“Witch!” the archer shouted, and once more Herba set to playing that role, though she could raise only one arm. In between coughs and throat clearings, her mouth moved, but so greatly she quaked, she had to be too pained to even think intelligible words.
Or so Vilda thought until she croaked, “See and hear how Normandy come unto England burns, Alvilda. Have any fires ever been as beautiful as these?”
Hearing the shouts and cries of battling, fleeing, and possibly burning men—keeping the door closed against Guy who could no more help her than she could help him—Vilda stared across her shoulder at flames sweeping through the camp. Already half was lost to the conquerors, and that which remained was doomed.
Returning her regard to Herba, she saw the woman’s head bob. Though weakening from loss of blood, she maintained the pretense.
Determined to try again with the archer who must be made to understand the injured woman could not keep her legs beneath her much longer, Vilda turned. In that instant, a great cry sounded, and she saw the fire rising up the front of that tower was outpaced by fire at the rear, those flames beginning to consume the platform where crude stairs had let onto it.
The warriors’ panic had risen to a fevered pitch, but still the archer sighted Herba, and Vilda guessed his ability to remain unmoved by the innate need for survival was the result of great hatred for Saxons. Whatever he had lost to her people, he was taking no responsibility for trespassing in a country not his own.
“Topple it!” shouted one of those trapped on the platform, and she did not understand his meaning until like boys answering the call to knock a ball around, all but her nemesis took hold of posts and rails and began pulling and pushing in an attempt to knock the tower shoreward. Doubtless, they hoped to ride it down and jump free ahead of impact. Since it might land near the water, greater their chance of survival if they gained that relatively soft landing.
The tower swayed slightly, and the stress on timber weakened by fire eating through it doubled the sound of cracking and splintering, but the archer gave no aid. Hence, what would he do if the others succeeded? Loose an arrow before the tower toppled? Or might he lose his balance, providing Vilda and Herba an opportunity to descend the stairs?
“It does no good if we do not move as one!” another Norman shouted.
There was agreement, then a count began, at the end of which all heaved, achieving greater sway and causing timbers to protest more loudly. Twice more they moved the tower, but when it settled into its new center, a sharp crack sounded and it lurched backward several feet. Not the direction they wished to go, but nearer the blazing camp.
A Norman gripped the relentless archer’s shoulder. “If we are to ride down this beast, all must work together.” When he received no response, he barked, “Do you not see the fire has moved to the rear of that tower, that it crawls up the steps?”
Hoping he lied, Vilda started toward them, but the archer shouted, “Non!”
She stilled, and finding herself his target, watched as the other man thrust his face near. “Either put both through or leave them to burn or jump to their deaths. You are needed!”
She knew he would do the former. Blessedly, never could that be proved, the tower lurching opposite the way they wished it to go, sweeping all off their feet and causing the loosed arrow to fly above her head as shouts and cries tore from the throats of Normans. The tower would find no real center again, but neither was it destined for the camp behind. As the burning wood strained and snapped, the structure fell sideways.
Vilda screamed, certain the siege engine would land against this one. But as if dealt the backhand of a giant, it twisted and with a thunderous clap, landed behind this one.
Vilda stared at where it had been, and found her breath only when a cloud of embers billowed up and, sweeping across the platform, began biting at her flesh and lighting on her garments.
Slapping at her bodice and skirts lest the holes singed into them caught fire, she hastened forward and peered down at the toppled tower. Entirely aflame, it began feeding on this tower whose backside and stairs were already alight as told.
Had it fallen different, Vilda and Herba could have made it near enough the ground to jump the remainder of the way with few, if any, injuries. That no longer an option and having no chance of toppling this tower toward the water, they could only pray it would fall well when fire had its way with it.
“Please, Lord!” Vilda rasped and swung around. Seeing Herba had moved from the gap and was bent over the rampart, praying she was merely unconsciousness, she hastened forward.
The moment she turned a hand around Herba’s arm, the woman pushed upright. “We are saved?” she asked. At Vilda’s hesitation, her eyes widened. “The steps?”
Vilda coughed into the crook of an arm, shook her head. “They are alight.”
Whimpering, Herba raised a quaking hand and pressed it beneath the arrow in her shoulder. “I cannot die by fire. ’Tis said to be the worst death of all.”
Vilda did not want to think on it. “It is possible when the tower comes down, it will fall toward the water and—”
“With the rear afire, you know it will not, Alvilda.” Herba nodded shoreward. “Though you in your few years could survive a jump with only a broken limb, not I. Do I not—” She coughed to clear her lungs
