Natural hillocks interspersed between open ground offered cover for the two tasked with keeping watch over the boats. Rocks abounded, the sounds of their skittering sure to carry, and several small bogs were glimpsed when moonlight pressed through thin places in clouds whose rain misted the air.
For a half hour, the three rebels aided by the patrol here had searched the area to ensure the one glimpsed on that other shore had not come this way. Concealed with Vilda behind foliage outside that perimeter, Guy had spoken no word, and she knew the strategist within the warrior was engaged.
Now, those three having departed, the cover of clouds impenetrable, and Guy acquainted as much as possible with what must be traversed, he led the way.
Often their course had to be altered to avoid places unseen until they were nearly upon them. For that—and more—Vilda was grateful he kept hold of her. She thought herself observant, but his skill was honed, perhaps even innate for how many times he saw what she would have blundered upon.
For all those detours, the time allotted to reach the boat was too little. When Guy pulled her behind spindly trees and onto her knees beside him, she knew to be silent and calm her breathing and was grateful he did not press a hand over her mouth.
The older and more formidably built of the patrol appeared to the right. As trained into him, he was mindful of his movements, prepared to swing his sword if an enemy came against him.
Vitalis would be proud of him, Vilda thought. Before taking Lady Nicola from Ely, he had himself transformed this former miller into a defender of England.
The man being enraged over the loss of two sons to the conquering, she prayed he would not get between them and the boat. He was a warrior now, but unless Guy erred greatly, the rebel would become another casualty if singlehandedly he sought to confront this chevalier.
“Pray, do not kill him,” she whispered and felt Guy’s grip tighten. Though the rebel was well enough past he could not hear her, he would if she raised her voice.
When he went from sight, knowing the second on patrol would not be long in coming behind, they continued forward. Once more restricted by the reach of her legs, staying low and going around traitorous ground, they made it to the flat-bottomed boat anchored by mud.
As she sent thanks heavenward and tried not to think on never again seeing Guy, he growled, “Get in the boat.” Then drawing his sword, he lunged down the shore.
Trying to make sense of what he had seen or heard, she guessed the rebel ahead had turned back, but it was not him. The one toward whom he sped had come out of the water between boats, doubtless having concealed himself amid reeds. The patrol here did not number two but three—or more.
“Lord, help us,” she whispered as this rebel raised the hue and cry.
Then Guy was upon him, and there came the sound of steel meeting steel. Almost immediately, one of the two dropped without protest as if struck unconscious, and she hoped as a Saxon ought not that Guy was not the one on the ground.
“In the boat!” he shouted, this time in his language.
Relieved he lived, she started to turn away but caught swift movement beyond him. “Behind you!”
Already he was turning toward the man trained by Vitalis, and the other patrolling the area would soon be here as well.
More clashing of blades, and from what she could see, these two were well matched—for a short time. Both grunting and shouting, mostly with anger but what she also suspected pain, one gained ground then the other, sometimes so near she could not guess which was which. Other times, they were so distant she knew Guy prevailed at least in some measure since his opponent’s movements became less fluid.
Then it was over, the Saxon on the ground the same as the first. And the third rebel who answered the call to arms later than expected ceased his advance.
From what Vilda had glimpsed when earlier he passed near where she and Guy awaited the departure of the three, she knew he was too young to be battle hardened. Thus, no shame in hesitating over alone confronting an enemy who had put down warriors more capable than he, and no shame in fleeing, though to his end days, likely he would suffer guilt.
As he bolted opposite, Guy sheathed his sword and ran to Vilda.
Despite the dim, blood was visible on his tunic that could not all be his for how easily he moved.
“God’s rood!” He took hold of her and began drawing her to the boat. “I told you to get aboard.”
“I could not!” she gasped, and realized not only did tears moisten the mud on her face but drizzling rain.
Breathing heavily, Guy paused and peered at her. “As you asked of me, I did not kill him nor the one come out of the water,” he said, surely believing she cried for them. She did, but for other losses as well—in the past, present, and future. “Thus, as both will come around and the third will return with help, we must be as far from here as possible.”
It sounded he was going with her, but she knew he could not. He would return to Le Bâtard’s service just as, unbeknownst to him, she would return to Ely. But if he would go away with her and far from the Fens…
“Make haste!” He pulled her into the water. When a foot caught in the chain and she stumbled, he swung her into his arms as if she were a girl, waded to the bow, and lifted her over the side.
She longed to stay in his arms, but she did her part, turning and dropping her knees
