Having guessed Sir Roul remained in the Fens, she had been grateful to catch no sight of him, but better before this day than now.
Standing center of two men-at-arms and appearing at ease, he looked to those escorting Herba and Vilda and jutted his chin. “By order of the king, we are to take them the rest of the way. You are relieved.”
Them, Vilda pondered amid wariness over being in Sir Roul’s power again and fear his honesty and supposed remorse at Brampton would be of no use to her here. Was she destined for the tower as well, or would he deliver her somewhere else after Herba ascended the tower?
When the men who had escorted them here departed, Sir Roul said, “Follow.”
Shortly, he and his men led them onto a narrow path toward the towers opposite the eastern ones. As they neared the shore, the war machines loomed larger above the tops of tents, while the din grew louder. Then they were out of the camp, and Vilda feared her heart would burst when she saw the result of all the activity during her time at Brampton and since her arrival here two days past.
What she had been able to see of Norman forces from the shore of Ely during the first assault had shaken her, but this threatened to shatter her. It was not only the towers, three of which were mounted with ballistae and catapults. It was not only the second causeway whose pieces were arrayed on the shore between the sets of towers. It was not only those pieces were wider and better constructed than the first. Fearsome things all, but mostly expected. What was not expected were numerous mounds that would protect Normans from retaliatory bombardment and serve as fighting platforms should the resistance cross over to attack the war machines.
They will if they must, she thought. And with all this, it may be the only way to keep the enemy off Ely.
Blessedly, as evidenced by Hereward’s infiltration of the camp on the day past, as much as possible he was prepared for what he and his men would face should they move the fight here.
It would begin with fire, she was fairly certain, it being her cousin’s preferred method of attacking large groups of Normans. With the Fens’ abundance of highly flammable peat, fires were easily set, and more so when the enemy poorly chose the ground on which to erect a camp or fight.
In the night and distant from Norman forces, the peat in strategic bogs was lit, the flames traveling underground without the need for torch bearers to venture dangerously near the enemy.
The resistance had enjoyed varying degrees of success with such, the greatest being when first the Normans came to take Ely. A mid-sized camp had been destroyed by fires that suddenly sprang up all around in the night. Though most of the warriors had roused and escaped fire sweeping through their tents, many had fled into the paths of rebels who slew those who had time to retrieve their chain mail hauberks but not don them.
“Fire,” Vilda breathed and saw Herba’s head come around. Seeing alarm in the woman’s eyes, she quickened her step and drew alongside. “What is it, Herba?”
“When the Normans use fire against those on Ely…” She trailed off, looked to that shore with its amassed fortifications manned by mostly unseen rebels. “Your cousin will do the same to those on this shore, will he not?”
Keeping her gaze on Sir Roul’s back, Vilda said, “’Tis his greatest weapon, allowing him to incapacitate many with risk to only a handful of our own.”
Herba nodded. “I pray he knows I am his side, for I could not bear death by fire.”
Vilda longed to assure her she would be safe atop the tower, but she did not believe it. The machines hurling death at Ely would be destroyed first if possible, and she had little confidence Hereward would differentiate between the three casting rocks and javelins and the one from which curses were cast.
“I pray it as well.” It was all Vilda could say.
The nearer they drew to the tower thirty feet distant from the outermost western one, the brisker the breeze coming off the water. It had been playing amid Vilda’s skirts, flapping the hem of her gown about her manacled ankles. Now it shifted the braids whose ends skimmed her waist.
It was good that was the direction the stirred air moved. Providing it continued to do so, more rapidly enemy fire here would spread to the camp behind, whereas fire sent across the river would struggle to take hold.
“Be of good care, Lady Alvilda,” Herba said as Sir Roul halted at the rear of the cursing tower and motioned the older woman to ascend steps that looked a twisted spine for how many turns and short landings were required to reach the top.
When she moved away, he commanded, “You as well, Lady Alvilda.”
She startled and no sooner questioned what purpose she was to serve atop the tower than she understood. Further the resistance would be discouraged, whether because they thought her a traitor or merely a prisoner.
Vilda looked to the causeway Fenlanders were joining in sections that would be dragged into the water to be lashed to other sections to span the river, allowing mounted warriors and foot soldiers to move the battle onto Ely. Striding among those pieces were warriors whose chain mail reflected sunlight, while a greater number drew up formations on the mounds. Farther to the right were the eastern towers where more warriors moved among deadly contraptions mounted atop them.
Faceless all, she thought, then realizing it was because none wore Guy’s countenance, she closed her eyes. Though distantly aware of searching for him, now being close
