Daughter of Fire (53 page)

The toast rang out across the great hall of William’s royal court. It was the last night of the year, on the morrow a new year began.

Then toasts were made to the health of William’s newborn son, and for peace, and Poladouras offered a blessing.

At least for this night, the court was alive with laughter and celebration, mingled with the music of lutes, tabors, and shawms.

A huge fire roared at the hearth. Torches burned brightly at the walls. Hundreds of candles burned at long tables set for the feasting. Acrobats performed in the center of the hall before William’s table.

His knights sat about him, goblets raised in toast after toast to good health, a long reign now that the treachery had been put down, and a more somber one to the knight Sir Guy and the others who had fallen in the north country.

Rorke FitzWarren sat at William’s right hand, with Vivian beside him, and Tarek al Sharif at her other side. William’s other knights, sat along both sides of the long table.

The queen rested in her chamber with her newborn son. In her place—a place of honor and recognition for having risked his life for the queen—sat Stephen of Valois. Seeing father and son together, Vivian thought their resemblance all the more striking, and desperately hoped this might be the beginning of a stronger bond between the two men.

Poladouras had been given a place of prominence in the position formerly occupied by William’s brother, the bishop. The count would survive his wounds, though his shoulder was badly maimed and he would carry the scars of it for the rest of his life.

William had not ordered his death, but instead had banished him from the court. He was to return to Normandy, where he was to remain in imprisoned—a fate deemed worse than death by those who knew the ambitious man.

The powers of the Darkness, which had used the bishop’s ambitions to seize the kingdom, had fled. But Vivian sensed that is was not done.

With the sword Excalibur, Rorke had faced down the Darkness, but it was not destroyed. And therein lay Vivian’s fear, for Merlin had warned that it must be destroyed in order for the kingdom to be safe. But this night, William was in a benevolent mood. A new year loomed only hours away. His throne and his queen were safe. He had given his newborn son a Saxon name, a symbol of the bond between Saxon England and it’s new king.

But Vivian feared that much turmoil lay ahead, as she had foreseen in the vision long ago at Amesbury. William would not easily rule England, but as Rorke had once said, his legacy was already woven into the tapestry. There were other threads not yet woven, and as she sat beside Rorke, she knew that only time would see the threads woven in that unfolding image. As for the threads of her own future—they had not revealed themselves to her yet.

Wine, brought from Normandy, flowed in abundance, and William called for his seneschal and scribe to take down his words and make an official record of them. He had pledged land and titles to his knights and noblemen as payment for men, arms, and horses for his army. Now was the time for the granting of those promises.

He called out to his knights, bestowing various titles and landholdings. A favored few he allowed to name the landhold they desired, always mindful of the Saxon barons and widows who sat in their midst.

Vivian was fascinated at the means with which William secured both Norman and Saxon loyalty and at the same time saddened by the changes that lay ahead for all of  England. It was as painfully real as her vision had revealed to her—change sweeping away all that was before, like a powerful wind across the land

Beside her, Rorke quietly listened. He had ridden ahead of William to return to London from the north country. When he had found her in the catacombs and fought the Darkness to save her, she had known he was of true heart and she had allowed herself to believe that his love for her was as great as hers for him. But after William’s return, there had been little time for words between them.

It seemed he was constantly called away. There were still many of the bishop’s men to be dealt with. Once London was secure again under William’s control, there had been countless meetings, long hours spent with the king planning the best course for handling the complicated details of dealing with some of the bishop’s men who were of prominent Norman families. She had rarely seen him. Many nights she slept alone, waking to a lonely dawn, her hand reaching for him only to find that he had been kept away until late and made his bed with his men.

On the occasions he slipped away from the matters of state for a few stolen hours only then, was possible to close out the rest of the turmoil and strife, and pretend the world existed no further than the four walls of their chamber. Their lovemaking had taken on a deeper meaning, with a poignancy—even in their most urgent, hastily taken joinings—of having very nearly lost something that each was still yet discovering the wonder of. And yet, no words were spoken of the future.

Now she sat and listened as these men named their future, including Tarek al Sharif.

“What bounty do you claim, Tarek al Sharif?” the seneschal’s voice rang out amid the raucous laughter of celebration.

Tarek sat back in his chair at the end of the table, the Persian sword glinting with the light from a dozen nearby candles, his body like that blade, with a languid, dangerous strength and power, both deadly and beautiful. And Vivian was struck again by the unusual handsomeness of this dark warrior who had returned from the north country somehow changed.

In the aftermath of the bishop’s betrayal, he had spoken to her of an encounter with a young woman who had warned him of the traitors’ attack.

“She was like the mist, her hair pale gold and eyes that a man might lose himself in. And then she was gone, as if she had not been there at all.” Tarek had looked at Vivian then, with a thoughtful expression. “She reminded me of someone...”

“Perhaps it was a dream,” Vivian suggested, keeping her thoughts about his strange encounter to herself, for she knew of the place called Brecon.

Tarek nodded. “Yes, a dream—of flesh and blood—and I swear I will find her.”

Now, his fellow warriors only half listened as he made his request known, for he had made no secret of his dislike for England with its boggy marshes and dark forests that hid danger behind every tree. They all knew only too well that all he desired was gold, enough to continue his search for the father he had vowed to destroy.

“The north country is not yet secure,” he replied thoughtfully, as memories of a golden creature filled his thoughts. And with a look at his friend, declared, “I should like a landhold there and men of my own to defend it in your name,” he told William.

Silence fell across the hall. Knights and warriors who had fought beside him, stared at him in disbelief.

“And,” he added, with a sudden smile, “fur-lined breeches.” This met with bursts of laughter and lewd,  colorful comments of other means by which he might warm himself between the thighs of wenches.

William slammed his fist down on the table with satisfaction. “Done! I do not know what has changed your mind, Tarek al Sharif, but I welcome you as a loyal warrior. You will have your landhold, with men and arms, and my name to carry to the north country. Name the landhold and it is yours!”

“Brecon,” he announced. “Where your loyal knights died. I will make it a fortress to guard against invaders in the north.”

“Aye,” William said somberly. “They claimed it with their blood. Pray you will not be forced to yield yours in order to hold it.” Then, instead of asking Rorke what his request might be, William’s gaze fastened on Vivian.

“Mistress Vivian,” he said with good spirit, “I am indebted to you for both my kingdom and the life of my queen and son. I once asked you to name a reward for having saved my life,” he reminded her. “I ask that you name it now, for I would bind you to me as I have bound the others. I find I am in great need of your wisdom.”

Vivian was startled. Around the table she saw the speculative glances of William’s knights. Since that day long ago at Amesbury, there had been only one thing Vivian had wanted—that the villagers would come to no harm because of her. Now, the opportunity was at hand if William was of a mind to grant it. And surely he would, for he had promised.

“I would have the village of Amesbury, the abbey, and the surrounding fields and forest,” she said, and at the surprise that leapt across William’s face, she hastily explained, “ ’Tis not a great deal, milord. The villagers are poor, the abbey is falling to ruins. It is of little value and would not deprive you of any great riches, but it is of great value to me for they are my people.”

“Aye,” William acknowledged, his mouth pulling down at the corners as he contemplated his wineglass. Then his gaze lifted and met hers.

“I cannot grant what you ask, mistress,” he said, seemingly with great regret. “You must choose another reward.”

“I want no other, milord,” she insisted.

“You may return to Amesbury, of course,” William told her. “At any time of your choosing, but I would keep my wise counselor close at hand for there are many things you may help me to understand. Choose another reward,” he encouraged her. “As I am in a generous mood. And,” he continued, “at my lady Matilda’s suggestion, I give you the title of
Lady Vivian
.”

She dare not refuse it any more than any of the other Saxon women—daughters and widows—dared to refuse the arrangements that had been made for their titles. She saw how neatly she had stepped into a trap of her own making in the advice she had once given him.

 “Thank you, milord,” she said with quiet voice, wondering what her life would be in London as King William’s
counselor
, when she longed for the verdant hills and tumbling stone walls of Amesbury.

She did not want to hear any more. She was weary and disappointed that he had refused her meager request. Her heart ached at the thought that she might never return, for the abbey was part of her.  She was only vaguely aware that he then asked Rorke what he would name for his reward for service to his king.

Anjou, she thought with growing misery, for she had seen what was in his heart and soul in the vision they had shared, and knew the lifelong ambition that had driven him since he was but a boy.

“We have spoken of it, milord,” Rorke reminded William.

“Ah, so we have,” William nodded. “You have not changed your mind then?”

She felt Rorke’s gaze on her, but she couldn’t bear to look at him, for she knew what he had asked of the king. She knew as well that the world could not be kept beyond the four walls they had shared the past weeks. His world lay across the vast channel at Anjou.

“I have not changed my mind,” Rorke said, reaching to take her hand. But suddenly, she couldn’t bear to stay there any longer.

She rose suddenly from the table, drawing Meg’s startled gaze where she sat across from the royal table. Mally sat with her, and beside her was Justin, who had spoken to Sir Gavin about marrying the girl, for he cared deeply for her and would make her a fine husband and good father  to her child.

“Are you unwell?” Meg asked, an expression of alarm lining her face as she reached out to her.

“Nay,” she assured her, even as her hand moved protectively over her belly and the fragile flame of life that glowed even now at her womb. She was not unwell, she was with child. Rorke’s child.

She made an excuse, not wishing her to know just yet, although it would be impossible to keep it from her.

“ ’Tis only that it is uncommonly warm. I need fresh air.”

“I will come with you,” Meg told her, rising from the bench at the table.

“Nay,” Vivian said gently. “ ’Tis much too cold beyond these walls.” She knew how the winter season made the old woman’s bones ache, but she especially wanted to be alone. She couldn’t bear to remain and hear Rorke speak of what lay in his heart across the sea, as the others had spoken of their good fortunes.

With the excuse of seeing to the queen, Vivian left the main hall. Once she was past the main doors, she sought the stairs that led to the battlements and watchtowers, where she had watched as Rorke and his men rode off to the north country, uncertain then whether or not he would ever return and her heart had gone with him.

Rorke watched her leave and saw the direction she took outside the main hall. Not toward the stairs that led to the queen’s chamber, but across the main anteroom. Giving his own excuses to William, he rose and left Tarek to explain his choice to Rorke’s knights, for they all thought him mad.

He laid a hand on old Meg’s shoulder.

“Stay, old woman. Have some wine to warm your bones and do not follow, for I wish to speak with your mistress alone, or I shall deny you the pleasure of attending the birth of my son some months hence.”

He saw the surprise that leapt into the old woman’s sightless gaze.

“Did you think I would not know?”

“I did not think you would care,” she snapped.

“You are wrong, old woman, for one who claims to see what others cannot.” Then in a tone that allowed no argument, he demanded, “Where has she gone?”

Meg considered for several moments and then decided. “She should leave this place. It is not for her.”

 “That is precisely what I have in mind,” Then he again demanded. “Where has she gone?” He could see already that keeping track of his lovely witch was going to prove no small task.

“When you left for the north country, she spent many long hours on the battlements.”

That was where Rorke found her. It was crisp and clear after the snow of the previous night. The courtyard lay in pristine splendor beneath the silvery glow of the moon. Stars glittered like diamonds in a midnight sky. High on the parapet of the king’s tower, she stood and reached out over the edge of the wall as if she might pluck the stars from the sky.

Vivian gasped as a strong arm closed around her waist, pulling her back against a lean muscular body. Another arm closed over her breasts, wrapping round her.

“Do you think perhaps to fly into the night sky, sweet witch?” Rorke’s breath warmed the side of her neck sending tiny rivers of fire shooting beneath the surface of her skin. Sweet, sad fire. Even now when she knew he would be leaving and she wanted to hold herself from him, he had the power to fill her with a longing and a desire of passion so strong that she wanted to turn in his arms and beg him not to leave.