Smiling tautly, he inclined his head as if confirming that and reined in.
Vilda looked around, first acknowledging the presence of two score folk in the bailey, half of whom were warriors, then settling her gaze on a manor of good breadth and height and of two levels.
Now her ordeal would begin in earnest.
“Lady…” His voice was in her ear again, and how she wished it repulsed as had those of his countrymen the day of her wedding that had become a funeral. “I do not dispute your grievances, but my king will do more than dispute them if you do not content yourself with spilling them on my doorstep alone. I entreat you, just as all will go better do you look and behave the lady, so it will if you withhold such accusations from a man who lost hundreds of warriors to the resistance last eve and for it gained only a handful of rebels.”
The boar made of her did not care to do that, but so moved was she by the seriousness of his warning and depth of concern that she acceded the hare had its uses as well—until she took better measure of her circumstances.
She peered over her shoulder at a face that lost little of its appeal, though it was so stern he appeared older than a man ascending the ladder of his twenties. His life could not have been as hard as Hereward’s these years, ever the spoils taken by the victors filling the pits of life even if they must fight onward, but she was fairly certain he had enjoyed little ease and suffered losses of his own.
Telling herself the injury to her head was responsible for the longing to know more of his past, she said, “I shall heed you as best I can. Now let us not keep Le Bâtard waiting any longer.”
His brow furrowed. “I know that name is preferred by the resistance, but heed me in this as well—better you offend by naming him naught than naming him that no matter how much satisfaction it brings in the moment.”
“Wise counsel,” she murmured, and when he released her and swung out of the saddle, felt strangely bared though she had made his garments her own.
His men having dismounted, she noted his squire held back though one who served in that capacity was quick to his lord’s side to offer assistance in removing packs and leading the beast to the stable.
Because of me, she thought. To avoid being near this rebel, he disrespects his lord.
“My packs, Jacques,” Sir Guy said sharply. “Be quick about it.” Then he raised his arms to Vilda.
Knowing with too little chain between her ankles she was likely to shame herself if she tried to dismount on her own, she reached. He gripped her beneath the arms and drew her from the saddle, but before her feet touched ground, his mount sidled and knocked her against him, causing her to slide down his body.
“Jacques!” he snarled.
“Forgive me, my lord. Overly burdened throughout the ride, your horse is as skittish as he is weary.”
An insult to her, but the chevalier did not let it pass. “It may be exceedingly late ere my audience with the king is done, but do not take meal nor seek your rest until we have spoken.”
“My lord—”
“Until we have spoken, Jacques!” Sir Guy ordered, then looked down at Vilda.
Only then did she realize she had not moved and was so near that her feet were between his. As she hastened back with a clatter, something flickered in his eyes. She could not name it, her only certainty that it was not what would have flooded his squire’s eyes were she so near him. Then came a flash of what looked confusion, next a slight smile. “You were breathing much easier, Lady. Do not stop now.”
Feeling as if caught doing something wrong, she nearly snapped that she had her breath under control, but she was not breathing at all. And possibly had not since she coursed his body to the ground.
Stepping past him, she spent her first breath on a muffled curse when the chain did not match her stride, and once more was grateful when he gripped her elbow and assisted her up steps of a height that strained the reach of every link.
Breathe, she commanded herself as both doors opened to admit them. Breathe well and behave the lady.
Chapter Eleven
The Great Rout—which none dare name it in the king’s presence—pervaded all, making it seem a ball rolling about the hall and getting underfoot at every opportunity to ensure all relive memories of a defeat that should have been so impossible as to have been unimaginable. But some had imagined it—and been ignored. Just as Lady Alvilda was now ignored.
William could not have made it more obvious she was of little consequence—whether true or feigned—in the hour since the steward directed Guy to join the king at the table erected beside the hearth and the prisoner to stand before the dais to await summoning.
At the outset, Guy had also believed himself of little consequence. Receiving only a glance from William, he had claimed the space between two barons of the council on the far side of the table that allowed him to keep the lady in sight where she faced the high seat she surely wished filled by her slain king.
However, during the last half hour, Guy became visible when William consulted him over the reed swamp surrounding the isle, jabbing at places on the map and asking for the advantages and disadvantages of attempting crossings at each.
Irked by responses no different from those given following his arrival in the Fens, he clawed hands into fists atop the table. “I have no time for this! If I must, peace terms will be—”
“Non, my king!” two of the council exclaimed in unison,
