Daughter of Fire (26 page)

“Judith knows her place, and the consequences if she goes beyond herself,” he replied. “The matter is settled.”

She had seen him just so, heard that same firmness in his voice, when giving orders to his men, and she was too tired to argue the matter further. She crossed toward the hearth, gathered  thick furs and laid them before the fire.

“You may take the bed,” he told her when he saw her intent. “Any sleep I get this night I will take with my men.”

“The floor shall suffice,” she informed him, determined to set physical boundaries between them, and at least have her way in this even if she was to be kept as a prisoner in the chamber.

Though they had slept close before, on the journey from Amesbury, even using the same pallet and wrapped in thick furs, the very notion of walls closing them in together rather than the forest or an open field suggested an intimacy that was far too disturbing.

“It is not so hard or cold as the ground.” Turning her back on that equally disturbing gray gaze, she laid the furs across the stone floor before the hearth, making a thick pallet for a bed.

“There is another matter I would discuss with you.”

There was something different in his voice that she couldn’t quite name. She sighed wearily.  “Can it not wait until the morrow?”

“It cannot.”

He crossed to the hearth, his presence making her feel small and vulnerable. He handed her a goblet of wine.

“Drink it. It will help you to sleep.”

“I need no wine, I assure you .” She couldn’t have been more obvious in wanting him to leave than if she had asked it outright.

“Drink it,” he commanded.

She took the goblet and sipped carefully. She’d tasted the ale that Poladouras was so fond of before, but this was her first taste of wine. With only her previous experience of the bitter ale, she was pleasantly surprised by the warm, lusty sweetness of the dark red wine that hinted of some other tangy taste with an exotic hint of spice.

“It is mulled wine,” he explained, “particularly soothing when one is very tired.”

She took another sip and found the pleasure increased as the warmed wine with its mysterious flavors both bold and subtle spread to her fingers and toes, filling her with a wonderful lethargy.

The chamber took on a soft, golden glow. The colors in the tapestries at the walls seemed much darker and vibrant, as if they had come to life. Beneath her fingertips, she could feel each grain of wood at the table, the cut that etched the surface, and the soft satin of edges worn smooth.

“I would ask you of the attack in the street,” he said over the rim of his own goblet and it seemed that his voice was like warm satin, soothing as it wrapped about her senses.

“The attack was sudden, the location within those narrow streets that made any hope of escape impossible.”

She looked up at him, her gaze drawn by eyes as gray as stone—as if a stone wall carefully protected his emotions, letting no one inside. And yet, she knew, there were moments between them...

“You rode beside William,” he continued. “And in the midst of battle when all seemed lost, he heard strange words, just before the explosion and the fire.”

She set the goblet at the table. It wobbled beneath her hand—always so sure and steady when holding a blade, cauterizing a wound, or stitching together the edges of maimed flesh.

His hand closed over hers, steadying the goblet. He didn’t immediately release her hand but instead turned her hand over in his and studied it, lightly tracing the lines across the palm of her hand.

“Did you see where the fire came from?” he asked without looking up.

“There were fires all about the city,” she replied, her fingers curling at the feather light touch of his finger as it traced her hand. “Perhaps one of Gavin’s men...” she said, grasping for any possibility that might satisfy his curiosity, anything but the truth that she was certain he could never accept.

“Perhaps he made the fire appear out of his pocket?” he suggested as his fingers stroked hers. “I spoke with my men.  No one could say how it happened, although all were grateful for it changed the outcome of the attack.” He studied her carefully. “All would have been lost if not for the fire.”

“Perhaps the Saxons started the fires,” she suggested, trying to free her hand. She felt naked, exposed, trapped like a falcon tethered by golden jesses that can only fly the length of those delicate chains.

“According to Tarek, the Jehara possess great powers,” he continued, “the powers of light and darkness, earth, wind, and fire, the power to transform themselves...”

“You do not believe in such things,” she reminded him, her thoughts moving slowly through a golden haze.

“I believe there are many things between Heaven and earth that cannot be explained.” As he spoke, those strong fingers traced the pulse at her wrist and she laughed softly.

“If I possessed such powers, would it not be a simple thing to transform myself and escape the danger, and then escape from your men and return to Amesbury at my choosing?” she asked.

“Aye,” he replied thoughtfully, the expression behind that gray gaze shifting, growing darker with some new thought. “Perhaps.”

“As I am still your prisoner, it would seem, then, that Tarek is mistaken.” She found herself staring at his larger, battle scarred hand wrapped around hers.

“I cannot tell you where the fire came from,” she added truthfully. “Perhaps,” she suggested, “what Sir William heard were my simple prayers.” She finally succeeded in slipping her hand from his. 

“I am weary, milord” she said, without looking up. She dare not, for she was afraid of what she would see in those gray eyes that seemed to see deep inside her.

“I would like to sleep now,” she whispered. “There are few enough hours left in the night, and William will have need of me when he awakens.”

“You need not sleep on the floor,” he said as he stood. “It will be late when I retire for the night, if at all. I will have no use for it.” For he sensed she would tell him no more of what had happened that night.

“I cannot,” she protested.

“What are you afraid of, Vivian?” he asked, so close now that she could smell him; that special scent as though she had known it all her life—the richness of leather, laced with the essence of night mist, earth, and wind, and the tang of male animal. It moved across her senses with an intoxicating and terrifying power.

“I am afraid of nothing,” she answered defiantly. Her gaze fastened on a place below his chin instead of meeting that gray gaze. She quickly discovered the danger in her choice as she stared at the pulse that beat low at his throat. She lowered her gaze farther still and concentrated on the stitch work of his leather tunic.

Though she could not see it, she could feel the power of blood that moved through his veins, felt it as surely as if it flowed through her own.

“You are like the untrained falcon,” he said, with a sudden gentleness that startled her. She looked up in surprise and made the mistake of meeting that compelling gaze.

His fingers gently stroked her cheek. She could have pulled away, but she did not. Something much stronger than fear immobilized her—like the falcon fascinated at the sensations that poured through her.

“Intelligent, beautiful, wise in so many ways,” he said softly, “yet wild and untamed.” His hand lowered then, his fingers resting over the pulse that beat at her throat.

“Ready to fly the unknown hand.” His fingers stroked the small hollow at the base of her throat and then across the ridge of bone.

“There will come a time, Vivian, when you will not fly from my hand.”

Fifteen

I
n the weeks that followed their arrival in London, she rose long before anyone else each morning to prepare the herbal medicines for William. In the afternoon she took him the special tea that he still suffered from his wounds.

He had brought his own cook from Normandy and quickly installed her in the kitchen previously occupied by Harold’s servants. The woman was amiable and made a place for Vivian to prepare her medicines. Mally often joined her there, and the cook quickly took the girl under her care, putting her to work with the other serving girls.

Within days of their arrival in London, he began holding daily court to dispel any possible rumors about his health. He met each day with the Saxon earls and barons, the English archbishops, and his own generals as he took steps to establish the framework for the transition of Norman rule over Saxon England. He discussed important matters now with his brother, Rorke, Tarek, and his other knights.

She listened as they spoke, pouring the tea into his wine, then preparing the poultices for the wounds that slowly healed.

“What say you, mistress?” William startled her by asking, one afternoon. “Should a London merchant be levied by the crown on goods in his shop, or only upon a sale to a customer?”

Vivian looked around uncertainly and saw that all gazes had turned to her. All that is, except one. The bishop frowned over his goblet of wine.

“I know little of these matters, milord,” she said by way of an excuse.

“But surely you have an opinion about such things.” William snorted. “Everyone else has one.”

She glanced over at Rorke.  He leaned back against the table, arms folded across his chest, watching her thoughtfully.

“It would seem, milord,” she suggested hesitantly, giving great consideration to the weighty matter, for it affected her people, “that if you levy the merchant before sales are made, he might soon be out of business for the higher price he will be forced to ask for the goods to cover the tax. If he is out of business how then are you to collect the levy? Perhaps ’tis better to nibble at the turnip than try to squeeze blood from it.”

William studied her with a bemused expression. “I see the logic in what you say. And what of the lands held by Saxon earls and barons?” His gaze sharpened. “I have promised certain rewards to my own knights and barons. Promises must be kept, mistress, or I may not hold England at all.”

She wished that he had not asked it, for if she spoke in favor of his plan it would seem that she betrayed her own people. If she spoke against it, William might take offense.

“Nor can you long hold it if there is constant rebellion,” she pointed out and nearby heard an exclamation of anger from the Bishop at her honesty. William raised his hand for silence.

“Continue. I would hear what you have to say.”

Again she looked at Rorke. His expression was bemused, his mouth curving into a smile at one corner which he hid behind his goblet as he drank from it.

“A great many men died at Hastings,” she began, again choosing her words carefully. “Their widows and children cry for them. But rather than throwing them off the land, it might be more logical to bind them to you at the same time you allow them to stay on their land.”

“Go on,” he said carefully, sipping the tea.

She had given the matter some thought, for she had heard the Saxons earls grumbling about the hall, and knew they feared all might be lost. Their mood was dangerous and fearful. Such things led to war. What, then, might avert war? she had wondered silently as she had heard Rorke speak of the dilemma.

“Have you given thought, milord, to marrying those of your men who are acceptable with these widowed Saxon baronesses? You would thereby guarantee the Saxon tie to the land at the same time creating a bond to the Norman nobility that may not be broken.”

William’s gaze narrowed thoughtfully. “Aye,” he considered. “Conquer by marriage and birth what might otherwise be conquered only by death.”

She preferred not to think of it as being conquered, but as means to provide for widows who had lost their husbands in the fight against him. 

“It would seem a way to appease both, if they are agreeable to such an arrangement.”

William’s hand slammed down on the arm of his chair. He roared with laughter.

“By God, I should like very much to meet this monk who taught you so well. You have a keen logic that sees to the heart of difficult matters and offers a solution to all arguments.” He smiled at her graciously.

“Thank you, mistress.”

“Aye, milord.” She quickly gathered her herbal potions and left, for while the others had listened attentively, she sensed the bishop’ dark, watchful gaze and grew uneasy. She returned to the adjacent chamber and was startled when Rorke followed her. He caught her at the doorway that separated the two chambers. His warm hand closed gently over hers, preventing her escape.

“Was there something you wanted, milord?” she asked hesitantly, far more unnerved by the touch of his hand—than she had by anything William asked, or the bishop’s steely scrutiny.

“Aye,” he said, his voice low almost to a whisper and as dangerous to her senses as his touch.

“There is much that I want.”

Vivian shivered as heat spiraled through her. Those few words seemed to hold a portent of so much more. She gasped at the sudden contact of his hand at her cheek, his rough, callused fingers inexplicably tender.

“I want,” he began gruffly, and then continued, “to thank you for your honesty. There are many things you might have said. Many foolish things that others have said. I thank you for the wisdom of your words.”

Shaken by his touch, unable to say anything more, much less think it, she stepped away from him, “You are welcome, milord.”

~ ~ ~

With so many armed Norman guards about, Vivian was given a great deal more freedom in London. She was aware of the speculative glances that fell her way and the rumors that were whispered in the main hall, for it was soon known that she was allowed in the council chambers.

For that reason she avoided the central hall where William held court, so that she might avoid those speculative glances and sly whispers. But on this particular morning she had the misfortune to encounter Lady Hertford in the passage outside the central hall.

She was a dour, pinch-faced woman whose family had once possessed vast English estates. Now she had been reduced to penury, her estates confiscated by the man she secretly called the Norman bastard. She had been widowed in the Battle of Hastings. Now her only hope of salvaging her family estates was for her to make an opportunistic marriage among the Norman nobles whom she disdained as nothing better than drunken peasants.