Had he returned to the England of King Harold, a great lord he would have become, but it was the England of Le Bâtard who killed the last Saxon ruler that greeted his return. And when Hereward discovered his family’s lands were in the hands of Normans who slew his brother and set his head atop a pike, vengeance had made a rebel of him.
“Oh, Hereward, I am more sorry for you than myself,” she whispered, “but sorrow will not set our country aright.” Shaking her head, she felt the grit of silt against her scalp. “If anything, more bloodshed.”
Moments later, there sounded a rush of displaced water as of a body emerging from the marsh.
Pray, an animal that moves on four feet not two, she silently beseeched as she turned her head to the left and sought to peer through tall grass she hoped would conceal her long enough to make the most of raising the hue and cry.
The grass being impenetrable in the night, as she strained to catch the sound of more Normans slithering out of the water, she sent heavenward, Lord, if you will not make these years but a dream, at least give aid to those on Ely who have lost so much they are no longer who they were—just as neither is this woman who has forgotten how to tease, smile, and laugh well.
Blessedly, it sounded only one came out of the water, and that one muttered, “Accursed muck!”
Not a man but a woman. More importantly, not a Norman but a Saxon.
Easing onto hands and knees, Vilda saw the one on the shore with her chemise knotted up around her hips and wringing water from her hair was a woman free with sexual favors providing those who sought them were not of the common.
Before she had offended Hereward by encouraging him to pay her aunt to curse the Normans, several times it had fallen to Vilda to distract her cousin from that one’s seductions. Though she had not met the wife Hereward had left on the continent, from his talk of her she was certain he was devoted to Turfida, and Vilda would not have a dalliance ruin his marriage.
Now even greater reason to keep from her cousin the harlot he had rebuked for suggesting he consort with one surely of the devil. Whatever that woman did here past middle night, it reeked of wrong—perhaps even to the depths of treason now Le Bâtard’s army was en route to the Fens.
Vilda peered across her shoulder past the blockade of vessels to the glow of fires that revealed where the Normans made their camps well back from the shore. By boat and in the absence of hostility, it was no great undertaking to reach the land that other side of the river, but under one’s own power…
She returned her regard to this shore and startled to see the woman had removed the wet chemise and drew over her head a dark gown that would have made her one with the night if not for moonlight. The dry garment was one never before seen, so proud was she of two fine gowns that, though somewhat worn, had been fashioned for a lady. Either much gratitude had been shown her by a man of wealth before she came to Ely, else she had relieved a former mistress of her finery.
The woman jerked at a bodice resistant to gliding over damp skin, shook her hips to lower the skirt, shuffled as if pressing feet into slippers, then swept up the wet chemise and ran toward the nearest town this side of the isle.
Vilda longed to follow and snatch hold of those damp tresses and fling the woman to the ground, but her watch was not done. And at the moment, her patrol was more important than confronting one whose machinations were likely done for the night. But when Vilda returned to town, she would tell Hereward all, and he would discover the truth of the harlot’s outing.
She rose and, staying low, reached the cover of trees where she watched a half hour to ensure no others crawled onto the shore. None did, and after retrieving her torch, she moved among the fortifications and more forcefully impressed on those of the watch the need to be alert.
There was no star of forked tail streaking the sky, no ill wind coming off the water, but it felt as if evil circled, seeking to make a hole in the isle’s defenses—else discover one already made.
Chapter Two
The Fenlands
Wily William. He had to be aware the rebels knew he was coming. For that, he and his personal guard had advanced ahead of his army whose formidable numbers would hasten Hereward’s scouts back to the isle to inform their leader of the enemy’s pending arrival.
Though it was possible the king and his small party had been sighted and the resistance knew William was already in the Fens, it was unlikely since the conqueror’s own scouts would have uprooted any lurking near enough to identify him. But when the army arrived late this afternoon, there would be no doubt the conqueror was here.
As yet ignorant of the reason he was summoned to the great tent, Guy braced his legs farther apart and crossed his arms over his chest. Then once more he considered the company he kept as William consulted a map etched into a stretch of cowhide, the impregnable Isle of Ely at its center.
Also present in addition to the captain of the king’s guard who had once answered to Guy, were the leaders of other forces whose numbers were greater than those Guy commanded. Then there was the second William
