“I shall be the first ashore,” said Sir Deda who had distinguished himself by making that very claim before all and declaring the injury done the enemy would be to Hereward whose head he would deliver to his liege. For that, William had commanded him to ride at the fore. He elbowed Guy and gave a toothy smile. “Land is what I want, and a Saxon heiress just come into bloom. You?”
Guy shifted his jaw. “I also wish land, but first a firm end to the rebellion so that land is worth working and its people receptive to rule by one who is not of Saxon blood.”
The chevalier snorted. “A fairly loose yoke for those who are receptive, a tight one for those who are not.” He lifted a gloved hand toward his throat, feigned gripping something, then jerked his hand up and snapped his head to the side. As demonstrated, a noose would be the yoke he would place around the necks of any who defied the landed lord he hoped to become.
Deciding to waste no more time on such talk, Guy looked across his shoulder at warriors who formed orderly rows that now covered five sections of the causeway and the half on the shore who would follow the others as soon as William gave the order to advance.
Though they exuded much excitement Guy hoped would be tempered when they began the crossing, they looked confident and prepared for what lay ahead—of good credit to Maxen whose figure easily stood out from the hundreds upon hundreds where he sat astride within speaking distance of the king.
Guy would not have believed there could be anything light in this moment, but he was lightened when his friend acknowledged him with a nod. No words needed. Even were forgiveness long in being granted—or never granted should this day be Guy’s last—Maxen wished his friend well. And prayed for him.
Guy nodded in return, knowing once he delivered those under his command across the causeway, Maxen would follow with the elite.
Lord, no martyr would I be, he sent heavenward, but if one of us must fall, let it not be Maxen who, more than I, does not wish to be here—a Norman who does not yoke the Saxons who willingly give their lord the respect due him, a Norman whose half-Saxon children are a far stronger bridge than this one upon water and mud.
He returned his regard to the causeway stretching shore to shore, looked left and right where the blockade’s boats continued to exchange fire with the resistance, and when the horn sounded, gripped his shield tighter and urged forward a horse of less value than his destrier should all go terribly wrong.
Isle of Ely
“They come!” Hereward bellowed.
Too soon, Vilda silently bemoaned as the cavalry at the causeway’s distant end began to move. Much too soon.
Minutes earlier, five brave souls had lunged out from behind their barriers and, daggers in hand, run to the water. One was now face down among the reeds, another beyond him, arrows put through both by Normans in boats come nearer than those that had brought the conqueror to look upon what he coveted.
Though one of the three who made it to water deep enough to dive had also been pierced, it did not stop him. Like the others, he had submerged and, coming up once to replenish his air, now traversed the length of causeway just offshore in the hope of slashing free a section to delay the enemy’s advance and allow for the arrival of more defenders.
“There is time,” Hereward assured Earl Morcar who had accompanied him to this western shore three hours after Vilda and Theta ended their flight here and saw what was spawned by all the activity on that other shore. And understood the fires were mostly diversion to leave this side inadequately defended.
They succeeded, the men of the western watch who had gone for Hereward and reinforcements having difficulty locating the larger forces who had scattered in their search for the enemy responsible for the fires and the need to set greater watches all around, especially at places most vulnerable to attack. This was one of those places, and still there were not enough to defend it if the Normans made it over the causeway.
Was Hereward right? Was there time to undo the monstrosity? If so, it became less likely when a rebel surfaced and a flown arrow snapped his head back.
“Almighty!” Vilda gasped.
Beside her, making herself as small as possible behind the block of peat—head tucked against knees drawn to her chest—Theta cried, “Pray, do not tell me what goes. I do not want to know!”
Hereward was cursing now, though foul words would do naught to stop the Normans who, despite their cautious advance, caused that which they traversed to sway and dip.
“More swimmers!” Hereward commanded. “Even if the causeway cannot be shortened, the threat must appear great so they abandon caution and increase the chance of being dumped in the water.”
He did not have to name names, half a dozen rising from cover. One of those was Vilda. As quickly as once before she cast off belt and gown, she did so again and, ignoring Hereward’s command to return, gripped her dagger and dove into murky water before arrows could find their mark.
To avoid other tipped shafts, she must go deeper, but the mud-stirred water was too shallow. Thus, it had to be the Lord who kept death from piercing her as she struck out three feet beneath the surface.
Blessedly, enough daylight remained that once she left the shallows and entered clearer water, she was able to see ahead the causeway’s underside where others would be working their blades, if not to separate the sections then pierce whatever was used for buoyancy.
She needed air but was determined to reach cover before yielding. She made it, but whereas she had seen the causeway projecting downward,
