Princess of fire, p.30
Princess of Fire, page 30
She swallowed and gazed at his hands and thought of the tender way they had touched her. Then her gaze fell lower to the whipcord leanness of his waist and hips, and the long bulging muscles of his thighs.
Her eyes fell upon his male sex, sated now, but long and proud still, and she shuddered again. Hot, quick tears stung her eyes, and she wondered in absolute confusion how she could know this man for the enemy he was, how she could long with all her heart for freedom, and still tremble beneath his touch. It was a marvel, she thought. It was a horror. He had told her she would beg for his touch, and so she had.
His hand rested against her breast. Idly he stroked her flesh, and teased the nipple.
With a harsh, furious cry she tossed his hand from her and tried to rise. He caught her, and when she struggled against him, swearing, he straddled her, and their naked bodies became a painful embarrassment for her.
“What now, mademoiselle?” Alaric demanded harshly. “Are you going to call that barbarous force?”
“Get off me!” she demanded, refusing to meet his eyes. He said nothing, and at last she looked at him miserably. It was impossible, as always, to read the message in his slate-gray eyes. “Please!” she said at last, biting her lower lip.
He stood, completely at ease with his nudity, and held out a hand to her. She looked away from him, away from the slick moisture that gleamed on his shoulders, away from the evidence of what they had done together. He caught her hand, and drew her up and against him. He threaded his fingers into her hair at the nape of her neck. “I asked you, Princess, will you call that rape?”
“Nay!” she shrilled, and tears stung her eyes as she tried to escape his hold “Aye—it was! Just as you can hold me, you can twist my will! It is my will to be quit and free of you!”
“Lady, I felt the sweet woman’s wealth of your body, and I know that I pleasured you well.”
His words gave her horror, and she flushed. “By God, I do not want to be pleasured!”
“There were times there, my writhing beauty, when you had me well deceived!”
“You’ve had your fun! Will you not let me go now?”
He released her so abruptly that she nearly fell back upon the fur rug. Then he stepped back into the tub, swore that it had grown so cold, and rose to dry himself with a linen towel. Seated on the rug, sorely wounded, Fallon watched him sullenly. Men! Conquering bastards—how she hated this one in particular. She remembered his whispers; she remembered the tenderness in his eyes; she remembered, with shame flooding through her again, the absolute intimacy they had shared—and her temper raced and soared. He had forgotten her already. He had shattered her world and her belief in herself, and he had forgotten her already. Her hatred for him filled her with keen and deadly rage.
“Come to bed,” he commanded her.
“The hell I will, you bastard!” she spat out. She rose and shivered and then stepped into the cold tub herself, eager to rid herself of his touch and his scent. She scrubbed herself furiously, ignoring him.
Arms crossed over his chest, he awaited her with a semblance of patience. But when she had scrubbed herself she did not want to rise. She felt his eyes upon her, and just his gaze caused her throat to constrict and her blood to boil, and she could still feel him within her body. Feel his touch, remember his way and his will.
“Towel?” He stepped toward her, politely offering her his own.
She snatched it from him without a word and wrapped it around herself. He gave up his vigil to walk over to the tray and take the tankard of ale from it. He lifted it to her. “I salute you, mademoiselle.”
She swore at him, stamping a foot, and he laughed at her. Then the laughter faded, and his gaze grew hot and tense. She lowered her eyes miserably, thinking that he was very much the superb figure of the knight, even disrobed—nay, especially disrobed. Tall and towering and fine in every sinew and muscle, in flesh and blood and bone. She thought of the years that she had known him and the things that had come between them, and suddenly she wished he were not the enemy.
But he was. He had already stolen from her. He had taken her innocence, her pride, and her will. If she was not careful, he would steal her soul, and even her heart. And that would be foolish, for all those years ago when his wife had died it had seemed that he lost his own soul. He had no heart.
She turned her back on him suddenly. She did not want to remember the promise that had been in his eyes when they shared a goblet at a banquet. She did not want to remember that he had always made her tremble, and even when she had promised that she would marry Delon, it had been Alaric’s kiss that she had recalled.
He had come to England with the men who had killed her father. Harold had been dead only a few days, and already she had lain with this enemy.
With a furious growl she spun around and sought something, anything, to throw at him. His boot lay nearby, and she tossed it with a will. His other boot soon followed. She caught him in the chest with the first—and dangerously lower with the second.
Alaric thundered out in response, striding toward her even as she picked up her own smaller shoe to send it flying. He caught her wrist and the shoe fell, and then her towel fell. Tears choked her, and she tried to kick him.
“Damn you, Fallon! Cease this! Stop, now!”
She couldn’t stop. She writhed and twisted and swore at him, and she kept trying to kick. He swept her up and carried her to the bed, then dropped her and fell down atop her. She still struggled and he shook her. “Fallon! Cease! Lie still, else I shall tie you again.”
Exhausted, despairing, she lay still. She met his threatening gaze in silence.
She wanted to speak; she wanted to explain the misery of her situation. Absurdly, she even wanted to lie softly against him, to feel his touch.
She could not speak, and he did not seek to soothe her.
Chapter Nineteen
Sometime during the night, Fallon became aware of a rising, frightening heat. She was only halfway awake when Alaric flung an arm her way, and she fumbled to rise, slowly becoming aware that something was very wrong.
If she had ever truly wanted to slit his throat, her opportunity had come. Indeed, he lay in such fevered torment that she wondered if the deed would be necessary.
Fallon pulled away from him and leapt to her feet, and from the dying embers of the fire, she lit a candle. She came up beside him and touched his brow. His hair was soaked and his skin blazed. He tossed and turned wildly, muttering deliriously.
“Dear God,” she murmured softly. She stared at him one moment longer, and she thought that if ever she were to get away from him, the time was now. She could dress and quietly slip by the guard and seek refuge in the forest. She knew the forests well and could reach London through the Andredeswald. Within two days, she could easily be in London, among friends, among the remainder of the Saxon forces. But if she left him, he would die.
She paused, aching, choking down a cry of anguish. For once, he was powerless. His body was gleaming and soaked in sweat; his muscles were contorted in spasms of agony. He was with her, so it was highly probable that there was no guard at the door, such was his confidence in himself. She could run; she could so easily be free . . .
For a moment she allowed the dream to seize her. But she could not leave him. He was her enemy, but he was flesh and blood. She had known him too many years—too intimately, and too well.
She cast aside the vision of freedom—of herself racing upon a Norman steed to the very outskirts of London—and hurried to the washbowl. She soaked a cloth and laid it on his brow. “Bastard!” she whispered to him in an anguished voice. “I should be willing to hang you by your toes for the torment you have caused me! But I cannot leave you lying ill. And yet, sir, I swear, I shall one day rise against you!”
He could not reply. Fallon turned from him and dressed quickly. She drew the sheet up to his waist and went to the door. It was not locked, and she had to swallow back her bitterness, for again, she saw the way to freedom.
There was no guard at the door, but Richard of Elwald sat, slumped over his master’s shield, his oilcloth still in his hand.
“Richard!”
The boy awoke and stared up at her as if she were an illusion. Then he bolted to his feet. “My lady!”
“He is ill,” she said. “I need water—cold water, as cold as you can find it, lots of it, and quickly.
Fallon heard footsteps against the stairs and thought fleetingly that the guard had not been so far away after all. But it was Roger Beauclare who appeared at the landing, looking more alarmed than anxious. Had they decided that she was not so dangerous after all? Or was Alaric simply convinced that she would not escape with him there?
It did not matter now. He burned so hot that she thought fever might well take him down where no sword arm could. A curious chill of fear began at the nape of her neck and snaked its way along her spine. She should not care! She should pray for him to die, as so many Englishmen had. But she could not pray for his death any more than she could wonder why she had not tried to flee, and why even now she stood and gave out rapid instructions.
“Roger, I shall need you. If I can’t cool him down, I must give him something to purge his system, and he will fight me.”
The young Norman was staring at her, and she wondered if he was weighing her words, if he perhaps thought she intended to poison Alaric. She lowered her eyes, remembering a long-ago time when she had manipulated him into doing her work. He had grown into a handsome and powerful young knight, and it disturbed her anew to feel his eyes upon her.
She lifted her eyes again. What did it matter? If she did not move quickly, Alaric would surely die.
“Richard, do as the Lady Fallon has asked you,” Roger said, pushing past Richard and coming into the room. He hurried to the bed and stared down where Alaric tossed and turned feverishly. The cloth had fallen from his brow, and Fallon quickly retrieved it, soaked it, set it on his brow once again.
“’Tis the same fever that has taken half our army,” Roger said harshly. He turned to Fallon. “What can I do?”
Alaric chose that moment to kick the bedcovers from him. Fallon colored as he lay naked between them, but then she raised her eyes to Roger’s. “We have to cool him down.”
Richard came up the stairs with buckets of icy spring water. Fallon tore one of her chemises into strips and ordered that they should cover him with water-soaked cloths. She then began to bathe his brow and torso and shoulders and under his arms. Then she asked Richard and Roger to help her turn him, and they set grimly about the task of cooling the rest of his body. Still he raved and talked, and as dawn began to break, he suddenly sat up and seized Fallon by the shoulders.
“Good God, why? As God is my witness, madam, you have slain an innocent! And I am cast into this trail of blood. May God forgive you, for I do not know if I can! You have slain her, and I have slain him, and now the babe, and you, oh, God!”
He shook Fallon with such a vengeance that she cried out. Roger and Richard both rushed forward, trying to ease his hold upon her. His fingers stroked her cheek, and fell to her throat. Had he wished to kill her, she realized, he could have done so with a snap of his fingers, the power of his hands was so great. Yet he stared past her and beyond her.
“He does not seek to hurt you!” Roger assured her. “He—he must be dreaming of the past.”
Alaric stared at her blankly, and his eyes closed, and he pitched back to the bed again.
“Dear Lord!” Fallon whispered, her fingers fluttering to her throat. She gazed quickly to Roger, and she knew that he had understood what had happened, though she could not herself. She turned from him and caught Richard by the shoulders.
“Richard, you must go to the steward. I will tell you what I need.” She gave him a list that included eggs and honey and herbs and mosses, and Richard went running down the stairs to find Hamlin. Roger kept changing Alaric’s cloths, and Fallon, working silently across from him, watched him curiously, fervently hoping he would say something.
“He wanted to kill me,” she said softly. She caught his eyes, and he flushed and shrugged.
“Nay, he did not wish to harm you.”
“What happened?”
“I cannot tell you; it was not my affair. It all took place so very long ago.”
“I know that he was married,” Fallon said.
“Aye.”
“And that he lost her. And that she was very beautiful.”
“Too beautiful,” Roger murmured. He gazed at Fallon again, and his shoulders rose and fell. “The demons must haunt him now, for ’tis not his wife causes nightmares but the memory of the girl. He meant to protect her, and she died by her own hand.”
“Why? What happened?”
They broke off as Alaric began to toss and turn more wildly. His eyes, deeply glazed, fell upon Roger’s and he began to speak. “He does not understand English law. He is all-powerful in Normandy and he does not understand that no king is all-powerful here.”
“He talks about William,” Roger said softly. Then Alaric screamed, as if in the throes of some ungodly nightmare. Richard came racing back up the stairs, and young Jeanne, the steward’s daughter, was with him. “We had all but three herbs.” Jeanne told Fallon, setting a tray before her. Her eyes, deeply distressed, fell upon Alaric. Tenderly, she set to the task of cooling him, and as her hands moved gently over his body, she was stunned by the emotions that swept through her.
“I shall send for a physician,” Roger said, and he went to the hallway to call below.
“He will not live until a physician arrives,” Fallon insisted softly, “unless I can mix him this potion.” They all paused and stared at her, and she felt again the terrible mistrust, even from her own people. Hamlin and Jeanne spoke no French, Roger’s English was weak, and though Richard understood them all, he, too, seemed ready to band against Fallon in fear that she would harm Alaric. “If I can find the herbs I need, I can make him an elixir that will purge him of the infection that breeds the fever.”
Roger stared at her long and hard. She knew he wanted to relent but felt he should take care.
No one had forgotten that she had stabbed Falstaff.
Roger caught her arm. “I will come with you. I will let you make your brew. But, oh, lady, let it be good, for if he dies, I will be bound to hand you to William with that offense upon your head!”
She drew her arm from his. “I do not intend to poison him, Roger,” she said softly. She turned her head and took a leather bucket from the doorway. As she hurried down the steps, Roger was behind her.
Alaric’s men had awakened, and they were quickly alert. Whispers and gazes followed her as she hurried out the door. She called to a stable boy for a horse.
“Where would you ride?” Roger demanded, standing behind her.
“Out by the marshes!” she snapped. “If I walk, he could well die ere I reach the place where the herbs grow!”
Roger ordered that the boy bring only his mount, then lifted her up before him. They galloped to the marsh, and Fallon gathered herbs for her tonic while Roger watched and waited nervously. He wandered away from the horse, and she saw that his sword was thrust through a saddle bag and not around his waist.
She felt bitter and resentful. No one realized that she was defending herself when she stabbed Falstaff; no one believed she had a right to that defense. It rankled her that even Roger—who had once been her most willing slave—could think her so eager to poison a man.
She hurried back to the horse, and in silence she drew the sword. Morning birds whistled softly; then a soft hush seemed to settle in the morning mist. Fallon came up behind Roger and pressed the sword to his spine. He stiffened, instantly aware of the lethal threat she offered.
“Sir, when you escort women of my dangerous nature, I suggest you take care of your weapons.”
“Fallon, don’t.” He stood with courage, but she heard the crack in his voice.
“Turn around, Roger, slowly, carefully.”
He did so. She kept the blade against him. She raised it to his throat, and he paled. Then she cast his weapon aside and stared at him furiously. “Roger, one day I will see you all driven from England. From my land. I will gladly fight you again myself. But not by treachery or by cold-blooded murder—though there are many of your number who deserve betrayal. Sir, had I craved Alaric’s death, I’d have run long ere this! Now, if you would follow me about, then pay attention and give me aid, for we must get back quickly.”
She swung about, and searched carefully for the mosses and the other herbs she needed. Roger, she noted, gathered some herbs for her. She turned quickly when she had enough moss. “We must get back.”
Roger set her upon his horse’s back and leapt up behind her. They raced back to the manor, and when they burst into the room, they found Alaric no different. Jeanne and her elder sister Mildred sat at the bedside, cooling him as best they could with cloths. Richard stood by his side in anxious vigil. Two of Alaric’s men, armed and armored, stood by to protect him. But their swords were useless against the fever that tore at him.
Fallon ignored them all and stoked the flames in the hearth. She set a kettle over the flame and added herbs and stirred the mixture, and she heard someone whisper that she must be a witch. One of the guards—the gigantic bald man who had dragged her up the stairs—stepped up to Roger, and she heard him whisper heatedly that she should be stopped—she meant to kill Alaric. She locked her jaw and kept her attention upon her task.
She rose at last, tossing a strand of her hair from her eyes, to face the men. She longed to speak in English, but she dared not, for Roger’s command of the language was not good, and she did not want to lose his confidence now.
“I worked with the finest physician of the old English king at the battle of Stamford Bridge. Where there is warfare, men will have fever.”
“The English water gave him his fever!” the bald knight swore.
Richard must have understood something in that French statement for he flared to the defense of his country. “The water here is good! Alaric is sick because he joined the rotting army in Dover!”
