Vilda peered at the ground that would likely break one or more of her bones. But even if one was her neck, a better death, indeed. She met the woman’s moist gaze. “Aye, that it is.”
Herba smiled sorrowfully, then stepped into the gap and very near the edge.
Vilda tried to snatch hold of her, and when the woman slipped free by turning her back to that opening, cried, “Nay!” and jumped in front of her.
Making no attempt to evade the hand on her arm, Herba said, “You must trust me in this.” Then she hooked her unaffected arm around the younger woman.
“Herba!” Vilda exclaimed, and as she was drawn into a peculiar embrace that caused the chain between her ankles to clatter, strained to free herself.
“We will not die by fire,” rasped the woman of surprising strength. “God willing, neither will you suffer broken bones.”
All was understood a moment before Herba stepped back with Vilda clasped close, and confirmed when the next step tipped both women over the edge.
As they fell through smoke-infested air, Vilda screamed—until the impact of their landing knocked the breath from her and dimming consciousness threatened to drag her down the dark roads of her mind.
Remain here! she silently commanded as she convulsed atop Herba in her struggle to open her throat. She needs you and you both must get as far from here as possible!
Sucking in breath, she threw herself to the side and, feeling and hearing her bindings, landed on her back in trodden earth. With her second breath, she made it to her knees. Her third breath saw her bent over Herba whose eyes were open, firelight dancing amid moisture.
“You are whole?” the woman croaked.
Suppressing a sob, Vilda nodded, slid an arm beneath Herba’s shoulders, and tried to raise her to sitting.
“Nay, my deathbed is here.” She coughed, and Vilda knew what flecked her was blood. Shifting her gaze to the sky, she murmured, “Such a pretty view, Lady.”
Imagined, Vilda thought. The smoke here dusting the ebony and blotting out the stars, only the moon pressed through gathering clouds. “We must get you on your feet, Herba.”
She raised a hand to the younger woman’s jaw. “We have victory this night, but ’twill soon be done here, just as done…north and south, east and west.” Another cough. “Get as far from Ely as possible, Lady. Only then might you find some joy in…whatever is left to you.”
“I will not leave you.”
Her brow furrowed. “Then you are doomed, perhaps so terribly you shall think death by fire not so great an evil.” Dropping her hand to her side, she shifted her gaze to the sky. “Now sit vigil with this body whose soul pries free or…save yourself.” Her lids lowered, and she breathed no more.
Vilda thought she would scream again. And perhaps she would have had not movement out of the corner of her eye revealed she was not alone on this smoke-ridden, body-strewn shore. A warrior whose chain mail reflected fire came toward her.
She nearly called Guy’s name, but the hope of him was only that, she saw as the staggering Norman drew near. Here was one of dishonor who should have fled or died, an enemy who would deliver her back into the hands of Le Bâtard.
Thinking to flee westward where more easily she could swim the river—and safely since those on the opposite shore might fire on her regardless of whether they recognized her—Vilda said, “God lift you up, valiant and faithful Saxon.” Then she drew her arm from beneath Herba who had sacrificed all possibility of leaving here alive, sprang upright, and swung to the right. With a clatter of chain.
How she had forgotten the restriction on the reach of her legs, she did not know. What she knew was even had she a greater lead, it was futile to run. All she could do was fight—futile as well, but she would not go quietly.
Tears on her face, shoulders moved by silent sobs, she turned to her assailant. Seeing he had slowed as if confident his quarry was snared, she braced her legs as far apart as possible, drew back an arm, and made a fist.
Sir Roul halted. “If you wish to get back to your own, we have no time for this, Lady. I come to give aid, this I vow.”
She stared into a face she had thought cruel when first she looked upon it years past. Now it appeared earnest amid pain, and when he lurched as if to keep his balance, she lowered her gaze and more believed him when she saw the reason for his stagger.
His left side bled profusely down his thigh and over his boot, possibly from a blade penetrating links in his mail, possibly an arrow snapped off. Though he had not died in failing to turn back rebels bent on destroying the towers, likely he was dying.
“You must trust me,” he entreated.
Herba having said the same before clasping Vilda close and toppling both from the tower, a sob escaped.
Sir Roul raised a bloodied palm. “Dare not go west. Most of my countrymen have fled that direction and, with the resistance hunting them like the hares into which your Hereward has transformed them, you cannot know if it is friend or foe you encounter.”
She looked that direction. Though she could not be certain the distant cries and clashing of steel mostly issued from there, more fire shone in the night, whether from torches carried by rebels or bogs set aflame.
Movement returned her regard to Sir Roul. Seeing he reached to the dagger on his belt, she took a step back in preparation to flee though her only hope of escape was if his injury was sympathetic to her cause.
“Non, Lady! I but lend…” He trailed off, gave a
