When Hereward did not run at that warrior, she knew it was not for lack of courage. He wished to meet at swords—to beat out frustration, anger, and hatred on another Norman—but he had to know if he did not get his injured comrade aboard, he would be overwhelmed by more of the enemy. And those who would not leave without him, including Vilda, would be captured.
Wrenching his injured opponent upright, her cousin hooked a tattooed arm around the neck of one who convulsed with silent tears as he cradled his sliced limb, then Hereward set his blade across the youth’s abdomen.
The second Norman ceased his advance.
“What remains of me and mine are leaving here as whole as possible,” her cousin announced in Norman-French to the one who faced him, sword drawn and poised to attack. “If you and this lad wish to do the same rather than be granted a warrior’s death, you will take this Jacques before his innards spill, and I will take my man and go back to my isle.”
The Norman whose mail hood was down around his neck, revealing enough of his face Vilda could see he was lightly bearded, glanced behind—to gauge how soon his fellow Normans would arrive, she thought as she glimpsed in profile dark hair on a broad brow, a boldly straight nose, and a firm chin.
Following his gaze, she saw the other Normans would not arrive as soon as they would if the slam of blades yet guided them here.
Silently, she thanked the Lord. Though still the enemy came and looked to be a half dozen, they were as far left as the rebels had been before she showed herself.
“You trust me to honor such a bargain?” the chevalier asked, not in Norman-French but the language of the Saxons, his depth of voice and accent across words that belonged to her making her shiver harder.
Reverting to his own language, Hereward said, “As I know you to be one who is not as Norman as your countrymen, I trust you as much as it is possible to trust an enemy.” He shifted sideways to cast more light on the blade against the young man’s abdomen that could see yet another conqueror buried in the Fens, though likely Saxons would be interred here as well. “Now ere I do what cannot be undone, decide if you wish to save your squire, Sir Guy Torquay.”
Vilda startled. She knew his name for the necessity of avoiding the elite force he commanded. Though they numbered fewer than others, making their small camp appear vulnerable, that had been disproved several times to the detriment of rebels who slipped in to take lives and wreak havoc but could not slip out—at least without having something with which to bargain.
Torquay did not sacrifice his men, even if he must trade several rebels for one Norman. Thus, Hereward was counting on him to value a foolish squire above the leader of the resistance and his men—and cousin, though that last could not be known even had Vilda removed all the mud and there was adequate light to look well upon her where she leaned forward in the bow, one hand on the rail, the other her dagger. For a moment, she thought it possible he did look upon her, though likely it was the others toward whom he turned his face, those yet whole of body having drawn blades the same as she.
“Release Jacques and take your injured,” the chevalier said, though his stance and sword remained at the ready. “And be quick about it, Hereward.”
Thrust forward, the squire staggered sideways and fell to his knees before his lord.
“Does the Norman not turn deceitful, leave him be!” Hereward commanded his men, then hefted the slack rebel who, God willing, had only lost consciousness.
He did not will it, as told by her cousin after passing the rebel to two of his men and springing into the boat. “He is gone from us,” he rumbled, causing Vilda to falter as she moved to give aid. “As soon as he was on my shoulder, I knew him for dead. Now pass me those oars.”
Having turned from the bow that poles had pried from the mud, Vilda stared at the one laid between two benches. She knew him as she knew all those here—and his kindness. He was ten years older than she and protective when men showed her unwelcome attention that crossed the line between civility and flirtation. Had he intervened in hopes of gaining her attention for himself, it had not been obvious. Now he was dead like so many others these five years.
Do not yield to hatred, Vilda told herself. Cover him, take his hand, and sit beside him as he passes over waters last traversed while still he breathed.
She resisted a moment longer, then turned back into the bow that shuddered as the boat moved through dense reeds that, though easier to negotiate than mud, could still be their undoing.
Torquay had his squire in his arms, and as he turned toward the Normans nearly upon him, she threw her dagger. Anger made her do it despite awareness there was too much distance between them to make her mark. Or perhaps that was why she did it—to prove she could stick a blade in a man, even if it was all a lie.
“Norman pig! Unworthy of Saxon slop!” she cried and nearly laughed bitterly over how much she looked like one given to wallowing.
The chevalier had stilled, and though she caught the glitter of his eyes, she more felt than saw his gaze upon her.
She raised her chin. “Knave! Thief! Miscrea—!”
“Get here, V!” Hereward shouted. “Now!”
She did not want to get there. She wanted to continue berating Torquay, but as night and the widening water choked him down along with fellow Normans come to assist, she gave him her back.
Moments later, she dropped
