by Tamara Leigh
He faced her again. “I know it will never be enough, but though still I am set against the resistance, I confess I went too far that day.”
I will not cry, she told herself. All here are undeserving of Saxon tears. But one fell and another.
“We shall end the resistance upon Ely,” Sir Roul continued, “but be assured never again will I nor men under my command work such depravity.”
Cease! she silently commanded, knowing if she did not gain control of her emotions, her face would become a wet mess.
Receiving no response from her, the chevalier swept up his tunic and belt and turned to his king. “With your permission, I shall take my leave.”
“Granted, Sir Roul.”
He bowed and, straightening, turned his head slightly left. Had she not looked that direction and witnessed Guy’s barely perceptible nod, it would not have occurred the principled Norman had induced the unprincipled one to tell the truth. She was nearly discouraged, having found in that confession another prick of hope amid the dark, but still it was there, Sir Roul’s striped flesh evidence of genuine remorse.
She watched him cross the hall, and when the porter closed the door, Taillebois strode forward. “Pray, grant me your leave, my king.”
Le Bâtard smiled. “Given, providing you leave be Sir Roul with whom I may be impressed once further I reflect on this.”
Vilda could not like that chevalier, even were he to repent every day of his life, even if he became a monk and led many to salvation, but she was glad he would not be punished for his honesty. It was not forgiveness she granted—not yet and possibly never—but she could aspire to it.
Taillebois cleared his throat. “My liege—”
“Indeed, if I am as impressed as methinks I shall be,” Le Bâtard spoke over him, “I may even award Sir Roul command of a sizable force.”
He who had first been sent to the Fens to quell the resistance and failed even when more forces arrived and aid was given by De Warenne, bowed curtly and departed.
“Hence, the matter resolved, albeit in an unexpected way,” the usurper said. “I trust you are satisfied, Alvilda.”
Thinking too much he trusted her, she said, “Possibly as satisfied as your wife would be.”
Arching an eyebrow, he sat back and draped his hands over the chair arms. “You believe yourself clever to remind me I likened you to my wife and cast her in your circumstances—and you are—but beware, it wears thin.”
As she inclined her head, she realized emotions that had tossed around her insides had begun to settle and was about to request her own leave when he turned to De Warenne. “Since you are eager to return to the Fens to oversee my plans for Hereward and his rebels, our game of chess shall save for another day.”
The man rose, bowed, and went the way of the others.
Certain soon she would be dismissed and trying not to think on Guy’s departure, Vilda waited. And nearly jumped when her greatest enemy motioned her to the vacated chair.
At her hesitation, he said, “You fascinate, Alvilda, and since boredom looms large, sit.”
Loath to offer further entertainment, she remained unmoving.
“This one skirmish you have won, Lady,” he titled her as previously refused when she denied him his misbegotten title. “Sit awhile and relish your victory.”
Generous because he thinks it the only victory this Saxon shall enjoy, she thought. Because he believes the battles yet to come shall be utterly lost, and I will be on my knees begging for my fellow rebels.
Fatigued over revisiting the worst of her memories, Vilda ached to press her face into the mattress and let it absorb her grief, but she stepped forward. However, upon catching sight of the chess piece Le Bâtard had knocked off the board that lay near Guy, she veered toward the hearth, bent, and swept it up. Straightening, she looked full into the chevalier’s face. “I know what you did for me,” she whispered. “I am indebted.”
More cautious than she, his face remained expressionless, but not his eyes. However, beyond acknowledgement of her gratitude, what seemed pity was there. Determined not to show offense, she crossed to the chair, lowered, and set the piece on its square.
“You wish a game with your king, Lady?”
She flew her gaze to he who was not her anything beyond the enemy. Despite previously entertaining what he proposed, she wanted no such thing. And yet if she must suffer his company, surely easier done over a game whose moves required much thought that left little room for conversation—and memories.
She shrugged. “Given the only other thing with which I might occupy myself is lying abed watching day’s light crawl across the ceiling, I think it agreeable.”
“Another insult beyond the mantle of civility.” He clicked his tongue. “Loath as I am to admit this since you are sure to make use of it, my wife is also fond of imbuing words with more meaning than their outer layers.” He held up a finger. “But here the challenge, Lady—no insult does she deal me.”
She propped her arms on the table. “Quite the challenge, and greater for me since surely she has the advantage of being schooled in according respect to her husband, regardless of whether he is precious to her. Thus, lest further I disappoint, best I not accept that challenge.”
His laughter showed many teeth, then he said, “Place your pieces.”
Chapter Fifteen
Before this day, Guy would not have thought it possible, but it felt he did not know himself. Or was it a sennight now since familiarity with his thoughts and emotions was compromised? Might it have begun the night he pulled Alvilda from the water?
When she had regained consciousness and they spoke before and after William came to the tent, he had felt something unexpected. Surely not attraction. It could not have been. Of course, neither could it be that now, and yet what else to call this?
He wanted to name that which made him exceedingly aware of the beat of his heart as merely admiration for her strength, what jolted it fear for her well-being, and what softened it sympathy for her plight. Certainly, he had cause, her greatest resemblance to Elan being she was also a woman and the only other likeness that both were imperiled, albeit in different ways and for very different reasons.
Maxen’s sister had needed Guy to save her from her indulgent self and, as much as possible, the scandal which her spoiled willfulness brought down upon her. Guy had needed her because she was beautiful and spirited and made him feel valued and desired for the protection afforded her and the wisdom and patience to turn tears of sorrow and rage into smiles, kind words, and kisses.
This lady, now further proving her greatest intelligence was not that of bending others to her will, needed him as well, though likely she would survive in his absence. After all, as Sir Roul had verified, great her losses and suffering. Though Theta had revealed to Ivo that Hereward’s cousin was called the virgin widow because her husband refused to touch her, that was painfully false.
When Guy had pulled her into the boat and she whispered she would die first, it had to be for fear of being molested as her servants had been. And until she had thrown that dagger at him, likely she had kept so unworthy a weapon to remind her of the price of hesitation in the face of the enemy.
Despite all she had endured—or perhaps because of it—she fascinated as William had noted, though Guy was certain the king had not expected her to do so in this manner.
Keenly, she attended to the game, rousing William’s frustration by making him wait long on moves as if, unlike De Warenne who was rebuked for not thinking far enough ahead, she was determined to give her opponent no cause to say the same of her.
Regardless, she played well—certainly better than Guy who enjoyed the game though not enough to aspire to mastery. And increasingly, it looked as if her intent was not merely to frustrate but prove her skill was greater, even if to her detriment.
Fascinating indeed, and courageous, Alvilda forging ahead though she had more to lose than ever Elan might have sacrificed. It should not appeal,
but it did.
“What fool move is this?” William demanded as he considered the addition of her queen to other powerful pieces moved center of the board. “Doubtless you have heard control of the center is of greatest advantage, but this is not the way it is done.” He looked up. “Though this game becomes so tedious I am loath to prolong it, I shall permit you to rethink that move.”
She eased back from the table. “Much thought having been given it, my queen is where she needs to be.”
He surveyed the board again, lingering over some pieces and quickly dismissing others. “Your strategy resembles that of the resistance, gathering your greatest pieces center as if that were the Isle of Ely.”
She mewled thoughtfully, nodded. “It does resemble the stand taken in the Fens.”
William tapped her king who remained at the border, his greatest protection provided by pawns. “This looks the usurper who stole the crown I reclaimed at Hastings.” He tapped her queen. “This Hereward who thinks to return to the throne one who cannot be returned and for that conceit shall suffer the full weight of my wrath.” He circled his finger to indicate the other pieces in the area equated with the isle. “As will all those who follow him.”
She rocked her head side to side as if consideration could become agreement, then tapped his king. “This is you, oui?”
“You know it.”
She drew back. “Your defenses are great, which will lead to more sacrifices my side, but I believe if I stay the course and patiently plot my moves, my queen and her followers will break through your ranks.”
“It is possible, and that I will lose some pieces, but in the end—which will be very soon do you not rethink that move—I shall capture your queen, clear what remains of her forces, and put your corpse of a king back in the ground.”
As Alvilda’s face was barely in profile where Guy stood behind and to the side, her expression was denied him, but he saw her spine stiffen. Strain in her voice, she said, “Indulge me in this, and my word I give that if this Saxon victory is smote by a Norman fist, I will be graceful in defeat.”
William’s mouth curved. “I will bargain with you, but it will cost you more than grace in defeat to prolong this game.” He raised his eyebrows. “When I checkmate your king, you will title me as once you titled him. Agreed?”
Her hesitation was so slight, it should have made William examine the board again. He did not, and a quarter hour later, more of his pieces were taken and his king in check. Two moves after that, it was checkmate.
What followed could have boded ill for her were she not as graceful in victory as she had said she would be in defeat. “That is checkmate,” she said without superiority or mockery.
William was angered, but as if more with himself than her, he did not rage. “Even the impotent happen upon good fortune from time to time,” he said.
“That is so.” She scooted her chair back and might have been allowed to return abovestairs had she not added, “Blessedly, when it is God’s timing, it is possible for the impotent to be raised up out of impotence.”
“I did not grant you leave,” William snapped, then slowly moved his gaze over the board as if reliving every move. Finally, he looked up. “If your victory was not good fortune, it was more than one game you played with me.”
“You believe I misled you about my knowledge of chess?”
“Did you not?”
She gave a small laugh. “It is true I did not boast of my skill, but neither did I tell it was lacking. And though I knew better it might benefit me to allow my captor to win, it occurred if your wife did the same, thinner yet I would wear what you perceive attempts to liken myself to her. Thus, I remained true to one good thing come of these miserable years. Having no husband to cleave unto nor household to manage, and limited in aiding the resistance and refugees fleeing Norman vengeance, I became proficient at the game my grandsire taught me.”
“And now think yourself exceedingly proficient, eh?” He snorted. “I suppose I am to fault for that. Wishing only a distraction and certain this would be that, I succumbed to De Warenne’s sloth, but that I shall rectify.” He waved a hand. “Place your pieces.”
She gasped. “You wish another game?”
“As is my right.”
Her sway was so slight only one closely watching would have seen it, and that Guy did. Though he had been certain she wished to retreat abovestairs after revealing her tale of Sir Roul, she had persevered and now further she must.
Guy having twice noted the entrance and hasty exit of servants this past half hour, he strode to the table. Though his presence was obvious, the lady kept her head down and began reassembling her pieces. “My liege,” he said, “with the nooning hour approaching, the servants would like to prepare the hall for the meal.”
Intent on his own pieces, neither did William look up. “I am without appetite,” he muttered.
And so the meal was delayed—not an hour, and nearly two.
Ache knocked against the inside of Vilda’s skull, causing her to feign greater interest in the game as an excuse for keeping her chin down. Winces and grimaces were also hidden behind the cup raised to her lips as she took sips of wine to maintain her cover.
The first game had been nearly effortless compared to this one that several times tempted her to imitate De Warenne so she could sooner escape Le Bâtard, but she could not do that—even if pride and anger made her bleed.
Though never did she look to Guy who had retreated a single step when his liege’s hunger for victory caused the hunger for food to remain unsatisfied, the chevalier’s presence comforted. Except for him and the usurper’s personal guard, all others had withdrawn to the table upon the dais where drink was poured down their gullets absent viands to soak up the excess.
But soon the wait for sustenance would be over—if her opponent overlooked this trap as he had not the others, her target the bishop whose removal from the board would open the way to his king.
It did, and he knew it after committing to that move, as evidenced by a curse that sprinkled the board with saliva.
Wanting only an end to this game and rest, even were it in a dank cell, Vilda made her next move. As if accepting there was naught to be done, he did not linger over his own move and, shortly, she said, “Checkmate.”
He eyed her, and she knew he searched for smug triumph, but even had she been reckless enough to provide an excuse for retaliation, she was too tired.
Her enemy dropped back in his chair. “Well done, Lady. Would that this day I proved as proficient at the game of war conducted on a little board, as ever I do when it is warriors of flesh, blood, and steel I move over the great board of my England.” He smiled. “When I have less to occupy my mind, we shall have another match.”
That prospect only added to her misery.
“As you look as if it is a cold cell in which you shall gain your rest rather than a warm, comfortable chamber, your leave is granted and permission given to take your meal abovestairs.” He looked around. “Where is that squire?”
Likely in the kitchen with others whose bellies would not be quieted, Vilda thought as she gripped the chair arms and pushed upright.
“Ere I depart Brampton, allow me to escort the lady abovestairs,” Guy said.
She heard the last of what he spoke, and when her weary mind delivered what came before, suppressed the impulse to send her gaze to his. Of course he was leaving again.
“As you will, Chevalier.” Le Bâtard stood and strode toward the dais.
Guy cupped her elbow. “Come, Lady.”
Wishing his support was greater, she allowed him to set the pace though she longed to run as previously muted voices ceased holding their collective breath and the accents of Normans fell upon the hall as if from a great height.
Determinedly, she kept her head up, even after they reached the stairs and ascended out of sight. But once the upper landing was ahead, her dignity folded when anticipation of a last step up proved imaginary and she lurch
ed forward.
Without hesitation, the chevalier released her elbow and hooked an arm around her waist.
“Forgive me!” she gasped and found his face very near hers. She needed no confirmation he was darkly attractive, but as she looked near upon his strongly defined face, she noted what she had not before—his mouth encircled by short mustache and beard was almost as perfectly formed as one would expect of a lovely woman. Though his lips were lightly chapped, the upper was peaked with arches and only slightly thinner than the lower whose fullness made her stomach toss in a way different from when she suffered the company of Le Bâtard.
“Are you ill?”
She shook her head, and as if to punish her for the lie, pain stabbed behind her eyes. “I am tired, is all. My mind having been much occupied with my defense, I slept little last eve. And then to have my audience with him last so long…”
“You performed well.”
Wishing distance between them but unable to bring herself to pull away, she said, “Performed. Oui, that is what I did.”
That intriguing mouth curved. “It was almost entertaining watching you better him once, and then twice.” Before she could question that, he asked, “Are you steady?”
Realizing neither did he wish her so near, she nodded, and he released her and stepped back.
As she smoothed the tunic gifted her, she acknowledged she was not steady. Thus, when he turned to resume his escort to the chamber at corridor’s end, she attempted to delay him by asking, “Almost entertaining, Sir Guy?”
He came around. “Do not tell me you are unaware of the danger of stealing upon a lion and tugging its tail—and somehow surviving that, yanking it hard?”
She smiled. “I knew it could see me tossed in a cell—and that might yet prove my fate—but as told your king, I have only myself to consider at this time, and I could not bear to give him a single victory over me.”
“Single, Lady? You are his captive.”
“True, but that victory, can it be called that, belongs to the one who pulled me from the water.”