“Quiet your mouth!” commanded the one beside him in a voice so distinctive Guy knew which of Ivo’s men corrected a lesser even before he set his gaze on that chevalier’s back.
Though of decent height and breadth, Sir Roul’s head was so small it appeared a blunder, as if following a battle it had been re-attached to the wrong body. Thus, there was no mistaking him—nor the lady’s catch of breath and jerk of body as if someone had punched her in the back.
Though he wanted to assure her they were only words, he knew they were born of ones come before that had ended in terrible deeds against her people. “I am sorry for his cruelty, Lady. Now let us speak of—”
“I know him, and ’tis possible he knows me,” she rasped, having gone so stiff he was certain of her determination to remain seated rather than flee.
Though he may have been right about her trying to keep her seat, he discovered he was wrong about her wish to flee when she thrust to her feet, snatched up her platter, and hurled it at the one who had tossed back his head to give his laughter greater reach.
As Guy sprang up beside her, the remains of her meal scattered in the wake of the spinning platter, then the wooden rim missed the one who offended, striking Sir Roul who had sought to silence the other man and dropping him face down on the table.
“Almighty!” Guy growled, and with the mood in the hall altering as all became aware something of note had happened, he snatched hold of her arm, not only lest she think to do worse, but keep her near should he need to defend her against Normans who had imbibed much.
“Loose me!” She jerked at her arm.
“Silence!” William bellowed as he thrust upright, turning raised voices and shouts to mutterings. “Sir Guy, you have lost control over the Saxon. How do you answer to that failing?”
“I shall answer to it!” the lady said and jabbed a finger toward the one whose words had offended while beside him the chevalier groaned, sat up, and began exploring what was likely a gash beneath his hair. “That foul, ignoble, dishonorable one who calls himself your man, though he is less than a pig, did me great injury.”
In the silence between her accusation and William’s response, Guy sent heavenward, Lord, though he dealt offense, she injured one who did her no injury. Even if only for survival’s sake, surely this fish in a sea of sharks could have made a greater effort to bear the taunting.
The king shifted his gaze to the chevalier who sat back with one hand to his head, the other pressed to the table as if he reeled. And Guy did not doubt he did. The platter had struck hard, a trickle of blood appearing behind an ear.
“I am thinking you will live, Sir Roul,” William said, “and in future not turn your back to the enemy, even if she is a woman—indeed, be more vigilant because she is a woman, hmm?” He looked to the lady, swept a hand toward her. “For those not yet acquainted with the outlaw’s cousin who aided in the destruction of our first causeway, let this satisfy your curiosity about the sturdy virgin widow.”
Vilda roiled, insides so stirred she was almost glad Guy kept hold of her, and doubly so when she realized Le Bâtard had stirred in two more things. He referred to the causeway as being the first as if there was another. And he named her what Theta did—not merely the virgin widow as some of the resistance referred to her, which had pricked when he called her that the night she arrived at Brampton, but the sturdy virgin widow. It was one thing for the enemy to know her by the latter two, but the addition of sturdy… Was it not too much coincidence?
“Sir Guy,” the usurper called, “as our attempt to be hospitable to a captive of noble blood has been cast in our face as we ought to be accustomed to these five years, remove that woman who is not even half a lady.”
Vilda had a response for that, and it pressed against the backs of her lips, but acknowledging further defiance would make things worse—possibly reminding Le Bâtard of the manacles of which she had been relieved—she pressed her lips harder and did not resist when Guy shifted his grip to her elbow and guided her toward the stairs.
Once they began their ascent, talk in the hall resumed, and when they went from sight, the voices surged as if to include the departed in their conversations.
“Forgive me,” Vilda said when they reached the landing and he released her. “’Tis wrong you suffer your liege’s displeasure for my inability to remember I have only enough power to offend and feebly strike out at what can strike back with painful and deadly force.”
He did not respond, and she thought him rightfully angered, but when they halted before her chamber and she reached to the door, he said, “You told you know the one whose words offended and it is possible he knows you. How?”
It did not surprise he misinterpreted that, and when she turned back, she nearly asked what it mattered to her enemy, but for some reason she could not bear him thinking she did not have a very good reason to disrupt his king’s meal. “Aye, that one offended, but though his words cut, the platter struck the one intended.”
He frowned. “More greatly you were offended by Sir Roul’s attempt to silence his companion?”
She gave a grunt of laughter. “Would that were his only trespass. Four years ago…” She swallowed, tried again, but could not tell what she should be able to after all this time.
What appeared understanding lit his eyes a moment before they darkened. “Lady, did he…?”
He thought the worst—and rightfully so, albeit not where she was concerned. Resisting the temptation to
