Daughter of Fire (20 page)

The only thing that set the tent apart from any of the others was the heavy guard of soldiers that surrounded it. Saxon rebels might be anywhere, and with the attack days earlier, no chances were being taken. The tent flap was drawn back and she went inside. She had been overly delayed in arriving. Rorke had already arrived, rolls of maps bound in leather spread across William’s cot before him. She felt the weight of his gaze as she crossed the tent.

As they had at her last encounter with him days earlier, all her senses seemed acutely aware of him. The simple cut of padded leather tunic, leggings and boots that enhanced the lean, hard muscles beneath rather than disguising them. Gone was the shadow of beard that had given him a dangerous appearance, replaced by an even more fearsome countenance in the sharply carved angles of lean features. But beyond the wintry gray at his eyes, she saw the flare of light that gleamed there, the look of the hunter, making her aware as he had with his kiss, that there was fire beneath the ice.

The duke’s brother, the bishop, was also there, as were several squires to see to the duke’s needs. The bishop nodded to her, those dark eyes silently contemplating behind the benevolent facade of the expression at his face. She reminded herself that though he might be a bishop with vows sworn to God, he was also a warrior with fealty sworn to William. The warrior-bishop, an odd juxtaposition and she silently wondered at the conflict of such loyalties.

“Good morrow, mistress,” William greeted her. In spite of the rigors of travel with the wounds still so fresh, he looked none the worse for it. He was freshly shaven and sitting upright, wearing a fine tunic and breeches. His sword, lay gleaming at his side.

“Have you broken the fast?” he asked, spreading a hand to the ample fare that filled a trencher bedside him. She nodded, even though her stomach rumbled with hunger. Her thoughts were full of anguish for Mally and she quickly went about her work, anxious to leave the tent.

“I owe you my life,” William stated matter-of-factly. “It has been much on my mind these past days. I owe you a reward for it. You have but to name it.”

Her head came up. William watched her with keen interest. She could feel Rorke watching her as well. Days ago the answer would have required little thought. She would have asked to return to Amesbury and not even Rorke FitzWarren would have gainsaid his liege lord. But there were other concerns now that weighed much more heavily and she doubted that William, with all of his apparent benevolence, would be inclined to grant more than one reward.

“You are most generous, milord. There is something I would ask.” She took a breath, wondering if his generosity would stand up to his brother’s objections for Vachel was the bishop’s man, and he had left no doubt of his intention to see Mally returned to his tent. Only Sir Gavin’s intervention and her slow recovery—which Vivian had prolonged far longer than was necessary—had prevented the girl’s being returned already.

Over the days since discovering Mally in Vachel’s tent, she had become aware there were other women in the Norman encampment. They were an odd mixture of Norman, French, and foreign women, some who were married to the soldiers of William’s army, but many were camp followers—whores who plied their trade at the fringes of the moving army.

With them were children, bastards who might have claimed any one of a dozen different fathers. She’d even noticed a few Saxon women who’d chosen to throw in their lot with the conquering army. Vivian was determined that would not be Mally’s fate.

“I do not ask it for myself, but for another.”

William’s brows lifted with surprise.

“You might ask for clothes.” He gestured to her much-mended gown and the boots she wore. “You might ask for gold, for I value your skills highly.”

“What good is gold when some Norman soldier would only take it from me?” she asked with undisguised candor. “What good are clothes when they will suffer the fate of those that I wear? To be torn and shredded when blows are struck? These things hold little value for me, milord. The reward I ask is a girl.”

“A girl?”

She was immediately aware that the bishop’s gaze narrowed as he watched her. Rorke FitzWarren leaned back against the edge of the nearby table, arms folded across his chest.

“Aye, milord. A Saxon girl, taken from Amesbury these many days past. She is here in this camp even now and has been badly abused by some of your men.”

“Is this true?” William looked to Rorke.

“The girl was taken against my orders. She was poorly used and has been recovering under protection of Gavin de Marte.”

“I protest such a request,” the bishop intervened. “The granting of favors to a Saxon slave?” he indicated Vivian.

William held up a hand for silence, as he turned to Vivian, “Will the girl recover?”

She was aware of the angry look that crossed the bishop’s face. “She will recover,” she assured the duke of Normandy.

“Aye,” he acknowledged, “in your care there can be little doubt of it. And yet, you ask not for yourself but for her. Why is this, Vivian of Amesbury?”

“The reasons are threefold, milord. I have need of the girl. She has assisted me before and is learned in the healing ways.”

He nodded as he considered her request. “The second reason?”

“The girl was poorly used, worse than the lowest animal that crawls the earth.” She felt the bishop’s hard stare, but refused to acknowledge that she was aware of it.

“I would not see her so abused again for she might easily die from it and would be of no service to milord.”

“I see the wisdom of your request,” he answered. “And yet if I grant this reward for the reasons thus given, I would grant it for the girl herself, for it seems she has suffered greatly and with no just cause.”

He was equally blunt as he added, “I will have England at the end of my sword, but I will not have it under my boot. A kingdom such as that is not a kingdom at all but the worst sort of prison and worth nothing to me.”

He was equally blunt, and she realized William, duke of Normandy, was not a man to play with words.

“Ah, but there still remains the reward. You did say, mistress, the reasons were threefold.”

“The third reason is that if I ask anything for myself, your generosity to me will be fulfilled.”

He nodded his agreement as his own eyes narrowed with keen speculation. “Pray, continue.”

She smiled faintly. “Therefore, I will not ask the reward for myself now,” she went on to explain. “But there will come a day when I will ask it and you must grant it for you have so sworn before witnesses, including your own brother, the bishop.”

A shrewd strategist, he admired the same quality in others and grinned appreciatively.

“By God, mistress Vivian, you remind me of me. Had I such a shrewd bargain-maker with me on my campaigns into the Byzantine Empire, the kingdom would have been mine. You are a healer of both the flesh and the spirit.

“I accept your decision. I will grant the reward for the girl. She will remain with you, under my personal protection.”

“Thank you, milord,” she murmured, as she set about changing his bandages. It was quickly done and she asked that she be allowed to take her leave. At the entrance to the tent, she paused.

“I would ask your permission to gather herbs and roots from the forest, for my medicines have been greatly depleted and not all of what I need, can be found within the camp.”

“Is that the request you ask then for yourself, mistress?” William inquired with a speculative look.

“Nay, Milord,” she assured him. “I ask it on your behalf. ’Tis your health that will benefit from the granting of it.”

He chuckled. “Then so be it.” He added, “One of my men will accompany you.”

“You are most generous, milord.”

~ ~ ~

Within hours they were under way toward London, William’s decision made that he would delay no further. Tents were collapsed and packed in great lumbering carts to follow the main army.

The falcon, Aquila, had returned unharmed to the Norman encampment the day after the Saxon attack, as if she had but hunted in the forest, returning with a fine fat hare which ended up in the evening’s stew pot. But late that night, after the rabbit had been consumed, Vivian took a thick morsel to the falcon, crooning soft words to her, communicating with that unique bond they shared.

By day, as the Norman army traveled, Vivian gathered what herbs, roots, and late season berries could still be found along the old Roman road they traveled. The remainder she sought from the hedgerows and deep within the forest after they had made camp each night.

Their travel was slow, limited each day to William’s endurance. When he tired and could travel no further, the journey was halted. Sir Guy accompanied her into the forest to gather what grasses, shoots, and tender roots could be found. With winter hard upon them, the remedies she preferred were difficult to find. Many would not appear again until the following spring and she was forced to rely on the bark cut from certain trees and roots painstakingly dug from the frozen ground.

This day had dawned gray and forbidding with the promise of a storm on the cold air. At the end of the day Gavin’s squire and retainers had set up camp. A fire burned with welcoming warmth. The falcon had hunted in the forest and swooped low to reclaim the perch that had been provided for her. With so many soldiers and guards about, Sir Guy bade Vivian farewell to return to his own camp nearby.

Mally worked over the cook fire, helping prepare the evening meal. The longer periods of enforced encampment allowed for the preparation of hot meals of fresh roast fowl in place of the hard, stale bread and cheese that had sustained the army for weeks since crossing the English Channel.

Vivian laid out the leather roll, carefully spreading the twigs, bark, and roots that she’d gathered. She worked quickly in the fading light, separating and sorting each, for none could be wasted. Even though the fire was warm, she still shivered as though a sudden coldness swept over her. She sensed his presence.

But even with the forewarning, she looked up with sudden uneasiness. At first she didn’t see him in the shadows at the edge of the campfire, as though he belonged to the darkness. Then, as he realized that she was fully aware of his presence, he stepped from the shadows into the light that rimmed the campfire. Golden flames reflected at the silver cross he wore.

“I see you’ve been gathering your precious herbs and strange medicants,” the bishop observed, coming to stand closer, hands extended before him toward the warmth of the fire.

“Not so very strange to those in need,” Vivian answered evenly.

“Spores, molds, and fungus?” he inquired with a bemused expression that made her realize he considered such things to be the foolishness of peasants.

She gave him a measuring look, trying to discern what it was about him that eluded her. “They’re all beneficial in healing”—and then with a faint smile of her own—“as is the spider’s web and the application of leeches. There are many things of benefit to be found in nature.

“But I think, milord,” she added, “that you did not come to discuss healing potions.”

“Ah, ever the quick mind. You surprise me much, mistress Vivian.”

“For a Saxon?” she speculated.

He chuckled. “I am oft surprised by God’s strange workings in finding one so gifted in a heathen realm. But I have noticed that you do not wear the sign of the cross,” he speculated. “You wear instead the symbol of the earth in a blue stone. Is that not the way of the heathen Celts?”

“If I do not wear the cross about my neck, it does not mean that I do not wear it in my heart,” she informed him. “God is everywhere and in every thing.”

“Was that taught to you by the monk?”

She sensed his disdain. “Poladouras is exceptionally well learned. He has taught me many things.”

“Including the ways of mixing potions of molds, frog eyes, and spider’s webs?”

“I learned the healing ways from the old ones.”

“Ah, yes, the Ancient Ones,” his tone was mocking as with a stick seized from the edge of the fire, he stirred the newly formed bed of coals.

“And do you also believe in faeries, trolls, and mystical spirits who inhabit the trees and rocks?” he asked.

“I believe, milord Bishop,” she said with a certainty, “that you did not come to discuss healing potions, or matters of faith.”

“You are right, mistress. In truth, I came to inquire about the girl you bargained for with my brother.”

Behind her, in the shadows of the cart, Vivian was aware of a movement and knew that Mally hovered close by.

“Is she recovering from her injuries?” he asked in a way that made Vivian aware he chose his words very carefully.

“She is,” she replied tentatively, trying to discern the bishop’s true purpose, for she could not believe that he concerned himself with a simple Saxon peasant girl. He looked past her as though he could see into those shadows where Mally hid.

“You need not fear me, my child. I am a man of God. I would but offer absolution for your sins and protection from your enemies.”

Sins? Vivian felt a ripple of irritation. What about Vachel’s sins and the sins of the other Norman soldiers committed upon innocent Saxon women and children?

Mally had stepped from the shadows, and slowly moved to stand beside her.

“She will be safe enough here,” Vivian said evenly.

“But there are dangers everywhere,” he protested with such concern of voice. “She would be safer in my protection.”

“Safer than under the protection of Duke William?” she inquired. “Would you hold yourself above your liege lord?”

The smile remained in place, but there was a sudden sharpness at those dark eyes that warned she had perhaps been too outspoken. She bantered not with a fool, but with a very clever man who wielded much power.

“No man is above God,” he countered. “Not even a man who would be king of England.”

At the edge of their camp, the falcon had become agitated at her perch. It was not the restless movement of the need to be at the hunt, but the uneasiness of alarm.

“
Especially
a man who would be king of England,” she responded and saw the anger that  flashed in his dark eyes, and she realized she had perhaps struck too close to the truth. The falcon seemed to sense his anger as well, for her wings flared as though ready to take flight.