Princess of fire, p.35
Princess of Fire, page 35
“We’re to escort you to London, milady,” Roger said. “Young Steven has come to tell us so.”
Silently she gazed at Steven. “When are we to leave?”
“As soon as you can prepare to ride,” Roger told her.
“I shall make ready,” she said, “and say good-bye to my mother. Then I’ll be ready to ride for my dowager aunt’s palace.”
She turned away from them. Roger watched her, frowning, wondering what she had just said that had disturbed him so.
Her aunt’s palace . . .
He hadn’t told her that they were going to the dowager queen’s residence, had he? He had said that they were riding for London.
Roger shook his head and shrugged. Someone must have said something to her. How else would she know?
“Beg pardon, sir, but am I to come?”
Roger turned around and saw that young Richard was eagerly watching him. “Count Alaric said that I might begin to train as a squire once the duke had been duly crowned king!”
Roger clapped him hard on the shoulder. “Aye, lad. He’s not forgotten. You are to come. Go with Steven and prepare the packhorses for the trip. We’ll spend the night somewhere along the way, and by tomorrow, lad, you’ll be in training.”
Richard thanked him profusely, his eyes alight. Roger looked back at Fallon, who was heading up the stairs.
What was the lady thinking? he wondered. She had given no hint of emotion. Was she dismayed that her chaste interlude here with her gentle mother was being interrupted? Was she disturbed to be dragged back to Alaric’s side? Did she still hate all Normans? Or was she bowing to the inevitable?
Don’t fight him again, Fallon! Roger implored her silently. Don’t fight him again. I love you and would not see you harmed.
Perhaps Alaric even loves you, too . . .
Nay, Roger thought. Love died for him many years ago in a heap of dry and bitter ashes. Yet what he claims as his, he cares for with tenderness.
Roger shook his head, still disturbed. He couldn’t put his finger on what had bothered him about the morning. It didn’t matter, he told himself; they would soon be in London. The coronation would be grand, the feasting a marvel, and all of England would bow down before the Conqueror.
Determined to ignore his misgivings, Roger started out.
Upstairs in her mother’s chamber, on the bed where she and her brothers had been born, Fallon hugged Edith fiercely, with tears in her eyes. It had been good to be home. She had run across the fields where she played as a toddler and dangled her bare feet in the cold water. She had sat before the fire where her father had told them tales of ancient Camelot and of the great king Alfred. She had felt warmth touch her face as she remembered the stories Harold himself had heard from his Danish mother, stories about Woden and Thor and chariots that rode across the sky. Stories from his father about the Druid priests who had read messages on the air, who had talked to the deer and the squirrels and even the trees.
Now she would leave her memories behind. She looked at her mother and knew that Edith was remembering, too. Now, too, Fallon understood the love between a man and a woman, and her heart broke for her mother, who had loved Harold so truly and so well. Fallon was certain that her mother would never want another man. She had loved Harold, and no man could match him.
Fallon, trembling, realized that she felt the same way about Alaric. She had no love to base her feeling upon, no shared years, no whispered dreams. But Alaric had touched her. He had awakened her. She would never have been with him if disaster had not seized them all, but she could not change that now. She would fight him, as she had vowed to Galen. She and her brothers were Saxons, they were Harold’s cubs, they were bound by honor to repel the Normans.
Edith pulled away from her. Tears glittered in her eyes as she studied Fallon’s face. She smoothed her hair from her cheeks and her forehead and whispered softly, “Fallon, lay down your weapons, I beg of you. Fight no more!”
Something clutched at Fallon’s heart, and she wondered what her mother knew. “I don’t know what you mean, Mother,” she murmured innocently. “What power have I?”
Edith smiled. “More power than you will ever know. But, Fallon, please, wage war no more for us. Your father is lost, and his brother, too. The finest of our Saxon warriors. Your brothers have gone, I know, to gather men to rise against William. They are quickly growing to manhood, and I cannot stop them. Possibly, I shall lose them, too. So, Fallon, please, fight no more.”
“They killed Father!” Fallon whispered.
Edith rose and moved restlessly around the room; then she swung on Fallon. “Harold chose to do battle that day. You say, ‘They killed Father.’ They? What they, my love? Alaric would not have killed him. Fallon, I tell you this now so that you won’t deceive yourself: If Alaric had been open to a proposition of marriage, your father would have wed you to him no matter what your wishes.”
Fallon gasped, stunned. “Nay!” she protested. “I was betrothed to Delon; we would have wed—”
“Never.” Edith shook her head with finality.
“Father liked Delon!”
“Aye, he did.” Edith almost smiled. “But you were not meant for him. He hadn’t enough strength for a wife who could wield a sword and rouse a crowd.”
“So now he languishes in a Norman dungeon!” Fallon cried.
“Perhaps, yet perhaps he is not so confined,” Edith murmured. “But I care not—”
“Mother!”
“Nay, Fallon, I have lost too much, and I look to my own, and I beg of you, fight no more! Alaric is a good man; your father admired him above all others, including the English. Give way, and you could love him.”
“He does not love me.”
“He feels something for you. He holds you dear.”
“Mother!” Fallon cried suddenly. “’Twas you! He swore to you at Hastings that he would keep me from trouble!”
Edith shrugged. “He honored me for your father’s sake. So save us heartache, Fallon, and bow to him. I have seen you flush when his name is spoken. I know that you have felt the sweet breath of fire, and I have been glad to imagine you in the protection of so fine a knight. Please, Fallon, take care!”
Fallon lowered her head, trembling. Her mother wanted her to be his willing mistress lest she find a harder bed elsewhere. Her brother called her traitor; yet he, now, wanted Fallon to remain in Alaric’s bed so that she could help to bring him down.
Pain stole into her heart, and she was suddenly aware that she was falling in love. Perhaps she had always been a little bit in love with him. Perhaps that was why she had goaded him over the years, teased him, taunted him . . . kissed him.
She was in love with him. But she could never let him know it. She could not give up her pride, her dignity. Nor she could abandon her hatred, for he was her enemy.
And by her own avowal, she was honor bound to betray him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The trip to London proved to be torturous. They rode where the conquering army had passed, and all along the way there were the signs of devastation. Where William’s men had not burned, they had pillaged. The winter would be harsh, and the armies’ theft of foodstuffs would condemn many people to starvation. Along the way they met beggars who did not hesitate to approach well-armed Norman knights. Surely they must have felt that a swift blow from a sword would be a far more merciful death than slowly freezing and starving through the months to come.
Fallon quickly gave away the food that she had brought for herself; Richard, watching her, did likewise. Roger made no comment. They passed through one village where the remaining people sat together in abject despair. Here Roger called a halt and he and his men combed the forest and brought back several rabbits, which they gave to a woman who sat huddled with her children. Watching him, Fallon was touched. He asked Fallon to tell the woman that those who could not eke out an existence should travel to Haselford where there was food and where they could find work.
As they rode on, Fallon touched Roger’s sleeve. “Thank you,” she told him.
“Don’t thank me, Fallon. ’Tis Alaric’s order, so if it sits well with you, thank him.”
She shook her head. “Alaric did not catch rabbits for the woman.”
He stared at her for a moment. “Do you remember, Fallon, when we were young? You were out to plague him, and when you were caught, you but smiled at me, and I was willing to do anything for you. I had fallen in love.” He paused for a moment. “I still fall in love when you smile, Fallon. But I am not a lad anymore; we are all older, and life is sadder. I have learned everything from him. What courage I have, he has given me. What temperance I have learned, he has slowly worked into me. Mercy and judgment and wisdom are virtues I have learned from walking where he has walked. He is my liege, and though I still love you, lady, I want you to know that loyalty is another quality I have learned from him.”
“I know you are loyal, Roger. And, nay, we are not children. I still say you are a fine knight and a fine man, no matter your nationality. This ride has pained me greatly, for these are my people. You have shown kindness, and I am grateful.”
He smiled. “I am bewitched,” he said simply.
They were perhaps still two hours outside Winchester when Roger paused, halting the party of ten who rode with them. “Riders coming,” he said tensely.
Fallon held her mare steady. Though William held London, his men were still worried about an ambush. They were all clad in armor, and they carried weapons. Rollo bore not only an ax and a sword but also a spiced mace, which Fallon was certain she could not even lift. No man was more adept at war than he, she thought.
The men riding toward them were also dressed for battle. Beneath the winter sun they shimmered and glittered, and the pounding of their horses’ hooves upon the hardpacked earth was a threatening sound indeed. But Roger lifted his hand in greeting, and he smiled at Fallon. “See the banners? ’Tis Alaric coming to meet us.”
Her heart fluttered, and she was shamed by the warmth that filled her. She drew her fur mantle tightly around her shoulders and watched as the horsemen came nearer.
Alaric rode at the lead, as smooth as the wind. His mantle flew behind him, and his visor hid the planes of his face from her view. She felt herself tremble. He had sent for her; he had called her here. He wanted her here, and something within her was flooding with desire to see him.
She held tight to her reins, lest he see her shake. He raised his hand, and the men behind him paused, reining in their enormous horses. Roger called out in greeting and Alaric led Satan forward in a prance so that the two men might clasp hands. Then his eyes were upon her.
She could see only his cool gray eyes, which gave nothing away.
“Milady,” he said quietly. The warmth of his breath formed a mist. A horse stepped forward and the little bells on his harness tinkled. The forest that surrounded them seemed caught in spun ice and crystal.
“Count Alaric,” she returned quietly. It had been more than a week since they had seen each other. She longed for dignity, but she trembled now that he was near.
Alaric paused a moment longer, assessing her. Then he turned Satan from her, to ride beside Roger. They started off again, and she heard them speaking about the coming coronation and how the city was crowded with their own men. Some of the people reviled the Normans while others opened their hearts to the conquerors—and made a few coins for their pocketbooks.
When at last they reached Winchester, Fallon saw with a sinking heart that these reports were true. Some people muttered against the Normans sullenly, but many hawked their wares. It was winter, Fallon reminded herself. Come what may, men chose to eat and to feed their families.
They drew up before her aunt’s palace in the ancient capital. Aedyth awaited them on the steps, her men-at-arms now dressed in William’s colors. As Alaric swept Fallon from her horse, she felt his eyes hard upon her. Heat radiated from his body. Winter might whiten the world around them, but she felt warm when he touched her.
He led her to Aedyth, who embraced her warmly. Then she smiled, with just a hint of warning. “Welcome, my niece. Welcome to my home. I am happy to have you here, and I know, Fallon, that you will be happy residing with me.”
Aedyth hugged her again. Holding her aunt, Fallon saw Alaric’s eyes upon her. She was a prisoner here, she knew. Just as she had been since Hastings.
“It is good to see you, Aunt,” Fallon said softly. Aedyth turned to walk her into the hall. She asked Fallon about her mother, and if she had seen her brothers or any of her cousins, and Fallon told her that her mother was fine, then sweetly lied about the rest of the family.
“They have told me, Aunt,” Fallon said, “that you invited William here, that you want him as king.”
They both stopped short. Aedyth stared at her niece a long moment, looking up at the tall girl who subtly reproached her.
“Aye, I wanted William to be king,” she said. “My brother Harold told us when he went to battle that God must decide for him. God decided, didn’t he, Fallon?”
“My father is dead; England still stands.”
“Not much of it, my dear,” Aedyth said wearily. “Tread where the army has walked and you will see.” She smiled bitterly, then led the way again.
They came into the great hall where a fire burned brightly against the winter’s chill. Servants tended a great kettle over the fire and even as Aedyth grandly indicated several fine high-backed chairs with rich tapestry covers, steamy chalices of mulled wine were brought forward to them. A sudden silence, fraught with tension, fell around them. Sitting, Fallon saw that only Alaric and Roger and the squires, Steven and Richard, had come into the hall. Alaric stripped off his helmet and Roger did the same. Steven, well trained, stepped forward to collect the heavy metal weaponry and assist Roger with his mail. Richard did the same, yet even as he took Alaric’s helmet, it slipped through his fingers and crashed to the floor. The metal clanked noisily, and poor Richard stared up in dismay. Fallon felt a smile play at her lips, and Alaric burst into laughter. Soon Roger did, too, and suddenly Fallon felt merriment well up within her. The hostility faded as Alaric and Roger teased young Richard.
Aedyth leaned toward Fallon. “I loved my brothers, all of them, Fallon. I loved Tostig and Leofwine and Gyrth—and Harold. But Harold is dead, Fallon. No vengeance can bring him back. I do not embrace William to dishonor Harold. I do so that the curse upon us can end and people can begin to live again.”
“Now, my good lad, have you got it this time?” Steven said to Richard, and they laughed again, and the squires then quit the place while Roger and Alaric came to sit before the fire and drink their mulled wine.
They sat there for some time. Roger talked about the coast and about the few ships that were coming and going across the Channel. Alaric talked about the city and the battle at the bridge, and as he did, his eyes fell upon Fallon and grew warm. He was restless; he rose time and time again to grip the mantel, and stare down at the blaze. He drank several cups of the wine.
Watching him, Fallon grew warmer and warmer. He said something about armor, yet she felt his eyes strip her. Aedyth talked about the West Minster and coronations, and Fallon barely heard a word, for she could not turn away from Alaric. He stood at the fire, his elbow on the mantel, idly dangling his cup in his hand. His eyes did not leave her. The fire grew, the blaze heated, and she saw its glow upon him and felt it against her cheeks, burning. Words around her faded. Servants came and went, and she was barely aware of any of it, for she was held there by the power of his gaze.
“Alaric? What do you say to that?” She vaguely heard Roger ask him. But he didn’t seem to have heard that himself. He did not look at Roger, but gazed at her. He set his cup down and briefly excused himself to Roger and her aunt. He came before her and took her hands and drew her to her feet, still staring into her eyes.
“I shall show Fallon to her quarters,” he said
She felt a tide of crimson rise to her cheeks.
His fingers curled around hers. She could not resist him there, before her aunt, she told herself. But it was a lie, for she trembled and burned with the wanting of him.
Candles seemed to spin before her eyes as he pulled her along with him. She tripped upon a stair, and he lifted her into his arms. They came to a door, and he opened it with his foot, still staring into her eyes.
“You’ve no right to do this,” she said.
“You are mine. And I will have you now.”
“I am your avowed enemy.”
“I suggest you think of peace this hour.”
“I suggest you remember—”
“I feel you tremble. Deny me, Princess, if you can. Fight me, if you have the heart.”
The wine had taken hold of her. She burned, and yet she felt lethargic. She did not wish to be released from the strength and heat of his arms. Aye, she would fight him, she swore to herself—but later . . .
They entered a suite of rooms, but she barely looked about her. She was afire with the wine and with his touch and with the sweet, honeyed longing that seemed to course through her veins and fill her limbs and her heart and her very womb.
A small fire burned in readiness for them in the beautiful chamber. But she was aware of nothing but the sight and the feel and the scent of him, and the overwhelming hunger that filled her. She touched his hair as he carried her to the massive bed. He laid her there with tender care, and his fingers seemed to tremble as he stroked her cheek. “I have missed you. Like the sun, like the moon, like the stars.”
She could scarce breathe; she could only feel him, so hard and masculine. When had she fallen so completely beneath his spell?
“Tell me,” he said hoarsely. “Have you missed me, Princess? In any small way at all?”
“You are my enemy,” she reminded him, but her eyes fell. “I must fight you.”
“Do you hate me so, then?”
