“We could run for it,” whispered Boar when the Normans began searching for tracks farther along the wall.
They could, and though some might make it to the other side, not all. This one whose arm was injured would require aid in getting over, providing their pursuers time to drag them off the wall. But were there a distraction…
Hereward’s cousin, she thought, then accepted the freedom of movement enjoyed these weeks would likely be denied her again—and what came after would be no board game.
Hunkered behind a low wall where herbs were grown in spring and summer, she looked between the men and whispered, “I shall draw them away.”
Several caught their breath in silent protest, but they were outnumbered by those who breathed out relief as if opening a present and finding inside what was hoped for.
Her resentment was doused by the reminder many yet had families who needed them, and she had only Hereward who did not need her.
Retrieving the dagger Sir Roul had given her which the monks had not ventured to look for beneath a lady’s skirts, she said, “I shall go toward those searching near the infirmary. As soon as you hear my scream and the Normans here run that direction, all should be clear for you to go over the wall.”
Most nodded—again, more with relief than uncertainty.
“God speed your journey,” she whispered and leaned to the side to watch Guy and his men.
Their backs were turned this direction, as were those of monks whispering between themselves as they strolled toward a corner of the chapel.
The timing too good to hope for better, Vilda straightened just enough to get her legs under her. Then bent over and dagger at her side, she hastened opposite.
She was not certain how, exactly, to execute her plan, but she must scream to send the rebels one way and Guy and his men this way.
When she ran out of wall, there was other cover to be had and more when she altered her course in response to angry voices. Guessing the Normans who had found the infirmary emptied of rebels were just beyond the rear entrance to the great chapel, she slowed her advance to ensure she put eyes on them before allowing them to put eyes on her.
But somewhere along the way she erred, as revealed when movement to her right spun her that direction. It was no monk who reached for her, but one immediately recognized as belonging to Guy’s elite force.
Defense of her person was reflexive. If the chevalier did not underestimate her for being a woman alone, his guard was lowered by the belief she was unarmed since she had dropped the dagger to her side. Now the blade thrust before her found flesh beyond a tunic confidently shed of chain mail.
She had longed to be able to do what she had been incapable of years past so never again would she or any dear to her fall victim to a barbarian, but there was no satisfaction in it, and the cost was horror beneath the weight of heavenly displeasure. And greater that burden in being on holy ground and so near the one whose blood she shed that when he lurched back off the blade and slapped a hand to his abdomen, she needed no reminder to scream. What needed reminding was to run and keep hold of the dagger though all of her recoiled except the instinct to protect herself and survive long enough to get the rebels over the wall.
She did both, though it felt she was in the marsh again with only moonlight to guide her to a shore beyond reach.
Thankfully, she was fairly acquainted with this abbey, having once accompanied Hereward here and found herself alone when Thurstan wished to speak to him in private. She was to have remained in the lane outside the cloister, but after a half hour, she had wandered within the buildings where the men of God lived, worked, and prayed, and outside in the spaces between them and the outer wall enclosing all to keep out the evil of the world—evil this day admitted with open arms.
Both ahead and behind, Vilda heard Normans converging on her and knew she had only moments to reach the squat side door glimpsed the last time she was here when a monk who slipped out of the chapel’s nave had squeaked out a sneeze.
Blessedly, it was not barred the other side.
Hopefully, she seamed it behind her before being seen.
Though tempted to lean back against it and listen for the passing of her pursuers, she dare not. She did not believe she would escape her mess, but the longer the chase, the farther her countrymen would distance themselves.
Turning from the door, eyes slow to adjust to the shadows of the narrow passage reaching both sides of her, she went left as done before, knowing it would take her around the chancel with its pulpit and altar, the choir, and the presbytery whose turning at the rear led to a break in the passage on the opposite side of the chapel where the curtained vestry was located. That open expanse exposing her to any present in the chapel, she would have to be cautious in traversing it to return to the passage coursing the remainder of the nave.
Shortly, having circled the presbytery’s backside and seeing the ceiling to floor curtains ahead in light cast by that within the chapel, she paused.
Voices were heard—some raised, others at a normal register—but so muffled she was certain they came from outside the chapel or rooms abutting it.
Lips parted by a breath of relief, she curled her hands into fists—rather, one fist, the other on the dagger alerting her to moisture there as well as that drying over and between her fingers.
Blood, possibly of a dead man.
A whimper shot up her throat, and though she suppressed much of it, what slipped past sounded loud. And
