Face stinging, Vilda ground her teeth and followed the other woman. But not for long.
It seemed a poor choice to go south, and as she slowed, she worked it through. More fields lay that direction, which would draw the Normans there, but no others lay to the west of this one. If a traitor had revealed the locations of this season’s crops, safety was more likely had where there was naught ripe for destruction.
“What do you?” Theta demanded, turning before trees near where they had rested. “We must—”
“We go my way!” Vilda veered westward.
Had she not heeded doubt and continued south in the hope of staying ahead of those who had stolen onto their isle, much later she would have made sense of the fires’ objective beyond depriving the islanders of sustenance. And might have become a weapon the enemy sought to wield against her cousin—sought, seeking and succeeding two very different things where he who was the last hope of England was concerned.
Such was Hereward’s burden.
Chapter Seven
The Fenlands
Perhaps he should not have been honest—had allowed Maxen to believe William would not be moved—but Guy had revealed that since he himself had little to lose, he agreed with Taillebois he was the better choice to lead the first assault. And all he had asked of the king was that the one dispossessed of his command be given that of the elite force.
Maxen had been angered just as Guy would be were their positions reversed, but the pain of regret would be too great if the attempt to bridge the waterway proved disastrous and the Baron of Etcheverry lost his life.
“Do not do this!” Maxen had thundered. When told it could not be undone, he had declared, “If you die, I will not mourn you for a martyr!”
As intended, that rubbed Guy wrong, Maxen’s tone making it sound as if the one who would go in his place was resolved to being a victim. That he was not, intending to do all in his power to stay alive and prevent the deaths of those of the command he assumed.
Hours had passed since the smoke of three diversionary fires appeared above Ely to evidence William was one step nearer to gaining what he sought—and easier that would be with numerous islanders engaged in putting out fires strategically lit to draw them away from the western side. Now the causeway stretching from this shore to the isle neared completion.
Since shortly after the king’s arrival in the Fens, boatloads of stone, wood, and other materials had been transported to this site to build a causeway over water and mud that could withstand the weight of armored knights and horses.
Much of the labor having been provided by conscripted men and women from the surrounding area, this day sections of logs and beams that had been lashed together amid the reeds were dragged into the marsh. Painstakingly, one after another was positioned over mud and water and stabilized as much as possible with loads of rubble and bags of sand, then joined with cowhides. Where the water ran deep and buoyancy was needed, sheepskins filled with air were employed.
Now, the sun having descended below the horizon and dusk sweeping grey light across all, the sections were in place despite the efforts of the isle’s defenders who had increased their numbers on the western shore after containing fires that sought to deprive them of crops.
By way of flaming arrows, the resistance also sought to terrorize the enemy with fire, but their efforts were mostly in vain. Though they slew several of those who connected the sections, a dozen of the largest boats of the blockade provided cover for the workers, its warriors loosing their own arrows when rebels came out from behind their defenses.
Regardless of the number of arrows that stuck in the causeway, their fire was easily extinguished, whether because the logs were too damp, the flames were stamped out, or water was flung on them. Thus, nearly as many rebels had been slain or wounded as Fenlanders who bled out in the marsh.
The sight turned Guy’s stomach. The rebels knew their arrows were the death of fellow Saxons who had no choice but to do William’s bidding, but if they wanted to save more lives than those they were forced to take, it had to be done to prevent Normans from coming ashore.
Though the great undertaking was now complete, the water between the last section and the shore easily forded astride or on foot, victory was not as near as William surely believed. The causeway appeared fairly stable, but more stable it could be with better planning and more time.
“The isle is ours,” said the one who was to ride at Guy’s side over the causeway. Sir Deda was formidable—a good man to fight alongside, but only if he did not wander as sometimes he did when satisfying bloodlust appealed more than protecting the flank of one who protected his. However, of greater concern than bloodlust was greed, which might not only sway Deda’s judgment but that of others under Guy’s command.
When this force had assembled near the shore a half hour past, William had roused them with encouraging words, expressions of gratitude for sacrifices to be made in faithfully serving him, and the promise of reward. It was little different from most speeches delivered before battle—until he issued a challenge of the sort that makes men forget their greatest strength lies in banding together.
The king’s pronouncement that whoever first made it ashore and did injury to the enemy could possess any property on the isle had caused a shift in the air. Whereas earlier most warriors had exuded excitement tempered by the disquiet of death ever hovering over those bearing weapons against others, of a sudden there was little tempering of excitement. And that could lead to deadly mistakes.
Though few would argue William was a superb commander, this day he could prove
