Daughter of Fire (25 page)

“I have no ambition to lead an army, milord,” she responded, aware of the amused look Rorke gave her. “I have no use for battles or wars.”

“And yet you waged a fierce battle to save my life these past weeks,” William commented. “Why is that, mistress, when all others would see me slain?”

“Because I was taken prisoner and forced under threat of death to those I love,” she answered, offering him the wine.

“I think there is none who might force you no matter the sword they held against you or your people.” He drank the wine but refused the soothing powder she offered to aid his sleeping. He shook his head.

“Nay, I must remain alert,” he explained. He grunted from pain as she applied the poultice with healing salve and wrapped it tightly into place to stop the seepage of the wound.

“The pain will assure that I remain alert.”

“You should rest,” she reminded him.

“There are matters which must be discussed,” the bishop insisted, moving near the bed.

“They will be of little importance if he succumbs from his wounds,” Vivian pointed out.

The bishop glared at her. But she refused to cower or leave.

“Several of your men were injured in the attack,” she explained to William, “including Sir Guy. With your permission, I would see to their wounds.”

“By all means, mistress” William nodded. “I would not deny my soldiers and knights what has so magically aided in my recovery. In the meantime I shall rest. I find that I am quite weary from the day’s events.”

When his brother, the bishop, would have pressed for an audience, Rorke interceded.

“There is nothing that cannot wait until the morrow,” he told the angry bishop. “The hour is late. To all outward appearances, William retires to eat and sleep. Surely you would not deny him much-needed rest.”

“You overstep yourself, FitzWarren,” the bishop replied angrily. “One might think that you aspire to be king of England.”

“And you, sir Bishop,” Rorke countered, his eyes cold. “To what ambitions do you aspire?”

Fourteen

T
here was only silence in the chamber at the accusations that had been made.

Vivian shivered at the anger that leapt between the two men, in Rorke’s sudden rigid stance and the bishop’s furious gaze. Rorke’s hand closed over the handle of the broadsword and with a sudden, raw terror she realized that if provoked further, he would not hesitate to draw it.

“There are none who doubt her skills,” Rorke said with dangerous warning.

“Would you offer yourself so eagerly to her care, milord?” the Count de Bayeux countered.

“I have,” Rorke informed him coldly. “And I found nothing lacking in her care. On the contrary she is an exceptional gift for healing, and several of my men owe their lives to that same skill.”

“What of your bed, FitzWarren?” the bishop added in a vicious tone, the expression on his face sharpening. “There are rumors of the
care
she provides there as well. Perhaps your thinking has been clouded by your lust.”

Stunned, Vivian realized the meaning of his words and her throat tightened at the cruel remarks.

“Then, be warned,” Rorke replied. “The same might well see your head separated from your shoulders, for I have no use for pious ramblings or men who would sell their faith for their own ambitions.”

“Enough!” William ordered, then turned to her with that same gentle gruffness she had experienced in moments the past weeks when he seemed less the king and more the man.

“I value your skills and kindness, mistress. Please see to the others who have need of your care, as you have seen to mine.”

She nodded, grateful for the opportunity to leave. William ordered the others to leave as well, but laid a hand at Rorke’s shoulder in the gesture common between comrades.

“I would speak with you, alone,” he said, dismissing his brother along with the others. The bishop nodded stiffly and flashed a furious look at Rorke.

“You have but to call, brother,” he told William, “and I will do your bidding.”

“My bidding is that you leave,” William replied, not unkindly.

When they had gone, he dropped any effort to disguise the pain that throbbed at his leg and other injuries. His face was heavily lined with fatigue, his skin pale with the weakness that seemed to drag the flesh from his bones.

“You knew there would be an attack?” he questioned Rorke.

“I feared there might be,” Rorke replied. “There is danger all about. There have been pockets of resistance since we took the city.”

“Can we hold London?”

“London is yours,” Rorke assured him. “We will hold it, no matter what the Saxon resistance might be.”

“Who knew the route by which I entered the city?”

“Only a handful. Myself, Tarek al Sharif, Gavin, Montfort, and the Count de Bayeux.”

“It is difficult to keep secrets when the walls have eyes and ears,” William commented. “What Saxons remain within the royal fortress?”

“The old council, several of the barons, the archbishop, all of whom seek an audience with you, and several royal retainers I thought necessary to keep near for their skill and knowledge in matters of Saxon law and customs.”

William nodded his agreement. “Aye, necessary if we are to wield control effectively over this foreign land. It is good that you had the foresight to ride out with your guard to the meeting point. We were outnumbered and in such close confines we were hard-pressed to fight them off. They might have accomplished what all of Harold’s army could not.” He sighed heavily as he drained his wine.

“The fire storm was an effective weapon,” he acknowledged. “I commend you on the tactic, for it proved successful.”

“I would claim credit if it was my doing,” Rorke admitted and then confessed, “but it was not. In all truthfulness, I cannot say how it occurred, but I am grateful for it as well.  It bought us valuable time.”

William’s gaze narrowed thoughtfully. “Perhaps one of your men,” he suggested. “They fought well. I owe my life to them.”

“Aye,” Rorke speculated, “perhaps.” But he was of a different thought, for he had already questioned his men. They knew nothing of the cause.

~ ~ ~

Vivian finally finished binding the last of the wounds that had been suffered in the attack. Mally had accompanied her, fetching basins of hot water and linen for the numerous bandages that were necessary.

A half dozen soldiers had been killed in the attack, one had died after reaching the royal residence. The others would survive, including Sir Montfort, whose horse had been cut from under him. Sir Guy had a deep gash at his head and several bruises to show for the encounter, which his brother, Gavin, declared to be hardly more than what they’d suffered at each other’s hands as children.

“He has a hard head.” Gavin slapped his brother on the back. Sir Guy glared at him as he tenderly pressed fingers against his bandaged head as though to keep anything from seeping out.

“Our older brother once was forced to get his attention with a tree stump. As you can see, he recovered very well from that encounter.”

“Stay away from swords and tree stumps for the next few days,” Vivian advised, and with a hidden smile thought it might do him equally well to stay away from his brothers, for they were a rough and boisterous threesome given to challenging each other to wrestling and armed combat when boredom set in, as it had many times during their forced encampment while waiting to enter London.

She looked up as two of Rorke’s squires appeared. They were dressed not in the usual costume of leather breeches and tunic but in a simple fine costume bearing Rorke’s red-and-gold colors.

She had become so accustomed to seeing soldiers about in full battle dress, with swords and lances at their sides, that their lack of either startled her but they were not entirely defenseless, for she saw the slender daggers in leather scabbards that hung from their belts.

“I have been instructed to escort you to your sleeping quarters, mistress,” one informed her. “Arrangements have been made for the girl to take a room off the kitchen pantry.” When Vivian protested, he assured them both, “Milord FitzWarren has posted guards. Upon their arrival in the morn, she may transfer to Sir Gavin’s household.”

“You will be safe,” she assured the girl. “I have his promise on it.”

Mally nodded reluctantly. They bid each other farewell and Mally accompanied the young squire to her room in another part of the royal apartments. Vivian sagged with fatigue as she followed Rorke’s other squire.

Candles guttered low as they passed through the main hall that earlier was filled with soldiers and armed knights but was now all empty except for guards positioned at each doorway and entrance.

She was so weary even the straw that covered the floor of the main hall seemed inviting, though she suspected by the look of it that Harold’s household staff was not in the habit of changing it often, nor had Rorke’s men thought to change it.

She recognized the corridor where Rorke’s squire led her. It was the same corridor that led to the royal chamber where Duke William now slept, guards positioned outside his door. The squire opened the door onto a room immediately to the right of the royal chamber.

A heavy tapestry hung just inside the doorway across the coved entry that led into the chamber. Rorke’s squire held it aside for her. The chamber was not overly large, but adequately furnished. A large raised bed stood against the far wall. Thick furs and fleece had been thrown across for warmth. More furs covered the stone floor, smothering the cold draft that swept about her ankles.

Logs had been added to the fire. Two chairs sat before the hearth. Heavy tapestries of various designs covered the walls against bone-chilling drafts. It made her think of the cold mornings at the abbey when it seemed there were more holes than stones in the walls. No matter how much she had chinked the crevices, there were always new ones.

She frowned as she stood back and looked at the bold pattern woven into one of the tapestries—a figure of a golden bird set in stark relief against a blood red background, rising from a bed of flames. The red and gold threads at the edge played through her fingers.

A large trunk sat against an adjacent wall. The contents of a decanter shimmered ruby red at the table where a platter with fresh fruit, cheese, and several slices of cold, sliced fowl had been laid out.  Her stomach grumbled loudly.

The last several days all seemed to blend together in a blur and she couldn’t recall when she had last eaten or slept. She was exhausted, cold, and hungry. Both the food and the bed beckoned with equal appeal.

“Whose chamber is this?” She asked the young squire, for she was accustomed to making her pallet beneath a cart before an open fire.

“It is mine.”

Vivian whirled around at the sound of the voice that echoed the dangerous power of the fierce creature woven in satin threads. Not his squire, but Rorke FitzWarren himself.

“Yours?” she asked. “But surely there must be some mistake. I cannot stay here.” She looked about for his squire to tell him that some other arrangement must be made, some corner where she could make her pallet, or possibly join Mally.

“There is no mistake,” Rorke assured her as he crossed to the table, seized the carafe, and poured wine into two goblets.

“I took this chamber for my own when we first arrived in London.” He pushed one of the goblets across the table toward her.

She shook her head, pressing fingers against the dull ache at her forehead that had set in from too little food and less sleep. “Your squire indicated that I was to sleep here.” She looked up at him puzzled.

“Aye, he was following my orders.

She winced as the pain intensified and she realized it was neither lack of food nor sleep that was the cause, but a vague warning that moved through her senses.

“I cannot stay here. Surely there is another place. The scullery, the pantry, or the mews.” Gavin had told her that was where Aquila would be taken. Yes, of course. That was it. A simple solution. She would sleep in the mews.

Rorke shook his head. “William still has need of your healing skills. He is much weaker than he thinks, and his condition less improved than he would have anyone believe. And no one must know of it.” He continued with a grim-set expression that emphasized the fatigue that pulled at him and she realized he must be as exhausted as she, more so for the events of the evening when so much hung in the balance.

“The barons remain inside these walls. In due course, William will be meeting with them to carry out the transfer of power. No one,” and he repeated emphatically, “
No one
, must suspect he is anything less than in perfect health and fully capable of carrying out his duties as their king. If the barons or the archbishop of Canterbury were to guess that he lay near death but a handful of weeks ago and that his health was still precarious, there would be renewed insurrection and more bloodshed.”

It was there again, that subtle but unmistakable truth--more Saxon deaths.

“If you were to make daily visits to his private chamber,” he continued, “they would become suspicious.” He gestured to one of the tapestry panels that covered the opposite wall. “A doorway between leads to William’s chamber.  I can enter to discuss matters of import whenever it is necessary without requiring his presence at court. You may enter whenever there is a need to administer your potions or change the bandages. And none will be the wiser for it.”

“But it will seem to them as though...” her voice trailed off at the memory of the bishop’s accusations.

“As though we are lovers?” he asked , watching her. “It has also been said that you are Saxon and cannot be trusted, that you would bring harm to the duke, and yet you give no import to such things.”

“There is a difference,” she protested, knowing her argument was already lost as in everything that had been lost to her the past weeks.

“I think the difference lies only in the truth or falseness of it,” he replied.

“Are you not concerned what Judith de Marque will think?” she inquired.