by Tamara Leigh
Had he returned to the England of King Harold, a great lord he would have become, but it was the England of Le Bâtard who killed the last Saxon ruler that greeted his return. And when Hereward discovered his family’s lands were in the hands of Normans who slew his brother and set his head atop a pike, vengeance had made a rebel of him.
“Oh, Hereward, I am more sorry for you than myself,” she whispered, “but sorrow will not set our country aright.” Shaking her head, she felt the grit of silt against her scalp. “If anything, more bloodshed.”
Moments later, there sounded a rush of displaced water as of a body emerging from the marsh.
Pray, an animal that moves on four feet not two, she silently beseeched as she turned her head to the left and sought to peer through tall grass she hoped would conceal her long enough to make the most of raising the hue and cry.
The grass being impenetrable in the night, as she strained to catch the sound of more Normans slithering out of the water, she sent heavenward, Lord, if you will not make these years but a dream, at least give aid to those on Ely who have lost so much they are no longer who they were—just as neither is this woman who has forgotten how to tease, smile, and laugh well.
Blessedly, it sounded only one came out of the water, and that one muttered, “Accursed muck!”
Not a man but a woman. More importantly, not a Norman but a Saxon.
Easing onto hands and knees, Vilda saw the one on the shore with her chemise knotted up around her hips and wringing water from her hair was a woman free with sexual favors providing those who sought them were not of the common.
Before she had offended Hereward by encouraging him to pay her aunt to curse the Normans, several times it had fallen to Vilda to distract her cousin from that one’s seductions. Though she had not met the wife Hereward had left on the continent, from his talk of her she was certain he was devoted to Turfida, and Vilda would not have a dalliance ruin his marriage.
Now even greater reason to keep from her cousin the harlot he had rebuked for suggesting he consort with one surely of the devil. Whatever that woman did here past middle night, it reeked of wrong—perhaps even to the depths of treason now Le Bâtard’s army was en route to the Fens.
Vilda peered across her shoulder past the blockade of vessels to the glow of fires that revealed where the Normans made their camps well back from the shore. By boat and in the absence of hostility, it was no great undertaking to reach the land that other side of the river, but under one’s own power…
She returned her regard to this shore and startled to see the woman had removed the wet chemise and drew over her head a dark gown that would have made her one with the night if not for moonlight. The dry garment was one never before seen, so proud was she of two fine gowns that, though somewhat worn, had been fashioned for a lady. Either much gratitude had been shown her by a man of wealth before she came to Ely, else she had relieved a former mistress of her finery.
The woman jerked at a bodice resistant to gliding over damp skin, shook her hips to lower the skirt, shuffled as if pressing feet into slippers, then swept up the wet chemise and ran toward the nearest town this side of the isle.
Vilda longed to follow and snatch hold of those damp tresses and fling the woman to the ground, but her watch was not done. And at the moment, her patrol was more important than confronting one whose machinations were likely done for the night. But when Vilda returned to town, she would tell Hereward all, and he would discover the truth of the harlot’s outing.
She rose and, staying low, reached the cover of trees where she watched a half hour to ensure no others crawled onto the shore. None did, and after retrieving her torch, she moved among the fortifications and more forcefully impressed on those of the watch the need to be alert.
There was no star of forked tail streaking the sky, no ill wind coming off the water, but it felt as if evil circled, seeking to make a hole in the isle’s defenses—else discover one already made.
Chapter Two
The Fenlands
Wily William. He had to be aware the rebels knew he was coming. For that, he and his personal guard had advanced ahead of his army whose formidable numbers would hasten Hereward’s scouts back to the isle to inform their leader of the enemy’s pending arrival.
Though it was possible the king and his small party had been sighted and the resistance knew William was already in the Fens, it was unlikely since the conqueror’s own scouts would have uprooted any lurking near enough to identify him. But when the army arrived late this afternoon, there would be no doubt the conqueror was here.
As yet ignorant of the reason he was summoned to the great tent, Guy braced his legs farther apart and crossed his arms over his chest. Then once more he considered the company he kept as William consulted a map etched into a stretch of cowhide, the impregnable Isle of Ely at its center.
Also present in addition to the captain of the king’s guard who had once answered to Guy, were the leaders of other forces whose numbers were greater than those Guy commanded. Then there was the second William of the surname De Warenne who, standing alongside the king, named various places on and around the isle.
The drunkard of the night past who struggled to look attentive was here as well, standing near the two who did not include him in their circle of companionship, though not so near to draw more judgmental attention than already received. Unfortunately for Ivo Taillebois, his pallor and bloodshot eyes testified against him.
The eighth man here, on the side of the table opposite the two Williams and the Sheriff of Lincolnshire, was Maxen Pendery—once known as the Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings, now known as Baron of Etcheverry, ever known as the brother of Lady Elan, and since childhood Guy’s greatest friend.
Guy hated that his loss of Maxen’s sister had made it so awkward it had been best to leave his friend’s service and enter the king’s. Two years later, it remained awkward, so much Guy had hesitated to clasp arms with Maxen when his friend dismounted. However, Maxen had not allowed that to stop him from greeting Guy as if he was greatly missed.
As soon as the two were rid of this audience, Maxen would be given the apology owed him.
Of a sudden, William slammed his hands on the map. “Certes, this enclave is treacherous, De Warenne.” He jutted his chin at the isle of high ground surrounded by reeds, marsh, bogs, and open water. “But that is no excuse for it remaining in the hands of lawless rabble. You should have taken it months ago, slain Hereward, and delivered that weasel, Morcar, to me. Now when I am needed elsewhere, I am here.” He pushed off the table and looked to Taillebois. “And you show your gratitude for all I have given you by drinking yourself into a stupor when you ought to be cutting down rebels like grain to the scythe.”
The sheriff’s face brightened further.
Had Guy a liking for the man, he would have sought to warn him to bear William’s anger with closed mouth, for the king’s tone told he did not seek an explanation.
As expected, Ivo of sword skill that far exceeded wit sought to defend himself. “My liege, such lands as these are unknown to us. Ever the ground and waters are shifting, one moment safe to pass over, the next deadly. And the grasses and accursed peat have only to be set upon by a single s-spark”—he slurped down excess saliva whose spray fell short of William but not De Warenne who sharply drew a hand across his jaw.
“But a single spark can cause all to go up in flame,” the sheriff continued, “and the rebels make use of that, if not stealing upon our men over causeways and tracks unseen to put blades through them, then enclosing them in fire.”
When he paused for breath, one of two commanders of the largest forces stepped forward. “My king, as you know, the cost of this campaign has been great in time, money, and men. A sennight past, a score of those I command—a score!—were slain by a handful of rebels and stripped of weapons and armor. And that was in the day. The rebels are…” He of three score years raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “…devils. Though you
are here now and perhaps you can do what we cannot—”
“Perhaps?” William barked.
Though Guy was tempted to snatch the aged warrior back, he knew it would be of no aid. Ivo had kindled a fire, and this man had tossed logs atop it.
His bowed shoulders rose with breath. “As you know, I have been here since the Danes broke faith with Hereward, this my final service to you ere I go home to my wife in Normandy. Scorn me for losing courage, refuse me my reward, but for your sake and all those here, I urge you to make terms with this rebel, bringing him to your side the same as Harwolfson, Vitalis, and others who once bore arms against you. Ely and the rest of the Fens through which the resistance travel are well fortified and the rebels too loyal to their leader to yield without great bloodshed both sides.”
“Not all are loyal,” Ivo said, and Guy knew he referred to his pretty eel. “Providing one knows which brick to hammer out, the whole wall tumbles.”
Still looking wrathful though that emotion was now tempered by what seemed interest, William said, “Later, you will have to tell me more about this brick, Taillebois.” He strode around the table and halted before the commander who wished him to seek terms.
Guy and Maxen exchanged glances as they waited for what would befall he who had averted anger from Ivo.
The king set a hand on his shoulder. “It is past time you return home. Time for you to reunite with your wife and enjoy your reward.”
The man stiffened. “What of my men?”
“Henceforth, Baron Pendery will lead them.”
Guy had known William would make good use of the warrior who had served him well at Hastings, but Maxen’s fleeting expression told he was not well with this. Though he had been raised in England the same as Guy, he had been obliged to fight for his family’s Norman lord against Saxons who were more his countrymen. It had nearly broken him past mending, but the love of the Saxon he took to wife after Hastings had healed him. Now, once more he must act against the English whose blood flowed with his in the child made with Lady Rhiannyn.
The king looked around. “Pendery, assure this man you will lead well the men given into your charge.”
The cold light in Maxen’s eyes expanded, surely suiting William who likely interpreted it as imaginings of what the Bloodlust Warrior would do to bring Hereward to his knees. Despite being long parted from his friend, Guy knew the light was fueled by hatred of what was required of him, perhaps even hatred of his king.
Maxen stepped alongside William. “I will lead them well,” he said to the man relieved of his duty. “I give you my word.”
“But if terms—”
“Enough!” William turned the warrior toward the tent flap. “Gather your possessions and return. Your reward will be waiting with an escort to the channel. Within a sennight, your wife will be in your arms.”
When he was gone, the king beckoned to De Warenne. “So better I may determine how to punish and reform the lawless, acquaint me with these Fens.” As De Warenne stepped alongside, William’s gaze landed on Guy. “I understand those under your command have distinguished themselves, forming an elite force who protect greater numbers better than they can protect themselves.”
It surprised he was informed of that, just as it had surprised he had not forgotten Guy. “I remain true to my excellent training, my liege—ensuring no lives given into my keeping are frivolously lost.”
“Admirable. Providing you not disappoint again as done in Scotland—Almighty, rid me of the deceitful King Malcolm and conniving Princess Margaret!—you may yet regain royal favor.”
At what cost? the thought slipped in. Like many other Normans, especially those who had made this country their home long before the conquest, Guy wearied of death, destruction, and unrest—and loathed being a part of it. But until he fought his way out of this life, it was how he earned his living.
“Come, Sir Guy. And you, Pendery and Taillebois. We shall make much of a day that is the first of the last for that outlaw.”
Isle of Ely
It satisfied how quickly the harlot was dissuaded of the belief her summoning would benefit her—whether she thought Hereward could no longer resist her or desperation caused him to reconsider paying her aunt to enlist the forces of evil to oust the Normans.
The moment Theta entered the inn that served as Hereward’s command post this side of the isle, her sultry smile fell and she halted, causing the one who held open the door to give her a push.
Her eyes flitted over men of note standing both sides of the rebel leader who reclined in a chair, one leg crossed atop a knee as if the report William’s army was in the Fens was of no concern. Those eyes flitted back, pausing on Vilda who stood between her cousin and Earl Morcar.
“You called, I came, my lord.” She dipped as if to a king, causing the fine gown exchanged for last eve’s simple one to rustle, then sauntered forward. “Tell, blessed Hereward, how might this humble Saxon serve you?”
He began drumming the fingers of one hand on the chair arm, causing faded blue and black tattoos coursing wrist to shoulder to ripple atop muscles that had been many an opponent’s undoing. He was of no great height, but his build was so formidable he had no need to be.
When Theta halted before him, the drumming ceased. “How well do you swim, Woman?”
Watching her, Vilda caught a glimmer of fear and possibly guilt. Then came puzzlement. “Not well, my lord. Indeed, if there is not muddy ground beneath my feet to keep my chin above water, I will drown.”
He grunted. “Though I was loath to allow you to face your accuser, she who saw you come out of the marsh last eve insists.”
As Vilda stepped nearer him, once more she glimpsed fear on the harlot’s face. But again, confusion was drawn over it. “Do you deny you were in the water last eve past the middling of night?” Vilda asked.
The harlot’s mouth hitched in a sneer. “Why would I? ’Tis no secret I, the same as others upon Ely, provide for men long without the comfort of a woman.” She inclined her head. “I was there. If you were, you must have seen the man with whom I…” She gave a little shrug.
“I saw only you,” Vilda said.
Theta’s mouth formed a pout. “A pity you missed him. He is quite the man.”
“Who?” Hereward asked.
She cast down her eyes. “He is wed the same as you, my lord—and lonely with his wife so far away, also the same as you.”
“Who, Theta?”
She looked left at the half dozen men there, right at the others. “I can say only that he is here, and I must keep my word to be discreet for his sake and mine.”
Hereward sat forward, causing long hair the same gold as his eyebrows and mustache to slide over one shoulder. “Why for your sake?”
She sighed. “Do I lose the trust of men of quality, I will be reduced to those who are”—she made a face—“coarse.”
“Common men.” Hereward jutted his chin at his servant, Martin, who had been with him since his exile. “Many of whom are of good quality, some more so than those with whom you consort.”
Hereward the arrogant youth would not have spoken such, unlike Hereward the man and leader. It had been the same for Vilda who was raised to believe her blood was superior to that of commoners. Now like her cousin, she was certain it was the good done in life, regardless of the class into which one was born, that made a person stand a bit taller, and surely only then to raise up others. However, that belief was only the first step in living it, the latter mostly elusive under the rule of Le Bâtard.
It will change when England is Saxon again, she thought. Better we will live, love, and work alongside our neighbors.
The harlot groaned huskily. “My lord, you must believe me. Last eve’s outing was all innocence.” Though her words roused snickers, she continued, “After my lover departed, I bathed. There is no more to it than a good regard for cleanliness.”
“Then if I tossed you in deep water, you would drown?”
Hearing resolve in
Hereward’s tone, Vilda caught her breath.
The woman could not have heard that resolve, for lightly she said, “Unless one of my admirers plucked me out, I would drown.”
Hereward pushed upright. “Then the sooner that is tested, the sooner we are done with this matter.”
Theta gasped. “Surely you jest!”
“On this isle, allegiance and obedience are all that lie between life and death, and more obvious that when Le Bâtard arrives. Hence, no jest.” He motioned his guard forward. “Bring her!”
Vilda started to follow him to the door to seek his assurance that if the woman could not get her head above water, he would pull her out, but Theta lurched in front of her.
“You did this! And for what? To salve jealousy over a face and body God did not gift you? Jealousy over the desire men feel for me they shall never feel for the sturdy virgin widow?”
Three blows in the close confines of three words. It was not the first time the harlot had scorned Vilda for being endowed with a feminine version of Hereward’s build that made her more sturdy than many women, not the first time she implied it was for this Vilda remained a maiden, not the first time she poked at an unconsummated marriage. However, ever those words had been mere asides, never spoken to Vilda’s face with so great an audience. Thus, it was hard to keep her arms at her sides.
Glimpsing Hereward past the woman’s shoulder, Vilda was grateful that though he had turned from the door, he made no move to fight this battle for her, nor did the others who had paused.
Raising her chin, she said, “I am sturdy. I am pure of body. I am a widow. You are not sturdy. You are not pure of body. And likely you will never be a widow since who would take you to wife? Aye, you have the attention of many men, but giving your body only to those not of the common makes you no less a harlot. It makes you a harlot with great and dangerous ambitions.”
