“Continue, Lady Alvilda.”
“It is true that by my hand Sir Guy’s man was terribly injured, but…” She shook her head. “He surprised me, and as the dagger was at my side, I reacted with so little thought at finding myself faced with the enemy it feels I but witnessed what happened. I am sorry and more so the chevalier did naught to warrant such—at least in that moment.”
“Continue.”
“I have no more to add.”
“Then it is a poor defense. Had it happened in battle, I could be generous—or should you give aid in bringing Hereward into the fold—but regardless of the amount of thought given to the act, it is near enough murder to be called that.”
“When done by a Saxon,” she said, certain she could make it no worse. “When done by a Norman, it is not called that no matter how blatant the thought ahead of such heinous acts. It is…” She put her head to the side. “What would you call what was done on my wedding day? Educating the English about the benefits of submitting to Norman rule as we are to believe the Lord approves? Non, that was in no way apparent that day. What was apparent is how greatly Saxons should fear our new masters who murder at will with rare consequence.”
His eyes were very narrow. As for the man at her back who yet feared for her, so greatly he exuded that emotion she almost believed he spoke aloud in telling her to speak no more.
I am nearly there, she silently assured him. “That was no battle Sir Roul and his men fought, King William, and they had far more time to think on what they did than I. Thus, in your England, murder is defined not by the motivation but the race of whoever takes the life of another.” She sighed. “And you marvel why my people have fought violence with violence these five years.”
A moment later, Guy was at her side. “I think you must agree, my liege, the lady makes a good point.”
That shocked. What did not was Le Bâtard springing out of his chair. “I must agree? By whose command, Chevalier?”
Guy did not shrink from royal anger, and her sidelong glance revealed neither did he wince over the blast of breath that smelled of things slow to digest.
“Certes, not by my command,” he said. “I speak of what I know from Bible readings, attending mass, and witnessing the disparity to which Lady Alvilda refers.”
Sound rumbled about the usurper’s throat, but before he determined what to do with it, voices outside shifted his regard past Guy. “My next audience is here—for the moment good for you, not so for them.”
As she wondered who would next suffer him, he pointed at a bench. “Both of you, there,” he said and returned to his chair.
When once more Guy’s hand was on Vilda’s elbow, vividly she recalled his impersonal search for the dagger. But she did not pull free, and so quickly he released her the backs of her knees bumped the seat as she lowered. Then he went behind the bench and, standing to the right of her, crossed his arms over his chest.
When the tent flap was swept aside, the chaplain entered first, bringing with him a cool breeze that made her aware this day drew to a close. And it would do so upon the three traitors who next entered—Bishop Aethelwine, Abbot Thurstan, and Earl Morcar, the latter looking fearfully wary. He did not trust the conqueror to deliver what had been promised for pledging himself and his men to the ruination of the resistance.
Vilda could not feel for him. Perhaps if the situation on Ely had been hopeless she would have, but twice Hereward had defeated the usurper’s mighty forces and war machines. Though ousting the Normans from their country had remained doubtful, it had not been without hope as it seemed now.
For what had to feel minutes, Le Bâtard surveyed the three before him, during which none looked Vilda’s way though each had noted her presence upon entering.
“A fine partnership, Bishop, Abbott, Earl,” the usurper said. “See what can be accomplished when we unite? Such an inspiring example for my people and yours to work together in making England a better whole than ever it was before God chose me to rule it. Do you not think?”
Their agreement murmured, he frowned. “What say you?” After clear words were added to their responses, he said, “Now the matter of how to deal with betrayal of your king—rather, treason.”
So ominous were those words, the distress of all was felt. This was not what they had hoped for but what was feared.
“Bishop, time and again you prove you cannot be trusted, one day my side, the next that of the resistance. I thank you for your aid, but you will have to be content in gaining great reward from God who is surely pleased for so little loss of blood in taking Ely.”
“My king?” Aethelwine said in a pitch between confusion and beseeching.
“For the good of all, I cannot have you roaming about England. Hence, in comfort you shall spend the remainder of your days tucked away wheresoever it pleases me—I am thinking Abingdon Abbey. There, without cease, you shall pray for our country.”
A long pause, then just loud enough to be heard, that holy man named him something foul. It was a designation that had resulted in the loss of appendages by others who spoke it against the conqueror, but he shrugged and said, “That I am, and by the grace of God, I have been raised well above it.” He jutted his chin. “Step back.”
When the bishop complied, Le Bâtard considered the abbot. “Though your alliance with Hereward is most serious, as it is your first offense against me, I am of a mind to be lenient. Thus, as agreed, I shall remove confiscated monastery lands from the crown’s holdings and return them to the Abbey of Ely—once
