by Tamara Leigh
Remembering Vitalis, she closed her eyes. When he left in the night, he had taken the Norman lady, Nicola D’Argent, whom the Danes held captive here. Had Vilda sounded the hue and cry when she saw what was planned, she could have thwarted the rescue, but having formed a liking for the lady, she had feared what Hereward’s false allies would do to her. Too, Vilda believed only those truly committed to the cause were of use—and were they of none, best they leave so they not endanger others here. Thus, it was good Vitalis was gone, especially were it true that in wedding that lady he had yielded to Le Bâtard.
How Vilda wished someone worthy had appeared to replace him so the training of defenders did not number among Hereward’s many duties. Earl Morcar tried to offer relief, but his intentions were greater than his ability to train those of the common into warriors—likely the same as his command of men which had surely contributed to the loss of his extensive lands to the conqueror.
“Lord,” Vilda breathed, then returned to her belt the dagger with which she had cut an apple into bite-sized pieces. As she slid it in its sheath, she recalled throwing its predecessor at Sir Guy Torquay.
Leaning into the tree she sat beneath, she tipped back her head and put her lips around the spout of a waterskin. On this third day of bringing in the harvest, the thirst of working dawn to mid-afternoon was hard to quench. Though long ago she had set aside the privileges of a lady whose toil was mostly that of supervising the toil of others, and now the stamina and strength required to work the land were supported by muscles more developed than years past, still she tired and ached. Hopefully, a short nap would refresh.
“Ah, there you are!”
Vilda nearly choked. Coughing and clearing water from her throat, she lowered the skin and swung her gaze to the woman from whom she had slipped away.
Wearing a heavily soiled gown that in no way resembled the finery eschewed all these weeks since Vilda brought her up out of the water, Theta ran from the field to the copse and dropped down beside the one to whom she was suffocatingly intent on showing gratitude.
Vilda had not believed Theta could long maintain that pretense if that was what it was, but the ugliness of the woman she had known had yet to re-emerge. She was so different, it seemed a miracle. Seemed.
Though Theta was pleasant and had packed away the harlot to earn her keep in ways that benefitted the resistance, still Vilda questioned her sincerity. So did Hereward and the men now denied her carnal favors.
Do I wrong her? Vilda questioned again. Am I the same as those of the Bible who cast stones at the adulteress Jesus defended?
Though she feared accepting Theta was changed lest it render her and others vulnerable, she wanted to believe her fellow Saxon was worthier of kind regard than Lady Nicola whose departure had made Vilda feel as if something was lost—something not precious, and yet…
She did not know.
Aye, you do, scoffed the voice within that rarely slipped its bonds. You feel the loss of womanly friendship.
Of which I am unworthy, she retorted, then pushed from remembrance those who had sacrificed that which she had narrowly avoided losing.
Returning Theta’s face to focus and seeing concern there, Vilda thought how grateful the woman would be if she knew the reason her overtures of friendship were rejected.
“Are you ill?” Theta asked.
“Ill?”
“You were flushed. Now you are pale.”
Such was the effect of memories sown at her wedding feast that still possessed the power to chill. “As you know, it has been a long day.”
Theta scooted backward and leaned into the tree trunk. “I know, indeed.” She uncapped her waterskin. After satisfying her thirst, she said, “Had I not nearly crippled my knees praying for the Lord to forgive my sins and promising I would make restitution by abstaining from further abuse of my body, I might yield to one of those monied nobles who keep pestering me to don lighter skirts.”
“I am glad you resist,” Vilda said and, accepting there was no possibility of a nap, pushed upright. “I must return to the field so another may take her rest. Once we finish with what falls to the scythe here, we go to the next field to gather and bundle all that can be had ere dusk.”
“I shall rejoin you after a short nap,” Theta said.
Telling herself it was her own fault she had not gained one herself, having wasted her rest on ponderings and memories, Vilda retrieved the basket she was certain she had filled and emptied a hundred times since dawn and returned to her work alongside the other women.
Hardly had she begun to perspire anew than a cry pierced the air. Likely, none knew it was of Theta until her next cry was carried on the word, “Smoke!”
All those who had stilled in their labors craned their necks to search out evidence they hoped would not be found.
There it was, billowing grey rising above the trees between this field and a north-easterly one.
“Pray, Lord, let it be an accident,” Vilda rasped, and a moment later saw the men who had been cutting wheat well ahead of the gatherers set off in the direction of that other field, doubtless to give aid. And now the women dropped their baskets to follow.
It occurring that if it was no accident, better the harvesters remain here and protect this field, she called, “Come back! We must spread out to preserve this crop.”
Were she heard, she was ignored, and soon she stood alone amid a swath of mown wheat and scattered baskets—but no scythes, the men having taken those blades that were as near to swords as they possessed.
“Normans!” Theta ran to Vilda and gripped her arm. “They come this way.”
Hand going to the sling fastened to her belt alongside a purse that held stones for the flying, Vilda looked all around and saw nothing to indicate the enemy approached. “Where did you see them?”
“Among the trees to the east. They move stealthily, but there is no hiding the glint of chain mail when they pass through light.” As Vilda looked that direction, Theta shrilled, “Soon this will be aflame as well.” She wrenched on Vilda’s arm and, meeting resistance, snapped, “We can do naught here. We must leave and pray the Lord clears a path for us.”
Vilda knew if it was true Normans came this way, the best she could do was knock a few unconscious before sacrificing herself, but she balked at abandoning a crop needed to feed those of Ely for whom it was now too dangerous to forage beyond these shores. Blessedly, the need for this wheat would not be immediate since two days of harvest were behind them and those stores were sizable enough to sustain all providing they were rationed.
A slap snapping her head to the side, instinctively she raised a hand to strike back—and would have had not Theta grabbed that wrist. “Forgive me, but you must leave behind the past or wherever you drift and be present now, else they will take the cousin of Hereward and use her against him.”
Face stinging, Vilda ground her teeth and followed the other woman. But not for long.
It seemed a poor choice to go south, and as she slowed, she worked it through. More fields lay that direction, which would draw the Normans there, but no others lay to the west of this one. If a traitor had revealed the locations of this season’s crops, safety was more likely had where there was naught ripe for destruction.
“What do you?” Theta demanded, turning before trees near where they had rested. “We must—”
“We go my way!” Vilda veered westward.
Had she not heeded doubt and continued south in the hope of staying ahead of those who had stolen onto their isle, much later she would have made sense of the fires’ objective beyond depriving the islanders of sustenance. And might have become a weapon the enemy sought to wield against her cousin—sought, seeking and succeeding two very different things where he who was the last hope of England was concerned.
Such was Hereward’s burden.
Chapter Seven
The Fenlands
Perhaps he should not have been honest—had allowed Maxen to believe William would
not be moved—but Guy had revealed that since he himself had little to lose, he agreed with Taillebois he was the better choice to lead the first assault. And all he had asked of the king was that the one dispossessed of his command be given that of the elite force.
Maxen had been angered just as Guy would be were their positions reversed, but the pain of regret would be too great if the attempt to bridge the waterway proved disastrous and the Baron of Etcheverry lost his life.
“Do not do this!” Maxen had thundered. When told it could not be undone, he had declared, “If you die, I will not mourn you for a martyr!”
As intended, that rubbed Guy wrong, Maxen’s tone making it sound as if the one who would go in his place was resolved to being a victim. That he was not, intending to do all in his power to stay alive and prevent the deaths of those of the command he assumed.
Hours had passed since the smoke of three diversionary fires appeared above Ely to evidence William was one step nearer to gaining what he sought—and easier that would be with numerous islanders engaged in putting out fires strategically lit to draw them away from the western side. Now the causeway stretching from this shore to the isle neared completion.
Since shortly after the king’s arrival in the Fens, boatloads of stone, wood, and other materials had been transported to this site to build a causeway over water and mud that could withstand the weight of armored knights and horses.
Much of the labor having been provided by conscripted men and women from the surrounding area, this day sections of logs and beams that had been lashed together amid the reeds were dragged into the marsh. Painstakingly, one after another was positioned over mud and water and stabilized as much as possible with loads of rubble and bags of sand, then joined with cowhides. Where the water ran deep and buoyancy was needed, sheepskins filled with air were employed.
Now, the sun having descended below the horizon and dusk sweeping grey light across all, the sections were in place despite the efforts of the isle’s defenders who had increased their numbers on the western shore after containing fires that sought to deprive them of crops.
By way of flaming arrows, the resistance also sought to terrorize the enemy with fire, but their efforts were mostly in vain. Though they slew several of those who connected the sections, a dozen of the largest boats of the blockade provided cover for the workers, its warriors loosing their own arrows when rebels came out from behind their defenses.
Regardless of the number of arrows that stuck in the causeway, their fire was easily extinguished, whether because the logs were too damp, the flames were stamped out, or water was flung on them. Thus, nearly as many rebels had been slain or wounded as Fenlanders who bled out in the marsh.
The sight turned Guy’s stomach. The rebels knew their arrows were the death of fellow Saxons who had no choice but to do William’s bidding, but if they wanted to save more lives than those they were forced to take, it had to be done to prevent Normans from coming ashore.
Though the great undertaking was now complete, the water between the last section and the shore easily forded astride or on foot, victory was not as near as William surely believed. The causeway appeared fairly stable, but more stable it could be with better planning and more time.
“The isle is ours,” said the one who was to ride at Guy’s side over the causeway. Sir Deda was formidable—a good man to fight alongside, but only if he did not wander as sometimes he did when satisfying bloodlust appealed more than protecting the flank of one who protected his. However, of greater concern than bloodlust was greed, which might not only sway Deda’s judgment but that of others under Guy’s command.
When this force had assembled near the shore a half hour past, William had roused them with encouraging words, expressions of gratitude for sacrifices to be made in faithfully serving him, and the promise of reward. It was little different from most speeches delivered before battle—until he issued a challenge of the sort that makes men forget their greatest strength lies in banding together.
The king’s pronouncement that whoever first made it ashore and did injury to the enemy could possess any property on the isle had caused a shift in the air. Whereas earlier most warriors had exuded excitement tempered by the disquiet of death ever hovering over those bearing weapons against others, of a sudden there was little tempering of excitement. And that could lead to deadly mistakes.
Though few would argue William was a superb commander, this day he could prove exceedingly fallible if, in inciting competition, what he sought to achieve ended in disaster.
“I shall be the first ashore,” said Sir Deda who had distinguished himself by making that very claim before all and declaring the injury done the enemy would be to Hereward whose head he would deliver to his liege. For that, William had commanded him to ride at the fore. He elbowed Guy and gave a toothy smile. “Land is what I want, and a Saxon heiress just come into bloom. You?”
Guy shifted his jaw. “I also wish land, but first a firm end to the rebellion so that land is worth working and its people receptive to rule by one who is not of Saxon blood.”
The chevalier snorted. “A fairly loose yoke for those who are receptive, a tight one for those who are not.” He lifted a gloved hand toward his throat, feigned gripping something, then jerked his hand up and snapped his head to the side. As demonstrated, a noose would be the yoke he would place around the necks of any who defied the landed lord he hoped to become.
Deciding to waste no more time on such talk, Guy looked across his shoulder at warriors who formed orderly rows that now covered five sections of the causeway and the half on the shore who would follow the others as soon as William gave the order to advance.
Though they exuded much excitement Guy hoped would be tempered when they began the crossing, they looked confident and prepared for what lay ahead—of good credit to Maxen whose figure easily stood out from the hundreds upon hundreds where he sat astride within speaking distance of the king.
Guy would not have believed there could be anything light in this moment, but he was lightened when his friend acknowledged him with a nod. No words needed. Even were forgiveness long in being granted—or never granted should this day be Guy’s last—Maxen wished his friend well. And prayed for him.
Guy nodded in return, knowing once he delivered those under his command across the causeway, Maxen would follow with the elite.
Lord, no martyr would I be, he sent heavenward, but if one of us must fall, let it not be Maxen who, more than I, does not wish to be here—a Norman who does not yoke the Saxons who willingly give their lord the respect due him, a Norman whose half-Saxon children are a far stronger bridge than this one upon water and mud.
He returned his regard to the causeway stretching shore to shore, looked left and right where the blockade’s boats continued to exchange fire with the resistance, and when the horn sounded, gripped his shield tighter and urged forward a horse of less value than his destrier should all go terribly wrong.
Isle of Ely
“They come!” Hereward bellowed.
Too soon, Vilda silently bemoaned as the cavalry at the causeway’s distant end began to move. Much too soon.
Minutes earlier, five brave souls had lunged out from behind their barriers and, daggers in hand, run to the water. One was now face down among the reeds, another beyond him, arrows put through both by Normans in boats come nearer than those that had brought the conqueror to look upon what he coveted.
Though one of the three who made it to water deep enough to dive had also been pierced, it did not stop him. Like the others, he had submerged and, coming up once to replenish his air, now traversed the length of causeway just offshore in the hope of slashing free a section to delay the enemy’s advance and allow for the arrival of more defenders.
“There is time,” Hereward assured Earl Morcar who had accompanied him to this western shore three hours after Vilda and Theta ended their flight here and saw what was spawned by all the activity on that other shore. And understoo
d the fires were mostly diversion to leave this side inadequately defended.
They succeeded, the men of the western watch who had gone for Hereward and reinforcements having difficulty locating the larger forces who had scattered in their search for the enemy responsible for the fires and the need to set greater watches all around, especially at places most vulnerable to attack. This was one of those places, and still there were not enough to defend it if the Normans made it over the causeway.
Was Hereward right? Was there time to undo the monstrosity? If so, it became less likely when a rebel surfaced and a flown arrow snapped his head back.
“Almighty!” Vilda gasped.
Beside her, making herself as small as possible behind the block of peat—head tucked against knees drawn to her chest—Theta cried, “Pray, do not tell me what goes. I do not want to know!”
Hereward was cursing now, though foul words would do naught to stop the Normans who, despite their cautious advance, caused that which they traversed to sway and dip.
“More swimmers!” Hereward commanded. “Even if the causeway cannot be shortened, the threat must appear great so they abandon caution and increase the chance of being dumped in the water.”
He did not have to name names, half a dozen rising from cover. One of those was Vilda. As quickly as once before she cast off belt and gown, she did so again and, ignoring Hereward’s command to return, gripped her dagger and dove into murky water before arrows could find their mark.
To avoid other tipped shafts, she must go deeper, but the mud-stirred water was too shallow. Thus, it had to be the Lord who kept death from piercing her as she struck out three feet beneath the surface.
Blessedly, enough daylight remained that once she left the shallows and entered clearer water, she was able to see ahead the causeway’s underside where others would be working their blades, if not to separate the sections then pierce whatever was used for buoyancy.
