Daughter of Fire (23 page)

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In the middle of the night she was awakened by to find Gavin de Marte standing over her.

He was dressed in full battle armor rather than leather-padded breeches and tunic. His expression was resolute in the dying glow from the fire, yet there was a boyish eagerness that softened the hard line of his mouth and glinted at his eyes.

“It is time. The signal flares have been seen at the heart of the city and a messenger arrived but an hour ago. We ride into London.”

For two days they had waited with no word, only the flare of fires that appeared throughout the city, glowing from rooftops, and then eventually smoldering to a spreading glow. Vivian had stood on the small knoll of the encampment, forcing herself to watch as flaming threads of the tapestry wove the night sky and she thought of that mythical bird that rose reborn from the flames.

Unbidden, as if with a will of their own, her thoughts reached out to Rorke, to feel some essence of him, to know that he was safe, to somehow quell the ache inside just to see him again, to hear the gentle roughness of his voice, to feel those eyes watching her from a distance, and his hand lightly brushing her shoulder or her cheek. She did not understand how she could long for a simple touch, she only knew that she had as surely as she longed for sunlight, air, and the warmth of fire.

The camp was broken down, fires smothered out, horses saddled.  She had checked William’s wounds, binding them fast with heavy linen then the laces of his leather tunic were bound equally tight to provide support about his ribs.  When he stepped from his tent he wore the heavy chain mail over with none who saw him the wiser for the pain it caused except for Vivian.

He climbed the mounting block and swung astride his war horse, refusing to give any outward sign of the effort that simple task took. Only she was aware of the pain that effort cost him.

She handed him a cup of wine provided by one of his squires.  “Drink this, milord.  It will ease the pain.”

“Another of your healing potions, mistress?”

She smiled faintly. “You will feel a tingling sensation is all.  It will take away the pain.”

His eyes narrowed. “You ever seem to know my weaknesses, mistress.”

“Tis a healer’s way.  That is the reason you hold me captive, milord.”

He raised the cup in salute. “It is, and grateful I am that you have not laced my wine with poison.”

“If I were to do so, milord, I would surely feel your knight’s blade at my throat. But I will not say that the thought hadn’t occurred to me. Only that I value the lives of the people of Amesbury more.”

He smiled in appreciation.  “You have an honesty that is rare, mistress. Do you always tell the truth?”

“There is no point in telling lies. They are always found out.”

“Aye,” he agreed.  “You will stay close, mistress, should I have a need of your soothing draught.”

Her experience with horses was limited to Poladouras’ aged palfrey, a docile creature that the good monk claimed was given to dozing between strides. She and Mally were given cart ponies to ride, rather than the larger, high-spirited warhorses. They sat astride, surrounded by Gavin’s guard.

As the long column slowly moved forward on the road that would take them into London, William gave orders to one of his men to send a messenger to his ship that Matilda, Duchess of Normandy, was to be brought to London with all due haste so that she would be with him when he took the Saxon crown. Then he turned to Gavin.

“You have the route by which we are to enter the city?

“Aye, milord.” Gavin nodded. “By the north bridge. An escort will be awaiting us.”

The Norman encampment was less than half a league from the city. Any infirmity of pain William suffered was disguised by his determination to ride into the city, claiming it for his own.

They rode by the light of torches until the north bridge came into view. More torches had been set along the bridge connecting one side of the river to the other. An armed escort rode across to meet them.

Instinctively, Vivian searched among the mail-clad knights for one who was taller, leaner of frame, with wide-set shoulders, protective mail coif impatiently pushed back at his shoulders and bearing William’s standard. But Rorke FitzWarren was not among them.

She recognized de Lacey, Montfort, and Sir Guy. Greetings were exchanged. Their expressions were resolute, grim with their purpose of escorting William into London.

Word passed through the Norman guard. There had been skirmishes and armed encounters with Saxon rebels who refused to surrender the city.

In the days since they entered the city, many had been wounded as they fought from street to street in spite of the surrender of the city by the sheriff of London. But in the end London had fallen, and William of Normandy would lay claim to it that night.

They rode a circuitous route through the city, through back streets, cobbled alleys, and places where the cobbles gave way to dirt, across another bridge, and past a central square with the spires of Westminster Abbey looming ever closer.

Vivian felt the stares and stolen glances from behind shuttered windows as the residents of London looked out on the heavily armed escort that wound through the streets. She could feel their fear and apprehension at these strange invaders, their entire lives turned upside down with the death of Harold and the defection of the archbishop of Canterbury and enough Saxon earls to guarantee William the throne of England.

Occasionally they passed blackened, burned-out rubble, all that remained of an inn or shop, ghostly remnants of the fires they had seen from a distance. But for the most part London remained intact.

Poladouras had been to London and had spoken often of it. He had told her of the grand cathedral, the royal houses built within a square park beside a small wooded forest where Harold amused himself at the hunt, and the ancient Roman ruins where other invaders had once held power.

Vivian discovered it was also a rabbit’s warren of stone, thatch, and wood buildings, crammed all side by side like squat nesting hens, water spilling from rooftop cisterns and freezing to ice almost before it reached cobbled streets where rats darted and floated among the flotsam of refuse and garbage, the stench congealing with the acrid smoke from torches that cast eerie, shifting shadows along walls and fronts of buildings as they passed by.

Their destination was the royal tower where Harold had held court and where the council of Saxon barons and earls had held the ancient witan proclaiming the boy, Edgar, king of England in futile defiance of William’s claim to the throne. It was here that William would officially declare himself king of England.

Then a new urgency ran through her blood and sharpened her senses, and had her pulling back sharply on the pony’s reins and motioning for Mally to do the same.

“What is it?” the girl asked anxiously.

“Something is wrong,” Vivian said as a warning moved through her. “There is danger very near.”

Without clearly seeing it, she sensed danger that closed around them. She called a warning to Gavin. Riding just ahead, he reined in and turned at the sound of her voice. The warning came just as the flash of axes and swords exploded from the shadows at either side of the narrow street.

Orders were shouted. Horses jostled against one another, trapped within the narrow confines of the buildings that lined both sides of the street. Steel blade rang out against steel blade. Beside her, Mally screamed. Vivian grabbed the reins of the girl’s pony to keep them from being separated in the confusion.

A mounted soldier riding on the other side of her reeled from a blow, attempted to bring up his maimed sword arm, and was dragged from his saddle by an attacker. The riderless horse reared, hooves slashing the air. Vivian turned both the ponies and tried to reach Duke William.

He motioned her to safety behind him at the same time he tried to wield the heavy broadsword with his weakened left hand. It was a gallant but hopeless gesture as the shadows closed in on them from all sides.

They were caught, trapped by buildings butted together by common walls, and with no hope of escape. Montfort’s warhorse screamed in pain as it took a sword in the chest and fell to the street amid jostling horses and slashing hooves. Sir Guy defended against one attacker while another moved at his back.

Once again Vivian experienced felt the weight of divided loyalties. She was Saxon. The Norman soldiers and Duke William were her enemies. They had killed countless numbers of innocent men, women, and children, and yet there was a certainty that went beyond such loyalties. She had seen it in her vision—a creature born in fire and blood spreading its wings across the land. The end of Saxon England had already been written.

There was nothing she or anyone could do to prevent it. Now, the Saxons had no leader. Poladouras had long spoken with dread if young Edgar should eventually be named regent, for he was but a child and sickly, incapable of uniting the earls and protecting England against the invading hordes that would no doubt come as they had centuries before.

Amidst the sound of battle, Vivian heard a Saxon war cry, “Kill the Norman bastard! Kill them all!” And knew what she must do, or many more would die.

W
ith head bowed head she turned her thoughts inward to that place of ancient dreams and visions seen in a crystal stone. She summoned the vision of the flame at the heart of the blue crystal, amid swirling images of stone walls, warriors, and bloodied swords.  And amidst the images of smoke and blood and the dying, a powerful creature rose on outspread wings.

 She spread her arms wide, her hands raised to the sky, and whispered ancient words. Then she threw her head back, the wind whipping at her hair as it gathered around them.

“Element of fire, spirit of light.  Essence of life, set ablaze the night!
”

Thirteen

T
he explosion filled the night sky.

Rorke had seen it many times over the past two days when buildings were set afire, some by accident, others in protest by the owners over the presence of Norman invaders in London. It seemed as if the inhabitants of London were intent on burning the city to the ground if needed to deny it to their Norman captors.

Most of the fires had been put out, or left to burn themselves out in buildings set apart from others and posing no further threat. But this fire was a fireball that exploded. It cast city rooftops into sharp relief against the night sky, and from a part of the city that made his blood run cold in for it was the route William was to enter the city.

For several days, since entering the city, the deception had worked. Duke William was seen all about London, hale and hearty, leading his troops in full battle armor, his standards flying high for all of London to see, and know that they had been conquered, a carefully planned strategy in a deadly game they couldn’t afford to lose. For if the Saxon earls guessed that only weeks before William had lain near death and was still too weak to lead his army, they would no doubt have struck with renewed determination.

The timing was now perfect for William to enter the city in secrecy and take his rightful place. He was due to take up residence in the tower fort, official residence of the king, and meet with the council of Saxon earls in two days’ time. Everything hung in the balance. If William were injured or killed, all would be lost and England would be plunged into anarchy.

Rorke shouted orders to his men, commandeering them from their different posts. The Bishop rode with them, his expression betraying nothing of his inner thoughts. Their number grew as they rode hard through the littered and abandoned streets toward the North bridge. All rode with battle swords and lances drawn. He expected the worst, and drew up sharply at the end of the street at the carnage that met their eyes.

The attack had been met at the center of the street where there was no hope for escape. Saxon insurgents had come from both ends, cutting off any retreat or advance. The battle had been grim, like too many seen across the whole of Normandy, France, and the rest of Europe.

He had long held the belief that what a poorly armed soldier lacked in weaponry he more than made up with in fervor when defending his hearth and home. There was a sort of frenzied passion in fighting for one’s entire existence that went beyond the skill of the trained warrior, making such a man a fierce enemy. The Saxons had shown just such fierceness at Hastings, giving no quarter, showing no mercy, until they fell and their bodies became food for crows.

They cautiously rode forward. He counted a dozen dead Norman soldiers. Among them was an equal number of fallen Saxons, forming a ring of bodies around the core of William’s escort. There Norman soldiers and Rorke’s own knights who rode with him, had made a last, defiant stand, forming a wall four men deep to protect William. In a circle between the fallen Saxons and the inner circle of defending Norman soldiers who still stood, was a ring of small, dying fires.

Most of the rebels had fled, abandoning the attack, weapons thrown down as though fleeing some terrifying, ungodly force. A few remained, refusing to yield as Rorke’s men charged into the battle, their warhorses flinging aside Saxon attackers as he drove to the heart of the tightly fortified core that surrounded William.

He told himself it was William that he sought among the soldiers, that if William fell, all of England would be lost. But in truth, his thoughts were filled with visions of that fiery explosion and another sweet fire that he sought—the fiery satin of brilliant hair, a slender form, and eyes as blue as the heart of a flame. For he knew she would be with William. And an unexpected fear locked around his heart as he searched for sight of her, determined to find her at the same time dreading what he might find.

When had she become important to him? From the beginning, the answer whispered, sliding along his senses, reminding him in flashes of memory—the curve of her smile, the fire that leapt so easily into her eyes when defending someone she was loyal to, or the sweet torment of her taste.