“A habit, hmm?” Elan snorted, then leaned in. “A bad one. Enjoy yourself, little brother, but be cautious. Our sire would not be pleased if an indiscretion produced—”
“Elan! I would not so dishonor a woman!”
She straightened. “Good. Keep it to kisses and there shall be naught to worry over.” She looked around. “Sister, I pray you have refreshments prepared. It was a long ride.”
“They await you,” Rhiannyn said.
As she, Maxen, and Harwolfson strode forward, Christophe turned. And that young man winked at Guy before hastening back up the steps—quite possibly to sooner return to the one who had not only mussed his hair but flushed his lips.
Edwin halted alongside his wife and inclined his head. “Sir Guy.”
Sensing no hostility, Guy did the same. “Baron Harwolfson.”
Next, the Saxon looked to Vilda. “All went as devised, Hereward’s cousin—a strained but successful parting of ways at the coast and perfect weather for a channel crossing.”
A small cry escaped her, then she released Guy and caught up one of Harwolfson’s hands between hers. “Much gratitude, Baron.”
“What is this, Edwin?” Elan exclaimed.
Ignoring her, he said, “I am glad to have eased your mind, Lady, and that you have made a good marriage with an honorable Norman.” He withdrew his hand.
“You did not tell me!” his wife cried.
Taking her arm, he said, “I have told you now,” and as he led her past Guy, muttered with what sounded chagrined affection, “Vixen.”
Maxen and Rhiannyn passed smiles between Guy and Vilda and followed the new arrivals up the steps.
Vilda stepped in front of Guy. “It could not have gone better, could it?”
Thinking how wonderful it was to feel the warmth of the autumn sun as he could not remember ever feeling it, he set a hand on the curve of her face. “It could not have.”
She grimaced. “I know I exaggerated in telling how long you have loved me, but—”
“You did not, Vilda. Even if I did not recognize it as love then, I know now it was the beginning of it.”
Her breath caught. “Truly, you felt that for the sturdy virgin widow?”
He drew her near. “Aye, you who are no longer a widow and no longer a virgin. You who are a wife and now one with me as I am one with you.”
Laughter escaped lips that would soon be beneath his. “But still I am sturdy.”
“Beautifully sturdy,” he said and, lowering his head, added, “Just what a man needs in this fragile world.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Battle Abbey
East Sussex, England
He should be raging. He was not.
He should send men across the sea to hunt down the outlaw and bring back his heart. He would not.
At worst, he should string up Taillebois, at best strip him of his lands. Again, he would not.
That was a king’s prerogative—to weigh in the balance what was best for him against what was best for his country, just as he had weighed that one condition of Hereward’s that aided in averting a clash whose victory would have cost the lives of men needed to ensure what was now fully the Conqueror’s remained his.
He could snatch back Lady Alvilda. Even had the marriage been consummated, which was certain since he knew what each felt for the other, he could lock her away in a convent. However, that vengeance worked on Hereward would be petty, unwise, and unsatisfying.
Petty because there was naught of value to gain from it, unwise because though the outlaw was thoroughly defeated, even a fly buzzing about a sweating face could wreak some havoc, and unsatisfying because this king admired Hereward’s cousin, having seen in her character a melding of the good and clever of his beloved Matilda and the strength of the Conqueror which he wished for their daughters.
Thus, he would let stand another marriage between Norman and Saxon and seek more, certain there was no hardier thread with which to mend the cloth of England, especially when those two strands were joined by a third of great feeling like that between Guarin and Hawisa Wulfrith—and, he believed, Lady Alvilda and Sir Guy, a chevalier he also admired despite his failure to prevent an English princess from becoming Queen of Scotland.
That last made him growl. In years to come, there could be powerful princes who sought to assert their claim to the English throne that absolutely must pass to William’s son—likely his second, Richard, who completed his training at Wulfen Castle under the direction of Vitalis. Hence, one more thing this king must make right to ensure that succession, but he would.
Leaving the future for another day, he returned to this one. Here another thing to be made right.
Standing atop the narrow ridge overlooking the meadow where the great clash—now called the Battle of Hastings—had been fought, he harked back to that gloriously bloody day when he ended Saxon rule.
Though five years gone, there remained evidence of those who had bled and died here. Most Normans had been buried, and though many Saxons had come for the bodies of loved ones, not all were found or satisfactorily identified to ensure hallowed ground embraced their remains.
Still, nature had been kind, seasonal torrents and wind causing great shifts of soil and fortuitous fertilizer encouraging grasses and other plants to spring up in greater abundance than when this place was chosen as a battlefield. However, from this vantage, bones resistant to the decay of flesh, muscle, and organs they supported could be glimpsed among the sway of tall stalks and low-lying bushes.
Beginning this day, they would be cleared and interred. Once that was done, in keeping his vow to found and endow a Benedictine abbey here as penance and a memorial to the dead, building would begin.
“Battle Abbey,” he spoke aloud the name his wife, Matilda, had suggested. It was fitting.
Drawing a breath of cool air that tasted and smelled of the sea Hereward had crossed to the continent five years after William and his army crossed to England, the Conqueror turned all
