by Tamara Leigh
Quite cordial—except for the chain once more strung ankle to ankle. Granted, it was longer than the first so she not shuffle. Granted, Le Bâtard had expressed regret for the necessity of ensuring once she was back in the Fens, attempts to free her would be more difficult. Still, her bindings offended for how they emphasized Saxon oppression.
Vilda had masked anger, but once she was sidesaddle before a chevalier and the usurper came alongside and patted her knee consolingly, she had seen in his eyes he was aware of her churning. And how she hated it was no mere guess based on her circumstances—that in all the days since those first chess matches, better he had learned her temperament.
Each day thereafter and at various times, she had been summoned to sit across the board from him. Blessedly, ever there were few Normans present to witness their games. Not so blessedly for her opponent, when twice he squeezed out his own victories, he had few to clap him on the back for bettering this Saxon.
Never had Vilda given him quarter though it meant prolonging games she wished half their length, and those losses left a taste in her mouth that would have been less bitter had she known that only with her cooperation had he snatched those victories from her.
Two among the many, that is all, she reminded herself as she stared at the isle that had come into sight a half hour past when the entourage veered off its course to move toward the shore whence the Normans had launched their first attack on Ely. Would the next assault originate from that same place? And was Guy there?
“What role do you think you shall play in bringing your cousin to heel?” Le Bâtard repeated the question put to her when he ordered the man with whom she shared a saddle to come alongside.
Though earlier she had deigned not to answer, she looked to him. “What role?” She shrugged her mouth, a habit learned from him though it was consciously adopted in silent mockery. Often it made him narrow his eyes while innocently she stared back, and now as once more he peered at her through slits, she said, “On this particular board, it would be fanciful to believe my role can be any other than that of a pawn.”
He chuckled. “Hate me if you must, but I like bits of you, Lady.”
She nearly thanked him for granting her permission to loath him, but in the hope of enlightenment, she swallowed derision and found satisfaction in rattling the chain between her feet. Glimpsing annoyance, she said, “So how will you move this pawn captured on her own side of the board?”
Now the shrug of his mouth. “Others must be moved first—ones so powerful I think it very possible I will not need you. But of course, an excellent strategist keeps near all pieces, even those that may never be in play.”
“Then you accept my cousin will not betray the resistance no matter the threat to me.”
“I do. Though surely Hereward has a care for you, he did not become one of my greatest enemies by yielding to the sentimental. For that, you are a pawn. However, as well you know, those small pieces hold some sway, and greater that when one slips through defenses and is promoted to a more powerful piece. Will you be promoted thus, Lady? Likely not, but for that possibility I keep you near.”
No enlightenment, this—mere discourse with which he seemed extremely satisfied, as if he had constructed verses on the art of warfare to be picked apart and examined for how clever his words.
She nodded. “I would do the same were you my pawn.”
He smiled mischievously. “I know you would.” Then he laughed. “God’s rood, I am glad you are not a man! One Hereward is enough.”
Though other ladies might be offended, not she. This was a compliment, and one badly needed to help her face what lay ahead.
Lord, she silently appealed, let him fail again, and let that failure be the beginning of the end of Norman rule. Give us back our country, and we will be more faithful stewards of Your generosity.
“We will,” she whispered.
“Will what?” he asked.
Though her impulse was to ignore his question or lie, she went with the truth. “I was speaking with God.”
His eyebrows jumped.
“I assured Him that if He deems Saxons punished enough to restore England to us, henceforth we will be more faithful.”
She knew that could anger, but it stirred him to greater amusement, at the end of which he sighed and said, “Saxon rule of England is long past. When the death knell sounds for the resistance led by your cousin, only then will this kingdom regain its glory—and greater it will be under my rule.” Dismissively, he dipped his chin and looked forward.
“So you say,” she dared, and shifting on the fore of the saddle to return her regard to the isle, adjusted her legs with a clatter of chain.
Though she hoped he would order the chevalier to fall back, he did not. And so the ride wore on, all the longer for the leisurely pace over irregular ground and precautions taken by scouts sent ahead to prevent ambush.
Minutes after catching sounds of the conqueror’s great undertaking—saws and hammers, steel beating steel, shouted orders—the ground sloping shoreward that was chosen to launch the second assault on Ely came into view.
It lay just east of where the Normans had floated their doomed causeway and was better situated. Heart sickened, Vilda’s only relief was knowing the enemy had not discovered the best place to ford the marshy river. But as they drew nearer, that relief proved no consolation.
The camp was immense. Reaching out in all directions, a haze of smoke rose above hundreds of tents and the heads of thousands of the enemy who moved among them. Then there were large areas cleared to accommodate laborers who constructed weapons to be turned against their own people, and the greater of those weapons was not the second causeway.
Near the river’s edge facing Ely’s southern shore, immense mounds had been raised, and on either side of them were four wooden towers. They were only imposing platforms, but she was certain they would become siege engines when catapults and ballistae were erected atop them. Then fire javelins and rocks would bombard the resistance to provide cover for those crossing the new causeway.
That all this was here and much within sight of those on Ely meant Hereward and his men had failed to strike hard enough to thwart the conquerors. Vilda did not doubt they had raided and burned, but whatever was achieved had not been enough.
The forces under the command of De Warenne and Taillebois, whose greatest strength had been Sir Guy’s elite, were a nuisance compared to the coming of their king. Despite all the Normans had lost during that first siege, the greatest impact was on the families of those whose husbands and sons would never return, the lives of Le Bâtard’s followers easily replaced by other replaceable lives.
Dear Lord, she sent heavenward, he is right to be so confident.
She did not realize how stricken her expression until the one who paid for his kingdom in the currency of men said, “Oui, Lady Alvilda, only a pawn.”
She closed her mouth and, seeing no reason to blink away tears already seen, nodded.
As if content with that acknowledgement—certain soon she would be on her knees begging for her people—he let her be. When they rode into camp minutes later, they were received with the enthusiasm of men proud of their accomplishments and eager to be acknowledged.
The usurper reined in near a large tent and was the first out of the saddle, causing his squire to catch his foot in the stirrup in his own haste to dismount. Though the young man freed himself without tumbling, Vilda was certain it did not escape Le Bâtard.
As the chevalier at her back swung out of the saddle, she saw De Warenne and Taillebois emerge from the great tent. Others exited, but before she could look near on them, her attention was diverted by hands reaching inside the green mantle Guy had given her.
She knew she should thank the chevalier when he lifted her down, but after all she had seen, she could not, and she was glad when he retreated—until she realized it was to make a place for his king who said, “For all the concern Sir Guy shows you, might he be your champion, La
dy?”
She swept her eyes to the usurper and followed his gaze to advancing warriors who numbered nine. Guy was among them, but if he had looked upon her with concern, no longer. He was fixed on his liege, as was Maxen Pendery who strode alongside.
Seeing Le Bâtard turn his face toward her, she gave him her regard. Though she longed to shrug her mouth, the corners trembled, and so she gave a grunt of disgust and said, “A Norman my champion?”
Amusement once more rumbling from him, she fought the temptation to punch the knot bobbing up and down his neck. “So said Lady Hawisa Wulfrith who, by wedding Guarin D’Argent, gave me control over the training of warriors at Wulfen Castle,” he mused. “So said Vitalis who, by wedding Nicola D’Argent after she sacrificed her reputation to preserve his life, gave me his services in training up warriors, including my son.”
That last jolted. Vilda knew the Norman lady Vitalis had taken from Ely had wed her enemy, but the circumstances had been unknown—and still were, though what he told filled some of the hole.
“And now so says this lady who…” This time he shrugged his shoulders. “I could order Sir Guy to wed you if I believed it would benefit me, but I do not think it would, and I value him enough not to force on him a union he would find less desirable than wedding Lady Nicola. Thus, we shall let him play the considerate chevalier and no more.”
His words offended and intrigued. Yielding to the latter, Vilda wondered if—and when—the chevalier had been offered the hand of the D’Argents’ beautiful sister. If so, what had he found undesirable about that lady who far more resembled Elan Pendery than the Saxon he had kissed?
“Well come, my king!” De Warenne said as he and the others halted. “As commanded, all nears completion.” He gestured at the tent behind. “After you are refreshed, I will show you the camp, then your Council of War shall convene to finalize plans.”
The usurper nodded at Vilda. “Secure accommodations are needed for the lady. Sir Guy—”
“I have made a place for her,” Taillebois interrupted.
Vilda shot her gaze to Guy and briefly gained his before he looked to Ivo.
“Is that so, Taillebois?” Le Bâtard said with mild rebuke.
The man inclined his head. “It will ensure she is well guarded. And, methinks, more imperative that will be when you learn what transpired this day.”
“Tell.”
Taillebois swept a hand to the side. “May we speak in private?”
Le Bâtard leaned toward Vilda. “Mayhap you are more than a pawn, eh?” He chuckled and strode to Taillebois. Moments later, he demanded, “How is it possible Sir Deda lives?”
Whatever his man’s response, it was spoken low as was the rest of their conversation, during which Vilda mulled the chevalier’s name and recalled it was at Brampton she heard it. It belonged to the Norman who had galloped across the causeway and into the river—and as now told, had not drowned as believed.
Wondering what Guy knew of the exchange between the two men and Taillebois’ accommodations for her, Vilda caught her breath when her nemesis called, “Lady, most amusing this! As a show of good faith, this morn your cousin released the only one of my men to make it onto the isle. In exchange for Sir Deda’s release, you are to be escorted to a convent of your choosing.”
He thought Hereward a fool, she mused. Doubtless, her cousin had seen more value in releasing Sir Deda than in holding him, even if only to appear the fool so more greatly he was underestimated. Though Hereward would have her safe behind the walls of a convent, he had known that would not be the outcome.
“As we are not in negotiations, and I have no cause to be,” Le Bâtard continued, “methinks you must agree I am not obligated to make an exchange for something I did not—and would not—ask for.”
She put her head to the side. “I would not expect it of you.”
Perhaps worse than gaining his ire, once more she amused, and when he was done expressing that, he said, “Taillebois will see you to your tent,” and strode to that place where his Council of War would be held.
Vilda looked to Guy and was grateful for the moments their eyes held. Then it was past, and he and the others followed their king. And no recourse for her when Taillebois took hold of her arm and, making no allowance for her chained ankles, pulled her after him.
Vilda could have moved faster—two steps for each of his—but she dropped to her knees and peered up into his darkening face. “Regrets. Either you must slow, else carry me. And as you see, I am quite sturdy.”
“Sturdy, indeed,” he said as he yanked her up, “just as I was told.”
Told, not seen, she thought and recalled when he stood in the boat watching her save a drowning Theta—who had not been drowning at all. Though she had believed it too great a coincidence when Le Bâtard named her a sturdy virgin widow, she had not entirely accepted it, but she did now.
And when Taillebois pushed her into a tent of which she was not to be the lone occupant, the identity of the one inside offered further proof of who had told him she was sturdy.
Chapter Seventeen
William hesitated. A good thing, especially after all he had been shown that was impressive enough to make many a commander confident not only of victory, but a relatively easy one. What caused him to hesitate were concerns voiced by Maxen, Guy, and—surprisingly—De Warenne that the morrow was too soon to launch the assault. But though the three were in accord, the latter believed a delay of three days was sufficient, whereas Guy and Maxen proposed five.
There being no question the siege engines were ready to be mounted atop the towers, they agreed with De Warenne three more days of training new arrivals would better equip the men for a battleground unlike any heretofore known, but they insisted two days beyond that could not only be the difference between success and failure but save lives otherwise lost to needless urgency.
Norman forces having been thwarted more times than not, they believed five days would allow the best of the elite force to gather more information about the resistance’s defenses. As learned well, the Normans’ greatest chance of stealing onto the isle and remaining undetected was to do so in small numbers during the hours of dark when rebels were either beginning to settle into night or rising ahead of the new day—relatively sluggish and just enough conversing and moving about to cover the missteps of those unfamiliar with their surroundings.
“Five days,” Guy repeated as William narrowed his eyes on the map. “Then better their weaknesses will be known, perhaps well enough to get a force on the isle as soon as the frontal assault commences, allowing us to surround the defenders and sooner end the conflict with fewer deaths both sides.”
“Both sides!” Taillebois scoffed. “The more Saxons dead the better, regardless of how many Normans must sacrifice their lives in service to our king.”
Though Guy was not alone in struggling against setting upon the knave, he knew Maxen’s struggle could prove more deadly. The Bloodlust Warrior had renounced the ungodly violence that earned him that name at Hastings, but now it was not only for his people he fought but those of his Saxon wife. Like Guy, his oath of fealty stood him William’s side. Like Guy, Maxen was here doing what threatened to rend his soul in the hope of ending that which continually picked off the scab of healing.
“We are tenfold better prepared than before,” Ivo prompted where he stood at the end of the table opposite the king.
Still, William hesitated.
“Lord,” Maxen rasped so low Guy knew he was the only one to hear his friend’s appeal and silently sent up his own.
“I have no doubt we shall prevail come the morrow,” Taillebois pressed on, “but there is one other weapon we can make use of to ensure victory, one for which the heathens are unprepared.”
William’s eyes fell on him. “You speak of the hag of whom I have told you nay.”
As Guy and Maxen exchanged glances, Taillebois entreated, “Pray, hear me. We do not embrace such unholy things, but our enemy does. For that,
did not the pope support your invasion of England?”
“You know he did, and now you would have me—his chosen one—pay a traitorous Saxon to cast spells and curse her own people?”
“Do we set her atop one of the towers where she can be seen and heard, it could crush the courage of superstitious defenders. If that happens, surely the pope would approve.”
“If it happens!” William slapped the table. “And surely he would approve? You do not know that!”
Taillebois shifted uncomfortably. “The resistance can fall not five days hence but on the morrow,” he continued. “Then our victorious king can leave this ungodly place.”
“My liege,” Maxen said, “even do you decide against delaying the siege, whether five days or three, I believe it an ill thing to—”
“I will think on this!” William slashed a hand through the air, and again when De Warenne began to argue, then he crossed to a side table and lifted a pitcher. After pouring wine, he looked around. “How soon can this witch be delivered to us, Taillebois?”
The knave smiled. “Already she is here, my king.”
Though of good age, she was no crone. Fewer than three score years, Vilda confirmed as she looked more closely at the woman than was possible earlier when Taillebois pushed her inside and ordered her not to disturb the witch.
She who rose upon the pallet on which she had slept these hours appeared well fed, but not overly so, a belted gown revealing a tucked in waist relative to full bosom and hips. And she had a good profile beneath grey-streaked hair braided into a crown, her cheek and chin remaining defined. As she was attractive for one of advanced years, once she had to have been quite comely.
Tugging at worn skirts to free tangled legs, she looked across her shoulder at Vilda who sat on a blanket to the right of the tent’s flap. “I was told you might come to me, Hereward’s cousin,” she said in a surprisingly dulcet voice. “You know who I am?”
Vilda eased the arms clasping her knees. “Theta’s aunt.”
