“As well you know, Alvilda, that is far different from being embraced with the honor due the rightful King of England. After Harold stole my crown, the great battle was a given, but were the violence buried there, the deaths of thousands of more Saxons would have been averted—just as the lives of those upon Ely can yet be spared.” He looked around the table. “Here my war council. Reprieve last eve for the resistance, but only that. When next I strike, it will go far different. If I must strike.”
As she looked from one baron to the next who regarded her with steel in eyes that evidenced they wished to put a different kind of steel in those whose sanctuary was represented by lines etched into leather, chill rippled through her. Had she bypassed the chevalier, she might have turned so cold she cracked.
Lord, she sent heavenward, how is it this man counts himself a Norman?
Once more the usurper’s calloused hand turned her face back to his. “For the good of all, aid me, and the peace terms I offer to sooner be done with this shall benefit more than it harms.”
“The good of all,” she repeated what was no fit for her people even if the words that followed did not exclude her cousin, Earl Morcar, and others on the isle who were of greatest threat to his rule. Deciding it useless to ask him to elaborate, she said, “If the good of all was for all, I might give aid, though likely it would be of little use since Hereward’s mind is his own. But as your reign bears out, the good of all is nearly exclusive to Normans, very little having been afforded Saxons who bent the knee.”
His lower jaw thrust forward. “You are a fool not to fear me.”
Were it true he did not frighten her, she would wrench free, uncaring he might catch her back by the throat. “Though pride demands I not show nor own to it,” she said, “I do feel what you would have me feel.”
After some moments, he nodded. “Still, you ought to fear me more.”
Guessing that was a threat to extract information by whatever means was necessary and determined not to cower, she said, “I am sure you can make it so, and I shall bear up as best I can, but first I have a boon to ask.”
His eyes lit as if with pleasure over the prospect of refusal. “Ask.”
“I wish the same chance given a stag to the hunt—that you not take my hands and feet, even if retaining both proves only a mockery of escape.”
Glowering, he dropped his hand from her. “It is true I have ordered that punishment for enemies who deserve it, but I would not do it to a noble—even one of Saxon blood.”
Thinking it possible he would not have said the same had she stood before him wearing a rumpled chemise, her skin fouled, and hair tangled, she acknowledged Sir Guy had been right to counsel her, short-lived though this reprieve would be.
“That is, providing I am not moved to great anger which can cause me to act ahead of propriety,” he clarified. “Now let us return to how you shall address me.”
She blinked. “Surely I am not to keep company with you long enough for it to matter what I name you to your face.”
His eyes darkened further, then he patted her cheek, causing her to step back so quickly she nearly set herself on her rear. As the links went silent again, he said, “I find you nearly as intriguing as Hawisa Wulfrith who once opposed my rule.”
“She bent the knee at the Battle of Darfield,” Vilda said.
“Oui, and is better for it now she is wed to a Norman and training up warriors to defend my kingdom.”
Pain in Vilda’s jaw alerting her to ground teeth, she eased them apart.
“As for this Saxon lady,” Le Bâtard continued, “while nearly all walk softly around me this day, she who should walk softest makes the most noise. Thus, though I intended to cast you in a cell did you not cooperate, I am of a different mind.” He glanced at her feet. “And as the rattling wears on me, eventually I may be persuaded to remove that.” He motioned forward the steward who stood near an alcove.
The man halted alongside Vilda. “My king?”
“Provide her with a chamber, a meal, and whatever else a woman requires, then secure her inside.”
With apology, the man said, “All chambers are filled.”
“Then empty the smallest and move that baron’s packs into one of the larger chambers to share with another.”
A grunt sounded from somewhere down the table, but Vilda saw no reason to look upon the one she displaced.
Le Bâtard waved a hand. “Take her. She has amused me enough for one evening, and I have plans to unfold.”
Out of the corner of her eye seeing the steward reach to her, Vilda shot her gaze to his.
He dropped his arm, said, “Come,” and pivoted.
Once more refusing to shuffle, she raised her chin, and as she followed him across the hall, longed to look back at the chevalier who might be gone come morn.
Pray, be here, she silently appealed.
“Alvilda!”
Halting before the stairs, she looked around.
“Duke,” Le Bâtard said. “That is how you shall address me—for now.”
Though there was no disputing that title was his, she did not know she could speak even that, but she inclined her head.
“Let me hear it,” he said as she started to turn away.
Unable to keep resentment from her voice, she said, “Duke.”
As if satisfied, he said, “Do you play chess?”
Thinking he wished to learn how versed she was with the battlefield of a board whose strategies warriors sought to apply to those made of dirt capable of absorbing blood, she said, “I know how all the pieces move.” And more, she silently added,
