“Your what, Lady?” he growled, reminding her that just as he observed the pleasantries, so should she.
Though tempted to name him her jailer, instinct—or was it Sir Guy’s gaze?—made her swallow the words.
Le Bâtard leaned in. “Allow me to define who I am to Hereward’s cousin. I am your liege, your king, your sovereign—he who prefers to be openhanded but does not balk in dealing backhanded lessons in respect and protocol.”
Would he deal the latter when she denied him what he wanted? Struggling against showing fear, she cleared her throat. “It would be better for me did I name you any of those, but I cannot get the words past my teeth. And I expect that pleases the Lord who would not have me speak falsely, just as I believe He would not have such falsity condoned by one granted Church approval for the attack on my country.”
His eyes narrowed, and her heart beat faster as she stared at the dark between his lids, then he shrugged a shoulder. “As you will not title me, I must rethink how to address you.” He looked to his council.
Vilda followed his gaze, briefly lighting on all and settling on the chevalier. Whereas the others regarded her mostly with distaste, worry worked the lines of Sir Guy’s handsome face.
For me, she thought. Why does he yet concern himself? Since drawing me from the water, he has proven honorable by ensuring I am treated well, but now that he has passed me into his liege’s hands, his duty is done.
“What should I call this lawless Saxon noble?” he put to his men, and as Vilda returned her gaze to his, held up a finger. “And to that I must add virgin widow.” He looked sidelong at her. “Is that not right?”
She was not prepared for the jab, nor memories of losing her husband on her wedding day, and less prepared for sharp anger. Longing to pound on him, she said, “You are right on every account. However, but for being born Saxon and a noble, I am those other things only because of the atrocities committed against my people.”
He thrust his face near hers. “Know you how many men I lost last eve?”
Wishing the wine on his breath better masked the foul scent of other things put down his gullet, she said, “So many it pains. Of this I am aware the same as all Saxons who have lost family and friends, but at least such a loss will not devastate the conqueror.”
Breath whistling through his nose, he drew back. “I am glad you know that, Alvilda.”
It surprised that, despite her refusal to acknowledge his superiority, he did not revert to the other derisive names. Her Christian name without title lacked respect, but it was less offensive.
She startled when he took her arm and drew her to the table, stumbled when he did not make allowance for her manacled feet. If not for his grip, she would have dropped.
“I must remember that chain,” he said, and when she regained her balance, released her. “What think you of this map?”
That it was beautiful, she thought as she considered the isle and surrounding fens etched into a piece of leather nearly as long and wide as the table. More, that it was unsightly for its accuracy. “A fair rendering.”
“Only fair?” He looked to the right. “As I understand you and your men are responsible for much of this, Sir Guy, what say you to her assessment of your mapping skill?”
Vilda swept her gaze to him, but his eyes were on Le Bâtard.
“I believe it mostly accurate, my liege, but since it was impossible to precisely determine boundaries without great risk of capture, there will be errors with regard to the isle’s size and locations of its established towns as well as camps erected to accommodate refugees come from across England.”
How often had he been on Ely? Vilda wondered. How many times might she have crossed his path? Though Hereward took measures to keep Normans from stealing onto the isle to discover weaknesses in its defenses, some had succeeded—perhaps more than believed.
“What do you find amiss, Alvilda?” the usurper said.
Though tempted to scorn him, she leaned forward. The map was more than a fair rendering, though Hereward would know better than she how exact it was. After making the man beside her wait longer than necessary, she said, “As Sir Guy tells, there are errors.”
“How does it err?”
“The towns and camps are larger than shown here, and some not as far inland. As for the natural causeways across the marsh”—she tapped a southern and western one, reached and tapped one on the isle’s eastern side—“they no longer exist. What the rivers running to the sea deposit in the Fens, others coming behind carry away. And this causeway…” She traced one that stretched from the isle’s southeastern shore to the one opposite. “…when the water is right, it appears fairly wide, but in truth is narrow. Thus, those who risk crossing it must stay perfectly center since its sides are sludge and eager to drag down a misplaced foot.”
“You lie.”
Looking up, she saw though the usurper was displeased, it was no great anger, evidencing his faith in Sir Guy’s efforts matched his expectations of her unfounded findings. “In part, I lie, but you knew I would.”
He inclined his head. “I am not surprised you disappoint the same as others of your kind, but still this ever-shrinking hope I shall find one of worth among my willful subjects.”
She put her head to the side. “But many of worth—to you—have been found, hope rewarded time again by those who accept your yoke to avoid greater losses.”
Hearing the
