Daughter of Fire (30 page)

“And all is in your hands,” Meg said with understanding and much sadness. “Your fates are intertwined. I see now that you are right, though I had prayed it was not so. He is Norman. He brings blood and death to all Saxons.”

All the emotions she’d felt over the past weeks swept through her. Her fear of Rorke, of her own feelings, and the prophecy that bound them together.

“That fate was already certain before he and his knights came to Amesbury,” Vivian acknowledged sadly, “for I saw it in the crystal, just as I knew that I must go with him.”

One of the cook’s girls came into the pantry, glancing at them with wide-eyed curiosity as she seized a bag of grain. Vivian rose to leave, for she had been on another errand when she stopped to see Meg. Sir Gavin had promised to escort her to the London market so that she might replenish some of her herbal medicines.

“William has given his permission for me to go to the market,” she explained to Meg. “I will bring leaves to fix an elixir for the pain in your hands.”

Meg waved a gnarled old hand as if it was of little importance. “My needs are few. My greatest concern is for you.” Her hand was surprisingly strong and warm with the life force that still moved through her in spite of the fragile old bones.

“Though your fate is linked with his, beware,” Meg warned in a low voice. “For I have sensed his feelings for you. They are dangerous. You are a child of the Light,” she reminded Vivian. “You must not forget the warning of the prophecy, for if your powers are lost, then all is lost.”

And what of my feelings for him? Vivian wondered, even as she reassured Meg that she must not worry. Why did these mortal emotions and needs stir within her as they never had before?

“I will take care,” she promised, but her thoughts were filled with doubt and uncertainty as she left the kitchen and continued down the passage that led to the sally port at the east wall of the fortress where she was to meet Sir Gavin.  She stopped in surprise as she reached the agreed upon location, for a dozen mail-clad warriors sat astride their warhorses, waiting for her.

In the days since she’d arrived in London, William’s soldiers had removed their mail armor. There was little need of it inside the walled fortress. The sight of it now reminded her that while they only ventured to market, there was still danger of attacks beyond the royal hall.

They waited, their mantles carefully draped over their armor, broadswords concealed from sight. Mist swirled about the courtyard as she approached the lead horse, the frosty morning air nipping at her cheeks.

“Good morn, Sir Gavin. I apologize for keeping you overlong.”

“Good morn, mistress,” the knight commented as he turned around to reveal that it was not Sir Gavin who waited for her, but Rorke FitzWarren.

“Where is Sir Gavin?” she blurted out, startled by the unexpected appearance of the very man she had been avoiding since the unpleasant encounter in his chamber with Judith de Marque.

“He has been called away on another matter.”

“But he assured me that he had nothing of import to attend to this morn. I would not have bothered him otherwise.”

“It was a matter that needed his attention,” Rorke informed her. “Therefore, I shall ride in his place. Surely you have no objection, mistress.”

“Nay,” Vivian replied, at least not any that she could explain. She turned to leave.  “It will  wait until Sir Gavin is able to accompany me.”

“That might not be for some time,” he informed her. “I would not have William’s return to good health endangered by your lack of powders and herbs, and it will give me an opportunity to assess the mood of the city.  Surely my men are capable of escorting you about London.” There was challenge in his voice.

“Of course.  ’Tis only that I would not have bothered you with such a trivial matter.”

“Matters of William’s health are not trivial,” he assured her. “And for your safety, you will ride with me.”

~ ~ ~

An uneasy calm had settled over the city as negotiations for peace took place between Duke William of Normandy, the archbishop of Canterbury and the Saxon barons.

Merchants had re-opened their shops. Markets bustled with activity. Inns and taverns, which had been boarded up weeks earlier, overflowed and did a bustling trade providing food and lodging for the very same invaders they had fought. The people of London bitterly resented the presence of the Norman invaders, and the duke of Normandy more so, but there was a harsh reality they were forced to accept. Commerce meant profit, and profit meant survival.

“How is it the cook or one of her women could not acquire the necessary herbs and powders for you?” Rorke inquired as they rode through the bustling streets toward the marketplace.

People grudgingly made way for them, stepping aside to make way for the large warhorses so as not to be trampled by the great beasts, casting resentful looks in their direction, cursing  when they assumed they could not be heard. But Vivian heard the slandered words and, with Rorke’s understanding of the English language, she knew that he heard as well. He gave no indication of it as his gaze constantly scanned the street, buildings, and rooftops as they passed by.

“There are different varieties of the same plants,” she explained. “So, too, are the potions made from them different. I must see to them myself to choose the right ones. If the merchant does not have what I need, then I must choose something else that will work as well.”

His mood eased as they rode through the streets and there were no incidents. He seemed to accept the logic of it. “I suppose it would not do to use the wrong medicine. It might prove lethal.”

“Only with much stronger medicines,” she replied. “But,” she added, “an incorrect medicine can cause unusual results.” When he made no attempt to change the conversation but instead listened with interest, she went on to explain.

“The leaves used in a salve to treat boils are very similar to another that causes an unusual amount of hair growth.” From the corner of her eye she saw the thoughtful expression in those gray eyes.

“Hmmm,” he commented. “Considering the area usually afflicted by boils, that might prove to be an unsettling experience.”

His voice moved warmly through her. It was not an unpleasant sensation and she relaxed against the curve of his mail-clad chest, her mood lifting by degrees.

“Oh, I fear it can be most disconcerting,” she continued with mock seriousness. “In the village, old Anselm took it upon himself to treat a fierce case of boils. He knew the name of the plant I used for making the salve but he thought to make it himself, for he was too embarrassed to ask for the remedy. The results were disastrous.”

“He still had the boils,” Rorke speculated.

“Aye, and more,” she replied, her expression solemn. “According to his wife, his arse is covered with more hair than his head. She says he can’t figure out which end is up.”

He chuckled. “Are there other such treatments which might be confused?” he asked with a grin.

“Oh, many others,” she said. “There is a plant which provides a medicine for treating coughs.”

“And another, I suppose, that causes far different results.”

She nodded. “It looks exactly the same except for the number of leaves in a cluster on the branch of the bush. It does nothing to relieve coughing, but causes a dreadful amount of wind.”

Pressed firmly against him, Vivian felt the laughter he tried to suppress. With great effort he remarked, “Considering there are three hundred or more soldiers within the fortress it could indeed be a very explosive situation if they were to get hold of the wrong medicine.”

“Very
explosive
indeed,” she agreed. “But there is another that is far worse. There are roots of certain plants which provide a salve for treating toothaches. But there is one similar which produces a salve that causes a certain...
flaccidity
of the limbs.”

“Flaccid limbs?” Rorke looked at her askance, more than a little amusement pulling at his mouth as he imagined such catastrophic results.

“Aye,” she said. “It can make it very difficult to walk, or remain upright in other places.” She felt the laughter that rocked through him as his thoughts no doubt considered those other areas.

“I can well imagine that it would.”

~ ~ ~

The largest market was located near the river, where barges and flatboats brought cargos from ships that filled the harbor. Carts drawn by oxen added to the congestion of people in the streets crowding stalls stocked with fresh fish, squawking chickens, squealing pigs, kegs of ale and mead, winter vegetables, sacks of apples, pears, and various nuts. Cook fires provided an array of meats and fish. There were also honey pastries.  One merchant sold bundles of uncarded wool, while another sold iron cook pots, platters, and utensils. Still others sold sacks of grain, flax, and pots of honey.

Then there were merchants who sold household goods, including brooms and brushes, tools, leather hides still reeking from the tanner’s table, while others sold lengths of fine woven wool, muslin, and satins, ribbons and lengths of satin ribbon from foreign ports, with an eye toward selling to the Norman noblemen and their knights, who frequented the market with gold pieces in their pockets.

The Norman knights on their warhorses stood out in spite of the woolen mantles that concealed the battle armor. They received a variety of stares, glares, and open taunts as they passed the market stalls. Vivian held her breath in anticipation of trouble, but, remarkably, there was none.

Rorke’s knights rode three on each side with stoic expressions, watchful for any sign of violence. She felt his arm tighten about her, but it was the only outward sign of his own wariness. On any other occasion it might have been no more than a gesture to steady her in the saddle before him. Only she was aware of muscles that did not completely relax at her back, and the tension she felt through layers of cloth and mail armor.

“I had not realized it would be so dangerous.”

He nodded.  “It is always equally difficult for the invaders as it is for the vanquished.”

She turned her head slightly. “You have had a great deal of experience in such?”

“Aye, some.”

He did not easily reveal details of his life. In that same congenial mood she asked, “Which is it?  Invader? Or vanquished?”

“Both.”

She turned with more than a little surprise. “I would not have thought the Count d’Anjou would have allowed himself to be conquered.”

He continued to stare over her head, his gaze scanning the street before them.

“No one allows it, or plans it, but when you are sixteen and inexperienced in such matters much can go awry.”

She was startled. “Sixteen years? So young.”

His lips thinned. “Aye, and a soldier for sixteen more. Half my life has been spent on the battlefield.” He made no attempt to disguise the weariness in his voice.

She heard the loneliness too, like a heavy mantle that he wore. “When did you last see your family and home?”

“I was but ten years of age when I last saw Anjou.” There was a poignancy of longing in his voice that became as hard as stone as he then said, “I have no family.”

The ease they’d found with each other earlier disappeared like the sun behind a cloud, taking with it the warmth of his laughter. The circumstances that had taken a ten-year-old boy from his home and family had left deep wounds that had never healed. He spoke no more of it and Vivian concentrated on the purpose that had brought them there.

She finally found the market stall she was looking for. “Here,” she insisted.

“It is too dangerous,” Rorke warned. “Tell me your selections and I will have one of my men purchase them.”

She shook her head.  “I must see to it myself, to make certain the plants are the right ones. I would not want to purchase the wrong ones and then need to return.”

“Very well,” He reluctantly agreed. At a nodded signal, his men dismounted. Rorke dismounted as well, gently lowering her to the street. The pressure of his gloved hands lingered at her waist.

“Stay close at all times,” he spoke low. “Choose what you will and I will pay for it. And be quick about it, for it is dangerous to linger.”

“Aye,” she agreed with sadness that slipped beneath his warrior’s fierce demeanor and touched a place inside him.

“I wish that it could be otherwise,” he said with sudden gentleness. His expression shifted with some emotion that she’d glimpsed before. First on the battlefield at Hastings when bandaging the wound at his side and again when she’d gone out among the wounded and he’d come after her. He lifted a gloved hand and touched her cheek. She felt his warmth through thick layers of leather.

“It would be easier if you had not been the healer I found at Amesbury, but the old woman instead,” he confessed.

Unable to sense any of his thoughts, she instead heard the warmth of the words that came low at his throat, and knew they were neither easily said or lightly given.

“Please, milord,” she begged him, struggling to understand what she had never felt before, at the same time she tried to put physical distance between them. But it was impossible, for she was trapped between him and the war horse.  Unable to escape, she stared helplessly at the intricately designed medallions that secured his mantle about his shoulders—the images of two lions in hammered gold.

“I would not unnecessarily delay your men from returning to their duties.”

“They are my men. I say what their duties shall be. Even if it is escorting beautiful maids about the marketplace.”

Her startled gaze met his. No one had ever spoken of her that way before, not even Conal, though she had always known of his feelings for her.  It never had any meaning for her as it so obviously did for others girls.  But this was different, and the feelings it roused were different as though it was an endearment spoken between lovers, and a sudden intense longing welled within her at feelings and emotions she had never felt before.

His smile eased the uncertainty, beginning at one corner of his mouth and lifting to those gray eyes. Sensing her uneasiness, he stepped back, allowing her escape.