“So they did,” she said. “When Vitalis came to Ely, it was but a means to an end. Having yielded to Norman rule, his means of getting on the isle was to train rebels for Hereward, his end being to aid in Lady Nicola’s escape from the Danes.” She raised her eyebrows. “And see, now he is wed to that Norman lady and trains up warriors for your people—including the usurper’s son as Le Bâtard told me.”
“There is much to the tale of what happened after Vitalis saved Lady Nicola from Hereward’s allies,” Guy said, turning right again to avoid crudely constructed privies whose foul odors soaked the air. “I do not know Vitalis well, but he is no traitor. Having finally accepted how all this ends, he refused to lead more men to their deaths and determined to make a life with that lady in the hope their children know a better England than we. ’Tis true he trains up defenders of this country, but all are youths, including Prince Richard, and those at Wulfen Castle are equal numbers Normans and Saxons. It will be many years ere any take up arms in earnest, the hope being by then this country must only defend against outsiders.”
Seeing moisture in her eyes, Guy had to remind himself a comforting hand on her shoulder would not be welcome.
Not until they turned one last time did she speak again. “It sounds a dream my people will one day live peacefully with yours.”
“It does, especially with what is to come here, but I am not without hope, and neither should you be.”
When he halted distant enough from her tent they would not be heard by the guards, Vilda stepped in front of him. “Why do you champion me?” When no answer was forthcoming, she said, “I cannot argue your king’s claim you have made yourself my champion, but I question the reason, especially after…”
Our kiss, Guy thought. “We both know that should not have happened, Lady.”
She inclined her head. “Le Bâtard said that were it of benefit to him, he could order you to wed me.”
Barely, Guy suppressed surprise likely to offend.
“But he told he valued you too much to force such a union you would find less desirable than wedding Lady Nicola,” she continued. “Hence, why are you my champion? Because you are simply considerate as he concluded since he knows naught of our intimacy and believes you would join with me only under duress? And why were you not interested in wedding Lady Nicola—a beauty and one of your own like—”
“Elan,” he said more sharply than intended. “Though further I anger the king, I will answer as I can, and then I must leave. I am your champion because I feel for your plight as I feel for all who have lost their country, and more so for having been raised among Saxons. That I do not and will not regret. What I regret is our kiss which I would have you know had naught to do with pity but attraction.”
Her eyes widened.
“Attraction for which I have no answer, Vilda, having had little experience with what I felt the day I trespassed on you.”
She swallowed loudly. “No answer because you knew you wanted Elan, and you know you do not want me?”
Guy’s insides roiled. He needed to put this away—and now—not only because he kept William waiting, but he sensed she sought encouragement for whatever she felt for him, and he knew there was no hope for that even if he did want her.
Which I do not as she herself states, he told himself.
He stood taller. “It makes no difference what you or I want. It makes no difference what you or I feel. We are enemies and, regrettably, about to become more so.” He bowed and strode opposite, leaving Vilda in the hands of others as she should have been from the beginning.
Chapter Nineteen
I will not think of him. I absolutely will not.
It was the same Vilda had told herself since Guy delivered her to the tent, silently repeating it as daylight hours dragged toward night—then between bouts of restless sleep that moved her mind to frightful dreams of the new day when the drawn curtains of war might once more be flung wide.
Awakening at dawn, she had found Herba on her knees, eyes closed and gently rocking herself as she muttered. It had alarmed until Vilda realized it was no incantation but prayer. The woman who had been eerily quiet following the visit to the springs had much to say to the Lord, not only on her behalf but that of the resistance and Le Bâtard’s captive.
When she had gone silent and let her head hang, Vilda had touched her hand and thanked her.
Herba had drawn breath, raised her chin, and asked, “Have you prayed for me, Hereward’s cousin?” When it was confirmed, a sorrowful smile had curved her lips. “I shall need those prayers and more, this the day I am to curse our people ahead of and during the assault.”
“It will not be Saxons you curse, Herba.”
“Ah, but many of the resistance will not be certain of that,” she had said, then once more wrapped herself in a blanket of silence.
Now with the sun in decline, Vilda gripped closed the neck of her green mantle as she followed Herba through the camp toward the imposing towers whose upper portions were seen above mostly vacant tents.
She did not know what part she was to play when the assault commenced, having anticipated being left behind to pull at her hair over the battle she would only be able to imagine going one way or the other, but it seemed her imagination was not to be left to its own devices. She was to bear witness.
“Lord, not to the destruction of the resistance,” she whispered, “and pray not in the
