Daughter of Fire (32 page)

“Were they armed?”

She shook her head.  “I saw no battle swords.”

He stroked damp hair back from her forehead in a gesture that was both rough and tender. His mouth curved a tight frown.

“You’re cold as stone. Are you certain you are not harmed?”

Laughter bubbled at her throat at the comparison he chose, and she thought, if only he knew. She shook her head.

“Just a bit unsteady is all.” Two of his men returned. Their expressions were grim with their failure to find any trace of the rebels they sought. Vivian repressed a sigh of relief, certain that Conal had escaped.

Weak and disoriented from their journey through the stone, he’d stared at her with, struggling to understand what he’d just experienced as they emerged on the other side of the wall.

“
It will pass
,” she had assured him. Weak from the journey at least he could not argue with her.

She had then wrapped him in warmth through the connection of their hands so that the recovery might be quicker in the event this hiding place was discovered. He’d stared at her in stunned bewilderment.

“
The weakness will last only a short while
,” she had reassured him of the oddly disembodied sensation she knew he experienced as though his body had separated into millions of tiny pieces that had passed through the stone like water through a sieve, and only now slowly and painfully, rejoined. She did not experience that same pain, merely a weakness because of the energy it took to pass through the stones.

“
When it has passed
,” she had hurriedly explained, “
you will remember nothing of what has happened.
” She gently stroked her thumb across his forehead as if she was physically removing the memory.

“
You will remember only this thought—you must remain hidden until the danger has passed. When the Norman soldiers have gone you must leave London immediately
.”

From beyond the wall she had heard the urgent shouts of the soldiers and knew that if she did not return soon, the search would spread beyond the market to this very street on the other side of the wall.

“
Good-bye, Conal
,” she softly whispered, stroking her thumb once more across his forehead, leaving him with the memory of their parting. Then she stood, focused the power deep within her, and returned through the stone.

~ ~ ~

“Did you see the direction they fled?” Rorke asked insistently.

She shook her head. “There was too much confusion.”

She had answered truthfully, yet she saw the questions that went unasked behind that sharp gray gaze.

With a curt nod, he ordered his men to continue the search down both side of the street, then to the adjacent streets, and alleys.

“Please,” she begged him, desperate to prevent it lest Conal be discovered. “Might we not return now? There is no harm done. They are gone. Surely there is no use in giving chase.”

A dark brow lifted with speculation. “You beg for yet more Saxon lives, Vivian? I have already spared many for your sake.”

“I ask for wisdom. The attackers are fled. You might never find them. Would you punish innocent Saxons in their place?” she demanded.

The sound of approaching riders drew her attention and a new coldness of dread filled her as the bishop rode up, with Vachel and his men.

The bishop swung down from his mount and approached with an air of authority.

“Stand aside,” he commanded one of Rorke’s men who blocked his way. The man stepped aside only when Rorke nodded a look in response.

“I had not thought to see you about the streets of London, milord Bishop,” Rorke commented. “Of late, you seem overly occupied with affairs of state.”

“I was told there had been some difficulty at the marketplace. You were attacked by Saxon rebels,” the bishop explained.

“It is amazing the swiftness with which you learn these things,” Rorke replied. “One would think that you have the ear of the divine in such matters that you are able to assist so quickly.”

The bishop’s eyes flashed anger. “I was nearby on another matter, milord FitzWarren. Word spreads quickly in the streets.” He made an sweeping gesture to the buildings that surrounded them.

“I but thought to give assistance lest you be overpowered and find yourself in some difficulty.” He glanced about at Rorke’s knights and his expression revealed a flash of satisfaction.

“ ’Tis a pity, but it seems they have indeed eluded you.”

Then his gaze fell upon Vivian. A single dark brow lifted in silent speculation that was as clear as if he had said it aloud.

“My brother would be most distressed to learn that his healer perhaps conspired with Saxon rebels.” He fixed Vivian with a penetrating stare. “One of my men said he saw you with a man, mistress.”

Vachel! She would have replied, but Rorke’s fingers tightened in warning over her arm.

“She has already told me of it,” he assured the bishop.

“Ah, then the rebels have been caught.” He glanced skeptically from one to the other of Rorke’s men, doubt spreading across his features. “Or perhaps not.”

“They have not,” Rorke told him. “They have fled into the streets and alleys where it was impossible to find them.”

“Save your excuses for my brother, FitzWarren,” the bishop snapped.

“I make no excuses,” Rorke assured him, his voice taking on a dangerous tone, “for either my men or myself. It is fact. The people of London know the city far better than we and they would not hesitate to hide one of their own.”

The bishop’s features hardened. “Are you saying they vanished? Perhaps disappeared through the walls.”

“I am saying that it is a simple matter to take a turn and disappear in streets unfamiliar to others. I recall your men have done the same on several occasions. You spoke of this very matter with William yestereve. And as for the skill and loyalty of my men, I would stand them against yours whenever you choose, milord Bishop.”

There was no attempt to disguise his contempt for the bishop. Nor did the bishop insult Rorke with any dissembling attempt on his own part.

“I do not speak of prowess with a blade or war ax, FitzWarren, but of a higher power.”

Like a malevolent force, the hatred between the two men could be heard and felt. Vivian shivered at the barely restrained violence she sensed hovering between them.

“Then, milord Bishop,” Rorke told him, his eyes the color of winter’s death, “at least in this, we are in agreement.” Then, his hand gentle but firm at her arm, he told the bishop, “Continue your search, but as you can see this street is nothing but walls. A Saxon rebel would have to either become like the mist, or walk through a wall to avoid being seen. Good day, milord Bishop.”

He turned then and escorted Vivian to his horse, his men closing a protective circle at his back. He lifted her to the saddle, and then swung up behind her.

The ease they’d shared earlier was gone, ruined by the encounter with the bishop as much as the encounter with Conal. As they rode back to the fortress, Vivian felt the tension of anger in every muscle of his body, the skin drawn white over those powerful hands as he firmly held the reins before her.

His men rode behind and alongside them as they had when leaving the fortress earlier that morning, making her wonder which danger they guarded against.  Saxon rebels? Or the bishop’s men?

“Will you tell me of it now, Vivian?” he startled her by asking.

With a new fear, she realized the matter was not so easily dismissed as he had told the bishop. She chose her words carefully, for she sensed his scrutiny even though those cold gray eyes stared ahead and betrayed none of his emotions.

“It is as I said, milord. I cannot tell you more.”

“Cannot, Vivian? Or will not?” he asked, his voice low in his throat with a dangerous warning.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut in agony of the betrayal she knew he sensed. For if she told the truth, she risked Conal’s life, and that she could not do.

“I cannot, milord,” she repeated.

He did not answer but remained stonily silent as they returned to the fortress, and she knew that he did not believe her. It was as if the sun was now hidden behind the clouds, the brief warmth they had shared had returned to the guarded wariness of captor and captive.

Once inside the fortress, she slid to the ground, eager to escape more questions, the bundles of herbs clutched under her arm. She muttered a hasty, “Thank you, milord,” and returned to the kitchen through the connecting corridor at the sally port. She felt a prickling of apprehension as Rorke followed her through the narrow passage to the kitchen.

“You forgot the baskets,” he reminded her, setting the two baskets at the butcher’s table. “It seemed of great importance to you earlier that you have the herbs.”

“Thank you, milord,” she said hastily, wishing him gone so that she could sort through her chaotic thoughts and emotions.

As she reached for the baskets that contained the tansy, he commented, “It would not do to have bothersome creatures invading the royal household.”

His hand remained on the handle as she tried to take it, as though they engaged in some battle over it. There was no mistaking the warning in his carefully chosen words.

“No, it would not,” she replied, needing no special sense to tell her that he was not the least fooled by her account of what had happened in the marketplace.

His expression was watchful, measuring. “Be very careful, Vivian,” he cautioned. “Your herbs may not be enough to ward off such pestilence.”

His fingers loosened and he relinquished the basket.

~ ~ ~

Rorke found Tarek al Sharif in the stables, grooming the Arabian mare. His friend was dressed in leather breeches that he’d finally given in to wearing to survive the “icy hand of the cursed English winter,” and a long flowing tunic made of wool rather than the much lighter cotton robe he usually wore. It reached to his knees and was belted with a wide belt at his waist.

With his long, dark hair sleeked back to the nape of his neck and tied, bronze skin gleaming from the workout of the grooming, the ever-present curved blade hanging at his waist, he looked very much the Persian warrior, except for startling blue eyes above the flash of white teeth as he greeted his friend.

Rorke’s response was less than congenial as he strode into the stable leading the warhorse. The large beast had taken on Rorke’s dark mood, tossing its head and curling a lip back over flashing teeth as Rorke smacked him across the rump to get him into the roomy end stall.

“Bite me you brainless brute,” he threatened, “and you will find yourself pulling a dung cart about the city!” When the stallion was secured in the stall, he slammed a crossbar into place and turned on an oath.

“Where is my squire?” he roared.

Undaunted by his friend’s temper, Tarek commented, “No doubt in hiding until the storm has passed.”

Rorke glared at him, determined to vent some of his anger. “I do not understand why you insist on grooming the beast yourself, when you have a squire to do the task for you.” His gray eyes narrowed. “Has the leman abandoned your bed and you’ve now taken to sleeping in the hay?”

As patiently and methodically as he groomed the mare, Tarek explained, “It is not the work I seek. In grooming the mare myself, I strengthen the bond between us. My life may one day depend on that bond.” He gestured with a brush toward Rorke’s large warhorse. “Instead of fearing that my life may one day be imperiled by the beast I ride.”

“I do not fear the Frisian,” Rorke informed him tightly. “I understand his strength and I trust in that strength. I need no bond to make the beast do my bidding. Methinks you spend too much time with your horse.”

“And I think that yours must have thrown you into a dung heap, for you are surly enough, although I see no stains to mark the landing.”

His grin widened as he looked over at Rorke and saw the shaggy mane of wet hair and the beads of water that glistened at the hard-set features as he stepped back from the water barrel. “Perhaps it has already been washed away. Pray tell, milord Count d’Anjou,” he asked as he cleaned a brush, “what disobedient knight has put you in such foul temper?”

Rorke glared at Tarek. “Twas not one of my knights, and I am not in a fouled temper!”

“Ah, I think I begin to see the way of the matter. If not a disobedient knight, nor a sound dumping in a dung heap, then it must be a woman. Or perhaps,” he speculated even at great risk if the expression of Rorke’s face was any indication, “it is the lack of a woman. Although I would not have thought it so, these past empty nights when the fair Judith has withheld her presence from certain other knights.” He spoke as though with some personal knowledge on the matter.

“Have you finished?” Rorke snapped.

Tarek gave the Arabian a thorough inspection, a satisfied grin barely suppressed at his mouth. He shrugged. “For now? Yes, it is finished.”

“Then bring that cursed sword of yours and give it your undivided attention,” Rorke demanded, eager for battle. He unbuckled heavy mail armor, kicking it aside. Wearing the  leather breeches and tunic, he unsheathed his broadsword and stalked from the stables to the practice yard.

“It is a woman!” Tarek concluded, needing no further evidence. The Arabian’s ears twitched back and forth as though in answer. Tarek grinned. Unsheathing the curved Persian sword, he loosened his muscles with several slices through the air.

As he left the stables, he said to the mare, “You are such bewitching creatures.”

They practiced until the sky grew heavy and leaden, blades flashing amidst the slashes of lightning that sliced the sky, steel ringing out against steel as thunder rolled over them, rain pelting down until their gray, shadowy figures were like hammered silver beneath the storm-tossed sky. Still, they fought on, until both were physically exhausted, their clothes plastered against their bodies by sweat and rain, and tiny rivulets of blood that ran into the brown mud underfoot.

~ ~ ~

Deeply troubled by what had happened at the marketplace, Vivian longed for some private moments to herself, some hidden place where she might seek a vision among the flames and find some answer for the questions that tore at her. But in the overcrowded royal household there was no such place. And she dared not return to Rorke’s chamber for fear of encountering him there with even more questions she could not answer.