“Is he honorable as told?”
“He is.”
“Then providing he keeps his word—marriage, which I will have to trust sealed by consummation—I see no reason to come again to these shores. As long as I know you are—” He broke off, chuckled.
“What, Hereward?”
“Only now I realize I prophesied when I said had Torquay compromised you, he would find himself at the church door with my sword at his neck.” When she started to protest, he said, “I know he did not dishonor you, but it ends the same. He will do what is required, not to preserve his life but the lives of others.”
“Cousin, you need not force me on him. I will go with you.”
“V—”
“’Tis not fair to him!”
“Forbid something is unfair to a Norman!” he snarled, then snapped his teeth and between them said, “Your argument rouses no sympathy. Worse, it so angers you count yourself unworthy of that Norman I am tempted to draw this sword, put it through Taillebois, and let happen what will.”
“Very well!” She gripped his hand tighter. “I will speak no more against the marriage, and you need not fear Sir Guy will abandon me. Were he such a man, I could not feel for him.”
He nodded, then in a strained voice said, “Pour the thick of your Saxon blood into the thin of his Norman blood by way of children. You will do this for me?”
She blinked. She had not thought beyond speaking vows with Guy, but a whole life lay on the other side of this one—lying down with him every night, awakening beside him every morn, making and raising children, being his partner throughout whatever came of Norman-ruled England.
“V?”
“I will do this for you,” she whispered, “and for Alvilda of the Saxons and Guy of the Normans.”
That last made his brow furrow. “Be assured I do not leave you unprotected. I shall set a watch over you, and if ever I believe you are in need, I will return and make things right.”
Of course he would. “As long as I am under Sir Guy’s protection, a watch will not be necessary, but as I know you will not be dissuaded, I thank you for the consideration. Now go to Turfida.”
He withdrew his hand and sat back. “Once you are astride with your betrothed.”
Wishing he had come down out of the saddle so she could hug him, she said, “Go with God,” and turned away.
Guy’s solemn gaze awaited hers and, as she neared, he extended a hand. When she set hers in that which would later touch her as she had thought never to be touched by him, he closed his fingers over hers. And when she slid her foot atop his in the stirrup, gently he drew her up and set her sideways before him.
Vilda swept her gaze all around, and seeing some regarded her with pity, others resentment, she put across her shoulder, “I am sorry for this, Guy.”
Drawing her deeper into the cradle of his thighs, he said, “This is a good end. I am well with it.”
As told, he was honorable—thus, would make the best of what ensured no more blood was shed this day.
Hereward commanded his servant to his side, and after attending to his lord, Martin urged his horse near Guy’s.
“Fare thee well, Vilda!” Hereward said, then turned his attention to Taillebois. “Now to the coast where we shall part ways and never again suffer the other—providing you and your men behave.”
“It is you who shall answer for this, Pendery and Torquay!” Taillebois called.
They ignored him and, shortly, the two parties went separate ways.
Though the pace set by those moving south was relatively sedate, no further words were spoken between Vilda and Guy until hours later when they stood before the door of a small village church and exchanged vows. The mass that followed saw both prostrated before the altar with foreheads to the floor and a pall stretched over them, two of four corners held by Pendery and Martin.
As minute after minute gathered into a quarter hour and began to gather into another, a fatigued Vilda realized she was moving toward sleep when a hand curled over the one clenched alongside her shoulder.
Opening her eyes, she looked sidelong at Guy who had turned his head toward hers. She did the same, settling her cheek to the floor. As the priest continued praying over their union, she tried to make sense of Guy’s expression, but the shadow of the pall permitted her to see only the glitter of his eyes, the line of his nose, and the pale of his mouth amid whiskers.
“I am sorry for this,” she whispered.
“Not how I imagined my wedding,” he rasped, “but I am not sorry.”
Earlier, he had said he was well with marrying her, just as she had said of convent life—something tolerable under the circumstances—and yet she detected no apathy nor anger. That surprised, and more greatly when he drew her hand near and kissed her knuckles.
“Truly, I am not, Vilda.”
A half hour later, they resumed their southward journey as Martin spurred opposite to deliver tidings to Hereward.
Once more seated before the one now her husband, his ring on her finger clenched in her palm to keep it from slipping off, Vilda struggled against her body’s attempt to convince her it was middle night. How much longer she would have resisted she did not know, for as if well acquainted with the one to whom he was betrothed and wed in the same day, Guy urged her head beneath his chin.
Throughout the remainder of the day, mostly she slept, coming fully awake when they made camp and only long enough to sip and nibble at what Guy placed in her hand. Then seated beside him before the fire, she huddled into the blanket he draped around her shoulders and, when he drew her against his side, closed her eyes, prayed for her cousin and his men, and slept again.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Etcheverry Castle
Sussex, England
The wife of the Bloodlust
