by Tamara Leigh
“Fire,” Vilda breathed and saw Herba’s head come around. Seeing alarm in the woman’s eyes, she quickened her step and drew alongside. “What is it, Herba?”
“When the Normans use fire against those on Ely…” She trailed off, looked to that shore with its amassed fortifications manned by mostly unseen rebels. “Your cousin will do the same to those on this shore, will he not?”
Keeping her gaze on Sir Roul’s back, Vilda said, “’Tis his greatest weapon, allowing him to incapacitate many with risk to only a handful of our own.”
Herba nodded. “I pray he knows I am his side, for I could not bear death by fire.”
Vilda longed to assure her she would be safe atop the tower, but she did not believe it. The machines hurling death at Ely would be destroyed first if possible, and she had little confidence Hereward would differentiate between the three casting rocks and javelins and the one from which curses were cast.
“I pray it as well.” It was all Vilda could say.
The nearer they drew to the tower thirty feet distant from the outermost western one, the brisker the breeze coming off the water. It had been playing amid Vilda’s skirts, flapping the hem of her gown about her manacled ankles. Now it shifted the braids whose ends skimmed her waist.
It was good that was the direction the stirred air moved. Providing it continued to do so, more rapidly enemy fire here would spread to the camp behind, whereas fire sent across the river would struggle to take hold.
“Be of good care, Lady Alvilda,” Herba said as Sir Roul halted at the rear of the cursing tower and motioned the older woman to ascend steps that looked a twisted spine for how many turns and short landings were required to reach the top.
When she moved away, he commanded, “You as well, Lady Alvilda.”
She startled and no sooner questioned what purpose she was to serve atop the tower than she understood. Further the resistance would be discouraged, whether because they thought her a traitor or merely a prisoner.
Vilda looked to the causeway Fenlanders were joining in sections that would be dragged into the water to be lashed to other sections to span the river, allowing mounted warriors and foot soldiers to move the battle onto Ely. Striding among those pieces were warriors whose chain mail reflected sunlight, while a greater number drew up formations on the mounds. Farther to the right were the eastern towers where more warriors moved among deadly contraptions mounted atop them.
Faceless all, she thought, then realizing it was because none wore Guy’s countenance, she closed her eyes. Though distantly aware of searching for him, now being close to that awareness, it angered. And yet she swung her gaze past Herba to the tower on the other side of this one whose ballista would launch rocks at the isle’s defenders. More Normans were around its base and on its platform, and though she recognized a few from her time at Brampton and here in the camp, they were not the one she wanted to see.
“Up the tower!” Sir Roul barked.
They continued forward, one slowed by reluctance and age, the other by manacles. Herba led the ascent, and as Vilda followed, a foot became entangled in the chain. If not for a hand catching her up, her knees would have slammed onto the next step.
She told herself it could not be Guy, and yet the hopeful of her expected to see him when she looked around.
It was Sir Roul. “Regrettably, I have not the key to remove your bindings to make your ascent safer,” he said, “but if you are well with it, I shall follow close behind to ensure a fall does not break your neck.”
She stared. She was not well with it even if he presented no threat, but what choice had she with so many steps of varying height, some of which would strain the chain? “I accept,” she said grudgingly.
Thus, they climbed the tower, and though mindful of each step to ensure she did not require his aid, thrice he had to steady her and—blessedly—just as quickly released her.
When Vilda stepped onto a platform four times as deep and wide as she was tall, she saw Herba stood several feet back from a gap between railed ramparts and peered across the river.
As Vilda walked the creaking planks, she was alarmed the tower was of sufficient height to allow the enemy to see much of what went between Ely’s shoreline fortifications and the trees and foliage. At the moment, all was still in that space of sparse grass and moist ground, but it was not because the defenders were lax. Armed as much as possible with what Hereward had learned of the usurper’s strategy, they but waited for the enemy to set all in motion.
As for those hunkering behind wood and peat walls, only here and there was a head visible, making it appear the shoreline was poorly guarded. She was certain there were more there, all armed with blades, bows, and slings, just as she knew someone on that shore would soon recognize her alongside Herba.
“Witch!” Sir Roul said.
Though Vilda knew she dare not correct him for naming her fellow Saxon that, offense surely shone from her when she turned with the older woman toward the one she assumed had begun his descent.
“Norman?” Herba said, folding her hands at her waist in the attitude of one granting audience to a lesser.
Glowering, he said evenly, “Two blasts of the horn. When it sounds, you are to move near the edge between the ramparts to be seen well and begin cursing the heathens loudly enough you are heard across the water. Once the assault begins, you shall continue cursing and casting spells even if you can no longer be heard. Do you not, an archer in the tower opposite shall put you through.” He nodded to the left at the platform where half the warriors surrounding a ballista had bows and quivers fastened to their backs.
Herba snorted. “As my purse is heavy with coin, be assured I shall curse—and loudly even does it tear my throat.”
He shifted his regard to Vilda. “You are to stand alongside the witch and—”
“I will not curse my own, so best put me through now.”
Annoyance scratched lines in his face. “Such is not required of you. My king but wishes you seen.”
Then she was here not only as discouragement but to afford Herba a measure of protection should the resistance attempt to silence her tirade. Of course, the latter was dependent on rebels being unwilling to earn Hereward’s wrath for slaying his cousin alongside one believed a witch.
“I will make myself seen,” she said and turned her back to Sir Roul. Herba did the same and crossed to the rampart left of the gap, neither speaking until his footsteps faded.
Gripping the railing and sinking into her shoulders, the older woman said, “I think the Lord displeased I am so moved by fear that I shall do as bid in the hope of living just one more day in what feels a godforsaken England.”
“Not as bid,” Vilda said, drawing alongside. “Your words shall be carefully chosen, aye?”
She nodded. “They are firm in my head. Providing the Normans do not attend closely to them, wrongly they will be pleased by the work of this witch. And do the resistance give me enough benefit of doubt to attend closely to them, rightfully they will be pleased.” She sighed. “Providing…”
“We will survive this,” Vilda said.
“If God does not once more show Himself unwilling,” Herba rasped.
Unable to argue that, Vilda allowed the woman her silence and looked from the side of right to the side of wrong—searching again for the chevalier and all the while telling herself it was only to distract her from the horror that would soon be loosed from this shore.
Guy’s hand ached—of his own doing since a greater expression of rage than seeking to turn his sword hilt to molten iron would benefit none and could see command of his men given to one who would spend their lives cheaply.
“Guy?” Maxen said, having followed him from the command post after the audience with William was cut short by impatience that could see the disaster of that first assault repeated.
Breaking stride, Guy turned.
“Though never have I known well the much lauded William the Great and am glad of it,” Maxen sa
id, “now I know him not at all. Had he led at Hastings as he leads now, this country would yet be English.”
He would get no argument from Guy who, accompanied by two of his best men, had stolen onto Ely before dawn to spy on the defenders. Much had been learned by observation alone, of utmost concern the great number of rebels amassed on the southern side of the isle out of sight of Normans and that what Taillebois dismissed as largely rabble mostly looked and behaved warriors.
Still more had been learned from moving among them as Guy believed one of the resistance—possibly Hereward—had done here on the day past. Listening in on a conversation between Earl Morcar and Bishop Aethelwine, both having fled to the isle after falling out of favor with William, Guy had discovered though the bulk of the resistance’s defenses were this side of Ely, all other areas vulnerable to attack had been reinforced. Lest other Norman forces use the distraction of battle on the isle’s southern side to gain a foothold elsewhere, they would find themselves under attack. Further, over a dozen small towers had been erected around the perimeter to quickly communicate by way of signal fires. Hence, just as the Normans’ second assault was better planned, so was the resistance’s answer. No easy victory this day—if victory at all.
What Guy had revealed should have given William much pause. Instead, he had been as stone, though not toward Taillebois who told what his liege wished to hear—this day they would crush the resistance. That was vexing enough without further compromising the operation by launching it late in the afternoon in the belief fire loosed amid the darkening of day would strike greater fear in rebels decidedly proficient at doing the same to Normans. Therefore, what Guy and his men had gained in the time given them could prove of little use.
“Even had we only one more day, greatly we could increase our chance of ending this,” he said. “From the fall of night until dawn, I could get enough men on the isle—two and three at a time—to come at the rebels’ backs whilst they battle those crossing the river.” A growl erupted from him. “Accursed Taillebois—and De Warenne for straddling both sides of the fence!”
Maxen set a hand on his shoulder. “You have done all you can. Now we can only pray the path chosen by others will deliver us and our men alive and whole.”
Guy nodded. “I hope you are not disappointed I supported Taillebois’ bid that his men be the first to cross the new causeway.”
Maxen chuckled derisively. “I am confident those under my command could do what must be done, but I would not deny Ivo that glory if it is, indeed, glory. He is more desirous of it than I, as evidenced by the abuse dealt workers who do not move fast enough for him.”
Further reason to end the stand on Ely. For Hereward’s rebellion, the suffering innocents for whom he fought suffered more.
Guy looked around. The broad man-made hillock on which the command post was raised center and forward of the camp allowed an all-encompassing view of the forces gathering this side, the four towers, and the sections of causeway on the shore, several of which were now in the river. Beyond that expanse of water were the resistance’s shoreline fortifications.
From this side, little movement made it appear few men hunkered behind the barriers, but whilst on Ely, Guy had seen otherwise. Though their numbers were not as great as those concealed among the trees at their backs, they were of good strength, impressive arsenals, and sufficient provisions. They could not be better prepared for what was to come. And William refused to believe it.
As Guy returned his gaze to his friend, it passed over the towers to the left, and movement atop the one Taillebois’ witch was to mount swept his regard back to it.
Herba stood there, skirts fluttering in the breeze—too many skirts for one woman. Muscles gripping, he narrowed his gaze and confirmed another was on the other side of her, only her lower body visible from leaning forward to peer across the water.
“Almighty!” Guy rasped. “This is how he shall make use of her.”
“Oui,” Maxen concurred. “Ere you returned from the isle, William ordered that Lady Alvilda be visible to the enemy to further unsettle them and—”
“—keep flown fire from those towers,” Guy spoke over him. “But will it? If she is thought a traitor, being Hereward’s cousin might not save her. Indeed, he may himself order the tower fired upon and…”
Once more feeling ache in his hand as well as weighty silence, Guy did not have to look around to know what he revealed.
“I think you must find a way to save her,” Maxen said, then gripping his friend’s arm in passing, added, “Now, just as you need to make final preparations to command your men, so do I.”
As Guy watched him descend the hillock, he assured himself that though he felt for Vilda, it was not as much as his friend might believe. Beyond admiration for her strength and resolve and sympathy for the wrong done her, he did feel strong attraction and something of the heart, but only something. Regardless, the need to see her safely out of the Fens was great. Could he find a means to do so or would she be as lost to him as Elan—and in a more terrible way?
He set his teeth. If he could aid her, he would, but he must turn his efforts to scores of fellow Normans depending on his direction to save them from lives too soon sacrificed for the duke who became a king unworthy of a kingdom.
Chapter Twenty
Two blasts of the horn.
Averting her gaze from the lowering sun, those shrill notes chilled Vilda who, having passed three hours on the platform, had just allowed hope to push up through the soil of her. The heavily armed Normans arrayed this side would not be returning to their tents. Ahead lay a battle amid dusk that could become night.
However, she found good in this, and it was not inconsiderable. Better than spilled blood being less visible until morn when the horrors of war would be splayed like a hog quartered and salted to provide meat through the winter, the dark of the Fens belonged more to the rebels than the conquerors. Though it appeared Le Bâtard would prevail, he might not. And there could be more good here. From this vantage, not once had she caught sight of Guy. This day, another commanded the cavalry and foot soldiers who were to traverse the causeway.
Aching over Herba’s hesitation to begin her performance, knowing soon she would have no choice, Vilda looked heavenward. “Lord, please—”
A choking sound brought her so quickly around she stumbled back against the side rampart from which she had watched the joining of the last sections of causeway that now curved back toward this shore, men on covered boats keeping them out of reach of those on Ely until ordered to release them ahead of the cavalry.
Seeing Herba on her knees retching, Vilda hastened forward and flung up a hand. “Hold!” she entreated the archer on the nearby tower who was to put through the witch if she did not earn her coin.
Knowing his nocked arrow could be her own end, Vilda dropped down between him and the older woman. “You have prepared for this, have only to speak the words. Come!”
Wiping a hand across her mouth, Herba looked up. “Do you think God weeps for us, Alvilda?”
“Us and all,” she said, then surprised herself by adding, “including our enemy for being our enemy.”
“’Tis not supposed to be like this!”
Vilda squeezed her shoulder. “It is not. Praise the Lord it will be different when we go from here to our great reward.”
The horn sounded again. Feeling its impatience and a burn center of her back where an arrow was sighted, she entreated, “You can do this, Herba.”
The woman rose, pulled free pins that held her braid to her crown, and raked fingers through the tresses. Then stepping before the gap between the ramparts, she said, “Distance yourself, Lady.”
“But—”
“Do it!”
Vilda stepped to the side, but when commanded to put more distance between them, shook her head.
Herba closed her eyes momentarily, then breathed deep and shouted across the eerie silence, “Hear all! This the day of days! This the day of endin
gs! This the day of beginnings! This the day of judgment against barbarians!” She thrust her arms high. “Hear all!”
Vilda shuddered over what the woman made of herself. With the breeze causing her crimped hair to dance around her head, she looked a witch, and surely more so at a distance.
“Curse you, warriors unworthy of the glory of England! Curse you, warriors of unrest that steals bread from the mouths of babes!”
She is too believable, Vilda silently bemoaned, and surely she need not be for the Normans.
“Curse you here, curse you now, curse you evermore!” She dropped her head back. “Fire rise and engulf! Hail finish all who escape flame! Rot where you fall, unmourned by your families, your line extinguished!”
She lowered her chin as if to look upon Ely, but her eyes slid to the forces this side. “Be gone!” she cried so loudly her voice cracked, then she dropped her head forward as if she had only enough strength to keep her legs beneath her.
Vilda peered over her shoulder at the command post whence the horn was blown and caught her breath when four blasts sounded one after the other.
The order for battle to commence given, chain mail glittered and rang in sinking sunlight as Norman cavalry moved onto the causeway.
“Lady!”
Vilda looked left.
Arrow straining the string of his bow, the archer gestured at Herba. “She is to curse without ceasing!”
As I ought to pray without ceasing, she thought and stepped to Herba. “Continue, else he will fly the arrow.”
Slowly, she lifted her head. “I do not feign this. I am near empty.”
Vilda touched her arm. “Now all grows loud, you have only to mouth words and act the part.”
“For how long?”
“I know not.”
Herba whimpered but raised her arms. When she began moving her lips, Vilda looked to the archer. As the men beyond him prepared to launch rocks hoisted onto the platform in crates, he lowered his aim. The threat was no less since the arrow could be trained on Herba in the blink of an eye, but there was some relief in that.