She glared at the knave, then moved that glare to Guy who stood five removed from her in the midst of others of the war council. It bothered she looked upon him thus, but as she had reminded him after their shared intimacy, they were enemies, and greater evidence of that now she was held at this place from which Guy and others would lead an attack against her own. And yet before she snatched her gaze away, he thought he saw softening there as if for him it was a show of abhorrence rather than true feeling.
Even so, all changes on the morrow, he knew. And more greatly if the resistance is crushed. If…
“What say you, Watchman?” Herba blurted in Anglo-Saxon, causing Taillebois and others of the council to stir and some to murmur. Then the woman dropped to her haunches and leaned forward as if to converse with one whose head had emerged from the water. “I know, I know. It abounds, but not in me, I vow. Not in me, Watchman.”
“What goes, Lady?” Ivo growled.
Knowing it was pretense, Vilda pressed her lips to keep from smiling. The morning meal having been delivered with the message Taillebois required a demonstration of Herba’s powers, the woman had thought on it as she chewed through bread, concluded the show demanded of her was for Le Bâtard, and offered assurance she was sly enough to satisfy.
“I know,” Herba said entreatingly, then groaned. “Aye, most troubling this.”
“Lady, what does she?” the knave spat in Vilda’s ear.
She looked into a face so near she could see its every pore. “You need me to translate?”
“Non! I have suffered the muck of your language long enough to understand it. To whom does she speak?”
She blinked. “How can I know? As a Christian, to no end would I converse with whatever she has summoned, nor would I employ any other to do it for me.” She shuddered. “I fear the wrath of God.”
His face darkened, and regret flew through her at the realization he might strike her though she was the king’s prisoner. Whether or not he would have dared, she could not know—much gratitude to Herba.
“Calm thyself!” The woman jerked as if a hand pulled her toward the water. “I know what is required of me!” She went very still, then tilted her head as if listening closely. “Agreed and agreed. As you will do, so shall I.” She stood and turned to those who watched, some of whom Vilda was certain were in the trees, among them the usurper.
No bend to shoulders nor back as expected of a crone, Herba advanced. “Though the guardian spirit of the springs threatened to slay me, I soothed it. It shall cost me much, but it agrees to intercede, ensuring no more good and noble lives are lost to the river when next you seek to cross to Ely.”
“That is proof of your power?” Taillebois demanded as she halted before him. “Words spoken to air? Naught to show for it?”
Herba closed one hand over the other and pressed them to her chest. “My Norman lord, you err if you think spells can be seen in the moment like fire molded in the hands and sparks flying from fingers. The field must be prepared to receive the seeds, and the seeds sown. Now that both are done, when your forces are ready to cross from this side to that, they shall do so without hindrance.”
From this side to that, Vilda mused. Clever words, true whether the enemy safely crossed to the isle or from life into death.
“Your survival depends on it,” Taillebois snarled. “Come!” He turned toward the camp.
Vilda hung back until those of the war council followed and the older woman drew alongside. Gaze fixed on Guy ahead, she murmured, “Quite the performance, Herba.”
“For fools,” the woman rasped. “Had Hereward witnessed it, he would have scorned me at best, drowned me at worst.”
Vilda agreed. For that, her cousin had rejected Theta’s proposal he employ Herba. He had some of the heathen about him, but he was Christian enough not to offend the Lord.
As they passed the copse where Vilda was certain the usurper had lurked, the guards who had delivered them here pushed off trees and fell in behind. Thus, no more was spoken between the women as they traversed the path, during which Vilda focused her attention on the chevalier ahead and wished she could speak with him though she did not know what she would say.
Surprisingly, once they entered the camp and were moving among workshops where iron and wood were fashioned into deadly implements and the din of those sounds and the voices of many assaulted the ears, he halted and resumed his stride when she drew even.
“Vilda,” he said.
It would be better had he forgotten her invitation to be familiar, and yet hearing him speak her name was honey to a bitter heart.
Lord, help me not feel so much, she sent heavenward. No good can come of this. She met his gaze. “Guy.”
He looked past her, and when he acknowledged the other woman, Vilda saw no disdain nor disquiet about him.
“Chevalier,” Herba returned his greeting and said, “Either you are ill-mannered in being familiar with this Saxon lady, else you are an agreeable acquaintance.”
Before Guy could respond, Vilda gave answer. “This chevalier saved me from drowning and has been as much a protector as ’tis possible for a Norman. That kindness has been a balm to the unkindness of being his king’s captive.”
The woman grunted. “And yet this witch sees more than that.”
Ignoring that, Guy said, “As I would speak with the lady in private, the guards will return you to your tent.”
“As I said,” Herba muttered and lengthened her stride as Guy took Vilda’s arm and led her into the shade of a covered well clear of bustling activity.
When he released her, she said, “I listen.”
“You look well, Lady.”
Having
