Boundless (Age of Conquest #6) - Tamara Leigh Page 0,3

their victory, her sire answered from years past when he taught her the swipe and throw of a blade. If no opening can be made nor miracle granted, defend your dignity.

The dignity of the Scots ahead of the venom of these Normans, she told herself.

“She is here!” her uncle shouted. “You—left. You—right. You—watch our backs.” Deftly, he made a noose of his men of which he would be the knot, and this time he might do more than mark her throat.

“Lord help me,” she whispered.

“Show yourself!” he commanded, this time in the language of the Saxons that was near enough that of Lowland Scots she understood perfectly. “My patience wanes, and you will like me even less when I am at my meanest.”

No place to run outside of torchlight, she thrust off the tree. One reach of the legs, two…

Shouts and hooves sounded behind and both sides—and, unexpectedly, ahead. How had four riders become seven? How had these three gotten in front of her?

By eschewing torches, she realized.

There being no opening that could not be closed quickly, she was tempted to go to her knees in supplication that might spare her life, but she heard her sire say, Fight, wee sparrow!

She would have tried had not the three before her spurred past and, in the Saxon language, answered the curses and threats shouted in Norman-French. And did one of those voices belong to a woman?

Marguerite swung around. Seeing Gerald and his men attacked by those lacking torches, she told herself, Here your opening. Here your miracle. Run!

But what the Lord provided was thwarted by the twist of an ankle, and too soon the clash ended. Though she had managed to remain upright and limp opposite, once more riders came for her. Exposed by moonlight penetrating the trees, she turned.

The three slowed, and the giant of a man whose red hair and thick beard were in the Saxon style, said in the words and accent of the conquered, “Peace be with you.”

She shifted her gaze to another sizable man whose stout frame sat lower in the saddle and appearance was also distant from the conquerors. And the warrior far left…

The woman Marguerite had heard, a single braid draping her shoulder.

“I am Vitalis,” said the red-headed warrior as he reined in. “Here, Zedekiah…” He jutted his chin. “…and here, Em. Those miscreants will trouble you no more.”

Her uncle and his men were dead?

“Three felled, and the fourth who fled was injured severely enough that come the morrow, he may be more dead than alive,” he added.

“Norman swine,” growled Zedekiah.

“What are you called?” Vitalis asked.

Noting blood on his tunic, she closed her mouth. These Saxons—doubtless, rebels—had reason to hate Normans, and a Norman she was on the side of her mother. If she spoke, they might hear the enemy about her before they heard her father’s people. Too, many English disliked the Scots as much as they did Normans.

“Your name?” he repeated.

She considered again the man and woman on either side of him and saw the latter scrutinized the one whose knotted skirts showed her hosed legs. “Be not afeared,” said the one called Em. “We are Saxons the same as you.”

Of course they believed that of her. She had been pursued by Normans, Gerald had called to her in Saxon, and these untamed Northern lands were still of England though Malcolm wished to make them his.

“Tell us your name,” Em prompted.

Marguerite touched the bruised flesh of her throat, moved fingers to her lips, shook her head.

The stout one grunted. “Mayhap a mute.”

“Likely a vow of silence,” Em said.

Vitalis urged his mount forward, and when Marguerite jumped back and stumbled, drew rein. “We cannot know what you have suffered, but as you are injured—thus, greater prey to the invaders—you will have to trust your fellow Saxons. Come.”

She shook her head.

“You may keep your dagger to hand.”

Another shake.

Now Em advanced on her. “You can share my saddle.”

More than Marguerite wanted to refuse, she longed to accept. Others of her grandfather’s men could be en route—perhaps all were it believed she had abandoned the hope of Scotland. Having been on the verge of being captured, she had even less chance of escape now she was injured.

She looked from the woman who appeared a few years younger than she to the men. Lord, do not forsake me as you forsook Cannie and my escort, she silently beseeched, then slid the dagger beneath her belt.

When Em drew alongside, Marguerite fit her uninjured foot in the stirrup and