As she fastened it, he said low, “You told you would not disobey me again.”
She thrust the belt’s tail down through a loop made of excess leather that evidenced the sword belt had once belonged to a Saxon of considerable girth. “I said I would try. And I did, but…”
“I wished to be certain it was no act, V. I would not have let her drown.”
Remembering the men tossed overboard that night and that one had to be revived, she said, “This I know, but I feared you would test her too far, that by the time you realized she could not swim it would be too late. And I would be responsible.”
Knowing most of Vilda’s tale, Hereward understood how difficult it would be to bear the burden of another’s death, but still his face reflected displeasure.
“I am sorry,” she said.
He nodded, peered past her.
She looked around. The Normans had started back toward their blockade, their king’s boat running slightly ahead of the others.
“He has seen what he came to see,” her cousin said. “Now we move from resistance and petty raids to war.”
She closed her eyes. Imaginings of the blood to be spilled more vivid behind her lids, she opened them and said, “Who do you think laughed at me? Le Bâtard?”
As if he also needed to shake off imaginings, it was some moments before he responded. “I do not believe so. Nor do I think it Torquay since he also risked much to save one of his own—and must be grateful you did not trumpet that to his king who likely remains unaware of how close his man was to a contest that could have allowed him to turn his army elsewhere.”
“More likely, it would have lost him the commander of his elite force,” Vilda said pridefully.
“I would like to believe that, but no easy victory would Torquay have handed me. He is skilled and fights with just enough reckless ferocity I have thought either great his lust for reward or he is one of the enemy most dangerous to us.”
Before he could define that, she did so. “A man with little or naught to lose.”
“Men with whom we are well acquainted—and women,” he acknowledged the majority of the resistance, whether they were of the past or the present. As for those of the future, should Ely be lost, they might have less than naught to lose.
When her cousin turned on his heel, Vilda followed him. Once astride, she looked to Martin. His arms were on either side of Theta who curled against him on his saddle.
Are you really asleep? she wondered. Was what I caused you to suffer truly an ordeal?
Vilda looked heavenward, and as she brought up the rear to return to town, beseeched, “Lord, for the sake of my people, let me truly be in need of that woman’s forgiveness. And let forgiveness granted me be genuine.”
The Fenlands
Idle talk. In the presence of others, they had indulged in little more than that, but now that De Warenne had introduced Maxen to the men he would command and withdrawn, there was more to be said between the friends no matter how much Guy longed to avoid talk sure to turn toward Maxen’s sister.
“How fares Lady Rhiannyn?” he asked as they stood outside the tent of the commander who had removed his belongings to return to his family beyond the narrow sea.
“My lady wife is well and mostly happy,” Maxen said, moving his gaze over the camp with its rows of tents among which moved warriors Guy knew would be less active were they not seeking to impress and take measure of the man now in command of them.
“Mostly?” Guy asked, though so certain was he of his friend’s love for his Saxon bride and hers for him, he knew outside forces were responsible for her sorrow.
“As you can imagine, great the strain that still England cannot catch its breath long enough to heal in earnest,” Maxen said. “Blessedly, she holds to her faith, ever washing off the dirt of trampled hope. And that is good, for it gives her some peace.”
“I am glad. How is your daughter?”
Maxen turned his face to Guy and smiled. “A beautiful distraction for my lovely wife. And now we have another.”
Guy smiled. “Is it a brother or sister you have given little Leofe?”
Likely Maxen sought to subdue pride, but it shone through. “A brother now five months aged. He is named Bruin.”
“Not a Norman name, and more fearsome for that.” Both chuckled, then Guy asked, “How is Christophe?”
“Ah, my little brother.” Such fondness in those words—fondness that had been elusive when first Guy persuaded Maxen to leave the Church where he had retreated after Hastings transformed him into The Bloodlust Warrior. “His passion for the healing arts grows, and so greatly is he sought for all manner of malady that his lame body is surely of more benefit to mankind than had it the form of a warrior.”
“A blessing,” Guy said.
“And there is more to tell.” Maxen grinned. “If he is not yet in love, he moves that direction. Last year, Rhiannyn took in a young woman fleeing the North and gave her work as a chamber maid. Though she has much cause to hate Normans and can be unpleasant at what she perceives the slightest threat, Rhiannyn’s patience and Christophe’s kindness have smoothed many of her barbs—so much that had I not sought my little brother in his herbary ere departing Etcheverry, a kiss might have happened. Whether the first or one of several, I know not.”
“Then if he wishes to wed the lass, you will approve.”
Though it was more statement than question, Maxen said, “As you know, my sire will not agree, but who am I to deny a good Norman a Saxon bride? If Christophe asks her to be his wife and she wishes it as
