Princess of fire, p.26
Princess of Fire, page 26
Richard smiled, and the guards bowed. “My lady, we are given to believe that you could prove too much for an army,” one told her.
She smiled sweetly and slammed the door.
Richard carefully balanced the tray and set it down on the trunk. He had brought her a large leather tankard of ale, fresh bread, dried fish, and a half-dozen beautiful red apples. She thanked him absently, but he hovered nearby, and realizing that he waited still, she looked his way.
“Please don’t try to escape again,” the boy said.
She cocked her head warily. “I’ve no plans to escape at the moment, I’m afraid, but why the warning?”
“You will be dealt with harshly.”
Had she been treated with kindness thus far? she wondered bitterly.
Richard watched her unhappily and continued. “The guards who watch this door are from the count’s own lands. You became somewhat of a wonder when you brought great Falstaff down. The guards have been warned that you also brought men of our own armies to blows. And if you give them one stitch of trouble, the count said you should be tied to a stake, and that he’d take a whip to your back himself when he returned.”
“Did he, now?” Fallon muttered darkly.
“Ah! But it pained him to say it, my lady!”
Fallon, biting into an apple, arched a brow to him skeptically.
Richard continued, “He said you were far too beautiful to mar, that you were the true treasure of the Saxons, that—”
She couldn’t help herself; she burst out laughing. Richard saw the sparkle that touched her eyes, and he was glad.
“He said no such thing, and you know it!” Fallon accused the boy.
“You know him so well, my lady?” Richard queried softly.
“Aye, in a way, I know him well,” she murmured softly. I’ve known him a long time, if naught else. She started to smile again but controlled the curl of her lip sternly. “I know him well enough to know that of all the things you have told me, the only one I believe is that he would take a whip to my back.”
“He said you were beautiful,” Richard repeated staunchly. Actually, Alaric had said that she was a beautiful witch, but no matter, he had the truth close enough. “And he said that he cared for you.” Alaric had said that he was bound to the family of the late King Harold. That, too, was surely one and the same.
She stared at him, with her skeptical smile growing, and she laughed again. She offered him an apple. “Will you join me, then, my storytelling friend?” He watched her, and his breath caught. Her eyes were a soft and fathomless blue, and her hair was like midnight, wild and tangled and curling down her back and around her hips. She was more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen. She was the old king’s daughter, and a Norman prisoner now—the count’s mistress, though they seemed so bitterly opposed to each other. And still, she was better off here, Richard thought, than elsewhere in these parts. He had heard William order that the town of Romney be razed and that no mercy be shown to those who dwelt there. Alaric had counseled temperance, but to no avail.
Richard stood in awe of Count Alaric, who was a tower of strength, graceful as a cat, with gray eyes that commanded obedience. Richard knew his fate in life was to serve some man, and Alaric seemed to him one of the best.
Richard was fascinated with them both—his Norman lord and this Saxon lady, the king’s beautiful, proud daughter.
Fallon continued to offer him the apple. He shook his head. “Thank you, milady, but I’ve work to do. I’ll come back tonight.”
Bowing, he left her. Fallon chewed the apple slowly, staring after him. She smiled slowly, thinking him a kind lad, and more—he was her only link with the outside world.
She washed quickly, suddenly in a panic that Alaric would return before she could dress. Then she reminded herself that he was probably out ravaging the countryside and would not return until evening.
When she had washed and dressed, she began to pace the room. From the one small window she could see the men who had remained to guard the fort. Some of the less severely wounded lay about, idly whittling, gaming, dicing, and drinking.
And she could see some of her own people within the Norman fort—old women selling fresh fish and baby eels, men working at harnesses and trappings. Fallon heard laughter and saw younger women, their eyes alight, teasing the soldiers. Pain sizzled in her chest. While the land even now buckled with terror, some of the people were eagerly playing by the new rules.
A shriek of laughter burst out as a young girl with brown eyes and a wealth of chestnut hair fell into a Norman soldier’s lap. His hand closed eagerly around her breast, and he pressed a coin inside her bodice. Still laughing, she kissed the man.
Fallon drew back into the room, her cheeks burning. She sat on the bed, then lay down dizzy, pressing her temples.
The girl was a whore. But was Fallon any better? She was a well-guarded captive, yes, but she was well fed, with a boy to serve her needs. She had fought one Norman, Falstaff, even though he had been kind to her.
But she had yielded everything to Alaric, and now he laughed at her. She wished that he had taken her by force, because it was difficult to live with the memories of everything that had happened once he had gently taken her into his arms. She paled and her breath grew quick as she contemplated the future. How could she fight him when she did not understand what it was that drew them together? She ought to despise him, but as she had told Richard—she did know him well.
She shivered and began again to pace the room. She needed strength. She needed to remember her father, her uncles, and her own broken pride; she had to believe that the fighting was not yet over, that the English would rally. With those thoughts in mind, she would be able to hold Alaric off.
The day passed slowly. Fallon was anxious and restless, awaiting Alaric. But he did not return. When night came, Richard brought her food and a small candle.
She paced again, and still Alaric did not come. At last she lay down to sleep, wondering why she could not rest. She did not want to endure a scene like the one that had taken place the night before!
There was a whole country out there to be ravaged and taken, she reminded herself. Norman whores had followed Norman men, and many practical-minded Saxon lasses were apparently determined to charge for what the men could have taken for free if they so chose. Alaric could be with anyone of them. He didn’t want her; he had given her to Falstaff. He had only come close to her because his rage had been so great. He had made love to her simply because something inside them both, long brewing and seething, had exploded in a hot spring. She bit her lip, for even in thinking of it, the warmth flooded through her again.
And then last night . . .
Fully clothed, she curled against the wall and assured herself over and over that Alaric really was among the men who had hacked her father to pieces.
She did not sleep until morning.
* * *
Alaric did not ride into Ronmey, but stayed on a nearby ridge. He had little control over the destruction of the town, but he did see to it that those who surrendered were not butchered. The rewards that William had promised his men were reaped in Romney. Anything of value in the place was loaded upon carts, and then the town was burned. French, Flemish, and German mercenaries were given free rein, and from where Alaric sat, grim and silent, his cool gray eyes scanning the scene, it was a brutal and barbaric picture.
He thought with gratitude and relief of Falstaff. The great bear of a man was surviving, and surviving well, so the surgeons said. In time, they could almost promise, he would be up and about again.
He was grateful for Falstaff, furious all over with Fallon.
It was almost easier to watch the destruction. He knew that he had probably saved a few lives by his words to William and his presence.
Robert of Mortain was to stay in Romney to see that William received his due. When dusk began to fall, Alaric lifted his hand to the men who had followed him, and they started toward a manor in a small village called Haselford. Roger Beauclare, riding at his side, asked him, “We’ll not ride back to Hastings tonight?”
Alaric shook his head. The thane of Haselford had fallen during the battle, he had learned. The thane had had no lady, and so the manor, a beautiful place built sturdily in stone, stood empty. The people here were subdued, having already heard the rumor of what had come before, and what was due to happen in Romney. Their serfs and cotters and villeins were grateful that Alaric spoke their language, and they had fallen into his service quite easily. He had left behind a number of his banners to be displayed so that any other Norman contingent coming through would know that he had already claimed the place.
“I’ve a feeling that we’ll arrive to a sumptuous meal,” Alaric said, “for the Saxons of Haselford are glad of our protection. And I am tired. I haven’t slept more than five hours in the last two nights.”
Roger laughed suddenly, and Alaric looked sharply at his young friend. Roger attempted to sober somewhat, but he was still grinning. “And back at Hastings you have a dilemma, too.” Alaric was still staring at him somewhat savagely so Roger hastily continued. “I’ve heard tell that you ordered Fallon Godwin brought to your chamber at Hastings, and I understand that Lady Margaret is less than pleased with the situation.”
Alaric shrugged. It was true—Margaret was not pleased. At first she’d been angry, and then she had cried, and then she’d demanded to know how he could prefer a filthy Saxon to her. But rumors about Fallon were already flying fast and quick, and there were few men who did not find the Saxon king’s daughter a rare and stunning beauty.
Alaric was not good with explanations, nor did he feel that he needed any, for he did not make promises. Margaret demanded to know if he intended to keep the girl. He suggested as kindly as he could that Margaret was free to sail back across the Channel, since the decision to come had been her own.
Margaret had stared at him, then murmured softly and sweetly that she would wait.
He should go back to her, he thought. Ride back, order a bath, close his eyes in the steam, and lose himself to Margaret’s soothing ministrations.
He could not, though, and he did not know why. Nor could he go back to his own room, for he was sorely, sorely exhausted, and he could not deal with Fallon’s pride, tears, hatred, and fury this night. He would win their private battle, he vowed to himself. But tonight he sought peace.
“I’m afraid that Lady Margaret must be unhappy,” Alaric said.
“Margaret knows what she does, and what she wants. If she is unhappy with my present arrangement, she is free to move on.”
“Just what is your present arrangement?” Roger asked.
Alaric threw his friend a sharp gaze, then laughed. “I don’t know myself.”
Roger turned away from him to look up at the pale blue autumn sky. “Were she mine,” he said softly, “I would wed her and spend the rest of my days begging her forgiveness.”
“God be with us!” Alaric said. “How could I have forgotten! All those years ago at Bosham! She was ordered to serve me, and she persuaded you to perform her tasks!”
Roger grinned at Alaric ruefully. “Aye. The sound of her laughter was well worth the effort.” He quickly went on, “I am your man, Alaric, and well you know it. But if you ever leave her, I will be there—with your permission, of course.”
Alaric lowered his head, smiling. It was good to have men so loyal, and yet he wondered why he could not turn to his friend and say “Take her, have her, wed her, slay her; it is no difference to me.” He told himself that the reason was his vow to Edith. Nor could he trust Fallon with his men while Falstaff still lay so close to death.
“Ah, Alaric!” Roger said suddenly. “Why, smell! The air is full of the aroma of roasting meat so well seasoned that I fear I’ll faint ere we reach the house!”
Alaric chuckled. It was true. The scent coming from the village was wonderful. He urged Satan on, and the huge black horse leapt forward and raced toward the buildings. Roger followed suit.
At Haselford they dismounted. Alaric was not so foolish as to take risks, and so he ordered twenty men to remain on guard until midnight, when those who had feasted first would take over.
The steward’s name was Hamlin; he served them ale while the round, rosy-cheeked cook and her three daughters set out platters of lamb and roasted fowl. Alaric surveyed the hall from his seat at the head of the long tresde table. The hall had been built with stone and brick and very little wood. The walls were covered with richly woven tapestries, and the staircase leading to the floor above was elaborately sculpted with guardian lions. Red carpeting cascaded over the stone stairs, and the upper arches were decorated with a vast display of arms—lances and pikes and swords.
“My lord?”
He turned. Hamlin was standing behind him, nervously folding his hands together. “Aye, my good man?” Alaric queried. He was middle-aged, with long wispy white hair and a full beard. Alaric suppressed a smile, for he was an ugly old man to have sired the three lushly pretty and buxom blondes who served his men. Perhaps their mother had been a beauty. Or perhaps, years ago, Hamlin had been a handsome young swain himself.
“Has the meal pleased you?”
Alaric lifted his goblet of ale. “Everything here has added to my complete pleasure.”
The old man expelled a sigh of relief and crossed himself.
“Is something wrong?” Alaric asked.
The steward shook his head and swallowed, and his misty blue eyes fell on Alaric. “Sire, your banners saved us today, when a knight would have set fire to the buildings. Nothing was taken, for we assured him that you would return. My daughters, are safe this night. We’ve beds to sleep in and food to eat. I do not know why we should be spared when our people have met with such catastrophe, but I thank God, and for myself and the others, I beg that you stay on here.”
Alaric watched him, amazed that any Saxon could beg him for anything. Yet he realized that Hamlin—like the others who served them that night—had left this small place only to travel to other villages; they had never seen Harold. They had never seen William. Hamlin knew only that others suffered and that he had been spared.
He gazed around him again and thought that he would indeed lend his protection to this place. He would ask William for the deed to it—should William ever be crowned.
“You’ve my protection,” Alaric said. “Does anyone here write?”
“Aye, sire, the priest. He’s gone to say prayers over the dead.”
“When he returns, have him give me an accounting of every man, woman, and child here. List our assets—what plows and oxen we have, what ponies, what sheep and ducks. I will need to know what trades and crafts the men practice, too.”
Hamlin told Alaric that they had two smiths, two tanners, a miller, and many fine carpenters, metalworkers, and stonemasons. He was proud of how self-sufficient they were, and Alaric was deeply glad to hear it, for it seemed that the winter before them would be rough. The Normans were in a deep predicament, though William would do his best, and Alaric knew that he would travel with the duke. Of the eight thousand men who had come to England, three thousand had been lost. And now they had to press on into hostile country.
But this haven, he determined, would be his.
He watched his men drinking and eating, teasing the girls good-naturedly. Weary, he patted Roger on the back and started for the stairs. At the landing he found a narrow hallway and several doors. He tested them until he came to the master’s suite. There he found a fine big bed, many trunks, and a number of shuttered east windows. He decided that the room would serve him well, and knowing that his men were still on guard, he lay down wearily. Just before he closed his eyes, he noted that the double doors to the suite were several inches thick. He smiled, and slept.
In the morning, Alaric explained a part of his situation to Hamlin. Then he chose a group of men to ride back to Hastings for Fallon, and another group to stay behind and guard the manor. A messenger had arrived from William. The officials at Dover, the one fortified city on the coast, had heard of the devastation at Romney and had already surrendered.
As Alaric reached the outskirts of Dover, however, he discovered that some of William’s army had begun to burn the town of Dover in spite of the surrender. William was angry, yet there had been such a great number of perpetrators that he could do little to punish them. He planned to offer the city compensation instead.
It was a long and difficult day. Alaric had to deal with sullen invaders and weeping residents, and William was in one of his foulest tempers. When night fell, the two men decided to avoid the roads through the forest, lest they be ambushed.
London was just a day’s ride away on a swift horse, but they planned to take their time reaching it. “God’s blood! Why do we hear nothing?” William swore.
Alaric shrugged, but he knew the English. “I’m willing to assume that they will declare Edgar the Atheling their new king. Perhaps the earls, Edwin and Morkere, are in London now. There will be some sort of a stand. It’s important that we go slowly and take care.”
“They have sent no army against us,” William muttered.
“And if we are lucky, they will not,” Alaric said, “for we are badly outnumbered now, with so many dead at Hastings.”
William sat tiredly in a camp chair. They were losing more men every day, for many soldiers had to be left behind to build forts and castles and to hold the positions they had taken.
Worse still, in the last few days, many men had died of fever and disease. William’s physicians had agreed that the English water had done it—they had run out of wine. The men were so sick that many might well die.
William slammed a fist against his charts. “’Tis lucky our wine lasted as long as it did, else Harold would have had no one to battle at Hastings, and we’d have ended ere we started!” He clenched his teeth, and Alaric wondered if William himself was ill.
He said nothing, though, and Alaric did not question him. It was late, and so he and his men camped on the road outside Dover. So many men had taken sick that chaos reigned in the city, and Alaric had to make judgments for Saxon and Norman alike in William’s name. In the end, he and his men were forced to stay far longer than he had intended, nearly a week. When some semblance of order had been restored to the fortified city, Alaric asked William’s leave to return to the countryside. William gave his consent, telling Alaric that he would begin a very slow march to London, and that he would have Alaric and his men back at his side long before he reached the outskirts of the city. “Take a week, Alaric, and then come back to me,” William advised him. “I will take London before the New Year!”
