by Tamara Leigh
Though Vilda would not have it any other way for the princess, it would have been better for this wounded heart had he not broken faith with Le Bâtard. Of course, still he might have come to the Fens.
“How did you nearly betray your liege again?”
“While waiting to learn the outcome of your first chess match, I began planning how to get you away should death be your sentence.”
She caught her breath. “You would risk so much for me?”
“You know I care for you.”
Care. Despite how much she wanted him to use another word to describe his feelings, for his sake she was glad they were not of that depth. Had he loved her even a portion of what he felt for Elan, more loss he would suffer that might cause him to put away his heart and never gain what she would pray for him every day.
“I do know,” she said and drew her hand from his. “Fare thee well.”
Guy watched her go, not gliding—never gliding—but with head up and firm steps that even more made him—
Momentarily, he closed his eyes, and when he opened them to watch her escort follow her, silently admitted that he more than cared for her. Still, care was the better word, just as it was best he had not kissed her again.
The morrow would be difficult. No reason to make it more so.
Chapter Thirty
As far as Ivo Taillebois knew, the parting of ways was exactly that, his entourage turning east toward the convent while the others veered further south toward Etcheverry.
What the knave did not know was Guy and Maxen continued to suspect they were watched and followed, and perhaps beyond the Fens where once more the ground and landscape were mostly predictable. Thus, as decided before the parting, once their two forces were well out of sight of Ivo’s, they had turned back to confirm there was no substance to their misgivings. But there was, suspicion now made fact.
“They outnumber us,” Maxen said of the horde that had drawn wide around Ivo and his men, “and they are no mere rabble.” The former was evidenced by two dozen more men than the three forces combined, the latter by all being astride and well armed.
Guy glanced at his friend mounted alongside in the spotty shadows of trees losing their summer finery. “I wager their leader is Hereward—these the ones he took off the isle and collected when those left behind fled.”
“Precarious, this,” Maxen said. “Though I have little doubt our warriors of fewer number will prevail, many the injuries and deaths both sides.”
Guy was thinking the same, and though there was calm in knowing Vilda would not be harmed by her own, it was threatened by the possibility Ivo and his men would use her as a weapon of negotiation and, failing that, of bloody retaliation when faced with defeat.
He nodded. “As they have encircled those of Taillebois, we encircle them, and quickly ere either moves on the other.”
“Agreed,” Maxen said and each signaled their men and spurred forward.
This Hereward’s answer. If God would not provide the one he wanted, he would provide it himself. But at least he was not reckless, having struck only after Guy and Pendery departed. And he had done so with impressive numbers that revealed still the resistance had heart—albeit diseased, Vilda was certain after this last betrayal.
The rebels having reined in all around, spaced among them archers whose bows were drawn the same as those of the Normans trapped at the center—and one of the latter’s arrows trained on her as commanded by Ivo—a familiar voice called, “What lady is that at your side, Taillebois of no good account?”
Vilda swung her gaze to her cousin and saw him lower the hood of his short mantle.
“Ah, but of course!” he said in Anglo-Saxon. “No lady. Merely a traitorous harlot who dresses as one.”
Though he was too distant to look near upon his face, it was not necessary to ascertain how darkly grim it was, his voice and stiff posture testament to emotions thundering within. As for Theta’s reaction…
Vilda having halted her horse behind and to the left of that woman, she had only a bit of profile to study, but there was fear there. And she saw that same emotion sat so heavily on the faces of Earl Morcar and Bishop Aethelwine it pooled around their jaws.
Hereward laughed. “And see there—the toddling earl and the unholy man!”
From among his men arose a murmur of agreement, then her cousin called with venomous cheer, “Whither do you escort these traitors?”
For the first time, Vilda looked to Taillebois mounted beside Theta. Were he fearful, he disguised it well, sitting easy in the saddle, mouth tucked up as if this amused.
“First,” he answered in his own language, “Lady Alvilda goes to—”
“She is no traitor,” Hereward spoke over him in Anglo-Saxon. “I speak of Saxons who betray Saxons, beginning with your lover who, when it benefits her, grows gills and fins to gain the hook of Norman greed—she who was the beginning of our loss of Ely.”
“I had no choice!” Theta cried, causing many to startle, including Taillebois whose head came around and expression was so incredulous, he looked almost a boy whose toy was given to an inferior. Then his upper lip curled.
Had she unfastened her eyes from Hereward whom she surely feared more, she would have seen her mistake in denouncing one so near.
“This Norman stole onto the isle, sought me out, and threatened to slay my family did I not do as told. The vile Taillebois—”
Those her final words. As if merely severing a rope, her lover applied a dagger to her throat.
As Theta jerked and clapped a hand to her neck, Vilda muffled a cry and imagined the face turned to that knave was more stricken with disbelief than his own had been. Then Theta dropped over her horse’s neck, and with a beautiful billowing of skirts, fell to the ground. Landing face up, her head rolled to the side, and she stared at Vilda a moment before her lids closed.
Vilda told herself not to feel for her, but her chest constricted. Just as Theta had been wronged years ago, she had wronged her own. Though more grievously the latter, there could be no rejoicing in her end.
“Now that traitor and liar shall trouble neither of us again, Hereward the outlaw,” Taillebois persisted in Norman-French, then wiped his blade on his chausses, marking the garment with his lover’s blood. “I suppose I could show Morcar the same mercy.”
The earl gave a bark of anger.
Ignoring him, Taillebois said, “It would save me the journey to the coast whence he is to set sail for imprisonment in Normandy, but as for the bishop…” He clicked his tongue. “My king would not condone me slaying a holy man, so by your hand he will have to be bled if you are not well with him being locked away at Abingdon.” He raised his dagger. “Would that satisfy the outlaw whose only hope is to flee King William’s England—providing he does so now?”
Once more a murmur, but it was not of agreement, and this one was punctuated by a rumble. However, it was not of the rebels. It came from well beyond and all sides. And there the source that made those within and without these two rings attend to it.
Guy and Pendery returned, and though the former made Vilda’s heart beat faster one moment, in the next it pounded over what it would mean to her cousin and his men once the Normans forming the outer ring enclosed all.
Previous to their arrival, she had feared a clash equal to Hereward’s wrath which, in full array, was said to be so heinous those who fought at Hastings equated it with that of the Bloodlust Warrior. Though sickened by the slaughter to come, there had been consolation in knowing that even if she did not survive, the resistance would prevail for outnumbering Taillebois and his men. Now, though still their numbers were greater, they were outflanked by Normans whose sole profession was that of fighting. And one of those coming at them was the Bloodlust Warrior.
“Ours is the upper hand!” Hereward shouted as he sought to rally his men lest they break and flee. “Stay in formation and advance!”
They did so, and as they drew nearer Taillebois’ entourage, the tension
between the inner and middle rings felt like the mud of the marsh—suffocatingly thick as each side waited for the other to fly the first arrow that would set all others in motion.
At fifty feet, Hereward thrust an arm high. His men halted and, at his command, a portion turned their mounts to face the greatest threat to them.
Taillebois looked around, from his archer whose arrow remained trained on Vilda to her. “To my side, Hereward’s cousin!”
If my fate is not the same as Theta’s, then once more a pawn, she thought and, nudging her mount forward, silently prayed whatever came would not see her responsible for any deaths here.
Theta’s body being so near her horse’s hooves it would be trampled if the beast sidled, Vilda veered to Taillebois’ other side and found little solace in seeing his dagger returned to its sheath. As quickly as he had brought it to hand when last it was used, he could do so again.
With the outer ring tightening and those Normans beginning to rein in, Taillebois thrust a hand toward her. “Cross to me.”
She looked to Hereward who had turned his mount toward the larger force and saw he peered over his shoulder. His barely leashed anger was nearly off its leash. Despite what he told his men, the upper hand was lost. Now it was a matter of taking with them to the grave as many Normans as possible.
Not Guy, she silently prayed as she set her hand in Taillebois’ and was snatched from her saddle to his.
As she thumped down on the fore, he said, “Methinks you shall be of good use.”
“Imagine that,” she hissed, “a warrior of repute in need of a shield made of a lowly Saxon woman.”
He stiffened. “It is a sorry state in which I find myself, but as your cousin will turn his efforts on me once the earl and bishop fall, I choose temporary indignity over pride made permanent by the loss of life.”
She looked around. “Theta was right. You are vile.”
“And for it, I live, whereas she who betrayed does not.” He raised his eyebrows. “If my count is right, since first I was acquainted with her, she has been responsible for nearly as many fallen rebels as I.” He narrowed his lids. “Were you not present the night Sir Guy’s squire was wounded after they gave chase to your cousin and his men following an attack on us?”
Recalling the dark, the wet, and the lives lost that would not have been had Theta remained true, Vilda could not respond.
He nodded. “She warned of that plan. Hence, the rebels slain in our camp is but a sampling of those whose blood is on her hands—as your blood should have been.” He jerked his head to the right. “She is given her due as you shall be given yours if Hereward comes for me.”
The knot tying up her insides coming undone, she put between her teeth, “I hope he does. Better I am slain than you and Theta not be reunited in death.” She forced a smile. “I am generous that way.”
He chuckled. “She would like that as well, but I must needs disappoint. When—”
“Parley!” a voice boomed across the restlessness of warriors awaiting the signal to engage.
Vilda looked forward again. As thought, it was Maxen Pendery who spoke, he and Guy having guided their horses ahead of their men whose swords were drawn and arrows nocked.
“Let us make a middle ground to discuss this!” Guy called in Anglo-Saxon.
“Discuss?” Hereward scorned. “In circumstances such as these, one does not yammer on with empty threats and promises. They have done with it quickly. My men and I are ready to fight. Are yours?”
Considering the resistance was bounded both sides, Guy could have answered scorn with scorn, but as if aware of how near the edge Hereward was, he said, “Though you have fought harder than most to win back what was forfeited at Hastings, the fight is done. However, all is not hopeless. Speak with us, and let us see if there is a path all might take that is not paved in blood.”
“So say those who have far more to lose than we!”
Guy looked to Maxen, words were exchanged, then he said, “’Tis true ever the victors have more to lose than those who possess only themselves, but that does not mean lives should be sacrificed. Something can yet be made of them, and it is possible what was lost can be regained in some measure.” He leaned forward. “Speak with us, and afterward if you find no value in doing so, you may return to your men and lead them in battle. You have our word.”
“Not mine,” Taillebois muttered, and Vilda knew he was proud of that.
“Vile,” she rasped, and the arm around her pressed so hard, she feared she would heave—then considered yielding to the roiling.
“Silence,” he snarled.
“I will trust you, Sir Guy and Baron Pendery,” Hereward said, “providing you trust me.” He pointed to the trampled grass before his horse. “The middle ground is here. My men both sides will draw back twenty feet, and you will come alone. ’Tis that or naught.”
More words were exchanged between Guy and Pendery, then the former called, “Agreed.”
“Fools,” muttered the man at Vilda’s back.
“One more thing,” her cousin said, “Taillebois and my cousin shall participate in our parley.”
“I will not!” Ivo shouted. “I know Saxon trickery, and this is that.”
Hereward looked around. “Are not my arrows trained on you as yours are upon me, coward who hides behind a woman?”
Despite that being spoken in the presence of Taillebois’ men, Vilda sensed the man at her back would resist disproving the gibe.
“Of course Taillebois shall join us,” Maxen Pendery called. “A leader does not abstain from parley lest what is agreed upon is not in the best interest of those under his command—and himself.”
He sought to shame the knave into acquiescence, but was it possible with such a man?
“Accursed Pendery,” Taillebois snarled and urged his horse forward.
As they advanced, Vilda tried to convince herself this would all come as right as possible.
No blood spilled other than Theta’s.
Hereward and his men departing England for a better place than this.
The earl and bishop detained the remainder of their lives.
Guy going his way.
Settling her eyes on he who rode to the middle ground cleared by Hereward’s men, imagining the convent walls ever between them, she whispered, “As I shall go mine.”
Chapter Thirty-One
He had thought he had seen the last of her and believed it was for the best, but garbed in his red tunic and green mantle, she came again, and the realization another parting lay ahead pained the heart Elan had once weighed in the palm of one hand while weighing in the other that of her infant son and the man who sired him. Despite Guy’s loss, that had been for the best as well, and yet this felt—
“Perhaps something can be done about that,” Maxen said as they neared Hereward whose hands rested on the pommel of his saddle where he sat sideways to keep the leaders of both enemy forces in sight.
Guy looked around, and though he saw it was from Vilda’s direction his friend swung his gaze, he said, “What can be done about what?”
Maxen did not answer, but they were nearly upon Hereward the same as Taillebois.
Still he knows me, Guy thought as he returned his regard to Vilda who yet looked upon him. And now he thinks to assuage guilt over his sister’s lies and the breaking of our betrothal.
Though pride tempted him to resent that, he could not. When Elan wed Harwolfson, it had been necessary for Guy to leave his friend’s service since Maxen’s lands adjoined those of the former rebel, but that had not changed how greatly each friend knew and esteemed the other.
“Middle ground,” Taillebois pronounced in Norman-French as he reined in more distant from Hereward than did Guy and Maxen. “What do you propose, Pendery?”
When Guy shifted his regard to Hereward, he saw the anger on the rebel leader’s face was more forbidding than at a distance. There was hollowness about the eyes whose whites starkly contrasted with color suffusing
his skin, nostrils flared as if every breath was drawn and expelled through them, and a muscle spasmed in his jaw.
The outlawed and exiled Hereward had not been in England in 1066, but Guy imagined this the face he would have presented had he fought at Hastings, risking life and limb to protect his people only to see his country snatched out from under them. Ely had been his Hastings, and now it belonged to William as well, that one Saxon-held piece of England returned to the whole.
“What are we to do here, Pendery?” Taillebois pressed. “And what think you our king will say of a parley when swords converse better than tongues?”
The same as Hereward, Maxen set his hands atop the pommel, the same as Hereward, spoke in Anglo-Saxon. “I am certain what King William says depends on how much he values you and your men, Taillebois, as well as the Saxon traitors whose lives he wished preserved. As I assume much he values them, for that Sir Guy and I returned. You would have preferred we did not, that you of far fewer number than the resistance face them alone?”
Taillebois gave no answer, but Hereward did. “I erred. I should have had my scouts follow you longer to ensure my prey remained vulnerable.” He looked to his cousin. “You are well, V?”
“I am.”
“To what place are you bound?”
“This day I am to be delivered to a convent of William’s choosing.”
His eyes narrowed. “William? Is that how you call him now—by his Christian name as if that murdering thief is family?”
Hurt swept her face. “I—”
He raised a silencing hand, looked to Maxen. “The same as Taillebois, I would like to know what we do here.”
“Though your numbers remain greater than our combined forces, you must know our warriors, trained up in arms since boyhood, will prevail. Heavy losses, aye, but the last flower of the resistance will perish.”
Hereward’s face darkened further, but he did not dispute that.
“Do you withdraw without battle, we will part ways, agreeing neither side will pursue the other for two sunrises, during which I urge you and yours to leave England.”
