Then another flare. And another. The firing of causeway sections yet floating or embedded in mud was but one more stab dealt the conqueror by those who refused to be conquered.
With spitting and cursing, William mounted and spurred toward his camp that lay farther inland.
Feeling weighted as if he had not shed his mail, Guy said, “As I wish to be done with this day, may we speak more on this later, Maxen?”
His friend gripped his arm, nodded, and departed for the camp where he would find many of its tents empty this night, as surely they would be until replacements for the fallen men arrived.
For a long time, Guy stared at the fires, some of which would still be burning come morn for all the timber wasted on the causeway—possibly even throughout the day as the bodies of Normans were recovered not only to be given proper burial but ensure their weapons and armor did not fall into rebel hands.
Then Guy lowered his head and began praying for all those lost and their families, next those yet to be lost.
He did not rouse until a horseman rode down the center of the camp past the tents of men too disheartened to long observe the Saxon’s final response to the great undertaking. Here the blacksmith who traveled with the king.
It was good Guy ducked into his tent before the man reined in. William’s captive was on the ground at the rear, heavily-wrinkled chemise pooled around her where she sat back on her bare heels, bandaged head hanging between outstretched arms whose palms braced her upright.
Though certain the smithy would not enter without permission, Guy wasted no time on approaching her with caution. Bending, he swept her into his arms.
Her head dropped back. Half-hooded eyes peering at him, she made a sound between a whimper and bitter laughter. “Oh, my my me, ’tis that Norman pig,” she said huskily. “He will not leave me be.”
As he carried her to the cot, he nearly named her a fool for attempting to escape, injured as she was, but considering she was in the power of the conqueror, she would be a fool not to try.
He lowered her to the thin mattress and turned the blanket over her. Then leaning near, he said, “William’s blacksmith is here. He has been sent to—”
Like a striking snake, her hand emerged from under the blanket and gripped his tunic. “I listened. I heard. I know what Le Bâtard intends to do with me, just as I know though much Hereward cares for his cousin, he will not sacrifice the many for one.” Tears wet her eyes. “What I do not know is what you will do with me. Pray, do not use me, Sir Guy. Prove in this you are even more a Norman above others.”
It offended she feared being subjected to his carnal appetites, but it did not rouse anger. Too many precedents had been set by others of his countrymen for her to believe she would not be ravished, especially since William had granted his man permission to do just that.
Guy did not know what moved him to push the hair off her brow, which was too intimate a gesture toward one who sought assurance she would not suffer his attentions. And more he regretted it when fear flickering in her eyes leapt.
“I am a man, not an animal,” he said, and when her lids narrowed and there came the sound of chain links whose cruel music would only be appreciated by those who delighted in the suffering of others, gently pried her fingers from his tunic and set her hand beneath the cover.
“As the smithy will report to the king what he finds here, I bid you once more feign senselessness if you can,” he said, knowing it would be more difficult whilst being shifted around to fit manacles.
“I can,” she said. “I have learned these five years to be very still when necessary.”
And so she proved. When the blacksmith departed, he had no reason to suspect she had been conscious. And she remained so silent and unmoving it was not until Guy lowered before the tent’s entrance and wrapped himself in a blanket that he was dissuaded of the possibility she had truly lost consciousness.
Chain links sounded, and she said, “I thank you.”
Whether for remaining true to his claim he was no animal or because he had persuaded the smithy to bind only her feet, Guy did not know. “Sleep, Lady.”
“Lady…” she whispered as if the title were unfamiliar, then turned her back to him.
Chapter Nine
Upon awakening, her first thought was this captive, whose fitful sleep throughout the night had been punctuated by rattling chain and chafing manacles, remained unmolested.
What she did not know was whether it was further proof Sir Guy was honorable or he found her undesirable. She was no beauty. At best, it might be said she was pretty, though that was more believable when she made an effort as she had not in years.
Her second thought was Hereward would think her dead, likely put through with an arrow and decaying at the bottom of the marsh—at least until he learned she was held captive.
Her third thought, which would have preceded the others had not her sense of survival remained askew, was she was not alone in the tent whose canvas was penetrated by the pink of dawn.
Was it Sir Guy here or another? Perhaps the blacksmith returned to manacle her wrists as well?
As she was on her belly, face turned toward one she was fairly certain stood near the end of the cot, she raised her lids slightly.
Sir Guy stood in profile. The damp of his short, dark hair and his unsoiled face
