Reckless (Age of Conquest #5) - Tamara Leigh Page 0,23

Danes from joining the rebels in their endeavor. What he would dispute—and had in attempting to discourage Hereward from taking the treasures—was its benefit to both Church and resistance. And the taking of holy men.

“Speak!” Hereward commanded, and Vitalis heard dangerous anger that had years past caused this nobleman’s son to be denied training at Wulfen Castle and later resulted in his exile from England. In the years since, how much control had he gained?

Perhaps Vitalis’s answer would tell. “My argument is unchanged, Hereward.” He jerked his chin at the Danes whose ranks had nearly doubled when, hours after the arrival of those who first accompanied the earl to Ely, nearly all those left behind made the crossing. “They are warriors from a young age, are led by a man who once before broke faith with our people, and their reveling outside the chapel where the treasure is stored is not in anticipation of the priest’s sermon. They appoint themselves guardians of the wealth as if ’tis theirs alone.”

A muscle convulsed in Hereward’s jaw.

“Should I continue?” Vitalis asked.

“If there is anything left to say.”

“By taking the treasures and men of God, a greater enemy you have made of the new abbot who is as disposed toward violence as William’s brother, Bishop Odo. As you know, Turold will not arrive at Peterborough with only his sword at his side. True, he has a relatively small army at his disposal, but if those eight score knights can corner you and your rebels, Saxon blood will soak the shores of Ely.”

Hereward’s face darkened further, but he contained his anger. “You underestimate my forces,” he muttered and tipped his face heavenward.

Vitalis looked again to Nicola’s window. Hopefully, now that gold and silver were in need of protection, the watch over her would ease. And he and Zedekiah could take her from here.

It was from Vilda she first heard of the attack on Peterborough Abbey, next Bjorn, though likely the latter only because she questioned him about the lengths to which the alliance had gone to bring the treasures to Ely. From his jovial tone, still he did not see what she—even Vilda—saw.

There was no possibility Hereward’s kin and Nicola would become more than women forced to tolerate each other’s company, but since that nearly ruinous day when the Norman lady offended the Saxon lady, Nicola had more closely examined her thoughts and words before voicing them.

There remained unease between them, but their exchanges were more civil, including this afternoon when Vilda revealed those gone upriver to Peterborough had returned victorious. There had been some satisfaction about her, but it seemed mostly obligatory, and that was confirmed when she asked again if the Danes could be trusted.

Withholding her answer, Nicola had used the opportunity to learn exactly what was required to protect the abbey’s treasure from its new abbot. When Vilda told all she knew, she was given what she did not wish to hear—Nicola’s prediction that, in the absence of great incentive to remain true, the Danes would steal the treasures, depriving not only Normans of the riches but Saxons.

Tears flooding eyes Vilda cast down, evidence Nicola but confirmed what the woman feared, she had departed.

Now here was Bjorn who had ascended the stairs well after the setting of the sun, wearing a smile and the ruddy flush of one who might have meant to come straight to the woman he professed to love but had joined his comrades in downing just one drink, another, and possibly a third.

Having held her back to him throughout the recounting of his adventure that was not so slurred she had difficulty making sense of it, seeing without truly seeing those celebrating in the street below, only when he heaved a sigh of satisfaction did she turn from the gap in her shuttered window.

“A great victory for Danes and Saxons alike,” he said. “This the alliance we have sought with England’s rightful heirs.”

Think ere speaking, she silently counseled, and did as best she could though she longed to slap the cheek whose flush birthed by drink might one day be a permanent stain on his face—a handsome face that would become bloated when excess alcohol must be diluted with great quantities of food, which would require the adjustment of seams until new garments could be fashioned.

Unable to smile, she said, “It sounds the sack of Peterborough Abbey and the abduction of holy men is a greater accomplishment than the defeat of three thousand Normans which passed the entire