Daughter of Fire (15 page)

“What is that vile-smelling brew?” he demanded.

She sensed his next thoughts as easily as if he had spoken them aloud as he glared at the simmer pot as though its contents had come alive and grown teeth. She smiled faintly. It seemed Normans and Saxons were alike when it came to curative potions.

“It is not poison,” she assured him, “although some have said it tastes far more vile than death. Such is often the way with the most effective curatives,” she assured him, as she slipped her arm beneath his head and tipped two spoonfuls into his mouth. “And I would not destroy some of my finest handiwork. Had I intended that, it would have been much easier done while you were delirious with fever.”

He shuddered as the medicine went down, taking a deep breath to recover. “Yet you are Saxon and no doubt consider me the cause of some grief to you. It would not be untoward for you to hold deep grievance against me.”

“Aye, I do,” she admitted without hesitation, then added, “but equal blame must lie with Harold, for he lost his army, many innocent Saxon lives, and his throne.”

Thinking of the visions she had seen of the approaching conflict, she added sadly, “It could not have been otherwise.” She poured a cup of lavender tea.

“Drink this, milord. It will banish the taste of the other.”

When he lay once more back upon the pallet, he implored her, “Stay a while, for I grow weary from so much sleep.” His breathing remained even and no more pain filled his face. He regarded her as though studying an upcoming battle.

“You see things differently than most Saxons,” he commented. “Others would not be so kind or generous of thought.”

“It is neither kind nor generous, milord,” she told him with a bluntness of  honesty. “I but see the truth of things that others are not willing to see.”

He smiled weakly and nodded, thinking of other things. “ ’Tis said you worked a miracle in saving my life. Is there truth in that?”

“I leave the matter of miracles to Poladouras, the monk at Amesbury abbey.”

“Does this monk have a particular skill in such matters?”

“He does,” she said, brightening with thoughts of the monk whom she loved like a father.

“He is honest, humble, and a shrewd bargain maker. He would have made a good merchant if he had not been determined to be a monk.”

“Ah, a merchant of miracles. And does God barter? I have been told that He makes bargains with no one.”

“It is not necessary that he bargain with God, for they fight the same cause.”

“Ah, yes”—William sighed—“the forces of darkness. You say he is a shrewd merchant?”

“Oh, aye,” Vivian assured him. “He is rich in saved souls.”

“I should like to meet such a man,” he said with what she sensed to be sincerity. “I will have great need of all the shrewd bargain makers I can find.”

“Your men had him beaten nearly to death,” she said evenly. “He would have paid with his life had he refused to hand over what they demanded.”

Heavy lines formed once more at his face. “What did they demand that the monk was reluctant to surrender? Most monks are not men of property.”

“He would not surrender me to them.”

“Ah, then he bargained poorly, for you are here now.”

“He did not,” she assured him. “I bargained with your men.”

His gaze narrowed. “And the bargain you made, demoiselle?”

“I bargained for the lives of the villagers of Amesbury.”

“I thank you then, for I owe my life to that bargain. And the monk?”

“I pray he has recovered, but I cannot know, for I was taken from Amesbury immediately thereafter and not allowed to tend him.”

He nodded. “I shall inquire about him for you. I will not have my men abusing monks.” His eyes closed then, and she thought surely he dozed once more, but he only rested with eyes closed.

“If it was no miracle that saved my life, that but leaves magic. Are you witch or sorceress, Vivian of Amesbury?”

She was stunned and grateful that his eyes were closed. With much surprise, she said, “I would not think that William of Normandy would give credence to such things.”

And added to reassure him, “I am not a witch. I am a healer.”

“And I suppose you will demand payment in exchange for your skills? What is your price, save that of your freedom, which I cannot grant to you as I most obviously have further need of your skills.”

Again he surprised her. By his own word, she was prisoner in his camp and yet he spoke of a boon he would grant.

“We will speak of it later, milord. I must give the matter much thought so that I take full advantage of your generosity.”

He laughed at that, a faint chuckling sound that brought on a spasm of pain. “If not a witch, are you then a sorceress?” he asked. “As king of England I would have a sorceress by my side... like Arthur.” His head turned at the pallet, those amber eyes gazing at her thoughtfully.

“Do you believe in the legend, Vivian of Amesbury?”

“Many believe ’tis true,” she conceded, drawing the thick furs about him once more. “But after all,” she said softly, “Merlin was a Saxon.”

He did not stir at her answer and she realized that he slept deeply. She checked the bandages at his wounds. Satisfied then that he would sleep through the rest of the afternoon and evening, she sought out Gavin to assist her in organizing the medicines she wanted sent to the Saxon camp.

William’s squire agreed to take them to the Saxon encampment accompanied by one of Gavin’s men. Midafternoon they set off in a cart filled with what herbal curatives and powdered medicine she could spare, along with instructions for the most common wounds. They also carried with them blankets, skins of water, simmer pots, and loaves of bread.

As she watched the cart rumbling down the crude road that had been formed by the trampling of hundreds of Norman warhorses, she prayed lives might be saved by her meager efforts. Then she turned her attention to the injured among Rorke’s men, going from campfire to campfire, tent to tent, with Gavin ever present at her side.

She dispensed extract of shepherd’s purse to stop bleeding, tea made from star thistle to ease fevers, crushed horsetail to make countless poultices, and comfrey to aid the healing of assorted wounds.

She worked until the afternoon set with a bitter chill and mist lay just beyond the perimeter of campfires. She ached all over from bending long hours over campfires and mixing medicines, preparing bandages and poultices. There were so many injuries that Gavin had enlisted the aid of his own squire and two other men to care for the most common ailments.

“It is late, mistress, and the light fades,” Gavin said with unexpected concern. “It would do William no good if you were to become ill with fatigue. There is the morrow.”

“Aye,” she agreed, but insisted, “just this last tent.”

She recognized some of the men gathered before the tent as Vachel’s men from that day at Amesbury.

When she had bandaged the last one she stood to leave, then paused, sensing a presence inside the tent. Thinking that there might be an injured man inside the tent too weak to move, she made to enter. One of the other men seized her arm to stop her.

“There’s no need,” he told her gruffly.

Vivian felt a sudden surge of anger. “I will determine if there is a need,” she replied and started to push past him. When he stepped to block her, Gavin grabbed him roughly by the tunic.

“Do not interfere, Soren.” The challenge quickly ended as the one called Soren reluctantly retreated. As soon as she stepped into the tent, Vivian knew what it was that she had sensed and was not meant to find.

“Mally!” She rushed to the girl’s side.

“Mistress Vivian?” the girl whimpered weakly.

“Aye, I’m here. Oh, Mally. What has happened?” But even as she asked it, she knew the answer. Against Rorke FitzWarren’s orders, Mally had been taken by Vachel’s men and hidden for their own pleasures once they returned to camp.

Vivian’s heart ached for she sensed that the girl had suffered far more than the bruises she’d received at Amesbury. She’d been used repeatedly and no doubt by more than one man. The stains of it covered her torn clothes. And along with heartache Vivian felt rage.

“You will come with me,” she told the girl.

“Nay! You mustn’t.  They’ll hurt you, mistress.”

“Tis safe, ” she assured the girl, thinking of the boon William had promised. Surely the gift of a Saxon girl would not trouble him.

“We will leave together,” she gently urged the girl.

“Where are you taking me?” Mally asked, trembling.

“A place where you’ll be safe.” Vivian helped the girl to stand, taking most of her weight against her as they walked together from the tent. Soren immediately leapt to his feet.

“You can’t take the girl!” he protested. “Vachel’s orders.” Gavin’s sword met his next protest.

“We’re taking her,” he said harshly. “Should Vachel care to protest the matter he may take it up with me, or with milord, FitzWarren.”

Soren immediately fell silent. They all sensed the repercussions that were likely once Rorke learned they had deliberately disobeyed his orders and taken the girl.

Gavin’s squire came forward to help Vivian. He was an older man who had been injured as a young man and could not hope to attain his own knighthood, but with a deep loyalty to Gavin’s family. He slipped an arm gently about Mally’s waist and lifted her.

“Milord?” he asked of Gavin.

“Take her to my tent and notify my men that she is to have my protection.”

Inside Gavin’s tent, Vivian gently cradled Mally’s head in the curve of her arm and spooned sweet lavender between the girl’s swollen lips. Mally moaned in protest and tried to turn away as the warm liquid stung slightly.

“You must drink it all,” Vivian told her. “Then you will sleep for a very long time. When you awaken the pain will be gone.” The girl nodded bravely, taking the last of the tea with a shuddering breath.

“I wish to die,” she cried softly. “Why did they not kill me and be done with it?”

“It was not their intent.” Vivian acknowledged the harsh reality of what had been the girl’s intended fate,  that of camp whore.

“You should have left me,” the girl wailed. “What good am I now? I can never return to my family.”

“The good of it,” Vivian told her firmly as she eased her back down onto the thick pallet that Gavin’s squire had provided, “is that you are alive. That is important above all else.”

“But look at me, mistress. I am ruined,” the girl wept. “I am not fit for any man now. What is my life to be?”

“I am looking at you and I see bruises and wounds that will heal. In time your heart will also heal.”

“But it will only happen again. Vachel’s men will come for me.” She trembled violently in fear.

“It will never happen again,” Vivian said with a fierceness that brought a look of stunned surprise to the girl’s eyes. She gentled her voice as she promised, “I will see to it.”

“With a spell?” Mally asked. “You could turn them all into mice, or toads.”

Vivian smiled that the girl really believed in such things.

“I do not think a toad is vile enough punishment,” she said, as she stroked the girl’s cheek. “You must sleep now, Mally. I promise you will be safe.”

Mally curled onto her side, burrowing deep into the warm furs like a child seeking comfort, reminding Vivian of how very young she was, but no longer innocent.

“Will she be all right, mistress?” Gavin’s squire asked. His name was Justin and he had hovered near since they brought Mally to the tent, providing bowlfuls of warm water, discreetly looking away as Vivian bathed her, then providing one of his own linen tunics, large enough for a gown.

“The bruises will heal,” Vivian said, adding with a deep frown, “There are other wounds that will take longer to heal. But in time, they too will be gone,” she vowed, lightly stroking her fingers across the sleeping girl’s forehead.

Except for one, for with her gift of inner sight, Vivian already sensed the greater damage that had been done that Mally could not know of yet. A child, conceived from one of the joinings that had been forced upon her in the days since they’d left Amesbury. And she felt sick at heart, knowing the difficult times that lay ahead for the girl.

The wind had come up, billowing the sides of the tent, and Vivian shivered. She took her pouch of herbal medicines with her, for she must check again on William. But she hesitated, reluctant to leave the girl.

“She will be safe,” Justin assured her, his hand resting on the blade at his belt. “I’ll look after her, mistress. No harm will come to her while she is in my care.”

She sensed the older man’s gentleness of spirit and genuine compassion.

“Aye, Justin. Thank you.”

Gavin and his brother were gathered about a roaring fire and had been joined by several of their men for the evening meal. The weapons close by their sides belied their casual conversation. No one would be allowed to enter Gavin’s tent without first passing through that armed guard.

William had not roused since she last saw him and she found no reason to wake him when he slept soundly. She’d given him enough of the healing tea to carry him through the night, and so let him rest. She was a firm believer that rest had an amazing curative ability. For while one slept, the body healed itself.

Guards lined the outside of the tent and William’s squire had already made his bed beside his master’s cot.

She made her own pallet where she had slept the night before, but sleep was long in coming. She was troubled by thoughts of Mally and her own encounter with the bishop. She could do nothing more about the girl tonight, but when William awakened she intended to ask his protection for the girl. As for the bishop, she had no answers for the uneasiness she sensed—an uneasiness that followed her into troubled dreams.

The tent was dark when she awakened, an urgency of warning moving across her skin like a cold hand. At first she thought all the braziers had smoldered out, but then she saw that several burned brightly. It was only here, immediately about her, that the light did not reach.

Darkness surrounded her and she sensed a vile, evil threat like the danger she had first glimpsed in her vision within the blue crystal. Something was wrong. There was great danger!