Daughter of Fire (22 page)

“And you will possibly ride into an ambush. We know not the temper of the people of London,” Rorke argued. “We must assume they will defend the city to the last man. If it were Anjou, I would defend it until my blood ran into the soil beneath my feet.”

“These Saxons are not soldiers!” William pointed out. Cold sweat from the exertion broke out at forehead from long meetings, and even longer arguments.  “They are merchants, tailors, and innkeepers. Think you they will defend the city with writing quills, sewing needles, and tankards?”

“Only a fool rides into a fortress not knowing the strength that lies within,” Rorke pointed out. “By your own words, the fiercest enemy is one that defends his hearth and home.”

“You use my words against me!” William roared. The bishop had moved to stand beside him, by his silent presence indicating whose side he took in the argument.

“I use your words to keep you alive!” Rorke told him without hesitation. “What good is an army if the commander is slain? What good is a throne if there is no one to wear the crown? You might ask that question of King Harold, whose body lies rotting at Hastings.”

“By God! I would have any other man struck down for what you’ve just said!” William shouted.

“Aye,” Rorke agreed, unmoved by the threat, “the truth is often a bitter medicine to swallow.” And on that thought, he turned to Vivian.

“What say you, mistress? Is he strong enough to mount a pitched battle within the city walls? Is his sword arm strong enough to wield a blade? Is he recovered enough to sit a warhorse, or shall we fasten him to the top of a cart?”

At that moment, Vivian glimpsed the ruthlessness she had first sensed him capable of. The questions answered themselves for all to see. But William wanted a different answer. And the expression on the Duke of Normandy’s face suggested it might be unwise to give any answer other than the one what he wanted.

“Be advised,” Rorke told him, “the maid has informed me that she is incapable of lying.” He turned to her then.

“What say you? Are his wounds sufficiently healed to allow him to lead an army in battle?”

“By all means,” William encouraged her. “Be completely honest. After all”—he leaned forward from his chair. “You have nothing to fear from FitzWarren for telling the truth, my dear. I shall abide by your words.”

He was so confident of his recovery that he encouraged her to tell the truth. She sensed it, and had to fight back a smile. He wasn’t going to be at all pleased.

“I will tell you, milord, what I would tell any man with your injuries,” she answered as diplomatically as possible.

“You are alive only by the grace of God. The wounds linger and must be given time to heal—”

“Nevertheless,” he said, cutting her off.

Undaunted, she continued. “The leg is not yet fully mended. It must be given time to heal properly and grow strong. If you attempt to sit a horse, the pain will be unbearable and you may well will fall flat on your face. You cannot hold a quill in your hand to write the simplest missive, let alone hold a sword. You have four broken ribs that pain you to draw the smallest breath, let alone sit upright in full battle armor—”

“Silence!” he roared. “By God, you are a mettlesome wench!”

“You bade me tell the truth, milord,” she pointed out. He glared at her from beneath that dark brow.

“What then is your plan for my campaign?” he demanded of Rorke, while massaging his weak right hand with frustration.

“We will secure the city against any skirmishes and uprisings. As far as anyone in London is concerned, it will be the Duke of Normandy leading his army.”

William’s head came up, eyes narrowing.

“Explain yourself,”

“With your permission, I will wear your battle armor and carry your standards. We are of  near the same height. With the helm in place, none will be the wiser. And your
presence
at the head of the army will be a strong deterrent against attacks, and rumors of any injury that may have traveled ahead of us.”

“It will also make yourself a target for an assassin,” William pointed out as he nodded his assessment of the plan. “I have always accepted the full responsibility of my own actions. I would not have another man die in my place.”

“Nor I.”

William nodded. “And once you have gained control of the city?”

“I will send Tarek to escort you into London. The Duke of Normandy shall meet with the Saxon earls and barons and make his rightful claim to the throne. None will be the wiser for the deception.”

“I must protest!” the bishop objected, his dark eyes narrowed. “William must be seen leading his army into London. Do you believe the Saxons will be fooled?” Then he turned his argument on William.

“FitzWarren is your most powerful commander. He already controls your army. He is ambitious. Do not allow this, my brother. It is too dangerous.”

“As dangerous as leaving William’s side during the thick of battle?” Rorke flung at the bishop, the words filled with accusation.

“What are you suggesting, FitzWarren?” the bishop’s voice suddenly low and dangerous.

“I
suggest
nothing, milord Bishop,” Rorke answered, his eyes a deadly shade of gray. “I will say plainly what all know to be true. You were not there to defend William’s side when he was injured on the battlefield at Hastings.”

“Cease!” William ordered. “I will not have this enmity between men that I have a need of.” He nodded to Rorke. “You have my trust. I agree to your plan. I shall await the escort you send.” He turned to his brother. “You will accompany FitzWarren. It would seem
unusual
if you were not at the side of the duke of Normandy.”

The bishop bowed his head in reluctant acceptance of William’s decision.

“Godspeed,” William told Rorke. “And safe journey, my friend.” Rorke nodded and left the tent to give orders to his men.

Vivian had no desire to be caught in the middle of an argument between William and his brother. She pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders as she hastened from the tent. Her boots made light crunching sounds at the frost underfoot that covered the ground. As she crossed the encampment she saw that even now Gavin assisted Rorke with William’s cumbersome chain mail armor.

It had been carefully cleaned and mended, but still bore the marks of the blows William had taken at the battle of Hastings. All about the encampment mounted soldiers and those afoot made their preparations for the march against London. Finely polished swords gleamed in the gray sunless morning light. Heavy chain mail chausses and hauberks were buckled into place. Steel helms with nose plates were donned as were heavy leather gloves. The horses moved restlessly, sensing the coming march.

Vivian painfully recalled that morning at Amesbury when it seemed the whole of the Norman army had descended on the abbey, bringing with it death and destruction. The only difference was in the standard that fluttered overhead on the icy wind and the shield that lay across the saddle of the warhorse. Instead of the phoenix rising from the flames, William’s standard fluttered and snapped on an ominous wind, the emblem of an eagle rampant on a field of purple, with black, gold, and purple threads woven through like the threads of an unwoven tapestry that tossed on an uncertain wind.

Rorke turned at the touch of her hand. He had not yet donned the mail coif or steel helm. His dark hair lay in thick layers to his shoulders for want of skilled shears. He was clean-shaven, lean features like stone in the cold morning air that held the warning of a pending storm. Eyes that she had once thought as cold as winter ice softened at the sight of her.

“Do you come to wish me farewell, mistress?”

“Yes,” she answered truthfully. At the same time she tried to quell the fear in her heart at what might happen, for they were prepared to battle for London if necessary. She should not feel this way—this ache of fear and uncertainty that he might not return.

“And to wish you safe journey,” she added.

He paused in the familiar task of preparing for battle; jerking leather straps snug at the mail armor, checking the cinch at the saddle, adjusting the leather scabbard and sword that hung to the left and within easy reach should he have need of it.

“Could it be that you might feel some small measure of regret at my death were I to perish on the streets of London?” he asked, his voice moving across her skin like a warm caress.

“Yes, of course,” she blurted out, and then, realizing how easily what she’d said might be misunderstood, she hastened to correct herself.

“No!... What I mean is... If anything were to happen...”

Rorke smiled. “In the short time I have known you, Vivian of Amesbury, you have never lacked for words. Say what you will and be quick about it, before you freeze to death.”

“Very well,” she replied, her breath pluming on the chill morning air. “My concern is for Mally.”

“Mally?” he responded with more than a little irritation. He leaned over and jerked a leather strap into place, snugging the mail chausses over a lean, muscular thigh.

“What has the girl to do with the taking of London?”

“She is protected from Vachel and the others by William’s order and given into your care. If anything were to happen to you in London...”

“You fear that the girl might come to some harm,” he finished what she seemed to be having difficulty saying as her teeth chattered from the cold.

Vivian nodded, holding the shawl more tightly about her, certain that it must be the cold that made her shiver. “She’s done nothing, but still suffered the worst abuse. What will become of her?”

“Cease,” he ordered, but not ungently, as he suddenly stood upright, a hand resting on the neck of his warhorse. “Do you always go abegging for others?”

“I am not begging! I am merely asking for what is just,” she argued.

“The girl has William’s protection if anything should happen to me. She will be safe,” he assured her. “But what would you ask for yourself?”

“Myself? Why would I ask anything?” she responded in surprise. “You have clearly stated that you will not grant that which I would ask—the safety of the people of Amesbury.”

“But what of your freedom?” he asked. “If something was to happen to me, what then, Vivian of Amesbury?”

“I would return to the abbey.”

“And if William or the bishop would not allow it?”

“They could not stop me if I chose to leave.”

His eyes narrowed. “Yet you now remain within William’s encampment when you have no desire to be here. Wherein lies the difference?”

She glanced away. “I cannot say.” His touch was as warm as summer sun against her skin as he forced her gaze back to his with fingers at her chin.

“Or will not say?” he speculated.

“Will you give your word for Mally’s safety?” She avoided a direct answer, quite simply because both were only half-truths.

“Aye, I will give my word for her safety. And yours,” he surprised her by adding. He reached for the heavy mantle that lay across the saddle.

It was midnight black, finely woven, and lined with soft white fur. He draped it around her shoulders, snugging the heavy fur collar about her neck. The mantle, large enough to accommodate his large frame including battle armor, framed her slender shoulders with a comforting heaviness like being wrapped in a warm cocoon.

“I cannot wear this,” she protested, feeling the warm caress about her arms and legs, the scent of him—faintly spicy; and of the wind—permeating the rich fabric and thick fur.

His hands lingered at her shoulders, fingers brushing her neck.

“Nor can I.” He pointed out the brilliant purple mantle brought from William’s tent.

“Wear it for me,” he told her, his voice suddenly low at his throat as if something unspoken lay behind the words. “You may return it when we have secured the city.” He opened one of the leather bags that hung from the saddle and took out a wrapped bundle. He handed it to her.

“Open it.”

She untied the strings from around the bundle, confusion in her vivid blue eyes. She looked up at him.

“To replace the gown that Vachel damaged.” He gestured to the mended bodice of her gown where Vachel had cut her with his sword.  The stain of blood was gone, washed away in a stream they had passed on the journey to find Williams before it was too late. She had washed it several times since, wearing only the thin shift under her shawl, for it was the only gown she had brought from Amesbury.

“I cannot accept this. Surely the one you took it from has more need of it than I.”

“Tis a small thing.  It was honestly purchased from a woman in a village we passed.” He jerked leather ties tight at the saddle. 

“William would not have you go about in your shift for all to see. You might catch your death of disease, and he still has need of your skills.”

She was not aware that the Duke of Normandy had taken notice of her meager wardrobe.

With an ease that belied the weight of the heavy mail armor, he swung into the saddle, adjusting William’s mantle with the easily recognizable gold lion emblazed at the hem for all to see so that they would know that William the Conqueror rode into London.

“I would not have you go about in your shift.”  He pulled on heavy gauntlets and gathered the reins. He glanced down at her with an expression that was almost tender. Then he looked to Gavin and said with hidden meaning, “You have your orders, my friend. Do not fail me.”

“I have always fought at your other side,” Gavin said, his voice heavy with protest.

“You will fight at my side again, my friend. For now I must entrust both sides to another.”

Beside him Tarek nodded. “I will be like the eagle he wears on his mantle. None will be able to touch him while I fly at his side.”

The command was given and echoed along the entire column of soldiers, formed six abreast with lances and maces held at the ready, broadswords unsheathed and laid across saddle pommels, and beyond the encampment, into the rolling mist like some phantom army appearing then disappearing on currents of air so that they might have numbered five hundred or ten times that number.

Vivian stepped back, clutching thick folds of the mantle about her to against the sudden cold that ached through her. That small legion of soldiers that day at Amesbury was a mere whisper of the size and force of the number that now marched to lay siege on London, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Indeed, she was part of it—part of the vision at that unwoven tapestry that was the future.