by Tamara Leigh
She did not know what to expect, but so greatly feared his response that when he stepped forward, a whimper slipped from her. Then his hand rose from his side, fingers slid up her jaw and curved beneath her ear, and he urged her face up.
Lord, he is too much for this sturdy Saxon, she thought as she moved her gaze over his chin, lips, and nose. Some attraction and some heart, but even were we not different sides of this conquering, lacking good alliance and great dowry, he would be out of my reach.
When her eyes met those she thought the most alluring of his features, she was more certain the distance between them was passable only in moments like these. Never hours…days…months…years… Never a lifetime.
“I think it must be love,” he said, “and that it is truer for your honesty, something with which you are better acquainted than the woman I loved and lost.”
“Honesty? After the lies I told?”
“Being attempts to protect others, they were not self-serving but sacrificial, and they had naught to do with this. What I am saying is your love is honest. As for what to do with it…” He drew his thumb to the center of her mouth, gently tugged down her lower lip in trailing it to her chin, then slowly traced the other side of her jaw and raised her face higher as if—
The scrape of weary feet sounding from the corridor, he released her, whatever he meant to do left undone, whatever he left unsaid remaining unsaid.
She turned, and as he opened the door wider, he looked around. “Be it known to the still inside you that waits on me, you will see me again ere you depart for the convent, Vilda.”
One last time, she thought as he stepped into the corridor, murmured something to the monk, and closed the door.
For a long while after being secured inside, she sought the still within to assure it of his return, but there was none about her, only churning—as if what awaited him was aware though she would see him again, after that no more.
But no matter how far his journeys took him from her, ever she would have memories of him, she assured herself, then acknowledged time would tell if that was a good thing.
She snuffed the candle, lowered to the pallet, and as she pulled the blanket over her, pushed Guy from her thoughts. And regretted it for the one who slipped in behind him.
After the last game that saw the Conqueror capture very few of her pieces before making his final move, he had accompanied her across the tent.
As she started to duck beneath the flap, he had said, “Long ere I was king, whilst yet a boy struggling to keep hold of my dukedom with all around trying to tear it from my grasp, painfully I learned what is required to bend others to my will so I not be bent to theirs.” He had looked away, and when his gaze returned, said, “What happened after Hastings was not meant to. Following the great slaughter both sides, I believed I could rule and be respected by my new subjects the same as those in Normandy, but Saxons…” Almost like a child seeking understanding for bad behavior, he had turned up a hand. “One day you are all conciliatory and promises, the next all spleen and lies, seeking to take what is mine and put a blade in my back.”
When Vilda had remained silent, he had smiled crookedly—almost charmingly—and said he would arrange an escort to deliver her to a convent. He had not named the one chosen, and she had not asked since it mattered not behind which walls she spent the remainder of her life.
When he had raised his eyebrows, she thanked him and turned away, and he had let her go. Quite possibly—hopefully—that was the last time she would see him.
“Then one more time Guy,” she whispered and closed her eyes.
He had thought he would have to save her, even if it cost him all—current and future standing, liberty, perhaps life—but it seemed not. What Vilda had revealed of her time with William was answered prayer, though it baffled the Almighty had moved the king with regard to one Saxon rebel.
“My rebel,” he spoke aloud the thought, making it more real than it had cause to be. She loved him, and as he had said, what she felt was honest unlike that of the woman who last professed that depth of feeling for him. Not that Elan had not loved him, he corrected what had once been bitter but was now mostly fact. Simply, hers had not been love of an honest grade.
There being appeal in Vilda’s honesty, impulse had nearly made him return her sentiment, but wary of rashness and feelings that must be unknotted before committing to what he should not commit, he had told himself another kiss and embrace would aid in sorting out what he felt.
It was best the monk had returned, and would be better if Guy did not see Vilda again, but he would keep his word. Then unless William determined he had further need of this chevalier, Guy would release Squire Jacques from his service and accept Maxen’s invitation to return to his lands upon Etcheverry for a time. Should Elan and her husband and children visit during his stay, all the better so he could put her further behind him. And decide the way forward.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Despite the resistance’s courage these five years and occasional successes that offered hope of tipping rule back in favor of Saxons, the lack of a consolidated effort and betrayal by Danish allies had merely delayed the inevitable.
Now, as with the rest of the kingdom, all of Ely and the Fens belonged to the one whose admirers named him William the Great and detractors agreed only in terms of how terrible that greatness. Blessedly, it was not as terrible on the isle as in the North where numerous innocents had suffered cruel reprisal alongside rebels unable to escape the conqueror’s wrath.
Guy thought two things at play here—the deal struck with Abbot Thurstan that included the pardoning of commoners, and possibly William’s fascination and empathy for Vilda. However, neither of those saved rebel leaders who, refusing to flee with others desperately plying boats away from Ely, continued to defend what was lost until they bled out or were captured.
Of those brought to their knees, the ones who willingly bent them to Norman rule were sentenced to imprisonment, while those who refused were maimed to render them incapable of ever again taking up arms against their king.
Now would England finally heal? Would the country in which Guy was raised prosper as once it had? Under William, would it rouse again the envy of other rulers as once it had roused the envy of the Duke of Normandy?
Let not these years of warring be for naught, Guy sent heavenward where he sat his mount alongside Maxen and watched the boat carrying three of import from Ely to this shore where those chosen as their escort had assembled at daybreak.
Where Vilda was concerned, Guy did not like the plan, but at least for a time he and Maxen and their men would also serve as escort alongside Taillebois and those he commanded.
Ever the strategist, William had determined since both parties headed the same direction until Taillebois veered from the route that would deliver Maxen and Guy to Etcheverry, the forces of the latter would strengthen the former lest rebels attempt to exact revenge on Normans or those who had betrayed their own.
Of course, there was the possibility Hereward would lead such an attack, motivated by revenge as well as extraction of his cousin who was to be delivered to an abbey in Essex. Were the outlaw to prevail, likely death would be dealt Earl Morcar who was destined for the coast for transport to Normandy where his jailer would be one of the king’s trusted advisors. As for Bishop Aethelwine bound for seclusion at Abingdon, it was unlikely his life would be trespassed upon, but there would be retribution—if rebels were of sufficient numbers and courage to attack so large a force, and surely that was best done while still in the treacherous Fens.
“This day will be the most dangerous,” Maxen said, confirming his and Guy’s thoughts ran parallel. “There can be no mistakes.”
Breathing in a warm day cooled by intermittent breezes that swelled the scents of the marsh now less offensive than when first he came here, Guy looked sidelong at his friend. “For that, William appointed you commander until we part from Taillebois.”
“And the knave is n
ot pleased.” Maxen jutted his chin at the one who appeared disgruntled, unlike the woman mounted on a palfrey beside him.
A beautiful gown had been secured for Ivo’s pretty eel, if not one Taillebois kept among his possessions for women he wished more presentable before taking them to bed, then gained from a wealthy inhabitant upon Ely—or better said, stolen.
The traitor looked exceedingly content, and Guy knew it was not only because she appeared more a lady than Vilda. It was that she believed she had gained what other nobles before Ivo had denied her—status.
Guy did not believe it, certain what she enjoyed was temporary. Now that her usefulness was at an end, whatever gratitude Taillebois felt would wane along with his interest. Theta would be replaced and replaced again.
“Methinks Ivo tires of her,” Maxen said, and Guy might have laughed had he not returned his regard to the boat nearing the dock.
A moment after he settled his gaze on Vilda who stood far forward of Morcar and Aethelwine as if unable to stomach being near them, her eyes were upon him. She startled as if she had thought he had broken his word when he was not present for her departure from Ely. Confirmation of that was in the slight curve of her mouth.
How much more would it turn when she learned that this day and halfway through the next he would be among her escort? Or might it not turn at all for prolonging their parting that could make it more difficult considering what she felt for him?
“More importantly,” Maxen murmured, “methinks Lady Alvilda is in love.” Guy stiffened, but that did not keep his friend from adding, “Has she any hope?”
“None,” he said. “She is bound for the convent.”
“And were she not?”
Choosing not to answer, Guy remained in formation though tempted to aid her with disembarking and gaining the saddle. Thus, it was another who ensured her footing from boat to dock and led her past Taillebois and Theta, both of whom she ignored, though the latter made much ado with rearranging the drape of her skirts and repositioning artfully braided tresses.
Once astride and with her fellow captives moving toward their mounts, she looked to Guy and raised her eyebrows.
He inclined his head and glimpsed hurt before she averted her face, doubtless believing this was as far as he would keep the word given her. But soon she would understand he had not come merely to see her away. And some time between this day and the next, they would speak for the last time.
Was Hereward out there? She hoped not—that he was as far from here and Ely as he could get.
“But you are not,” Vilda whispered. “You are enraged as you have cause to be, determined as ever you have been. If you are not near me, you are near him, plotting to take back what he took from you. Do not. Though God has not answered prayers in accord with our will, they are not without answer. These answers. Pray, do not, Hereward.”
A moment later, she heard the footsteps of one who had kept watch from a distance.
She sighed. She had hoped that in being quick to relieve herself and reappear, she would be left alone providing she stayed in sight. Dreading her return to the cramped tent where she had taken her evening meal so she not suffer sight nor sound of Theta—more, of Guy who had not drawn near all day—tighter she gripped the lapels of her mantle and said across her shoulder, “I am counting stars. Pray, just a few minutes more so I may know their number.”
“An impossible feat, Vilda.”
The autumn night was cool, but it was less responsible for chill bumps rippling across her skin than he who she had accepted would not come to her.
Pressing her feet more firmly to the ground to keep them pointed forward, she said, “Just as I believe Normans are not without number, though I have heard that bemoaned, neither do I believe it of stars.”
He halted alongside her, though not so close she could savor his warmth.
This is enough, she told herself. He is here. As she knew from talk among the warriors during the ride and breaks to water the horses, when they cleared the last of the Fens on the morrow and Taillebois turned east, Guy and his friend would continue south.
Though tempted to ask him to finish what he had left unsaid on the night past as to what she should do with a love he had named honest, especially if his answer also saw done what he had left undone, she knew she would only hurt more. And so silence in which she strained to feel the heat of his body crossing the space between them.
“How many have you thus far?” he asked.
She turned her head and peered into his moonlit face. “How many?”
“Stars. What number have you reached?”
A small laugh escaped. “Very few. You are right, too many occupy that canopy. Even could I remain here with you a hundred days—nay, a thousand—still I would be counting. And for what?”
She did not expect an answer, but there was one in his lowering eyes. “Do not, Guy.” When his gaze swept back to hers, she said, “I must stop loving you. Do you do what I want far more than you, it will make the morrow more difficult.”
Seeing his nostrils flare, she returned her regard to the heavens. “You surprise in coming here. Having expected you sooner, this eve I accepted our farewell would be a distant one.”
“That would hardly be keeping my word since rightfully you believed my intent was not merely us looking upon each other. Had there been an opportunity to seek you sooner, I would have. However, not only are you Taillebois’ charge, but just as it was the duty of Baron Pendery and his men of the vanguard to forge a safe passage, it was the responsibility of me and mine to keep watch over our backs.”
“Hereward.”
“Aye, no sight of any of the resistance, not even by advancing and trailing scouts, but one must believe we are watched. To think otherwise, especially of desperately vengeful men, could mean slaughter.”
“Desperate,” she breathed. “Ely was the end of our bid to take back our country, was it not?” A dramatized eulogy, she named it as soon as spoken, knowing many would say Hereward’s stand was but the rebellion’s death throes.
“The end came well before the siege,” he said, “but there should be no doubt of it now.”
Following the invisible lines of a constellation from one star to another, she said softly, “As few of us could see ahead to that end, we clung to the possibility of ousting our oppressors. In the absence of God making His voice known directly or through a prophet in whom we could believe, we were guided by the roll of the past, the present, and certainty our next attempt or the one after would land high since earlier attempts landed so low. Had we known…” She shrugged. “Perhaps it would be different as your king wishes me to believe and all the suffering and lives lost after Hastings would not have been—that there would be a better peace than this one forced on us.”
“Perhaps, but have no doubt that had the English invaded Normandy, neither would Duke William and his people have accepted a yoke. No matter how ill-fated their resistance, they would have proven themselves kindred with Hereward.”
When Vilda slid her gaze to him, he continued, “Faced with aggressors, a warrior cannot do nothing, the duty to protect what belongs to him and his followers having been woven into his being even before a wooden sword was placed in the hand of a boy required to become a man capable of wielding iron. As far as possible, he must defend what he is given to defend. And as you say, few can see ahead to the end to know how far that is. Thus, death—many deaths—that might have been prevented.”
’Tis not another kiss that will make the morrow more difficult, she thought, but this.
Laughter rising above the voices of those in the camp made her look around. She could not see Theta, but that joy sounded from the only other woman among warriors. “She has won, her betrayal rewarded.”
“For the moment,” Guy said. “As she should know by now—and perhaps does—there is no good end to being clay in the hands of men who want only to shape it into what they need in the moment and, having not fired it to give it permanent form,
toss the clay aside for another to make use of.”
Recalling what Herba had told of the young Theta, once more Vilda felt sympathy she resented in knowing the woman was responsible, at least in part, for the fall of Ely and the deaths of those she had not considered her countrymen.
More deeply feeling the day’s ride and the one to come, she said, “I thank you for this parting and believe it best we mark your word as fulfilled in its entirety.” She forced a smile. “I pray you a good life, Guy Torquay—that you find a love so greatly returned you have no more regrets about what you lost, only gratitude its loss allowed you to gain more.”
She hesitated, then pushed to her toes and kissed his coarsely whiskered cheek. That fleeting contact was utterly benign, and yet needed to finish this. Dropping to her heels, she turned, but he caught her back.
“Vilda?”
She looked around at her hand engulfed in his. “Guy?”
“For you, I nearly betrayed my king again.”
She flew her gaze to his. “Me? Again?”
His jaw shifted. “You are aware the English princess wed King Malcolm of Scotland last year?”
She gave a murmur of laughter. “So great the rejoicing of the English and so loud the ranting of the Normans, who does not know?”
“True, but what is little known is that to avert the threat to William’s rule should Princess Margaret bear children with a claim to the Scottish as well as English throne, I was to prevent the wedding. To give credence to what I was prepared to do for you, I shall reduce that tale to as few words as possible.”
She frowned. “I listen.”
“Though given the opportunity to seize her so William could lock her away the remainder of her life, I could not deprive that godly woman of her chance at happiness after all she and her family lost to the conquering. Thus, willfully I failed my king and for it was demoted and sent to Ely.”
