It was hard to believe her hand had betrayed her, but it had, and if any who investigated found her here, sooner they would give chase to those who had to have gone over the wall by now.
Though Vilda longed to leave the killing blade, it would be proof someone had been here who ought not and, bloody though it was, might yet aid her.
Bending, she reached and faltered when the bit of light slinking down the passage showed blood on palm and fingers and caused so violent a stir of bile she was sure if the clatter did not reveal her, retching would.
She swallowed, snatched up the dagger, and slid it in the scabbard bound to her calf. As she straightened, she caught a sound. It was distant, but clear enough to originate in the nave near the great doors through which worshippers entered.
She had known brethren might be in the chapel, whether at prayer or performing other duties, but the scrape of a thick sole alarmed for being singular as if whoever stood in that shoe stilled and held his breath the same as she.
She eased her back to the wall to render her figure as slight as possible amid shadows, and waited for that one to move again. He did, though his next footsteps were so quietly executed she would not have heard were she not listening for them.
A faint groan of hinges in need of oil sounded, and the light let in by windows momentarily brightened as the unseen door opened just enough to allow someone to slip out and close it.
Vilda drew a slow breath, then nodded in acceptance of what was to come. Soon those searching for the rebels would be alerted to the possibility their quarry was in the chapel.
There were a dozen small rooms off the passage in which to conceal herself to delay capture, but before she could turn back, she caught murmurs fairly near the end of this passage and the resumption of it beyond the vestry. One sounding familiar, she sidled forth and carefully peered around the wall.
Recognizing the two prostrated before the altar as Earl Morcar and Bishop Aethelwine, rage ran through her. They had aided Abbot Thurstan, and now surely prayed they would be rewarded as promised.
In that moment, she hoped that for all the lies Le Bâtard told, he did not yet have his fill of them. After all, why should such men be rewarded?
“Vile,” she breathed and saw Morcar peer over his shoulder.
As told by the shift of his eyes, he tracked movement, then the bishop did the same. When their eyes advanced her direction, she knew someone traveled the wall this side of the chapel—doubtless, a Norman. While another had gone for reinforcements lest all those who escaped the infirmary were here, this one came to investigate.
As she must go back the way she had come, once more she would take hold of the dagger—
Nay, not yet. Only if she must.
Had not Aethelwine pushed to his feet, she would have begun her retreat. “I am as right with the Almighty as I can get,” he said and, turning from the altar, added, “I will not bear witness to blood shed in God’s house.”
Then he suspected rebels here—and rightly feared them—as did Morcar who followed him toward the doors.
As no protest sounded from the one staying as near the passage’s outer wall as she did its inner, Vilda started to retrace her steps. And was thwarted again, this time by a sound from behind. It was low, likely from stealth and losing its strength as it curved around the back of the presbytery.
If it was of a Norman, had he—or they—entered the passage by way of that same squat door? If so, she wagered she had left evidence there, if not a footprint then the blood of the chevalier. But she was not entirely cornered now the traitors had gone from sight. If she slipped into the vestry, she might be able to conceal herself there until the nearest Norman moved past to search the passage’s other side.
Which he might not do until he searches the vestry, she considered.
It being her only option, she pushed off the wall and went behind the curtain. Immediately, she dropped low and caught the lower edge to still the telltale sway.
Pass by, she silently beseeched when she glimpsed the shadow of the man’s feet above the curtain’s hem at the opposite end.
Through her skirt, she touched the dagger, then straightened and looked around the rectangular room lit by daylight pressing through an opaque cloth covering a single small window. Precious things filled this place, including the vestments of the abbot, sacred vessels, and scrolls and books.
She chose a weighty scepter. It was no bow and arrow, no sling and stone, but she could swing it hard. And that she did when the warrior swept aside the curtain three feet from where she stood. As he did so with his sword, it was that which she struck. Though he lurched sideways, he kept hold of his weapon.
If not for Hereward instructing her in the basic use of a quarterstaff, likely the Norman would have corrected his footing and knocked her to the floor. Instead, after completion of the first swing, she stepped back and swung again, slamming the scepter against his head.
As he spun around, his sword fell to one of several rugs carpeting the room, then just outside the vestry, he dropped.
Vilda knew she should run, but once more she was jolted by what she was capable of at close range—more, the possibility this day, face to face, she had slain two men.
“Nay,” she rasped, then cast aside the scepter, knelt beside the Norman, and searched his neck for a pulse.
It had to be there. It absolutely must be there.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Fury. He had been so concerned with ensuring her escape that he and his
