“I approve, and be assured I am not vexed by your foraging. However, I am curious as to what else you took.”
“Paste to clean my teeth.” She showed them briefly, but it was enough to note that though they were not dainty like Elan’s, they were even, likely for having more room in which to grow.
Unbidden, it occurred he would like to see them displayed in a smile. But what chance that?
“And bandages,” she added.
He shifted his regard to the side of her head the physician had stitched closed beneath her hair.
She snorted. “I think I shall not need to bind that again, Chevalier.”
Then she expected other injuries to be done her when she stood before his king?
Further evidencing her thoughts traveled the same road, she said, “For that possibility as well, I suppose—albeit useful only if I am permitted to retain them.” She patted the purse to indicate the bandages inside, then glanced around at her escort and the few in the camp excused from arms practice to recover from injuries sustained during their withdrawal from the causeway.
Returning her regard to Guy, she leaned up and said low, “Certes, soon they shall be needed for my courses, an event so dependable ever I know the passage of four weeks.”
Talk of her woman’s flux warming his neck and face, inwardly Guy berated himself for not exercising better control.
Alvilda stepped back and grimaced. “Oh, my my—” She caught her breath, cleared her throat. “I have shocked you. It seems the lady you instructed me to unearth must needs dig up more of her old bones. I am all apology, Sir Guy.”
Her mockery would have offended did he not prefer it over fear and helplessness that had earlier nearly reduced her to weeping. Face cooling, he said, “And yet you delight in discomfiting this warrior.”
She shrugged. “I would not name it delight. Merely, I take hold of whatever small pleasure can be found amid the dark.”
He nodded. “A good thing—in the right company. Just as I advise you to look the lady, I advise you to play one whilst in the wrong company.”
She looked away, and he knew fear had slipped out from behind her shield. When her eyes returned to his, once more that vulnerability was hidden. “As I am unable to mount a horse”—she shook a manacled ankle—“am I to ride with you?”
“Providing you have no objection.”
She considered the others of her escort as if a lesser evil might be found among them, then frowned. “Correct me if I err, but methinks the young man whose garments I decline to wear and who looks upon me as if I am the pig, is the same squire who defied your command the night we first met.”
“’Tis Jacques,” he said.
She grunted. “He who despises me, though he is more responsible than I for Hereward keeping hold of Ely.”
Guy raised his eyebrows. “It sounds you believe I could have defeated your cousin.”
“You hear wrong. The only way you might have defeated he whom many call The Last Great Englishman is if you and your squire had worked together to prevent my cousin from reaching the boat ere your other men arrived.”
“Speculation—a thief of time better spent strengthening one’s position for the actual battle,” Guy said and turned alongside his mount. “Now, if you are well with riding with me rather than Jacques, ’tis time we depart.”
Remaining unmoving, she asked, “How is it you are so well-acquainted with my language you can also shed much of your accent?”
It irked that she ignored his prompt to get astride—until it occurred this might be fear once more come out from behind the shield. Forcing a smile, he said, “That tale must save, Lady Alvilda,” and extended a hand.
She glanced at it with disdain, but after drawing the mantle from her arm and fastening it around her shoulders, shuffled forward, causing the chain links to jangle.
“And so to his reckoning,” she said, sounding courageous. She was, but she was also other things she did not want the enemy to see. And he almost wished he did not see.
Unable to suppress protective instincts, he bent near. “I shall do all in my power to accompany you to that reckoning, Lady.” Then he averted his gaze from brightening eyes, parted the mantle, and fit his hands to her waist.
He thought he would have to tell her to hold to his shoulders, but she gripped them, and he lifted her with less effort than expected. Once she settled sideways on the saddle, he swung up behind her and put an arm around her waist.
As he drew her back, she asked, “How far, Sir Guy?”
Retrieving the reins, he nudged his mount forward. “A quarter league.”
“Is that all?” she said so softly he nearly missed her words.
As his men fell in behind him, silently he agreed, Would that it were farther, Lady.
Chapter Ten
Royal Manor at Brampton
Huntingdon, England
It was farther. Much farther.
Sometime between sending word to deliver her to Le Bâtard and her arrival, the usurper ordered his camp dismantled and had taken his guard west. The leader of the contingent left behind to supervise the loading of baggage wagons and escort them across the Fens had passed along instructions that Sir Guy continue to the royal manor at Brampton and provided his party provisions to ensure fewer stops.
Every league traveled over ground notoriously of two minds—one stretch accommodating, the next unobliging—was felt by Vilda for how much distance must be covered to ensure she arrive before nightfall. But greater these leagues were felt with regard to rescue.
If Hereward learned she lived, which was possible for how often he infiltrated camps ahead of raids and foraging off isle, it would be nearly—if not entirely—impossible to retrieve her so distant from the heart of the Fens and in territory controlled by Normans.
Like a drunkard, throughout the ride her emotions staggered, finding firm
