Princess of fire, p.27
Princess of Fire, page 27
Before evening fell, they were ready to ride back to Haselford. He was curious that his men seemed as eager to ride as he, but then the manor was a strange and peaceful refuge where hatred had not yet found a purchase.
By night they came upon the manor. Dismounting in the courtyard, Alaric looked curiously up at the shuttered windows on the second floor of the manor. Warmth began to flood through him, and he felt the steady beating of his heart. Was she there?
“Aye, my lord!”
He turned around and held back a smile, for he was being greeted by the cheerful young Saxon, Richard, who had told him that he wanted to grow up to be a knight.
His heart began to beat harder.
“Lad,” Alaric nodded, acknowledging the boy. “Is she here?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Did she come willing?”
The boy grinned cheerfully. “Without a speck of trouble, I swear it!”
Alaric well doubted that, but Fallon was there, and he would see for himself in what mood she had come.
“Take Satan,”Alaric said, tossing the reins to Richard. The boy looked up at the massive horse, and began to stutter. “Sir? My lord, take him where?”
“You want to be a knight, lad. Work up to it!”
He smiled as his men laughed. Roger offered to give the boy instructions, and Alaric entered the manor.
A fire burned in the center of the great hall and meat was cooking. There was a scent of cloves and cinnamon, and he knew that the household had been preparing for his return. Night was falling, and in the midst of war, he felt curiously warm in this hall. His hall. His men served him with loyalty, and these Saxons showed an eager determination to please. His food would be good, and his bed would be soft.
Except, of course, he warned himself, for the thorn that awaited him there. He closed his eyes briefly while he felt the fire take flight inside him. He had been afraid to think or feel while he had been away, but when he had lain down at night, she had haunted his soul, his body. His desire for her did not find simple appeasement, but grew. He wondered at how it had grown over the years; some force greater than either of them had kindled the blaze between them.
Yet he was not sure he should have been so eager to return, for he would not touch her in anger again, and he would never let her know the extent of her power over him. Nor could he let her believe him anything less than ruthless and determined, for to show her a weakness could well prove fatal . . . to Fallon.
His eyes traveled up the stairs, and he determined that, though he had had no wine, he would quaff a goodly quantity of English ale ere he approached his thorn.
Chapter Seventeen
In the hall, Alaric called to Hamlin. “Ale, my good man, if you will, please!” He sat down at the table and propped his booted feet high upon it. Hamlin brought him a tankard of ale, and another for Roger Beauclare, who sat beside him.
Before Hamlin could leave, Alaric had a few questions for him. “When did our guest arrive?”
“Guest, my lord? Ah . . . the princess?”
She was no true princess, Alaric thought, but that was the way the English thought of her. He wondered if he had used good sense in bringing her here. Although the Saxons sought his protection, they outnumbered his men.
He nodded. “The princess,” he acknowledged.
“She came last week,” Hamlin said a little nervously.
By then, young Richard of Elwald had come into the hall, carrying Satan’s bridle to clean before the hearth. Alaric threw him an amused look. “She came willingly—nay, eagerly?”
The tips of Richard’s ears turned pink.
“Willingly, sire?” Hamlin murmured uneasily. Jeanne, his youngest daughter, who was carrying a tray of food for the returning Normans, stared at her father, her eyes innocently wide.
“She came like a wildcat, she did,” Jeanne blurted. “Biting, kicking, scratching, and causing the men no small discomfort.”
Alaric kept his eyes on Richard. “I see,” he said. “Well, then, has she eaten? Has she been attended to?”
“My lord,” Hamlin said, “we’ve none of us gone near her.”
“She were the king’s daughter,” Jeanne said softly.
Hamlin stuttered for a moment, then tried to explain. “I am glad of the stand we’ve taken with you, Count Alaric and I swear my fealty, for you have spared us everything. But—”
He broke off, looking down at his feet. Richard set down the bridle and rose to meet Alaric’s gaze. “We Saxons are not trained to battle, my lord,” Richard said. “We’re not good atwar. ’Tis difficult, you see, to meet her courage when we’ve all surrendered without a fight.”
“Why, you ungrateful little scamp—” Roger began, rising angrily, but Alaric stayed him with a hand.
“Nay, Roger, Richard speaks what he feels, and what the others are thinking, and it is good for me to know.” He swung his feet down and rose to look down at Richard. “So, tell me, how has your lady been? Have you tended to her needs?”
Richard’s eyes fell from Alaric’s. “She has scarce spoken to me since we came. I have left her food, but she has not eaten. Since we left Hastings, she has had little to say. She will not eat, and she drinks but little.”
Alaric stared at Richard hard for a moment, then spoke softly. “Then I’d best tend to the princess myself, hadn’t I?”
He picked up his tankard and drank down his ale. The room stayed silent while all eyes fell upon him. He slammed the tankard down, and the sound echoed frightfully against the stillness in the hall.
“Roger, you’ll see to the guard?”
“Aye, Alaric!” Roger stood quickly and nervously.
Alaric strode toward the stairs, and they all remained in a silent tableau. Then Richard broke from them and raced after Alaric.
“My lord!”
Alaric paused, his hand upon the stone balustrade, and turned to Richard. “What is it?”
“My lord!” Richard repeated. He lowered his eyes and moistened his lips nervously, muttering something.
“What? Speak up, lad!”
“I said, begging your pardon, my lord, I said—I said, please, don’t hurt her.”
Startled, Alaric arched a brow. “So, Richard of Elwald, have I proven myself to be such a monster, then?”
“Nay, sire! That is not what—”
“Then, lad, mind your own work and leave me to mine.”
Richard swallowed and nodded, and Alaric continued on up the stairs. He paused then, looking back at Richard.
“Lad!”
“Aye, my lord!” Richard hurried toward him.
“You are fond of Fallon, I believe.”
“I . . .”
“Never mind. Now listen to me, and if you wish her well, pay me heed. In time, I will call to you. Whatever order I give you, say aye to me, but pay no heed to any command except those for food, drink, or bathwater. Do you understand?”
“My lord—”
“Do you understand?”
“Aye.” Richard stared at him with a curious smile hovering upon his lips. “Aye, Lord Alaric!”
Alaric nodded, and continued to the room he had chosen. The door to the room was secured by a heavy wooden bolt. He slammed it back and heard the clangor echo through the stone archways in the upper passageways.
The door creaked inward, and he paused, wary, his hands on his hips as he watched her.
She sat on the window seat, her feet curled beneath her, gazing longingly out the window. The cool fall breeze blew softly in, touching her hair, lifting ebony tendrils from her forehead. She was wearing a soft blue chemise beneath a wool- and fur-trimmed bleaunt, and her hair waved and curled down her back in splendid contrast. She appeared so fragile as she turned to face him! The gentle firelight from the hearth cast its glow over her, and the elegance of her features was caught in golden color. At the sight of him, her cheeks burned red, her breasts rose and fell, and she breathed too quickly.
She said nothing and did not move. He came into the room and carefully closed the door behind him. He discarded his sword and scabbard, cast aside his tunic, and removed the armor he wore beneath. In his chausses and chemise, he took a chair before the fire, and watched the flames.
“So, mademoiselle,” he said at last, “have you been comfortable?”
“Comfortable?” she repeated, frowning. “How can I be comfortable, Count Alaric? I have no wish to be here.”
“Ah, yes, but where you choose to be, I’m afraid, might soon be a battlefield.”
“What harm could I—”
She broke off as his eyes fell upon her, cold and hard. “I do not underestimate you, Fallon. Nor does the duke. You are more dangerous than any of your brothers. Your passion can arouse the Saxons. Even when people are acquiescent, your tongue can stir them to rebellion. So do not plague me with what cannot be. I cannot free you to stir up the countryside or to join with what forces we have still to battle. Now I ask again, are you comfortable? Is there something lacking, that you should so shun the hospitality of this place?”
She lifted her hands, staring at him with something of confusion. He rose, smiling, and she sank back against the window seat, watching him approach her. “What do you want from me?” she cried suddenly, rising and clenching her fists.
He turned and faced the hearth again, using the poker to heighten the blaze. Then he set the poker aside and turned back to her. He could not read her features; he did not know what anguish she felt. “You did not greet me, love,” he taunted her.
“Greet you!”
Alaric lowered his eyes, knowing he could well depend upon her temper.
“I did not greet you!” She stepped forward and dipped a low, mocking curtsy before him. “Count Alaric! My lord! Welcome back to this seized property. Did all go your way? Have you plundered and raided and raped with no ill befalling you?”
Her syrupy tones angered him. He could not forget the sights he had seen at Romney. But he forced himself to bow to her. “Aye, my lady! I burned and raided and robbed and raped, and came through it all with no ill-fortune, thank you!” Startled, she stared at him. Aware of his sudden advantage, he stepped forward, seized her in his arms, and pulled her close. “Can you greet me in no sweeter way?”
She struggled against his hold, staring at him furiously while she pushed against his shoulders. “Why in God’s name have you come back to torment me! Isn’t there a whole country out there to pillage and ravage and burn?”
“Ah, but why would I seek a whole country when there is so much land nearby to be laid waste? There are churches and chapels still, and farmers’ daughters by the score. Nay, I need not travel far, I think.”
“Damn you!” She struggled fiercely against his hold, then went still and stared into his eyes. “Could you please, then, leave me in peace and go about it?”
“My lady, I cannot! Every pillager must have a refuge, and this I have chosen as mine. Even barbarians need a place of rest and peace.”
“Peace!” she snapped, trying to free her arms. “You seek peace—from me?”
“Aye . . . that I do,” he said softly. He released her and leaned against the mantel, watching her. “Hearth and home,” he murmured. “When I grow weary of the world around me, I crave the same things any man seeks. A warm bath to draw away the evils of the road, good ale and good food, and a soft bed to lie upon. And a gentle voice to whisper gentle words.”
She stared at him incredulously, her eyes sparkling like sapphires, her lips slightly parted, so beautiful that he nearly forgot himself and swept her into his arms. It could be so easy. He was among the conquering host; he needed only to force her into his arms and nature could do the rest, for he was aware that the slow fires still burned inside of her, no matter how she denied them. He could let the passion burn and flow, and pray that it would reach its peak, burn out, and become cold ashes. He could pray that it would be so. Pray that he would cease thinking of her and remembering that the fulfillment had been greater than the promise that had teased and taunted him forever.
“Gentle words!” she repeated incredulously. “You want gentle words from me? You are insane!”
“You are my slave.”
“I am your prisoner. I will not serve you food or warm your bath or your bed—”
“My bed? I do not recall asking.”
She let out a furious oath and spun around to stare out the window again.
“Was that an invitation?” he asked her pleasantly.
Her answer was quick and sure, and he laughed, finding it curious that a woman who looked so fragile could swear with such heartfelt vigor. “So it was not an invitation.” He shrugged. “Still, my lady, we do have a few things to straighten out between us. I do crave a certain amount of peace.”
“Then sleep where you have ravaged, sir,” she advised him.
“Umm,” he murmured thoughtfully. He watched her where she stood, refusing to turn to meet his gaze. “But I have ravaged here, have I not?”
Color flooded her cheeks, and she tried not to respond, but she could not remain still. She swirled about, and her hair sailed in a circle while her skirt swept about her feet, and again he was tempted to step forward and prove himself the barbarian in truth. He had been a fool to have her brought to Haselford; he should have had her sent to Normandy and cast into some deep, safe dungeon where she could not plague him. He was not so much a fool that he would love again, and yet he had erred greatly in coming too near to her, for she was a flame that heated his blood; she had ruined another woman for him.
“Alaric, the battle at Hastings has been lost, and I was captured there. You have the strength to do what you will; you have the power to hold me. But you are insane if you think I will serve you! Take what you wish, but I swear I will give you nothing.”
“Take what I wish?” He arched a brow in mock-surprise. “Why, Fallon, that sounds like another invitation.”
“Oh! I wish to hell that some Saxon blade had split your Norman skull in twain!”
And that, he thought, was probably true. But he shrugged away her words and leaned against the mantel, idly rubbing his chin while he pretended to survey her in grave thought. She was growing more and more anxious, though she tried to hide it. She gripped her fingers tightly, lest they betray her with a tremble. She moistened her lips frequently and stared about desperately, ever seeking escape.
“You will serve me,” he said softly.
“I will not!” she swore.
“What if I choose to beat you into submission?” he queried lightly. He pushed away from the mantel and walked toward her. She looked as if she wanted to shrink from him, but she caught the glimmer in his eyes. She stood still while he walked around behind her. “Aye, Fallon, perhaps we know each other too well. You call me barbarian, but in your heart, you know I will not tie you to a whipping post and slice open your back.”
“Why—why would I be so certain?” she retorted, but he stood behind her now, and he heard her voice quiver. “I thought you meant to slit my throat when you . . . when you came to the tent.”
“I seldom lose control so completely,” he assured her. He remained behind her. “Alas, though, I am an invader, a pillager, rapist, and robber, I detest unnecessary violence. I have learned, however, that one must often be cruel to be kind. But still . . .” He tapped his chin idly and continued around her. He felt her eyes upon him warily; he felt the very beat of her heart. “You are Harold’s daughter,” he murmured. “You’ve his tenacity and his pride—but not a whit of his good sense.”
“You son of a—”
“Careful!” he warned, circling her. Her lips clamped together tightly and he saw the sizzle that touched her eyes at his warning. He was too close for her to openly defy him, or so he thought.
“I want you to know, Alaric,” she promised him with soft vehemence, “that you will pay! The English will rise against William; they will never have him for their king, and when you are cringing before some Saxon swordsman, begging for mercy, I will insist that they remove your head from your body with the oldest, rustiest double-edged ax that can be found!”
He laughed, but his smile did not touch his eyes. “If your fantasies amuse you, Fallon, then you must cling to them. But we’re not discussing fantasy here. Nay, we speak the truth, and the truth of it is that you are here, Princess, and you are mine. Don’t tempt me—I have thought since you were very small that a good beating would do you wonders. As a child you lacked discipline. Making up for that now could test any strong man’s arm. But then again, I am not eager to see you mauled or harmed—not because of your sweet temper, but because I don’t like my property mangled. Still, you refuse to yield to the simplest of requests and therefore something must be done.”
Ignoring her, he returned to the fire. Standing on the bearskin there, he crossed his arms and watched the flames.
Then he spun suddenly. “Fallon, I am asking you to do no more than serve me as any slave serves her master. The simple, peaceful pleasures in life are all that I ask. A meal in our chambers; ale when I thirst. That is all. Will you comply?”
“You must be mad!” she whispered, her blue eyes immense.
He shook his head and sighed. He walked across the room and threw open the door. “Richard!”
The boy appeared a little too soon, as if he had been waiting there. He tried to smile reassuringly at Fallon, Alaric realized, but Fallon was now too confused to take any comfort. “Richard,” Alaric said, “bring me ale and something to eat.”
The boy nodded and turned about. Alaric closed the door, sat down in the chair before the fire, and propped his feet up on a leather footstool. He said nothing, and he felt the silence stretching out between them. He sensed her movement and turned to see her eyes dart toward the door.
