Daughter of Fire (2 page)

“You must leave!” she said urgently. “Flee now, child, by way of the hills, while there is still time.”

“Aye, you must go,” Poladouras said adamantly, adding his voice to Meg’s with a sudden harshness she’d never heard before.

“I will not leave!” She saw the look that passed between her them and knew it had already been decided.

Poladouras’ expression softened. “Dear child,” he said, pleading with her, “the days ahead will be dark enough for us all. More than anyone else you must know that you must not fall into Norman hands. We will be safe enough. Now go, quickly!” he implored. “Before it is too late!”

But it was already too late.

Sagging oak doors, which barely kept out the wind and cold, crashed back against the  crumbling stone wall. The bitter cold wind that had carried the ominous warning of an early winter storm for two days, swirled through the opening, smothering out candles that had been lit against the midmorning gloom as the weather steadily closed in.

The only light came from the guttering fire in the brazier and the gray gloom at the doorway as the acrid stench of smoldering tallow gusted through the sanctuary. The light cast a pall of shadows over the room as Norman soldiers swarmed inside the abbey with drawn swords.

Meg pulled Vivian into the shadows behind the altar. “Say nothing!” she warned vehemently as Poladouras turned to face the Norman invaders.

The monk presented a pathetic figure as he stood before the altar, stooped and round-shouldered as though far older than his years. He seemed to lean more heavily than usual on the stout walking stick as though the simple effort of standing required all his strength. A crucifix gleamed against the coarse wool of his much-mended cassock for all to see, and the expression at his round, kindly face was one of surprise. But the hand that gripped the head of the stout walking stick was white-knuckled, his gentle eyes gleaming with a fierce, defiant light, and Vivian’s heart constricted for she sensed the dangerous game he played.

She could easily have broken the old woman’s grasp at her arm, but another voice added its urgency to Meg’s warning.

Do not! All is at stake!

“Stand away!” the command was harshly spoken in French and the soldiers parted to let one among them pass through.

Poladouras frowned. “ ’Tis not necessary to break down the chapel doors. What is the meaning of this? Who are you? Why do you bring weapons into God’s house?”

“This is now William of Normandy’s house,” the warrior who came forward informed him in heavily accented English, then added, “As is now all of England.”

The Norman knight was dressed in heavy chain mail with leather leggings and gauntlets. His helm had been removed, the mail link coif framing hard, cold features. His tunic was green and hung to his knees. The hem was badly stained, and with a jolt of alarm, Vivian realized the stains were blood.

“We have come for the healer whose reputation is well-known,” the Norman soldier announced, gloved hand resting at the handle of the broadsword belted at his waist.

Poladouras’ expression was that of mild surprise. Then he shrugged and shook his head. Vivian was stunned at the lie that fell so easily from his lips.

“I know not of whom you speak, milord. There is no one else here, only myself, a humble monk.”

The Norman soldier’s eyes narrowed and Vivian sensed danger in the flat, dark gaze that fastened on Poladouras.

“A Saxon said the healer could be found here. He was most certain of it, for he carried a wound he claimed the healer had treated. According to him, the healer’s talents are well-known.”

Again Poladouras shrugged. “He is mistaken. Amesbury is far too poor for someone of such reputation.”

“The man’s hand had been severely burned,” the Norman continued. “Although it was almost healed when we met.” His mouth curved in a cruel smile. “I know not the man’s name but he spoke of the healer, before he died under my blade.”

At her hiding place, Vivian gasped, for she knew he spoke of young Tom’s father. The smithy had burned his hand badly in the days before he and the other men left for Hastings, and she had provided a healing poultice for the wound.

Meg’s hand tightened over her arm. “There is naught you can do for him now, child!” she whispered.

Poladouras dismissed the Norman’s claim, betraying no outward sign that he knew the man the Norman spoke of.  He shrugged. “A simple mistake, for there is no healer at Amesbury.”

But the Norman soldier was not convinced. His eyes narrowed as he gazed about the chapel, then ordered his men, “Search the chapel!”

Poladouras hobbled forward as though to stop them. “I must protest!  This is sacrilege! You must not enter this sacred place with your bloodied weapons!”

The Norman drew his sword and pointed it at Poladouras’ chest. “Cease your pious whining, old man. Or you will die where you stand.”

The soldiers quickly moved through the chapel. A chair was smashed beneath one soldier’s boot. Another swept a basin of broth for the midday meal from the table, its contents soaking into the dirt floor. The rest of the meager food—a loaf of stale bread, molded cheese, and hard-cooked eggs—was seized and stuffed into greedy mouths. The table was shattered beneath a war ax. Casks of Poladouras’ favorite ale, delivered the day before from the village, were split open, their pungent contents puddling at the floor. A fleece blanket that Poladouras used to keep warm on long winter nights as he sat reading, was sliced to shreds and stomped underfoot into the ale-soaked dirt. Another blanket was tossed onto the fire at the brazier, the acrid smell of burning fleece fouling the air already redolent with the stench of tallow, spilt ale, and smoke.

Poladouras’ precious journals and manuscripts joined the pile of debris at the dirt floor. Astrology charts, painstakingly made, were torn from the walls and tossed onto the smoldering fire. Flames caught and greedily consumed the parchment and a lifetime’s worth of work.

Vivian’s throat ached with tears at the loss, her heart breaking that it was because of her. Her slender hands clenched into fists of helpless rage as Meg continued to whisper her desperate warnings. If she’d had a weapon, she would gladly have turned it on them and not cared the blood that was spilled.

“Please,” Poladouras beseeched them, hobbling from one to the other on swollen, gout-ridden legs. “The books are of no importance to you,” he reasoned. “Do not destroy them.”

“You are correct, monk,” the Norman assured him in a contemptuous voice, “they are not important. But you may save your precious books,” he suggested, “by giving me the healer!”

“I have already told you,” Poladouras insisted, even as the soldiers spread to other parts of the abbey. “I know not of whom you speak. Surely not even William of Normandy would dare to defile a chapel!”

A terrified scream came from the passage that led to the kitchen. It was the young girl, Mally. She had come to Vivian earlier that morning for an herbal tisane to ease her dying mother’s discomfort. No doubt she had been caught by the soldiers on the village road as she returned to the cottage they shared. Now, she was dragged by one of the soldiers into the chapel, sobbing hysterically.

“See what we have found!” the soldier called out in French, grinning viciously. “A sweet reward for our trouble.”

Mally’s captor held her by the neck of her gown, dragging her to the middle of the chapel, where he hauled her to her feet and pulled the girl back against him, the blade of a knife pressed against her throat. Her hair was tangled, eyes wild with fear. Her bottom lip was split and bleeding, the bodice of her gown gaping open over young breasts where dark bruises discolored tender flesh.

Vivian’s heart constricted. “I cannot bear to see others suffer because of me.”

“You must bear it!” Meg hissed at her in the shadows. “The girl’s fate must not be yours!”

Tears of helpless rage burned at Vivian’s eyes. Her slender hands clenched over the folds of her skirt,  her fingers brushing the cool length of something in the pocket of her apron forgotten until that moment.

She thrust her hand into the pocket and felt the cool length of the steel blade she’d used that morning to cut herbs in the garden. She’d dropped it into her pocket when she had returned to the herbal.

Raising his walking stick and waving before him like a weapon, Poladouras hobbled toward the Norman soldiers, and bravely faced them down.

“This is consecrated ground!” he chastised them. “How dare you bring your death and destruction into this Holy place! The girl is no more than a child. For the sake of your mortal souls, release her and leave before you are damned for all eternity!”

The shouting and lewd comments among the Norman soldiers abruptly ceased. For several moments there was only the guttering sound of the fire at the brazier and Vivian sensed the uneasiness among Vachel’s men at the curse he’d called down on them all.

Vachel sensed it too. An expression of cold fury twisted his cruel features.

“Old fool!” he cursed, raising his sword and viciously striking Poladouras against the side of the head.  The blow staggered the monk to his knees, and Vachel’s flat dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he raised the sword to strike again.

“Nay!” Vivian cried out as she ran from her hiding place in the shadows to protect the monk from another blow.

An agony of despair filled old Meg’s heart that she had not been able to protect the child entrusted to her care so many years ago. Still, she thought, there might be a way to trick these simpleminded fools.

“I am the one you seek,” she called out as she emerged from behind the altar. “I am the healer you seek.”

“No!” Vivian cried out as Meg was seized by two of Vachel’s men and thrust to the dirt at his feet.

He reached down, seizing Meg by the throat and jerking her chin up. The silvery nimbus of her long, white hair fell back from her face. His gaze narrowed, features contorting with the beginnings of a dangerous rage at the pale, sightless eyes that stared back at him.

“The old hag is blind!” He brutally cuffed Meg against the side of the head and sent her sprawling into the dirt. As she fell, Meg’s thoughts reached out to Vivian.

“
Flee
,
mo chroi
.
Save yourself
!” Then, with amazing agility, she flung herself at Vachel, wrapping her thin arms about his legs.

He kicked her brutally, lifting Meg’s fragile, wispy body with the toe of his boot, flinging her aside as if she were no more than a bothersome mongrel.

With a fierce protective instinct, Vivian lunged for Vachel’s throat with the knife. He deflected her attack with his arm. Instead of his throat, the blade opened a ribbon of flesh at his cheek. He yelped, like one of Poladouras’ hounds, his fingers probing his injured cheek. His flat, dark eyes gleamed dangerously.

“Saxon bitch!” he snarled, raising his fist. The blow caught Vivian at the shoulder and would have sent her to the floor except for his other fist twisted in the length of her hair. A tingling sensation spread the length of her arm from her bruised shoulder to numb fingertips. The knife fell from her stunned fingers to the floor of the chapel.

Vachel pulled her toward him, her hair twisted about his fist like a thick satin rope. Her head was forced back, anchored by his fist at her hair.

“There are ways to tame a cat with sharp claws.” He smiled—a vicious expression—lips pulled back over teeth set in the wreath of matted and crusted beard. He brought the sword up and pressed the blade against her throat.

“Now, I will show this bloodthirsty vixen who is her new master.” He angled the sword lower and with a flick of his wrist cut through the bodice of her gown to tender flesh below, carving a gleaming dark crescent in the pale skin at her breast. Droplets of blood beaded at the wound and Vachel’s smile deepened as his gaze fastened on the glistening mark.

“I pay back threefold,” he vowed against her cheek. “My brand on you is but the first.”

She was dragged back against him, her back pressed against the wall of his chest, the mat of his beard sticky with his own blood, pressed against the side of her face as he held her. The links of chain mail that covered his arm bit through the soft wool of her gown to scrape the flesh at her breasts.

“I will tame you,” he vowed. “And then I will ride you like the Saxon bitch you are! When I am through you will crawl at my feet! You will beg to call me master, and do my bidding.”

Vivian held herself rigid against him, her chin lifted defiantly, eyes glittering with hatred. Vachel jerked viciously on the thick silk of her hair bound about his hand.

“Do you understand?” he demanded in heavily accented English. “Are you Saxons too ignorant to comprehend the simplest command given by your new masters?”

“Je vous comprends,”
Vivian answered in perfect, flawless French, her own voice filled with contempt, and watched with satisfaction the stunned expression at those cruel eyes.

Then she asked defiantly, “
Me comprenez vous?
Do you understand
me?
”

Her features were taut, color high at her cheeks. Her voice was filled with all the loathing and hatred she felt. “Confess your sins and pray for forgiveness. For I vow, by the ancient ones, for what you have done, you are already dead.”

His soldiers’ laughter joined his. “Tell me, demoiselle,” Vachel asked, his coarse beard scraping at her cheek. “How have I died? Have you perchance slain me and I am a ghost who now holds you prisoner?” He threw back his head and laughed. “Have you used some magical sword to strike me down?

“If I am dead,” Vachel speculated, his breath hot against her skin, “how is it possible that I now hold this blade against
your
lovely throat?”

Vivian recoiled, inwardly cringing at the terrifying threat of that deadly blade, yet refusing to let him see even a trace of that fear.

“Please! I beseech you,” Poladouras implored as he struggled painfully to his feet. “Do not harm her. She is but a foolish girl. She sought only to protect the old woman as any child would protect her mother.”