Princess of fire, p.19
Princess of Fire, page 19
“Doom!” someone screamed.
“Judgment Day is at hand!”
“Doom comes with the Normans, who will attack us for their own gain!” Fallon called out. She jumped up on a hay wagon in the road and spoke with passion. “There is no curse on England! God has given you a good king, a king who listens to all men, a king who judges men with a warm heart and an open mind. A king who loves the land and has served it these many years!”
Voices rose in agreement. Thus heartened, Fallon continued. “There is no curse on this land! The only curse we might encounter is the scourge of war that others would make upon us! The curse lies across the Channel, where a savage bastard duke prepares to march against us. Good people, it is foreign princes, not your duly anointed king, who will bring us pain!”
“Normans!”
“Aye, the wretched Normans!”
Fallon realized then that Alaric had followed her; that he stood before her now with a darkening face and eyes that bored into hers with furious reproach. She swallowed, suddenly aware that the crowd was now ranging round him. A missile flew past his head—a pebble tossed by some goodwife. The crowd began to swarm.
“No!” she whispered. The crowd would kill him. There were at least fifty men and women milling before the church doors. They would swarm against him, they would crush him, they would kill him. And she had incited them to it.
“Nay, nay!” she cried, but her voice could no longer be heard, for the people were shouting out their hatred of the Normans. She tried desperately to press her way through the crowd.
“Hold!”
Even above the din, Alaric’s baritone voice could be heard. He suddenly leapt onto a cart, holding the vicious blade of his broadsword before him. “Peace be with you, good folk. I am a guest of your anointed king. You may well kill me, but ere I fall, I will take a goodly number of you with me. Would you spill your blood so foolishly?”
There were grumblings in the crowd. Several men who held sticks dropped them. The grumblings became mutterings, and one by one, the people began to turn away.
And then they were alone in the darkening night, with the comet streaking across the ebony sky above them. Fallon felt the pure and lethal fury in his eyes; it scalded her soul.
“Fallon, do you seek my death so passionately that you would watch the blood run here before this church? It will run soon enough, milady.”
“Aye! Aye!” She cried, shaken. “You will come against us! ’Tis a pity they did not slay you. One less Norman knight for us to battle later!”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then he bowed, a twisted, ironic smile curling his lip. “Pray, Fallon. Pray for England. And if you’ve any sense, pray for yourself. If you ever fall to me, mademoiselle, I promise that you will pay dearly.”
He turned, and strode quickly toward the palace. Fallon watched his broad shoulders fade into the darkness, and she looked up at the sky again.
No matter what she said or did, the people would see the comet as an omen. She cried out softly to the night, for her father might well see it as an omen, too.
“No, God, please no!” she murmured softly. But there was no answer in the night, and as a chill descended upon her, she hugged her arms about her shoulders and ran back to the palace.
She hurried to her father’s private chambers. Pausing in the antechamber, she saw that Harold was not alone.
Alaric was with him. They spoke in quiet words, and then both men rose. They embraced like old friends.
Fallon swallowed and flattened herself against the tapestries in the antechamber. Alaric walked past her, and Fallon knew that in the morning he would be gone.
He and Harold had met for the last time as friends. If they ever came face to face again, it would be at sword’s length, and they would fight each other to the death.
Chapter Twelve
The comet was visible in the night sky for seven days; it had barely disappeared before word came that a hostile fleet had been seen off the southern coast.
It was not, however, William’s army.
A very tall, white-blond Dane rode with the messenger who came to Harold. He was introduced to Fallon as her cousin Eric Ulfson, a prince of the royal house of Denmark. He had come to her father with the news that her uncle Tostig had traveled throughout Normandy, Flanders, Norway, Denmark, and Sweden, seeking to build an army to march against his brother. It was Tostig’s fleet that now threatened the southern coast. The fryd was in confusion, for the men had been told to watch for a Norman fleet. They were now amassing food for Tostig, not in support, but rather as a bribe, that he might disappear.
Harold prepared to ride to meet his brother, and Fallon soon found herself more and more in the company of her Danish cousin. He was a striking man, very handsome in his pale Nordic way, and a heavily muscled warrior. But his eyes, pale and devouring, were always upon her. She didn’t like Eric. Curiously, she found herself comparing him not to Delon but to Alaric. Why? she wondered. Eric was her ally, and Alaric was her enemy. But they were both veterans of countless battles, and both, she knew, desired her.
But there was something different about the two, even in the way they looked at her. Something warm caused her heart to flutter and beat too hard when Alaric gazed upon her; even hating him, she trembled to his touch. But something cold stirred within Fallon when Eric’s eyes fell upon her.
“Eric is more like Harald Hardrada than the Danish king,” her uncle Leofwine said once. “He plays the Viking still; he has been on countless raids on the Baltic Sea and into Russia. They say he fights like a berserker, and that nothing is sacred to him.”
“But Father welcomes him here,” Fallon said.
Leofwine shrugged. “It is good to have allies in days such as these. The Danish king is content with his own kingdom, while Harald Hardrada in Norway is still to be feared. Be courteous to our Danish cousin, Fallon.”
She was courteous, though Eric’s presence chilled her. One night, as he sat by her side, he kissed her hand, and she felt naked as his eyes surveyed her. “Fallon, I would that we were enemies, as of old. I would sail in here and take you away with me.”
Fallon took her hand from his as politely as she could. “But we do not live in days of old,” she told him. “We are kin of sorts, and you have come as our friend.”
“Ah, and perhaps one day I will be called upon as your ally. I will fight any battle for you; I will defeat any enemy.”
Fallon forced a smile to her lips and tried not to shiver. “Thank you, milord, but I hope such a time does not come.”
“Nevertheless, lady, remember that I am your servant.” His pale eyes told a frightening story. He would kill with gusto and pleasure. Perhaps that was the difference, she thought, between Eric and Alaric. Count Alaric, she thought, would kill with little relish. He was a knight and would do so only in defense of his liege. Eric would kill for the joy of it alone.
She looked across the hall and saw Delon, and their eyes met in misery. Harold had been keeping them apart, and they were both afraid that the king did, indeed, intend to use his daughter for a pawn. But perhaps it was just the tension of the times. Harold had not known a single moment’s rest since he had taken the crown. He was not a man to break a promise, and Fallon knew how heavily it weighed upon her father that he had broken his vow to William of Normandy. The comet had disturbed him for that reason, and he had spent many long nights on his knees, seeking answers to his dilemmas.
Fallon was glad when Eric Ulfson rode with her father to meet her uncle Tostig’s threat.
As it turned out, there was not to be a confrontation between the two brothers then; Tostig’s army, on hearing that Harold was coming, began to desert. Tostig sailed north, seeking refuge with the Scottish king. From the coast, Eric Ulfson sailed for Denmark.
Harold now prepared to ride south, to his base of operations on the Isle of Wight, and Fallon would accompany her father. They could both go home, for Fallon thought her mother would be able to ease the worry from her father’s brow. It was summer, and the land was lush and beautiful, and the king could enjoy some well-earned rest while they awaited the Norman host from across the sea.
* * *
Alaric stood with William and his half brothers, Robert and Odo, studying the chart of coastal England. Their faces were grim, for they would be at the mercy of the winds, and William was going to attempt something that had never been done before. Vikings had crossed the seas to raid and plunder, but William sought to cross the Channel to make war; he was taking with him thousands of horses and a curious mixture of men. He had spent the winter and early spring convincing his own magnates that his quest was justified, but all of Normandy was just the size of one English earldom. He had to leave a certain amount of his army behind in Normandy, lest trouble arise there in his absence. To acquire the army that he needed he made promises, and as they stood there that day, Alaric was painfully aware that there could be no turning back. It was a risky venture; though William spoke with confidence, they were at the mercy of the fickle wind. And when they landed, they would be a small host in a large and hostile country. Also, Harold knew they were coming. As soon as they landed, they would be met.
William gestured across the map, indicating the southeastern coast of England They discussed the wind and the places where they could attempt to land, each man putting in his opinion. William chose an area he knew well from the Norman monastery there. Their voices were all quiet and subdued, for there could be no guarantees. Many of William’s greatest magnates were still calling it a fool’s quest.
There was a rap on the door, and FitzOsbern entered at William’s bidding. He stared at the duke, and a slow smile spread across his features.
“We’ve been given the papal blessing!” FitzOsbern said. The duke gazed quickly at Alaric, who had suggested, along with Bishop Lenfrenc, that their cause might become a holy war rather than a war of conquest. If the pope could be convinced that English religious practices were lax, then he would give the duke his blessing. Now they had it.
Still smiling broadly, FitzOsbern came into the room. “The pope has sent his banner, and he has sent a ring with holy relics for you to wear. Harold stands in excommunication!”
William nodded.
FitzOsbern continued excitedly. “Already barons and knights flock in from all over Europe to ride at your side!”
William ordered that a keg of wine be brought out so that they all might drink to this small victory, and after much celebrating, Robert and Odo and FitzOsbern departed to their beds. William and Alaric laughed over old battles and drank more wine.
Then William gazed at Alaric, and lifted his chalice. “You do not approve of this battle.” He shook his head, staring into space. “Alaric, they tell a tale that on the night I was conceived, my mother woke from a curious dream. A tree grew within her, and it spread its branches from Europe across the sea.” His voice grew husky with excitement. “By God, Alaric, do you not see this as fate?”
Alaric paused, thinking of the comet that had trailed across the sky. It had been seen in many countries, and the general consensus, related by travelers and churchmen, seemed to be that the light in the sky had something to do with the English problem. Did God work in such ways, he wondered? Was there such a thing as fate?
He turned to William. “William, I know nothing of fate. Were I the last man left standing at your side, I would fight for you still with no thought of surrender. If I am saddened, it is because I admire Harold, and I admire the English.”
“I had meant to rule them justly,” William murmured.
“But now,” Alaric said, “assuming this lunacy upon which we embark brings forth fruit, you will be king of a country full of sullen people who hate you, and us. You will have to ravage the land. What other finance will you have for your venture? Your Norman knights will seek land and riches; the mercenaries who travel with us will destroy everything they touch. I am sorry only because I know what must be.”
William stared at his cup. “I admire Harold, too,” he murmured. “But the die is cast.” He lifted his cup to Alaric. “Who knows, my friend? We may perish in the attempt to cross that cantankerous sea!” He swallowed down a long draft of wine. Alaric watched him, and they touched their chalices together. They laughed, but their laughter was painful. William was right. The die was cast.
* * *
“See that little boat house yonder?” Harold, lying on a blanket of thick green grass beneath an endless blue sky, pointed to a little shack on the dock at Bosham, Chichester Harbor. Fallon chewed on a stem of grass and shielded her eyes against the sun as she nodded.
“Once,” Harold said, “when we were very young, Svein and Tostig and I accidentally dumped a huge catch of fish back into the sea. We were frightened of your grandfather’s temper, and so we hid in that little shack for hours.”
Fallon smiled to think of her father as a small boy, hiding in a small building. “What happened then?” she asked him.
“Your grandfather caught us, and we were all well switched, I do assure you.” He paused for a moment, then smiled again. “When your grandfather was in exile, he determined to return here despite Edward’s anger. We sailed here from Flanders, and when we came to Pevensey Harbor, and onward, and everywhere, the people cheered Godwin and his sons. Ah, Fallon, I love it here, as nowhere in England.”
“It is very beautiful here,” she agreed. A movement behind her distracted her, and she turned to see her mother, smiling and barefoot with her skirts hiked high, carrying a basket with loaves of bread and cheese. Edith was still so lovely, Fallon thought. She looked like a girl today, with her soft blond locks and bare brown ankles.
Fallon stood. In the distance, she could hear a clash of steel. Her brothers, her uncles, and certain of her father’s closest retainers, including Delon, practiced at arms. The sound disturbed the peace of the summer’s day.
“Fallon!” her mother cried as Fallon started to walk away. “I’ve brought some food.”
“I’ll come back, Mother,” Fallon promised. She gave them a wave and started toward the water, determined that her parents should have some time alone. She came to the little boat house her father had pointed out to her and she sat on the dock there, stripped away her shoes and stockings, and dangled her toes in the cold water. She rested her head on her knees, and sighed softly. Summer was waning, and the men of the fryd growing restless. The men owed the king only two months’ service, and they had given more than that already. Many came from villages far inland, and they had heard nothing of their families. Winter would come, and there was work to be done at home. Southern England was being stripped. The king had forbidden his men to plunder, but even as he paid for provisions, they were having to send farther and farther north for food to feed the vast horde.
Soft laughter rippled across the field of grass and summer daisies, and Fallon turned to see her parents. They lay together now, stretched out on the grass, and it was her mother’s laughter which had come to her.
For a moment a pain gripped her heart, and Fallon thought that that was what she wanted. A love like that, so sweet, so pure, that it defied all understanding. If they were not one before the world, they were still united by their hearts, and perhaps that was all that mattered. Edith had never cared that Harold had not made her his wife. “Nay . . .” Fallon murmured aloud. She would never stand for such a relationship herself. Her mother was gentle, but not proud, and Fallon had little control over her own pride. “Nay, I would never live as Mother has!” She heard the melody of her mother’s laughter again and wondered what it would be like to love so deeply and so well that the world did not matter at all.
Fallon frowned suddenly. She felt the pounding of horses’ hooves against the dock and earth before she heard it. She glanced across the field and saw that her father had heard the horses, too. He was standing, and her mother was rising behind him. Riders in her father’s colors burst out of the forest and came to a stop before Harold.
Fallon stared at the scene for a moment, then rose. Forgetting her shoes and stockings, she started to run across the green grass, beneath the radiant blue sky. Breathless, she stopped behind her mother, and as she gasped for breath, the bird-song seemed louder than the words of the messenger.
“Father, what is it?” Fallon demanded as he turned at last, his face haggard and his eyes haunted. “Have the Normans come at last?”
“Nay, nay! We agreed that we should hold the ships until the Nativity of Saint Mary. Tomorrow. I will lead the housecarls back to London tomorrow, and the chartered ships will return to the Cinque Ports. We believe that the duke will wait until spring to attack.”
He kissed Edith. “So we have today,” he told her.
The next morning Harold’s men came riding up to the door of the house. Harold mounted his horse. Fallon came running out and hurried to him. “Father, your sons stay here to guard the coast, and Mother stays, too. I will go with you.”
Harold had meant to argue, but he smiled and shrugged instead, for he knew it was very difficult to win a battle with her. “Come then, Fallon.”
Delon dismounted quickly and helped her mount her dappled mare.
Ever since the comet had shot across the sky, Fallon had been afraid. She simply had to stay with her father, in case there was some small way in which she could defend him. She loved him, and could not bear to lose him.
* * *
At the mouth of the river Dives, Alaric stood on the dock staring at the ship that would take him across the Channel. He wet a finger and lifted it high. Still there was no breeze.
He looked around the harbor, which was crowded with William’s ships. They were of Viking design, hastily built, and ranging in size from thirty to seventy-two feet; all had dragons’ heads at their prows.
The air was completely still. A murmur went up among the more than ten thousand men gathered here. They felt that God was against them, since no breeze would come from the south to carry them across the Channel. Falstaff, quieting the horses, turned to Alaric, who shrugged. William came toward him.
