by Tamara Leigh
Feeling as if caught doing something wrong, she nearly snapped that she had her breath under control, but she was not breathing at all. And possibly had not since she coursed his body to the ground.
Stepping past him, she spent her first breath on a muffled curse when the chain did not match her stride, and once more was grateful when he gripped her elbow and assisted her up steps of a height that strained the reach of every link.
Breathe, she commanded herself as both doors opened to admit them. Breathe well and behave the lady.
Chapter Eleven
The Great Rout—which none dare name it in the king’s presence—pervaded all, making it seem a ball rolling about the hall and getting underfoot at every opportunity to ensure all relive memories of a defeat that should have been so impossible as to have been unimaginable. But some had imagined it—and been ignored. Just as Lady Alvilda was now ignored.
William could not have made it more obvious she was of little consequence—whether true or feigned—in the hour since the steward directed Guy to join the king at the table erected beside the hearth and the prisoner to stand before the dais to await summoning.
At the outset, Guy had also believed himself of little consequence. Receiving only a glance from William, he had claimed the space between two barons of the council on the far side of the table that allowed him to keep the lady in sight where she faced the high seat she surely wished filled by her slain king.
However, during the last half hour, Guy became visible when William consulted him over the reed swamp surrounding the isle, jabbing at places on the map and asking for the advantages and disadvantages of attempting crossings at each.
Irked by responses no different from those given following his arrival in the Fens, he clawed hands into fists atop the table. “I have no time for this! If I must, peace terms will be—”
“Non, my king!” two of the council exclaimed in unison, making Guy long to slam their heads together.
The older one—a warrior loyal to William since the boy who became a duke began his struggle to keep hold of his lands and his life—strode from the opposite end of the table and halted alongside his liege. “Terms would be easier in the moment, but do you negotiate with this outlaw, just as you nearly lost your duchy in making peace with those who sought to take it from you, you could lose this kingdom. Better the hammer that pulverizes than the hand that slaps, the latter providing the enemy an opportunity to manacle it.”
Another’s manacles and the chain between them clattered, returning Guy’s regard to the lady who had proven a keen listener on the night past. She had turned to face those across the hall, and Guy’s glance at William confirmed she had his attention. Before once more being relegated to something unseen and unheard, she traversed the floor with dainty steps that were no fit for her but of some dignity compared to a shuffle.
Guy expected William to order one of his guards to drag her back, but he turned fully toward her and watched her advance with the interest of one first to encounter a creature so foreign, it fell to him to name it that by which ever it would be known.
Only once did her gaze move from William. Guy did not understand why he was so pleased it was him she looked upon, especially as she knew no others here, but he was—and hoped she saw the warning in his expression. If so, she did not heed it, continuing forward until just out of reach of the king.
Peering down his nose, William said in Norman-French what he could not in her language, “Do you tire of waiting on me, Saxon?”
“No more than you would tire were you waiting on me.” There was stumble about the language in which she answered, and her accent was poor, but she was understood.
With a grunt, William stepped forward and gripped her chin less roughly than last eve while she feigned senselessness. He looked close at both sides of her face, said, “When I saw you in the water, I did not think you comely. Though you are no beauty, you are not without some appeal.”
Guy was glad that during the last stop of their ride to water the horses, she had heeded his advice to rework loosened braids. Though these were now slightly mussed, the wisps brushing brow, cheeks, and jaws softened her face such that he was struck by the unwelcome thought it was how she would present on mornings she awakened in a husband’s arms.
“There is much to be said for a solid woman.” The king’s mouth curved when a sharp breath parted her lips. “You remind me of my wife when she was young. Though she is a bit shorter and prettier, she is nearly as solid, and for that has given me many healthy children—and may yet give me more.”
A swallow bobbed her throat.
“Naught to say, lawless one?” William prompted.
She raised her eyebrows. “You wish me to speak?”
He released her chin. “Providing you tell me something of interest.”
Her gaze wavered, and Guy thought she might look to him for guidance, but she said, “Only this—that you are more kind than I would be were I to comment on your appearance.”
Though William’s profile was turned to Guy, the depth of his frown was unmistakable. “It sounds you think me unattractive, though my wife says otherwise.”
She clasped her hands at her waist. “That is a wife’s prerogative and serves as greater proof of her devotion when her husband’s face is as long as a horse’s, nose as broad as a…” As if feeling Guy’s dread she would reference a pig, she sighed and said, “I am grateful you do not deem me entirely without appeal, especially since these past days have been cruel enough.”
Again, the wrong thing to say, causing those of William’s council to mutter over Norman losses. But the king let it pass—rather, appeared to since he was known to keep good account of offenses, and this was that since he prided himself on a handsome countenance and figure that would have had many a woman gaining his favor were he not devoted to Matilda.
Pinching the shoulder of the tunic the lady wore whose excess width made it appear a short sleeve, he looked to Guy. “Generous, Chevalier. This garment is so fine, a man could wed in it.”
Guy stiffened. It was no idle comment, but neither was it one of certainty. It was a good guess from the one whose decision to make peace with Edwin Harwolfson had lost Guy the lands promised him and his betrothal to Elan.
Determined to make light of it, and grateful it was easier done with the passing of two years, he said, “A man could, and there was a time that was my intention. But now, better use is made of the tunic to accord the lady respect due her station though she finds herself a prisoner of my king.”
“Not finds herself—made herself.” William returned his gaze to her. “Would you not agree, Saxon?”
After a hesitation, she said, “Is it the snake who makes itself an enemy of the hawk by striking when that bird of prey swoops down to make a meal of it, or is it the hawk who makes an enemy of the snake?”
Guy tensed further.
But William laughed heartily as if, desperate to control emotions impeding his ability to think clearly, he had gathered up all the anger of the night past, wrapped it in mirth, and cast it out. But even if that was what he did, he was only slightly less dangerous to the lady.
He smiled lazily. “You think yourself and the resistance a snake to my hawk, Lady?”
Hearing herself titled, rather than derisively named Saxon or lawless, Vilda was momentarily distracted. Even so, it did not alter her response, though she knew Sir Guy would not approve and the wrath thus far evaded could capture her. “Certes, as you learned last eve, the followers of Hereward are not mice, my…” She trailed off, not because that of which she reminded him made his smile slip, but she nearly titled him as he did not deserve to be.
“Your what, Lady?” he growled, reminding her that just as he observed the pleasantries, so should she.
Though tempted to name him her jailer, instinct—or was it Sir Guy’s gaze?—made her swallow the words.
Le Bâtard leaned in. “Allow me to define who I am to Hereward’s cousin. I am your liege, your king, your
sovereign—he who prefers to be openhanded but does not balk in dealing backhanded lessons in respect and protocol.”
Would he deal the latter when she denied him what he wanted? Struggling against showing fear, she cleared her throat. “It would be better for me did I name you any of those, but I cannot get the words past my teeth. And I expect that pleases the Lord who would not have me speak falsely, just as I believe He would not have such falsity condoned by one granted Church approval for the attack on my country.”
His eyes narrowed, and her heart beat faster as she stared at the dark between his lids, then he shrugged a shoulder. “As you will not title me, I must rethink how to address you.” He looked to his council.
Vilda followed his gaze, briefly lighting on all and settling on the chevalier. Whereas the others regarded her mostly with distaste, worry worked the lines of Sir Guy’s handsome face.
For me, she thought. Why does he yet concern himself? Since drawing me from the water, he has proven honorable by ensuring I am treated well, but now that he has passed me into his liege’s hands, his duty is done.
“What should I call this lawless Saxon noble?” he put to his men, and as Vilda returned her gaze to his, held up a finger. “And to that I must add virgin widow.” He looked sidelong at her. “Is that not right?”
She was not prepared for the jab, nor memories of losing her husband on her wedding day, and less prepared for sharp anger. Longing to pound on him, she said, “You are right on every account. However, but for being born Saxon and a noble, I am those other things only because of the atrocities committed against my people.”
He thrust his face near hers. “Know you how many men I lost last eve?”
Wishing the wine on his breath better masked the foul scent of other things put down his gullet, she said, “So many it pains. Of this I am aware the same as all Saxons who have lost family and friends, but at least such a loss will not devastate the conqueror.”
Breath whistling through his nose, he drew back. “I am glad you know that, Alvilda.”
It surprised that, despite her refusal to acknowledge his superiority, he did not revert to the other derisive names. Her Christian name without title lacked respect, but it was less offensive.
She startled when he took her arm and drew her to the table, stumbled when he did not make allowance for her manacled feet. If not for his grip, she would have dropped.
“I must remember that chain,” he said, and when she regained her balance, released her. “What think you of this map?”
That it was beautiful, she thought as she considered the isle and surrounding fens etched into a piece of leather nearly as long and wide as the table. More, that it was unsightly for its accuracy. “A fair rendering.”
“Only fair?” He looked to the right. “As I understand you and your men are responsible for much of this, Sir Guy, what say you to her assessment of your mapping skill?”
Vilda swept her gaze to him, but his eyes were on Le Bâtard.
“I believe it mostly accurate, my liege, but since it was impossible to precisely determine boundaries without great risk of capture, there will be errors with regard to the isle’s size and locations of its established towns as well as camps erected to accommodate refugees come from across England.”
How often had he been on Ely? Vilda wondered. How many times might she have crossed his path? Though Hereward took measures to keep Normans from stealing onto the isle to discover weaknesses in its defenses, some had succeeded—perhaps more than believed.
“What do you find amiss, Alvilda?” the usurper said.
Though tempted to scorn him, she leaned forward. The map was more than a fair rendering, though Hereward would know better than she how exact it was. After making the man beside her wait longer than necessary, she said, “As Sir Guy tells, there are errors.”
“How does it err?”
“The towns and camps are larger than shown here, and some not as far inland. As for the natural causeways across the marsh”—she tapped a southern and western one, reached and tapped one on the isle’s eastern side—“they no longer exist. What the rivers running to the sea deposit in the Fens, others coming behind carry away. And this causeway…” She traced one that stretched from the isle’s southeastern shore to the one opposite. “…when the water is right, it appears fairly wide, but in truth is narrow. Thus, those who risk crossing it must stay perfectly center since its sides are sludge and eager to drag down a misplaced foot.”
“You lie.”
Looking up, she saw though the usurper was displeased, it was no great anger, evidencing his faith in Sir Guy’s efforts matched his expectations of her unfounded findings. “In part, I lie, but you knew I would.”
He inclined his head. “I am not surprised you disappoint the same as others of your kind, but still this ever-shrinking hope I shall find one of worth among my willful subjects.”
She put her head to the side. “But many of worth—to you—have been found, hope rewarded time again by those who accept your yoke to avoid greater losses.”
Hearing the grind of his teeth, she marveled still she stood before this fiend who should have struck her long before now.
“As well you know, Alvilda, that is far different from being embraced with the honor due the rightful King of England. After Harold stole my crown, the great battle was a given, but were the violence buried there, the deaths of thousands of more Saxons would have been averted—just as the lives of those upon Ely can yet be spared.” He looked around the table. “Here my war council. Reprieve last eve for the resistance, but only that. When next I strike, it will go far different. If I must strike.”
As she looked from one baron to the next who regarded her with steel in eyes that evidenced they wished to put a different kind of steel in those whose sanctuary was represented by lines etched into leather, chill rippled through her. Had she bypassed the chevalier, she might have turned so cold she cracked.
Lord, she sent heavenward, how is it this man counts himself a Norman?
Once more the usurper’s calloused hand turned her face back to his. “For the good of all, aid me, and the peace terms I offer to sooner be done with this shall benefit more than it harms.”
“The good of all,” she repeated what was no fit for her people even if the words that followed did not exclude her cousin, Earl Morcar, and others on the isle who were of greatest threat to his rule. Deciding it useless to ask him to elaborate, she said, “If the good of all was for all, I might give aid, though likely it would be of little use since Hereward’s mind is his own. But as your reign bears out, the good of all is nearly exclusive to Normans, very little having been afforded Saxons who bent the knee.”
His lower jaw thrust forward. “You are a fool not to fear me.”
Were it true he did not frighten her, she would wrench free, uncaring he might catch her back by the throat. “Though pride demands I not show nor own to it,” she said, “I do feel what you would have me feel.”
After some moments, he nodded. “Still, you ought to fear me more.”
Guessing that was a threat to extract information by whatever means was necessary and determined not to cower, she said, “I am sure you can make it so, and I shall bear up as best I can, but first I have a boon to ask.”
His eyes lit as if with pleasure over the prospect of refusal. “Ask.”
“I wish the same chance given a stag to the hunt—that you not take my hands and feet, even if retaining both proves only a mockery of escape.”
Glowering, he dropped his hand from her. “It is true I have ordered that punishment for enemies who deserve it, but I would not do it to a noble—even one of Saxon blood.”
Thinking it possible he would not have said the same had she stood before him wearing a rumpled chemise, her skin fouled, and hair tangled, she acknowledged Sir Guy had been right to counsel her, short-lived though this reprieve would be.
“That is, providing I am not moved to great anger which can caus
e me to act ahead of propriety,” he clarified. “Now let us return to how you shall address me.”
She blinked. “Surely I am not to keep company with you long enough for it to matter what I name you to your face.”
His eyes darkened further, then he patted her cheek, causing her to step back so quickly she nearly set herself on her rear. As the links went silent again, he said, “I find you nearly as intriguing as Hawisa Wulfrith who once opposed my rule.”
“She bent the knee at the Battle of Darfield,” Vilda said.
“Oui, and is better for it now she is wed to a Norman and training up warriors to defend my kingdom.”
Pain in Vilda’s jaw alerting her to ground teeth, she eased them apart.
“As for this Saxon lady,” Le Bâtard continued, “while nearly all walk softly around me this day, she who should walk softest makes the most noise. Thus, though I intended to cast you in a cell did you not cooperate, I am of a different mind.” He glanced at her feet. “And as the rattling wears on me, eventually I may be persuaded to remove that.” He motioned forward the steward who stood near an alcove.
The man halted alongside Vilda. “My king?”
“Provide her with a chamber, a meal, and whatever else a woman requires, then secure her inside.”
With apology, the man said, “All chambers are filled.”
“Then empty the smallest and move that baron’s packs into one of the larger chambers to share with another.”
A grunt sounded from somewhere down the table, but Vilda saw no reason to look upon the one she displaced.
Le Bâtard waved a hand. “Take her. She has amused me enough for one evening, and I have plans to unfold.”
Out of the corner of her eye seeing the steward reach to her, Vilda shot her gaze to his.
He dropped his arm, said, “Come,” and pivoted.
Once more refusing to shuffle, she raised her chin, and as she followed him across the hall, longed to look back at the chevalier who might be gone come morn.
Pray, be here, she silently appealed.
