Dauntless by Tamara Leigh

Valorous: Book One Excerpt

THE WULFRITHS. FIRST, IN BETWEEN, IN THE END.

From USA Today Bestselling author Tamara Leigh, the first book in a series set in the 14th century during the conflict between England and France that would become known as The Hundred Years’ War. In Winter 2021/2022, VALOROUS continues the tale of the Wulfrith-D’Argent family of the AGE OF CONQUEST and AGE OF FAITH series.

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Port of Calais, France

August 3, 1347

Annus mirabilis—year of marvels. That was what the English were naming the period from their king’s landing of forces in France in 1346 to the Battle of Crécy weeks later to the submission of Calais this day in 1347.

It offended the French, but who could dispute it? Not the inhabitants of Calais whose town had been under siege nearly a year and, having mostly exhausted its food supplies—including horses, dogs, and cats—were on the verge of surrender when their governor succeeded in smuggling a missive to his sovereign. He had warned the King of France that unless relief was given as pledged, the survivors would march out the gates and fight since it was better to die with honor than be reduced to eating human flesh.

Finally, King Philip had brought an army to Calais, causing much rejoicing inside the walls. However, when he saw how entrenched the English were with siege defenses around the town as well as shops and homes for its leaders—and a palace for their king—he had withdrawn, leaving his people to their fate.

Twice it had made Séverine de Barra curse him and heave up what was little more than bile—once when she stood atop the battlements watching Calais’ saviors-turned-cowards go from sight, and this morn when the great bell rang to assemble the garrison and citizens who had suffered greatly in holding the town against the English. All for naught.

After rinsing her mouth and wiping her face, she had tied a knot in her oil-tarnished hair to secure it at her nape. Next, she had donned a light mantle, covering a gown months without benefit of soap and water, supply of the first depleted and the second more precious than the last of the meat rationed out on the day past.

Now with the little one on her hip and aching for his whimpering over a belly nearly as empty as hers, Séverine stood behind those gathered in the marketplace before the governor and trembled over what he told of his meetings with King Edward’s man, Sir Walter Manny.

Though merciful terms of surrender were sought, since the English ruler had been deprived of the opportunity to best King Philip again, he was in no mood to negotiate and had refused to guarantee the lives of those who had resisted him. Hence, the people of Calais could remain inside the walls and starve to death or come out and chance being put to the blade.

The whimpers of the boy of nearly two years becoming cries, Séverine began to sway in the hope of soothing him to sleep as more he was given to the weaker he grew.

“Hung-y, Mama,” Mace bemoaned and gave a squeaky sob.

The fifteen-year-old Séverine was not his mother, but his cousin on the side of that lady who had died a month before the siege began. However, as she had been his most constant caregiver for a year and his sole caregiver these three months since his sire and others stole outside the walls to forage for supplies and not returned, more than ever she was the mother he named her.

“Hung-y,” he said more loudly, causing townsfolk to look around and regard him with sorrowful eyes.

“Forgive me for not better protecting you,” the commander of Calais finally rose above emotions that had made him press his lips and lower his chin. “On this fourth day of August, exactly eleven months since the siege commenced, the decision has been made between opening the gates to what could prove a swift and merciful end and remaining inside to what will prove a slow and merciless end.”

As Mace resumed whimpering, evidencing not even Séverine’s last portion of meat was enough to nourish his small body, she began praying the gates would be opened since it seemed their only hope. Shortly after Calais came under siege, the governor had expelled seventeen hundred poor women and children to preserve the supplies, ensuring the well-being of those who were to hold the town until relief arrived.

Séverine and other noblewomen had wept. As was common with such encounters, they were certain those set outside would become prey to the besiegers, whether slain before the walls or left to starve in sight of those who abandoned them. And more likely it seemed after what the English had done to those of the city of Caen. However, King Edward had been merciful at Calais, allowing the women and children to pass and providing food and drink for their journey. Though it was unlikely he would do so again after all these months, she had to believe it was possible.

“Please, Lord,” she whispered. “If not the women, preserve the children.” Of which there were hundreds as weakened as Mace though their mothers also sacrificed their own health to keep the little ones alive, as evidenced by figures as gaunt as Séverine’s.

Amid the silence of dread complete but for the pitiful noises of children and grumbling bellies, the one raised above the gathering cleared his throat and said loudly, “It is decided—”

“Governor!” someone shouted. “Sir Walter Manny returns!”

Pressing to her toes to gain what should not be a dizzying height, Séverine glimpsed the young soldier who entered the marketplace from the direction of the gatehouse.

“Mayhap God be merciful after all!” the governor exclaimed. Then with a stagger that evidenced his rations were as meager as the others’, he descended the platform and commanded all to pray.

It could not have been more than a quarter hour before he returned, but to Séverine who was but one among the many whose body ached and emotions strained, it felt tenfold that.

The governor remained grim, but when he addressed them, his chin was higher and shoulders straighter. “Reprieve, people of Calais! Not for all, but nearly so.”

The cries of women and men resounded through the marketplace, and many flung their arms around one another.

“Hear me!” the governor shouted, and like fearful children, they quieted. “Sir Walter Manny and others have persuaded King Edward to pardon all inhabitants save six of our principal citizens.”

Gasps sounded, and Séverine knew among those expressing relief were ones previously envious of Calais’ wealthiest inhabitants. No longer.

“Here the terms—the six shall march to the King of England with bare heads, bare feet, and ropes around their necks, delivering unto him the keys of the town and castle.” He drew breath. “With these men at his absolute disposal, he shall mete out justice however he pleases, then all others will depart Calais without impunity.”

“However he pleases,” muttered a cloth merchant near Séverine. “Has he any patience left, he will hang them from the walls. If not, he will lop off their heads immediately.”

“You know who you are, fine men of Calais,” the governor said. “Now which six shall preserve the lives of his countrymen?”

Surely it was wrong to think it a good thing Mace’s sire had not returned, but Séverine did, certain Amaury de Chanson would have been the first to step forward. Not only had he been among the most successful merchants but noble in birth as well as deed, meaning death would have been delayed a mere three months with much suffering in between.

Instead, Calais’ wealthiest citizen was the first to respond. Gaining the platform, he called, “Gentlemen, as I have faith and trust in being shown God’s grace should I die, I take my place among the six.”

His courage set many to weeping, including men, and others began moving toward the platform. However, only four were needed, the governor announcing he would be the sixth humbled and fit for hanging, lead the others to the English king, and yield his sword ahead of delivering the keys.

As more tears bathed faces long without a proper washing, the governor said, “We go now—men at the fore, women and children at the rear.”

“Now?” several exclaimed.

“Those are the terms. As for the sick unable to assemble here, we must accept the King of England’s assurance they will be loaded on carts and reunited with their families in the western valley where all shall make camp this eve and be given three days’ supply of food and drink.”

Silently praising the Lord, Séverine hugged Mace tighter and, jolted by his unresponsiveness, shot her gaze to his head laid back on her shoulder. Seeing his nostrils flare with breath, she shuddered with relief and whispered, “God willing, when you awaken I will have food for your pained belly and milk for your dry mouth.”

“What of my jewelry and gowns?” cried an elderly woman.

“King Edward’s pardon applies only to those who come out with the six, and as we have only a quarter hour ere we must depart, whatever you now carry on your persons is all you shall take.”

“He thinks to lay hold of our possessions!” a man cried.

“The prerogative of the victor!” the governor snapped. “However, do you value your chattel more than your life, make haste, for the rest of us will not delay in appearing at the appointed hour.”

Fools, Séverine scorned those moving opposite. After all they had suffered, how pitiful they risked lives returned to them in exchange for submission of the six.

Lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven,she silently recited last eve’s scripture as she joined the majority who left behind worldly goods to gather at the gatehouse where the doomed men bared their heads and feet as instructed and had their necks fit with nooses.

Tears welling as she repositioned Mace, once more silently she scorned those absent for having greater regard for their possessions than the salvation offered by these courageous citizens.

Only four had reappeared when the governor commanded, “Open the gates!”

“Lord,” Séverine whispered and, as hinges began grinding, looked behind. Here came one of the women who had gone for her goods. From her laborious stride, she concealed much beneath a mantle fastened neck to knees.

Hopefully, others who did the same would reach the gatehouse before the last of the garrison and citizens exited.

Gasps and muffled cries turned Séverine forward again. Though she pressed to her toes to view what lay beyond the opening gates, the townspeople were too tightly packed to see much beyond those crowded before her. However, she could guess what they looked upon that most had only viewed from atop the walls.

In front of the siege defenses erected between the town of Calais and that which the English had raised and tauntingly named Villeneuve-le-Hardi—Brave New Town—armored English must have gathered. And most terrible of all would be King Edward III.

Séverine dropped to her heels. Seeking to calm her breathing, she awaited instructions sure to be forthcoming after the six delivered themselves to the enemy—and hoped for as much time as possible for those who had departed to rejoin the townspeople.

“Fools,” she rasped. “What could be more important than—?” So great her gasp, she would have swallowed her tongue were it not anchored.

As inwardly she recoiled, her conscience reminded, Now that Mace is as fatherless as motherless, there his future. If you leave it behind, it will be forever lost to the one with whom you were entrusted. And render you a liar.

Recalling the word given her uncle, she directed her gaze to the little one who would cause her arms to ache more had he not lost so much weight these last months. She had no choice. However, it was one thing to risk herself, quite another to endanger her cousin.

“It is Sir Walter Manny who leads them to that dread king,” reported a man ahead.

Someone to the right harrumphed. “Dread or not, if only it were he who had our allegiance. He would not have deserted us.”

The voice told it was the robust woman who had provided Calais with the best fruit and vegetables and now looked a sack of produce emptied of half its contents.

Stepping alongside her, Séverine said, “I need your help.”

She of middling years looked around. “Oui, Lady?”

“There is one thing I must gain from our home, and sooner I can go and return if you hold Sir Amaury de Chanson’s son.”

“But if you do not return in time—”

“It is important. Pray, aid me.”

Grudgingly, the woman accepted the little one. “Be quick, Lady. A poor mother I would make this child.”

So weak was Séverine, she would not have thought it possible to run, but she did, albeit crookedly. Fortunately, her home was this side of town, and halfway there she passed another she had judged a fool for what she did now.

“There is no time, Lady!” he called.

She continued onward, determined to provide Mace protection in a country that, should its crown be taken by the English just as once the Norman-French had taken that of England, what she retrieved would greatly benefit him.

The well-appointed house was as she had left it—lovely and orderly despite neglect inherent in a town under siege.

Stomach tossing as she acknowledged that by day’s end the English would claim its valuables, she rasped, “Not all,” and ascended the stairs and entered the bedchamber of the one who became her uncle through marriage to her aunt. Except for two pots on the floor to catch rain that had come through the ceiling last month, the room was the same as Sir Amaury had left it.

His bed was heavier than expected, requiring much effort to move it aside, but finally she was on her knees prying at joined planks. After freeing the panel, she reached into the cavity and withdrew a purse of coins, then thrust aside a box of jewelry, leather-bound books, and silver candlesticks. All were token treasures with which it was hoped thieves would be so content they would not further explore the space Sir Amaury had revealed to her.

On four sides, vertical planks were set back from the opening, but the one to the left was not permanent. Séverine lowered to her belly to extend her reach, felt her hand up the support, hooked a finger through a notch, and pulled. Meeting resistance as though the piece was nailed the same as the others, she wrenched at it, straining her finger and beginning to sob as whatever time remained to her was eaten away.

When the plank moved once and only slightly, she cried, “Heavenly Father!” and dropped onto her back. As she flapped her pained hand, her eyes landed on the culprits—yellowed ceiling stains evidencing water had entered here, what her pots had not captured causing the floor to swell.

“You the fool than any other this day,” she rasped, “it is not enough to think you need more pots. You must get more pots.”

With the townspeople departing soon, she gained her feet and began searching the chamber. What was needed was found at the bottom of Sir Amaury’s trunk—an old sword alongside a pair of sheathed daggers. After concealing the latter in the top of her hose, she hefted the sword. Recalling King Philip turning his back on his people, she hacked at the floor and soon gained what she sought. After putting it and the purse of coins in a sack, she fastened the makeshift pack it to her back beneath her mantle and departed the home she would not likely enter again.

Séverine came so close to making it to the gatehouse her knees nearly buckled when, between two buildings, she glimpsed English soldiers entering the walls behind the last of those expelled from Calais. It was terrible enough to be caught inside without the excuse of great illness, but to have required only a minute more to bring up the rear…

She should have hacked harder at the floor, should have stretched her legs longer. “Should have, should have,” she hissed as she hugged the corner of a shop that had sold the loveliest ribbons.

Now what? Ravishment? Death? First one, then the other?

Hide and pray for an opening to slip past them, she counseled. But if one could be found, it must be soon since her only chance of getting back to Mace was to reach the many dragging their feet as they moved toward the enemy.

“See there!” someone shouted in her language, though not with the strength of her accent. His was of the Norman-French who conquered England so long ago their accents were diluted by those of the Saxons they subjugated—and wed.

When Séverine looked around and saw she was the one brought to the notice of another besieger, she fled opposite. As she wove among the streets, she berated herself for not drawing her hood over blond hair that had surely rendered her more visible against the darkly-painted shop.

I know the places here, they do not, she tried to assure herself—and failed. If these two did not uproot her, eventually others quick to familiarize themselves with the formerly impregnable Calais would.

Hopelessness tempting her to concede defeat, she reminded herself what thumped against her back would be taken were she caught and managed to stay ahead of her pursuers, as revealed by the sound of boots over dirt and stone. However, they gained on her.

She turned a corner, and when she came around the next, the forge was ahead. A year past, she had become acquainted with it after yielding to the flirtations of a young iron worker who assured her better he could satisfy her curiosity over the operations by providing a view known only to himself and the birds. Ignoring the sense she should decline, she had followed him into the rafters, a small portion of which were floored.

Mostly, she had liked learning about the process of forging iron, but his kisses were pleasing as well. Had the two stayed back from the edge, they would not have been seen by his father. After their descent, out of one side of the man’s mouth he had scolded Séverine for not behaving a lady, out of the other side entreated her not to tell her uncle—and told silence would benefit her in preserving her reputation.

Shamed, she had held close her first kisses. Now perhaps more good would come of that shaming and the thrashing it was rumored his beloved son received for an undisclosed reason.

Certain she was out of sight of her pursuers, Séverine made for the forge, but as she entered, she heard a shout that shocked for it coming from a different direction. Her pursuers were joined by others, but had they caught sight of her?

Head painfully light, she struggled to steady herself as she ascended the concealed stairs.

No sooner had she tucked herself into the back corner of the flooring than the voice of a pursuer sounded beyond the door by which she had entered. “Non, I will deal with her. As tasked, you shall aid with loading the sick into carts. See to it!”

Then this one who believed her inside intended to deal with her in a way she was not so naïve to believe a good thing. Even if what had befallen many women at Caen did not occur here, it could happen to this one who had gone back for worldly possessions.

Shortly, the enemy entered. Surprisingly, his advance was not marked by the ring of armor but the scrape of boots. But then, with the English victory secure, likely he believed a sword sufficient protection against any who lay in wait.

Drawing slow breaths lest she was heard in a still that had been clamorous the last time she was here, Séverine lowered her gaze to cracks between the planks and watched for movement to match his step.

Nearer he came, and then she glimpsed him. Looking down upon the warrior, it was difficult to know his height, and as her window on him was exceedingly narrow, neither could she determine his breadth, but there was no mistaking dark hair shot with silver. He was no young man which, hopefully, increased her chance of escape were she discovered.

He continued forward and halted directly below. “Girl! Be content with whatever you gained in delaying your departure and go now while still you have a chance of securing my king’s pardon.”

Two things stopped her breath, the first that though his voice was the deep of a man, it was no match for the silver in his hair. Might he be like Mace’s sire whose hair turned long ere its time, or did he merely retain a youthful voice?

The second thing and of greater import was his offer to allow her to depart unmolested. Did he speak true? Or was it but a means of coaxing her out? Likely the latter since, unless he was quite observant, this floor raised high would not have drawn his notice. And were he observant, he would not believe it possible one lacking wings could ascend here since the stairs were constructed in the tight space between walls.

“Make haste!” he called. “Once King Edward has treated with the six, the townspeople outside the gate shall depart, and it will be impossible for you to join them without being searched—at best.”

Meaning at worst…

Suppressing a shudder and praying her belly did not resume its groanings, she waited for him to conclude the one he saw enter here had departed another way.

But then he turned his face up, as told by a glimpse of tanned brow before she snapped back her head.

“You will have to accept the word I give,” he said with obvious annoyance. “Come down, and I will keep the way clear for you.”

Though tempted to believe him, as it seemed too fantastic he meant to ensure she reached the gatehouse, she remained unmoving.

“Girl! Since your people will soon be on the move and I have duties requiring attention, either fall into the hands of those less honorable than I or take your treasures and leave now.” With that, he started back across the forge.

“Hold!” Séverine scrambled for the stairs and, upon gaining the ground floor, found it empty. However, when she peered into the street, he stood at the end with his back to her.

Tall and broad, silvered hair skimming shoulders, hips girded with sword, he turned an ear toward her to reveal a stubbled jaw. Then setting a hand to the side, he motioned her forward.

Whipping her mantle’s hood over her head, Séverine closed the distance, though not so much she had no space in which to flee.

As if this Englishman did seek to keep her out of sight of other besiegers, twice he paused and veered from the course she would have taken to sooner reach the gatehouse. When the gates flung wide in surrender were before her, she saw the people of Calais had begun advancing outside the walls, meaning the English king was in receipt of the six whose sacrifice was likely complete.

As she swallowed convulsively to contain her emotions, the man called across his shoulder, “Go!” This time when he motioned her forward, she was near enough to glimpse a scar on the back of that hand—of recent acquisition as told by its livid color.

Impulse opening her mouth to thank him, resentment closing it, she gripped tighter the hood closed at her neck and ran. Once past him, she was tempted to look back to know his face and age, but it was of no consequence.

When she exited, English soldiers stationed just outside the gatehouse shouted for her to halt. Ignoring them, she loosed the hood to allow her arms to aid in propelling her forward and inserted herself in a gap opened by two of her countrymen who had looked behind.

Once they closed around her and others drew her forward, she peered across her shoulder and gave thanks no bodies hung from the wall—and more thanks none of the English gave chase.

As the townspeople moved past rows of well-fed and impressively arrayed English archers and men-at-arms, Séverine pushed to her toes to seek out their liege. There he was—the ground before him absent six bodies she expected to find there.

Astride a massive destrier, a crown upon his brow, King Edward sat at the fore of hundreds of beautifully armored knights and was bounded both sides by persons of note. The one on his right had to be his son and heir of the same name, the one on his left his queen, making truth of the rumor she had crossed the channel to join her husband in Villeneuve-le-Hardi.

Also fit with a crown, the skirt of her cream and gold gown draping her horse from back to tail, she looked upon the remnants of those her husband had terrorized these eleven months. And when it seemed her gaze fell on the young woman come late to the exodus, Séverine startled—and harder when a hand closed over her arm.

She jerked her chin around.

“Oh, Lady, I feared for you!” said the woman entrusted with Amaury de Chanson’s son.

Séverine reached for the sleeping Mace. “I thank you for keeping him safe,” she said and settled him against her chest. “What of the governor and the others?”

“King Edward ordered them beheaded.” At Séverine’s gasp, the woman shook her head. “His wife saved them.”

“What say you?”

“Though Sir Walter Manny beseeched his liege to have mercy, it was Queen Philippa who gained what he could not.” She jutted her chin. “The governor and the others lead us.”

“Merciful Lord!” If not for the woman’s steadying hand and the jostle of townspeople eager to depart, Séverine’s softening knees might have dropped her.

The following morn, all having survived the night despite fear English treachery would see a mass grave made of them, they dispersed with their sick in carts and twice the supply of food and drink promised—hopeful beings all, none aware that within months the pestilence come out of the east would make starvation seem a merciful death to many.

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Dear Reader,

I hope you enjoyed this excerpt of VALOROUS, the first book in the Age of Honor series. Watch for its release Winter 2021/2022.

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