Daughter of Fire (31 page)

Like a startled falcon, uncertain of the hand that flies it, she flew from his side to the first market stall to inspect the merchant’s wares. In that moment, it was as if he’d lost the sun from the heavens in the loss of her from his side.

“Follow close,” he instructed his men. “I want no surprises.” Handing the stallion’s reins over to the nearest knight, he walked with her.

When it came to marketing, he discovered she had a quick eye, an extraordinary grasp of numbers, and she was a shrewd bargain-maker. She showed interest in everything she considered, enough to whet the merchants’ appetites for a sale and they became overly confident of the coin that would soon line their pockets.

They might resent her for she was wore Rorke’s mantle concealing the simple woolen gown beneath, and she spoke their language with an ease that revealed she was indeed Saxon. There was only one conclusion to be drawn from her presence among the Norman knights and escorted by a Norman nobleman without the restraint of chains. If she was not his prisoner, then she was his whore.

Rorke saw it in their degrading glances and heard it in their rude responses to her questions about this herb or that one, or some powder substance, or liquid in a vial. Yet, she treated each person she encountered with kindness, seeming not to notice.

She purchased leaves, picking through them carefully for just the right ones. She also purchased sprigs of other plants. When the woman offered the contents of a particular basket for her inspection, Vivian waved it aside and pronounced it inferior for her use. She then selected an appropriate substitute.

The purchases were weighed, separately wrapped, and handed over to one of Rorke’s men. The woman announced the sum for the purchases. Before the good knight could hand over the appropriate coins, Vivian plucked three from the handful and gave them to the woman, who immediately protested. Vivian leaned close so that only the woman could hear.

“I have given you a fair price,” she informed her. “If you protest, I shall make it known to everyone in this market that you weight your measuring baskets with stones, thereby driving up the cost of each purchase and cheating your customers.”

So as to leave no doubt that she would do exactly as she promised, Vivian seized the woman’s thin, grubby hand, forced it open, and dropped several stones that she had picked from among the herbs and plants into the palm of her hand. With an icy glare, the woman’s hand closed over the stones.

“Is there some difficulty?” Rorke inquired.

“No longer, milord,” Vivian said with a smile.

As they walked to the next stall, Rorke recalled what she had told him once before. “Always give more than you intended, but less than is demanded?” he quipped, gray eyes warm with tiny flecks of golden light.

“Since I could easily find most of those herbs and plants in the forest, you paid far more than I intended,” she pointed out. “And the old crone will not find herself flogged or in chains, which she would have if I’d paid what she demanded. So the bargain is well made.”

“I will be most careful not to enter into any negotiations with you,” he responded, smiling down at her. “I might find myself without my warhorse, sword, or any of my men.”

Heads turned as she walked past each stall. Fierce expressions softened when she stopped to make an inquiry about this item or that. She never failed to draw a merchant into conversation, their crude comments forgotten as they stared into that luminous blue gaze. The softness of her voice had a strangely soothing effect, as did the gentle touch of her hand on the head or face of a grubby street urchin.

I feel like those children
, Rorke thought, fascinated by those unusual blue eyes, drawn by the sound of her voice, longing for the touch of her hand. His own hand played over a length of particularly fine woven wool in a shade of pale mauve and he imagined how it would look next to her skin.

She moved ahead, surrounded by her well-armed guard. Rorke paid the merchant for the wool and tucked the wrapped bundle inside his mail hauberk. He caught up with her at a stall where the merchant was selling tallow candles, soaps, and fragrant herbs. She scooped a handful of herbs, eyes closed with pleasure as she inhaled the fragrance.

“Another curative?” he inquired.

“Aye,” she replied.  “A curative against the stench of lye and tallow.”

Previous experience with some of her concoctions, made him curious. Gently seizing a slender wrist, he cradled her hand in his, the sweet fragrance of the herbs almost as pleasing to his senses as the touch of her skin. He smiled pleasurably at the scent of lavender.

“This surely cannot cure much,” he teased. “It does not smell of rotten eggs, sting the eyes, or choke at the throat.”

She laughed, a warm, magical sound filled with golden light and its own healing balm, making him long to hear it again, when evening shadows grew long and he kept the company of his men, or in the darker hours of night, when the only sound was the anger that haunted his dreams.

She poured the contents from her palm back into the vendor’s basket. “No, but it soothes the spirit and makes one remember spring in the midst of winter.” To the vendor she said, “I will take a large basket of the tansy instead. For all the finery of the Saxon barons, there are enough bugs crawling about the royal household to move the stones in the walls. I will not abide fleas and mites.”

“Best make it two large baskets,” Rorke commented. “Half the garrison is crawling with vermin.” Vivian moved on ahead while he paid for the purchases.

The men had grown hungry and thirsty, and looked longingly at some of the food and drink that was offered. At the next vendor’s stall, they purchased mugs of ale.

Accustomed to French wine, they stared dubiously at the dark, frothy liquid. With a muttered toast, they downed the ale. They looked at each other with expressions that varied from amazement to horror to satisfaction.

“It tastes like a hog’s breath,” one of the men commented, and they all burst out laughing.

From the next vendor several meat pastries were purchased and passed round. Rorke looked at it suspiciously.

“It’s called shepherd’s pie,” Vivian announced, eyes filled with laughter at the expressions that crossed the knights’ faces. One by one the meat pies were popped into hungry mouths and consumed.

“Aye,” commented one, with a twinkling eye, “Tastes like a shepherd.”

Vivian laughed as she walked ahead. She had not thought to enjoy the morning when she first discovered Rorke waiting for her. But her uneasiness had passed. There seemed to be no threat of danger in the marketplace.

She inspected thick rolls of linen cloth and thought of all the bandages she’d made from bits and pieces of old cloth and shirts. She made her purchase and was about to turn and look for Rorke. His back was turned as he inspected some finely made daggers that were displayed by a smithy. Suddenly she sensed a familiar presence beside her that she had last sensed at the battlefield at Hastings. An arm closed around her waist and a hand clamped over her mouth. She was pulled behind a curtain hung between two of the vendors’ stalls. She finally pried that hand away from her mouth and stared in surprise at the familiar face.

“Conal!” she whispered, “You shouldn’t be here. It’s too dangerous!” He pulled her to the other side of a cart that stood behind the vendor’s stall.

“I followed you. I’ve joined with others here in London.”

Fear tightened around her heart. “No, you mustn’t!”

“We have weapons,” he assured her, lifting his tunic to reveal the short-bladed knife that hung at his waist. The knife was woefully inadequate compared to Norman bows, broadswords, and war lances. She glanced over her shoulder. Any moment her disappearance would be noticed.

“I came for you,” he repeated. “I will take you from here before we strike at these Norman bastards!”

“No!” Vivian replied. “You must not!” She tried desperately to make him understand. “I cannot go back to Amesbury. Not now.” Her voice softened as she struggled with the uncertainty of her own visions. “Perhaps never.”

“What are you saying? I will take you there. You’ll be safe.”

“Conal, please! You must understand. I cannot leave. My place is here.”

“You are not their prisoner,” he argued. “You are not chained or bound. You can leave with me now.”

“It is not that simple.” She tried desperately to find a way to make him understand. She could not tell him of her vision or the terrible, spreading darkness, for he would not understand.  He would only say that it was the Norman army that now occupied the land. There was no way she might explain and have him believe her.

“Meg and Poladouras are here,” she explained, something she knew he could understand. “There would be dreadful consequences for them if I was to leave.”

“It’s more than that, isn’t it.  I’ve heard it whispered about,” he spat out, his fingers bruising at her arm.

“I heard it in the streets as you passed by. They say that you are whore to that Norman bastard, FitzWarren. I heard the proof of it in the sweetness of your laughter. I saw it in the way he touched you. Do you know how many Saxons he’s killed?  How many of your own people have died beneath his sword?  How could you give yourself to him?” His expression twisted in an agony.

She winced as if she’d been struck at his accusation. “Conal, please. You do not understand. I beg of you, go now before it is too late.  I would not have your death on my hands.”  She laid a hand at his cheek, desperate to make him understand.  But it was already too late.

From the street came shouts of alarm, harshly barked orders, and screams as Rorke and his soldiers began searching for her.  From beyond the curtain, she heard the sounds of horses’ hooves on cobbled stones, the cold hiss of steel as swords were drawn from scabbards, and more shouts as others joined the hunt.

The festive mood of the marketplace erupted in curses as vendors tried to protect their wares from damage and mothers grabbed their children to protect them from being trampled under the hooves of the horses.

“Please, Conal!” she cried. “You must go, now.”

When he refused to let her go, she laid her own hand over his. With a firmness of voice, she repeated, “Let me go, Conal.   You must go on alone.”

“I will not leave you!”

When he still would not release her, Vivian gently increased the pressure of her hand, bending his will to her own. His fingers eventually loosened about her arm, releasing her.

“Go now, before they find you,” she told him, and before he could ask questions she couldn’t answer.

“They must not find you here.  The Count of Anjou has already seen you before in the forest at Hastings. He suspects you of involvement with the rebellion. If you are found, I fear for your life.”

“I came for you because... I love you. I have always loved you.”

“Dear friend.” Tears stung at her eyes.  “It is impossible. I can never love as other women love. But you are a good man. You must live and find someone who deserves that love. Now, please go!” she urgently begged him.

She sensed the soldiers before she saw them. They came at them behind the row of vendors’ stalls. But the men she saw were not Rorke FitzWarren’s knights. They were Vachel’s men. Light glinted from steel swords as soldiers closed in on them. With the stone wall that lined the vendors’ stalls directly behind them, Conal was trapped, with no hope of escape. He pulled the knife from his belt and turned to face them, pushing her behind him.

Memories of the horror and the bodies that littered the battlefield at Hastings came vividly back to her. She saw it happening again unless she could prevent it. 

She grabbed his arm. “There is another way.”

“I am not afraid to die!”

“Conal, if ever you loved me, do this for me. I beg you.”

She saw the agony in his eyes.  He would die for her if she asked it. 

“Please.”

He nodded,  his eyes filled with pain.  “I will do as you ask.”

As the soldiers tore through the stalls around them, fast closing in, she took hold of his arm and pulled him with her back toward the stone wall.

“You must trust me. Tis the only way.”

He glanced past her in the direction of the soldiers who rapidly converged from all directions. In moments, they would be found and there would be no hope of escape.

“I do trust you.”

“Take both my hands, and no matter what happens, do not let go.” Hesitantly, Conal took hold of her hands.

“Close your eyes,” she told him. “No matter what happens, do not open them.” What she meant to do would take all her strength—and all her powers.

Shouts came much closer now. Her hands clasped tightly over his, Vivian took a step back. Then another, and another, pulling him with her as she and Conal passed through the stone wall together.

Seventeen

“V
ivian...”

Her name sounded very far away, calling her, pulling her back.

Rorke’s voice was no longer harsh but filled with unexpected gentleness. His strong hands closed over her arms as though he were physically pulling her back into the physical world.

The misty grayness that enveloped everything slowly disappeared. The outlines of buildings, the cobbled stones in the street, the vendor stalls, came into sharp relief once more, taking shape as her senses cleared and her strength returned as though waking from some long sleep.

She leaned against the stone wall where only moments before she had stood with Conal. Her sense of him was strong and she knew he remained hidden where she had left him.

Rorke’s hands moved over her, down the length of her arms, then lifted her pale face.

“Are you injured?”

She shook her head, her voice unsteady.  “Nay, I am all right.”

“How many were there?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully, for though Conal said that he’d joined with others in London she had no sense of anyone else in the shadows where he now hid at the other side of the wall.

“I saw no others,” she answered truthfully as soldiers swarmed around them, searching through the stalls down the length of the street.