by Tamara Leigh
The moment she turned a hand around Herba’s arm, the woman pushed upright. “We are saved?” she asked. At Vilda’s hesitation, her eyes widened. “The steps?”
Vilda coughed into the crook of an arm, shook her head. “They are alight.”
Whimpering, Herba raised a quaking hand and pressed it beneath the arrow in her shoulder. “I cannot die by fire. ’Tis said to be the worst death of all.”
Vilda did not want to think on it. “It is possible when the tower comes down, it will fall toward the water and—”
“With the rear afire, you know it will not, Alvilda.” Herba nodded shoreward. “Though you in your few years could survive a jump with only a broken limb, not I. Do I not—” She coughed to clear her lungs of smoke. When she spoke again, it was across a wheeze. “Do I not break my neck, too many of my bones will snap to allow me to flee. Still, a better death that than burning alive.”
Vilda peered at the ground that would likely break one or more of her bones. But even if one was her neck, a better death, indeed. She met the woman’s moist gaze. “Aye, that it is.”
Herba smiled sorrowfully, then stepped into the gap and very near the edge.
Vilda tried to snatch hold of her, and when the woman slipped free by turning her back to that opening, cried, “Nay!” and jumped in front of her.
Making no attempt to evade the hand on her arm, Herba said, “You must trust me in this.” Then she hooked her unaffected arm around the younger woman.
“Herba!” Vilda exclaimed, and as she was drawn into a peculiar embrace that caused the chain between her ankles to clatter, strained to free herself.
“We will not die by fire,” rasped the woman of surprising strength. “God willing, neither will you suffer broken bones.”
All was understood a moment before Herba stepped back with Vilda clasped close, and confirmed when the next step tipped both women over the edge.
As they fell through smoke-infested air, Vilda screamed—until the impact of their landing knocked the breath from her and dimming consciousness threatened to drag her down the dark roads of her mind.
Remain here! she silently commanded as she convulsed atop Herba in her struggle to open her throat. She needs you and you both must get as far from here as possible!
Sucking in breath, she threw herself to the side and, feeling and hearing her bindings, landed on her back in trodden earth. With her second breath, she made it to her knees. Her third breath saw her bent over Herba whose eyes were open, firelight dancing amid moisture.
“You are whole?” the woman croaked.
Suppressing a sob, Vilda nodded, slid an arm beneath Herba’s shoulders, and tried to raise her to sitting.
“Nay, my deathbed is here.” She coughed, and Vilda knew what flecked her was blood. Shifting her gaze to the sky, she murmured, “Such a pretty view, Lady.”
Imagined, Vilda thought. The smoke here dusting the ebony and blotting out the stars, only the moon pressed through gathering clouds. “We must get you on your feet, Herba.”
She raised a hand to the younger woman’s jaw. “We have victory this night, but ’twill soon be done here, just as done…north and south, east and west.” Another cough. “Get as far from Ely as possible, Lady. Only then might you find some joy in…whatever is left to you.”
“I will not leave you.”
Her brow furrowed. “Then you are doomed, perhaps so terribly you shall think death by fire not so great an evil.” Dropping her hand to her side, she shifted her gaze to the sky. “Now sit vigil with this body whose soul pries free or…save yourself.” Her lids lowered, and she breathed no more.
Vilda thought she would scream again. And perhaps she would have had not movement out of the corner of her eye revealed she was not alone on this smoke-ridden, body-strewn shore. A warrior whose chain mail reflected fire came toward her.
She nearly called Guy’s name, but the hope of him was only that, she saw as the staggering Norman drew near. Here was one of dishonor who should have fled or died, an enemy who would deliver her back into the hands of Le Bâtard.
Thinking to flee westward where more easily she could swim the river—and safely since those on the opposite shore might fire on her regardless of whether they recognized her—Vilda said, “God lift you up, valiant and faithful Saxon.” Then she drew her arm from beneath Herba who had sacrificed all possibility of leaving here alive, sprang upright, and swung to the right. With a clatter of chain.
How she had forgotten the restriction on the reach of her legs, she did not know. What she knew was even had she a greater lead, it was futile to run. All she could do was fight—futile as well, but she would not go quietly.
Tears on her face, shoulders moved by silent sobs, she turned to her assailant. Seeing he had slowed as if confident his quarry was snared, she braced her legs as far apart as possible, drew back an arm, and made a fist.
Sir Roul halted. “If you wish to get back to your own, we have no time for this, Lady. I come to give aid, this I vow.”
She stared into a face she had thought cruel when first she looked upon it years past. Now it appeared earnest amid pain, and when he lurched as if to keep his balance, she lowered her gaze and more believed him when she saw the reason for his stagger.
His left side bled profusely down his thigh and over his boot, possibly from a blade penetrating links in his mail, possibly an arrow snapped off. Though he had not died in failing to turn back rebels bent on destroying the towers, likely he was dying.
“You must trust me,” he entreated.
Herba having said the same before clasping Vilda close and toppling both from the tower, a sob escaped.
Sir Roul raised a bloodied palm. “Dare not go west. Most of my countrymen have fled that direction and, with the resistance hunting them like the hares into which your Hereward has transformed them, you cannot know if it is friend or foe you encounter.”
She looked that direction. Though she could not be certain the distant cries and clashing of steel mostly issued from there, more fire shone in the night, whether from torches carried by rebels or bogs set aflame.
Movement returned her regard to Sir Roul. Seeing he reached to the dagger on his belt, she took a step back in preparation to flee though her only hope of escape was if his injury was sympathetic to her cause.
“Non, Lady! I but lend…” He trailed off, gave a sorrowful chuckle. “I but give you my dagger.”
Then he knew he would not survive his king’s second failed attempt to oust the resistance.
He removed the weapon from its sheath and tossed it at her feet. “Take that and go east. And though you may wish to return to Ely, do not.”
Also the same as Herba advised.
“King William has lost this day, but it is only a setback. As ever, he will prevail, and it will go worse for those who thwarted him.”
She swallowed. “Why do you care what happens to me?”
He pressed a hand against his wound. “My repentance was genuine, and more it is felt now the soil of England shall embrace me rather than that of Normandy. As I cannot right my wrongs against you and yours, I seek to keep other wrongs from you. Now take the dagger and…” He bent forward, groaned. “I will rest here with this Saxon who made it possible for you to escape, and whose sacrifice you dishonor if you do not go now.”
Then he had seen their fall from the tower, she realized as he dropped to his knees alongside Herba.
Vilda retrieved the dagger, then began moving east as advised. And came back around. “I thank you, Sir Roul, and more fervently I shall pray for aid in forgiving you.”
He sank back on his heels. “Just get away, Lady. That is enough.”
She turned and, moving as quickly as the chain permitted, made it to the river’s edge and the reeds which had escaped fire. As much as possible, they would hide her, and the cool water into which she sank her lower body after tying the mantle around her waist provided further cover by silencing her bindings.
Crying softly as she tried not to think on Herba and other horrors here, she smeared mud over her face and neck as done the night she accompanied Hereward to work ill on the Norman camp. Then keeping to the shoreline—mud beneath her feet, water about her waist, reeds brushing shoulders and face—she began trudging east.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The witch not a witch was dead.
“God rest your soul,” Guy rasped.
The unrepentant turned repentant was dead.
“God rest your soul.”
Vilda lived.
“Much gratitude, Herba and Roul,” he said, then closed the eyes of the latter and straightened.
To stay out of the path of fleeing Normans pursued by rebels and fire, it had been necessary to go wide around the camp. From that vantage, Guy had seen the collapse of the farthest western tower and glimpsed the two atop the last one standing that was also afire.
How he had prayed! Then evading half a dozen rebels heading west, he had lost sight of the women. When he resumed his trek, no longer were they atop the tower, and the fire shooting up its lower half was moving toward its upper.
Guessing they had jumped, Guy had feared he would find both dead or broken. Instead, one was dead and Sir Roul nearly so where he lay near Herba. Though the man yet had enough blood and breath in him to give answer, he had been close-mouthed when asked what became of Vilda—until Guy grabbed him by his tunic and shook him.
That loosed a cry of pain which loosened his tongue, though with words unexpected. Roul had demanded to know if it was true what was said of Guy—that much he concerned himself with Hereward’s cousin.
Guy had not known how to respond, certain if he answered wrong he would gain naught. Deciding to believe the best about the man whose regret for the ill done Vilda and her people had seemed sincere, he had said it was true and he but wished to aid her.
The chevalier had made him vow he would do just that, then revealed what happened atop the tower and after Herba’s sacrifice that saved Vilda. That would have been the end of his revelation had Guy not shaken him again.
Now, providing he spoke true, the direction Vilda had gone was known. Since she remained chained and had a ten minute lead at best, he should be able to overtake her—if she, more conversant with this marshland, did not go to ground like others of the resistance or found herself in the path of the pursued or pursuers.
If…
Shaking, Vilda assured herself that which slid across the calf of one leg and the ankle of the other was a fish.
Stay the water, she told herself. Better an eel—even a snake—than blunder into the path of those who move beyond the shore.
Still, the temptation to drag her soaked self out of the river was great, not only to escape unseen things whose domain she trespassed upon, but more quickly traverse the shore to the nearest natural underwater causeway known only to the most trusted of the resistance.
Though the bed of mud, silt, and rocks was winding, uneven, and disjointed, forcing one to cross it in depths of water from the hips up to the neck and swim gaps when the causeway fell away, in the absence of a boat it was one of two ways to cross to the isle with the least amount of effort. And with the kick of Vilda’s legs severely restricted, requiring she stroke from the breast, she needed as little effort as possible.
When the clouds slid apart and the moon shone on her, she lurched nearer an embankment choked with reeds and sank to her shoulders to peer at the land across which movement could be heard.
The source of it invisible to the eye in the absence of fires earlier seen in the distance and despite moonlight, she could not know if the sounds were of men or animals. Since either could be predators, she counseled patience as she waited for clouds to once more provide cover.
They were not long in doing so. The moment they swept away moonlight, she pushed back through the reeds into deeper water and continued east with the promise that in a quarter hour—a half at most—she would be in the vicinity of the causeway.
Perhaps longer, she amended when moonlight poured over her again. Had she not been moved by discomfort and impatience, she would have known to await better cover.
Swallowing a sob, she turned back. And nearly lost her muddy footing when she saw a figure on the shore facing her with the moon at his back. He wore no mail, its bulk and glitter absent, but her heart leapt at the possibility it was Guy, though she ought to pin her hope on it being Hereward. But it was the chevalier, she discovered the moment she drew the dagger from beneath her belt.
“Vilda,” he called low.
Suddenly aware of drying mud on her face that made her look more what his people called a filthy Saxon, she raised a hand to wipe it away, and in the next instant jerked her arm to her side. Normans made this necessary, and they—not she—should be ashamed of dirt used as concealing paint.
“Come out of the water,” Guy said so entreatingly she would have taken a step forward had not a voice within reminded he was Le Bâtard’s man, his fealty owed another ahead of any consideration for her.
Continuing to grip the hilt, she clasped her arms over her chest and said past chattering teeth, “I will not be his captive again.”
“Agreed. Now come ashore, and I will aid you.”
Though she believed him, she feared her witless feelings enough to shake her head. “I can do this on my own.”
Surely realizing the longer he exposed himself the greater the danger, he dropped to his haunches. “As Sir Roul warned, most of the Normans went west, but—”
“Sir Roul? You spoke with him?”
“As much as possible ere he passed. He trusted me enough to reveal which direction you went. Now so you not be captured again, whether by my own or the resistance who may think you a traitor, you must trust me to finish what Sir Roul could not.”
Trust—as thrice asked of her this night and twice of benefit in keeping her alive and out of the enemy’s grasp. Dare she chance it once more with this man who, more than most, gave her cause to trust?
“Vilda, there are warriors of both sides here. Though most of the Normans who search for a safe passage west move inland, several times it was necessary to conceal myself when they and their pursuers passed near the shore and cloud cover was thin. Lest my armor reveal me, I shed it. If you are found, the bindings that slow you will hand you up to them. Let me help you.”
She wanted that, especially now the hidden causeway was no longer an option since he would follow her and revelation of that crossing could endanger those on Ely. Though it was possible if she struck out now she could swim this expanse despite the chain, it seemed more likely she would succumb to exhaustion.
“Come to me,” Guy said with command that caused her to startle. “Now, else I will come in after you.”
He would, and the chain he warned would be her undoing would serve him.
“Your word,” she said. “No matter who comes against you, you will not yield me to your king.”
He touched his sword hilt. “To the best of my ability, I shall defend you. This I vow.”
She nodded, and as she pushed through reed-thick water that dragged at her skirts and the mantle about her waist, once more clouds stole the moonlight.
Guy was there when she slid the dagger beneath her belt and pressed hands to the slippery grass to raise herself from the water, and it was he who did the lifting, gripping her waist and pulling her upright.
Perhaps it was his hesitation to release her that made her do what she did. Perhaps she did it because it was what she needed. Regardless, she slid her arms around him and leaned in.
He tensed, and she thought he would set her away. But he drew her closer and, when she began sobbing, pressed her head beneath his chin as if he did not mind being muddied. “I am sorry for all you have suffered, Vilda.”
To hear those words and be held thus made her cry harder, and as she turned her face into his chest to muffle her misery, he eased her to sitting—doubtless, lest moonlight come out again.
Finding herself seated not on the ground but atop his thighs, his deep voice hushing her and muscled body warming hers, she gripped handfuls of his tunic and curled into him as if he were hers to hold to in a storm.
Pitiful, Vilda, he is not for you to love, she silently rebuked, then caught her breath over what she named these feelings. It was wrong to love him. Guy was a good man, and that was all he could be to her. If ever he thought to make a life with one other than Elan, it would not be this Saxon. Enemy wedding enemy was for others. And happily…
Was Vitalis truly happy with his Norman wife who surely sought to tame the Saxon of him? If so, likely it was because Nicola was lively and beautiful, all knowing the sting of arranged marriages was alleviated by pretty and handsome countenances, fine figures, and youth.
That was the consolation to the widower to whom Vilda had been married only a few hours. Though she was no beauty, she could be pretty. Though she was no petite thing easily swept into a man’s arms, she carried little excess weight. Though she had not been in the first bloom of maidenhood, she had been maiden enough to bear him an heir. These things had pleased her betrothed who mostly had integrity and—before the invasion—considerable income to recommend him. As he seemed the best match she could make, without argument she had accepted her life would be spent with one to whom she was in no way attracted unlike—
Her thoughts were torn from her when Guy’s hand closed over her mouth. She yelped into it as he rolled her to the side, and finding herself on her back with him atop, gasped into his calloused palm.
“Men come,” he rasped, face so near their noses brushed. “Be still and pray moonlight does not burn away the clouds.”
She nodded, but he did not remove his hand. It offended until she realized that though she had been given opportunities to learn to trust him, he had been given none to learn to trust her. If those who came were Norman, he would not reveal her, but were they Saxon, he could not be certain she would not reveal him.
Belatedly hearing the rustle of tall grass and footsteps over moist earth, she looked to the side. Seeing the clouds had thickened as if gathering rain to douse the fires, she prayed they would hold against the moon so she and Guy could safely return to their own.