It is done, Vilda told herself, and not one hot tear fell.
Opening her hands at her sides, she held her gaze to Le Bâtard’s to await his accusation she lied or declaration that in times of war such things happened, but he stared, things unknown flitting across his eyes that alternately deepened and eased the lines of his face.
Catching movement from Sir Roul who had made a widow of her and spoils of those of her household, she realized there was one more thing to be said. “Now, Duke of Normandy, if still you think I ought to beg forgiveness of your liegeman, threaten me again and prove you would be well were your own wife told to apologize to a Saxon who did to her what was done to me and mine.”
“Though much you call to mind my Matilda, you overstep,” he growled.
“Would she not were she made to stand before my king and tell what befell her household—your household—that was overrun by invaders?”
Slowly, he sat forward and clasped his hands. “That was a moving tale. If it is true, it is regrettable such ill befell the wedding party, but methinks my man will refute it, and who am I to believe? One loyal to me or one greatly disloyal?” He looked to that Norman. “Speak, Sir Roul, and let us be done with this so sooner your accuser can make restitution.”
I detest you, Vilda thought, then shifted her gaze to the chevalier. And you as well.
This time he did not avert his eyes. “My liege, earlier that day whilst riding between demesnes collecting your tribute, rebels set upon us and slew three of my men without loss of their own. Thus, we were greatly roused when we arrived at the next estate and found a wedding feast in progress and no tribute. It is true the manor was searched. It is true much destruction was wrought.”
Vilda startled but immediately reminded herself it was only two truths among the numerous lies to follow.
“It is true I ordered the lady’s husband beaten to persuade him to reveal what was hidden. It is true he resisted and was slain.”
She stopped breathing.
“And as told, it is true what followed—I did what I should not have and allowed my men the same.”
Hearing a grunt, Vilda looked to Taillebois and saw his color was high, teeth bared.
“Thus, though I wish I could refute the lady’s account, as the priest who received my confession last eve can attest, it would be a lie.”
Sway in her legs, Vilda stepped her feet apart and shifted her regard to the priest who nodded. Tears threatening to overflow, she looked again to Sir Roul.
“None need tell me what we did was ignoble,” he said. “Daily the Lord reminds me of our sins, I acknowledge them and repent, and monthly I mortify my flesh.” He jerked at his belt, let fall that which was hung with sword, dagger, and purse, and drew tunic and undertunic over his head.
“Almighty!” the usurper muttered, and she understood when the back turned to him was shown her. Numerous thin lines striped it, evidencing a whip had been snapped over a shoulder. All were healed except those recently gained.
He faced her again. “I know it will never be enough, but though still I am set against the resistance, I confess I went too far that day.”
I will not cry, she told herself. All here are undeserving of Saxon tears. But one fell and another.
“We shall end the resistance upon Ely,” Sir Roul continued, “but be assured never again will I nor men under my command work such depravity.”
Cease! she silently commanded, knowing if she did not gain control of her emotions, her face would become a wet mess.
Receiving no response from her, the chevalier swept up his tunic and belt and turned to his king. “With your permission, I shall take my leave.”
“Granted, Sir Roul.”
He bowed and, straightening, turned his head slightly left. Had she not looked that direction and witnessed Guy’s barely perceptible nod, it would not have occurred the principled Norman had induced the unprincipled one to tell the truth. She was nearly discouraged, having found in that confession another prick of hope amid the dark, but still it was there, Sir Roul’s striped flesh evidence of genuine remorse.
She watched him cross the hall, and when the porter closed the door, Taillebois strode forward. “Pray, grant me your leave, my king.”
Le Bâtard smiled. “Given, providing you leave be Sir Roul with whom I may be impressed once further I reflect on this.”
Vilda could not like that chevalier, even were he to repent every day of his life, even if he became a monk and led many to salvation, but she was glad he would not be punished for his honesty. It was not forgiveness she granted—not yet and possibly never—but she could aspire to it.
Taillebois cleared his throat. “My liege—”
“Indeed, if I am as impressed as methinks I shall be,” Le Bâtard spoke over him, “I may even award Sir Roul command of a sizable force.”
He who had first been sent to the Fens to quell the resistance and failed even when more forces arrived and aid was given by De Warenne, bowed curtly and departed.
“Hence, the matter resolved, albeit in an unexpected way,” the usurper said. “I trust you are satisfied, Alvilda.”
Thinking too much he trusted her, she said, “Possibly as satisfied as your wife would be.”
Arching an eyebrow, he sat back and draped his hands over the chair arms. “You believe yourself clever to remind me I likened you to my wife and cast her in your circumstances—and you are—but beware, it wears thin.”
As she inclined her head, she realized emotions that had tossed around her insides had begun to settle and was about to request her own leave when he turned to De Warenne. “Since
