“As we are not in negotiations, and I have no cause to be,” Le Bâtard continued, “methinks you must agree I am not obligated to make an exchange for something I did not—and would not—ask for.”
She put her head to the side. “I would not expect it of you.”
Perhaps worse than gaining his ire, once more she amused, and when he was done expressing that, he said, “Taillebois will see you to your tent,” and strode to that place where his Council of War would be held.
Vilda looked to Guy and was grateful for the moments their eyes held. Then it was past, and he and the others followed their king. And no recourse for her when Taillebois took hold of her arm and, making no allowance for her chained ankles, pulled her after him.
Vilda could have moved faster—two steps for each of his—but she dropped to her knees and peered up into his darkening face. “Regrets. Either you must slow, else carry me. And as you see, I am quite sturdy.”
“Sturdy, indeed,” he said as he yanked her up, “just as I was told.”
Told, not seen, she thought and recalled when he stood in the boat watching her save a drowning Theta—who had not been drowning at all. Though she had believed it too great a coincidence when Le Bâtard named her a sturdy virgin widow, she had not entirely accepted it, but she did now.
And when Taillebois pushed her into a tent of which she was not to be the lone occupant, the identity of the one inside offered further proof of who had told him she was sturdy.
Chapter Seventeen
William hesitated. A good thing, especially after all he had been shown that was impressive enough to make many a commander confident not only of victory, but a relatively easy one. What caused him to hesitate were concerns voiced by Maxen, Guy, and—surprisingly—De Warenne that the morrow was too soon to launch the assault. But though the three were in accord, the latter believed a delay of three days was sufficient, whereas Guy and Maxen proposed five.
There being no question the siege engines were ready to be mounted atop the towers, they agreed with De Warenne three more days of training new arrivals would better equip the men for a battleground unlike any heretofore known, but they insisted two days beyond that could not only be the difference between success and failure but save lives otherwise lost to needless urgency.
Norman forces having been thwarted more times than not, they believed five days would allow the best of the elite force to gather more information about the resistance’s defenses. As learned well, the Normans’ greatest chance of stealing onto the isle and remaining undetected was to do so in small numbers during the hours of dark when rebels were either beginning to settle into night or rising ahead of the new day—relatively sluggish and just enough conversing and moving about to cover the missteps of those unfamiliar with their surroundings.
“Five days,” Guy repeated as William narrowed his eyes on the map. “Then better their weaknesses will be known, perhaps well enough to get a force on the isle as soon as the frontal assault commences, allowing us to surround the defenders and sooner end the conflict with fewer deaths both sides.”
“Both sides!” Taillebois scoffed. “The more Saxons dead the better, regardless of how many Normans must sacrifice their lives in service to our king.”
Though Guy was not alone in struggling against setting upon the knave, he knew Maxen’s struggle could prove more deadly. The Bloodlust Warrior had renounced the ungodly violence that earned him that name at Hastings, but now it was not only for his people he fought but those of his Saxon wife. Like Guy, his oath of fealty stood him William’s side. Like Guy, Maxen was here doing what threatened to rend his soul in the hope of ending that which continually picked off the scab of healing.
“We are tenfold better prepared than before,” Ivo prompted where he stood at the end of the table opposite the king.
Still, William hesitated.
“Lord,” Maxen rasped so low Guy knew he was the only one to hear his friend’s appeal and silently sent up his own.
“I have no doubt we shall prevail come the morrow,” Taillebois pressed on, “but there is one other weapon we can make use of to ensure victory, one for which the heathens are unprepared.”
William’s eyes fell on him. “You speak of the hag of whom I have told you nay.”
As Guy and Maxen exchanged glances, Taillebois entreated, “Pray, hear me. We do not embrace such unholy things, but our enemy does. For that, did not the pope support your invasion of England?”
“You know he did, and now you would have me—his chosen one—pay a traitorous Saxon to cast spells and curse her own people?”
“Do we set her atop one of the towers where she can be seen and heard, it could crush the courage of superstitious defenders. If that happens, surely the pope would approve.”
“If it happens!” William slapped the table. “And surely he would approve? You do not know that!”
Taillebois shifted uncomfortably. “The resistance can fall not five days hence but on the morrow,” he continued. “Then our victorious king can leave this ungodly place.”
“My liege,” Maxen said, “even do you decide against delaying the siege, whether five days or three, I believe it an ill thing to—”
“I will think on this!” William slashed a hand through the air, and again when De Warenne began to argue, then he crossed to a side table and lifted a pitcher. After pouring wine, he looked around. “How soon can this witch be delivered to us, Taillebois?”
The knave smiled. “Already she is here, my king.”
Though of good age, she was no crone. Fewer than three score years, Vilda confirmed as she looked more closely at the woman than was possible earlier when Taillebois pushed her inside and ordered her not to disturb
