Lowering her lids, she turned her head opposite the tent’s entrance and began slowly inhaling and exhaling.
She counted the three strides that carried the chevalier across the tent, heard him thrust back the flap, and stopped breathing when Le Bâtard said, “She had best be in chains,” and entered ahead of another who stopped just inside the tent.
Breathe, Vilda silently commanded. No expression. Breathe in, breathe out. And dare not tremble. But how her body longed to betray her when the usurper’s shadow stole the light penetrating her lids and his boots delivered him to her side.
“The physician tended the injury to her head and bandaged it,” Sir Guy said.
“She is unconscious?” Le Bâtard demanded.
“Has been since shortly after we pulled her from the water, my liege.”
The only warning of what was to come was a sweep of foul breath, then a hand gripped her jaw and turned her face into the light. Somehow, she maintained the pretense, even when he thrust her chin opposite as if disgusted.
“Still I want her in chains. She is no prize, but I will not be denied making good use of her. Come, Torquay.”
After the three departed, she did not open her eyes. Fear kept them closed, as well as the ability to more easily focus on what was spoken distant enough from the tent that it could be heard only with great straining.
Lord, I am in a den of thieves, she sent heavenward. Help me make use of what I listen in upon—and use of Sir Guy who should have no care for my fate. He may be better than other Normans, but he is the enemy, even if the least foul among swine.
Great the relief when Guy had seen it was Maxen who accompanied William to the tent, and greater when the look exchanged with his friend confirmed the elite force had survived, likely due to him being the one who led them onto the causeway.
It had made Guy question if those who perished under his own leadership would have been fewer were they commanded by Maxen who had trained them these months.
Possibly, he had acceded, but not significantly since Deda would have done as he had and William would have urged the forces onward since damage to the causeway would not have been visible from the shore. And even had the king been aware of it, still he might have issued the order, so impatient was he to take Ely.
Now, standing alongside Maxen beneath a moon chased by clouds that had begun appearing when the physician was summoned to tend Alvilda, Guy waited to be told how this warrior had once more disappointed the King of England.
“You believe you know tactics better than I, Torquay?” William finally spoke.
Guy held his gaze to the other man’s. “I do not know them better. As you surely learned, I countered your command, though only because I had a vantage denied you and knew if we did not cautiously retreat, the shortened causeway would be our end.”
William took a step toward him, seeking to impress on his vassal his superiority that allowed him to play a god among mortals. “You could have progressed faster—reached the end of the causeway ere the rebels cut it apart.”
Though Guy was tempted to point out they could have moved faster only if time was given to better construction and greater stabilization, argument would rouse William to greater anger were he reminded he had disregarded the warnings of those who dared speak them aloud.
“Had we moved faster, my liege, sooner we would have gone into the water,” he said and silently acknowledged that might not have been a bad thing. Since they would have been nearer their own shore, more of their men might have survived.
Guy let the silence swell, and when it seemed William remained in control, decided it was time to learn the extent of what had befallen those he was forced to leave behind. “How many dead?”
The king swung away, came back around. Though now moonlight was diffused by clouds, Guy caught a glimmer in the other man’s eyes. Whether the king’s tears were more a result of disappointment over his failed undertaking or men lost, Guy could not know with certainty, but he would wager coin on the former. He did not believe William bereft of emotions for those who gave their lives in service to him, but for one such as he, failure to gain another victory over the resistance was more deeply felt.
“Hundreds upon hundreds drowned,” he snarled, “among them half the baron’s force given you to lead.” When momentarily William closed his eyes, Maxen gave Guy a shake of the head as if absolving him of guilt and offering assurance his anger over losing command of his men was past.
The king shook his own head so hard the bones in his neck crackled. “God help those in the boats who did not adequately defend the causeway. They are more to blame than any others our side. Do I not flay them unto death, they will regret failing me to their end days.” He turned, jabbed a finger toward Guy’s tent. “And that whore and her kin…”
Maxen’s hand on his friend’s arm pulled Guy back before he realized he had taken a step he should not—one that could see him more severely punished than those who failed to protect the causeway.
William came around and, with eerie calm, said, “I shall send my man to chain her so she yet wiggles when I dangle her before that outlaw.” He nodded as if assuring himself of the bounty he would reel in. “For now, I leave her with you, Sir Guy. Do with her—use her—as you will. I care only that she who names my men pigs not escape.”
He strode past, and as he moved toward the
