Daughter of Fire (3 page)

But Vachel pressed the sword more firmly against soft, supple flesh, his eyes gleaming with cruel pleasure.

Deadly silence exploded as the sagging doors of the abbey were flung back with a crash that shuddered through the walls of the chapel. A score more of Norman knights and an equal number of armed soldiers entered the chapel.

“Cease, Vachel! Or die!”

Vachel’s expression flattened with disbelief, then contorted with rage as he spun around, dragging Vivian with him.

“FitzWarren! You blackhearted son of Lucifer!” he hissed.

Vivian felt the sudden uncertainty of Vachel’s hand at her hair, saw the tic of muscle at his cheek above the heavy growth of beard, and smelled the unmistakable tang of fear.

FitzWarren stood framed by a leaden sky at the gaping entrance to the chapel, then slowly walked forward, battle sword drawn. His men moved with him, insinuating themselves amongst Vachel’s men and she sensed the cold rage that seethed between the two men.

This new knight filled the chapel with a dangerous, powerful presence, heavy muscles—no doubt hardened by many battles—were molded by the cumbersome chain mail with an ease of familiarity as if both armor and battle were longtime companions. The thick mail coif was pushed carelessly back and lay in heavy folds across wide shoulders. His hair was a dark sable color, glossy as a falcon’s wing, and worn long to his shoulders rather than the bowl-shaped style Vachel and his men favored.

In the guttering light from the brazier, Vivian saw strong, sharply angled features at the slope of a wide forehead, the ridge of long nose, high cheekbones, and the set of his jaw that might have been either a sign of strength or stubbornness, or perhaps both, beneath the shadow of several days’ growth of beard.

By contrast his mouth was well curved, with a startling sensuality, even now as his lips thinned and flattened with contempt at the destruction he saw before him. Eyes that reflected the bleak day in their cold, gray depths, looked about him with disgust. But beneath the icy aloofness she saw a slow-rising anger. Some inexplicable awareness shimmered through her, like an invisible hand caressing her startled senses—of danger, mind-numbing terror, and stunned fascination.

As FitzWarren raised his sword and leveled the lethal tip at Vachel’s throat, the guttering light of the brazier played across the crest of his tunic. Golden threads shimmered and glowed, catching the meager light from the dying fire. As if the threads became the flame itself, the lean, hunting bird woven into the fabric seemed to rise from the red-and-gold flames like a magnificent creature born in fire and blood.

Fear sharpened and spiraled through her, stronger than any fear she had of Vachel. For it was the creature she had seen in the crystal, the mythical phoenix rising from the ash and flame of destruction.

Two

I
f a flame could take human form, it would be the beautiful creature standing before Rorke FitzWarren.

Her skin was pale golden light, the tangled mass of her hair spilled to her waist like all the colors of fire at the hearth, with brilliant red and deepest burgundy, blended with soft amber. But it was her eyes that held him captive. They were like the shimmering heart of a resting flame when soft yellow color goes completely clear, and magically transforms to intense blue.

He had seen the fire of countless war camps in dozens of foreign places he would rather forget, on battlefields where brave men fought for just causes and died, while others fought for greed of wealth and lived. So long had he been at war, that when he thought of fire, he thought of death.

Until that moment he had never thought of fire as something pure and alive. The beautiful Saxon was alive with the fire of pride, defiance, and passionate anger, as if the flame found life within her and any who touched her would surely be burned. But he suspected that it would be an exquisite torture.

Even now, he felt the fascination stir into a longing of desire to touch that pale skin, to feel the fiery silk of her hair between his fingers, to lose himself in those angry, defiant eyes and discover if the fire burned within.

Within those wintry gray eyes of the phoenix, Vivian felt as if she had looked within herself and glimpsed all the deepest, darkest shadows that haunted her visions and dreams. FitzWarren was her enemy, a creature born in fire and blood in a vision not seen for five hundred years. And yet she could not look away, for she knew she was staring at the future. It was reaching out to her, dark, unknown, and terrifying, like the bold Norman knight who stood with sword drawn, and eyes like winter’s dawn.

“Damn you!” Vachel spat at him. “I was sent to find the healer. Why are you here?” he demanded.

FitzWarren’s expression hardened, his gaze like arctic winter. “To make certain you encountered no
difficulties
.” Then he demanded, “Release her.”

“The Saxon bitch came at me with a knife,” Vachel snarled, his hand tightening in Vivian’s hair. “I might have been killed.”

“Aye,” FitzWarren commented. His gaze lowered to the front of her bodice where Vachel’s blade had drawn blood.

“I can well see the grave danger you were in,” he replied, then repeated, “Release her, or I will be forced to complete what she attempted.”

At her back, Vivian felt the subtle shift of muscles as Vachel’s shoulders pressed at her back and knew he had no intention of letting her go. He shifted his stance and moved to raise his broadsword, and was immediately confronted by the gleaming length of FitzWarren’s blade. It sliced dangerously below Vachel’s chin as it pressed against the vulnerable flesh at the opening of chain mail at his neck.

Vachel’s eyes widened, and he paled. Then color swept furiously up his neck and across his cheeks as he inhaled on a curse. Vivian felt him stiffen and the curse froze in his throat. She saw the cause of it in the ribbon of blood that slowly slipped down the length of Rorke FitzWarren’s blade.

“Release her, or die,” FitzWarren repeated with such brutal calm that Vivian shivered. 

At the hand that still held her imprisoned, she sensed Vachel’s fury, the silent battle he waged, and the fear. It matched her own, for that lethal blade gleamed beside her cheek, so close that the deep red of Vachel’s blood blurred against the glimmer of FitzWarren’s blade. Terrified that he might waver and lose control of the sword, her gaze swept back to FitzWarren. She needn’t have had any fear, for he was so cold of purpose and perfectly controlled that she was certain no heart beat within him. At that moment she believed Rorke FitzWarren would kill the Norman knight who held her captive.

“I have often thought,” FitzWarren calmly explained, “that the best soldier is one who has experienced both ends of the blade.” The tip of his blade was only a hairbreadth from the rapidly pounding pulse it pressed against.

“It is a wise man who understands this.” He shrugged, a gesture that seemed improbably casual beneath the weight of the chain mail hauberk he wore. “And a fool of one who does not.” He paused. “Tell me, Vachel, are you wise? Or are you a fool?”

Since gaining his own knighthood, Rorke had known countless men like Vachel,   mercenaries and sold their services to the highest bidder, with no loyalty to any man or cause.

Rorke’s cause was far different. He was a bastard by birth whose only recourse had been knighthood. He had chosen service as a means to gain what he had been denied by birth—the duchy of Anjou—which he had vowed to take—by blood if necessary—from the father he loathed and despised.

He and William of Normandy shared many things—their bastard birth, their ambition, and war. They first met on the battlefield against the Moors who defended a huge cache of gold at San Cristabol. William’s army was surrounded on three sides and might have perished if Rorke and his men had not joined the battle. William’s horse was cut from under him. When the beast fell William was pinned underneath and would have been slain had Rorke not saved his life.

Afterward, when William asked how he might repay him, Rorke calmly demanded half the gold seized San Cristabol. Under any other circumstances William might have been inclined to refuse, but with Rorke’s men protecting his left flank, conceding half the gold seemed better than forfeiting all. He had been with William ever since, but it was often a topic of discussion as to who served whom.  Then, William made the decision to take Britain and again needed a formidable army. In exchange for FitzWarren’s service he had struck a bargain with Rorke for the duchy of Anjou. Better, it seemed to have an ally at his back for Anjou bordered Normandy, and the French king was a constant threat.

But Vachel had no such ambitions of land, honor, or power. The money he was paid by William’s brother, the bishop, meant little to him. What mattered most was the kill. He was the consummate hunter—dangerous, with a bloodlust that gave no quarter for man woman, or child.

Above the tip of FitzWarren’s sword Vachel’s face contorted with rage. He cursed and then winced as more blood slipped down the length of that lethal broadsword. He lowered his own sword and Vivian felt his fist ease at her hair. When he released her, she quickly stepped away from him.

Rorke nodded. “It is a wise man who knows his limitations. And, so you will know exactly what it feels like to have your flesh split beneath the sword and your blood running freely...” To emphasize the point he wished to make, FitzWarren angled the tip of the blade first in one direction then the other with an effortless flick of his wrist, carving a small crescent at the base of Vachel’s throat, and Vivian was stunned to realize that it greatly resembled the mark Vachel had made with his own blade.

“So that you will know how it feels,” FitzWarren explained as Vachel’s breath hissed out through his teeth. His face was deathly pale.

“This will not be forgotten!” he promised as his gaze remained fixed on that gleaming length of blade and his blood that streaked the length of steel. He swallowed convulsively, the tang of his own fear permeating the air.

“Curse you to the fires of hell!” he whispered.

FitzWarren shrugged. “There are many who have already wished for that.” Then in the same unemotional tone that only seemed to heighten the threat of danger, like the sigh of the serpent before it strikes, he ordered Vachel, “Surrender your sword, or I will be forced to kill you.”

Vachel hesitated. Then, one by one, his fingers slowly uncurled from about the handle of his broadsword. A dangerous expression twisted his features as the sword dropped to the dirt at his feet with a dull thud. His dark eyes showed no surrender but instead gleamed with a cold, deadly light, and Vivian knew not which man was the more dangerous.

“Why are you here?” Vachel hissed from between clenched teeth, even as the tip of FitzWarren’s blade still rested against his throat. “I was sent to find the healer! There is no need for you or that cursed barbarian who follows you about like a shadow.”

There was a shift of movement among FitzWarren’s men, and Vivian saw a warrior with a strangely curved blade move silently closer to stand at his side. FitzWarren’s only response was the subtle angle of his head, as if he sensed rather than saw the other man’s presence.

The warrior wore long robes bound at the waist flowing down over leather leggings past his knees. His head was bound with a white cloth that hung past his shoulders, stark contrast against dark golden skin. Brows as black as night slashed sharp angles above rigid features barely discernible in the dimly lit hall, giving him the watchful, dangerous look of a panther,

Vivian watched him with a stunned fascination, for he reminded her of the stories Poladouras had told of the dark-eyed Persians of the Byzantine Empire to the east. But his eyes were as blue as summer sky.

A second knight stepped to FitzWarren’s right. The second warrior swept his helm from his head, the shaggy mane of dark hair falling to his shoulders and the eager look of the hunt glinting in eyes the color of liquid amber.

He was younger than FitzWarren and the strangely dressed warrior, but no less formidable in size. Careful calculation of every movement made FitzWarren dangerous, but this younger knight would strike first and then calculate the consequences afterward, like a swift and deadly snake.

“Would you like me to separate the head of the bishop’s dog from his mangy shoulders so that we are no longer bothered by his whining?” he asked with a tone that suggested it would be a great pleasure to do so.

Vachel sneered at the young knight. “I see you’ve brought the young bastard with you as well.” The depth of his hatred was like a live thing and fouled the air.

“I wasn’t aware that fetching a healer from the Saxon countryside warranted the
royal
presence.”

Vivian watched with growing curiosity as the young warrior reacted violently and would have struck Vachel down with his sword had the one called FitzWarren not stopped him.

“ ’Tis not worth it, Stephen,” he told the younger knight. And then she heard him add with lowered voice, “The day will come. But not here, not now. Far more urgent business is at hand.”

Only after several moments, the young warrior slowly lowered his sword, and Vivian was aware of the bond of trust between the two men, like that of brothers.

FitzWarren’s gaze then swept the destruction in the abbey, the monk’s bruises, Meg’s equally bloodied and crumpled form in the rushes at the floor along with the hysterical, weeping girl.

 “It would seem, Vachel,” he said slowly, his tone cynical, “that there is much need of me here. It is obvious these Saxons are very
dangerous
— a harmless monk, an old woman, a frightened child, and a young woman.”

His gaze came back to Vivian, and again she experienced the sensation that he had somehow touched her. Then he retrieved one of Poladouras’ manuscripts from the dirt floor, turning the fragile, torn pages with unexpected care.

“No doubt the monk threw a book at you. This one, perhaps,” he suggested. “Most dangerous.” With a surprising gentleness that was almost reverent, he laid the manuscript on a small table that had somehow escaped the destruction, and Vivian frowned at yet another unexpected aspect of the character of this Norman knight.