Daughter of Fire (44 page)

“I would give my support to waiting as well, brother,” the bishop added his voice to the argument. “London is already yours. You need no official proclamation. Our army is spread across the whole of England. Why this impatience to see yourself crowned so quickly? Wait until summer,” he urged smoothly.

“Secure the countryside against the rebels and outside usurpers who will no doubt also attempt to lay claim to the throne. Then, when England sees how you defend her against others they will be reconciled, yea even supportive of their new king.”

William seemed to consider his words, and indeed, Vivian knew he had good reason. There had been constant rumors of skirmishes in the far north country, adding to other rumors that the Danes intended to send an offensive strike against England with the intent of laying claim to the English throne.

Because of those rumors, immediately after their arrival in London, William had sent his son, Stephen of Valois, and his knights, along with Sir Guy and his men to secure the north country against the threat of invasion.

“You make convincing arguments, but there is another I would ask. Mistress Vivian.”

William turned to her from his chair before the hearth where he sat encircled by his advisors, all except his brother, who stood slightly behind him. The bishop’s expression was concealed in shadow as William sought her opinion of his decision. But Vivian sensed his disapproval, eyes narrowed as the bishop watched her.

Rorke had spoken of his ambitions and she wondered how they were best served by postponing the coronation.

“I must caution you, brother,” the bishop interceded, “against seeking the counsel of this woman. She is Saxon and her loyalties are obvious. She has made no secret of them. Surely you jest in this folly.”

“I do not jest, brother,” William replied in an even manner silken with warning that his younger brother had overstepped himself.

“Because she is Saxon, she may perhaps offer a unique perspective. Mistress Vivian, what say you in this matter?”

She felt Rorke’s reassurance in the warmth of his hand at her shoulder, and that physical awareness that seemed to spring so easily between them. She also felt a subtle warning. She understood it well—blood was thicker than water, and while William might rebuke the bishop for his intemperance, he was still William’s brother and that was a loyalty that ran deep. Therefore she tempered her reply with logic, for William was above all a logical man.

“The people of England will more readily serve a king they are bound to by oath, be he Saxon or Norman,” she said after much consideration, aware of all who listened and judged every word, some who would readily see her cast in a dungeon or her head on a pike at the fortress wall.

“Your oath of kingship to the people, milord, would also assure them of your intention to end the chaos. They grow weary of war and would in time set aside their blame of who is the cause of it, if they can return their families and homes, and England thrives once more.”

William nodded. “And of the ceremony?”

Again she felt Rorke’s gentle warning. “It should be no less than Harold’s coronation in the eyes of all Saxons,” she suggested, then she added, “as well as Normans, and any foreign usurpers as a clear sign of your intention to rule well and strong.”

“There are dangers,” William reminded her. “If I am slain, I can hardly rule at all.”

As a warrior, she sensed William had little fear of dying. A soldier would have long ago accepted such a fate. Indeed, she had sensed it in him that long-ago day at Hastings when she had first seen the devastating wounds that slowly drained the life from him. If he had died, he would have accepted it as a soldier’s due. But as a king, it hardly suited his ambitions.

“If milord FitzWarren can defend you in the streets of London,” she suggested, “then surely he can protect you within the abbey.”

“Armed knights in the abbey,” William contemplated. “It would be highly unusual.” His keen gaze took in the number of loyal armed guards posted inside the hall, hundreds more filling passages of the royal fortress.

“I protest!” the bishop spoke out. “It is sacrilege! The Pope would be horrified at such drastic measures. He might even withdraw his support should it be thought you represent his name by such action. It is outrageous. I will not abide it!”

“It is outrageous.” William agreed. Then a slow smile began at one corner of his mouth and spread to the other. He turned to Rorke. “Can it be done?”

Rorke’s bemused expression lifted from Vivian’s and met that of his. He, too, saw her wisdom. “It can, milord,” he said hesitantly. “The guards would conceal their swords so that none are aware of it. But it might open the door for censure by the Pope.”

“The Pope is in Rome,” William pointed. “It will work! The coronation will take place at the abbey on Christmas Day.” He turned to Rorke, “You will take every precaution that there be no bloodshed.”

“Aye, milord.”

William turned to Vivian. “Thank you for your wise counsel, mistress. I find myself relying more and more on your wisdom as to the ways to most fairly deal with the Saxons.

 “I must protest strongly. It is not safe...” The count de Bayeau was cut off.

“It will be Christmas Day, brother,” William told him in a tone that tolerated no further discussion or argument.

“Send for the archbishop of York. Tell that pious toad that I will be crowned at Westminster Abbey.”

“He may refuse,” the bishop warned. “He has already spoken of it.”

“Then make certain he does not!”

Afterward, Vivian returned to the chamber she shared with Rorke. Her mood was uneasy and restless, having grown more so as she sat through William’s council meeting.

Meg had followed, sensing her mood. She built up the fire at the hearth as Vivian continued to pace restlessly, driven by an almost uncontrollable energy. Something was about to happen. She sensed it.

When the flames were high, she looked deeply within them as she spoke the ancient words. The vision came slowly, stirring from the heart of the flames.

She saw a strange, cold land, craggy and windswept, and knew it to be the far north country. She saw horsemen and soldiers under Duke William’s banner, and other soldiers she did not recognize. She saw a battle with Stephen of Valois and Sir Guy at the forefront. Then she saw blood and death, a gallant knight falling from his horse, having been struck through with a lance.

The knight slumped to the ground, Duke William’s banner clutched precariously in his dying fingers. As the battle continued around him, his comrades ran to his side, seized the banner and sought to raise it high once more. The knight who raised the banner was Stephen of Valois.

Her heart constricted with a pain of loss and grief, for she knew many had fallen and among those, men she knew, though she could not see their faces. She sensed their loss deeply.

Rorke found her kneeling before the hearth, tears streaming down her cheeks, fists clenched in a powerless rage at the gift that allowed her to see but couldn’t prevent what she had seen.

“What is it? What has happened?” Rorke was immediately beside her his arms closing around her. “Are you unwell?” She heard the fear in his voice, making the tender words harsh with his own fear, and love welled inside her for this Norman warrior who was once her enemy.

She turned in his embrace, clinging to his strength that somehow renewed and comforted her as none of her immortal powers could. She clung to him as if she were dying and he was life itself. For in a sense a part of her had died with the knights who had been slain. It was always so. She was diminished by their loss, as surely as she had felt the deaths of those who fell at Hasting be the Saxon or Norman.

She told Rorke of her vision, of the battle and the deaths of his men. His own emotions had reached out to hers in that unique way that now connected and bonded them so deeply. She felt his grief, experienced all the shared memories with the three brothers, and knew his loss was deep. Along with the grief, she sensed his concern for Stephen of Valois.

He cared deeply for the young man, as for a younger brother. Now that she had shared his own memories, she understood where the deep affection came from.

“Stephen is safe,” she assured him, sensing his apprehension. Rorke nodded, accepting her truth, dealing with his own grief as he comforted hers, his callused hand tender against her cheek.

“This magical gift of yours can be most burdensome, when the truth is grievous.”

Her eyes filled with tears once more as she looked up at him, feeling such an overwhelming ache of love for this fierce warrior who understood as few others were capable.

“There are times when I would cast it away, even cut it out with a blade, if I could,” she admitted. “Sometimes the pain of what I see is almost too much to bear.”

“You will not bear it alone any longer,” he told her, tenderly stroking her hair as he held her close against him, the solid beat of his heart beneath her cheek a connection of physical strength and power that replenished her.

“Whatever comes, whatever visions you see in the flames,” Rorke told her fiercely, “be they good fortune, or pain and sorrow, we will share them together.”

Afterward, she tried several times to see more in the flames, so that Rorke might know the fate of the rest of his men. But each time was without success. It was as if something blocked her ability to see and a fear had grown within her for she sensed the Darkness very near, and she remembered Merlin’s warning that it would try at every turn to destroy her. But where or when it would choose to reveal itself she did not know.

“So,” Rorke said with grim expression, “we must wait until we receive word.”

“Forgive me,” Vivian whispered. “I wish I could tell you more.”

“Nay, mistress,” he said with such deep tenderness, as he brushed his lips against hers, “do not ask for forgiveness. At least I know that it is imperative that William be crowned as soon as possible so that the throne is secure. To wait until summer,” he thought aloud, remembering the bishop’s words, “would be a grave mistake.”

~ ~ ~

Matilda, duchess of Normandy and William’s wife, arrived three days before the coronation. She was heavy with child and the Channel crossing had been difficult. Still, she was a strong-willed, captivating woman and from the moment Vivian saw them together, she understood why William had banished Judith de Marque from his chambers.

Mathilda was small and fine-boned, with fair features and gentle blue eyes, her belly now distended and her pace slow and measured with the heaviness of the child she carried. Born to a noble Flemish family, she had the regal bearing and grace of a queen. But Vivian immediately sensed that the regal bearing and grace was part of a carefully constructed facade that balanced a quick wit, a sharp intellect, and perfect grasp of her position in the world and the methods by which that position—and her husband’s—was best served.

Like many of royal birth, she was a woman for whom there had been few options. Well educated, headstrong, there were but two—the Church or an advantageous marriage. She refused to enter the Church, or, as she confided to Vivian, “The Church refused to have me.”

William—for whom the alliance of the Church was most critical—had colored at her comment. He whispered a comment to her. She simply smiled.

“Let us just say,” Matilda added with that same smile, “that all those involved suggested an advantageous marriage might be the best arrangement.” And that advantageous marriage had presented itself very quickly in an alliance with Normandy.

“It is said,” Matilda confided to her when they retired to William’s chamber so that that the queen might rest before being presented to her husband’s new court, “that William married me for my title, my dowry, and an alliance that would guarantee support against the king of France.”

She gave Vivian a knowing look. “I am aware that Judith de Marque travels with his household. But he sends for me, not her, in the midst of war,” she said proudly, “and sleeps at my side rather than taking his mistress to his bed as he might easily choose to.”

Her slender hand smoothed the brocade satin down over the curve of her belly. “He plants his seed within me, even though I have already borne him two fine, healthy sons and guaranteed the line of succession. Nor is it out of duty, for a woman knows these things. When I am with him, even swollen as I am,” her smile softened and she glowed, “we still take our pleasure of one another.”

“
Three
strong sons,” Vivian commented as she stirred the fire at the hearth in William’s chamber.

“What did you say?” Matilda asked, more than a little startled.

“You will have another son,” Vivian repeated what she had seen so clearly the moment Matilda reached out and touched her hand in gratitude for saving her husband’s life.

“You are certain of this?”

Vivian nodded. “It is a gift. My mother had it as well. And you need have no fear,” she responded to the emotion she sensed in the woman. “The child is strong and healthy.”

“William has said he would have you attend the birth,” Matilda said. “You saved his life. He spoke of it, his wounds so grievous that he should not have lived. Yet he lives. I would have no other at my side when my time is at hand.”

Christmas Day dawned bright and clear.

Those who believed in such things proclaimed it an omen, a blessing from God no doubt invoked by the Pope in Rome for his loyal servant who had seized the English throne in his name.

The coronation had been announced far in advance and word had gone out across the whole of England. The nave of Westminster Abbey was filled to overflowing with both Saxons and Normans.

For the Saxons, who had prayed for divine deliverance from the Norman scourge, it was a mournful occasion, signifying the end of England as they had known it. But they were no less determined to attend the ceremony. The Saxon barons lined the walls, resplendent in all their finery, for many of them now were aligned by marriage or pending marriage with the houses of Normandy, Burgundy, and other Norman allies. Behind them, William’s knights stood a half dozen deep and spilled out into the street.