Vilda had masked anger, but once she was sidesaddle before a chevalier and the usurper came alongside and patted her knee consolingly, she had seen in his eyes he was aware of her churning. And how she hated it was no mere guess based on her circumstances—that in all the days since those first chess matches, better he had learned her temperament.
Each day thereafter and at various times, she had been summoned to sit across the board from him. Blessedly, ever there were few Normans present to witness their games. Not so blessedly for her opponent, when twice he squeezed out his own victories, he had few to clap him on the back for bettering this Saxon.
Never had Vilda given him quarter though it meant prolonging games she wished half their length, and those losses left a taste in her mouth that would have been less bitter had she known that only with her cooperation had he snatched those victories from her.
Two among the many, that is all, she reminded herself as she stared at the isle that had come into sight a half hour past when the entourage veered off its course to move toward the shore whence the Normans had launched their first attack on Ely. Would the next assault originate from that same place? And was Guy there?
“What role do you think you shall play in bringing your cousin to heel?” Le Bâtard repeated the question put to her when he ordered the man with whom she shared a saddle to come alongside.
Though earlier she had deigned not to answer, she looked to him. “What role?” She shrugged her mouth, a habit learned from him though it was consciously adopted in silent mockery. Often it made him narrow his eyes while innocently she stared back, and now as once more he peered at her through slits, she said, “On this particular board, it would be fanciful to believe my role can be any other than that of a pawn.”
He chuckled. “Hate me if you must, but I like bits of you, Lady.”
She nearly thanked him for granting her permission to loath him, but in the hope of enlightenment, she swallowed derision and found satisfaction in rattling the chain between her feet. Glimpsing annoyance, she said, “So how will you move this pawn captured on her own side of the board?”
Now the shrug of his mouth. “Others must be moved first—ones so powerful I think it very possible I will not need you. But of course, an excellent strategist keeps near all pieces, even those that may never be in play.”
“Then you accept my cousin will not betray the resistance no matter the threat to me.”
“I do. Though surely Hereward has a care for you, he did not become one of my greatest enemies by yielding to the sentimental. For that, you are a pawn. However, as well you know, those small pieces hold some sway, and greater that when one slips through defenses and is promoted to a more powerful piece. Will you be promoted thus, Lady? Likely not, but for that possibility I keep you near.”
No enlightenment, this—mere discourse with which he seemed extremely satisfied, as if he had constructed verses on the art of warfare to be picked apart and examined for how clever his words.
She nodded. “I would do the same were you my pawn.”
He smiled mischievously. “I know you would.” Then he laughed. “God’s rood, I am glad you are not a man! One Hereward is enough.”
Though other ladies might be offended, not she. This was a compliment, and one badly needed to help her face what lay ahead.
Lord, she silently appealed, let him fail again, and let that failure be the beginning of the end of Norman rule. Give us back our country, and we will be more faithful stewards of Your generosity.
“We will,” she whispered.
“Will what?” he asked.
Though her impulse was to ignore his question or lie, she went with the truth. “I was speaking with God.”
His eyebrows jumped.
“I assured Him that if He deems Saxons punished enough to restore England to us, henceforth we will be more faithful.”
She knew that could anger, but it stirred him to greater amusement, at the end of which he sighed and said, “Saxon rule of England is long past. When the death knell sounds for the resistance led by your cousin, only then will this kingdom regain its glory—and greater it will be under my rule.” Dismissively, he dipped his chin and looked forward.
“So you say,” she dared, and shifting on the fore of the saddle to return her regard to the isle, adjusted her legs with a clatter of chain.
Though she hoped he would order the chevalier to fall back, he did not. And so the ride wore on, all the longer for the leisurely pace over irregular ground and precautions taken by scouts sent ahead to prevent ambush.
Minutes after catching sounds of the conqueror’s great undertaking—saws and hammers, steel beating steel, shouted orders—the ground sloping shoreward that was chosen to launch the second assault on Ely came into view.
It lay just east of where the Normans had floated their doomed causeway and was better situated. Heart sickened, Vilda’s only relief was knowing the enemy had not discovered the best place to ford the marshy river. But as they drew nearer, that relief proved no consolation.
The camp was immense. Reaching out in all directions, a haze of smoke rose above hundreds of tents and the heads of thousands of the enemy who moved among them. Then there were large areas cleared to accommodate laborers who constructed weapons to be turned against their own people, and the greater of those weapons was not the second causeway.
Near the river’s edge facing Ely’s southern shore, immense mounds had been raised, and on either side of them were four wooden towers. They were only imposing platforms, but she was certain they would
