Daughter of Fire (39 page)

“Could it be,” she asked with a particular pleasure in her words, “that the conqueror now finds himself the one conquered?” She laughed, a low mocking sound.

Rorke shook her again. “I have no time for your riddles nor your dreams, old woman. She has said that you see many things in spite of your blindness. Can you see where she has gone?”

Meg turned toward the open door of the mews as if she could see the light there. Her gaze saw far beyond and in ways that he could not begin to understand. She saw in the way of one with the knowledge of secrets and too many years of life. She saw as one who has lost the child she has nurtured and now feared for her as deeply as did the warrior who stood over her.

No longer defiant, her voice quivered with that fear as she replied. “She has gone to seek the truth where no man may find her.” She turned back and looked at him, the milky opaque film across her eyes giving the disquieting appearance of white on white.

“Give me an answer that I may understand!” Rorke demanded.

“She has gone into the wood and taken Aquila with her. You will find her there.” She shivered as though taken by a sudden chill.

“Aye,” she agreed. “You know well, warrior. There is much danger. My mistress has seen it.” She went on, in a seemingly rambling tone.

“It is no longer here, but waits for her.” Her thin hand closed over his arm with surprising strength. “There is danger. You must find her!”

Outside the mews, Rorke’s gaze scanned the sky overhead to the crown of trees at the wood that could be seen beyond the fortress walls.

Doubt ate at him. Had she deliberately fled to get away from him? Try as he might, he could not recall anything in her manner the night before to indicate distress over what had passed between them.

She had been passionate beyond his wildest dreams with an innocence  that had brought him to his knees. She was sweet and tender one moment in her discovery of his body, filled with a fiery abandonment the next. Sensing her uncertainty, then discovering her to be a maiden, he had gently initiated her. But more than once she had stunned him with her touch and her fiery strength, until near dawn they had finally fallen asleep.

Now, she was gone. What danger was it that the old crone spoke of? Was it the nonsensical ravings of a madwoman? Or was it something else? Some inner knowledge she shared with the girl.

Encountering his squire, he shouted an order, “Saddle my horse. Saddle and bridle, no battle armor.”

Tarek strode toward him. “You’ve had word?”

“Aye, the old crone. Vivian has gone to the wood.”

“I’m going with you,” Tarek announced. Within moments both their mounts were saddled and they left the courtyard gate nearest the forest.

“There will be a storm soon,” he told Rorke on a grimace. “More cursed snow. I hate this cold, forbidding scrabble heap. Is there ever a spring in this place called England?”

Rorke allowed himself a small smile. “I have heard it spoken of, though I cannot promise it.”

Tarek grunted as he wrapped the thick folds of his robe more tightly about him. “Perhaps, then, I shall be able to feel the blood in my veins again. For now, I fear it is frozen and has been since first we landed on this rock.”

“You might try wearing more clothes, my friend,” Rorke suggested. “Those robes of yours hardly protect against the cold and wet.”

Tarek grinned wickedly. “Ah, but they have their purpose, my friend. Especially for quick encounters in dark passageways. With those cumbersome breeches you prefer you might find yourself caught by some husband on some Saxon wench or forced to flee with bare ass.”

Rorke shook his head. “Beware my friend, there are some
passageways
one would be advised not to enter.”

“Ah, but that is why I carry a
stout blade
.” His grin deepened. “When I wield it, there are none who defy, or deny, me.”

“Do not turn your back, my friend,” Rorke warned. “Or you might find a Saxon blade between your shoulders.”

Tarek roared with laughter. “I think, my friend,  that we speak of very different weapons. I have always found my own true sword to be most persuasive in such matters.”

They rode swiftly along the outside wall of the fortress. It was not long before Rorke found what he was searching for—small, softly made footprints of a maid’s boot, and leading into the forest.

Tarek cursed. “I hate this place. I
much
prefer a darkened passageway. At least then I might meet the enemy face-to-face.” As the forest closed around them, Rorke commented, “You may get your wish.”

How long had she been gone? One hour? Two? Longer? And how had she done it without anyone seeing her leave? As though she had vanished into thin air?

At the moment, it didn’t matter. The important thing was to find her. There were too many dangers for a woman, alone and unprotected. Fear sharpened the anger and gave it a lethal edge. He swore heavily in French, against the unwanted feelings that surfaced and made him wish for the blood of any who might have harmed her.

He had fought for wealth, land, and titles, at the side of Duke William of Normandy, sharpening his warrior’s skills to a deadly edge. He had seen horrors and atrocities on countless battlefields, many of them attributed to his own sword.

Cold-blooded. Ruthless.

He had heard those words and more whispered behind his back by his enemies, and those who envied the wealth he’d acquired. He denied none of it. He had always fought for himself, and feared nothing. If lands were lost, he fought to regain them and claimed thrice in recompense.

If fortunes were lost, he hunted down the thieves and made them pay tenfold. But what of a bewitchingly beautiful Saxon maid with eyes like blue fire, hair the color of flame, and the power to make him want to laugh, rage at her in anger, and make love to her until they both burned?  What price might compensate that loss?

It soon became impossible to follow her tracks in the wood.

“We will part here and each search a portion of the wood,” Rorke announced, feeling the urgency to find her more than ever now that he knew she had come this way.

Tarek nodded and set off through the trees. Rorke wheeled the warhorse about and moved off in the opposite direction.

He sent the warhorse through heavy thickets and over fallen trees, searching for some sign that she’d passed this way. Occasionally he picked up the impressions of tracks in the light mantle of snow, but then they disappeared altogether or turned out to be those of an animal. He was about to turn back and redouble his efforts in a different direction when he heard the faint cry of a falcon.

She skimmed the treetops overhead, unmistakable in the easily recognized four-note call that Vivian had taught her. It was the small peregrine, Aquila, trained by Vivian’s own hand. If the falcon was here, then she was also nearby. Then, the falcon’s call sounded again. But this time it was not the familiar four-note greeting by which the falcon and her mistress might easily recognize one another. The call now was a single, high-pitched, piercing cry of alarm. He sent the warhorse plunging in the direction of the falcon’s cry.

~ ~ ~

Vivian tried to move only to discover that even the smallest movement sent pain shooting through every muscle and bone in her body, and required great concentration.

She had no idea what it was that had roused her, nor for several moments, where she was or what had happened. Then, she gradually became aware of the cold beneath her and the gray dawn above her filtering through the crowned treetops overhead. It all came back, then, in a sudden rush of memory—the vision in the flames, her trip to the wood, and her journey through the standing stone.

Her body ached at even the slightest movement, as if she had been beaten. It brought back as well the vivid memory of the vast difference between her journey to the other world and her return, almost as if something had tried to prevent it.

She tried to move, but she was still very weak. The sound came again. Like that of something moving rapidly through the forest. As the sound drew nearer, she turned her head in the direction of the sound.

When it stopped, Vivian thought she might have imagined it, for her thoughts were disoriented. She could control them no more than she could control the pain. She closed her eyes and fell back in exhaustion. The frantic warning of a falcon’s cry overhead pierced through the wall of pain.

It was Aquila’s repeated warning that pulled her from her stupor. Something was wrong. There was danger, very near.  The let her senses expand, reaching out in the forest.  Then the silence was suddenly shattered by a the sound of something moving through the brush and undergrowth.

She heard the sound of the creature’s breath  and the whisper of paws across the newly fallen snow, then glimpsed the silver-tipped coat and yellow eyes, and heard the warning of danger in the falcon’s cry as a large wolf entered the other side of the clearing.

It’ hot breath plumed in the gray pre-dawn, lips pulled back over gleaming teeth.  It caught her scent, that massive head swinging toward her, and a snarl rumbled deep in the beast’s throat.

The creature stared as though contemplating her and fear swept through her at the memory of her journey back through the portal. That memory expanded and sharpened, like the facets of a blue crystal, and reflected in its depths  was a vast darkness that shifted and took on many forms—the shape of a man, then some hideous misshapen, otherworld creature stalking her, cutting her off at every turn as though it was trying to prevent her returning to the mortal world, trapping her in the stone.  It seemed impossible and yet as she stared at the beast with gleaming yellow eyes, she knew the creature had come to finish what it had failed to do as it followed her through the portal.

Overhead the falcon’s call pierced the morning air, urgent and bleak as the storm that gathered. Then, Rorke saw the small huntress, swooping low along the treetops.

He urged the warhorse through the trees, following her winged flight toward a clearing. The urgency of her cry made his blood run cold through his veins.

Amid the stark white, cold gray, and barren bleakness of the forest, he spotted the fiery crown of Vivian’s red-gold hair as she lay at the base of a large, standing stone. Then he saw the wolf, , saliva dripping from deadly fangs.

He had only one chance and that was to distract the creature before it lunged. With a piercing battle cry, he sent the warhorse crashing into the clearing. He vaulted to the ground, with both broadsword and the smaller blade in hand, using the stallion as a diversion.

Having caught the wolf’s scent, the stallion charged across the clearing, eyes rolling wildly as it ground to a halt. Amazingly the wolf was only mildly distracted. Then, as if dismissing this new threat, it swung that massive head once more toward Vivian.

“Do not move,” Rorke told her. “I will draw the beast away. Take my horse and go.”

The wind shifted, carrying his scent to the creature. Its head swung about, and for a moment it seemed that it considered this new target with a keen awareness, the look in those eyes sharpening as if it contemplated him with profound interest.

“No,” Vivian whispered, for she too had seen the subtle change in the beast’s stance, as if it measured Rorke, gauging his strengths, searching for weaknesses with an unusual intelligence. She could almost hear the beast’s thoughts and knew the creature was otherworldly, and knew also that it would kill him.

Then, the beast’s thoughts were closed to her, like a shroud of darkness closing over them. Pushing unsteadily to her feet, Vivian took a step toward the creature, drawing its attention back to her.

It snarled, fangs dripping as it slowly stalked her. Eyes gleamed with an evil light, and something very near a deadly grin curved the beast’s mouth.  With a piercing, blood-chilling scream that recalled the terrifying noises Vivian had heard on her journey through the portal—like the souls of the ancient dead being torn asunder—the beast charged across the clearing.

The blow drove her to the ground. Amidst the beast’s snarls she felt those deadly fangs tearing at her. The pain drove the air from her startled lungs, burning through her. As though she had stepped out of herself she saw the attack from afar and at the same time from within her body. She stared out across the stark beauty of the glistening snow and then turned her thoughts inward.

She turned away from the physical pain of the mortal world, as though someone else endured the attack. She concentrated instead on the Darkness of the beast that sought to destroy her, her fingers fiercely clasped over the crystal as her soul reached through the fiery blue heart of the stone to the power of the hand that reached out to her.

“Fight!”
the words pierced through the pain tearing at her l.
“You must fight the Darkness! Draw upon the power of the Light!”

Prisms of color spun before her, then gradually separated and coalesced so that the colors beaded together and became strands of color—forest green, glistening white like the snow, silvery gray of the leaden sky overhead, rich brown of the woods that surrounded them, and crimson blood—all interwoven in the vision of the tapestry.

She caught only a fleeting glimpse of the images that had begun to emerge as threads joined with others as though some invisible hand carefully wove them—a man and woman whose bodies slowly came together in a burst of fiery, blazing color that shifted sensuously, erotically in an intimate joining as the threads of destiny were joined in a fiery explosion of light.

Then she no longer felt or saw anything as she heard Rorke’s fierce war cry.

He attacked, slashing at the creature, moving with it. When it turned on him, he thrust the sword deep into the beast’s chest. Still it drove back to its feet, moving slowly, stalking as blood dripped from those lethal fangs—her blood that stained the snow.

His curses filled the clearing, as he stood in battle stance, the broadsword held before him in both hands. Then, he saw what seemed to be a smile at the creature’s  mouth, as if it mocked him and the gleaming blade of his sword.