Princess of fire, p.18
Princess of Fire, page 18
He walked to meet her, arching a brow at her apparel. She was decked in the leather armor most popular with the English. Her broadsword, especially fashioned for her, was far lighter than most, and easy for her to wield.
“What’s this?” Delon teased her. “You would best us all, and put us to shame?”
Fallon kissed him lightly, then stood back, her eyes alight in a challenge as she slid her visor up. “You would make fun of me, sir?” She brought the tip of her sword against his short tunic. “Arm yourself, milord!”
He bowed, accepting the challenge. “Milady!” With a smile, Delon turned to Fabioni. “Your sword, sir!”
Thus armed, Delon thought to make quick play of it. Fallon laughed with pleasure as steel clashed against steel and her betrothed quickly learned the folly of his words. Never betray weakness; never show vulnerability! Fabioni’s words stayed with Fallon as she deftly moved among the daisies and asters and roses. Delon flashed her a smile as she parried one of his thrusts, then laughed sweetly as she saw sweat beading on his brow.
“Beg mercy?” she taunted him, her smile softening the words.
“Nay, not yet,” he assured her. “Would you have me be the laughingstock of your father’s entire army?”
She smiled again, because his eyes were the color of the spring sky and she had really missed him. “There’s none here but Fabioni and myself, milord. And we’ll not tell if you cry for mercy!” She panted slightly, and her words came between each thrust and parry. Delon was strong, and he was practiced in his craft. Eventually, she knew, that strength would tell against her. Fabioni had warned her from the beginning that a woman or a small man could best a warrior only by speed and cunning.
“I cannot cry defeat—” Delon began, but she saw him pause, and she took a deadly advantage of that pause, stepping in and catching his blade with her own, so that it doubled against his wrist and went flying. He stared at his sword, and then at her, in disbelief.
“I shall have to demand a rematch,” he told her.
“Aye, sir! I shall have to take you on again, and any other foolish man who doubts the prowess of the king’s daughter.”
“Hmmph!” Delon said, eyeing her in consternation. Fallon laughed, caught his hands, and kissed him again. “I am exhausted,” he said, “from living in the saddle these months.”
“Oh, aye!” Fallon told him, her eyes wide and innocent. “Surely that is the only reason I could catch you off guard.”
“Now you mock your betrothed.”
She smiled, for she was proud of herself, and excitement raced through her. “Delon, could I doubt your true power? I have taken unfair advantage!”
“That’s better,” he said, but he grinned, too, and hugged her against his chest. She touched his bearded face. “Delon! Truly, I’m glad to see you.”
His eyes fell upon her face and he stroked her hair. “And I missed you as a blind man misses the sight of the earth and sky.” Reluctantly he released her. “I must see your father immediately. Will you await me at dinner?”
She nodded. He kissed the tip of her nose and parted from her reluctantly. Fallon turned to dismiss Fabioni. He raised his sword and saluted her, ending the lesson. Fallon reflected with a broad smile that she was really very good with her sword.
Suddenly, from behind her, a deep masculine voice rang out in a mocking challenge. “The king’s daughter battles against green lads, just as she seeks to seduce them. Mademoiselle, dare you take your blade against a man full grown?”
Fallon spun about, shivers cascading along her spine. It could not be him!
Alaric stood before her, his blood-red mantle tossed over his shoulder, his feet spread wide, the tip of his sword touching the earth before him. The breeze lifted his mantle and the lock of dark hair that played over his forehead. Steel-gray eyes sent her a vibrant dare, and she knew she had to meet his challenge.
“What is this?” she demanded scoffingly. “A fool Norman upon Saxon soil? Why, I have never doubted your recklessness or that of your bastard duke, but surely you have not come to take the country for him by yourself, monsieur!”
“Would you defend it yourself, mademoiselle?” He circled her warily.
Fallon noticed how silently he moved and took care to follow his every motion. “Aye,” she murmured softly, raising her eyes to his as he paused just a few feet from her. “If it comes to it, milord, I’ll gladly defend my king and country on my own against all and any who seek to assault them.”
He arched a taunting brow as she raised her sword in readiness. “I’ve come in peace,” he murmured.
“No Norman has ever come here in peace,” she retorted.
He smiled, and raised his weapon. His very confidence caused her to quiver, but she silently swore that she would not fail. She had bested Delon, had she not? But Delon was a young man of twenty, while Alaric had now passed at least thirty summers, and grown harder and more assured in his Norman craft of war with every one of them.
Steel clashed, and she felt the reverberation of the blow down the length of her arm. She drew back and parried when he thrust lower. Again she parried, as his blade rose near her throat.
She was backing away from him, she realized. He gave no pause and no mercy. Ruthlessly his blows fell, again and again, and so quickly that she could not imagine how he raised his heavy blade with such speed.
“Will you surrender, mademoiselle?” A taunting smile played on his lips.
“Nay, never. ’Twould do us all a great ill were the Saxon king’s daughter to yield to a Norman. Never, sir!”
“Oh?” The query was soft, and she jerked back with a cry, amazed, as his blade cut cleanly and swiftly through her leather armor, slicing open the chemise she wore beneath without leaving a scratch on her flesh.
Fallon gasped and instinctively clutched at the gaping edges of her chemise. She swore then and lunged at him too quickly. Their swords locked, and she came face to face against him and felt the warmth of his breath fanning her cheek when he spoke.
“Anger is deadly, milady. You should not lose your temper.”
“You should play fair.”
“In battle, Fallon, men fight to kill. What is fair in that?”
She pushed away from him, one hand clasped to her breast, the other gripping her sword. To meet his next thrust, she was forced to relinquish her hold on her torn clothing. She met his thrust, but was embarrassed to realize that he was enjoying the view she now offered him. And still he was ruthless. He raised his sword again; she parried. Again, and again, and again.
She was breathless, and she knew she could not fight much longer. She bit her lip, then gazed past his shoulder, her eyes fixed on empty space. “Father, no!” she called out, feigning alarm. “He does not seek to harm me; it is but play—”
As she had hoped, Alaric swung to counter what blow might come his way. He quickly realized that no one was there, but by then, Fallon was able to dart to one side and bring her sword against his throat.
Pained, wary, he beheld her. She smiled sweetly.
“Mademoiselle, you spoke of fair play?”
“There is no fair play in battle, monsieur!” she reminded him, innocently sweeping her lashes over her eyes and beholding him again. “Was that not the lesson you just taught me?”
He nodded, then winced as her sword pricked his flesh. His eyes narrowed upon her; then he spun abruptly, avoiding her blade and bringing his own up with such a ferocious blow that hers was torn from her hands and flew in an arch to the ground.
Fallon swore and lunged to retrieve it. Ere she could reach the blade, he pounced on her and together they went rolling across the soft, verdant earth. Fallon grasped for her sword, but he braced himself over her. Her sword lay just inches away, but even as she strove desperately to reach it, he hovered comfortably above her, his weight on his elbows, the sinewed strength of his legs preventing her from movement.
She looked at him in annoyance and encountered his leisurely grin. Swearing roundly, she attempted to twist away from him. When she gazed at him again, she saw that he smiled no more. His features were harsh, nearly savage as he stared down at her. He rose, catching her hands even when she attempted to evade them, and tugged her to her feet. “Go inside,” he commanded her crossly. “Dress yourself.”
Startled, she glanced down. Her chemise was further rent, her breasts all but bared. Color seeped into her cheeks as she recalled their last meeting. She remembered his touch. She remembered his rough, callused palm and the strength of his hands and the heat that had ravaged her blood and her limbs . . .
“Oh!” she cried out, stepping back from him. She raised a hand to strike him, and bit her lip as her palm found its mark. He could have stopped her, she thought; fear took root in her heart as she stared at the merciless slate of his eyes.
Instead, he bowed low to her. “A pleasure, as always, Princess,” he murmured.
He turned and left her, striding quickly away. Fallon watched him, and lowered her head, praying fervently that the wretched fever he awoke in her would subside. She hated him so much that she trembled with it. She longed to best him as she longed for little else in life.
“Norman bastard!” she muttered. He had no right to be here, so calm and so assured. His duke longed for bloodshed and war.
She trembled even as she speculated about his purpose in her father’s court. And later that evening, after she had bathed and dressed for supper, she discovered that the fever had not left her. She prayed wretchedly that God would pick him up in a tempest and hurl him back across the Channel.
God, unfortunately, chose instead to deposit Alaric at her side for the evening meal. Delon was far down the table, but Fallon could feel his eyes upon her. Alaric and Harold spoke to each other in tones of sadness. They understood each other; they weighed their words, and they were cordial, but they could not change their circumstances.
“Alaric,” Harold said, breaking off a piece of bread. “You know that I did not seize the crown. Edward spoke, the witan voted, and I was named king. I did not seek to overthrow any man. But I am king by English law, and by English law I will remain so.”
Fallon glanced at Alaric. His head was bowed; he had known what he would hear. “William has asked if you intend to keep your promise to wed his daughter.”
Fallon gasped aloud. Her father frowned at her severely, and Alaric turned to her, his brow arched at the interruption. Fallon stiffened and reached for the chalice that stood between them. His fingers closed around it at the same time. They stared at each other as Harold unhappily answered Alaric.
“You know, and William knows, that the marriage talk was just play, a meaningless compliment to a pretty and well-mannered child. Still, as an earl, I would gladly have married into William’s house. But an English king can take no foreign queen without the consent of the witan. Nor can I keep old promises concerning my children. My life is no longer my own.”
Stunned, Fallon stared at her father. He looked at her briefly, then lowered his eyes. Alaric’s gaze remained on Fallon. He stared at her for a long moment before turning back to Harold. “Aye, Harold, I know your position full well. And I understand William, too.”
“And you will serve him,” Harold said.
“Aye.”
Fallon grasped the chalice and drank down the ale. She looked unhappily across the hall again and saw Delon, his eyes full upon her, hurt and confused.
“Alas!” Alaric said. “The maid does have a heart. Tell me—the young blond lad with the pretty whiskers you so soundly bested at arms—is this a lover lost?”
“Lost?”
“The stakes have changed, milady. They may call you a princess, but they will make you a pawn.”
“You are mistaken,” she said coolly. “I will not be a pawn.”
“Ah, the lady will never bend.” He raised the cup to her. “So you will have your way. But what of that young man who pines for you? How I pity him, milady!”
“Oh?”
“I pity any man who loves you, Fallon.” He beckoned a servant to refill the chalice, then sipped and offered the cup to her. Her fingers trembled, and she feared to touch the chalice lest he notice. He took her hand, curled her fingers about it, and pressed the rim to her lips. “Aye, Fallon,” he said softly. “I pity the fool who loves you, for you are a flame that burns too brightly, and an ice that chills the heart, a wildness in sore need of taming. That gentle lad is not for you. What you need, milady, is a man, not a boy. A man who cannot be deceived by your wiles.”
She leaned back and gave him a curious smile. “And you consider yourself such a man?”
He did not answer right away, but his gaze raked her body in a bold manner that stole her breath away.
“Perhaps,” he answered casually at long last. He stroked a finger down her cheek. “Were I so inclined. But as I’ve told you, I’m not of a mind to marry again.”
A flame that burned too brightly? She wished she could sear his flesh like the blaze that rose with scorching flame in the center of the hall. “I would never—”
“I know. You would rather wed a thousand demons, or some such thing.”
“And you, sir, show your distaste in the most curious ways.”
He laughed, and for a moment, against the firelight that filled the hall, she was keenly aware of his handsome features. “Fallon, I have never denied your beauty. To desire you is easy. To care for you would be folly.”
He leaned so close that his whisper fell against her cheek. She shook her head, reaching for the chalice again, but he held it tightly. “Sir, I eagerly await your departure from this land, for Normandy or for hell!”
“And which is your preference?”
“I find them one and the same, monsieur,” she said, and letting go of the chalice, she stood. Harold stared at her curiously. She dropped him a quick curtsy and, making no excuse, ran from the hall.
* * *
The next night a strange light was seen in the sky. As evening fell on Easter Sunday, she heard a commotion near the entrance to the church and, curious, hurried toward it. Alaric was there, listening to a priest as he pointed to the sky. There were whispers and murmurings, and Fallon became aware that the people saw the light as an omen of doom.
“It’s in the Book of Revelation!” a woman screamed, falling to her knees. “Armageddon falls upon us! Our sainted king Edward has spoken, and fire and brimstone will fall upon us. Surely Godwin killed Alfred, and now his son sits upon the throne. God will punish us all for the wicked ways of our nobility.”
“What nonsense!” Fallon cried out heatedly. She strode forward, not knowing what she would say, for the light in the sky frightened her, too. She had been there when King Edward had spoken, and she felt herself shivering now. Dear God, was there such a thing as destiny? Surely all of England could not be made to pay for one sin of the nobility? God could not be so callous.
“It is some action of the stars and the planets, nothing more!” Fallon cried. She spun about, lifting her skirts above the mud that filled the streets. She crossed to Father Damien who stood talking with Alaric.
Father Damien sometimes frightened Fallon more than any mystical words or blazes in the sky. He was a priest, aye; one who truly eschewed worldly ways. He was ascetic in all his habits and gentle in his manner. He was from Fens, a part of England where the old ways had died slowly, where Viking raiders had taken pagan wives. He answered to Christ, yet found no ill in the joyous celebration of the ancient holidays. He seemed ageless, with his dark hair and dark eyes. He had traveled all over the Continent and was knowledgeable in many things.
“Father Damien?” she murmured, hoping that he would speak.
He stayed silent a long time, and she could hear the beating of her own heart while the world seemed to hold still around them. Alaric’s eyes were upon her, and he watched her with a certain respect for the courage with which she had spoken against the crowd.
“It is but a comet,” Father Damien said slowly. “A special type of star with a tail. Men spoke of them when I was in Italy; they have been seen before, crossing the southern seas.”
Fallon breathed a sigh of relief. The crowd before the cathedral dispersed. Fallon turned to follow Father Damien back into the church. Breathless, she caught up with him. “Father!”
He paused, turning to her. She hesitated, suddenly finding that she didn’t know what to say.
“Father . . . thank you.”
He bowed to her. His dark eyes surveyed her with an intensity that made her nervous. “There is such a thing as a comet,” he said evasively.
“What do you mean?” she said sharply. “Father, you are a man of God! Surely you cannot believe in omens and curses, and—”
He shook his head. Fallon saw that he was looking beyond her. She turned to see that Alaric had come into the church behind her.
“‘Only when a green tree, split asunder, will join together of its own accord,’” Father Damien murmured.
Fallon spun back to him. He was staring at Alaric.
“What nonsense is this?” Alaric said.
The priest shook his head. “There are things older than time, Count Alaric,” he murmured. “We are not meant to understand God’s ways.”
Fallon had the curious feeling that he was seeing something, some future, which neither she nor Alaric could begin to comprehend. Fallon was more frightened than she had ever been.
Father Damien kept looking at Alaric. Then he bowed again, determined to pass on into the nave. “Count Alaric, we will meet again.”
“Now that, Father, is nonsense,” Alaric said softly. “We both know I will not return. We both know—”
“That war will raze the land,” Father Damien finished. Alaric looked at Fallon. “Count, I repeat, we will meet again.”
Staring at Alaric, Fallon was dimly aware of the priest’s footsteps echoing and fading as he departed. She went back outside. A new crowd was gathering to watch the light that rent the darkened sky.
