Daughter of Fire (24 page)

It wasn’t enough! he thought with a fierce rage of anger. For the first time in his life someone else mattered, and the short time they’d shared, was not nearly enough.

He urged his warhorse forward, the animal stepping over a Saxon who lay facedown, weapon in hand. He’d died from sword wounds, but his face and hands were oddly blackened as though he’d ventured too near a fire.

Gavin rode forward from amidst the tightly defended circle of soldiers that surrounded William, greeting Rorke with a grim nod.

“They came at us from all sides”—he gestured to the doors and windows—“and from the buildings and rooftops.”

Rorke quickly gave orders and his knights dismounted and ran into the buildings. There were loud screams and shouts of protest as they began the search for the Saxon attackers, women dragged out into the street in their night shifts, old men in their breeches. 

“The duke of Normandy?” he anxiously inquired. Again there was a nod, this time edged with satisfaction.

“I am well enough!” William shouted as the soldiers parted around him. “But we were sorely pressed to defend ourselves and might have perished if not for the trap you set upon them.”

Rorke shook his head.  “I laid no such trap, but thought the streets secured. I had men positioned.”

“Dead,” Tarek grimly reported as he angled the gray mare through the bodies of the dead. “Slain at their posts as if the rebels knew their location and purpose.”

“Aye,” Rorke acknowledged—as if their purpose was known. “You are not injured?” he asked William even as his gaze searched among those who surrounded him for the gleam of bright red hair.

“I am well enough, my friend. As are all.”

He looked past William to the small figure that moved beside him—the pony dwarfed by the massive warhorses, and the slender figure that sat astride.  She was wrapped in his black mantle, the soft white fur framing the brilliant flame of her hair. Her eyes were wide and luminous, as if they possessed a fire of their own, set within the pale heart shape of her face.

As instinctive as breathing, Rorke reached for her, pulling her from atop the pony into the saddle before him. Her slender hands closed over his mail clad arm.

“I knew you’d come,” she whispered, the image of that powerful creature fading before the man who held her.

The chain mail at his forearm scraped her fingertips as she held onto him, strong, solid, and warm beneath her hand. She leaned against him as that image faded, peering at her from the  edges of her thoughts. In a gesture that was both rough and tender, Rorke pushed the fur-lined hood back , his large hand going back through her hair.

“You are not injured?” he asked gruffly with a harshness she’d heard dozens of times when giving orders to his men. It reached deep into her soul with a new awareness as though something predestined had passed between them.

“No, milord,” she whispered, for she could not trust her voice, when these strange, unfamiliar feelings burned through her at the simple touch of his hand.

“Those who can ride have been given horses,” Tarek informed him. “The others will be carried on litters. It is best we leave as soon as possible.”

“Aye,” Rorke acknowledged, with a grim look over the top of her head. “An
open field rather than a forest
, my friend? This time I agree with you.” He turned and gave orders to his knights.

“And bring the prisoners that have been taken.” His cold gray eyes narrowed. “I would ask them questions about the attack, since William’s route was known only to a handful.”

Tarek nodded grimly. “We must consider that we have a traitor in our midst.”

Rorke agreed. “But for now, it is important that William reaches the royal hall safely. Then we will see about hunting down this traitor. For now, say nothing to anyone.” He turned to William.

“Can you ride?”

“Well enough to show these Saxons that I am not easily slain.”

Rorke nodded. “The hall has been made ready.”

What had once been King Harold’s royal residence—a series of sprawling stone and wood residences linked by corridors and a small central court—had been turned into an armed fortress with a massive bridge lowered across a causeway that joined with the rest of the city.

Vivian shivered as they passed over the causeway then through a set of iron gates, her senses assaulted by dozens of images and impressions. The attack in the streets had been a portent of the danger that surrounded them—a danger she felt even more intensely inside the stout walls.

Though apparently uninjured, the attack had nevertheless taken its toll on William’s strength. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of the cumbersome chain mail. Yet, as they rode through the gate, he sat taller astride his horse, straightened his wide shoulders, and looked very much the conqueror come to claim his throne.

As they rode into the dirt courtyard a group of a half dozen men stood on the steps awaiting their arrival. By their manner of dress—richer by far than any she had seen, yet distinctly different in style from the Norman tunics and breeches—Vivian realized they were the Saxon nobility. A small contingent of the Saxon council with no choice if they wished to spare their own lives, they had negotiated for peace only days earlier and were now come to greet William, albeit reluctantly. For their fortunes were gone, now claimed by a foreign usurper, whom they would be forced to swear allegiance to and crown their new king.

One, dressed in the elaborate headpiece and robes of the Church, with an ornate gold cross worn on a massive gold chain about his shoulders and with gold scepter, came down the steps of the royal residence toward them.

Rorke swung down from the warhorse and reached for Vivian. “Say nothing,” he warned in a low voice and she felt his tension in the crushing strength of his fingers wrapped about her arm.

The entire royal guard, including Rorke’s knights and soldiers, had dismounted, but William still sat astride and Vivian realized it was of utmost importance that he do this alone for the deception to be carried out, for it was possible that some among the Saxons had seen him struck down at the Battle of Hastings and they would have carried that story far and wide, including London, in the vain hope that the Norman invaders might yet stopped with either the loss of their commander.  It was of paramount importance, that these men, indeed all of London, bear witness to William’s physical strength as a soldier and his ability to rule without question.

She should not have doubted the outcome. More than once, she had glimpsed that indomitable strength of will, the sheer forcefulness of William’s spirit, and felt the strength that coursed through his veins. He had come this far, he would not be deterred from claiming what he had staked his life and fortunes upon.

With a powerful will that had borne him through countless battles and had no doubt helped him survive the past weeks, William pushed back the nose plate of his steel helm with an impatient gesture. His expression betrayed nothing of the pain that she sensed in him.

His features were grimly set, amber eyes narrowed with what appeared to be critical assessment of what he saw before him. His mouth was taut, yet the sum of his expression conveyed not pain nor weakness, but a resolute strength and determination that roused even her meager respect. And the time that he lingered in the saddle only heightened the uneasiness of the Saxon earls at the sight of the this man who had laid waste to England.

“Milord,” the berobed man greeted him, with a faint bow of his head. “May I present the royal council.”

This was spoken clearly in English for all to hear, and Vivian was aware of the faint mockery that underlay the man’s tone. The choice of English for their greeting was a mockery. She realized that they assumed William to be ignorant of their Saxon tongue and sought to belittle him—the Norman Conqueror who could not even speak the language of the people he had conquered.

“In due time, Archbishop,” William responded in clear, precise Saxon that immediately caused a shuffling of surprise and discomfort among the council members. They now realized that not only had they been misinformed by the archbishop of Canterbury, who had yielded that city but also campaigned for surrender, as to the health of Duke William. They’d been made fools in their attempt to humiliate a man they considered to be low and common.

He was neither low nor common, nor ignorant of their strategies. The archbishop of Canterbury could only smile weakly, his expression a mask of uncertainty as he realized that he had perhaps made more than one grievous error.

William removed his gauntlets, drawing out the tension as he kept everyone waiting, while silently gathering what little strength he had left.

“I would reward you most heartily for the greeting I received upon entering London,” he commented sharply. Vivian heard a hastily muffled cough from one of the barons, as though he were seized by a sudden malady, and wondered what the man might know of the attack.

William handed the reins and gauntlets to a squire who
magically
appeared at his side. Even more magically, he seemed to have taken on the size of one of Rorke’s knights rather than one of William’s personal attendants, who were of somewhat smaller stature.

No doubt the
squire’s
assistance was meant to disguise any infirmity on William’s part when he dismounted—a helping hand lest William should stumble from weakness. But he waived all aside, his gaze purposeful, the look of one who knows all too well what is expected of him as he swung a leg over the warhorse and dismounted.

Vivian held her breath as he lowered his weight down onto the barely mended leg that she had carefully set and wrapped. There was only the slightest betrayal of the pain she knew he felt in the sudden flinch at his eyes.

“There will be time for meetings later,” he informed the barons in a strong voice, clearly establishing his authority.

“Tonight there are other strategies to be planned, and inspection of the royal apartments. I would have everything in readiness for the queen’s arrival. I will meet with you accordingly.”

Then, gathering what little strength remained, he mounted the steps, with Rorke and his guard surrounding him, and slowly walked past the astonished Saxon barons and the archbishop.

Inside the royal residence with the archbishop and barons left to trail behind like farmyard chickens pecking about for pieces of grain, William slowly strode to the center of court with all the authority of a king.

“Your private apartments are in readiness.” Rorke informed him. “Perhaps you would care for some food and drink?”

“Aye, that I would,” William replied with all the gusto of a man who possessed an ample appetite, rather than one who had subsisted on meager broth the past several weeks. His large hand was pressed against the front of his mail hauberk as if hunger gnawed from the inside out, but Vivian sensed it was held against the pain of his broken ribs.

“You will accompany me,” he told Rorke, in what must seem a customary order of a king to his knight.

With a curt nod, Rorke led the way across the small inner court with its raised dais newly relieved of Harold’s royal pendants. William’s own standard, that Rorke had carried into the city, had been set beside the throne.

Gavin and Sir Guy accompanied William, one on either side, the folds of their mantles concealing the arms they slipped beneath his in support as William turned from the Saxon barons and the archbishop, and sought the royal chambers. Vivian felt Tarek’s hand gently at her arm.

“You will be needed,” he said with lowered voice, and escorted her with the others. Mally followed closely behind, carrying the pouch of medicinal herbs.

Inside the private apartment all was in readiness for William’s arrival. In lieu of William’s guard, which had not yet arrived from the Norman encampment, Rorke’s personal guards stood heavily armed at the entrance. Once the door was closed behind them and barred against any unexpected intrusions, the extraordinary performance she’d witnessed with growing admiration abruptly ended.

His strength gone, driven by sheer force of will, William sagged with exhaustion and would have fallen to the floor if Rorke’s men hadn’t supported him.

“Remove his battle armor and bring him to the bed,” Rorke ordered.” He turned to look for Vivian, but she was already beside the bed, unbuckling the cumbersome hauberk.

William cursed, “I am well enough!”

“You are not,” Vivian informed him. “You have reopened the wound at your shoulder and must give rest to your leg else you will yet be walking about on a wooden peg.”

“Do you mean to heal me or slay me, mistress?” William grumbled as she jerked open the front of his padded undershirt even before the mail hauberk was lifted clear of his shoulders, to reveal for all to see that indeed the wound had reopened, undoubtedly during the attack in the street.

“ ’Tis a question that would require some consideration before answering,” she answered with little patience for the foolishness of some men.

“When healed you have a penchant for doing yourself more harm, but were I to choose the other, I would be relieved of constantly mending your wounds.”

There was a grunt of disapproval from the bishop at her comment but William merely laughed.

“Thank God, you are at least honest in your dislike of me. I cannot abide simpering, weak-blooded maids. You will like my Matilda. You are much alike.” He winced as she deliberately applied a square of bandage a bit too firmly.

“I do not dislike you, milord,” she replied. “I dislike what you have done to England, and it would be far safer for my neck, milord, if I am able to greet your wife with her husband’s return to good health, rather than bearing news of his stubbornness and illness.”

“She is well acquainted with my stubbornness.”

“Aye,” Vivian commented. “I can well imagine.” She quickly gave orders to everyone, including Rorke for the preparation of a fire at the hearth, a steaming pot set atop, with clean linens and the French wine William was so fond of.

“You would make a formidable general,” William commented with a smile.