The drunkard of the night past who struggled to look attentive was here as well, standing near the two who did not include him in their circle of companionship, though not so near to draw more judgmental attention than already received. Unfortunately for Ivo Taillebois, his pallor and bloodshot eyes testified against him.
The eighth man here, on the side of the table opposite the two Williams and the Sheriff of Lincolnshire, was Maxen Pendery—once known as the Bloodlust Warrior of Hastings, now known as Baron of Etcheverry, ever known as the brother of Lady Elan, and since childhood Guy’s greatest friend.
Guy hated that his loss of Maxen’s sister had made it so awkward it had been best to leave his friend’s service and enter the king’s. Two years later, it remained awkward, so much Guy had hesitated to clasp arms with Maxen when his friend dismounted. However, Maxen had not allowed that to stop him from greeting Guy as if he was greatly missed.
As soon as the two were rid of this audience, Maxen would be given the apology owed him.
Of a sudden, William slammed his hands on the map. “Certes, this enclave is treacherous, De Warenne.” He jutted his chin at the isle of high ground surrounded by reeds, marsh, bogs, and open water. “But that is no excuse for it remaining in the hands of lawless rabble. You should have taken it months ago, slain Hereward, and delivered that weasel, Morcar, to me. Now when I am needed elsewhere, I am here.” He pushed off the table and looked to Taillebois. “And you show your gratitude for all I have given you by drinking yourself into a stupor when you ought to be cutting down rebels like grain to the scythe.”
The sheriff’s face brightened further.
Had Guy a liking for the man, he would have sought to warn him to bear William’s anger with closed mouth, for the king’s tone told he did not seek an explanation.
As expected, Ivo of sword skill that far exceeded wit sought to defend himself. “My liege, such lands as these are unknown to us. Ever the ground and waters are shifting, one moment safe to pass over, the next deadly. And the grasses and accursed peat have only to be set upon by a single s-spark”—he slurped down excess saliva whose spray fell short of William but not De Warenne who sharply drew a hand across his jaw.
“But a single spark can cause all to go up in flame,” the sheriff continued, “and the rebels make use of that, if not stealing upon our men over causeways and tracks unseen to put blades through them, then enclosing them in fire.”
When he paused for breath, one of two commanders of the largest forces stepped forward. “My king, as you know, the cost of this campaign has been great in time, money, and men. A sennight past, a score of those I command—a score!—were slain by a handful of rebels and stripped of weapons and armor. And that was in the day. The rebels are…” He of three score years raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “…devils. Though you are here now and perhaps you can do what we cannot—”
“Perhaps?” William barked.
Though Guy was tempted to snatch the aged warrior back, he knew it would be of no aid. Ivo had kindled a fire, and this man had tossed logs atop it.
His bowed shoulders rose with breath. “As you know, I have been here since the Danes broke faith with Hereward, this my final service to you ere I go home to my wife in Normandy. Scorn me for losing courage, refuse me my reward, but for your sake and all those here, I urge you to make terms with this rebel, bringing him to your side the same as Harwolfson, Vitalis, and others who once bore arms against you. Ely and the rest of the Fens through which the resistance travel are well fortified and the rebels too loyal to their leader to yield without great bloodshed both sides.”
“Not all are loyal,” Ivo said, and Guy knew he referred to his pretty eel. “Providing one knows which brick to hammer out, the whole wall tumbles.”
Still looking wrathful though that emotion was now tempered by what seemed interest, William said, “Later, you will have to tell me more about this brick, Taillebois.” He strode around the table and halted before the commander who wished him to seek terms.
Guy and Maxen exchanged glances as they waited for what would befall he who had averted anger from Ivo.
The king set a hand on his shoulder. “It is past time you return home. Time for you to reunite with your wife and enjoy your reward.”
The man stiffened. “What of my men?”
“Henceforth, Baron Pendery will lead them.”
Guy had known William would make good use of the warrior who had served him well at Hastings, but Maxen’s fleeting expression told he was not well with this. Though he had been raised in England the same as Guy, he had been obliged to fight for his family’s Norman lord against Saxons who were more his countrymen. It had nearly broken him past mending, but the love of the Saxon he took to wife after Hastings had healed him. Now, once more he must act against the English whose blood flowed with his in the child made with Lady Rhiannyn.
The king looked around. “Pendery, assure this man you will lead well the men given into your charge.”
The cold light in Maxen’s eyes expanded, surely suiting William who likely interpreted it as imaginings of what the Bloodlust Warrior would do to bring Hereward to his knees. Despite being long parted from his friend, Guy knew the light was fueled by hatred of what was required of him, perhaps even hatred of his king.
Maxen stepped alongside William. “I will lead them well,” he said to
