He would do it. She could see it in the eye peering down the shaft and the grim of his mouth. Earlier, he might have afforded a warning by loosing an arrow near her, but with the screams of fellow Normans in burning towers traveling with the smoke across the night and several of those trapped on the platforms having jumped to their death, that shaft would be the end of her. And the next drawn from his quiver would be the end of Herba who, after praising the Lord for Hereward’s strength of leadership, had repeated she could not bear death by fire.
Vilda backed away. When she regained Herba’s side, the woman said above the sounds of battling men and heaving and crackling fire, “If he does not slay us, they will.” She jerked her head toward those below.
Across the expanse between the sets of towers, Vilda saw the number of rebels had increased. With fire spreading into surrounding reed beds and moving toward camp, causing Normans to break formation lest it sweep through their lines, the shore was being overtaken by the resistance.
And Herba was right. Mostly unopposed, rebels were coming with fire to do here what they had done to the other towers, and likely it would not matter that Hereward’s cousin was atop this one.
Having gained the advantage, they would not risk losing it by wasting precious minutes on affording her and Herba a hasty hearing. This tower must also be destroyed, not only to prevent the enemy using it again but to provide additional fuel to sooner ruin the camp and rout Normans who would be pursued through the marsh with javelins, arrows, and more fire.
And Guy? her heart asked of her.
“See there!” Herba pointed to the tower’s lower right corner.
Hands atop the rampart, Vilda leaned out.
Unexpectedly, Sir Roul and his men were still here and, as told by drawn swords and battle cries as they rushed over ground into thickening smoke, they would defend these towers against greater numbers. And they were not alone, those who had guarded the base of the farthermost tower joining them.
“Curse, witch!” the archer shouted.
As she resumed what only Vilda knew was prayer, the enemies clashed below.
Despite the haze of smoke whose ascent made Vilda cover her mouth and nose in an attempt to filter air, it was a violent and gruesome scene. Though the enemy fell, twice as many Saxons were slain to allow those carrying torches and bundles of highly flammable material to slip through the thinning ranks of Normans.
To her tentative relief, they bypassed the cursing tower. As she followed them around to that side where once more she was directly across from the Norman who threatened Herba and her, two were felled by rocks and an arrow flown by another archer. But their sacrifice was not in vain, torches loosed from spasming hands setting the dry grass alight. Moments later, fire carried by others were applied to bundles hastily packed around the tower’s forward struts.
With flames licking at the base, panic above ensued, and those working the contraption abandoned it to reach the stairs before they became impassable.
But not the archer this side. As if he knew his fate was cast, rather than attempt to escape the mold into which he was poured, he remained.
From this vantage, Vilda could not know what had become of Sir Roul and his men, but when more rebels appeared this side, it was obvious her people yet prevailed, even if only by strength of numbers. Some carried swords, others more fire and kindling, and by their efforts at the rear of that other tower, the fleeing Normans began clambering back to the platform. Escape barred, all they could do was continue hurtling rocks and loosing arrows.
Shifting her gaze from warriors desperation had cured of arrogance, once more Vilda considered the archer and noted the taut smile he wore as he looked between Herba and her. Having remained steadfast, he was proud of himself.
But what good pride when death came for him as it came for those he would slay before allowing them to escape what he could not?
When he swung his bow right, she gasped, but the hope he would allow her and Herba to depart was flayed when he loosed an arrow and a cry turned her toward the stairs in time to glimpse a rebel falling backward, mouth gaping as he who might or might not have been coming to their aid plunged to his death.
It was no surprise another arrow was nocked and trained on Vilda. Surprise was reserved for a shriek that caused her to spin around.
Herba had stumbled back from the gap as if struck, and as Vilda moved toward her, by the light of torches made of the eastern towers and grass fires that had reached the camp, she saw a shaft protruded from the woman’s opposite shoulder. The archer behind was not responsible, rather someone on the ground, whether Norman or Saxon.
Grasping Herba’s arm, Vilda stepped in front of her. Seeing the woman’s lids were tightly closed, she confirmed the injury was to the shoulder rather than the chest and blood seeping through the fabric was not profuse.
As Vilda began drawing her to the center of the platform where she could sit without presenting an easy target, the archer bellowed. “Non! The witch curses!”
Shielding Herba with her body, Vilda drew breath across which to argue. However, the air was so tainted by smoke, her words were choked by a barking cough that bent her forward.
“Return to your place. Now!”
A hand touched Vilda’s shoulder, and as she cleared her throat, she looked into Herba’s sorrowful face.
“I can continue,” the woman said, “as I must if you are to have a chance of escape.”
“If we are to have a chance,” Vilda corrected.
She nodded as if in agreement, but it was not that. It was appeasement in the hope of returning to that gap before the miscreant killed both.
Vilda put an arm around
