Princess of fire, p.22
Princess of Fire, page 22
Delon began shouting orders to his men. Fallon, catching her breath and backing away from the professional advance of the housecarls, saw her father’s standards—the Dragon of Wessex and the Fighting Man—being raised. As far as she could see, men were arrayed along the ridge. Commands were shouted, shields were raised, and the arrows found little space for damage.
Then she heard the thunder against the earth—the pounding of hundreds of horses’ hooves, beating out a rhythm. A horn sounded, and she could see the bulk of the Norman army as it marched forward. Foot soldiers with slings and arrows and javelins were followed by the horsemen. The sound of the hooves was a rampaging pulse across the land.
A man screamed and fell at her feet. A bloodcurdling cry began, and a housecarl moved forward, swinging his battle-ax, a savage desire for vengeance upon his features.
Fallon had sworn to stay away from the battle, but she could not. The man at her feet moaned, and she fell to her knees, eyeing the arrow that pierced his shoulder. She bit into her lip, placed her hand against his chest, and used all her strength against the weapon. The man screamed again as she pulled the arrow free.
She tore the soft bleaunt she wore beneath her leather armor and hastily bound the wound. With tremendous effort and a burst of desperate strength, she dragged the man down the hill and propped him up against a tree. He opened his eyes briefly, then passed out.
How horrible it was! Perhaps just a mile away the world was silent. There, soft and beautiful fall colors filled the land—oranges and browns, and a few radiant reds. The breeze that kissed the land was cool, and it was harvest season; the earth was ripe and giving and beautiful.
But not here.
The rumor went out that the duke was dead, and an ancient, pagan cry—even older than the Viking ways—went up among the Englishmen. A Norman withdrawal began, and the hill was flooded with the furious roar of victory and triumph. Men began to tear down the ridge after their retreating attackers.
Fallon stood and, with bloody hands, shielded her eyes from the sun. She walked in despair as a Norman horseman put a halt to his force’s retreat. Heavily armed knights bore down on foot soldiers, slicing and hacking as they went. Screams rent the air. This was no retreat; the line of Englishmen along the ridge faltered.
An injured man fell back against Fallon, and his weight toppled them both to the ground. His forehead was streaked with blood, and his eyes were pain-filled. “’Tis over,” he said hoarsely. “Leofwine—”
“My uncle! Is he injured, is he hurt?”
“Gyrth is slain.”
“Oh, God!” Fallon gasped.
“Leofwine, too, is down,” the man went on. “In the valley, toward the forest. They tried to run, but the Normans cut them down. They must retreat and band together again.”
Gyrth was dead. Loyal, handsome Gyrth. She wanted to cry out at the pain. The cries and the screams and the clash of steel went on and on; warnings were shouted as arrows rained upon them in a sudden volley.
“Leofwine! You say the ridge . . . ?”
The man opened his mouth, but no word came from it. His eyes closed, and she knew that he was dead.
Fallon hurried to the north side of the ridge, where they had camped. Trembling, she pulled her helmet and visor over her face, then drew out her specially made sword. She did not intend to do battle, but she had to help her kin. Gyrth was dead, and perhaps even now Leofwine lay dying. She couldn’t pause to cry; she dared not mourn or even think. She had helped other men; God help her, she had to save her own blood.
She grabbed a Saxon shield from a fallen man and, faltering slightly under its weight, started down the ridge. A Norman swung his ax at her, but she ducked beneath his weapon, her breath catching in her throat. She did not stop to fight him, but hurried on. She slipped and slid over the mud and mire created by the mixture of earth and blood. When a sword was raised against her, she parried the blow and ran. Finally she came to the valley beneath the ridge, and the forest beyond it.
“Leofwine!” She entered the forest screaming her uncle’s name. There was no answer. A man, tearing past her, grabbed her arm.
“Run! Deep into the forest! We have been shattered; all is lost! We must escape and must regroup. We must reach London and find reinforcements!”
“Nay, sir, wait! Leofwine, the king’s brother—”
He waved an arm at her and left her.
Fallon hurried onward. She stumbled upon a wounded youth, a young boy with nothing but a slingshot for a weapon. She fell down beside him and tried to bind the gash in his belly. “We must get you out of here!” she told him. She glanced up and saw that men were still escaping.
“Blessed angel!” the boy addressed her. His eyes were glazed with pain.
“Nay, blessed child!” she murmured. “You fought for my father, lad, and you gave your all. Now hold.”
She rose and caught the arm of the next man who sought to flee. “Wait, sir, I beg you, I need help.”
The man stared at her as if she were crazy. She shook his arm. “I’ve an injured boy here. Help him!”
The man swallowed and regained his courage. “I’ll take this one, but you must hurry. There’s Normans coming and coming—Frenchies and other damned foreign mercenaries, and the Norman knights.”
Fallon gazed around and saw that it was true. Norman knights were riding down the ridge in force now. Fallon leapt to retrieve her sword and stolen shield, and slammed her visor down over her face.
She began to fight fiercely, hearing Fabioni’s instructions in her mind: Never betray weakness, never betray weakness; shift and parry, shift and parry; never betray weakness.
Cunning was a weapon far greater than strength, and agility was a power with more reward than brawn alone. She was vaguely aware that Englishmen were escaping because she was able to keep several Normans occupied with swordplay. She injured some; she dared not wonder if she had killed any, or think what would come of her when she was finally exhausted and a furious Norman sword came in for the kill. If she could just break through the circle, she, too, could escape into the forest.
Then suddenly there was a new man among them. He paused, watching the struggle, and she dimly heard him shout to the others that he would take this one himself.
Then he rode toward her, and as he raised his sword, she tried to meet it with her own, but to no avail. His strength was astonishing; she let go of her sword, clenching her teeth against the pain in her arm as she fell to the ground with the power of his blow. She closed her eyes, awaiting death, as he circled her on his horse. Then he dismounted from his ebony steed and placed his bloody Nortrlan sword against her throat.
“Surrender and live!”
She wanted to cry out in horror. For it was Alaric who had taken her, who thrust his weapon against the pulse of her life.
Of all the men in William’s army, it was Alaric demanding that she yield. And she knew that she could never, never surrender.
He reached down to touch her, to wrench her visor and mask away.
“Nay! Leave me be!” she screamed.
She saw his eyes widen in fury, and she knew it did not matter that he lifted her visor. She had already given herself away.
Brutal, ruthless hands touched her, stripped her of her last defense. He gazed down at her, his eyes as cold as ice.
They had met as warriors, and she had lost. He had come to conquer, and he had done so.
Chapter Fourteen
Fallon remembered little of what Alaric said to her, except that her father was dead. Taken away by guards, she sat numbly in a cold room in Hastings and waited, knowing not how long she waited or what she waited for.
Men paused outside the door, and she heard them talking. One of them described Harold’s death. It was worse than Fallon could have dreamed.
“Aye, an arrow. Through the eye. Then four Norman knights moved in; some say William was among them. They tore the Saxon to shreds, sliced him to ribbons. They seek his body now.”
“Oh, God!” she whispered. Her heartache was unbounded. A numbness came over her in the black void.
The door opened. A coarse, heavy woman stepped forward and sliced through Fallon’s bonds with a knife, then dragged her to her feet.
“Allez!” she commanded. “You come.”
Fallon didn’t bother to tell the woman that she spoke French. She was too weary to fight, and she allowed herself to be dragged along. They left the fort and came to an outbuilding. Inside, a number of laundresses were scrubbing clothing in large tubs of water, and cooks were working over giant fires. Fallon wondered if she had been summoned to become a slave in the kitchen. If so, she was ready to work. Anything to forget that Harold of England lay dead, butchered that very day.
They stopped in front of a large tub of water from which steam rose. The heavyset woman commanded Fallon to get in. Had the Normans become entirely barbarian? Did they intend to boil her and consume her for their victory feast?
Then the woman produced a square of soap. Fallon shook her head, determined that if she was to be the victim of a rapist, he would have her at her very worst. The woman tugged on her sleeve.
“No! Non! Comprendez?” In French, Fallon called the woman a fat Norman whore and said she wouldn’t move an inch to oblige her.
In the next few moments, Fallon became convinced that Duke William should have had his laundresses and whores wage all his battles, for she was instantly overwhelmed. Her tormentor whistled, and assistance came quickly. Fallon screamed as the women bore down upon her, knocking her to the ground and ripping her clothing from her shred by shred. She rocked, she kicked, she fought—but when they moved away, she was naked, without a thread remaining on her. The heavy woman caught her by the hair and dragged her to the tub. Fallon entered the bath head first.
Again she tried to struggle; the woman set her lips in grim purpose, and Fallon nearly drowned. In the end, bone weary, she went limp. The woman washed her hair and scrubbed her body, leaving her no modesty. When it was over, she was dragged from the tub and dried, and dressed in a soft white chemise of air-light silk and a gown of Flemish lace. Her hair was brushed endlessly, and perfume was touched to her throat and shoulders. Fallon sat motionless through it; nothing much seemed to matter. She stared at the cooking knives and thought of plunging one of them deep into her own heart.
No . . . She raised her chin slowly.
The enemy did not rule England yet. Harold was dead, but a hostile countryside lay before these Norman scum. She had to keep living, and she had to keep fighting, like Harold, who had never given up. He had beaten back the Viking invaders with courage and mercy, and had marched forward to another battle. Her father had never quit, and he had never surrendered. He had played the game out until the very end. She would escape to the north. She would join her brothers.
“Allez!” the heavyset woman commanded her again. Fallon stared at her, then rose. A warm mantle was thrown over her shoulders. She was led through the outbuilding, among the industrious cooks, most of whom were Normans, although there were some newly acquired Saxon servants. As they passed a worktable, Fallon deftly seized a small knife and swept it inside the folds of her gown.
She was walked out of the fort and through the field that stretched before it. Hundreds and hundreds of Norman tents were arrayed before her. A few men sat around campfires; most of them seemed to have retired for the night. Fallon kept her head low, wondering what awaited her.
The woman stopped suddenly, lifted a tent flap, and thrust her inside with a mighty shove, stripping the warm mantle from her as she did so. Fallon caught herself with her palms as she hit the ground, then inhaled sharply as she surveyed her domain.
A squat table stood before her. On it she could see wine, bread, cheese, and meat. She dragged her eyes from the food to see that a bed stood nearby—not a simple pallet, but a bed with a frame of wood and strung rope, a thick mattress, linen sheets, and fat pillows. Suddenly she was terrified. She inhaled sharply, wondering what had kept fear at bay for so very long.
She had been brought here as someone’s prize. Sheer horror awaited her.
She began to shiver as she recalled the dreadful stories that had come in from the coast after the Normans landed. The soldiers had murmured that William meant to enrage her father by decimating the population of Wessex as he went. Homes had been razed, livestock slaughtered, men killed, and women brutally raped.
Fallon was so dizzy she feared that she would pass out. The Normans had seized the women of Wessex in the passion and rage of conquest; they had taken their victims in the streets, in the mud, in their homes, wherever they had been found.
This was different. No sudden passion had made her its victim. She had been bathed and pampered, and here lay food to please her and a bower that might well suit a bride.
Alaric?
No; this would not be his way. This definitely did not reflect his mixed feelings for her. He had touched her only because circumstance had thrown them together. He desired her, yes, but he also despised her.
Fear streaked through her as she realized that Alaric had given her to someone else as if she were a fine mare, a manor house, or a hunting hound! He had made a present of her, and some Norman warrior would soon come here to claim his reward for a battle well fought.
Weakness swamped her. Surely this was for the best she told herself. Hadn’t she wished that any other man had come upon her in the trees? Did she not hate Alaric above all Normans?
Aye, this was for the best. She trembled, remembering his touch, and knew that no other man had ever made he feel that way. Without him near her, she was still free. She could still fight, and she would conquer.
A movement behind her made her turn. She braced herself against the ground and stared warily at the man who entered the tent.
She had seen this man with Alaric earlier. He was massive, with thick curly hair and a curly beard, and he offered her a shy smile. He told her good evening in English, then apologized for his poor use of the language. He came farther into the tent and poured wine into two brass goblets; his fingers shook as he did so. He offered a chalice to Fallon, and in fury she knocked it from his hand. He bit his lip, picked up the goblet, and poured more wine into it.
“Please, Princess. My name is Falstaff. I am your friend. I cherish you above all women.” He spoke so softly and with such reverence that Fallon accepted the wine this time, but was careful never to take her eyes from his.
The wine was good. It helped to ease the agony in her heart and in her mind.
She felt his eyes consume her as he took in every detail of her figure beneath the white lace gown.
“I will marry you!” he said suddenly.
“Sir, I promise that I will never, never marry you.”
He shook his head. “Please, milady, I don’t wish to hurt you.”
“If you love me,” she whispered. “Let me go. Let me return to my own people.”
“I cannot.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged, and she was suddenly sorry that she could never love him, for he looked as sad as she felt at that moment. “William would skewer the man who released you,” he said, raising his hands helplessly. “Milady, mercenaries roam England. Cruel men. Were you free, you would but become a shared prize among many.”
“Not if I could reach my people!” Fallon pleaded desperately.
She felt panic rising within her when he sat beside her and touched her cheek. “Princess, love me, and I will die to defend you!” he swore.
She froze as he lowered his head and tried to kiss her. He placed his hand clumsily on her breast, and she jumped to her feet and ran. With a cry of distress he was after her.
There was little space for her to move, and he trapped her against the skin wall of the tent. She spun around to face him, curling her fingers around the little knife she had stolen from the kitchen. “Please! Please don’t touch me!” she begged him.
“I have to,” he told her, stepping forward.
She didn’t want to kill him. She had never wanted to draw blood at all. Her father had been right. Killing was something that changed men and women alike. As much as she despised Normans, she did not want to kill them . . . but she would not submit to force.
“Come gently, fiery lass—” he began, and he reached for her.
She drew the little knife from the folds of the white gown and thrust it hard into his belly.
He stared at her in amazement, clutched his abdomen in both his hands, and cried out in pain.
Suddenly, guards burst into the tent. They stared at the fallen knight and looked at her as if she were a witch or a sorceress, “Christ above!” One of the men crossed himself. “I’ll go for the count!” he said.
Alaric.
He despised her; he had not wanted her. He had given her away, and the friend upon whom he had bestowed her now lay in a pool of blood, dying.
But she couldn’t move. She stayed there, huddled against the tent, terrified.
Suddenly Alaric burst into the tent, larger than life. He filled the space; he filled the very air with his aura of command He had shed his mail, but his sword was still belted to· his waist. He stared at her with shock and hatred, then fell to his knees beside his friend.
She was still dazed, still frightened, but she dimly heard him order the guards to take the man Falstaff to be tended to with the greatest care.
Then they were alone, and she thought she would suffocate. She tried to stand straight, but she trembled inside. She had to escape from him; she could not bear to be near him in this small place where his eyes were like steel and smoke and fire and his fury reached out to encompass her like a palpable thing.
“You murderous bitch!”
“I had no wish to kill him, or even harm him. He attacked me, and I fought back.”
“He adored you! He was hopelessly enamored of you!”
“I was not enamored of him!”
“You might well have killed him!”
“He shouldn’t have attacked me!”
