“You were treated civilly during the remainder of your stay at the manor?”
Hardly a stay, she thought. But it had been soft imprisonment. “I was, though I wearied of chess matches with your king—only two of which he won, I am pleased to say.”
“It is good you held his interest.” He glanced at where Herba had gone from sight. “All is well between you and that woman?”
“It is. And that she is here to curse her people as it was proposed to the resistance she curse Normans, now I know what I believe you knew all along.”
“That you should beware of Theta,” he said. “Aye, she is Taillebois’ pet. Hopefully, you will not think too ill of this enemy for not revealing an asset of my king.”
“I considered it, but I accept that since ever we shall be different sides, it is wrong to begrudge you your secrets, just as it is wrong to begrudge me mine. But I do wish…”
“What?”
She averted her gaze. She had nearly expressed the longing to get word to Hereward of the betrayer lurking around the edges of him, but that was impossible.
A moment later, the impossible became distantly possible when she swept her gaze past a table where laborers waited for water cups to be filled from large clay pots. One of those standing at the back of a line raised a hand low, and the feeling it spoke to her caused her to look again.
The hood of a frayed mantle draping his head, he of darkly smudged face stared. And she knew what the furrowed brow asked of her—For what are you here, V?
“Vilda?”
She returned her regard to Guy and, silently acknowledging she had another secret he could not begrudge her, covered agitation over the danger in which Hereward placed himself by arching her eyebrows questioningly.
Guy frowned. “You told you wished something.”
“Did I? I mean…” She groaned softly. “I did, but as ’tis not possible, why speak it?”
He considered her, then said, “What Herba did at the springs was unholy, but just as I suspect she does not believe herself a witch, neither do I.”
“On that we agree,” Vilda said, “but others believe it, and Taillebois thinks to use that to your king’s advantage, though it will displease the Lord regardless of whether she possesses such powers.”
Before he could respond, someone called, “Sir Guy!”
Both looked around, and weaving among the many was the squire who had no kind regard for her. And that impression was furthered when he halted and turned his shoulder to her. “King William orders you to attend the war council without delay, my lord.”
With Guy’s attention on Jacques, Vilda met the gaze of her cousin who had moved ahead in line. To answer his unspoken question, she began easing up her skirt to give proof of what she hoped required no proof. Though it might appear she was here of her own accord, she was not.
However, Guy’s next words made her release the material and return her regard to him. “Lady Alvilda, Squire Jacques will escort you to your tent.” His smile was slight. “I hope should we meet again, it will be under better circumstances.”
She turned her head and, with exaggerated regard, considered the preparations being made to slay those who could not be yoked and yoke those who yielded so they not be slain. God willing, the Normans’ efforts would be for naught and the resistance would triumph again, but that could mean the death of this chevalier.
“Better circumstances?” she said tautly. “That seems so unlikely, dare it be hoped for, Sir Guy?”
He leaned near. “Regardless of what comes of this, I shall do all in my power to assure your safety.”
Though she hated how their discourse must appear to Hereward, she did not draw back. “Then if your king prevails,” she said low, “you will escort me to a convent should I be allowed lifelong imprisonment over an early death in a cramped cell?”
A muscle in his jaw spasmed. “The lesser of evils, aye.” He turned away. “Squire!”
The young man stepped forward and gripped her arm hard.
Vilda meant only to pull free, but when she sought to do so, he growled, “Be still, Saxon pig.” Though she knew first she had offended in naming his lord a pig after her cousin injured this young man, her free hand rose toward that fuzzed jaw.
Guy saved him that humiliation, reappearing so suddenly and snatching Jacques away that Vilda guessed he had looked back—might even have heard what she was named. His intervention might also have saved Hereward, a glance in his direction revealing he had come out of line and stepped toward them. Once more still, his eyes were on the chevalier and his squire.
Face thrust near the wide-eyed one, Guy snarled, “No matter your grievances, that is a woman and a lady. As she is under my protection and you are a reflection of your liege, you dishonor me by disrespecting her when I pass her protection to you. Such will not be tolerated, and if I must better teach you that by way of the fist, I shall. Are we of an understanding?”
Suffering humiliation different from that of being struck by a Saxon woman, emotions convulsed across Jacques’ face—resentment, fear, even chagrin—then he muttered an apology.
“More that is due the lady than me,” Guy said.
The face he turned to Vilda was not well enough composed to disguise hatred, but others more distant might be fooled.
Feeling the regard of one particular onlooker, hopeful the squire’s behavior offered further assurance she remained the side of right, Vilda clasped her hands before her.
“Forgive me, Lady,” Jacques rasped.
She nodded.
Rather than immediately give the squire charge of her again to sooner answer the usurper’s summons, Guy drew Jacques aside. Whatever he spoke being too low to be heard, Vilda grasped the opportunity she had thought would
