“As if he loves,” she said then told herself, You have only to remember what came after to know that is impossible. Think not on the hand he reached to you. Think on the hands he searched over you to ensure you did not do to him what you did to that other Norman. No matter how much that was for the benefit of others, you laid ruin to whatever kindness he felt for you when the thrust of your dagger slew his man. Murderess.
Her breath caught, but that was the only sob she allowed herself. Determined to sleep away however many hours lay between now and the usurper, she drew up beneath her chin the hand she had set in Guy’s, pressed her fingers where his had been, and closed her eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Much depended on whether Sir Humphrey lived. Though the blade struck nothing vital, the physician told the amount of blood lost made a slender thread of the chevalier’s chance of recovery. However, if he survived the night, the grey of his face regained color, and lucidity was restored, that slender thread could become a cord of many strands.
For the chevalier’s sake, Guy prayed the morrow would see healing begin in earnest. For Vilda’s sake, he prayed the same, William having said if the Norman died, she would as well. For his own sake, more prayer for his part in his man’s undoing.
The fury he had mostly managed to suppress having lowered to a gentle boil during the first of his prayers and a simmer during the remainder, Guy and William’s personal chaplain followed a monk down the corridor of this section of the dormitory that lodged those needing correction of a strength that required being secured in their cells.
Novices mostly, the monk had told Guy, and revealed one of those spending time with the Lord here was the abbot’s secretary whose drink-induced senselessness caused a precious candle to burn throughout the night into a puddle of wax.
The monk had clicked his tongue and said the shame of being roused to find one’s head stuck to the table by hardened wax should have been punishment enough. But nay, Abbot Thurstan was of poor temperament these months. Thus, though normally there were no more than a few in seclusion here, now there were five—six if one included the lady who, also locked out of sight, could rouse no carnal feeling in the holy men here.
Halting before her door, he opened the little shutter and called through it, “Lady, Sir Guy and the king’s chaplain have come to escort you to King William. Have you need of a few minutes of privacy to conduct your ablutions?”
Guy heard the pallet rustle and footsteps. “I am ready,” she said.
The monk lifted the bar and shuffled backward as he opened the door.
She stood on the threshold, as disarrayed as when he left her two hours past, having made no attempt to appear more appealing for her audience with the king she had to know was forthcoming. However, eyes that had been dull when last he looked into them and realized she was barely present were lit again—not brightly, but she saw him. And in that moment, something that had previously moved him jolted.
Vilda was not beautiful, but the unpretentious, careless, and wild of her was breathtaking, as was the fearless amid the fear. It made him wish they were alone though he told himself it was only because there were things she should know to prepare for William, foremost that the one whose blood she had spilled yet lived and Hereward and his men had returned and as quickly departed upon finding Ely occupied by the enemy.
The king had raged at those who bore tidings of the outlaw’s ease of getting on and off the isle without impunity and struck one when told a chevalier and three men-at-arms had been slain and a score of others injured during the encounter.
It might bode well for Vilda the Norman she severely injured yet lived, but that could be heavily outweighed by Hereward’s latest triumph amid tragedy.
Guy inclined his head and motioned her to follow.
Lips seamed, she stepped from the cell between him and William’s chaplain.
It was a circuitous walk from the dormitory to the cloister the king had commandeered for the erection of tents, having determined he would pass the night here rather than accept the offer of the abbot’s living quarters.
It was not the respect it looked, Guy’s liege nearly as disgusted with Thurstan as he was Bishop Aethelwine and Earl Morcar. The weather being fine and the cloister beautifully landscaped, this temporary court had better suited William’s mood—until tidings of Hereward.
As the three traversed the path bordered by tents lit by the last light of day, Guy glanced around and saw Vilda took in all with an expression of resentment it would be wise not to show William.
Though the chaplain might report this chevalier continued to show too much consideration for the lady Taillebois named a murderess, Guy slowed. When she drew alongside, he leaned in. “Though great victory for my king this day, you are in more danger than while at Brampton. Do not test him, Vilda. If you cannot be civil, do not be disrespectful.”
The eyes she shot to him reflected disbelief, likely for continuing to give aid despite anger shown her in the chapel. Though he thought to dispel it by revealing developments since her recapture, the chaplain appeared on her other side.
“Ere you meet with the king,” he said in heavily-accented French, “would you like me to hear your confession, Lady?”
She shook her head. “No need. As I have spoken with God, already forgiveness of my sins is under consideration.”
The little man yelped as if someone had stepped on his toes, then color running up his face, he
