With the outer ring tightening and those Normans beginning to rein in, Taillebois thrust a hand toward her. “Cross to me.”
She looked to Hereward who had turned his mount toward the larger force and saw he peered over his shoulder. His barely leashed anger was nearly off its leash. Despite what he told his men, the upper hand was lost. Now it was a matter of taking with them to the grave as many Normans as possible.
Not Guy, she silently prayed as she set her hand in Taillebois’ and was snatched from her saddle to his.
As she thumped down on the fore, he said, “Methinks you shall be of good use.”
“Imagine that,” she hissed, “a warrior of repute in need of a shield made of a lowly Saxon woman.”
He stiffened. “It is a sorry state in which I find myself, but as your cousin will turn his efforts on me once the earl and bishop fall, I choose temporary indignity over pride made permanent by the loss of life.”
She looked around. “Theta was right. You are vile.”
“And for it, I live, whereas she who betrayed does not.” He raised his eyebrows. “If my count is right, since first I was acquainted with her, she has been responsible for nearly as many fallen rebels as I.” He narrowed his lids. “Were you not present the night Sir Guy’s squire was wounded after they gave chase to your cousin and his men following an attack on us?”
Recalling the dark, the wet, and the lives lost that would not have been had Theta remained true, Vilda could not respond.
He nodded. “She warned of that plan. Hence, the rebels slain in our camp is but a sampling of those whose blood is on her hands—as your blood should have been.” He jerked his head to the right. “She is given her due as you shall be given yours if Hereward comes for me.”
The knot tying up her insides coming undone, she put between her teeth, “I hope he does. Better I am slain than you and Theta not be reunited in death.” She forced a smile. “I am generous that way.”
He chuckled. “She would like that as well, but I must needs disappoint. When—”
“Parley!” a voice boomed across the restlessness of warriors awaiting the signal to engage.
Vilda looked forward again. As thought, it was Maxen Pendery who spoke, he and Guy having guided their horses ahead of their men whose swords were drawn and arrows nocked.
“Let us make a middle ground to discuss this!” Guy called in Anglo-Saxon.
“Discuss?” Hereward scorned. “In circumstances such as these, one does not yammer on with empty threats and promises. They have done with it quickly. My men and I are ready to fight. Are yours?”
Considering the resistance was bounded both sides, Guy could have answered scorn with scorn, but as if aware of how near the edge Hereward was, he said, “Though you have fought harder than most to win back what was forfeited at Hastings, the fight is done. However, all is not hopeless. Speak with us, and let us see if there is a path all might take that is not paved in blood.”
“So say those who have far more to lose than we!”
Guy looked to Maxen, words were exchanged, then he said, “’Tis true ever the victors have more to lose than those who possess only themselves, but that does not mean lives should be sacrificed. Something can yet be made of them, and it is possible what was lost can be regained in some measure.” He leaned forward. “Speak with us, and afterward if you find no value in doing so, you may return to your men and lead them in battle. You have our word.”
“Not mine,” Taillebois muttered, and Vilda knew he was proud of that.
“Vile,” she rasped, and the arm around her pressed so hard, she feared she would heave—then considered yielding to the roiling.
“Silence,” he snarled.
“I will trust you, Sir Guy and Baron Pendery,” Hereward said, “providing you trust me.” He pointed to the trampled grass before his horse. “The middle ground is here. My men both sides will draw back twenty feet, and you will come alone. ’Tis that or naught.”
More words were exchanged between Guy and Pendery, then the former called, “Agreed.”
“Fools,” muttered the man at Vilda’s back.
“One more thing,” her cousin said, “Taillebois and my cousin shall participate in our parley.”
“I will not!” Ivo shouted. “I know Saxon trickery, and this is that.”
Hereward looked around. “Are not my arrows trained on you as yours are upon me, coward who hides behind a woman?”
Despite that being spoken in the presence of Taillebois’ men, Vilda sensed the man at her back would resist disproving the gibe.
“Of course Taillebois shall join us,” Maxen Pendery called. “A leader does not abstain from parley lest what is agreed upon is not in the best interest of those under his command—and himself.”
He sought to shame the knave into acquiescence, but was it possible with such a man?
“Accursed Pendery,” Taillebois snarled and urged his horse forward.
As they advanced, Vilda tried to convince herself this would all come as right as possible.
No blood spilled other than Theta’s.
Hereward and his men departing England for a better place than this.
The earl and bishop detained the remainder of their lives.
Guy going his way.
Settling her eyes on he who rode to the middle ground cleared by Hereward’s men, imagining the convent walls ever between them, she whispered, “As I shall go mine.”
Chapter Thirty-One
He had thought he had seen the last of her and believed it was for the best, but garbed in his red tunic and green mantle, she came again, and the realization another parting lay ahead pained the heart Elan had once weighed in the palm of one hand while weighing in the other that of her infant son and the man who sired him. Despite Guy’s loss, that had been for the best as well, and yet this felt—
“Perhaps something can be done
