, then said, “Resume your seat, Daryl of the Saxons.”

I loathe him nearly as much as Vitalis, Daryl thought as he strode the dais. A pity he is not also Saxon. Such a large head would sit well on the gate of Peterborough Abbey—between that of Zedekiah and Vitalis.

Imaginings of that gave him something to smile about as he lowered to his chair. The king would be exceedingly grateful for his service. Thus, when Vitalis breathed his last, Zedekiah would be reunited with his leader, both looking sightlessly across the land they failed and failed again to take back.

“May the sun cease plodding across the sky to sooner bring the morrow,” he rasped and once more considered the pretty Saxon wench and wondered if her sister was with Prince Richard. If so, would she birth his first misbegotten child nine months hence? Not that it would be possible to prove it was sown by him. And not that she would wish to prove it had she any care for her babe. As expected and accepted, many the Norman-Saxon children born across England since the conquering, but one whose blood was half royal as well…

Even the mere possibility could see the infant taken from the woman who bore it and never again would she set eyes on her child.

Remembering his own mother, Daryl silently called to her deep in her grave, You would have hated this England, Mother. More, you would have hated Father, perhaps even me.

As for her family who lost their lands, he had no doubt those who yet survived hated him, though he had only done what had to be done to himself escape the wrath of Normans. And would continue to do.

There was one thing in which Vitalis had neglected to provide instruction—what to do if one of the traps constructed around the camp’s perimeter was sprung, especially were the victim not four-legged.

Stay put, Nicola told herself. Just because he sounds young, helpless, and alone does not mean he is—that he does not set his own trap for you. Worse, for Vitalis.

“Would that he did not sound so pained,” she whispered, then ceased pacing and listened closely to the distant pleading. It came from the direction of the waterfall, meaning it was the trap between there and the camp.

“Be still, Nicola,” she counseled. “There were no spikes driven into the pit. He may have broken something, but he does not bleed. He can wait until Vitalis returns, and it should not be much longer.”

The boy—or young man—shouted again, and this time she was fairly certain his pleading ended on a sob.

“Oh, Lord.” She circled the cooled ashes of last eve’s fire—once, twice, three times—and hearing no more cries, halted. Though it made her ache to hear the boy calling for help, more she hurt over silence that could portend his death.

“A broken ankle, perhaps a leg or arm. Nothing worse. Either the pain eases or he has lost consciousness.” She crossed to her bed. “Oui, merely relief from pain, and the longer the better.”

She lowered, drew her knees up, and wrapped her arms around them. “Heavenly Father, keep him safe and send help. But, pray, not help that endangers Vitalis or me—that is, providing his injury is not serious. I would not wish him sacrificed for us. You know I would not.” A whimper turned into a groan. “Deliver Vitalis soon. He will know what to do, and I will not have to break my word.”

She blew breath up her face. “You know I do not want that, and I know You do not want that. Just…can You send a sign the boy is well? A butterfly landing on my finger would suffice. Or upon my boot.” She looked around. No butterflies, only ugly droning insects unworthy of serving as a sign.

She waited. More silence atop silence. Then came another shout of anger, pain, and desperation.

Thinking that a sign from the Lord to whom she was more accountable than Vitalis, Nicola stood, touched the dagger at her hip, and retrieved her sword. As she fixed it on the belt, she muttered, “If you are coming,Vitalis, come now and you can save him.”

He did not come, and once more catching the sound of sobbing, she departed camp.

Chapter Seventeen

There was nothing special about the horse bolting through the wood in the direction from which Vitalis ran. It was a common palfrey and of an age that suggested whatever frightened it