Princess of fire, p.16
Princess of Fire, page 16
He opened the shutters again in a sudden fury and let in the cold rain. Then he slammed the shutters closed again and swore. If only he had not touched her last night . . .
She stared at him as the shutters slammed. Nervously, she pulled the blanket about her shoulders. “What is this place?” she asked him.
“A hunting lodge,” he told irritably. “And we’d not be stranded here in the storm if you had not run off like a wayward child.”
That charge brought her to her feet. Fine, he thought. He had never felt more tense and ready for battle.
“I did nothing of the kind!”
“You have always been a spoiled brat, Fallon.” He smiled at her with exaggerated politeness. “Always.”
“And you have always been a barbaric bastard!”
“And you, milady, deal in the seduction of soft-bearded boys. You hate me because I have never fallen for your false smile or soft-spoken lies.”
“Lies!” Fists clenched at her sides, she faced him. “You speak nothing but lies!” Tears stung her eyes, and he was suddenly sorry for this petty battle he had begun. “You and your kind are the masters of deceit and lies! How dare you, Alaric!” Her voice trembled with emotion. “How dare you!”
It came to him then as a whisper, and in that moment he saw not the pride that was her strength, but the vulnerability within her, and the tender ardor of youth.
“Lies!” she spat again. “Your good courageous Duke William spent last evening coercing promises from my father—”
“Has it ever occurred to you, Fallon, that your father might find it easier to serve William than to undo all the calamities caused by Edward? Harold and William are of an age; they are both warriors. William is fierce; your father is wise. Together they could create a strong and just rule. And Edward promised the crown to William years ago.”
“Edward would promise the crown to his pet hound if the whim struck him!” Fallon snapped.
Still they faced each other across the room, and still Alaric felt as if he were afire. He did not know if he cared for her or despised her; if she was a shrew or a tender maid. He only knew that he desired her mightily. The wind raging around the cottage shrilled out a warning.
“William seeks to make fools of all,” Fallon continued bitterly, her eyes falling from his, “speaking of a betrothal between my father and a child!”
Alaric reached into his saddle-bag for a skin of wine. “Ah, so that’s the problem!” he declared at last. “A hint of marriage for Harold makes you realize that you are as much a bastard as I am or the duke himself. There is nothing wrong with your father’s actions, by your own laws. It is your pride that is wounded.”
She hurled herself across the room at him like a whirlwind, her nails raking across his naked chest before he realized her intent.
“Fallon!” In a roar he thundered out her name, dropping the skin of wine, seeking to subdue her. She had the strength of ten ordinary women, and in her blind anger, she was as ferocious as a cat. He swore as he evaded her nails, caught her shoulders, tossed her on the bed, and threw a leg over hers. She lay beneath him panting, her eyes still flashing her venom. “Hold, Fallon,” he warned her. “You cannot best me.”
She tried to rise, and her chemise fell from her shoulder, baring much of the swell of her breast. “You best yourself, you braying jack—” she began, but then she realized her circumstances. His knee lay against her bare leg; he was atop her again, his face so near she felt the warmth of his breath, their bodies fused in the heat of struggle.
He was silent, too. Whatever realization had come to her, he had known tenfold. He stared at her, his eyes as dark and tempest-laden as the sky. All of him was taut, like living, breathing steel.
He released her wrists, but she stayed motionless, staring into his eyes. Sweet warmth infused her, and she could not move. Nay, she could not move when he kissed her again, his mouth near brutal when it descended upon hers, boldly sweeping into her being. She tried to twist her head, but his fingers were entangled in her hair and held her still. She felt his leg moving against her naked flesh, and the heat inside her seemed to spark and flare anew. Then she gasped, parting her lips more fully to his, as she felt his hand on her breast, caressing the naked flesh, his palm rough and almost painfully exciting against the softness of virgin flesh and the dusky rose peak. Sensations surged through her, rocking her again and again. She lay there stunned, sweet honey seeping over her. Nor could she move when his lips strayed from hers in ragged passion to fall against the arch of her throat and downward, his mouth now encircling her breast, his tongue sweeping against it, bringing a startled, anguished cry to her lips.
Then, as suddenly as he had touched her, he released her. He nearly shoved her from him, covering her shoulder with the fallen chemise. His passion had become anger again, sweeping around both in massive burning waves.
She bolted to her feet, shaking. She found her bleaunt and donned it swiftly, swearing as she did so, yet she barely knew what words she spoke herself, or if she railed against him in English or in French.
“I should have stabbed you,” Fallon told him, her voice soft and honeyed once again, “and I should have taken careful aim!”
He laughed. Fallon grabbed a rusty old tankard and threw it his way. Alaric ducked, and then some new emotion played havoc with his senses, and the bitterness fell away from him like a cloak. He came to her and even as she watched him warily, he lifted her hand to his lips.
“Let’s call a truce, milady. I believe the rain slackens. We must ride back.”
His gray eyes, warm and filled with humor, looked into hers. “Aye, a truce,” she whispered, “for now!”
And it remained so, for he returned her to her father, and very soon, she returned home.
Chapter Ten
Autumn had come with exceptional beauty in 1065, Fallon reflected as she watched the laborers on Thorney Island working to complete the king’s new abbey, known as the West Minster, that it might be distinguished from Saint Paul’s. Dazzling sunshine fell over her where she lay upon her mantle on the soft grass, and she had seldom felt so sweetly at peace. The king was in the west on his annual hunting trip; her uncle Tostig was with him. Her father worked here.
“It will be a beautiful piece of work, will it not?”
Fallon turned to smile at Delon, who lay beside her. He was a handsome man, with rich red-gold hair and a thick beard to match. His eyes were blue and gentle, and they sparkled as they watched her now.
Fallon stretched and nodded, closing her eyes. Delon leaned over her and pressed a light kiss against her lips. Her eyes opened and she gazed at him affectionately, lifting a hand to smooth his beard.
“Take heed, sir; my father sits in yon chamber,” she said, inclining her head toward the palace.
He smiled and caught her hand, pressing his lips tenderly against her palm, then surveying her once again. “And a bower of beech and chestnut surround us here, and your father has discreetly turned his head time and again that I might kiss you. In fact, love, I think your father wonders at my patience, since he procrastinates in granting me your hand, and you do nothing to press my suit—loving me one day, spurning me the next.”
“I never spurned you!” Fallon protested, laughing at his dramatics. “And I love you daily,” she added, her laughter fading. He kissed her, not so lightly this time, and she slipped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. She did love Delon. He was descended from the Danish kings and old English aristocrats; he was handsome, young, and eager; he loved her with a great tenderness. He accepted her pride and her ways and her temper, all with a gentleness that endeared him to her greatly. He was thane of a multitude of shires, he had traveled and read extensively, and best of all, to Fallon’s mind, he was English. Her father approved of him, she knew. But as Harold hesitated, so did she. She cared for Delon greatly; no man was kinder or easier to please, and she enjoyed his company greatly. She cared for him; aye, she even loved him, treasured him dearly . . .
It was just that she wanted more. She didn’t understand her feelings herself; they confused and dismayed her, for he was so very fine a man. But when he kissed her, she did not feel as if the sun had opened up inside her, as if she were ablaze within.
As she had felt in the arms of the Norman knight.
Fallon broke away from Delon, rolling to her side in sudden shame and horror, feeling her cheeks burn. She smelled the rich, verdant earth and felt the autumn breeze caress her, and still she shuddered, pressing her cheeks tight with her palms. Dismay filled her, and she wondered what manner of woman she could be to spurn a gentle lover’s kiss and recall the touch of a sworn enemy.
“Fallon?” Delon murmured, concerned. “Have I hurt you, love?” His fingers, long and slender, touched her hair. She spun back to him, sweeping her arms around him and pressing her mouth to his in a wild embrace. She ran her palms recklessly over his chest and pressed as close to him as she could, holding fast as she kissed him. Still no passion arose, yet she swore to herself in that moment that she would marry him, and that the hunger would come, and if it did not, she would nonetheless cherish him all the days of their lives.
She took her lips from his, rubbing her cheek against his beard, then lying back against his arm. A new blue fire touched his eyes as he gazed upon her with something of awe, and he groaned softly and pulled her against him. “Fallon . . .” he whispered her name again, then touched her cheek. “God has cursed me to love you!” He told her. “I marvel at the purity of your beauty. I lie awake in endless torture while I await your word.”
“You—you have my word, Delon,” Fallon promised him.
“What?”
“You have my word!”
“You’ll marry me?”
“Aye.”
“When?”
Fallon laughed. “As soon as possible. As soon as father says we may.”
“Delon rose, caught her arms, and pulled her to her feet. He laughed and lifted her high into the air, then spun with her in joyous circles. She fell against his chest as he lowered her to the ground and stared down at her with tenderness and adoration. “Most cursed of men, most blessed of men; Fallon, no man should know such happiness as I feel this day.”
A shudder ripped through Fallon, and a fierce chill tore along her spine, a feeling of foreboding.
“Fallon! You’re shivering.”
“Nay, nay!” She forced herself to smile radiantly, to lay her head against his chest again and feel the beat of his heart. She gave herself a mental shake and vowed to banish any ridiculous thoughts of evil to come. What evil could there be? England was at peace, and the country prospered. Her countrymen admired her father for his even temperament and his justice, and Harold ruled the English well. There was nothing to fear.
“Fallon—” Delon began again, but broke off suddenly. A host of horsemen had just come from a barge and now descended upon the king’s residence with grim speed.
“What has happened?” Fallon cried.
Delon caught her hand and pulled her along. “Come, love, we must find out!”
They ran across the garden and marsh to the palace and were breathless when they came upon Harold, seated behind his desk while the king’s messengers spoke. Harold appeared ill, and Fallon gave no thought to propriety but came around to his side and fell to her knees by his chair. Absently he took her hand and patted it. His brooding eyes fell upon hers, and he tried to smile, then returned his attention to the king’s messenger.
“My brother Tostig is still with King Edward?”
“Aye, Earl Harold. The king and your brother ride to return here now, but King Edward would have you seek out these rebels immediately and negotiate a settlement.”
Harold sighed bitterly, and it seemed that he spoke more to himself than to anyone else there present. “And what if the rebels’ claims are true? What if Tostig has defiled their churches, stolen and plundered from them, and governed them ill?”
“Rebels have invaded his capital of York,” the messenger said. “They have killed Tostig’s retainers and stolen from his armory, and they threaten to ride south. They demand that the king remove Tostig and set Morkere, the brother of the earl of Mercia, in his place. King Edward demands that you ride north now and bring this to a settlement.”
Harold nodded “Aye, I will ride north now.” His eyes fell upon Delon, who commanded a force of guards for him. He nodded a command, and Delon threw a miserable glance at Fallon before turning about to attend to his duty.
Harold rose and spoke to the messenger. “You may tell the king when he arrives that I have gone to meet with the rebels and that I will do all in my power to bring about a peaceful settlement.”
The chill that already seized her swept across Fallon’s spine once again. It seemed as if an ill wind had been set in motion and that no hand could stop it. Her father and Delon rode out that day.
* * *
There was to be no settlement. The thanes gave Harold evidence that his brother Tostig had taxed them unjustly, twisted the law, and murdered his enemies. They would not have him back, and they demanded that King Edward give them a new earl, Morkere, or else they would ride south to wage war against the king himself.
It was a horrible time for her father, Fallon knew. Tostig claimed that Harold had stirred up the trouble himself out of jealousy. Harold wearily denied the charges, but the king ranted and raved. Edward tried to summon his army, but the men refused to assemble. Meanwhile, the rebels in the north marched south to Oxford.
Fallon spent many hours at her father’s side while her father grieved. It hurt him terribly to see his brother so despised, for their father had tried to teach them family loyalty.
But Harold’s father had also taught him to respect English law and Englishmen. The English had been ruled by consent; they would fight against autocracy now.
Fallon did her best to soothe her father. She tried to love her uncle and reason with the king, who still softened in her presence.
Harold prayed, and discovered in his own soul that he had to support the people against his brother. And in the end, King Edward had to relent, and give the people of Northumbria the earl they demanded, young Morkere. Tostig, exiled by Edward, swore to be Harold’s enemy.
* * *
As November passed and December came, the great sadness that had encompassed them all at Tostig’s exile abated somewhat. Fallon and Delon decided to speak with her father on Christmas Day.
Winter came, bleak and hostile, to Thorney Island. Edward took joy in the near completion of the abbey, which had been his life’s work. Year after year, he had supervised its building.
As Christmas neared, the sky remained gray, the marshes brown, and the air cold. The palace grew crowded, near bursting at the seams, for eight of England’s archbishops had arrived with their retinues for the consecration of the new abbey. High officials and thanes and the other earls arrived for the convening of the witan, which always met at Christmas wherever the king chose to be.
Christmas Day arrived. Fallon’s mother and brothers remained in the south, at Bosham, since Harold had sent word about the crowded conditions on Thorney Island. Before mass began, Harold came to Fallon. His gift to her was an enormous emerald brooch for her mantle; her gift to him was a new crimson mantle of soft wool lined with mink. They embraced, and Harold touched her cheek and smiled. “Whatever befalls me,” he told her, “I have been blessed. Your mother has loved me selflessly all these years, and she has given me you and your brothers.”
Fallon hugged him fiercely. She thought guiltily of all the mischief she had caused over the years. “I love you, Father,” she replied.
He laughed and stood back, surveying her in her Christmas finery with an assessive eye. “Young Delon has said that the two of you will speak with me this evening.”
She lowered her eyes. “Aye, Father.”
“Is it what you want?”
“You approve of him?” she asked anxiously. “Do you, Father? Do you find him to be a just and fitting man?”
He laughed, and assured her that he found many fine qualities in Delon. “I admit, Fallon, that I’ve thought of marriages of greater advantage, yet I am too besotted by you to send you away, but would have you by my side. There is but one other I would have thought of for you,” Harold said, and for a moment his eyes seemed to be far away. “One even stronger than you. My only fear is that you will overpower gentle Delon at every turn.”
“Father—”
“Nay, give it no mind. He is kind and courteous, and his courage and honor are not to be questioned. He will speak tonight, but I will ask you both one thing. You have known each other long and well, but still I ask you to wait one more year. At Christmas next, you will wed. Agreed?”
She nodded and kissed·him again. A year seemed fine to her; Delon might not find great pleasure in the idea, but he loved her, and he would wait.
Despite the brooding weather, it was a joyful day. There were so very many people about. Edward was well, reigning over mass and the banquet to follow in all his regalia. It was a day of sweet and gentle spirit, and when the feasting was over, Delon and Fallon came before Harold, and when he had given them his blessing to wed, they knelt before the king, who also gave his blessing.
But by the next morning everything had changed. Edward had been taken ill and was unable to attend the consecration of the church that had been his life’s work. At first there was hope that the king would recover. But as the days slipped by that hope waned. Finally Edward’s physicians came forward to tell the most powerful men of the kingdom in hushed tones that the king was dying.
A pall fell over that drear winter season. At times, Fallon sat with the king; her aunt, his wife, hovered ever near him. The witan met, and they argued in confusion over who would be king.
Harold spent his time between the king’s bedside and conferences with the rulers of the land. For hours they spoke in earnest tones. Edgar Atheling had been summoned, since he was heir to the throne, but he was still just a boy; the country needed someone stronger. Edward had not spoken, and so they didn’t know his will. The Scandinavian kings held some claim to the throne, but they were foreigners. There were the Godwins, Harold himself and the exiled Tostig. And there was William of Normandy—a foreigner, and a foreigner more hated by some than the Scandinavians.
