Princess of fire, p.37
Princess of Fire, page 37
There was a soft, urgent pounding on the door. Fallon flew to it and found the old crone of the night before standing there. Two guards were stretched out upon the floor nearby.
“Drugged only, and I don’t know for how long!” the woman told her. “Come, Princess! You are our only hope!”
Fallon dressed quickly and with care. She wore thick woolen chausses and a dull gray bleaunt over a soft chemise. She did not take her soft fur-trimmed mantle, but a heavier one in simple wool with rabbit trim and a giant hood to pull low over her face. When she was ready, the old woman nodded grimly. “You look like a maid about to take religious vows. That’s fine. Now, come.”
As they hurried along the cold and silent halls, they heard a servant humming, and ducked into a room. Footsteps rang out, and they stayed still once again. Then rushed to the southern servants’ door, and Fallon bowed her head low as she left, folding her hands as if in prayer. Her heart took flight, for people were all about them now—servants and merchants. An old man stopped them and Fallon’s breath caught; but all he wanted was to sell his apples. She shook her head without revealing her face.
“Come!” the old crone said.
Fallon looked around her as she walked. Outside the walls of the palace, morning activity went on. One woman cleaned fish, another chamber pots. A group of men polished harnesses. Fallon felt as if someone was watching her, but when she turned, she saw no one looking her way. A youth in heavy dull wool was bent over with his back to her, rewrapping his leggings.
“My lady, haste is needed!”
When they came to the river, the old crone was quick to turn Fallon over to a solid boatman, who bowed quickly and low before her. “My lady!” he murmured reverently.
“This is Alfred,” the woman said. “He will stay with you.”
Fallon thanked him as he helped her aboard. There was a low fog on the river, and as he pushed the boat away from the riverbank, Fallon felt as if she moved through a nether world. She pulled her mantle more tightly around her. She felt that she should pray, yet she wondered just what she should be praying for. In her father’s name, these loyal people had come for her. They wanted her to strike a bargain with a Viking prince, who would bring more death and devastation upon them all.
But that had been Edward’s prophecy, hadn’t it? she asked herself. Fires and demons raging across the land. They were all doomed to pay for their sins.
The morning was very silent. She heard the oars fall against the water, and that was all. It was cold on the river, and her cheeks burned. She shivered against the wind, and she began to pray that she would see her brothers soon. They believed in her strength, but she was very much afraid.
It seemed that they traveled for hours. Finally Alfred drew the boat against the opposite shore. He hopped out, secured the boat to the dock with a line, then reached down to Fallon. “My lady?”
He helped her ashore, and they hurried along the mist-veiled road. It seemed quiet even here, Fallon thought. Men and women and even children moved through the foggy street, and a great wall of mist rose above the river. An occasional oxcart careened by them, but despite that noise, the silence weighed down upon them.
At last they came to a door, and Alfred pushed it open. They entered a room where a poorly vented fire made the air seem as thick as that of the world beyond. It was a crude inn, Fallon saw quickly. The rushes were dirty, as were the tables that crowded the room. There were many men here, and few women. Yet she was safe, she thought, for though all eyes fell curiously upon her, no one wanted to come near the giant at her side.
“Are my brothers here?” she whispered.
“Nay, lady,” Alfred told her. “They could not risk it.” He pointed across the room. “There! The Viking has come. You go to him, and I’ll guard the door.”
In the far corner, a man in a cape and cowl much like her hooded mantle raised his head. She was quick to recognize Eric Ulfson. A smile slashed his handsome, cruel features, and his blue eyes sparkled. A full golden beard covered his chin, and a mustache curved above his thin lips. He lifted a tankard of ale to her, staring at her with fiery purpose as she crossed the room. Miserable shivers raced up and down her spine.
Eric rose, clasped her hands, and quickly drew her down to sit across from him. “Fallon!” he breathed against her hand, and his eyes fell upon her again, greedy and determined.
“Eric.” She had to fight to keep from wrenching her hand away. “Eric, my brothers believe you can raise an army. They say you are willing to fight.”
“I will do anything for you, lady. Anything.”
Fallon’s blood ran cold. Her stomach tossed and turned, and she thought that even the tiny infant growing inside of her must be repelled by his familiarity.
Eric was their only hope, she knew, but she would promise him nothing. She would ask for his help, but this was one battle she would not attend. If and when he came with his army, she intended to be far, far away.
“Eric, England needs your help. And now, I believe, is the time to strike. Few people realize how very weak William is. Aye, a few more of his ships have arrived with reinforcements, but his numbers remain weak. It is his cruelty, not his force, that has caused many people to surrender.”
“I will fight him.” The blond with the cool Nordic eyes watched her with intensity. He picked up his tankard and swilled some, then took her hand and opened it. He smoothed his thumb over her palm. “I will open you like this, like a flower,” he murmured. “I will fight the Norman usurper, and when I have cast him back across the sea, you will be my prize.”
She sat there shivering. “Eric! Take care,” she warned him softly. “William is weak, but he is no fool.”
Eric smiled and watched her. He lifted her hand and gave it a curious kiss—more like a lick. “I am anxious,” he said. “They tell me that you have been mistress to Count of Anlou.”
She started and pulled back. His smiled deepened. “Don’t fear, Harold’s daughter. It adds to the fascination. His reputation as a warrior is legendary. I will enjoy killing him, and I will be pleased to see what he has taught you when we lie together. Virgins, milady, are something to be taken in the heat of battle. For pleasure, a man desires a woman to thrust and rise beneath him.”
She stared at him blankly, gritting her teeth in fury. If only her father lived, Eric would never dare to talk to her so. But the king was dead, and so she sat here weaving a deadly bargain with him. Her stomach was in open revolt now. She would readily die before she would ever let Eric touch her so. “Eric, as yet you’ve still to raise your army. Defeat the Norman conqueror, and then we will talk again.”
She started to rise. He caught her hand and pulled her back. “I will kill the conqueror, and I will kill Count Alaric. And when I do, milady, you will be my prize.”
The stench of the tavern—from the unwashed bodies and stale ale—made Fallon queasy. Eric leered at her.
“’Tis a pact, Fallon.” She held silent, and he smiled and stroked her cheek with his fingertip. “And to seal it well between us, I will take a kiss now.”
She closed her eyes. She felt his lips touch hers, felt the coarseness of his beard against her cheek.
Then a cold wind rushed between them, and a brutal, thundering sound erupted. She opened her eyes in horror. A knife had been thrown between them; it had sliced through her sleeve and pinned her fast to the wooden table. She gasped, and saw the surprise in the Viking’s face.
Eric rose, casting back his hood and reaching for his sword. Another man strode toward them. A man with fury in the hot steel fire of his eyes.
It was Alaric. He bore down upon them in long, swift strides as Eric bared his sword. Alaric did the same. Above the table, their swords clashed, coming dangerously close to Fallon’s face. She did not cry out; shock kept her silent.
Parrying a blow with his sword, Alaric used his free hand to seize his knife, freeing Fallon. “Go!” he ordered, not looking her way. She had barely moved when Eric kicked the table over, shouting as he lunged at Alaric. “It’s been a long time, Count!” Eric said. “What a pleasure!” He went for Alaric’s throat. But Alaric easily parried the blow and returned it. As their swords clashed and caught, Alaric frowned grimly. “Eric Ulfson, I believe.”
“Aye, come a-Viking, my lord. And what will you do?”
“Why, slay you, of course!”
Again their swords clashed. Fallon scurried away as their fury rose, and tables and benches were shoved and kicked about. Men fled the tavern, crossing themselves. Flattened against the wall and still stunned by Alaric’s appearance, Fallon watched the fury and strength of the two men who battled. There was a deadly beauty to it all, for they were so powerful and well trained. It was nearly a dance. Now and then when their great broadswords crossed, they taunted each other, only to start anew in earnest.
“Your whore shall be mine!” Eric told Alaric.
“I believe not,” Alaric said smoothly. “For I do not share, and if I did, Viking, she’d have no interest in a corpse.”
“A corpse, Count, is what you shall be! And I tell you, sir, when she is mine, she’ll not escape me to run to another. Perhaps you have not kept her warm enough, eh?”
“Sir, you will freeze in eternity this night!” Alaric promised.
“Damn you both!” Fallon swore. She struggled toward the door. Alfred was gone; indeed, most of the patrons had fled. The few white-faced onlookers who remained were caught behind overturned tables.
Tankards flew, ale billowed and blew, and wood cracked as the warriors’ swords met and struck again and again. Breathless, Fallon reached the door. Don’t let him die, God, she prayed silently. Please don’t let him die! And it was a conquering Norman she prayed for, not the man who had come to help her free England from bondage.
As she flung open the door, her eyes widened. Two blond giants pushed past her. They had come with Eric, she realized. They were disguised as monks, but they planned to deal out death.
She fell back, staring at them. The one grinned at her with blackened teeth, then seized her and tossed her toward his comrade, who held her. She screamed, and Alaric swung around at the sound of it, and saw the danger at his back.
Eric charged. Only with swift agility did Alaric avoid the deadly blow that came his way. He countered, carefully watching the two newcomers. One heavy Viking threw himself toward Alaric with wild, screaming berserker rage. Alaric lifted his sword and ran the man through.
But Eric had the advantage. He lifted his sword while Alaric struggled to retrieve his blade from the body of his fallen enemy. For one brief moment, Alaric’s eyes met hers. And inside, deep inside she quivered at the depth of hatred she saw there.
She screamed, certain that Eric’s sword would fall upon his neck. In the nick of time, Alaric’s sword came free and he countered the blow.
Suddenly the Viking who held Fallon called out something to Eric Ulfson. Eric spun around, and his friend used Fallon as a shield, throwing her with tremendous fury toward Alaric. He caught her against his chest, then swore and pushed her away from him, heading after the retreating enemy.
Fear spurred Fallon to her feet. Alaric would go after Eric, but then he would come for her, and he would no longer be her tender lover, that she knew. She had to get outside, escape into the mist.
But even as she staggered to her feet, Alaric reappeared. His eyes beheld her with a cold, controlled rage. He closed the door and leaned against it. Watching him, she felt ill. When he entered the inn, she had been sealing the bargain with a kiss, and he had seen it. He felt doubly betrayed, she knew. Yet she had been his prisoner, and he must realize that she was bound to fight to the bitter end.
But he couldn’t know how much his anger hurt her, how deep the anguish lay in her heart! He could not know that she loved him and that it was harder to betray him than it would have been to turn her back on her father’s memory and her country.
“An old friend?” Alaric queried sardonically. He came into the tavern and leaned against one of the fallen tables, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I warned you that I would fight,” she said quietly.
He moved away from the table and walked around her, and she felt the full force of his fury. “I should have asked just how many men lurked in your past. Eric Ulfson, milady, is more dangerous than your young swain, Delon. Ulfson is a berserker like his distant kin, Harald Hardrada, and they are always dangerous. Not a man with whom to seal your fate, chérie.”
Fallon’s blood seemed to freeze and congeal at his casual yet menacing use of the endearment. He did not touch her, and she thought perhaps he was afraid to do so, lest he strangle her where she stood.
The door opened, and two knights she did not know entered. “We’ve taken the big man, but Ulfson has escaped us,” one told Alaric. Alaric nodded in acknowledgment, watching Fallon. “Word came that they caught the old woman,” the knight continued, “and the fellow who brought Harold’s cub down the river. It was easy, for it seems that the entire city knows what has happened.”
Alaric paused for a moment, his eyes still upon Fallon. “That is too bad,” he said softly. “An example will have to be made.”
Her heart skipped a beat and then thundered. Would William really go so far as to slay her as an example? she wondered. Nay, he was no murderer, she thought. And yet, in his eyes, this was treason. Soon he would be the annointed king, and to fight him would be treason for any English subject.
“Take her,” Alaric said softly to his men. He looked at her with cold-steel eyes, but did not touch her himself.
When the men moved toward her, she screamed and, in desperation, raced to a corner of the room. The good and hearty Saxon men were returning to their ale tankards, righting the fallen tables—and swearing beneath their breath about the Norman hordes. Fallon gripped the shoulder of the biggest, heartiest fellow she could find. “Sir, help me, please. I beg of you. I am Harold’s daughter! I was promised to the nunnery at Saint Mary’s on the Rye, and I was on my way there. I have taken certain vows, and if these men try to take me back now, God will condemn us all.”
Murmurs went up. These English were a superstitious lot, very worried about defending their God. Despite the weapons and prowess of the Norman knights, the good Englishmen started to form a wall around her.
Alaric did not move, and she breathed a great sigh of relief even while hope began to bud inside her. He did not want to slay these innocents. Perhaps she would escape.
But a smile played on his lips, and he lowered his head. When he looked up, she saw that his smile was a lie, and the steel in his gaze registered an ever-growing fury. “Good friends,” he addressed the workmen and fishermen around him. “Tell me—have you ever heard of the Saxon king’s daughter being promised to a nunnery?”
“It was a deathbed request!” Fallon called out. “Good fellows, Harold lay upon the battlefield, a Norman arrow in his eye and the knowledge in his heart that they would hack him to pieces!” She spoke with passion. Alaric grew tense, and she knew she was gaining ground. “Please, just stand between us until I can reach the street—”
“I tell you, friends,” Alaric said, “that she is no virgin who has sworn a vow of celibacy. I can prove it to you now. We need only a physician or a midwife to examine the girl and tell you she is no nun. She is Harold’s daughter, aye. But she is also my mistress, my property, my slave. If you wish it, good friends, I will see that it is proven to all.”
The men murmured. Fallon bit her lip, and she knew that he would do it: She saw sheer ruthlessness in his eyes.
“Fallon?”
She lowered her head in defeat. He strode through the crowd and took her elbow. Barely suppressing his fury, he dragged her out of the tavern.
The mist still remained on the street. Fallon was glad of it, for it hid the torrent of emotions that gripped her as he roughly grasped her hands and tied them together.
He pushed her forward, and one of his men caught her by the shoulders. “For now, return the princess to her aunt. I will search for the Viking and discuss this with William later.”
He barely glanced her way as he leapt upon Satan and galloped down the street. His man turned and lifted her up on his mount. There was a clatter of hoofbeats on the road. With a sinking heart Fallon saw that the new arrivals had come directly from Duke William. They wore his colors.
“Where is the count?” Alaric’s man was asked.
“Gone after the Viking.”
“This is the Saxon vixen?”
Fallon lifted her chin. “Princess,” she said. The duke’s man ignored her. He was assured by Alaric’s men that she was indeed King Harold’s daughter and that she was being taken to her aunt at Winchester.
“Nay, I’m afraid not. The duke demands that she be brought before him. Now.”
Fallon’s heart began to flutter. She kept her head high as panic rose within her. William would have no compassion whatsoever. Courage! No matter what they did to her, she would not falter.
Nay . . . but she would beg William to uphold the law. By English law, the life of an unborn child was not forfeit with that of the mother. They could not slay her until the child was born. A sheer, weakening terror swept through her. She did not want to die.
Alaric’s men did not seem pleased, but without their count among them, they could not refuse the duke’s order. They began to ride. Soon they crossed the tributary on a barge and headed toward London. They were making for the wooden fort that William had ordered built there. Nearby, men were already at work digging. She had heard that he meant to build a fortress there in stone, a great tower, right on the river Thames.
They rode to the fortress. Men-at-arms parted before them, and she saw how very well guarded the duke’s stronghold was. Soon, she knew, he would go to West Minster. He would be crowned there, as Harold had been before him.
They rode past the gates and into the bailey. Fallon clenched her teeth and tried to keep from shivering as they arrived, for William was there. The rumor of her escape and assignation with the Viking had traveled very fast, she realized.
