“I do.”
“That longing began with Sir Roul and his men.” She dipped her chin. “Good eve, Sir Guy.” She stepped inside, closed the door, and waited for the turning of the key. It was so long in coming she would have thought he had forgotten to secure her if not for the absence of boots in retreat.
Finally, the key was inserted and the lock engaged, then his footsteps sounded. Only when they faded did it occur if he left Brampton on the morrow she might not see him again. And wished that were something over which to rejoice.
Sir Roul made water against the stable’s wall.
Though he was permitted that privacy, when he started back toward the manor, jerking at chausses and tunic that caused the bandage around his head to go askew, Guy stepped from the shadows.
Halting, the light of torches showing his hand had gone to his sword hilt, the chevalier demanded, “There is something you wish to discuss, Sir Guy?”
Eschewing the threat of his own sword, certain he had time aplenty to draw steel should it come to that, Guy said, “Though it is to Taillebois you answer, it would be wise did you answer to me this one time.”
Sir Roul shifted in preparation to alter his stance should his fellow Norman’s threat become more than perceived. “Give question, and perhaps I will give answer.”
“Though I know the lady did not mistakenly strike you rather than the one who taunted, I am uninformed as to what ill she believes you dealt her. But as the commander of our king’s elite force, you ought heed me.”
“Heed you how?”
“Whatever little conscience you possess that caused you to rebuke your companion, you would do well to expand its reach.”
The chevalier set his small head to the side. “Do you threaten me?”
“A threat is where this begins, but not where it ends if you speak what pleases Taillebois rather than nurture that bit of conscience. Truth, Sir Roul, is what I require when our king calls the lady to account for injuring a Norman—more, it is what the Lord requires.”
The chevalier narrowed his eyes. “A dangerous thing to have a care for an enemy of William the Great. Though many a man might forgive you were she beautiful in the belief you are bewitched, for as ordinary as the lady is, your loyalties could be questioned.”
Guy knew it, but just as he had not taken the opportunity to abduct King Malcolm’s betrothed, neither could he do the wrong thing here. Even if only one more atrocity among the many could be averted, he would not stand by. “Will you do what is right, Sir Roul?”
“Would you believe me if I agreed?”
“Certes, greater doubt I would have about the word you give than you should have about mine that it will not go well for you if you do not speak in truth.”
The chevalier breathed deep. “If I am summoned by our king, I will speak what is best for me—not my commander, not you, not the lady. Now unless you would attempt to see more of my blood spilled this night, I shall seek my pallet.”
Knowing short of slaying him and beyond prayer no more could be done to aid the lady, Guy said, “This night you are safe.”
Sir Roul skirted him, a moment later halted and looked around. “As you ought know by now, in this England, there is no room for Saxon sympathizers, Sir Guy. Sleep light.”
Chapter Fourteen
Summoned again, and this time she was surprised as she ought not be it was the squire who came for her. And disappointed, certain Guy had returned to the Fens.
Once again entirely at the mercy of my enemies, Vilda thought as she stepped into the corridor where the young man had retreated while she added the tunic to her gown and fashioned two braids.
As she followed him, she revisited the hope that since it was past the breaking of fast, there would be no great audience to witness her punishment, especially were she permitted to defend her behavior of the night past. Though Le Bâtard might not allow her to speak on her own behalf and pride discouraged her from doing so, she was prepared to tell what had stuck in her throat when the chevalier escorted her abovestairs.
In anticipation of this day’s summoning, her whispers in the dark had kept her awake, each version of her account shortened and better worded to more easily be told. Providing she could make herself heard, which seemed less likely if Sir Roul was present, she might avoid being manacled again and tossed in a cell.
Heard and believed, she amended. Of course there was a greater obstacle—that what had happened that day mattered in the least to Le Bâtard.
Though encouraged by how few voices drifted up from the hall as she descended the stairs, nervously she smoothed the belted tunic over the gown whose skirt was much fuller, causing it to pleat calves to feet.
When she stepped into the hall and the squire motioned her forward, she looked to the left and saw only the steward at the high table, a journal before him, quill in hand.
Relieved she was not to present before the dais with the usurper peering down at her, Vilda shifted her gaze to the hearth and saw not only was her audience smaller than hoped, but Sir Roul was absent. Of further relief, Guy stood to the side with his back to the fire, his great arms crossed over his chest.
Whereas his king ignored her where he sat at a small table examining chess pieces on a board between De Warenne and him, the chevalier acknowledged her with a nod. He was muddied the same as nearly
