They had escaped the confrontation, she assured herself. Though some would be injured, making it difficult to negotiate the dark ahead of their pursuers, they came toward her. Or did they?
In their desperation to escape, they might go wide of where they had disembarked, but if she—
Nay, you were given one task—to stay with the boat, she reminded herself. And you promised.
“Pray, Hereward,” she rasped, “come.”
As she waited, wondering if as many minutes passed as it felt, once again she was tempted to leave the boat. She would go no farther than the bank where better she could see any moving toward the river and, if needed, alert them to her position.
Removing her hand from the dagger, she touched the mud her cousin had smeared on her face to hide the pale lest it catch an enemy eye—the same he and his men had done before the boat carried them from Ely—and discovered what made her skin itch had dried and begun to crack and peel.
Having accompanied Hereward and his men to the dock where the youth who was to remain with the boat began coughing, Vilda had offered to go in his place lest his malady reveal the presence of rebels to those on vessels blockading the isle or patrolling the shore before which Normans encamped. To avoid the delay of sending for another youth, which could jeopardize the foray whose timing was imperative, her cousin had agreed.
“And you promised to do as told,” she whispered even as she pushed the boat’s bow deeper into mud to anchor it. Continuing to grip the rail to leverage out of sludge sucking at her knees, she moved bent legs up the bank and onto grass.
As she reached for more mud to ensure her face remained hidden, above the distant sound of angry Normans in disarray she heard movement—that of men running through grass slapping at legs and soft soil squelching beneath boots. Hopefully, they were the rebels, though likely the enemy came behind.
Vilda searched the land. There! Farther left than they ought to be, men moved at a good pace though not as rapidly as they would were they uninjured. Since they made for the shore, they must be those she awaited.
“Lord, let them be my own,” she breathed. Then lest seconds prove the difference between escape and capture, she decided it was more important she was seen than not, even if by Normans.
Lurching to her feet, hearing the skirts tied up around her thighs suck at water from which they emerged, she dragged an arm across her face to expose more of the pale, thrust arms high, and waved.
If she must, she would add voice to alerting the rebels to the need to alter their course. Blessedly, they veered toward her. Eight, she counted. Only eight, meaning five had fallen.
Nay, three, two others following at a distance—unless they were Normans.
She waved more vigorously, and when the rebels were near enough she was certain the stout one at the fore was her cousin, she swung around and thrust her weight against the bow to get the craft off the mud. When it floated free, she sprang over the side, retrieved a pole, and jabbed it down through the water into mud to steady the boat for boarding.
Moments later, Hereward was there. Though the night was dim with little moon and his tunic dark of color, she knew he wore blood, hopefully the enemy’s alone.
Sparing her no word, he thrust his sword in its scabbard, then splashed into the water, took hold of the boat to further steady it, and commanded the others aboard. As they clambered over both sides to prevent the vessel from capsizing, Vilda knew from their groans and curses which among them wore their own blood. And felt that stickiness across the back of a hand when one took the pole from her and told her to get low.
“Almighty, he is down!” Hereward snarled as she started to hunker between two benches, then he sprang onto the bank and ran to the man who had dropped to his knees. But those figures bringing up the rear who Vilda had hoped were two of the five missing rebels were not. As they drew dangerously near, she could hear the ring of chain mail and see bits of light glance off it.
She stepped over a bench to the bow. When she saw the Norman running ahead of the other gave her cousin too little time to heft his man onto his shoulder and get him to the boat, she cried, “They come, Hereward!”
He turned from his injured comrade, once more brought his sword to hand, and ran forward.
“Non, Jacques!” shouted the Norman at the rear. “To me!”
But the one nearest Hereward, whom she guessed a youth when his shout cracked as did voices which had yet to attain a man’s full register, kept coming.
“To me, Jacques!” the command sounded again, and when Vilda looked to the warrior whose accent was not as thick as some but voice deeper than most, she glimpsed more Normans beyond him. The only good of it was the latter were distant enough it was possible Hereward could put down these two and be well off shore before the others arrived.
The youth gave another cracked battle cry, then swung his blade in an attempt to take her cousin’s sword arm.
Unsurprisingly, Hereward evaded it by ducking, pivoting, and sweeping up his own blade. Still Vilda feared for him—and more when he was the one to land a blow to that limb which meant all to a warrior. Though his victory caused Jacques to lose hold of his sword and grip his bleeding arm as he fell, it gave her cousin little time to defend against the second Norman.
Pray, not too little, she silently pleaded as she looked between Hereward and the one who would surely prove formidable, being a man of good height and breadth and moving with
