Had Vilda warning that something roused him to her wakefulness, she would have seamed her lids before he shot his gaze to her, but it would be of no credit to a woman who had previously been proficient in feigning unconsciousness.
Opening her eyes fully, she said, “Be assured, your head remains on your shoulders, though for some moments last eve, it seemed your king intended to see it parted from them for your refusal to lead more men to their doom.”
The curve of his mouth flattened. “You heard more than thought, Lady. Thus, you know I have cause to wish you made a tool of vengeance.”
Struggling to keep fear from her face, thinking to bolster courage by once more naming him a swine, with a protest of chain she turned onto her back.
As the first word formed on her lips, he added, “That is, were I one who blinds himself to the right of the oppressed to fight their oppressors. I do not, though as you are aware, my oath of fealty makes me one of the latter.”
She closed her mouth, and when he stepped alongside the cot, she saw he held a tunic in his other hand.
“I believe I shall keep my head on my shoulders, but I am less certain of yours. For that, these since there is a scarcity of gowns in the camp of fighting men.” He dropped tunic and chausses on the cot. “Not only will the garments supplied by my squire save you the indignity of facing my king wearing only a chemise that does little to shield your modesty, but the better you present, the more respect he will afford you.”
Vilda’s throat had gone tight. Fear, she told herself, certain his talk of her standing before Le Bâtard was no uncertain event—that he had been commanded to deliver her this day. But something else made it hurt to swallow, and that was his concern.
“Unfortunately, I was off in my estimation of what to acquire for you.” He glanced at the garments. “With the chain between your ankles and my king possessing the key, the chausses are of no use. You will have to make due with the tunic covering you past your knees and your sullied chemise covering you down to your ankles. Too, I will provide a belt and mantle.”
The chain sounded again, not from voluntary movement but the strain of controlling emotions that made her quake.
“Lady?”
She pressed her lips to keep a sob inside and closed her eyes to block sight of an enemy she almost wished would give her greater cause to dislike him since hating Normans was easier than not. Indeed, it was far easier and more acceptable than this longing to go into his arms and hold tight.
Lord, where is my head? she silently bemoaned.
He touched her shoulder. “What is it you need, Lady Alvilda?”
Lifting her lids, she thought how attractive this man who stared at her out of eyes of brown lightened by grey. But such was not for her, even were he other than Norman. Noble men of his standing and appearance sought women who were at least their equal in both, stepping down to one less desirable only if considerable financial reward could be had.
Shocked by meandering thoughts that were no fit for her circumstances, Vilda pushed to sitting. Pressing the blanket to her chest to impart modesty her worn chemise failed to do, she raised her chin. “What I need is for you to cease naming me a lady. Once it would have afforded me honor. Now ’tis mockery.”
His dark eyebrows nearly met. Concern having fled his eyes, he bit, “’Tis not meant as such. I but speak in truth that will serve you well if you take every opportunity to impress on the king you are of the nobility regardless of what was stolen from you. Aye, Saxons born high have been brought low as well, but greater the chance that pretty head of yours will stay put if you reinforce his belief those born noble are nearer to God whom he hesitates to greatly offend.”
It took her some moments to reel back the words he spoke after naming her pretty, but once she deemed his assessment of the sturdy virgin widow mere thoughtlessness, she swung her manacled feet to the floor and stood.
He stepped back.
Clasping the blanket close, she jabbed a finger to his chest. “I am to believe Le Bâtard has high regard for Saxon nobility when last eve he granted permission to use me as if I am only a body for slaking the victor’s thirst?”
A muscle convulsing in his jaw, he lowered his gaze to where her finger touched his breastbone, behind which beat a heart that did not pound erratically as she had heard Theta boast her lovers’ hearts did at her touch.
“For that—my king’s attempt to make you less than you are to salve his anger—’tis all the more imperative you not agree with him you are only a body to be passed around on his whim, Lady.”
She stared.
He sighed, closed a hand around hers, and lowered it. “We must depart two hours hence for the king’s camp.” He gestured at a table on which sat basins, a pitcher, and towels. “For your ablutions, and be assured no one shall enter until it is time for us to depart.”
He turned aside and crossed to where several packs lay on the floor. From one he removed a belt and a mantle of thin green cloth suited for summer wear. Both he tossed on the cot, then retrieved his squire’s chausses that could not be donned over manacles and shouldered the largest pack. “You may explore the other packs if you wish, Lady Alvilda, but you will find naught there to aid in your escape.”
It had occurred to root through
