said, “I am thinking you are Bjorn, son of Asbjorn.”
“I am.” Bjorn bounded from the boat, turned and reached to Nicola. “And this is—”
“A Norman lady,” Hereward spoke over the name Bjorn gave as Nicola straightened alongside her champion.
“How knew you that, Hereward?” Bjorn exclaimed.
Also curious, Nicola peered into eyes that peered down into hers. And glimpsed amusement.
“Many the tales carried to East Anglia on the feet of those who yet have faith Saxons shall take back what your people stole from us,” Hereward addressed her. “And yours is one of those tales, Lady…?”
He annoyed, and so she straightened her bodice and smoothed her skirt, making him wait to hear again the name Bjorn had given. Returning her regard to him, she said, “I am—”
“That nettlesome woman is Nicola D’Argent,” the earl interrupted.
If not for Hereward’s reaction, Nicola might not have contained the anger speeding from throat to tongue. The warrior who ought to be capable of handling surprise well failed, his eyes widening and head jerking as if someone had thrust a torch into his darkness. But then he laughed, a not unpleasant sound though it ended on a high-pitch.
“I am as delighted to make the acquaintance of the sister of Guarin D’Argent as I am disappointed the tale carried to me of her capture by Danes was incomplete.” He flipped the hood off her head. “Silvered hair,” he pronounced and motioned forward the one who looked a priest. “You heard?”
“I did, my lord.” The man was quicker on his feet than expected. As if neither the earl nor Bjorn was of import, he halted before Nicola. “They will be looking to retrieve you, Lady.”
“I do not doubt already they do, and when—”
“Enough!” the earl snapped. “We come to discuss the alliance between Danes and Saxons, not a foul Norman best cast to the dogs—”
“Father!” Bjorn protested.
Losing patience, his sire snatched his arm from the hand turned around it and stepped toward Hereward. “Let us speak in private.”
The rebel leader nodded, then said to Nicola, “Your sister-in-law, Hawisa Wulfrith, betrayed her own in wedding your Norman brother.”
Nicola raised her chin higher. “She had no choice.”
“Nor did she wish one, I am told—the same as her husband who proved of little pride when he traded his Norman name for that of his wife.”
Calm, Nicola, she silently counseled. Hawisa would be disappointed her pupil could not keep anger from her face and fists, but if she could keep it from her words… Better yet, not speak at all…
But reckless Nicola took control of her mouth. “They did what was right for the lady’s people, and those Saxons now live and prosper, rebuilding lives that would have been lost. The same as the lives of those who follow you will be lost if—”
Her words became a cry when a yank on the back of her mantle knocked her feet out from under her and she fell backward. This time, the water did prove her destination. Before she hit, she glimpsed the boat’s bow, and as the water drew her into its cool, grass-infested embrace, one realization followed another.
The earl did this to me. Had I been nearer the boat, I would have broken my neck on the bow.
Blessedly, she could swim—providing the slippery grass twisting around her did not hold her beneath the surface. More blessedly, when she thrust her feet against the muddy ground, instantly her head and shoulders emerged from the water.
Standing at the dock’s edge was the smug earl, the anxious Bjorn reaching to her, and Hereward watching with a half-turned smile.
She drew breath to rage, sucked down foul water she had not realized filled her mouth, and coughed so forcefully she feared she would expel her lungs.
“To me, Nicola!” Bjorn entreated, and she realized he had to shout to be heard above the laughter of Saxons and Danes.
Never had she felt more detestable. And it was not from merely being born different from these people. It was for being a Norman fit with the enemy’s yoke.
“Nicola!” Bjorn barked.
She raised a staying hand lest he come in after her and earn his father’s wrath. Recalling Mercia’s warning following their abduction when she interrupted Nicola’s ranting over the Danes coming to England and taking what they wanted—that she sounded a Saxon leveling charges against a Norman—she lowered her chin, cleared her throat, and drew breath into damp lungs.
Outrage will only cause them to laugh louder and you to expose yourself, she told herself. Unless Hawisa had a means of escape,