by Tamara Leigh
“Alvilda!”
Halting before the stairs, she looked around.
“Duke,” Le Bâtard said. “That is how you shall address me—for now.”
Though there was no disputing that title was his, she did not know she could speak even that, but she inclined her head.
“Let me hear it,” he said as she started to turn away.
Unable to keep resentment from her voice, she said, “Duke.”
As if satisfied, he said, “Do you play chess?”
Thinking he wished to learn how versed she was with the battlefield of a board whose strategies warriors sought to apply to those made of dirt capable of absorbing blood, she said, “I know how all the pieces move.” And more, she silently added, having refined her game on the isle when her body was fatigued but not a mind which required distraction so she not dwell on things that could not be changed.
“How they move is but the starting point—the basic. What wins the battle is what comes after—the complex.”
Not always, she thought. The complex required to construct that great causeway had taken many weeks. The basic that dismantled it had taken many minutes. But she inclined her head and stole a glance at Sir Guy. And wished she had not, it making her miss him more in anticipation of his departure.
One would think you fond of that enemy, drawled the voice within as she turned away.
“So one would,” murmured the voice that slipped without.
Chapter Twelve
Royal Manor at Brampton
Huntingdon, England
Another causeway.
William and his council having determined it was needed to take Ely, construction had begun on a second one that could end up going the way of the first. Or so Guy believed until his return to Brampton a sennight following his departure when he learned the depth and breadth of the new plan, of which the causeway was but one component.
He had not made the journey alone, De Warenne and Taillebois also commanded to attend. As Guy found it difficult to settle his mind over how the lady fared, he was receptive to the summons. His traveling companions were not.
Whereas daily Taillebois had grumbled over being excluded from the council, and De Warenne had to resent he was needed more on the frontline than around a table debating strategy, what neither man liked was the timing of the summons that arrived on a day of intermittent rain made less tolerable for how chill it fell—as if nearly granted its wish to be snow.
Throughout the ride, Guy had suffered discomfort as well. Each time his water-weighted mantle began to dry with the aid of a vigorous pace that shook moisture from it, more rain fell. But there was good in it, goading them to sooner reach the manor, which they did while the sun yet lit temperamental clouds.
That was two hours past, and though those newly arrived at the manor were better informed about the elaborate plan to take Ely, still Guy remained ignorant of how William’s captive had passed the days since her arrival. Though he hoped any further interactions with the king had not come to a bad end, seeing her moved to a cell, he believed it more possible than not.
“As you see”—William clapped De Warenne on the shoulder—“all is taken into account to ensure what happened does not happen again.”
Providing this plan was executed well, it would give him his victory, but could all the pieces fit together as they must with him determined to attack a fortnight hence? The new causeway had been under construction for several days and good progress made by adding more Fenlanders to the work force, but there were other things that needed building and little room for error.
“My liege,” Taillebois said as those around the table began moving toward the dais for the evening meal. “Do you recall what I put to you weeks past, which you said you would consider under dire circumstances?”
William turned to him. “After all you have been shown, you think these dire circumstances?”
The corners of Ivo’s mouth convulsed. “Your plan is excellent, but surely even the best plan ought to be strengthened when possible.”
“I have God’s favor, Taillebois. For what would I risk offending Him by engaging a witch?”
Feeling the presence of Theta who had introduced Ivo to that unholy woman, Guy tensed.
“Whereas we know her to be only a hag who mutters and mixes herbs and liquids she names potions,” the knave said, “the superstitious Saxons believe her to be more. Do you put her atop one of the towers and give her a purse of coin to curse her own, fewer defenders will oppose us, sooner allowing us to take the isle with less losses on our side.”
Appearing to consider it, the king looked to De Warenne who shrugged, then Guy. “What say you, Chevalier?”
Though he knew this was a sign he was returning to favor, he determined his answer would not straddle a fence in the hope he could hop down on whichever side William chose. “I disagree. I believe time and coin better spent on the warriors who are to take the isle for you.” Ignoring Taillebois’ snap of teeth, he continued, “Too, for the superstitious among our own, having a Saxon witch in their midst could prove a great distraction.”
William nodded slowly. “I shall consult the barons, but Sir Guy makes a good argument.”
Ivo muttered something and strode opposite.
“Now he shall pout the night through and drink more than he ought,” De Warenne said and followed.
Guy had not expected to find himself alone with William. Taking advantage of the rarity, he said, “I am curious about Lady Alvilda.”
Brow furrowing, the king drawled, “She is a curiosity.”
“Has she displeased you?”
“Of course she has—and further each time she declines my invitation to dine in the hall.”
It sounded he tolerated her rejections. If he had issued them twice a day this past sennight, over a dozen times she would have offended. The William he knew would have allowed it once, perhaps twice, then taking it personally, had her dragged to the hall.
Laughter rumbled from William. “You think I am coming unraveled. Be assured, had she refused me out of spite, I would have done what you imagine, but her excuse is valid as confirmed by the woman who tends her.”
Guy frowned. “What excuse?”
“One spoken immodestly, though I am thinking it has run its course.” He laughed again, and Guy knew the content of her excuse before he said, “She suffers her monthly flux, though those are not the words delivered to me. The first time it was only two—I bleed. Every time thereafter, it is three—Still I bleed. However, now enough days have passed to reach the end of her courses, I shall send a man to tell her if she does not present a quarter hour hence, she will be carried here.”
“Send me,” Guy said with little thought, though had he given it more, still he would have offered.
William narrowed his eyes. “Have you a care for her?” He held up a hand as if to prevent denial. “Sacrificing what is surely your best tunic, you clothed her to look as much a lady as possible rather than a foul, muddied rebel. And ere you departed the morn after delivering her to Brampton, you sent her two things as reported by the servant who did your bidding.”
“I did,” Guy said, “my motive to increase her chance of being shown the same consideration as other nobles who oppose the King of England and Duke of Normandy.”
“This I know, but what of the motive behind that one? Do you have more than a pitying care for Alvilda?”
There being no question he did not feel for her as he had Elan, Guy said, “I do not.”
“Good. Great my displeasure if feelings for a Saxon rebel jeopardize the fealty owed me.”
Already that fealty had been jeopardized when Guy eschewed the opportunity to prevent the King of Scotland’s marriage, and it would be beyond jeopardized should it be discovered he had refused to be a party to lifelong imprisonment of the English princess.
“With your permission, I will escort the lady belowstairs,” Guy prompted.
The king nodded. “You may gain her
chamber key from my steward—as well as the one to the manacles since I would not have her rattling all around whilst she dines with us.”
Then she was yet bound though Guy had hoped her relieved of the chain regardless of whether she made her bed in a chamber or a cell. “I thank you.”
William jerked his chin and strode toward the dais while Guy went in search of the steward.
Boots, meaning once more she would be asked to dine in the hall among the enemy. When it was the patter of slippers approaching her tiny chamber at corridor’s end, she knew it was the servant who tended her, whether to replenish items needed to carry out daily ablutions or deliver a meal.
The latter visitor welcome, the former not at all, Alvilda remained seated before the brazier and did not look around when the key granted the squire admittance. Continuing to reach her hands toward glowing coals, she called, “Still I bleed.”
As ever, that would so discomfit he would retreat immediately. But he did not. Since the only time he had hesitated was his first trespass when he gaped over her excuse to refuse the summons and spluttered when she told him to deliver her words exactly as spoken, something was amiss—and more so when she heard him step inside and close the door.
It was not the squire. There was too much command in that single stride and threat inherent in an enemy closing himself in with her.
Lord, nay, she silently pleaded. Let this not be my punishment. As last eve I was not certain it was the end my menses, only this morn did I lie. I would have tried harder not to do so on the morrow. Force your way into this man’s frigid heart so he not work ill on me.
“Lady, I am to remove your manacles and escort you to the hall for supper.”
From his first word, Vilda had become aware of how still her body, the hands she warmed remaining extended and splayed and no breath entering nor exiting. However, whereas fear had caused her to cease breathing, it was for a different reason she remained in this state now she knew her visitor’s identity.
It was wrong it should feel as if one of her own had stolen into the chamber, but such relief flooded her she began to quake and her loosening back nearly dropped her over her knees.
“May I approach, Lady Alvilda?”
“Please do.” She lowered her hands and slid clattering feet forward. “My disagreeable companion and I are eager to part company.”
As he strode forward, she looked sidelong and saw the boots his few strides delivered to her side. When he lowered to his haunches, his torso and face were well within sight, requiring only a shift of eyes to bring him to focus. Finding it easier thought than done and hating she might be perceived as fearful, she swept her gaze up over spread knees, grey tunic, lightly-bearded jaw, and a mouth with no curve about it.
As she settled on those piercing brown eyes that boasted bits of grey, he said, “You look well, though somewhat pale. If you truly remain encumbered by that affliction exclusive to women, I shall seek to persuade my king—”
Vilda gasped at remembrance of what she had said upon his entrance. Not only were her words coarse the sooner to recover her solitude, but too intimate to be shared with a man she did not loathe.
“Lady, would you have me speak on your behalf?”
She did not want to go belowstairs and be bound on all sides by the enemy, but now there was inducement—removal of her bindings and the company of Sir Guy. She moistened her lips, causing his eyes to flit to them. “The worst of it is over. I shall join you.”
He smiled tautly, and she realized she had made an assumption. “You are to dine there, are you not?” Hardly spoken than inwardly she groaned over what sounded pleading.
I have been alone too long, she thought, I have forgotten who I am to myself and to him. But surely forgivable providing I never forget who I am to Le Bâtard and who he is to me.
“I shall be there, Lady. Unless commanded otherwise, you may sit with me if you like.”
She nodded. “I think that acceptable.”
“Then let us not linger. Better you enter as all are gaining their seats.” He opened a hand, revealing a ring of two keys. The long one had to be that which fit the chamber’s door, the small one for the workings of the manacles that defied her every makeshift key, including sizable splinters and a thin spoon handle.
“Pray, make haste,” she said and, raising the hem of a gown of homespun cloth, paused over it and her leather slippers. Both had been delivered by the maid who gained this chevalier’s coin to part with her possessions—the same woman who served the usurper’s captive.
“More kindness shown me,” she said as he dropped to a knee before her feet and bent his head.
“I hope both made the uncomfortable more tolerable, Lady.”
“They have.” Staring at the dark hair springing from his crown that would soon require scissors were he to continue looking the Norman, she tried to distract herself from the longing to draw strands through her fingers by attending to his removal of the manacles. But that needed a distraction all its own, the slippers worn so thin his hand cradling her foot to access the lock made her think things she ought never think of a Norman.
Alone too long, she reminded.
“That is one,” he said as the manacle clattered to the floor. Then her other foot was in his hand, and she wanted to curse him as if he were to fault for so deeply affecting her that when the second manacle dropped, it seemed a pity she had only the two.
“Lord,” she breathed.
“Better, I am sure,” he misinterpreted her appeal—until he lifted his face to offer a sympathetic smile that turned wary over the expression she was slow to disguise.
“Forgive me.” He straightened and stepped to the side. “I have been too familiar, but be assured it was thoughtlessly done. I have no desire to make you uncomfortable.”
Fearing he intentionally chose the word desire to kindly slay any hope that what she was feeling could be returned, Vilda said, “’Tis I who seek forgiveness. You have shown yourself to be honorable, and I do you ill by not trusting you wish only to give aid.”
He inclined his head, but she feared she had not fooled him into believing his reassessment of her appeal to the Lord was unfounded.
“As I am sure you wish some minutes to make yourself presentable, I shall await you in the corridor.” He turned away.
“Presentable?” she said with offense though she did wish she had taken better care with her grooming this morn—and not for Le Bâtard.
He came around. “I do not say you are wanting, Lady. As done before, I encourage you to do all in your power to remind your enemy of your high birth.”
She pushed up out of the chair. When no iron sounded nor knocked against the bones of her ankles, gratitude made her close her eyes and forget whatever she had meant to say. Better these words, “I thank you, Sir Guy. Again.”
She raised her lids and saw understanding in his eyes, then he returned and swept up the manacles. “I am glad to be of some assistance. Now while you ready yourself, I shall put these out of sight to increase the chance they stay out of mind.”
“Sir Guy?”
“Lady?”
“You are different from most Normans longer known to us.”
“Would that were not a compliment to me but my countrymen,” he said, then was gone.
He did not lock the door, trusting that however long it took to find a place to stow the manacles, she would remain within. Were he another of the enemy, she would not, but she would be here when he returned since token resistance was useful only when it did no great harm to any besides those being resisted.
When she opened the door shortly after once more hearing boots in the corridor, she saw he leaned against the wall opposite, no manacles on his person. As for what was on her person, she smiled apologetically. “I should not have worn it again, and be assured I have not since your departure, but though it is a man’s tunic, it makes me appear more a lady. And as you see, the gown you sent me serves better as an undergown than my old chem
ise.”
“I am glad you make good use of the tunic, and as it is yours to keep, I encourage you to continue doing so.”
“To keep? But I heard you say you intended to wed in it.”
“Intended does not a wedding make, Lady.”
That which was said without humor was none of her concern, but she asked, “Did your betrothed die?”
Glimpsing regret in his eyes, she guessed he wished he had not responded, but he pushed off the wall and said, “I am certain you have heard of the resistance leader who gained a great following before the coming of Hereward—he who came to terms with my king at Darfield which otherwise would have become a bloody battlefield.”
“Edwin Harwolfson,” she spoke the name that turned her tongue bitter. “Of course I know of the royal housecarle who traded the chance of ousting the conqueror for land and a misbegotten son made on a Norman lady who accused him of ravishment.”
Guy stared at this lady, so different from the woman to whom he had been betrothed, and wondered what had possessed him to open the door behind which Elan paced. Because much of her had slipped out and away, he thought, and perhaps with the telling, more of her would.
Having learned before returning to collect Alvilda that the evening meal was delayed due to the arrival of a messenger from Normandy, Guy said, “The lady whose accusation was false, as confessed the day she birthed his son, was my betrothed, the child she carried one I wished to raise as my own.”
Her eyes widened. “You speak of Elan Pendery, sister of your friend, The Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings.”
“I do. Instead of wedding me, she joined with Harwolfson—as she should have. Though she had believed she could give her child over and make a family with me, when the time came, she could not abandon her babe.” Guy smiled, not as forced as once it had been. “Thus, as I have no need for a tunic so fine, you may keep it, as well as the mantle.”
“But one day—”
“If that day comes, another tunic can be made.” He turned down the corridor. “Now let us see if my king’s crisis has been sufficiently averted to see hungering bellies filled.”
