Fire Dance

by Delle Jacobs

  There is unfathomable evil in the man, De Crency. I do not want him to live. Had Rufus meant sorcery, then?

  And you will take his daughter Melisande to wed, no questions asked. Alain had laughed and asked if the lady had two heads. Mayhap she did.

  Alain could still picture Rufus watching with fascination as he held a crumpled parchment to the brazier's coals. The king's perpetually stuffy nose wrinkled at the acrid smell as flames jumped forth from the glowing coals to consume it. Then Rufus dropped the parchment and watched the remainder of it dance a graceful pattern, like a flower opening, then shriveling in the devouring flames.

  Odd though he was, Rufus was usually predictable. He had long coveted Cumbria, and wanted this conquest with uncommon ferocity. But he seemed to want this marriage even more. And he had explained nothing except that he had known the girl's mother when he had been a boy.

  Sorcerer? Was this what Rufus had sent him to combat? Then why had he not said so? If so, surely there was little harm in Fyren now. Yet he felt his back prickle, as if anticipating a knife between his ribs.

  "And what of his daughter?" Alain asked. "Did the priest also implicate her?"

  "Nay, lord."

  "Yet, she chooses to run, as a guilty one might. She cannot hope to escape."

  "She is naught like her wicked father, lord."

  "But she has no heart for a fight."

  Alain's suspicious eyes caught Thomas in the very breath of denial before he quickly closed his mouth. "The lady wishes peace for her people," said Thomas. "She would not see them slaughtered, as many in the north have been."

  "Where are her relatives?"

  "She has only a few very distant ones north in Strathclyde. Her mother was of Durham, but all those are dead now."

  "Friends?"

  "None, save those folk about the demesne."

  "Surely some of Fyren's knights must have brought their families from time to time."

  "Nay."

  "Why? Did he not wish connections for his daughter?"

  Thomas shook his head, seeming genuinely sad. "I do not think he did. Ofttimes, he would keep the girl where none of us, not even her mother, saw her. So the girl was solitary, as befitted her father's wishes."

  "Yet the knights honor her with their submission. She must at least have their loyalty. It appears you had no fondness for Fyren. Tell me honestly what you thought of him."

  Thomas's eyes matched the hard, grim line of his mouth. "I know not, lord, if he was a madman, or the Devil's own tool. It matters little, for few men have been so evil."

  "Well. I will abide by your judgement. See to his burial forthwith, but remove the purple cloth. It is far too beautiful to be buried in the ground."

  The Saxon knight's grey eyes suddenly widened, then just as quickly calmed. "It is a cloak, lord, that the Lord Fyren had made for his wife before she died."

  "And then he murdered her? Well, it is mine, now. And far too good for the likes of him. I suppose I will take this chamber. But I have no wish to share it with a corpse."

  "If you would take Lady Edyt's chamber for this night only, lord, we may prepare this one for you, and remove all traces of the lord's death."

  "A reasonable request." The air had a need of cleansing.

  Thomas bobbed his head properly. With a clipped turn, Alain returned with Chrétien to the bailey.

  "That's it?" Chrétien asked as they crossed the hard-packed earth of the bailey. "We but ride in and take the place?"

  "It's happened before."

  "But not quite like this."

  "Not quite like this. Something is truly afoot."

  An anxious energy infused him, the kind that took over his body whenever he sensed a battle brewing. Yet it was not a battle he sensed. He could do no more than warn his men and keep his own eyes open.

  "Are you sure you want to do this?" asked Chrétien.

  "I have given Rufus my word."

  "The bride, I mean. A maid you have not seen, of peculiar parentage. Does it not concern you?"

  "Of course. But I am committed, and I shall make the most of it. Do you doubt I can bring her around to my side, Chrétien?"

  "And to your front, as well," Chrétien snapped back, flipping his eyebrows. "Nay, I should not have worried."

  "Ah, but you are so good at it. And you save me the trouble, as you do enough for both of us."

  Chrétien's mouth spread into a narrow smile that seemed to crinkle both up and down. A good man, his Chrétien, who would fight like a berserker in battle, yet worry himself to flummery over the future happiness of his dearest friend.

  Studying the people of the hall more closely, Alain saw that not all were Saxon. Some, no doubt, mixed several races. For this part of the Isles, blondes prevailed, a legacy of both the Saxons and the Danes, unlike the slightly darker Normans whose blood had mixed with Franks and Bretons. Alain chose one whose features and hair seemed more Norman, and spoke to the man in the English tongue. "You, sir, how are you called?"

  "Gerard, lord, second son of Chauncy d'Amiens. My father rode with the Conqueror."

  Alain knew of the man. He had thought him loyal to Rufus. Another oddity, to find him here, but now was not the time to pose that question. "How is it that your lord lies dead, and none seem to mourn him?"

  The young knight's eyes grew cold, with the same hardness Alain had seen in Thomas. "There are some who would pay him the courtesy, lord, but they have had the good sense to leave. And as he is dead, he is of no use to any who remain."

  "None? What of his daughter?"

  A rosy flush colored the man's cheeks.

  "Speak the truth, Gerard. You will not be punished for it."

  "The fair Melisande has little cause to mourn her father, lord. I pray you will forgive her."

  "Mayhap. But I will also find her. Tell me what you know, Gerard."

  "Only that she is gone. We are all bidden by her to surrender the castle for the sake of all within it and those upon the land without."

  "She must have gone somewhere. Yet she did not leave through the gate, or she would have been seen. Are there other ways out?"

  "I am not privy to such, lord."

  He might not be. Yet, like all the others, Alain suspected he knew more than he said.

  Something was missing. Resentment. The Saxon knights seemed almost happy that they must now pledge to a different lord. Did they submit because the lady had asked it? Or because they would not follow her? Or might there be a trap still to be sprung?

  A movement caught his eye. A maid with a lithe figure and remarkably long, butter-yellow braid walked away from the crowd toward the kitchen outbuilding. It seemed a strange time to leave, when most hung about for a glimpse of their new lord.

  Heeding his impulse, Alain followed her through the gathering. The murmur of the crowd swelled, then grew suddenly silent. No doubt, they wondered what it was he wanted with the girl. He was no debaucher, nor one to use his power unjustly. But if these people had suffered Fyren's evil as was said, they would not believe it. They would have to be shown, and soon. Alain had no desire to try to live with his eyes in the back of his head.

  "Ho, girl, why do you hurry away?"

  She stopped, slowly turned, and fixed on him large eyes, bright and blue as a summer's day. His breath caught. The severity of her long yellow braid was mocked by a frill of pale tendrils about her face, giving an odd softness to contradict her grim face. A rush of energy surged through him. He had imagined his bride would look like this.

  The bride was more likely to be a mousy little thing.

  The girl squared her shoulders and folded her hands together before her, each hand subtly gripping the other. "I go to prepare the meal, lord. You will wish to eat?"

  Despite her apparent composure, apprehension flickered in her blue eyes. Suddenly he saw himself as she must see him, a dark and lusting Norman beast who carried the power of life and death in his hands. He knew well enough the reputation of Normans among these northern
folk.

  He almost let her go then. But her intensity, as if she both feared and dared him, piqued his curiosity. "What is your name, girl?"

  She seemed not to have expected his question. Something sparked in her eyes, and then vanished. "Edyt," she replied hurriedly.

  "Was that not Fyren's lady's name?"

  "I am named for her."

  "And what do you do here?"

  "I have the keeping of the house."

  "The housekeeper? One so young?"

  "I take my mother's place. I am well taught, lord. I pray you will not wish to replace me."

  "I have no quarrel with it. But perhaps you know where the Lady Melisande has got herself to."

  Her lips closed into a tight line. "I know not, lord."

  She knew. He was sure she did. She was as nervous as a cat crossing a log over a rushing stream. Just as she stepped backward, he reached out and took hold of her arm.

  Alain sensed a brittleness to the hush about them, and turned to see all those in the upper bailey following his words. The knight Gerard seemed especially interested, like a man watchful for the first stroke of battle. Alain released the gentle hold he had on the girl's arm and smiled.

  "Know all of you," he said loudly, "that I do not come to do you harm, but in the name of King William II to take tenancy of this holding. Those who are loyal will be treated with trust, and all with fairness. But know you also that the Lady Melisande will be found, no matter where she may hide. And I will marry her. The king has commanded, and so it shall be."

  Alain gave the girl, Edyt, a last hard glance, and again caught a glint of fear in the stunning blue eyes.

  She would be about the same age as Melisande. In the isolated confines of a remote castle, it would not be unusual for mistress and servant to develop a friendship. And if Melisande had the loyalty of strong knights, no doubt this girl would also protect her.

  He was persuaded. Edyt was the key.

  CHAPTER 2

  He knows!

  Nay, he does not! Flee! Quickly, before he learns!

  She quashed the demons' taunts.

  But the Norman's eyes bored into her, all the way to her trembling heart. He caught that small echo of her fear and bounced it back to her, his dark eyes gleaming like a predator that had spotted its prey.

  She was no mouse, to helplessly present herself to be torn apart by fierce talons. Melisande hastily restored to her face the expressionless mask that had served her in her war against Fyren. She crushed all hint of emotion, knowing if she did not feel it, the Norman could not see it in her. Yet the very brazenness of her gaze marked her as something other than a servant. Hastily, she looked down, fixing her sight on his scarred and dusty boots.

  If she'd had another option, she would already have taken it. But she had no relative or friend who would dare shield her, so she did what only she would dare, hid herself in plain view as a common servant. That was not merely dangerous, it was a plan extremely unlikely to succeed. But it was all she had.

  And the Norman was most likely correct. He would ferret her out and force her to marriage, for he had both the ability and the king's great auspices supporting him. She could do little to stop it.

  With a small, submissive bow, she turned slowly and stepped through the rough wooden door frame leading into the kitchen. The blast of air, thick with heat and the sweet aroma of freshly baked bread, stunned her.

  A small, grey-haired woman in a rough wool kirtle much like her own approached her, but kept her eyes lowered as she spoke softly. "You should not test the Norman's ire this way, lady. They are dangerous men."

  He was even more dangerous to her. She had been close enough to watch the keen black eyes turn to seething charcoal, had felt the heat and power of the man as if it rippled through the chilly air and ensnared her.

  Black. His hair was black beneath the metal coif, dark as the everlasting night of the caverns below the castle.

  "I do not test him, Nelda. I merely mean to hide."

  "Then you should leave. It is not safe."

  "Let each do his part, and all will be well."

  At least she had not lied to him about her duties. Even long before her mother's death, she had taken over the management of the household. Now she only presented herself as one who served, instead of a family member. Such a servant was not uncommon, although as the new lord pointed out, that position would usually go to an older woman. She might have given herself a lower position, even in the scullery, but it would have wreaked havoc among the servants. It was best to keep things simple.

  Melisande raised the hem of her skirt to mop at the perspiration that collected on her brow. She shoved a flat-bladed wooden peel into an oven and extracted a baking loaf, and nodded silently to denote her satisfaction. The cook's helper removed more loaves from the other ovens.

  "How shall we call you, lady?" Nelda whispered as she wrapped a cloth around her hands to lift a steaming oval loaf from its peel.

  "Edyt," Melisande murmured back. "It will at least be easy to remember."

  "Aye, easy enough. But he knows your mother's name. Will he not suspect?"

  "I told him I am named for her." As if she could change it now. But she wished she had thought faster and given him a different name.

  "But I fear some shall slip."

  "'Tis best that none speak it unless they must."

  No one would betray her purposefully. Even those who had been strong partisans of her father would find no benefit in giving her identity away. It would be a slip that would eventually give the Norman what he sought. But Fyren had been right. Then she would not outlive her wedding night.

  Melisande returned to the kitchen and checked the spits, hung with great haunches of boar and oxen. Copious drippings sizzled as they splattered onto the fires below, a certain sign that they were properly done.

  The sigh she released was almost indiscernible. If things had only been different. Once she had prayed for a husband to come forward for her, to take her from her nightmare. But the Norman came too late. And the most futile of wishes was that of changing what had already come to pass.

  She buried her anxiety in her tasks and returned to the back-straining chores that would bring food to the table of a household suddenly tripled in size. Wiping her brow again of the dripping sweat, Melisande glanced toward the kitchen door.

  The Norman lord stood at the threshold, his black eyes watching her.

  * * *

  So, he made her nervous. He liked that.

  The vision of those wondrous eyes clung to him as he and Chrétien turned away from the kitchens and followed in Thomas's steps. But Alain De Crency was not a man to be daunted, either by a reluctant bride or an enigma of a girl with startling blue eyes and the most solemn face he had ever seen. He had much to do, and little enough time to accomplish it.

  They walked through the upper bailey and up the stone steps to the narrow allure atop the new curtain wall. Alain ran a practiced eye over the fortifications, catching here a weakness of mortar, there a cleverness of structure that enhanced its basic strength.

  "Who designed this?" he asked Thomas while his gaze skimmed over the wall and back to the kitchen outbuilding.

  "It was Lord Fyren's doing, lord. This was a monastery, but most of its buildings were derelict."

  "And he added the chambered wing to the hall?"

  "Nay. But it was one long chamber until Lord Fyren divided it. The outer balcony and doors to it came later."

  "You disapprove."

  "It is not for me to say."

  "Say, anyway."

  "A lord should not seclude himself from his people."

  "I see." Alain rather liked the concept, but decided not to mention that. "And the new tower?"

  "Lord Fyren's doing also. He made it round, for corners are hard to defend."

  Looking down, Alain surveyed the beginnings of the grey limestone tower that would soon dwarf the older hall. Like the Conqueror's London Tower, it seemed intended fo
r living quarters as well as a refuge during siege.

  The design made sense. When finished, its only opening would be far above ground on the first story, with wooden stairs that could be removed. For the present, a rough, doorless entry remained at ground level for masons and hod carriers to pass. But the site puzzled him, for it was not the best. Why compromise on such a thing?

  His eyes traced the line of the almost completed curtain wall that surrounded the hall and its outbuildings, dipping downhill to enclose both upper and lower bailey.