by Tamara Leigh
“Have you forgotten I am the reason you were tossed in?” Vilda asked.
The woman tipped back her head. Her lovely face a picture of pleading, she said, “I did, but I know it was not with malice you voiced fear of me. You did it for the good of our people who must be protected, even if in proving I do not betray my own, it cost me my life.”
Vilda’s discomfort surged, not only for the audience of what might be a performance but serious consideration the woman’s contrition was genuine. After all, whatever had been done Theta by the Normans could have changed her, reasoned what remained of the soft of Vilda. She herself was much altered by the invasion and the terror that followed months later when she and others sought to salvage their battered lives. Perhaps Theta had been so ill-used by the enemy she believed her only power and means of survival was to turn the spoils of her body to her advantage.
Of a sudden, her face crumpled. “I forgive you, Lady!” She dropped her chin and began sobbing.
Vilda reached. The moment she set a hand atop Theta’s head, a bark of laughter shot across the water, and she swept her gaze to those she had scorned whose drawn bows were lowered. Did one now scorn her for being foolish? The possibility made her snatch her hand from Theta’s head, and she was grateful when Martin pulled the woman off her.
As he urged Theta past, Hereward turned Vilda toward him. “Don this.”
Her gown. A glance down causing heat to suffuse her face over what was revealed beneath threadbare material that clung more like the threads of a spider than those of a sheep, she snatched the gown and yielded to his aid in getting it over her head.
Leaving its laces loose as done since the holes through which they were threaded began pulling through months past, she took the belt he proffered.
As she fastened it, he said low, “You told you would not disobey me again.”
She thrust the belt’s tail down through a loop made of excess leather that evidenced the sword belt had once belonged to a Saxon of considerable girth. “I said I would try. And I did, but…”
“I wished to be certain it was no act, V. I would not have let her drown.”
Remembering the men tossed overboard that night and that one had to be revived, she said, “This I know, but I feared you would test her too far, that by the time you realized she could not swim it would be too late. And I would be responsible.”
Knowing most of Vilda’s tale, Hereward understood how difficult it would be to bear the burden of another’s death, but still his face reflected displeasure.
“I am sorry,” she said.
He nodded, peered past her.
She looked around. The Normans had started back toward their blockade, their king’s boat running slightly ahead of the others.
“He has seen what he came to see,” her cousin said. “Now we move from resistance and petty raids to war.”
She closed her eyes. Imaginings of the blood to be spilled more vivid behind her lids, she opened them and said, “Who do you think laughed at me? Le Bâtard?”
As if he also needed to shake off imaginings, it was some moments before he responded. “I do not believe so. Nor do I think it Torquay since he also risked much to save one of his own—and must be grateful you did not trumpet that to his king who likely remains unaware of how close his man was to a contest that could have allowed him to turn his army elsewhere.”
“More likely, it would have lost him the commander of his elite force,” Vilda said pridefully.
“I would like to believe that, but no easy victory would Torquay have handed me. He is skilled and fights with just enough reckless ferocity I have thought either great his lust for reward or he is one of the enemy most dangerous to us.”
Before he could define that, she did so. “A man with little or naught to lose.”
“Men with whom we are well acquainted—and women,” he acknowledged the majority of the resistance, whether they were of the past or the present. As for those of the future, should Ely be lost, they might have less than naught to lose.
When her cousin turned on his heel, Vilda followed him. Once astride, she looked to Martin. His arms were on either side of Theta who curled against him on his saddle.
Are you really asleep? she wondered. Was what I caused you to suffer truly an ordeal?
Vilda looked heavenward, and as she brought up the rear to return to town, beseeched, “Lord, for the sake of my people, let me truly be in need of that woman’s forgiveness. And let forgiveness granted me be genuine.”
The Fenlands
Idle talk. In the presence of others, they had indulged in little more than that, but now that De Warenne had introduced Maxen to the men he would command and withdrawn, there was more to be said between the friends no matter how much Guy longed to avoid talk sure to turn toward Maxen’s sister.
“How fares Lady Rhiannyn?” he asked as they stood outside the tent of the commander who had removed his belongings to return to his family beyond the narrow sea.
“My lady wife is well and mostly happy,” Maxen said, moving his gaze over the camp with its rows of tents among which moved warriors Guy knew would be less active were they not seeking to impress and take measure of the man now in command of them.
“Mostly?” Guy asked, though so certain was he of his friend’s love for his Saxon bride and hers for him, he knew outside forces were responsible for her sorrow.
“As you can imagine, great the strain that still England cannot catch its breath long enough to heal in earnest,” Maxen said. “Blessedly, she holds to her faith, ever washing off the dirt of trampled hope. And that is good, for it gives her some peace.”
“I am glad. How is your daughter?”
Maxen turned his face to Guy and smiled. “A beautiful distraction for my lovely wife. And now we have another.”
Guy smiled. “Is it a brother or sister you have given little Leofe?”
Likely Maxen sought to subdue pride, but it shone through. “A brother now five months aged. He is named Bruin.”
“Not a Norman name, and more fearsome for that.” Both chuckled, then Guy asked, “How is Christophe?”
“Ah, my little brother.” Such fondness in those words—fondness that had been elusive when first Guy persuaded Maxen to leave the Church where he had retreated after Hastings transformed him into The Bloodlust Warrior. “His passion for the healing arts grows, and so greatly is he sought for all manner of malady that his lame body is surely of more benefit to mankind than had it the form of a warrior.”
“A blessing,” Guy said.
“And there is more to tell.” Maxen grinned. “If he is not yet in love, he moves that direction. Last year, Rhiannyn took in a young woman fleeing the North and gave her work as a chamber maid. Though she has much cause to hate Normans and can be unpleasant at what she perceives the slightest threat, Rhiannyn’s patience and Christophe’s kindness have smoothed many of her barbs—so much that had I not sought my little brother in his herbary ere departing Etcheverry, a kiss might have happened. Whether the first or one of several, I know not.”
“Then if he wishes to wed the lass, you will approve.”
Though it was more statement than question, Maxen said, “As you know, my sire will not agree, but who am I to deny a good Norman a Saxon bride? If Christophe asks her to be his wife and she wishes it as well, I will ensure they speak vows ere our father ruins his chance at happiness.”
Silence descended, and both men turned their attention to the camp. It was then Guy felt Elan slipping tent to tent—nearer and nearer—as if to steal upon them.
Thus, it came as no surprise when Maxen said, “I do not expect you to ask after my sister. Is it still too raw to speak of her?”
Though tempted to laugh, Guy knew the best that might be said of such mirth was it did not sound as bitter as once it had. Time might not heal, but it was a salve worthy of the mortar and pestle of Christophe. “I thought we must speak of her and was thinking how best to do so.”
Once
more, Maxen moved his regard to his friend. “I will tell only what you wish to know.”
Guy breathed deep. “Is she well?”
“She is.”
“Does Harwolfson treat her fair without the need to threaten him with bodily harm?”
Maxen grunted. “He is more fair than possibly she deserves.”
“Then she is not miserable?”
This time Maxen’s answer was hesitation.
Guy smiled tautly. “Though she chose her son over me, my love was real even though I know it waded in the shallows. Be assured, I do not wish Elan ill.”
“This I know. She is not miserable, Guy.”
That seemed the place to end the conversation, but Guy pressed, “She knows some happiness?”
“She does.”
“That happiness?”
“Husband and wife are comfortable with each other, striving to make a good marriage of one forced on themselves.”
Guy was relieved. “Then there will be more children.”
More hesitation.
“She has borne him another child,” Guy said.
“Oui, a second son who shall soon attain one year of age.”
“I am glad. I wish her to be happy, even if it is another man who makes her so.” He shifted his jaw. “How well does her Saxon husband endure the continued unrest?”
“He struggles to remain planted at Blackspur Castle, and his hatred for William has not abated—indeed, greater that since the harrying of the North. If not for love of his children and his people working his lands, perhaps even love for Elan, he might have been on that dock this day.”
“And have far less to show for it,” Guy said and silently added, Whereas I would have more—Elan, her child I would have made my own, and the children we would have had together. And Blackspur Castle.
Surely sensing enough had been said of the past that could not be undone, Maxen said, “Now that is behind us, enlighten me about the woman I am fairly certain you met before this day who calls to mind the Saxon warrior, Lady Hawisa Wulfrith.”
“We have met before,” Guy said, “but though it seems she has cast off most of the lady, I do not believe she presents the threat of Lady Hawisa.” He thought of the dagger thrown at him which he did not believe would have landed significantly better had she firm ground beneath her and daylight to better sight her target, next of her rescue of a woman who needed no rescuing, lastly of what had roused Taillebois to laughter and for which William rebuked him once they were distant—Theta’s performance that Hereward’s cousin appeared to accept as reality.
“I would like to hear of your first meeting and what she named you then,” Maxen said.
“The same she named me this day—a Norman pig, though she added I was unworthy of Saxon slop.”
“Until our people redeem themselves—else prove otherwise—many of us are pigs,” said the Bloodlust Warrior who would never again serve William as he had at Hastings, then he tossed back the flap of the tent that would be his home until Ely was taken. “Come, my friend. I would have you acquaint me with what you know of these Fens and all that has gone here so sooner we can be done with this business with the least amount of bloodshed.”
Chapter Six
The Fenlands
Autumn, 1071
Success!” William had pridefully declared a quarter hour earlier, having yet to accept that with all things Hereward, one should be slow in proclaiming victory, and for the moment this one was of no great size. Even if the handful of men whose signal told they had made it onto the isle were successful, the diversion with which they were tasked would prove of little value if the great endeavor failed to breach the isle’s defenses.
Those first months here, such half-birthed pride conceived by arrogance had led to the deaths of numerous Normans. As Guy had learned and De Warenne and Taillebois resisted accepting, if a conflict could go wrong by way of little-anticipated events, more often than not it did.
The same as Vitalis, the leader of the Rebels of the Pale who finally accepted continued resistance would only lead to more Saxon deaths, Hereward was rarely predictable. However, the latter had a powerful ally which Vitalis had lacked, and that was unpredictable marshland. For the Norman forces, time and again that partnership proved a deadly one, the terrain dangerously unstable for armor-weighted foot soldiers and more so cavalry. Thus, unless God determined to aid the conquerors this day as many believed He had done at the Battle of Hastings, the resistance would lose fewer men than the enemy.
Shortly, the immense warrior who had ducked low to emerge from the king’s tent halted before Guy. “Neither would he heed me,” Maxen said. “As De Warenne and Taillebois are in agreement with William’s own counsel, he will proceed.”
Though Guy had hoped his friend could dissuade their liege from acting this day, it did not surprise he had also failed, and it angered for the Norman lives that might be lost. “He moves too soon,” he growled.
“This I told him and earned more scorn than you for what he expects of the warrior I will no longer be for him even if it costs my life.”
And the lives of his men, Guy thought, those under Maxen’s command—and now worthier for his leadership—having been chosen to lead an assault which the friends had deemed precarious when first the undertaking was proposed. It was not that it was impossible to execute, but for rapidity’s sake, too little was left to the unpredictable.
Given more time and oversight, what William sought to achieve stood a good chance of delivering the isle into his hands with the least amount of death and destruction, but he wanted Hereward’s submission, and he wanted it now.
Not only did he weary of English resistance he had been certain of vanquishing in less than a year rather than five, but great the need to turn his efforts to other matters, among them threats to Normandy from neighbors who sought to take advantage of a ruler often absent from his lands. But such was the price paid by those in power whose appetites to attain more were not content with brimming bellies. Were William not more attentive, his family’s long-held duchy could be the price of his kingship.
“There is more,” Maxen returned him to the present, “and I do not like it any better than you shall. I know Taillebois and you have little care for each other, but I believe your opposition to his defense of the undertaking led him to a suggestion I find unacceptable.”
Openly, Guy had challenged the man who, less often inebriated since their liege’s arrival, was sighted three nights past stumbling about the shore with two wineskins, one empty, the other fast emptying. He who reported this to Guy was the squire seeking redemption for the prideful error made the night he did not heed his lord in breaking off his pursuit of Hereward. Though Ivo’s behavior was not definite proof Theta had come to him, the following day, plans to besiege Ely were accelerated with tidings of the harvest that would distract the islanders who could be further distracted in seeking to protect their crops.
Inwardly bracing for a day that portended worse, Guy said, “I listen.”
“He says since you know the isle better than most, having several times stolen onto it for mapping, you should lead my men across the causeway.”
The accursed causeway, both sides of which were likely to tip many an armored warrior into water and mud resistant to loosing its spoils.
“When I protested,” Maxen continued, “William heeded me only insofar as he agreed to speak with you on the matter.”
A matter that could easily become a suicide mission, leaving the loved ones of its victims wanting—in Maxen’s case, making Rhiannyn a widow, their children fatherless, and Christophe brotherless. Whereas Guy…
“He awaits you.” Maxen nodded toward the tent.
“Be assured,” Guy said, “I shall do my best to make him see sense.”
My sense, he silently clarified when a squire tossed back the flap for him to enter. My sense of honor, my friend, not yours.
Isle of Ely
What Taillebois and De Warenne had failed
to do, Le Bâtard had not.
Within a fortnight of his army’s arrival in the Fens, the relative freedom of traveling to and from the isle with little recourse was greatly checked and terrible the fate of many rebels who continued to steal past the reinforced blockade, especially those of forays not led by Hereward. And worse was to come if the conqueror breached Ely’s defenses as he aspired to do and as evidenced by great activity across the surrounding fens, its locals forced to build engines of war the usurper would loose upon the resistance.
Though most frightened of all were Ely’s life-long inhabitants and holy men of the abbey who had wished the resistance’s protection in the hope of maintaining their way of life unlike other English settlements fallen to the conquerors, they were not alone.
Despite assurances the defenders of Ely would prevail, increasing numbers of those who fled other areas of England to take refuge here were voicing fears more greatly felt with each passing day when anticipation of an attack that did not come poured itself into another day, and this included some trained into warriors who had vowed to fight unto death.
The mostly patient Hereward calmed and rallied them, but it was obvious the constant need to offer reassurance burdened him. And though he did not voice his own concern over the conqueror’s plans that could only be pieced together with the glue of scarce and mostly unreliable information, she knew it scraped him raw.
A man of much action, he needed his raids and triumphs. He needed his enemies to suffer frustration and fear. He needed Ely to remain an unassailable fortress. He needed more men strong of conviction and learned in the ways of the warrior to aid in shouldering his burden—men like the leader of the Rebels of the Pale who had come to Ely to train Hereward’s men and was too soon gone.