Vilda started to follow him to the door to seek his assurance that if the woman could not get her head above water, he would pull her out, but Theta lurched in front of her.
“You did this! And for what? To salve jealousy over a face and body God did not gift you? Jealousy over the desire men feel for me they shall never feel for the sturdy virgin widow?”
Three blows in the close confines of three words. It was not the first time the harlot had scorned Vilda for being endowed with a feminine version of Hereward’s build that made her more sturdy than many women, not the first time she implied it was for this Vilda remained a maiden, not the first time she poked at an unconsummated marriage. However, ever those words had been mere asides, never spoken to Vilda’s face with so great an audience. Thus, it was hard to keep her arms at her sides.
Glimpsing Hereward past the woman’s shoulder, Vilda was grateful that though he had turned from the door, he made no move to fight this battle for her, nor did the others who had paused.
Raising her chin, she said, “I am sturdy. I am pure of body. I am a widow. You are not sturdy. You are not pure of body. And likely you will never be a widow since who would take you to wife? Aye, you have the attention of many men, but giving your body only to those not of the common makes you no less a harlot. It makes you a harlot with great and dangerous ambitions.”
Throughout that lash of the tongue, the woman’s face darkened further, but though Vilda tensed for an attack, when Theta struck it was not with fists nor feet but spit. As it slid down Vilda’s face, the woman spat, “Jealous shrew!”
Now Hereward came, but before he could reach them, the bunched hand with which Vilda preferred to sling stones over bruising her knuckles found a mark slightly off the one desired when the harlot sidestepped.
Impact with Theta’s cheek rather than the soft of the nose caused pain to shoot up Vilda’s arm, but when Hereward gripped his cousin’s shoulder, she jerked free and once more set herself at the woman. This time it was not spit the harlot landed but a blow to the nose and punch to the ear.
Both stunned, putting blood on Vilda’s lips and making her head ring, but she managed a backhanded slap before her cousin dragged her away and Earl Morcar wrapped his arms around one who struggled and cursed.
“Silence, Theta!” Hereward shouted. “Else when I cast you in the water, it will be with a gag in your mouth!”
As she ceased raging, the rebel leader pulled Vilda around and raised her chin. “They are words. Only words, V!”
Nose and ear aching, she opened her mouth to command him to release her, but the concern in his eyes—one lighter than the other—closed her lips and tempted her to allow him to be the strength going out through the soles of her feet.
Firming her legs, she whispered, “Only words,” then freed her chin and lowered it so she would not have to look at the others who regarded her with much interest. Occasionally, the temper birthed on her wedding day flared, but rarely did it express itself beyond kicks to men who slept when they should be keeping death from Ely.
Though she had agreed words were benign, she did not believe it. How could they be when history bore witness to savage, bloody acts begun with words spat upon those capable of making men, women, and children suffer? That which was spoken could be as terrible as a hacking blade. Still, she should not have turned violent.
Feeling the burn of a swelling ear, she wiped the back of a hand across her bloodied nose and sidestepped her cousin.
Shortly, she urged her mount after the men accompanying Hereward to the shore, all the while keeping her eyes on Theta who was seated on the fore of Martin’s saddle. The fight had gone out of the harlot, but Vilda was certain she was not resigned to her fate. She plotted—or so it seemed until she fell to weeping.
Chapter Three
The Fenlands
The Norman camps were strategically spaced, distant enough to prevent the rebels from easily encircling all and putting their enemies to death by blade and fire, but near enough each force could come to the aid of others under attack.
William approved, though his tour and interaction with men who sacrificed much for him was nearly cursory.
Guy had caught the king’s twitches of impatience which eased only when they neared the shore that provided an unobstructed view of the blockade before the isle William would wrest from Hereward—a quest that, like so many others, was to mark the end of unrest, allowing England to begin healing in earnest.
The king halted. “Almighty, it is magnificent! I have only seen it from a distance. Though I knew it was of import, this…”
It surprised Guy the ruthless conqueror appreciated beauty that was but a face upon Ely whose proximity to the narrow sea made it a rallying point for rebels in England and those Saxons who had fled to the continent, as well as their fickle allies, the Danes.
“Better I shall appreciate this victory gained by my own hand,” William said. “Follow! I wish to look nearer upon what was stolen from me.”
De Warenne was not prepared to provide a closer view than that gained from the reed-whiskered shore against which water gently lapped, but when William ordered him to commandeer three flat-bottomed boats, he did so with the confidence and efficiency expected of one given charge of great forces.
The boat master on the fortified dock sounded the horn and hand signals caused three boats
