Daughter of Fire (11 page)

“I believe there are a great many things that we know little about. I know that she was in the tent one moment, and then gone. I left only once and your guards were at their positions at all times.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“It is said the Jehara may take many forms.”

“Into what, pray tell?” Rorke snapped. There were times his friend’s odd beliefs were amazing.

“A gnome or elf? Perhaps a troll small enough so that you could not see her? That would account for the small tracks you found!”

“There are many such legends among the Saxons,” Tarek speculated. “As there are in my own culture. The most widely held belief in such creatures is the one called Merlin.”

Rorke frowned. “The sorcerer who made Arthur king of all Britain.” He shrugged, dismissing it. “I have heard of the legend. There are many such legends among all cultures. Among the ancient Greeks, there are similar legends of gods and goddesses and mythical creatures with extraordinary powers. Legends and myths.”

“And yet,” Tarek pointed out, “there are those who believe in them. Among my mother’s people it is believed that such creatures also possess great healing powers. Can you explain otherwise what we saw in William’s tent last night?”

“I cannot explain it,” Rorke admitted, his voice low and thoughtful. “An ancient Saxon remedy perhaps. The girl is gifted in the healing arts and I have need of those skills. I care not the source.” He whipped his horse forward. “We must find her.”

~ ~ ~

Mist blanketed the ground, swirling on currents of air one moment, then shrouding everything in shades of gray. Silent as a wraith, Vivian slipped past the Norman guards into the Saxon encampment at the edge of the battlefield.

She had been roused by dreadful dreams that were like images of the day before and the horrible death scene they’d come upon as they entered the valley. The faces of the dying Saxons haunted her, their voices whispering to her through the dark veil of sleep, and she knew she must go to them.

They were there, they must be—the injured Saxons who had somehow lived through the dreadful battle of Hastings and even now lay wounded and dying. She had seen the Norman guards as they rode into camp and wondered whom they guarded across the wide-open field. Then she realized that not all those fires were funeral pyres. There were shapes huddled before them, in groups of two, three, or more. And so, at dawn, as William rested peacefully from the tisane she had given him, she knew she must go to the battlefield and do what she could to ease the suffering of the Saxon prisoners.

She rose from her bed of furs, taking the pouch of medicines with her. Then she opened her thoughts, reaching out to Tarek al Sharif where he stood guard at the entrance of the tent. Her thoughts closed around his like a shroud drawn over the senses so that he was unaware of her movement inside the tent. That left the guards who had been positioned outside. Vivian stepped to the east wall of the tent.

The blue crystal once more hung about her neck. It glowed brightly as she closed her eyes and once more turned her thoughts inward. Concentrating on the power of the old ones, she imagined herself walking through the tent wall, continued to imagine herself moving unseen to a place apart from the camp.

She felt the heavy fabric of the tent wall wrap about her, then the sudden sharp bite of the bitter cold wind. When she opened her eyes, she stood several paces away from the tent. There was no shout of alarm from inside the tent, nor did the guards appear to be aware that anything was amiss. Clutching the pouch of healing herbs and powders tightly under her arm, Vivian turned and fled the Norman encampment toward the battlefield.

She followed the cart path, avoiding the guards in the same way she had eluded Tarek al Sharif, by merely controlling their thoughts so that they were not even aware of her presence.

A few of the injured Saxon had been able to forage wood and built meager fires that smoldered, adding to the pall that hung over the encampment. Others lay with blank, pain-filled eyes, waiting for death.

There were women--wives, lovers, camp followers, who had followed them to Hastings and risked much to care for them.

“Water,” a feeble voice called out. “Do you have water?”

Vivian quickly knelt by the man and let him drink from the skin she had brought with her.

She bandaged his wound and then quickly moved on, for there were so many. And always there were the cries for water and food. Some, asked if she had seen a companion, brother, or son. She moved among them, drawing only an occasional glance from the Norman guards, for she no longer bothered to control their thoughts. They had no reason to think she was other than what she seemed, a Saxon woman who tended the dying.

Moving from one meager fire to the next, she handed out powders and herbal remedies for pain, bleeding, and fevers. Whispers of gratitude followed her. And then she quickly moved on, her heart aching at what she saw. Images hovered at the edges of her vision. When she looked to see them more clearly they disappeared like the images she’d experienced the day before when they arrived in the valley where the battle had been fought.  They were the shadows of death. 

Hopelessly outnumbered and armed with crudely made clubs, wood axes, and the simplest peasant tools, the Saxons under King Harold had fought in defensive lines so tightly packed together that as the dead fell among them under volleys of Norman arrows, they were pinned shoulder to shoulder beside the living.

They had been relentlessly hacked to pieces. Those who survived had been positioned at the ends of the line. As the line fragmented, they had fled and regrouped. But the outcome was inevitable. With an army made up of untrained peasants, thanes, and house carls, Harold had been doomed before he ever set foot on the battlefield.

She saw it all clearly, in the threads of gray smoke, bleak defeat, and blood, emerging in a pattern beneath the weaver’s hand at the loom just as she had seen it in her vision.

A tapestry not yet woven,
a voice whispered through her thoughts.

The first threads had been set on this battlefield, but the threads of an unknown future lay in the basket at the weaver’s feet.

She moved on, offering what comfort she could. And with each Saxon she encountered, she searched for a familiar face from the village of Amesbury. But she saw none.

One of the guards turned to stare at her curiously. She darted out of sight around the end of a cart with a broken wheel, like the ones she had seen the previous afternoon piled with bodies. A man lay on his side beneath the cart. By his tunic and breeches, Vivian realized he was a Norman soldier.

She laid a hand at his shoulder, then swallowed her cry of alarm as he suddenly rolled toward her. Flies, disturbed by the intrusion, buzzed noisily as they swarmed the front of his bloodied tunic and dead, sightless eyes.

She had sensed his death the moment she touched him and should have been prepared for it. But neither was she prepared for the way this Norman soldier’s death affected her, as deeply as that of the Saxons she had seen.

He was young, with his hair worn in the tonsured style, and clean-shaven. He looked no different than the Saxon soldiers, except that his clothes were leather, padded for protection, and a battle sword and shield lay beside him.

Like the dead Saxons that surrounded her, there was nothing she could do for him, but she thought of those who would mourn him. He was some woman’s son, lover, or husband who would not be returning home, just as many Saxons would not return to theirs.

She knew she must return to William’s tent. The sky had lightened considerably. It was only a matter of time until it was discovered that she was gone. Already she imagined Rorke FitzWarren’s anger at finding her gone.

A sudden, brilliance of heat shimmered through her at the memory of his touch, yet she shivered, drawing her shawl more tightly about her at the unwanted sensations that poured through her at the memory of his hand on hers. The thought sprang unbidden at what it would be like to have his hand touch her in other places. She cast it away as she rose to leave.

Without warning, a hand clamped over her wrist. Before she could protest, another hand smothered over her mouth.  She  fought to free herself, but she was no match for her assailant. Her feet went out from under her and she was dragged to the ground. Vivian kicked and fought, but that hand made it impossible to breathe. She clawed at those fingers at the same time she struggled to control her thoughts, for it was her only chance as she was dragged behind the cart.

Seven

“D
o not cry out!” She was warned as that hand slowly dropped away from her mouth. An arm loosened about her waist and Vivian twisted away.

“Conal!”

Now, she understood why she hadn’t sensed any threat.

The shepherd from Amesbury looked quickly around. Then, satisfied that the Norman guards hadn’t seen them, he pulled her behind the cart.

“What are you doing here?” Vivian couldn’t imagine how he had come to be here. Fear tightened around her heart at what would happen if he was found.

“I set out as soon as the storm cleared,” Conal explained in a low voice. “Poladouras gave me his palfrey.” His lean feature’s softened, making the bruise on the side of his head seem less severe. With old Meg’s care he seemed to have recovered from the beating at Amesbury.

“You should not have come. It is too dangerous.”

“Aye,” he replied, gently touching her hand. “And dangerous for you as well. You are not harmed?”

“Nay,” she assured him. “I am well. But how did you find this place?”

Conal’s expression hardened, his voice filled with contempt. “It was not difficult. I followed the trail of wounded and dead.”

“Aye,” her heart constricted as she thought of the dead she’d seen. “Many died here.”

Conal’s expression lightened. “I watched the Norman encampment all night and saw you leave this morn. Now we can leave together.”

He had taken her hand between his, the palms hard and callused from working with the sheep, but as gentle as if he cradled a newborn lamb. He rose, pulling her to her feet.

“We must leave now,” he said urgently, his gaze scanning the open field beyond the cart with a keen shepherd’s eye, as the mist cleared and sun broke through.

“I left the palfrey in the forest not far from here.”

Vivian pulled her hand from his. “I cannot,” she said sadly. “You must return without me.”

Conal looked at her as if she had taken leave of her senses.

“I will not leave without you,” he protested. “You are the reason I came here. It is dangerous for you here. You saw how they treated the people of Amesbury.” He glanced cautiously around. “We must leave together, now, before we are discovered.”

Everything within her longed to return to the safety of Amesbury and those she loved. But sadly, everything had changed with what had passed here and Amesbury was no longer safe. Rorke FitzWarren had vowed what would happen if she was to leave, and she sensed that he was a man who kept his promise.

“No, Conal,” she said, desperate to make him understand. “I can not go with you. You must leave, now.”

In all the time they had been friends Conal had never shown anger towards her. His gentle eyes took on a hard, determined look.

“I will not leave without you, Vivian.” His expression was grim. “We will hide in the forest and travel by night. Come morning we will be halfway to Amesbury.” His hand shot out and once more closed around her wrist.

“You’re hurting me,” she cried as he tried to pull her toward the edge of the forest.

Behind them, she heard distant shouts from the Norman guards and terror seized her.

“You must go!” she told him. He had turned and stared past her as other shouts were heard. His fingers dug painfully into her wrist. When he looked at her, his eyes filled with a dark, wounded pain.

“I came for you!”

More shouts joined the first ones, closer now. Through the shifting, swirling veil of mist across the battlefield, Vivian saw several mounted horsemen who bore down on them, recalling a story Poladouras had told her of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse—war, famine, pestilence, and death.

The horsemen who rode toward them, dark shapes, shrouded in mist and smoke, seemed like those four horsemen come to life, and a portent of the death they would bring if he did not leave.

“Please go, Conal!” she frantically begged. “I could not bear your death.”

His gaze too was fastened on the approaching horsemen. As he hesitated, his hold on her arm loosened, and Vivian twisted free. She backed away from him, even as she wished in her heart that she could run into the forest with him and leave this place of death.

The expression on his face twisted with anger and helplessness. “I love you, Vivian. I have always loved you. I will find a way.” Then, as the horsemen broke through the mist, their weapons catching the dull gleam of the sun, he turned and fled into the heavy undergrowth at the edge of the forest.

~ ~ ~

Through the shifting clouds of mist that swirled along the ground, Rorke’s gaze scanned the edge of the battlefield.

The guards stationed about the encampment informed them that a woman had been seen moving among the injured Saxons. As the mist shifted he glimpsed a woman beside a cart at the edge of the field. When he would have turned his horse away to search elsewhere, the sun broke through the swirling clouds of mist, gleaming off fiery red hair at the edge of the shawl she wore.          Then he glanced past, and saw a man running into the forest, and by the clothes he wore knew him to be Saxon!

Tarek al Sharif had seen him as well, “I will take some of the men and see what we may find.”

“Aye,” Rorke acknowledged. “Take care you do not find too many Saxons hiding out in the forest.”

Vivian watched as several knights angled off toward the forest and prayed Conal was safely hidden. If he was found, she feared what Rorke’s men might do to him. She drew a steadying breath as he rode steadily toward her, leaving no doubt that she had been seen. She stood, head lifted slightly, meeting Rorke’s gaze, which was cold as the morning mist as the powerful warhorse and rider bore down on her.