Princess of fire, p.32
Princess of Fire, page 32
“That is good news, is it not, lad?” Rollo said, turning to Delon and giving him a mighty, cheerful clap on the shoulder.
Fallon thought bleakly that Delon would be as insulted by being called “lad” as he would be nervous about the weapon.
“Tell him to take the water upstairs, and go with him, Fallon.”
She stared at Delon, aware that he had understood every word. She desperately tried to remember how many times Alaric and Delon had met face to face. But Alaric was ill, and Delon looked very different with all his golden glory shorn. They had no choice. She spoke quickly to him in English, hoping she wouldn’t be understood by Rollo and Roger.
“We must do as they say. Be quick about it, and avoid Alaric! I will meet you outside as soon as possible!”
He nodded. Neither of them had a choice.
Chapter Twenty
More water was needed for his bath, but Alaric crawled into the half-filled tub as he waited for it to arrive. He listened to Richard’s version of Fallon’s care as he did so. “She was tender, and so anxious!” Richard claimed. “She pined for you!”
Alaric eyed him skeptically. She had probably sat there praying that his fever would plague him until it was time for him to leave again.
“Ah, here she is!” Richard murmured nervously, and Alaric opened an eye to see that Fallon had indeed returned, with a lad who carried water.
Not a lad. Alaric tensed, but was very careful not to move. ’Twas no boy who carried the kettle of steaming water, but a man full grown. Blond and tall and well muscled, and obviously a master at arms. It was Delon. One of Harold’s housecarls. Fallon’s betrothed.
Alaric made a pretense of closing both his eyes, but he continued to watch the young man. Did they think he was blind? Or were they convinced that the fellow’s naked cheeks and cropped locks would fool him? And what was this? Was there an army lurking in the forest, or had the man come alone?
Had Fallon been waiting, knowing that a plan was set in action? Had she kept him alive only to slay him now?
“Boy, set the kettle down,” he said in a leisurely drawl. “Ah, and wait there a moment. Richard, come here!”
Fallon stood silently in the doorway. From beneath his lowered lashes, Alaric watched her. She was desperately nervous. She moistened her lips every few seconds, and she clasped and unclasped her fingers continuously.
The boy stood before him, uneasy himself. Alaric wondered momentarily if Richard knew what was afoot, but decided he probably did not. Richard was determined to be a knight in the Norman fashion. He had not been disloyal to the Saxon cause, for he had never embraced it.
“Go below and find Sir Roger. Say to him for me that I have heard wolves howling. They are hungry, and we must take care.”
Richard nodded, frowning. Was Alaric still fevered? He hadn’t heard wolves howl, but he would convey this strange message anyway.
“As you wish, my lord!” he promised Alaric, hurrying from the room.
When the door closed, Alaric called to Fallon. “Come, will you please, my lady, and pour some of that water into the tub?”
Fallon moved in silence to obey his command—a circumstance that would have put Alaric on his guard even if he hadn’t recognized Delon. Fallon poured the water carefully into the tub.
Ever wary of the man who waited tensely near the door, Alaric reached out and caught her wrist. She dropped the pail and stiffened.
“You should have heard Richard,” he said, smiling to her. He reached up to touch her cheek, drawing a wet line across it, allowing his finger to fall down the length of her throat and hover over her breast.
She wrenched her hand free and backed away from him. “What do you want?” she demanded hoarsely.
He shook his head, maintaining a leisurely, pleasant smile. “I am curious, Princess, that is all. Richard swears that you were eager to save my life. Even Rollo is now convinced of your saintliness. Why?”
Her eyes darted to the blond man at the door.
“Why?” Alaric repeated.
“I—I don’t know. I’ll get the rest of the water for you, and this young man can return to his duties.”
“Oh, I’m sure his duties can wait a moment. I am talking to you, Fallon.”
She was close enough that he could grab her again, and he jerked her down to her knees at his side. She stared at him in fury, but couldn’t resist throwing a nervous look Delon’s way. There was a plea in her eyes; she begged Delon in silence not to move, not to intervene.
A certain pity filled Alaric’s heart, for the blond man stood as still as a statue and as pale as snow. He would break soon, Alaric was certain. And he was sorry, in his way—for were he in Delon’s shoes, he would surely be suffering the torments of hell.
“I want to know the answer, milady,” he repeated softly to Fallon. “And yet I think I know the truth myself. Did you dream of the nights we lay together, and of all the intimacies we shared?”
She tugged at her wrist and her eyes flashed with fury. “Gutter rat!” she seethed, struggling against him.
He laughed and threaded his fingers through her hair, turning her face to his. “Have you forgotten already?” he taunted.
His lips had barely touched hers before he felt the movement. In a second he had thrown her from him and snatched up his sword. The blond Saxon, wielding his knife, came up short when he saw the blade of the heavy sword pointed at his throat.
There was no fight; Alaric had been too swift. Fallon tore across the room, intent upon attack, but he stopped her, too—not with his sword, but with the savage chill of his words. “One more step, milady, and this sword will pierce his throat. I would prefer not to kill him. I pity him too deeply for loving you.”
Delon would have spoken, but the steel blade at his throat made him silent. How many times, Alaric wondered, had he sat in Harold’s hall and watched this young buck adore Fallon with his eyes? He had pitied the man then, for he was certain that Harold, after he became king, had harbored other ideas for his daughter. Still, he admired the courage of the man.
“Alaric, please . . .” Fallon whispered. Alaric ignored her, keeping his attention upon Delon.
“Was that knife for my back?” he asked Delon softly. But weakness swept suddenly through him, and he broke out in a sweat.
All of his strength was seeping away from his muscles. Darkness was cascading in upon him; he was going to fall.
He looked at Fallon’s face, into her glorious eyes. She was backing away from him; had he the strength, he would have laughed.
“Kill me, Princess,” Alaric warned her hoarsely. “Kill me, for I shall hunt you down.”
“Delon, we must run. Now!”
“Perhaps we should—”
“Stab him in the back?”
“You are right, we cannot. We must run now!”
She grasped Delon’s arm, pulling him desperately away. Bless Fallon—for calling attention to the weakness of the man, Alaric thought. Then he fell to the floor, the blackness about him complete.
Fallon rushed with Delon down the stairway. Already, in the great hall, she could hear the clash of arms. Alaric had told Richard that he must warn Roger about the “wolves.”
The wolves were in the hallway: two Saxons had fought their way into the manor’ house, but from the landing Fallon could see that the Norman knights were stronger.
“Dear God, more men will die!” Fallon cried out.
Delon took hold of her then and dragged her toward the doorway. “I’ve the princess!” he called out. “Come, men!”
Her heart soared in gratitude toward her people—they had come to save her. Delon took her hand, and they ran across the hall. A cheer went up among the Saxon warriors, who covered her retreat.
Outside, a mare awaited her. Fallon leapt upon the horse. Delon mounted a bay behind her, and they raced for the forest.
She felt the rush of the wind on her face and hair, and the powerful beat of the mare’s hooves beneath her. Her heart took flight as Saxon men fell in behind them, riding behind the daughter of Harold, the late Saxon king.
“Are we pursued?” Delon twisted and looked back.
A dark-haired fellow who still bore a full beard shook his head. “Not yet.”
“We will be,” Delon murmured.
“We must reach the forest,” Fallon called above the wind.
They pounded onward along the old Roman road, their party of fifty or so. Dust rose around them. Fallon felt that she flew on the clouds. She was free.
For a fleeting moment, the exhilaration of her sweet victory left her, and the image of Alaric flashed through her mind. He could have slain Delon quickly, but he had not.
We should have killed him! A small voice taunted her. No, she couldn’t have murdered him; she did not wish him dead. He had humiliated her, but she could not lie to herself: He had not forced her to taste so sweetly of love. She had come to him as if under an ancient spell. She could not wish him dead. She wished him long life and health—preferably upon Norman soil.
Triumph! Victory! Oh, dear God, she was free! And still, even as the horse moved beneath her, even as birds trilled and dusk came sweetly all around them, she knew that she would miss Alaric, his taunting grin and the soft stroke of his warrior’s hands upon her.
She swallowed, forcing herself to cease her thoughts of him. These men of England had come to her aid.
The horses began to slow, and everyone soon came to a halt.
“Here!” someone called. In the gleaming, men and riders seemed suddenly to be swallowed up by the earth as they moved, wraith-like, into the dense forest. The man with the full beard respectfully moved ahead of Fallon, leading them onward. They came at last to a large clearing where a number of women waited; burning campfires, roasting venison, and pitchers of good English ale were at the ready.
Amazed, Fallon looked at Delon. A cheer went up as she rode into the circle of fires and thanked them all. “To the king’s daughter!” someone called, and cheers went up again. Then Delon dismounted and came around to help her down from the mare.
Tonight’s feast could have been a grand dinner at Winchester. Men laughed and talked, and then the night grew sober again. The bearded man, whose name was Frasier, had been near Harold’s side when he was killed. Fallon had to know the painful truth.
“Was—was the duke in on the savagery?” she asked.
The young Saxon shook his head. “Nay, it was rumored, but that is all. As much as I loathe the Norman bastard, I will tell you he took no part in that infamy.”
“And what of the count?” Fallon asked. She felt a flush come to her cheeks, for she knew that Delon watched her.
Frasier shook his head. “Nay, lady, Count Alaric was not among those butchers.”
After dinner, the band of warriors and their ladies turned seriously to making plans. Fallon’s brothers were to meet them half a league to the north in the morning. Delon told her they would hurry to London and try to raise an army there. She nodded. Delon was still watching her, and she lifted her eyes to meet his.
“If anything happens, Fallon, you must not forget our dream of freedom from the Norman yoke.”
“What do you mean?” she asked sharply.
He smiled and sat down beside her, taking her hand. “If something should happen to any of us, as long as there is a prayer, you must go forward. Your brothers need you.”
“Delon, nothing is going to happen.”
They were deep in the lush woods, and the moon rose high, casting a benign glow on the land, on the many men who slept beneath the trees, on the fires, now dying low.
Delon smiled at her. He touched her cheek, and he looked at her with a certain wonder. A trembling started within her. He loved her even though he knew she had been the mistress of a Norman. What would he demand of her this night? she wondered. To her horror, she realized that she did not want him.
“Delon?” she whispered softly.
“Hush,” he told her. “You must get some sleep. We shall rise at dawn and leave as quickly as possible. We are not safe here.”
In the end, he merely slipped his arms around her and held her. Fallon stared at the moon. For the longest time, she was still. She could not sleep, for she was beset by mixed emotions. Escape was sweet—but some part of her had been left behind. In spite of herself, she could not forget Count Alaric.
She had barely fallen into a doze before she was rudely awakened. Delon was pulling her to her feet. “Run! You must run, into the forest.”
“What in God’s name is happening?”
She had awakened to madness. Men were shouting and drawing their swords; the women cried out and tried to run for cover among the trees. Fallon stared at Delon.
“He has found us! Alaric has found this place!”
Alaric had come for her! A chill raked her spine. She saw them now, the Norman knights, clad in armor, descending upon their campsite from the forest.
“Run!” Delon insisted.
“Nay! You came for me; I’ll not desert you!”
Fallon ran to the horses, searching through the saddles and the gear. By the time she found a sword she could handle and extracted it, there were Normans everywhere. Men cried out and sought the safety of the woods; many of those who ran survived the onslaught. A horse was racing toward her and Fallon turned, choking back her fear and raising her sword in warning. The warrior paused. It was Roger. He rode on.
“God help us!” Fallon prayed. She worked her way back to Delon.
But God turned as deaf an ear to Fallon as he had to her father. As she stood there, her sword outstretched in warning, she saw Alaric. She saw the steel of his eyes as he rode toward her and Delon.
He dismounted and strode into the clearing where Delon and Fallon stood. Around them, the fighting went noisily on, but here it was all deathly still. As Alaric lifted his sword in a challenge, Fallon’s heart stopped, for she loved both of these strong, proud men. Delon raised his sword in return, and the blades met with an angry clash.
Again and again, the mighty steel blades came together. A thrust, a parry. Deadly force against cunning and guile, swift agility against the weight of the swords. They moved behind a tree, and Fallon began to follow.
A sword flew up, and her heart seemed to stop. She came tearing around the uprooted trunk of a great oak.
Alaric stood, his sword at Delon’s throat. Delon lay still.
“No! No!” Fallon screamed. She rushed at Alaric, holding her own sword high.
The Norman turned, meeting her sword with his in midair. Fallon staggered at the strength of the blow. Then he turned on her in a rage, battering down upon her. She gritted her teeth certain that he meant to slay her, and fought with all her might. But he was too much for her. He backed her up against a tree, brandishing his sword before her.
“Kill me, lady!”
Tears stung her eyes. She warded off his blade, but she knew she could not hold out much longer. After all this, he had not slain Delon, who lay, barely conscious still, on the ground.
“Alaric—”
“I am not so weak this morning, lady,” he said. His eyes were silver flames of hatred. He pressed against her, and she hadn’t the strength to hold him off. With the flick of a wrist he sent her sword flying.
She grasped the tree and stared at him. They were surrounded now, she realized. Someone dragged Delon to his feet and brought him to stand beside her.
“Fallon, it seems you are bested once again,” Alaric announced.
A strangled sob escaped her.
Alaric looked at Delon, his eyes flashing silver fire.
“I should kill you,” he told the young Saxon.
“No!” Fallon screamed. “No, please!” She had never seen him so furious, so merciless. She pitched herself forward and landed on her knees at his feet. “I beg of you, let—”
“Fallon, my God!” Delon swore hoarsely. “He has stolen your honor!”
“What means honor now, Delon?” she spat out bitterly.
“I would like to know,” Alaric put in.
Fallon turned and stared at him—this cold, distant stranger made of steel. Only the lethal anger in his eyes touched her. All else about him was ice.
He stepped forward, gripping her by her hair. “Are you a whore?” he demanded softly. “Available to the highest bidder?”
“Bastard!” she hissed, reaching out to scratch his cheeks. He caught her wrist quickly and held it tight. Delon stepped forward, saying words she could never have uttered herself. “I never touched her, Count Alaric.”
“Am I to believe that?”
“Aye, sir, you should. For I love her.”
Alaric was still.
“Delon!” Fallon cried in anguish. She loved him for his words, but wished that Alaric had been left to believe that she cared not a whit for him—that she had fallen into the arms of her betrothed with sweet relish.
Alaric arched a brow as he watched them. “This is really touching. But it is also over, I’m afraid.”
Just then Roger came riding through the trees. He glanced briefly at Fallon and Delon, then spoke one word to Alaric: “Wolves.”
“How many do you think?” Alaric queried.
“Near fifty, but most are in a sad state. The dregs of Hastings.”
“How many dead, how many wounded?”
“Near twenty killed.” He paused. “We lost Étienne and Walter. We’ve ten captives, and another twenty-five have fled into the woods.”
Alaric could not look at Fallon. He had wanted to believe in her, had wanted peace between them. He was not such a fool as to love her, but he could have kept her alive and well through this blood conquest; and in the midst of it, he could have explored the magic alchemism between them.
He still could not forswear her. But she would pay for this treachery.
He turned around and stared at the pair of them coldly.
“Delon, I pity you, sir. You are a slave to this maiden, and I tell you this not with malice but with truth: The lady accommodated herself with me. I offer you the greatest mercy when I assure you that you’ll not set eyes on her again.” He could barely endure watching them together—the young man’s arm around her, her face as white as death.
