Daughter of Fire (45 page)

William and Matilda knelt before the huge altar. Hundreds of candles had been lit, their pale light glowing across stone walls that Edward had built in the reign of years before the hapless Harold who had died at Hastings.

To the casual observer, oblivious of the cataclysmic changes taking place, the ceremony no doubt seemed grand and auspicious, with all the noblemen wearing their finest tunics and braces, with Norman knights and nobility dressed in their finest mantles in spite of the warmth inside the nave with so many crowded into such a small space amid the smothering, acrid stench of tallow candles.

But the Normans knew, and perhaps a few others sensed, that the mantles concealed far more than mere finery. Occasionally there was glimpsed a glint of steel at their sides, unsheathed and at the ready should there be any sign of trouble from the Saxon barons or their knights.

Tarek made no pretense of hiding the curved blade that was always carried at his side. After all, he was a True Believer and not an infidel Christian. He felt no sense of sacrilege at carrying a blade into what he considered another, cold, stone building.

Matilda was aware of the great risk as she cast many sidelong glances among her husband’s men, as if to guess which carried a weapon and which did not. And then found her gaze seeking the same among the Saxons. A dozen Norman knights surrounded her.

“There will be blood shed before this is done,” the duchess of Normandy had fretted to Vivian as they left the royal apartments. Vivian had calmed her fears as best she could. No one will be harmed this day,” she told Matilda with certainty. For she had seen this vision long ago, even at the loss of their Saxon king.

Matilda looked at her with an expression of keen interest. “The way you speak of it, one would think you have a special knowledge of such things.”

“Oh, aye,” Vivian said with a faint smile. “I cast ancient stones in a circle and read them for messages. It is common among the Celtic people.”

“We must speak of this gift of yours one day, mistress,” Matilda told her. “I would like very much to know how it is done.”

There was no time to speak more of it then, for which Vivian was grateful. She sensed a strong, willful spirit in William’s wife and knew the lady would not let the matter rest until she had the truth. Though she sensed she could trust Matilda, the lady was surrounded by people who might not so easily be trusted.

At Westminster Abbey, the words of the coronation ceremony were recited twice—once in English and the second in French before the assembled congregation.

“Blessed by God, in keeping with his Holy Covenant, and in the name of his Son, Jesus Christ,” the Archbishop of York’s voice intoned the ancient English rites that William had insisted upon, reciting the ceremony, his words echoing through the nave of former King Edward’s Abbey at Westminster.

His voice trembled noticeably and Vivian sensed his refusal to recite the critical words that would follow. Rorke stood beside him and with a gentle prod, the archbishop hurriedly proclaimed, “I crown thee William I, King of England, in the name of the Pope, by God’s grace and his holy ordinance.” His hands shook as badly as his voice as he lowered the ornate gold crown onto William’s head.

Vivian shivered as a sudden chill swept through the nave in spite of the hundreds of people pressed tightly together. The candles at the altar fluttered wildly, threatening to extinguish themselves and cast the nave into complete darkness.

Her thoughts moved through the room, sensing moods, emotions, and ambitions. Not surprising, there was anger, bitterness, sadness, and also jubilation and triumph.

She focused her power on the flames, steadying their quivering light as surely as if she laid a calming hand on them, using their fiery warmth to see like hundreds of eyes at a hundred different vantage points throughout the nave. There were shadows at each corner and angle of stone.

“Yield, mistress. For you cannot win,”
the Voice of Darkness whispered through her senses.
“You will be destroyed as your father was.”

“Yield, for the kingdom is mine.”

Vivian cast her thoughts out across the nave, with but a single word, filled with brilliant, glowing light as she closed her hand over the blue crystal and drew on those ancient powers.

“Never.”

The light in the nave wavered. The shadows grew long and threatening, as if they would sweep over everyone, and Vivian sensed that Stephen of Valois had returned to London. Then just as suddenly, they were gone receding to hide under the edges of the stones at the walls.

Once more, she heard the words of the ancient ceremony, as they were spoken again for Matilda, and a smaller crown was placed on her head.

Next, the assembled congregation, including the most powerful men in all of England and Normandy, was asked in French to declare their loyalty.

The Saxon barons and earls who understood only English remained silent, at a loss to comprehend what was being asked of them and failed to respond. There was a rustling of uncertainty among the Norman knights as hands closed over broadswords hidden at their sides in suspicion.

If there was a moment when the rebels would strike, it would have been then. A simple mistake that could so easily end in bloodshed. Poladouras quickly spoke up, translating the request into English. Approval was given as the Saxon earls, if somewhat reluctantly and with great resentment, added their approval to the coronation.

The archbishop of York declared with grave reluctance of voice, “Rise William I, King of England.”

Cheers went up among the Norman congregation. Over all, relief swept through the abbey. Whatever else followed, William was now king of England.

He turned to escort his queen from the abbey. Even against the counsel of his knights, he was determined to make a proper exit as befit a king, rather than escaping to safety out a side door.

At a signal, Rorke and William’s men formed an armed guard around the king and queen, to all outward appearances a finely dressed royal escort that but made way for their monarch. More soldiers lined the steps outside the abbey. As they turned to follow, Vivian laid a hand over Rorke’s arm.

What is it?” Rorke sensed the urgency that flowed through her. Have you sensed something? Is there danger?”

“Aye,” she nodded. “But not here.” Her blue gaze met his. “Stephen has returned to London.”

Rorke turned to Tarek. “There has been trouble in the north country. Word awaits our immediate return.” A look passed between the two men. Then Tarek looked at Vivian. He nodded. His expression unreadable, Rorke gave orders to his men to escort William back to the fortress without delay.

Still the processional took almost an hour to reach the fortress. People filled the streets in an atmosphere of guarded celebration that was barely controlled and threatened to become violent at any moment.

Just as Vivian had foreseen, Stephen of Valois was waiting for Rorke at the gates of the fortress wall.

“Two score dead! A score more injured, many so badly they could not ride,” Stephen quickly reported to William. Beyond the royal anteroom, the coronation celebration had begun. Inside the anteroom, expressions were grim. “But that is not the worst of it.” He lowered his voice, sadness filling his handsome young features.

“Sir Guy is dead.”

“Tell me everything,” Rorke ordered him as Gavin stood beside him with rigid expression and listened of his brother’s death.

“There was no warning,” Stephen explained. “My men found no sign of an enemy presence. Then they were upon us. They came out of nowhere.”

William listened with grim expression. “Their banner?”

“None was seen.”

“Were captives taken?”

“They are all dead.” Stephen’s expression turned even darker. “They died by their own hand.”

William’s fist slammed down on the table before him. “By God, boy! Do you know anything of these attacks, except that you have near one hundred men who either lie maimed or dead?”

The words were harsh, with the underlying tension of a father berating a son who he felt had failed him. Vivian cringed at the turbulent emotions she sensed in both men that bordered on becoming violent.

The father was burdened by the conflict of his own bastard birth as he confronted his own  bastard son. There was a need to love, a need that must be denied. It manifested itself in an expectation of duty far and above that of any of his other knights. The son had lived his entire life with the pain of his bastard birth. It was compounded by an ambitious father who could never acknowledge him, yet still expected perfection.

“I have this, milord!” Unwise as it may have been, before the man who was not only his father, but now, his king, Stephen walked boldly forward and flung an object down onto the table with a gesture that bordered on contempt. It was a war ax, but of an unusual design.

“They carried no banner!” he spat out angrily. “My men will vouch for that. Any who were able-bodied fled. They left behind this. It bears the mark of the Dane, Canute.” Rage burned in Stephen’s eyes, so like his father’s, and Vivian feared they might come to blows.

She held her breath until Rorke stepped between them and with a calmness of experience of many such encounters, ignored both his young knight and his king as if nothing was amiss.

“Canute of Denmark,” he said thoughtfully. “The weapon is Danish.” He turned the blade over, examining it carefully. “And new from the forge. A young warrior’s blade perhaps.”

He turned to Stephen, “Do you remember anything else of the attack? How did they come at you? From several directions, or only one? Were they mounted or afoot? Were other weapons retrieved?” And countless more questions in that same manner that had the power to defuse at the same time he obtained valuable information about the attack.

The anger left William’s face. He made much ceremony of pouring a goblet of wine, then sat at the head of the table and listened thoughtfully, his gaze constantly returning to his son.

Squires brought food and drink, for neither Stephen nor those who had returned with him had eaten anything but dried bread and water on the long ride back. Though exhaustion was etched in every line of his handsome young face, his armor caked with dried blood and mud, Stephen refused to seek his bed though he dismissed his men to theirs.

Vivian observed much in his manner that reminded her of Rorke. His spare movements that wasted nothing, his concern for his men over himself and their obvious loyalty to him, pride of honor that refused to cower before his father, and a singular stubbornness that also reminded her very much of that father.

“I would have your counsel as well, mistress,” William said to Vivian when she asked his permission to leave, for it had grown late.

“I have come to value your words,” he told her, making no excuses to any of his knights or the bishop as he asked, “What say you of these Danish invaders?”

The Danes from the north had long coveted the English throne. From the history which Poladouras had taught her, she knew well of their countless attempts to invade England over the past several hundred years. And Canute had boldly announced that the English throne would be his.

“ ’Tis no secret that Canute would seek to expand his claim over all of England. There were rumors of invaders before the Battle of Hastings.”

“Then you believe the words my young knight brings me.”

She did not have to look at Stephen of Valois to sense his pain at having his word questioned by a Saxon woman, and one that had once been considered a prisoner at that.

“The ax Stephen of Valois has so ably brought you, at the risk of his own life, would seem to bear that out. You do not need my counsel, milord, for I think you have already made your decision.”

He nodded, “Thank you, mistress. You remind me that I can be intemperate in some matters.”

“Aye, milord,” she answered with the utmost diplomacy and a brief sideways glance to Stephen.

“Then see to your own comforts, mistress. And when you see my queen bid her kindest thoughts, for I fear it shall be many hours before I may give them to her myself.”

~ ~ ~

It was nearly dawn when Rorke finally returned to their chamber. The fire at the hearth had long since cooled. He moved about the muted shadows, removing his garments, kneeling before the fire as he fed it fresh wood, the soft glow of the fire gleaming across his naked flesh, then bursting to fiery crimson, making him seem even more a creature born in fire and blood.

She went to him, clutching a fur about her against the chill in the chamber, a chill that ached deep at her bones with a foreboding of what was to come and unknown things she could not see.

“William has ordered that we leave for the north country at first light,” he said with a grimness of voice and without looking up, but with a sense of her nearness. Then he turned to look at her.

“You have foreseen it,” he speculated.

“Aye,” she said. “But it took no magical powers. Once the gauntlet was thrown down there was naught else that William would do.”

“Have you seen more in the flames, Jehara?” he asked.

Her gaze left his, seeking the fire that was so much a part of her, seeing again as she had that very first time and again only moments before, embodied in the man as he knelt before the flames.

“I would know all that you can tell me, mistress. No matter what it might be.”

Tears glistened at her eyes as she saw the fierce winged bird at the flames. “I see a creature born in fire and blood. I fear there will be more death, but whose I cannot see. And that is the greatest fear.”

Her tortured gaze returned to his and she laid her hand alongside his cheek, the muscles of his jaw leaping beneath the slash of a pale scar on his skin that only made him seem more fiercely handsome.

“Beware the faith that has no heart, the sword that has no soul.”
She repeated the prophetic words whispered that day at Amesbury when she had first seen the creature in the flames.

Laying his hand over hers, Rorke turned his head, lips grazing the palm of her hand.