Daughter of Fire (8 page)

She looked up as Rorke FitzWarren’s hand closed over hers with surprising gentleness. The warm strength in those calloused fingers flowed through the contact of skin on skin, steadying her, reassuring her.

“What must be done?” he asked.

Not an order or more threats, but a simple question as if he would do whatever was needed.

“He is close to death,” she said softly. “The loss of so much blood...” She shook her head and did not say the rest, for it she knew that he understood and it was dangerous to speak out against others.

Those strong fingers gentled at her hand. “What may I do to help you?”

What manner of man was it whose very words caused battle hardened warriors to fear for their lives, yet placed his trust in a simple maid who was his enemy?

“I must have more light and it must be warmer in here. He has a fever that may just as easily take him as the wounds. All drafts must be sealed about the tent. Then I will need more blankets, hot water, fresh bandages, and his garments must be removed.”

He hesitated at the last request, then nodded as he turned and gave orders for the edges of the tent sides to be buried and the opening sealed off. More braziers and fuel were brought along with another basin of water set to simmering at the fire.  She laid the blade she had been allowed to keep across the coals that glowed at the brazier.

Rorke cut away William’s tunic, breeches, and boots. Heavy furs were laid over the upper part of his body and uninjured leg as Vivian sprinkled crushed leaves over the simmering basin. A bittersweet fragrance filled the air. Three more braziers were set to flames, the fires stoked high to give more light and warmth.

Beyond the tent she heard the sound of blades striking the earth as trenches were dug and the edges of the tent buried all around to seal out drafts of air and seal in the heat. A thick carpet on the earthen floor was rolled and carried outside where it was hung over the entrance, sealing out the cold air.

She set two more bowls on the braziers. Water was added to one and soon simmered. A white powder was added to the other and the mixture turned golden brown from the heat. She removed the blade from the coals.

“The flesh decays,” she explained. “In order for the wounds to heal, the dead flesh must be removed. He sleeps now because of the fever, but may still feel the pain. There is a potion I can give to ease his discomfort, but it wears off quickly. It must be saved for his leg.”

Rorke nodded as he moved to stand at William’s head, prepared to hold him down if necessary. His knights moved to stand at each side.

At Rorke’s nod she worked quickly, deftly removing the putrefied flesh from wounds that had festered, all the while silently cursing the fool who had ordered that William be bled.

Barbarians!
she thought.
Have they no common sense about the way of wounds?

It was an agonizingly slow and painful process. Each wound needed to be cleaned of debris and filth, the decayed flesh removed. Then she spread each with a salve mixed from one of the bowls and bandaged them with clean linen. He was bound about the waist with several layers of linen to stabilize the broken ribs so that they might heal.

Time and again, pain roused him from the stupor of fever. Beads of sweat poured off him. His skin took on an even deadlier pallor, but weak as he was he would have been too strong for her and it would have been impossible to continue had Rorke and his men not held him down.

Three times Vivian called for more water to clean the wounds. Her back and arms ached from the strain of bending over the cot. The heat in the tent added to her tension. Perspiration beaded across her forehead, dampening tendrils of hair that she wiped back with a bloodied hand. When she sagged with exhaustion, she felt Rorke FitzWarren’s encouragement in the touch of a hand or a gently spoken word.

“Sa se bien, demoiselle. Sa se bien.” It is good.

Finally, she straightened, pressing a hand into the small of her back where a dull ache had set in from bending over the cot. The lesser wounds had all been cleaned and bandaged. The worst she had saved for last—the badly shattered leg. Into a tankard she poured a portion of the sweet-smelling brew that had been simmering over a brazier.

“He is weak, but the leg must be mended. He must drink as much of this as possible for the pain.”

She saw the uneasiness that passed from one man to the other. They understood the need for bandaging wounds. But drinking unknown potions was another matter. She understood their concern. The war to conquer England—everything depended on the man who lay on the cot before them. He must live, and she was a Saxon who had every reason to hate him and wish him dead.

“If I wanted to do him harm,” she told them logically, “It would be done.”

Stephen of Valois reached out and seized the tankard. “I will drink from it first,” he declared.”

She saw the look that passed from him to Rorke FitzWarren. If the potion were poisoned, Stephen would fall from it and she would be put to death.

She nodded, “You will experience a very pleasant feeling of warmth. Eventually you will not be able to move your arms or legs. The potion blocks out feeling; therefore, it also blocks out the pain.”

He nodded and took several swallows of the faintly sweet liquid. After a moment, he leaned unsteadily against the cot. His expression was no less fierce than before, but he did not fall to the floor of the tent with death imminent.”

“Do what must be done, healer.”

It was a slow, painstaking process, but finally, with Rorke’s help, she poured the contents past William’s pale lips.

She set the tankard aside and turned to him. “For what must be done next, you must trust me. I must be alone with him.”

Stephen’s reaction was immediate as his hand clenched over the handle of his broadsword.

“What treachery is this?” he demanded. “Do you think you have gained our trust by the test of your potion?”

Already, the effects of his drink had begun to wear off and he drew his sword if still a bit unsteady at his feet.

“No matter her skills, she is still Saxon,” he argued. “The bodies of the Norman dead lie in yonder trenches. You cannot allow what she asks.”

She saw the expression in Rorke FitzWarren’s cool gray gaze--uncertainty, doubt, his own misgivings, and heard the sounds of other weapons drawn.

“Please, milord,” she begged. “He is dying. ’Tis a small thing I ask. If I wished him dead, I could have opened a vein and bled him to death before you could stop it. Tis a simple thing I ask.”

Somehow she had to make him understand, for no one, not even Meg, had ever seen what she must do. “The healing ways are ancient and known to only a few,” she went on to explain. “They have been entrusted to me with a sacred vow.” She laid her hand at his.  “Surely, you understand that I cannot break a covenant of trust.”

As a healer, Vivian had touched people hundreds of times, physical contact that soothed and gentled. But in touching Rorke FitzWarren she experienced again that raw, sensual power that was stunning in the contrast of the heat of his scarred hand beneath her own. His fingers closed over hers. As if with a will of its own, her hand opened to the heat of his touch, unleashing sensations that were both stunning and terrifying.

Five

“C
an’t you see her treachery?” Stephen demanded as he shouldered his way around the cot to stand before her, his features twisted with anger, pain, and fear.

“I will not allow her to be alone with him!” He turned to her. “You will do what must be done, healer. And
none
will leave.”

She could not reach Rorke FitzWarren, she thought in despair, but she might be able to reach this young, reckless knight whose father—whom she sensed he both loved and hated—lay dying or in the very least would live out the rest of his days as a cripple if she was not allowed to help him.

She laid a hand over his, opening his thoughts with her own. “If you wish your
father
to live, you must do as I ask. If you do not, then his death will be on your hands.”

Surprise leapt into his eyes. He turned to Rorke FitzWarren.

“I told her nothing,” Rorke assured him. When he looked at her, Stephen’s expression was tormented and suspicious.

“What treachery is this?” he demanded. “I could strike you down were you stand?” he whispered fiercely.

“Aye,” she calmly agreed, “and then he will die. The choice is yours.” She saw that her words were not lost on Rorke FitzWarren, for he had given her much the same choice for the people of Amesbury.

“So be it!” Stephen relented. “But if he dies, you will quickly follow.”

As a warrior Rorke had experienced many wounds and relied on the uncertain talents of healers, many of them butchers who learned their trade flaying fowl or butchering pigs. A few among them were healers of rare skill, whose knowledge and ability was very near miraculous. This young woman’s skills were not merely that of mixing powders and potions. She understood the body’s healing ways and skillful surgical techniques that rivaled those he had encountered in the Eastern lands.

“I brought the healer,” Rorke said for all to hear, his decision made. “The responsibility for what passes here rests with me.” His decision made, he announced, “Two of us will remain. The rest will leave.” He nodded to Tarek al Sharif.

“Surely, demoiselle,” he said to her, “
you
understand a vow of honor cannot be broken.”

Vivian felt helplessness wash over her. She could not persuade this fierce Norman warrior to leave. There was no choice and there was no more time, for even now she sensed William’s life ebbing away.

“Aye,” she reluctantly agreed. She could not prevent his staying, but perhaps she could prevent his remembering.

The expression on Stephen of Valois’ face was filled with a mixture of emotions. He did not want to leave, but he had given his word, and reluctantly sheathed his sword.

“I will wait outside with the rest of your men,” he told Rorke. His gaze rested briefly on Vivian, then he and the others turned and left the tent, the heavy tapestry dropping back into place behind them.

Vivian moved back to the cot, trying to sort through her own emotions. Tarek al Sharif stood at the other side, his hand resting lightly on the handle of his blade. Rorke FitzWarren stood beside her.

She shivered, for the cold that seemed to find its way into the tent in spite of the fires that burned in the braziers. She laid a hand lightly on William’s chest and felt the fading life force within. She glanced over at Rorke FitzWarren.

 “What do you believe, milord? Are you a man of faith?”

“I have seen the corruption of faith,” he said bluntly, wondering if she was about to ask him to pray, which he would not.

“I have no patience for it.”

“Do you believe in miracles?”

“I believe them to be the illusions of questionable minds.”

“The ravings of lunatics?” she asked with a faint smile. With an ache of compassion she wondered what it was in his life that had caused such coldness of cynicism.

Was it possible he was of so little faith? For she needed him to believe in miracles, for there was no logical explanation for what she must do. And if he did not believe, what then would he think of what he was about to see?  That she was a witch? A conjurer? And then have her put to death?

“Call it what you like, demoiselle. I believe in what is real. The earth beneath my feet, the strength that flows through my hand.”

“The sword in your hand?” she suggested, trying to find some way to reach beyond the barrier of that cold gray gaze.

His eyes narrowed as he tried to guess her purpose. “Aye, for it is a knight’s true strength.”

“And what of the wind, milord? You cannot see it or hold it in your hand. Yet it has strength to bend a tree, or move the sea.”

“I can see it moving in the trees and feel the force of it at my back,” he replied.

She glanced down at William. “Then, too, you must accept what you will see, milord, and not interfere. For his life depends upon it.”

He nodded. “You have my word that I will not interfere, as long as you do not endanger his life.”

She glanced across to Tarek al Sharif. He nodded as well. With a sense of something irrevocable unfolding, Vivian looked down at the man whose life slowly ebbed. No visions came to her. No voices whispered to guide her. There was only the certainty that this man must not die thought he was her enemy, or England would lie in chaos as it had before, hundreds of years ago, prey to whatever invader chose to lay waste to it.

She took the blue crystal from around her neck and laid the stone over William’s heart. Then she pressed her palms together and closed her eyes. She breathed in deeply, closing out everything about her—the glow of the candles and the fires in the braziers, the smell of burning tallow, leather, sweat, the warmth from those fires, the coldness of uncertainty, turning inward to where time and place no longer existed, where there was only the life force of the power that burned within her.

She let go of everything else about her as the power grew, like a small spark that becomes a flame, and then becomes the inferno, until everything within her focused on the power of that inner fire. Ancient words spoken long ago whispered through her senses and she repeated them in the language of the ancient ones.

Her head was bent over her hands, her flame-colored hair falling forward in a thick satin curtain, making it impossible to see her features as she whispered the strange-sounding words. She spoke softly, unknown words whispering through the tent, surrounding the flames that burned in the braziers so that they seemed to quiver with each word.

Rorke knew little of faith and trusted even less, but these were not words of any faith that he knew or understood. They were like an ancient song, whispered over and over again.

He knew of spell casters. An old gypsy lived on his father’s estate, her hovel of a cottage reeking of foul-smelling concoctions that supposedly would rid a person of infirmities. Pathetic, forlorn creatures sought her out when all else failed; a crippled child who longed to walk, barren women who longed to bear children, and impotent old men. Her remedies were powdered eggshells of some lizard, eye of newt, or dragonfly wings.