“Sir Roul!” Le Bâtard called.
Sidelong, she saw someone step forward, and when she looked that direction, discovered the chevalier had lurked in an alcove.
The games these Normans play! she seethed anew. And such anger when their foes retaliate with games of their own!
When the eyes in a face she had not looked upon last eve met hers, her soul felt as if hung with a great stone and flung into muddied water the same as Theta. And as he strode toward his liege, anticipation of a mocking smile made her drive her nails into her palms. However, the man whose head was not bandaged as it ought to be to emphasize the violence committed against him did not smile. His face was impassive, and yet when he halted near the usurper, he looked momentarily away as if discomfited by her stare.
So unexpected was that, she considered she had mistakenly identified him. But it was him, though she questioned her memory again when he said respectfully, “Lady Alvilda.”
“Norman gentility, esteemed the world over,” the usurper boasted.
It was difficult not to laugh. More than that she did not believe the chevalier’s sincerity, she marveled Le Bâtard spoke such to one who was to give an account of Norman barbarism.
“You may continue, Alvilda.”
Seeking to return to the path off which she had been yanked, she became aware of the thrum of her heart and perspiration on the back of her neck.
“We wait,” he prompted.
Determined not to be hurried lest she was discomposed further, she recalled her last words. “When Sir Roul was told the coffers were empty but for a few coins, he named my husband a liar and ordered his men to search the manor. While we were held under threat of blades, they did so and most destructively. When the coffers proved nearly barren and naught else of good value was found, this Norman ordered my husband beaten until he revealed his hidden riches.”
“That is the task with which such men were charged—to collect the tribute of those who wished to keep possession of their lands under my rule,” the usurper said. “If your husband did not have those funds, he should have quit the property ere my agents arrived.”
She longed to argue that just because he had made himself King of England did not mean he owned what belonged to the conquered, but it would be a waste and could cause her to forget her place in the story.
“The man I wed was a warrior,” she continued, “and when he was aggressed upon, acted one, fending off attacks with his bare hands. After beating one Norman, he took from another his blade, held it to that one’s throat, and commanded the trespassers to leave his home. That was when they dragged me before him. To preserve my life, he yielded the sword and was put through.”
Pushing past memories of his blood flecking her, she continued, “It did not end there, and Sir Roul let happen what happened to people you claimed were now your own. Ten more of our menfolk were gutted, and as they lay dead and dying on the floor of the hall, the weary trespassers called for food and drink.”
Throat and eyes aching from the strain of withholding tears and keeping her gaze fixed on Le Bâtard so they not stray to Guy, she swallowed. “Though the bride was made a widow the same day she wed, alongside her servants she was forced to pour drink for murderers.”
Again, she paused, this time over the realization she spoke as if it happened to another. Those words were not rehearsed, but since they were something of a shield, she continued to hold it before her. “The widowed bride hoped it was but the worst of dreams, but it was not yet that. What followed could turn a good man evil if those things happened to women under his protection. You must know I speak of the sin of ravishment.”
“You claim that you, a noblewoman, were violated?” Le Bâtard asked.
As this was not the order of her rehearsed tale, and his question more deeply colored memories she wished to remain muted, she ignored it. “The first ravished was one of beauty—my maid who was still more girl than woman.” She nodded at Sir Roul. “He ruined her, then his men set to ruining other servants.”
“You escaped such attentions?” he asked as if, had he any concern, it was for one of nobility.
Deciding she need not speak what next she had intended, she said, “Many the godless Normans who have little care for how high-born or comely the woman of whom they make spoils. Thus, it was an aged dagger slipped to me by a kitchen lad that saved me from the attentions of Sir Roul’s man.”
“You slew him?”
Offended by what was surely greater concern for a Norman, further she elevated her chin. “I should have, and I wanted to stick a blade in my enemy, but I hesitated.” She nearly looked to Guy to verify he understood what previously she had revealed. “For it—”
“Were you or were you not violated?” persisted the man who stole England.
More greatly hating him, she snapped, “As it was true then, it is true now. I am sturdy as God made me. I am a widow as Sir Roul made me. I am a maiden though his man sought to steal that from me.” She moistened her lips. “Because I did not do what I should have, another paid the price for my hesitation. Had I put that blade in your foul countryman, only he would have died. Instead, my grandsire met his end in fighting off my attacker. When the Norman put a blade in him, with the last of
