“Up the tower!” Sir Roul barked.
They continued forward, one slowed by reluctance and age, the other by manacles. Herba led the ascent, and as Vilda followed, a foot became entangled in the chain. If not for a hand catching her up, her knees would have slammed onto the next step.
She told herself it could not be Guy, and yet the hopeful of her expected to see him when she looked around.
It was Sir Roul. “Regrettably, I have not the key to remove your bindings to make your ascent safer,” he said, “but if you are well with it, I shall follow close behind to ensure a fall does not break your neck.”
She stared. She was not well with it even if he presented no threat, but what choice had she with so many steps of varying height, some of which would strain the chain? “I accept,” she said grudgingly.
Thus, they climbed the tower, and though mindful of each step to ensure she did not require his aid, thrice he had to steady her and—blessedly—just as quickly released her.
When Vilda stepped onto a platform four times as deep and wide as she was tall, she saw Herba stood several feet back from a gap between railed ramparts and peered across the river.
As Vilda walked the creaking planks, she was alarmed the tower was of sufficient height to allow the enemy to see much of what went between Ely’s shoreline fortifications and the trees and foliage. At the moment, all was still in that space of sparse grass and moist ground, but it was not because the defenders were lax. Armed as much as possible with what Hereward had learned of the usurper’s strategy, they but waited for the enemy to set all in motion.
As for those hunkering behind wood and peat walls, only here and there was a head visible, making it appear the shoreline was poorly guarded. She was certain there were more there, all armed with blades, bows, and slings, just as she knew someone on that shore would soon recognize her alongside Herba.
“Witch!” Sir Roul said.
Though Vilda knew she dare not correct him for naming her fellow Saxon that, offense surely shone from her when she turned with the older woman toward the one she assumed had begun his descent.
“Norman?” Herba said, folding her hands at her waist in the attitude of one granting audience to a lesser.
Glowering, he said evenly, “Two blasts of the horn. When it sounds, you are to move near the edge between the ramparts to be seen well and begin cursing the heathens loudly enough you are heard across the water. Once the assault begins, you shall continue cursing and casting spells even if you can no longer be heard. Do you not, an archer in the tower opposite shall put you through.” He nodded to the left at the platform where half the warriors surrounding a ballista had bows and quivers fastened to their backs.
Herba snorted. “As my purse is heavy with coin, be assured I shall curse—and loudly even does it tear my throat.”
He shifted his regard to Vilda. “You are to stand alongside the witch and—”
“I will not curse my own, so best put me through now.”
Annoyance scratched lines in his face. “Such is not required of you. My king but wishes you seen.”
Then she was here not only as discouragement but to afford Herba a measure of protection should the resistance attempt to silence her tirade. Of course, the latter was dependent on rebels being unwilling to earn Hereward’s wrath for slaying his cousin alongside one believed a witch.
“I will make myself seen,” she said and turned her back to Sir Roul. Herba did the same and crossed to the rampart left of the gap, neither speaking until his footsteps faded.
Gripping the railing and sinking into her shoulders, the older woman said, “I think the Lord displeased I am so moved by fear that I shall do as bid in the hope of living just one more day in what feels a godforsaken England.”
“Not as bid,” Vilda said, drawing alongside. “Your words shall be carefully chosen, aye?”
She nodded. “They are firm in my head. Providing the Normans do not attend closely to them, wrongly they will be pleased by the work of this witch. And do the resistance give me enough benefit of doubt to attend closely to them, rightfully they will be pleased.” She sighed. “Providing…”
“We will survive this,” Vilda said.
“If God does not once more show Himself unwilling,” Herba rasped.
Unable to argue that, Vilda allowed the woman her silence and looked from the side of right to the side of wrong—searching again for the chevalier and all the while telling herself it was only to distract her from the horror that would soon be loosed from this shore.
Guy’s hand ached—of his own doing since a greater expression of rage than seeking to turn his sword hilt to molten iron would benefit none and could see command of his men given to one who would spend their lives cheaply.
“Guy?” Maxen said, having followed him from the command post after the audience with William was cut short by impatience that could see the disaster of that first assault repeated.
Breaking stride, Guy turned.
“Though never have I known well the much lauded William the Great and am glad of it,” Maxen said, “now I know him not at all. Had he led at Hastings as he leads now, this country would yet be English.”
He would get no argument from Guy who, accompanied by two of his best men, had stolen onto Ely before
