Princess of fire, p.38
Princess of Fire, page 38
The duke came toward her and lifted her from her mount.
“Lady Fallon,” he murmured in greeting. “Is our hospitality so poor that you should be so eager to escape us?”
She stood as tall as she could. “Duke William, you will forgive me if I find my father’s murderers to be a group of churlish men.”
“I am sorry we cannot make you happy,” William told her softly. “And I am very sorry that I have to prove to you that we cannot tolerate your treachery, my dear.”
“You are a loathsome usurper, William.”
He digested her words with no comment. “Fallon, I am still loath to slay a woman. I pray that it will never come to that.” He turned away from her, calling to someone. “Twenty lashes for the princess. Perhaps she will think twice before plotting against me again.”
She choked back a gasp as a man stepped forward and took her hands.
The man assigned to administer the lashing did not look cruel. Fallon realized that this was his duty, not something he enjoyed. She heard the duke and others walking behind them, their footsteps crunching on the snow-packed earth.
The man whispered to her. “I will be gentle as I can, but the whip she cracks and hisses. Try not to tense against it, and forgive me my duty. You will not be scarred, I promise you.”
She stumbled and faltered as she crossed the muddy ground. A tall post rose in the center of the duke’s training yard. There were spectator stands, and wandering merchants hawked their wares to the knights who came to train here. Though the fortress was gated, many people milled about within its walls.
The man quickly led her forward and hooked the rope that bound her hands over a spike in the post. Fallon bit her lip to keep from crying out as she pressed against the pole. The man took her mantle from her and tore her chemise and bleaunt to bare her back.
With bitter dismay, she heard shouts of encouragement from the crowd sitting in the stands, eager to see the lash bite into her.
And bite it did. Fallon choked and convulsed as the lash stung her back and the pain streaked through her. He had warned her not to tense, and yet she could not help it as the pain seared into her.
The whip cracked again, and she screamed as it tore into her tender flesh. She sagged hard against the ropes that held her, and she wondered if, mercifully, she just might pass out. She did not want to scream, but this was agony.
The whip fell a third time, a fourth, a fifth, a sixth.
Then suddenly it was over. She was dimly aware of the sound of hoofbeats, and she heard shouting, and then a determined argument. She could not catch the words, for they spoke very rapid French, and she was drifting in and out of her world of pain and blackness.
Then fingers tore into her hair, pulling her face from the pole. She cried out softly at this new anguish, but sound died upon her lips as she stared into Alaric’s eyes, silver and harsh.
“Alaric,” she whispered, “you came to stop them. I—I thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, Fallon. Mademoiselle, you deserve fifty lashes, and William would have had his way with or without my agreement this time. A Saxon fellow came riding after me to tell me that the duke’s men had taken you. Still, for yourself, you deserve this. But I demand an answer, and I will have it now . . . Is it true?”
She did not understand him; she did not understand anything but the pain. He jerked on her hair again and she thought he must truly hate her. “My God, answer me, and answer me now! Are you with child? The priest says you are with child.”
“The priest?”
“Damien met me upon my arrival.”
“Oh!” she gasped, shivering. How could he possibly know?
“Damn you, answer me! Are you eager to lose the child? Or is it your own life you seek to forfeit?”
“Neither!” she screamed, and she prayed that tears would not spill from her eyes, that she would not betray her weakness. But her flesh burned as if a thousand demons seared it, and his eyes bore into her like blades of condemning fury.
“I repeat, my lady, are you with child?”
“Aye!” she said. “Aye! Please . . .”
Suddenly her hands were free and she was falling. She was caught by strong arms. A mantle was thrown around her shoulders; she cried out as the material touched her raw back. She opened her eyes, and Alaric was there, staring down at her. No mercy yet touched his gaze. He had come and saved her, and she wanted to thank him, but the words died on her lips, for he seemed to bate her more than ever.
She swallowed and closed her eyes. He lifted her into his arms and began to walk, and she lost all thought as she swam in the pain. He carried her into a room in the fortress and put her down on a slim pallet. Unable to talk, she closed her eyes against the pain. Moments later she felt a touch and opened her eyes. Alaric stood at the back of the room, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fierce as he stared out to the fortress yard beyond.
Fallon choked back a scream. It was Father Damien who had touched her. He held an urn of yellow salve, which he was rubbing on her back. She bit her lip, trying not to cry out, and she stared at him in amazement.
“Father?” she whispered. “Ah. So you serve William now, too.”
“I serve God,” he told her.
“You knew!” she whispered to him. “How could you know what I have only just realized myself?”
He gazed at her, giving nothing away. “A green tree grows together of its own accord,” he said very softly. “My lady, let it grow!”
Nothing that he said made any sense to her. He continued to smooth the salve over her wounds, and when he was done, he forced her to drink a green liquid. “You will rest,” he promised her. And she would, she knew, for the sweet void was beginning to claim her already.
But she did not sleep for long. Hands fell upon her shoulders, and she was shaken roughly. She opened her eyes, and Alaric was there. His eyes were still like ice, and he stared at her with greater anger than she had ever seen. “Tell me, my lady, what was your plan?”
She shook her head. “There was no plan.”
“No plan!” The thunder of his voice raged into the drowsy forgetfulness that had claimed her, and she winced. “No plan, my lady? I saw your lips against his. You went to him to sell yourself to him. For England—and bloodshed!”
She tried to shake her head.
“Knowing you carried our child! Or is it our child, milady? Perhaps we’ll never know. Mayhap it is a Saxon whelp of young Delon’s. Maybe you lied to me then, too.”
“I did not lie to you. The child is yours.”
“So you knew that you carried my child, and yet you went to that Viking—” he began hoarsely, closing his fingers around her arms.
“Count!” Father Damien interrupted him, and Alaric’s hold upon her eased. “She is hurt, and I have drugged her. She cannot understand you. Leave all this until later.”
“Nay! Not this!” Alaric was seated beside her. “Fallon!” It was a command to open her eyes. As she did, she was startled by the anguish within his.
“Fallon, why didn’t you tell me about the child?”
“I wasn’t—sure,” she murmured. “Not until the last few weeks.”
“And you did not tell William when he had you dragged to a whipping post?”
Amazed, she widened her eyes. “Had he meant to—kill me, I would have spoken.”
He lowered his dark head for a long moment, then raised it and looked at her again. His features were as hard as stone, and his eyes were filled with anguish. She fought to understand, but the drug was claiming her too quickly.
“You did not seek to rid yourself of the child?” he demanded.
She stared at him in confusion, then shook her head. “Nay,” she said softly. “Nay, I want the babe. I want it because—because I am the hope of England. Didn’t you know that?” She could speak no more. Her eyes fell shut, and oblivion claimed her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Fallon awoke to discover that she was back in the palace at Winchester. She lay on the bed in a soft linen gown, and a fire burned gently in the hearth. Someone sat before the fire, quietly polishing something. Fallon blinked to clear her vision and wondered how long she had lain asleep, and how she had traveled from William’s fortress back to Winchester. How had Alaric even known that she had escaped to meet Eric?
She must have made some slight noise, for the person before the fire turned, and she realized that it was Richard. He rose quickly and came to her. She was touched because his concern for her seemed so great.
“Hello,” she murmured softly.
“My lady!”
He poured her some water and she sipped at it, watching him.
“Thank you,” she told Richard. She gazed about, wondering where Alaric was and what he might be feeling. He had repudiated her, she thought, and yet she felt so very weary that it did not seem to matter. She had done all that she could. She had followed her father to two battles, and lost. She had tried to join Delon, and succeeded only in getting him exiled to Normandy. For her brothers she had tried to engage the aid of a foreign prince, and that too, had ended in disaster for her. Now she was so tired.
“I’m sorry, milady,” Richard said. “I’m so sorry!”
Puzzled by his words, she stared at him.
He shook his head mournfully. “I-I sent Count Alaric after you. I saw you leaving, and I was afraid for you. I rode out after Alaric. I thought he might reach you before the duke.”
She leaned back painfully. So Richard had betrayed her. One of her own kind.
“He did find me first,” she said ruefully. “But then he set out after Eric Ulfson—”
“A Viking, milady?”
“Aye, a Viking,” she agreed softly. “I thought it a mistake from the beginning, but there was no other choice. Anyway, it is over. And it’s all right,” she said softly. But it wasn’t over, was it? Galen had wanted her to lure Eric into the fray. Well, she had done that. He had escaped and could still gather his army to ride against William. She didn’t know if she cared or not. She was weary of it all. William would soon be crowned; he would be king, whether devils and fire and demons roamed the land or no.
“I swear, I never meant to hurt you!” Richard repeated.
She smiled and lay back weakly. All of her energy seemed to be gone, stolen from her. “And I swear, Richard, it is all right.”
“You forgive me?”
“With all my heart.” She reached up and touched his clean-shaven, boyish cheek. He caught her fingers and squeezed them.
“That is the greatest gift I could receive this day, lady.”
She frowned. “This day?”
“’Tis Christmas Eve, Lady Fallon.”
“Oh!” Tomorrow would be Christmas . . . and William’s coronation. How much her life had changed in just one year!
Richard smiled and reached into his pocket. He produced a little brooch for her. It was neither gold nor silver, but some harder metal. She looked at him.
“It’s not much,” he murmured. “I made it from a broken knife. A smith here helped me with it. See that design engraved upon it? ’Tis the dragon of Wessex.”
“It is beautiful. I thank you so much. But I have no gift for you.”
“You have forgiven me. That is my gift. Oh, lady! I had to send him after you. He loves you.”
But Alaric did not love her, she knew that now. She was surprised that she had been brought back here, rather than put into a dungeon somewhere, so great had been his fury.
“Richard, please—” she murmured, but he interrupted her.
“’Tis true, I swear it—though perhaps he does not know it yet! But, ah, lady! You should have seen his face! It was wretched with pain when he brought you here. Father Damien was with him, and he was actually swearing at the priest. The good father assured him that you slept peacefully, that you would feel no pain. And do you know what else he said?”
She arched a brow to him, easing back upon her pillows and plucking at the covers she held to her breast. “What who said, Richard? Alaric or Father Damien?”
“Well, both, I suppose!” Richard claimed. “It was a beautiful, passionate moment. Alaric swore that Damien would be his first clerical victim if his drugs hurt you or the baby. Damien warned Alaric that he should take care, because God would take offense at his treatment of a man of the cloth. My lord Alaric swore and said that he wasn’t in the least sure what god Damien was talking about, but then the priest laughed and told him that you would be fine and that his son would be fine and that he had nothing to worry about. Then Alaric grabbed the priest and told him he’d best know the truth of it, for by the honor of his sword, he would have it so.”
Richard stood, and Fallon had to smile. The audacity of his lies was enormous, but the dramatic appeal with which he acted out his words was contagious and charming.
“Then Alaric carried you here,” the boy said, “and he would not leave when your aunt came with her women to cleanse your wounds again and take off your ripped and bloodied clothing. He demanded to know each ingredient in the salve the priest rubbed on your back. And when they were all done, milady, he sat here holding your hand and gazing down upon you.”
He nodded to emphasize his point, and then he went deathly silent. Fallon followed his gaze, and she, too, froze for Alaric stood in the doorway watching them, and he was not amused. No sign of a smile broke the grim line of his lips, and his eyes were cold and gray.
“I was—er—just finishing with your bridle, my lord,” Richard said, his cheeks burning.
“So I see,” Alaric offered. His glance fell upon Fallon.
“I was just leaving,” Richard said.
“There is no need,” Alaric interrupted “Fallon, I see that you are awake, and you look well enough. We leave this afternoon for the city, to be there early tomorrow for the coronation. You will be dressed and ready, and you will stand by my side. And, lady, you will stand silent, except to hail your new king. You may wish to have some things packed for the banquet, which will run late. We’ll not be returning here this night.”
He bowed low, a lock of his dark hair falling over his forehead. Then he turned on his heel and left them, slamming the door in his wake.
Richard glanced at her. “I-I’ll send someone to help you bathe and dress, and to bring food. I must take his armor to him now.”
She smiled. “You’re his squire now, aren’t you? Just as you wished to be.”
“I’ll be a knight one day, my lady. And I shall ride to your defense and the defense of your babe, I swear it!”
“So everyone knows now,” she murmured. She lowered her head, smiling at his passionate outcry. She wondered if this boy was not her best friend now. She loved her brothers deeply, but they did not seem to care about her welfare, and they would not be here to pay the price of treachery with her.
She bit her lip. She had no choice but to attend the coronation, she knew. She could go willingly or be dragged there, but she would attend. She rose carefully, clutching the bed to keep her balance. She should refuse to walk or move, she thought dismally. She could not rejoice at the banquet and swear her loyalty to the Norman usurper. She could not do it.
Suddenly, there was a knock, and the door opened. A line of people seemed to stretch down the hallway. Two maids, two hefty serfs with a bathtub, a dozen boys with water. Fallon sighed softly and lowered her head, and when the tub was filled, she stepped into it. She determined then that she would hold her head high. She could not acclaim William, but neither could she fight. She would stand silent, and her silence would condemn him.
She dressed carefully in her finest silk chemise, soft beige with Flemish tatting at the sleeves. She donned a rich purple bleaunt with ermine at the cuffs and collar and all along the hem and train. She dressed her hair with pearls, and when she was done, the women helped her into her fur mantle, and she clasped it about her shoulders, fastening it with Richard’s brooch. She stood and waited. In moments, Alaric came for her.
He stood in the doorway, staring at her. Surely she was the finest, richest gem that the country possessed. She stood so still, so tall, so proud. Her long hair fell over the beautiful gown in vast ebony waves that glowed blue in the firelight. She was so silent and still awaiting him, her eyes like sapphires in the night, her swan’s throat a pure cream with an erratic pulse dancing against it. She was ready; she would be there. And every man would see her, for what man could not gaze upon her?
His mouth tightened at the thought of her most recent betrayal—enacted knowing that she carried his child. She had seduced him into a lull of peace and trust while she spun her webs of deceit. She would have run with the Viking and called him lover.
She owed him no explanation. She was property—spoils of war. And he had known, as no man did, that a woman could be cherished but not loved.
He reached out a hand to her. “Come,” he said simply. Trying not to shiver, Fallon obeyed.
Alaric did not speak to her as he led her from the palace or during the long ride to West Minster. Richard was at his master’s side; Roger was in their company and Rollo, too, and another score of Alaric’s retinue. The day was icy and cold, the ground was hard-packed. The horses snorted and their breath misted on the air, and their trappings jingled loudly as they moved over the snow-covered land.
At midmorning, they stopped at a manor to eat, and though Richard remained at her side and Roger and even Rollo came to ask after her welfare, Alaric did not come near her. Fallon was hungry, for she had eaten almost nothing in the past two days. But as soon as she tasted the salted meat, she felt queasy. When they started to ride again, she knew she would not hold her food. “I must get to the woods,” she told Roger.
“Fallon, no tricks, I beg of you.”
“’Tis no trick; I must get by!”
He gazed at her with alarm, and so she nudged her horse and burst into a canter, seeking a small road into the forest, where she could be alone. She had barely reached a copse and dismounted when her stomach completely revolted. She gagged and gasped, and fell into the snow, eager for the icy stuff to cleanse and cool her face.
