Princess of fire, p.10
Princess of Fire, page 10
William grinned, watching Alaric, who was watching Morwenna. She reminded him of someone. Her movements, her grace, her beautiful eyes, and the perfection of her features all seemed familiar. It puzzled him for a moment, and then he realized with a start that he was thinking of Harold’s little daughter. He was thinking of a child. He laughed at himself, dismissing the notion, and concentrated again on the sensuous beauty before him.
Morwenna noticed his eyes on her; she was careful to watch for them and then lower her own. He was even more arresting now, so near, than he had been from a distance. His eyes were one moment a soft, haunting dove gray, the next as hard and cool as steel. His features were fine; even the slender battle scar on his cheek could not mar his handsome and rugged appeal. His dark hair was cropped short, and she longed to reach out and touch it.
To her consternation, he did not seem to be completely beguiled. True, he watched and smiled, and at one point raised his glass to her. But too often he turned his attention to his duke.
The musicians ceased to play; she fell into a beautiful curtsy before the duke, and when he applauded her, she spoke to him sweetly. “I crave your mercy, Duke William.”
William laughed. “Morwenna, get up. I have no grudge against you.” She rose, flushing, and then she realized that Alaric was watching her, a twist of wry amusement on his lips. William must have felt the tension there, too, for he turned to Alaric. “I don’t believe you and Morwenna have met,” he said. “She is Matilda’s second cousin, the niece of the lately departed count. Morwenna, I give you Alaric, comte d’Anlou.”
Alaric rose and bowed deeply before her. She saw that he still smiled with what appeared to be amusement, and it infuriated her. He was not awestruck, as he should have been, though surely he must have appreciated her dance!
“Morwenna . . .” he murmured, and that was all. She bowed stiffly and fled the hall, anxious to reach her own quarters high above. She did not go to her room, but paused upon the stairway, breathless. A slight sound behind her alerted her, and she swung around. He was there, still smiling, leaning most nonchalantly against the stone wall of the stepwell.
“It was a very graceful dance. Dare I hope it was meant to tease and seduce one man in particular?”
“You dare too much, bastard,” she retorted.
“Ah,” he murmured and, still amused, came forward to pull her into his arms. Her heart slammed against her chest. His hot lips touched hers, and they burned and consumed hers until she feared she would faint with ecstasy. She pressed herself against him, aware of the hot liquid that coursed through her. She, Morwenna of Arques, who had kept so many brave knights leaping like lapdogs on the strings of her slightest whim.
As he raised his lips from hers, she could hardly stand. With wide eyes she clung to him and stared up at him, desperately struggling for some sense of pride. “I am Morwenna of Arques. Kin to the king of France, daughter of a princess. I should not wed a bastard.”
“Then bed one,” he countered. She cried out softly, but when she lifted her eyes, she saw the tenderness in his look, and she raised her face to his, hungry for his kiss. She knew then that she would let no obstacle, bastardy or other, keep her from wedding Alaric.
In the end, it was he who drew away from her. He caressed her cheek and said softly, “I will speak with William. I must hie to London soon with a message for the English king, but when I return, my love, I will take thee to wife.”
“Oh . . . Alaric!” She leaned against him and told him of the first time she had seen him. How she had fallen in love, watching him from the arrow slit. She told him humbly that she feared she had not thoroughly attracted him, but he laughingly assured her that she had.
With another kiss, he left her to speak with William. The duke’s party soon took their leave, and she was pleased to learn after their departure that she and Alaric would be married at Rouen as soon as he returned.
Their wedding took place shortly after his return from England. The occasion was splendid. The duke and his duchess stood as witness, and beautifully dressed nobility filled the church. The feast that followed was rich, and the musicians had never played so sweetly. Wine flowed freely, and despite the warfare that had plagued the duchy, there was an air of peace that day.
The night was even sweeter.
Morwenna smelled flowers on the night breeze. Windows opened to the gardens at Rouen, and the moon rose high in the dark sky. Morwenna’s women brushed her hair to a high gloss and dressed her in soft silk.
When her husband came to her, he said not a word. She trembled when he entered the chamber and stared at her. Then the burgeoning warmth filled her as he walked toward her. He kissed her and slipped her gown from her, and she nearly cried out, for his touch was so sweet against her flesh. He laid her upon the bed, and as she stared at him, uncertain, he began to stroke her. She soon lost all sense of reason. She did not realize that she began to move, to writhe, to await some promised fulfillment of the flesh.
By the time he divested himself of his fine wedding garments, she was near to tears, reaching out for him. In the moonlight she saw him, aroused and powerful, and her heart took flight again. His kisses seared her lips, her body, and if there was a moment’s pain, she knew it not, for his passion was both strong and gentle, and all too quickly it swept her away.
Nor did he tire. When morning came at last and he held her tight, she marveled over what had passed, savoring the repletion that filled her. She felt drunk with the potency of love, and she kissed his hand, then rubbed her cheek against it. “We will be happy forever and ever,” she whispered fervently.
She could not know then that the very force of her love was doomed to destroy it.
* * *
The battle had been won, yet the campaign continued. Several counts of the region were up in arms against William, and the king of France was eager to side with them against his one-time protégé, William of Normandy. A double coalition invaded Normandy. Henry of France entered Nantes with one of the counts; two others, the counts of Clermont and Ponthieu, entered eastern Normandy. A French force moved into Mortemer and gave itself over to unrestrained pillage and rape.
Alaric was with the Norman force that accosted the French there, using the weapon of savage surprise to great efficiency. The French who were not slain dispersed, and the victory was so complete that the king of France himself, who had prepared to meet William in battle across the river, departed for home.
It was a fine victory, but Alaric could find small pleasure in it. Death and woe were the aftermath of battle. Even as he traversed the streets on his great battle steed, Alaric felt sickened. He passed the bodies of millers and blacksmiths who had tried to defend their families with picks and hoes against the heavy lances and swords of the invading French army.
And he stepped over the bodies of women and girls who had been raped and slain, or simply left to survive or die, as chance would have it.
Alaric gritted his teeth at the sight of the horrible waste of life and limb. He looked around, thinking sadly that no higher purpose could justify such suffering. He vowed silently that he would never be a part of an invasion like this one. He was a warrior. He would duel with men in battle, but he would never be part of senseless pillaging or rape.
He turned his mount about to find his men and return to William’s side. But as he rode down the street, he was suddenly shaken by an anguished scream. He urged his horse forward, and cantered upon a strange scene. Around a fire in the street, survivors of the carnage had gathered for warmth. Across from the fire was a young girl, filthy and in rags. Once she must have been very lovely, with tawny hair and eyes and the entrancing beauty of youth. Now her face was a mask of terror. It did not take long for Alaric to realize that she was being taunted by a group of townsmen. She clung to the wall, facing her tormentors.
He rode hard into the scene, scattering the men before him. He stared upon them with cold fury. The girl collapsed in a flood of tears. Alaric dismounted, went to her, and helped her to her feet. “What in God’s name goes on here?” he demanded sharply. Still holding the girl, Alaric caught one of the townsmen by the scruff of the neck. “What goes on here?” he demanded again.
“She was with the Frenchies,” the man mumbled. “She should not mind the touch of her own.”
“By God’s grace, man, I should slay you here!” Alaric looked at the girl. Her eyes had gone glassy, as if very little life remained in them.
“My lord, perhaps you should avail yourself, too,” the townsman said. “There were so many Frenchmen . . . twenty, at least.”
Alaric swung on the man in a fury. “May God forgive you, for William will not!” He lifted the girl into his saddle and swung up behind her.
He did not know how to reassure the poor girl. He tried to tell her that no one would hurt her anymore. He covered her with his mantle to keep her warm and asked her questions. He learned that her name was Lenora, that her family had been killed in the invasion, and that she was fifteen years old.
When he reached his men, he turned her over to Falstaff. He wanted her taken to his home, where his wife awaited him. Morwenna, he was certain, would care for her tenderly until he returned.
Tales of Alaric’s rescue of the girl reached Morwenna before Lenora did, but the tales had changed from truth to fiction. Morwenna, on hearing them, was consumed with pain and jealousy, certain that Alaric had sent Lenora to her because he was enamored of the girl. Lenora’s listless attitude did not help to allay Morwenna’s suspicions.
Outwardly, Morwenna tried to be calm, to display her usual generosity and kindness, but she quickly turned the girl over to the blacksmith’s son, a huge brute of a man, to be his wife. It was a cruel thing to do to a mere child who had already been so brutally used, but by then Morwenna was insane with jealousy.
At that time Perth, one of her kinsmen, arrived from across the Channel. He was a handsome young swain whose eyes sparkled the moment he saw her. In the days that followed, compliments tripped off his tongue, and he began to fall helplessly in love with Morwenna. He had never seen a woman so beautiful.
Perth wished to respect his absent host, but he was smitten. On his second week in Alaric’s home, Perth came upon Morwenna in a fit of tears. “My lady!” He fell to his knees beside her and tried desperately to determine the source of her anguish.
“Oh, Perth!” She had supped with him, ridden with him, danced with him, sung for him. Now she naturally fell into his arms, sobbing. “She’s killed herself. The little slut—she has killed herself!”
Perth did not understand how Lenora’s death could be Morwenna’s fault. Distressed for her, he began to kiss her, and Morwenna, sick at heart, accepted his touch. Alaric had been gone so long—he was always on campaigns with William. He had fallen in love with Lenora, and now Lenora was dead. Morwenna had been deceived and used, and now she had sinned. And all because Alaric had chosen to be unfaithful to her.
Morwenna permitted Perth to kiss her and touch her. And when he swore his undying devotion, she consented to allow him to visit her chamber.
By morning’s light, she was remorseful. The taste of vengeance was sour in her mouth, and she was appalled to be lying naked in her husband’s bed beside another man.
She did not know what noise she heard or what movement she sensed, but something drew her eyes to the doorway. There stood Alaric.
Morwenna shrieked. His eyes had never been so cold, nor his face so hard. She jumped from the bed, remembering her nakedness too late. With no help for it, she ran to him and threw herself at his feet. “Mercy! My lord, mercy!”
He didn’t speak, but threw her from him with a fury. He drew his sword, bloodstained already from his campaign with William. Dazed, Morwenna sank against the wall as Alaric approached the bed and wrenched the covers from it.
Perth, who was awake and frozen with terror, stared at him and began to beg for his life.
“Silence!” commanded Alaric. “Stand like a man and defend yourself!” He tossed clothing to Perth and crossed the room in heavy strides to toss him a sword. Still, his first blow knocked the sword from the man’s hand, and Perth trembled before him, begging for his life. Morwenna began to weep and babble. Alaric silenced her with a gesture. He had learned about Lenora’s death, and he could not understand it. He had loved Morwenna—or had thought he loved her. Yet behind his back she had dealt cruelly with a guest he had asked her to care for.
And she had slept with another man.
He swallowed sharply, looking down into her tear-filled eyes. He had to leave the room; he had to be away from them both or he would shed blood.
“Stop!” he said. “Quit your weeping, Morwenna, and I shall spare both your miserable lives—” he began.
But it wasn’t to be. The foolish Perth had raised his sword behind Alaric’s back. Alaric caught the shadow of a movement and spun. He parried the blow and his sword continued to fall, slitting Perth from gullet to groin.
“Fool!” Alaric cried out, bending over him. “Fool, to die for a night with a maid!”
He did not know he intended the words until he spoke them. Then he turned slowly and looked at Morwenna, who was convulsed in a pool of tears. He should touch her, he knew. He should touch her and try to understand her. She was his wife.
“Alaric!” she cried at last, but when she raised her eyes to his, something brought about another spate of tears. She lowered her beautiful head, and he reached out a hand to touch a lock of her hair. “Forgive me!” she begged him. She looked at him again. “I was so jealous; I could not bear that you had loved that girl!”
He listened to her, confused, then realized what she was saying. He shook his head. “Morwenna, I never touched Lenora.”
“Forgive me.”
“I will try,” he promised her. She was so beautiful; he wanted to forgive her, but something within him had died. He would never trust a woman again—not Morwenna, not any woman. “Morwenna, I will try to forgive you,” he said again, “but I cannot stay here longer now, for I would gladly throttle you.”
He left her and returned to William’s side, quiet and deadly. He told no one exactly what had happened, but balladeers sang of his duel with Perth. Alaric gritted his teeth each time he heard the songs; once, William had to restrain him from lighting into the hapless minstrel who sang the tune.
One night William sent Alaric a Saracen slave girl who had been taken in a raid. The night worked some kind of magic. Her touch had soothed Alaric. Her whispers were gentle. When he awoke in the morning, he thanked William, but he did not keep the girl for himself. He returned home.
Morwenna trembled before him when he entered the hall. He stretched out his arms to her and she rushed for him, and she cried while he softly forgave her.
Shortly after his reunion with Morwenna, Alaric was called back for a new offensive in the west. Months passed before he was able to leave William’s side, but finally he was summoned home. The best physicians in the duchy, he was told, had already been sent to care for the ailing Lady Morwenna.
Alaric rode hard and desperately. When he arrived, he found the servants grouped together in the hall, some of them crying softly. Alaric pushed past them and raced up the stairs.
Morwenna lay in their bed. Her hair was spread out in skeins of gold against the white sheets, framing a face that was pale and ashen, already cadaverous. Alaric fell to his knees and gripped her hands. A physician stood quietly at the foot of the bed.
“What is it? What ails her?” Alaric demanded.
The physician motioned him to come to the foot of the bed. Alaric swore at him, but the man raised a hand in sorrow, and Alaric swallowed back further words.
“Count Alaric, I have done everything possible—”
“What ails her?” Alaric interrupted. Again the physician hesitated. “Damn you, speak to me!”
The doctor inhaled and said softly, “She was with child, Count, she—she tried to abort the baby.”
“God in heaven!” Alaric whispered in horror. The man had to be lying. Alaric wanted to choke him, to make him say it was not true. “You must save her,” he insisted.
“I—I cannot. I can only let her die in ease.”
Alaric swore. He knelt by Morwenna’s bedside again, stroking her hair and cheek. Finally she opened her eyes. She stared at him and smiled and touched his cheek. “Forgive me, Alaric,” she whispered. “I did not know if I would bear a bastard!’
“Nay, the child would not have been a bastard! You are my wife, Morwenna.” He wanted to shake her; he wanted to love her. He wanted her to forget her foolish fears. His cheeks were damp with tears. “I would have welcomed the babe, whether or not I had sired him. Oh, God, Morwenna! You knew I had forgiven you.”
“I never forgave myself,” she whispered, “but I did not mean to leave you, love!”
They were her last words. She closed her eyes and sighed, and it was her last breath. She was as beautiful in death as she had been in life.
Morwenna’s body lay in state in the old family chapel. Alaric never left her side. In brooding silence, he sat guard over her, until it was time for the priest to turn her earthly remains over to God. She was buried in the family vault, beside Alaric’s father.
Two weeks after her death, Alaric rode out again. William tried to give him solace. “You are so young; you were both so very young,” William told him. “In time you will love again, and you will take a wife again.”
“Nay, never,” Alaric vowed softly. “Love makes fools of men and vixens of women. And marriage, bah! What is it but an empty promise. Nay, William, I care not if I sire bastards from here to the ends of the earth; but I’ll not marry, and I’ll never love again.”
William said nothing more. He knew that time alone could heal his friend; for now Alaric must brood. William would keep his young friend occupied; that would be the best comfort he could offer.
* * *
