Her chamber positioned such that her narrow window afforded little view of the bailey before the manor, she had guessed the sounds of horses, hounds, and men calling to one another were those that preceded a hunt. A good guess that could bode well for her since often the sport of putting meat on the table left men in a generous mood.
Vilda was halfway across the hall when the usurper thrust one of his pieces across the board, causing it to collide with one of his opponent’s which clattered to the floor near the hearth.
Sitting back and folding his hands over his abdomen, he jutted his chin. “Your game improves, De Warenne, and though the final moves are yet to be made, you have lost. As previously warned, do you limit your thinking to only a few moves ahead, never will you master the game of kings.”
The man raised both hands. “Hence, why you are king and I am not.”
As Vilda did not know De Warenne, she could not be certain, but she thought she heard falsity in his tone, and it made her wonder if his lack of mastery was feigned. Even in mere games of war, the one who wielded the most power was expected to prevail.
Recalling when Le Bâtard had asked if she played chess, she almost wished the opportunity to move her pieces against his. Possibly hers would be trounced, but her loss would not be feigned.
“True, true, De Warenne,” Le Bâtard said and looked to Vilda.
Realizing she had halted and refusing to scamper forward, she remained unmoving.
“You took your time.” He flapped a hand. “Come.”
She had not taken her time, departing her chamber ten minutes after the squire came for her. But she would not argue. With measured steps that were not so slow as to appear fearful, she glanced at Guy and halted just out of reach of his king. “You wish to speak with me?”
He put his head to the side. “As displeased as I am with you, Alvilda, and as aware of it as you must be, do you not think it wise to afford me my title?”
“I do, but though it would go better for me to behave a vassal who has learned to wear a face not his own lest his liege disapprove of his real face, those moves elude me.” Seeing understanding in his eyes, fairly certain if she looked to De Warenne it would be in his as well, she added, “Had I much to lose, more receptive I would be, but I have only myself now.”
His mouth curved. “You have only yourself now, but when I take Ely, more you will have to lose. Then I expect you to eagerly bend the knee in the hope of gaining mercy for the wretches who survive.”
Resisting a swallow sure to be heard, she inclined her head. “If you prevail against Hereward, that I shall do.”
“I am sure you will make it worth the wait.” He settled more deeply in his chair. “Last eve, having been afforded the honor of dining with your king, you did injury to a chevalier who serves the Sheriff of Lincolnshire.”
I am ready for this, she assured herself. “As told then, I tell again—he did me great injury.”
“I understand he but tried to quiet those who spoke ill of your cousin in your hearing. So what injury that?”
Wishing she could look upon Guy without drawing attention, she said, “I am grateful you ask rather than blindly accept what was told you.”
Le Bâtard shrugged his mouth. “Dare not think it to your advantage. I am a man whose curiosity must be scratched, especially when I am bored, and that I am in danger of becoming while awaiting plans to end the resistance’s stand to come together.”
The second causeway, she thought and silently entreated, Lord, let it also fail.
“So scratch, Alvilda. What injury did Sir Roul do you?”
She moved her gaze over all standing near the hearth—two chevaliers she did not know though one might be he whose words sought to offend on the night past, Ivo Taillebois whose hatred was better seen this day, the priest who had blessed the meal and now covered a yawn with a hand, Guy whom she longed to linger over, De Warenne whose gaze reflected amusement as he fingered a rook that might have shifted the game in his favor, Le Bâtard who raised his eyebrows higher, and two she guessed were his personal guard.
She breathed deep. “Sir Roul’s great injury was inflicted four years past.”
“Four years!” the usurper exclaimed. “You water well your grudges, Alvilda.”
Nails in her palms alerting her to fists, she started to ease her hands, but when his eyes shifted to them she could not bring herself to splay them guiltily. “It is far more than a grudge.”
He returned his gaze to hers.
Tell it as rehearsed, she counseled. Stay true to that last version and you will neither fold nor rage.
She cleared her throat. “On the day spring turned summer in the year of our Lord 1067, eight months after Normans slew our king and our greatest defenders, I wed a man chosen by my grandsire—a thane injured during the battle with Norwegians ere that of Hastings. After vows were spoken, all sat down to a feast mostly that in name only since our losses to the invasion were great. As cups were filled and platters passed around, Sir Roul and his men arrived and demanded your tribute that was required for my husband to retain lands long held by his family. When that chevalier was told the coffers were empty but for a few coins—”
“Hold!” The usurper raised a hand. “Methinks it right Sir Roul face his accuser so he may give answer immediately if I deem any is needed. Too, sooner you may apologize for the ill done him.”
Inwardly, she seethed. Outwardly, she closed her mouth. She had been as prepared as
