Daughter of Fire (27 page)

“I would have a word with you,” she announced in a tone that suggested it was of necessity rather than personal choice.

“You seem to have a certain...
favor
among these Normans,” she began, choosing her words carefully. “I have waited three days for an audience with the Duke of Normandy and can wait no more. You will arrange for me to meet with him.”

“I am sorry, madam,” she politely refused, trying to hide her aggravation at the woman’s rudeness. “But I cannot.” She excused herself and made to step past her, but was seized the arm and pulled back round.

“Perhaps you did not understand,” Lady Hertford said in a barely civilized tone. “You
will
arrange a meeting for me with the Duke of Normandy immediately. My late husband was Lord Hertford, a man of considerable influence and wealth. I demand an audience to discuss matters of import.” Her voice quivered with anger.

“I will not be pawned off on some Norman barbarian as others.”

“I cannot arrange it,” Vivian attempted to explain, struggling with her own anger and humiliation at being treated so cruelly. “I have no authority at William’s court.”

Lady Hertford’s fingers tightened. “I am not used to being dismissed, and certainly not by a Saxon peasant who whores herself to these Normans!” She let go of Vivian with a vicious slap across the cheek.

She had no warning, no sense that anyone was about. She was as stunned as Lady Hertford as the baroness was seized about the throat and thrown against the wall. Her eyes bulged at her face.  All color drained from her face beneath the brutal grasp of that powerful hand.

“Milord, no!” Vivian pleaded.

“Are you harmed?” his voice was low, dangerous, as he pinned Lady Hertford against the wall.

“Nay, all is well,” she told him, her hand at his arm.  “It was a misunderstanding is all.  Please, Rorke...”

He turned at the sound of his name, his narrowed eyes a wintry gray that was unreadable. . 

She glanced at Lady Hertford, the poor woman dangling from his grasp, her slippers barely touching the stones at the floor, afraid she might not endure more. Though Vivian had no fondness for her, she still felt sympathy for her. Her entire way of life had ended with the death of her husband and Harold’s defeat, her life reduced to begging for favors at the new king’s court.

Her hand closed around his arm.  “Please.”

He relaxed his hand from around Lady Hertford’s throat.  She slowly sank back against the wall, clutching her throat, and gasping for air. 

With the toe of his boot, Rorke shoved a wood bucket filled with water and a scrub brush that had been left by one of the servants toward her. 

“
You
will clean it, milady,” Rorke informed her, and then explained precisely how it was to be done. “On your hands and knees, with bucket and brush. And when it is finished, you will clean the entire hall.”

He paused briefly to see if she offered any objections. “If you refuse,” he continued in that even voice that carried a far more dangerous threat than anything he could have said, “I will have you stripped naked and chained to the wall with the hunting dogs. Then we will see just who is the Saxon bitch?”

Lady Hertford gasped. “My husband was Lord Hertford. “You cannot order me to do this!””

“Your husband is dead,” Rorke pointed, and then assured her, “and I shall order you about as I please.”

With the toe of his boot, he kicked the bucket toward her. It wobbled and then righted itself, spilling the remaining contents across the hem of her gown.

“
Every
stone of the floor in this hall is to be scrubbed,” Rorke reminded her so that there was no misunderstanding. “And when you are finished, I shall inspect every stone. If they are not clean as I have ordered, then you will begin again, and tonight you will sleep among the hounds.”

With stories of Norman atrocities running rampant in the royal household—Lady Hertford trembled. She had heard whispered stories of this particular Norman knight’s brutality on the battlefield and fear filled her eyes. She hastily nodded and bent to pick up the bucket and brush.

Rorke took Vivian gently by the arm. The look in those cool gray eyes had shifted and darkened.  His hand was gentle as he angled her chin up and brushed her hair back from her cheek.  He frowned at the red mark that marred her skin.

“You are not harmed?”

“Nay, milord. ’Twas a minor thing, a misunderstanding is all.”

“I did not misunderstand what I saw,” he said, as he gently brushed his fingers across her cheek. “Lady Hertford’s punishment was not what I could have given her, nor what I preferred.”  Those gray eyes had gone shades darker.

“I will not have you treated so, nor would William take such a matter lightly. He would have dealt far more harshly with her, for he has come to value you highly.”

She laid her hand over his.  “Please, do not speak of it,” she implored him.  “He has matters enough to concern him.”

“You plead mercy for these people, even when they hurt you,” he said, thoughtfully studying her face. “I fear we have brought you to this. It was not my intention that day at Amesbury.”

“They cannot harm me, milord,” she replied. “They but lash out in fear of an uncertain future they cannot see.”

“And yet you do not,” he observed, his mouth curving in a speculative smile that had the unexpected effect of transforming those lean, forbidding features. He still held her prisoner by the simple contact of those fingers at her chin, yet held her with the gentlest restraint.

She could have turned away but she did not. His touch mesmerized her as the unexpected warmth of that simple contact spread across her skin and moved through her body in unexpected ways.

“Do you perhaps see what they cannot?” he asked.

“I see the hopelessness of more deaths,” she replied, the memory of her vision sharp as her breath caught at the touch of his thumb stroking along the curve of her lower lip.

Rorke watched as blue fire leapt into her eyes, enveloping the midnight dark iris, until it seemed her eyes were shimmering blue flames, and the heat of her startled breath caressed his skin.

Desire, sharp and long denied raged through him, and he silently cursed.  He wanted to feel her beneath him and all about him, to hear her soft cries, to burn with her heat, to watch those magnificent eyes as he joined his flesh with hers, to discover the passion that defended a tumbled down abbey and a broken-down monk, defied a conqueror and reduced both a bishop and his men to her bidding. He wanted to lose himself in her and in the loss perhaps find something more that he couldn’t even name.

“Mistress Vivian,”  Mally said tentatively, stepping from the great hall. At the sight of the imposing Norman knight, she stammered uncertainly, “I didn’t see you, milord.” She chewed at her lower lip, hands twisting before her.

“What is it?” Vivian stepped back, breaking that simple contact, and telling herself she was grateful the girl had appeared when she had, yet she felt the loss of that touch, longing for something more.

“Is something amiss? Has someone taken ill?”

It was odd for Mally to be in the great hall this time of day. There were frequently many soldiers about and she stayed away from the hall, confining herself to the kitchen where she helped the cook, or, like a silent shadow, followed Vivian as she went about her chores.

“Speak up, girl,” Rorke ordered.

Still Mally fidgeted, casting worried glances from one to the other. 

“It is a private matter, mistress.”

Mally’s health had gradually improved since their arrival in London. But Vivian sensed something fearful in the girl’s chaotic thoughts.

“Whatever it is, you may tell me and have no fear, Mally,” she gently encouraged the girl, stroking her arm soothingly. It was then the girl’s thoughts joined with her own, with two names as if she had spoken them aloud.

Poladouras and Meg!  There, in the great hall of William’s London fortress.

Vivian turned abruptly to Rorke. “Please, milord,” she begged. “ ’Tis a personal matter.” And then, with a sudden thought, “I must go with the girl.”

Rorke saw the change in her manner, the delicate frown that drew auburn brows together, then the startled look that flashed in her eyes as if some silent communication passed between her and the girl. Something was amiss, but he instinctively knew that if he pressed the matter, she would not speak of it.

“I must find Gavin,” he said, excusing himself and following the passage past toward the great hall.

It was crowded, filled with the usual petitioners who waited for William to arrive at court—other Barons and Earls arrived from the outlying districts in England, newly arrived emissaries from Normandy and beyond, several lesser noblemen who had thrown their lot in with Harold and now found themselves owing fealty to William. 

Conversations whirled around her as they passed by.  An occasional argument erupted.  Others talked amongst themselves with uneasy glances about the hall. William’s hunting dogs, restless at being confined the past days, snarled and snapped at each other. And overall was the watchful presence of heavily armed guards.

Dozens of questions filled her thoughts. How had Meg and Poladouras gotten there all the way from Amesbury? Why had they come, and at such great risk?

Then, as if a hand had reached out amongst the noise and chaos in the hall and touched her arm, Vivian sensed a familiar presence. That same presence of love and caring that had borne an infant child from the far west country to a tumbled down abbey all those years before, guided by a falcon.

“Meg,” she whispered softly, tears filling her eyes as she turned and discovered the small, slender figure beside her, disguised in a monk’s robes and hood.

“My child,” The rim of the hood lifted just enough to reveal that dear face that was ageless to her. Meg’s thin hand reached out from the voluminous sleeve and closed over Vivian’s wrist in the ancient bonding way. Vivian glanced about for Poladouras, but failed to find his face or robust form among any of the monks who gathered about in crowded the hall.

“Do your senses fail you, child?”

She whirled around to find a merchant in much-mended clothes, with a cask of mead clutched under his arm. His face was shrouded by a heavy growth of gray beard that blended with the wild mane of hair, barely restrained by a woolen cap. He wore breeches with leather leggings wrapped to his knees, and a coarse woolen tunic belted by a length of rope for lack of a suitable belt, and smelled of the brew he carried.

If she had not sensed who it was beneath the ridiculous disguise, she would have known it in the warmth of the eyes that glinted back at her with undisguised mischief.

“Meg dresses as a monk and you disguise yourself as a village merchant?” she asked incredulously, her eyes brimming with tears of joy and disbelief at the danger they had risked.

Poladouras’ eyes crinkled, his smile lost somewhere in the thick mat of beard. “It seemed logical. Who would bother a simple merchant bearing a gift of mead to Duke William?” he reasoned, then winked at her.

“And it provided sustenance for the journey.”

“Does any of the ale remain?” Vivian asked, smiling through her tears, knowing well his appreciation for the fine brew.

His eyes widened that she should ask such a question, then crinkled again with laughter.

“It would be a shame to waste all of it on these Normans, who have a taste for wine instead. It might be a bit watered down.” He shrugged. “They will never know the difference.” His large hand closed over hers.

“Dear child! You are well?”

“Aye, well and safe,” she assured them both, then, with a worried glance about the hall, “But why have you come here? These are dangerous times.  London is not safe.”

Poladouras leaned close and winked again at her. With a nod toward Meg, he said, “Once we received word that Duke William was bound for London, this old woman would not let me rest until I agreed to bring her.  She threatened to turn me into all sorts of vile creatures unless I brought her. Determined, she was,” he muttered.

Vivian clasped both their hands in hers. “I’ve seen Conal, at Hastings.”

“Aye,” Meg whispered, “the lad was near crazed after you were taken. Is he about?”

Vivian shook her head. “He spoke of dangerous things that I feared might get him killed. I had hoped that he had returned to Amesbury and given up his foolish plans. I pray he is well, but it is not safe for you to be here,” she protested, even as she felt such happiness at in seeing them again and grateful they had suffered no lingering injuries from that day at Amesbury.

“You must leave now before you are seen!” she went on with growing urgency. She sensed Mally’s sudden apprehension and, turning to the girl beside her, saw it in the fearful expression at her face.

“Surely your friends are not leaving so soon, Vivian.” She slowly turned to confront the wintry gray gaze of Rorke FitzWarren.

“Milord,” she said slowly, the breath trapped in her lungs. She tried to gauge his mood as she realized he recognized Meg and Poladouras.

“Duke William will want to meet both of you,” he told them, but his gaze was fixed on Vivian.

~ ~ ~

When informed of the latest arrivals at his court, William immediately summoned them to his chamber.

“So, you are the monk of Amesbury,” he exclaimed as they stood before him. “I have heard much about you. Please, come closer so that we may talk.”

“Brother,” the bishop warned, “I strongly advise against this. We cannot know the man’s true temper.  He reeks of spirits and doesn’t even wear his robes.  I would doubt his loyalty even to God for surely he doesn’t possess the demeanor of a man of the clergy.  And my men have told me how they were attacked at the abbey. The old woman went at one of my men with an ax.”

Vivian watched him carefully, her fear growing at the Bishop’s lies, and she wished desperately Meg and Poladouras had not come to London.

“Aye,” William acknowledged in a grave tone. “I’ve been told of it. Forty-odd, heavily armed men held at bay by a monk, a blind woman, and a young girl--formidable odds indeed. Be at ease, brother,” he admonished the Count de Bayeau, “unless you believe them to be armed and scheming to strike against me in my own chamber with over two hundred of my men just beyond that door.”