The rebels having reined in all around, spaced among them archers whose bows were drawn the same as those of the Normans trapped at the center—and one of the latter’s arrows trained on her as commanded by Ivo—a familiar voice called, “What lady is that at your side, Taillebois of no good account?”
Vilda swung her gaze to her cousin and saw him lower the hood of his short mantle.
“Ah, but of course!” he said in Anglo-Saxon. “No lady. Merely a traitorous harlot who dresses as one.”
Though he was too distant to look near upon his face, it was not necessary to ascertain how darkly grim it was, his voice and stiff posture testament to emotions thundering within. As for Theta’s reaction…
Vilda having halted her horse behind and to the left of that woman, she had only a bit of profile to study, but there was fear there. And she saw that same emotion sat so heavily on the faces of Earl Morcar and Bishop Aethelwine it pooled around their jaws.
Hereward laughed. “And see there—the toddling earl and the unholy man!”
From among his men arose a murmur of agreement, then her cousin called with venomous cheer, “Whither do you escort these traitors?”
For the first time, Vilda looked to Taillebois mounted beside Theta. Were he fearful, he disguised it well, sitting easy in the saddle, mouth tucked up as if this amused.
“First,” he answered in his own language, “Lady Alvilda goes to—”
“She is no traitor,” Hereward spoke over him in Anglo-Saxon. “I speak of Saxons who betray Saxons, beginning with your lover who, when it benefits her, grows gills and fins to gain the hook of Norman greed—she who was the beginning of our loss of Ely.”
“I had no choice!” Theta cried, causing many to startle, including Taillebois whose head came around and expression was so incredulous, he looked almost a boy whose toy was given to an inferior. Then his upper lip curled.
Had she unfastened her eyes from Hereward whom she surely feared more, she would have seen her mistake in denouncing one so near.
“This Norman stole onto the isle, sought me out, and threatened to slay my family did I not do as told. The vile Taillebois—”
Those her final words. As if merely severing a rope, her lover applied a dagger to her throat.
As Theta jerked and clapped a hand to her neck, Vilda muffled a cry and imagined the face turned to that knave was more stricken with disbelief than his own had been. Then Theta dropped over her horse’s neck, and with a beautiful billowing of skirts, fell to the ground. Landing face up, her head rolled to the side, and she stared at Vilda a moment before her lids closed.
Vilda told herself not to feel for her, but her chest constricted. Just as Theta had been wronged years ago, she had wronged her own. Though more grievously the latter, there could be no rejoicing in her end.
“Now that traitor and liar shall trouble neither of us again, Hereward the outlaw,” Taillebois persisted in Norman-French, then wiped his blade on his chausses, marking the garment with his lover’s blood. “I suppose I could show Morcar the same mercy.”
The earl gave a bark of anger.
Ignoring him, Taillebois said, “It would save me the journey to the coast whence he is to set sail for imprisonment in Normandy, but as for the bishop…” He clicked his tongue. “My king would not condone me slaying a holy man, so by your hand he will have to be bled if you are not well with him being locked away at Abingdon.” He raised his dagger. “Would that satisfy the outlaw whose only hope is to flee King William’s England—providing he does so now?”
Once more a murmur, but it was not of agreement, and this one was punctuated by a rumble. However, it was not of the rebels. It came from well beyond and all sides. And there the source that made those within and without these two rings attend to it.
Guy and Pendery returned, and though the former made Vilda’s heart beat faster one moment, in the next it pounded over what it would mean to her cousin and his men once the Normans forming the outer ring enclosed all.
Previous to their arrival, she had feared a clash equal to Hereward’s wrath which, in full array, was said to be so heinous those who fought at Hastings equated it with that of the Bloodlust Warrior. Though sickened by the slaughter to come, there had been consolation in knowing that even if she did not survive, the resistance would prevail for outnumbering Taillebois and his men. Now, though still their numbers were greater, they were outflanked by Normans whose sole profession was that of fighting. And one of those coming at them was the Bloodlust Warrior.
“Ours is the upper hand!” Hereward shouted as he sought to rally his men lest they break and flee. “Stay in formation and advance!”
They did so, and as they drew nearer Taillebois’ entourage, the tension between the inner and middle rings felt like the mud of the marsh—suffocatingly thick as each side waited for the other to fly the first arrow that would set all others in motion.
At fifty feet, Hereward thrust an arm high. His men halted and, at his command, a portion turned their mounts to face the greatest threat to them.
Taillebois looked around, from his archer whose arrow remained trained on Vilda to her. “To my side, Hereward’s cousin!”
If my fate is not the same as Theta’s, then once more a pawn, she thought and, nudging her mount forward, silently prayed whatever came would not see her responsible for any deaths here.
Theta’s body being so near her horse’s hooves it would be trampled if the beast sidled, Vilda veered to Taillebois’ other side and found little solace in seeing his dagger returned to its sheath. As quickly as he had brought it to hand when last it was used, he could
