Daughter of Fire (14 page)

“He will see to your protection and safety until William is recovered.” He added. “I would trust him with my own life.”

“How long will you be gone?” Her voice was as watery as that dark blue gaze that he had always thought so like a flame, but now looked more like flame seen through a glass sheened by rain. He cast an eye toward the sky.

“A half day’s ride will find us at their encampment. If we are successful in finding them before they attack, then we may be able to return by midday following.”

His squire appeared, informing him that his baffle armor was in readiness. Rorke handed the falcon over to him with instructions to her care.  Then, with a look at Vivian, Rorke told his squire, “She is not to be bound.”

The young man looked at him quizzically, then nodded and strode toward the tent with Aquila perched lightly on his gloved hand. As Rorke turned to follow, Vivian laid a hand at his arm.

“I would ask a favor, milord.”

“I displease you so, and you ask a favor?”

At the sudden change in his voice, Vivian looked up to find him watching her. The effect was intoxicating and at the same time unnerving. Rorke FitzWarren, stern of face with hard-set features was formidable, powerful, and dangerous. Rorke FitzWarren smiling, those hard features softened to masculine handsomeness with gray eyes looking at her with cool speculation, was far more dangerous.

“I would like to be allowed to return to the Saxon encampment to treat the injured. Their need is great and it seems that William will be more in need of healthy Saxons than more Saxon graves.”

He contemplated both the request and the one who had made it, her uneasiness all too apparent and more than surprising for one who seemed to have no fear of Norman knights or Norman punishment. He smothered the smile, attempting a stern expression that he suspected fell somewhere in between. God help him, she was a  fascinating creature.

He was inclined to grant her request. However, she still had not explained to his satisfaction how she had escaped Tarek, and his men.

“I suggest a compromise,” he told her, watching with delight the wary expression in eyes that were once more like blue flame.

“The need of William’s army is just as great.” He went on to explain precisely what the compromise would be. “There are many injured Norman soldiers in the encampment,” he began. When she would have objected—no doubt to inform him that she did not care if his men rotted where they lay—he held up a hand that he was not yet finished.

“If you will lend your capable skills in aid of injured Norman soldiers, then I will allow you to send medicines and curatives into the Saxon encampment with one of my men, with instructions as to how they may be administered.”

“But it is not that simple,” she protested. “A mistake might easily be made. I must be the one... ”

“With your exemplary skills I am certain you will see that does not happen.” When she would have protested further, he cut her off gently but firmly.

“It is the only compromise I will consider, Vivian.”

“A choice,” she bit off.

“Exactly.”

“Very well,” she replied reluctantly. “I accept.”

At midday, she watched as they rode from camp, and though she told herself she was glad to see them go, she couldn’t help feeling a greater loss, as though something had been set in motion which she could not sense. The day grew cold, the sun like a red-orange ball through the gray pallor of a wintry sky.

She went first to William’s tent to check the poultice she had wrapped about his leg the night before. She drew up short, uneasiness slipping across her senses, at sight of his brother, the bishop, standing beside the cot. Then she saw Vachel, standing in the shadows behind him. Both men looked up at her and her uneasiness turned to fear.

Why were they here when Rorke had given orders that they were not to be allowed in William’s tent?

The bishop had been less than pleased at finding her there the previous day, calling her healing ways blasphemous. Such hostility was not unknown to her. Poladouras had lived with it for many years, ostracized by his fellow monks at St. Anne’s because of his study of sciences which were also considered to be
blasphemous
.

She wished Gavin had come with her, for she had no desire to be alone with the bishop and Vachel. She might even have turned back if not for a compelling sense that she must not—that something was very wrong here.

At a movement at the other side of the tent, she was relieved to see William’s squire stirring a simmer pot at one of the braziers. The air inside the tent smelled faintly of lavender from the sleep tonic Vivian had instructed him to make the night before.

“I did not mean to disturb you, milord,” she said uneasily, aware of the conflict of powerful emotions within the bishop as she entered the tent.

He was dressed in finely made black tunic, breeches, and mantle. The simple luxurious fabric was enhanced by the winking of several jewels sewn into the fabric, and the silver cross that hung from an elaborate chain about his neck.

The bishop was as tall as William, but not as stocky, and several years younger. His fair hair and features made him resemble one of the golden saints portrayed in the intricate stained glass window at St. Anne’s Abbey. But unlike the saints’ eyes, his were as black as night.

Though his coloring was not the same as William’s, the features were similar and there was no mistaking the shared lineage. Both, she knew, had been sired by the old duke of Normandy, but of different mothers. Poladouras had told her the story when William first laid claim to the English throne.

William’s mother was the old duke’s mistress. His wife had borne him three sons, half-brothers to William the Bastard. Yet the old duke favored his firstborn son and made William his heir over his legitimate sons, who were left either to seek their fortunes through knighthood or pledge themselves to the Church. It was said William had been generous with all three of his brothers, bestowing land and titles on them.

“Ah, the healer,” the bishop murmured. “I sought to assure myself that my brother truly lives.”

She approached hesitantly. It might have been her imagination but the candles and oil lamps seemed to stop their quivering and glow more steadily as she drew nearer the cot.

“He lives,” she assured him. “God willing, he will grow strong and recover.”

“Ah, yes.  We all hope for it.” His smile did not reach his dark eyes. “It is not lost on me that you have conjured a miracle in my brother’s recovery when my own healer had done all that he could for him, and it was known among his most trusted knights that my brother was near death.” The ornate silver cross gleamed coldly at his chest against the black tunic.

“You must tell me how you did this.”

Conjured?
  An icy ribbon of fear moved across every nerve ending in silent warning at his choice of words.

She studied this bishop of God who also carried a sword, and wondered that a man sworn to peace felt no conflict in the taking of lives.

“The healing way was taught to me by the woman who raised me,” she explained.  “It is old among our people.”

“Ah, a witch perhaps,” he suggested. “For it is known they practice the dark arts.”

 “The preservation of life is no dark art, milord,” she answered carefully.  “I am told your healer possesses the same skills.”

She laid a hand at William’s arm above the edge of the fur as she rounded the cot, uncertain why she felt the need to reassure herself that he slept peacefully and suffered no further malady. Through the simple contact of her hand at his shoulder, she felt the steady beat of his heart. His thoughts were peaceful as well.

“And yet you sent Vachel to Amesbury, to find the healer.”  Rorke’s words were not lost on her.  Vachel had gone to Amesbury for a far different purpose.

The Bishop was not a fool. Beneath the saintly mask was a shrewd intelligence and an even shrewder ambition. He was not a man to be taken lightly.  He smiled then, but it was a cold expression, shaded with something very near cruelty.

He inclined his head, studying her.  “I am a man of devout faith,” he explained. “Certainly you can understand, demoiselle”—he made a dismissive gesture with his hand as if it was a trivial matter now—“that it was my duty to find the healer we had heard spoken of when all else had failed.”

“Yes, of course.”

Across the tent, William’s squire finished his task and left the tent. Vachel followed like a silent, stalking shadow.

“My concern,” he explained, “was for my brother’s well-being. It is second only to my duty to God and the Church of Rome. But William has many enemies. It is my duty to protect him against those enemies.” He gave her a sharp look. “When I saw you standing over him yester eve in that strange trance, I could only assume that you meant him some harm.”

Again it seemed that he was trying to attach some particular meaning to her healing ways.

“I can well see your concern, milord,” she agreed, choosing her words carefully.  “The ritual is quite ancient, known for at least a thousand years.”

There was no outward change of expression, only the subtle shift of light reflected back from those dark eyes that hinted at his satisfaction, as if he’d caught her at something.

“I often find it comforting to pray,” she went on to explain, pleased at the expression of surprise that now crossed his face. “I believe, milord, you are also familiar with the power of prayer.”  Her eyes widened.  “Surely you did not think your brother in danger because I prayed over him. I would have thought you, most especially, would understand the necessity of it.”

That dark gaze hardened, and, for a moment, she glimpsed something frightening, a darkness of evil in the gleaming depths, and then it was gone.

“Ah yes, prayer.” His voice was silken, but could not hide the anger beneath. “Most assuredly it is a very powerful influence. However, I would not have thought it common to a Saxon healer.”

“I was raised in an abbey, milord. My guardian since childhood is a well-learned monk of enormous faith.”

“You have reminded me, demoiselle, of something that I have experienced oft enough in the past but had forgotten in the midst of war. God works in mysterious ways and He often places such matters in man’s skilled hands. Or in this particular instance, in a woman’s skilled hands.”

He was standing so close that had she closed her eyes she could have felt his presence. That awareness confused her and he caught her unprepared when he took her hand between both of his.

Then, amidst the muttering of the flames at the braziers and the sighing movement of the walls of the tent that shifted with every breath of wind, she heard the Voice—and the whispered warning.

There is great danger
...

Though she listened for more, there was nothing, only the cold breath of the winter wind that slipped through the opening of the tent.

“Your skills as a healer and your power of prayer are a gift for which I am deeply grateful,” the bishop continued smoothly. “Am I forgiven for the circumstances of our first encounter?”

She tried to pull her hand from his but found she could not. “Forgiveness is God’s gift to bestow,” she said. “Mine is to heal.”

At last he released her hand, turning his cold gaze on his brother as he lay sleeping. “He will recover from his wounds?”

“Aye, milord,” she assured him, clasping her hands together to warm them as she felt a sudden chill.

“In time, and with care. The leg must be given a chance to heal properly.”

“Most remarkable,” he said, “when it was certain he would lose the leg, if not his life.” He nodded. “When he awakens, tell my brother that I shall visit again when he is awake and stronger.” As he left the tent, she heard him greet Vachel. Their voices were carried away on the wind, making it impossible to know what passed between them.

The flames of the candles and the braziers smoldered low as he left the tent. Then they steadied and once more burned bright. Vivian shivered, as if some evil presence had left the tent with him.

When William’s squire did not immediately return, she busied herself with preparing a stout curative broth for when William awakened. He had lain wasting for several days with fever, but it had lessened with the strong tea of white willow bark. If he was to recover, he must have food.

She worked quietly, unaware that she hummed the ancient Celtic folksong to herself until William stirred at the pallet.

“Are you an angel then?” he murmured painfully in French through parched lips.  “Or have I perhaps ventured in the other direction? Although you are far too lovely to be the devil unless he has taken on the guise of a woman.”

“I am neither, milord,” she answered tentatively in English as she slowly approached the cot.

His mind was surprisingly clear in spite of his exhaustion from fever and the wasting infection of his wounds.

“You are the Saxon healer,” he said gruffly with much effort and narrowed eyes, studying her. “My squire spoke of you this morn, or perhaps during the night.” His eyes closed as he gathered his strength. “I cannot remember.”

“I am Vivian of Amesbury,” she replied, laying her hand at his shoulder. The pain eased from deep lines at his face.

His eyes opened once more and slowly focused on her. “My squire also said that I owe my life to you.”

She felt the life force strong and sure within him, along with a sense of his frustration at his infirmity.

“You owe your life to God.” Then she smiled, for she did not find William of Normandy quite as fierce as she had imagined. Instead, he reminded her of Poladouras when he occasionally became ill—one of her most quarrelsome and uncooperative patients.

“You do, however, owe your leg to me.”

His surprise was immediate. “You were not forced to remove it?”

“I thought you would be better served if the leg was saved.”

To reassure him, she lifted the edge of the thick fur to reveal the proof of her claim. His relief was visible as his head fell back against the pallet. After a moment he turned toward the bubbling sound that came from the brazier.