Vilda could not be more distinct from Maxen’s sister, and yet Guy’s attraction for her was of a depth he had not believed possible to feel for a woman whose stamp he would expect to see on the reverse side of any coin Elan graced. Strange that should appeal, but here more proof he did not know himself as once he had.
It will pass, he told himself. The only thing of which he ought to be concerned with regard to the Saxon lady was that she not suffer the punishment to be dealt her cousin when the resistance collapsed. Unfortunately, even that he had little control over. The best he could do was what he had done after leaving her—sending the squire who earlier released her from the chamber to secure her inside.
“Behave, Vilda,” he spoke into air rushing past him. And hoped it would carry his warning to her.
Chapter Sixteen
The Fenlands
Early Autumn, 1071
The only Norman who had made it to the end of the causeway that fateful night—and for it was believed slain—lived. And his strut told he was no more humble than when he spurred past Guy, his rashness encouraging warriors to forget their training and to whom they answered. For it, numerous bodies that had not been retrieved now formed an unholy causeway beneath marsh distant from this shore.
Guy believed himself to be in good control of his emotions, but just as he had erred about what he did and did not feel for Vilda, he erred in not exercising restraint. Or he would have had De Warenne not intercepted him.
“I know,” William’s commander growled. “I would also like to pound his face—and worse—but his captivity could be of benefit.”
Guy peered across his shoulder through the scattering haze between this shore and the isle. On that shore, fortifications of peat and timber gave cover to the resistance whose numbers had increased when the Normans decided to launch their next assault from this place, the distance between the two shores shorter and the marsh of less depth than where the first causeway was floated.
Looking back around and seeing Maxen approached, Guy waited until his friend arrived, then asked, “How did Deda escape?”
“He did not,” De Warenne said. “In the early hours of morn, Hereward’s men rowed him over and left him bound and gagged on the shore.”
Guy glanced at the knave who strode alongside Ivo toward the command tent erected days past when construction of all that was to deliver victory to William neared completion. “For what would Hereward release him?”
“A show of good faith prompted by great arrogance. Surely by way of infiltration of our camps, Hereward learned his cousin was captured and wished her released, though not so she might return to Ely.” Before Guy could question that, he continued, “Deda tells that before he was offered in trade, he was treated like an honored guest and Hereward showed him around the isle.”
Guy grunted. “The resistance’s attempt to mislead us with whatever that knave tells of what he learned of their defenses.”
Maxen stepped forward. “Does Hereward truly believe William will release the lady for the return of one whose greed resulted in so many deaths?” He made no attempt to disguise anger over the loss of his men. “And what of punishment due him?”
De Warenne, who answered to no one save the king, did not appear offended. “I but repeat what Sir Deda told, Baron Pendery. As for punishment, I am in accord, but since the order was given to advance—true, after the chevalier took it upon himself—I do not think he will suffer much. As for the release of the lady to a convent of her choosing, neither do I believe our king will honor a bargain he did not make. Indeed, if he brings her with him when he arrives this day, she will be used as he wills.”
Guy felt every muscle tighten. He had known she was likely to accompany William, even if only to bear witness to the assault. That was ill enough, but if the king had plans for her beyond that…
“Come, Baron Pendery and Sir Guy,” De Warenne said. “If naught else, it will be interesting to see how Deda’s account of the isle compares to its mapping by the elite force.”
An hour later, the chevalier before whom the leather map was unrolled was less smug. He was accurate about the locations of various towns, the abbey, and shoreline fortifications clearly visible to the eye, but he knew little of the main military camp and naught of outposts strategically placed between towns. Nor had he learned where the immense camp of refuge had been erected to accommodate those fleeing Norman oppression who could not be trained into warriors—old men, women, children, the debilitated, and those of holy orders who ministered to the people.
Deda had been shown only what he was meant to see and, likely, what Hereward believed was already known to the enemy since the communities on Ely were established long before the isle became a base of resistance. Thus, had the chevalier even a distant hope of William rewarding him for crossing to the isle, only a great loss of good sense would see it done. Indeed, better he make himself scarce when the King of England arrived to witness victory he was determined would not be denied him a second time.
Quite cordial—except for the chain once more strung ankle to ankle. Granted, it was longer than the first so she not shuffle. Granted, Le Bâtard had expressed regret for the necessity of ensuring once she was back in the Fens, attempts to
