Fire Dance

by Delle Jacobs

  "Ahead, then."

  Alain signaled for his knights to mount. He regretted that his awed gaze of his new land had distracted him from his usual caution. But he would not make the same mistake again.

  Thomas led the twenty iron-mailed knights down the steep slope, through the shaded canopy of evergreens and ash. More alert now and less enthralled by the land's beauty, the Normans scanned the underbrush for movement or odd color. They chuckled when despite their caution a hart leapt up within feet of the lead riders, startling the horses.

  They rode on, reaching lower slopes where the ash trees now showed their first color of the year, and continued farther down to the treeless moors of bracken and heather.

  In the valley, they slowed and followed another rushing beck. Alain reined in his bay to watch in astonishment as the stream tumbled into a jagged hole of grey stone and vanished beneath the rock.

  "What manner of stream is this?" Alain asked, for he had never seen a stream disappear.

  "It is a common thing here, lord," Thomas replied. "This is a land of many caverns, and sometimes the becks fall into them."

  "Then what happens to them?"

  "There are becks coming out of caves, too. Mayhap they are the same."

  "You do not know?"

  "The caves are enchanted. One dares not go in, save for the proper reason."

  "And what would be the proper reason?"

  The blocky, silver-haired man shrugged his shoulders. "It would be what the hob wants. It is said of one in the Deep Dale, the hob will cure the ills of those who enter, but those who have no ills will never come out again. Some others, no one knows what the hob desires, as none have ever come back out."

  Alain frowned. Hobs. Another strange word. "Then some also go in, yet come out alive, is it not so?"

  "Aye, it is so. But I do not want to be the man who does not. I'd see my enemy, face to face."

  "I cannot quarrel with that." Alain signaled to the man to continue onward, and the big horses resumed their trot.

  Farther down the dale, the harsh fells gentled into the broad, green valley that was more familiar. Scattered cottages marked small homesteads, a pattern that seemed to be more common to the area than villages. They would be harder to defend. Yet, they also might present more of a problem for a scavenging army.

  Ahead lay the castle on its craggy grey knoll, its limestone curtain wall seeming to blend and grow from the native stone. The hall's yellow sandstone walls gleamed like sunshine itself in the bright daylight. Beside the hall rose the jagged top of the new tower's construction, already almost as tall as the old hall. Riding up, Alain could see the castle's weaknesses. It was wrongly sited. The curtain wall along its back could never be built high enough to protect it from the higher slopes beyond, and he would have to reinforce that side with high towers and clear the ground for a ways uphill.

  Why would Fyren make such a mistake? Just to make use of existing buildings? Had he meant to increase the castle's size later on, extending it even farther up the hill? But why not start with the most impregnable site?

  Alain glanced sidelong at his injured friend as they rode. He could see the pallor collecting on Chrétien's face, although the man would never admit to weakness. Alain spurred his tired charger to a gallop for the journey's last leg.

  The cross-braced wooden gate was already creaking open, for their raised pennon had been spotted, and Alain urged his stallion across the wooden bridge. His feet lit on the bailey's hard-packed ground even before the squires rushed up to help their knights.

  "Come now, Chrétien, into the hall, and let's have a good look at it."

  "'Tis no more than a scratch. My squire can tend it."

  "I agree, it is probably naught to speak of. But I will see for myself. Inside." Alain slapped the charger's reins into his squire's hand and clamped his hand onto his knight's unimpaired shoulder to signal the seriousness of his intent.

  Two women waited beside the hall. Edyt's bright blue eyes met his, large and wide in horror, contradicting an otherwise passive face. Fear? Danger? Astonishment? Nay, he had not brought her a mass of mutilated men to stain her hall with their blood. Merely one with but a passably small wound, who would balk at the simplest treatment.

  The girl regained her composure as if it had never been lost and stepped aside as the knights passed through the door into the hall. "Nelda, bring the salve. Fresh water, and some rags."

  The older woman shuffled away.

  Alain jerked off the purple cloak, tossed it aside, and pulled off his coif and hauberk. Two squires helped Chrétien remove his mail, working it carefully past his wound while Edyt set a torch of rushes into the bracket on the stone wall near the trestle table. She ignored Chrétien's grumbling and with a simple wave of her hand commanded the knight to sit on the bench placed beside it.

  "Ah, he is right, lord," she said as she daubed a wet cloth to the injury. "It is of small merit, as far as wounds go, but a knuckle's width closer to the throat would have been fatal."

  Alain nodded. "Aye, I see. It could have severed the great vein at the throat. We were fortunate."

  He stepped back and watched as Edyt applied a salve with gentle strokes. The frown on Chrétien's face eased. Mayhap, the salve; mayhap the touch. Alain found himself with a fleeting wish for a wound of his own, that she might tend it. He repressed a laugh.

  "You must rest a few days so that it may heal properly."

  Chrétien winced. "Rest? There is no time for that."

  Alain smiled. Nobody told Chrétien he must rest because of a simple hole in his neck.

  "The coif will only keep it open. It could fester."

  "Then I will protect it with something."

  The girl sighed. He suspected she was familiar with the stubbornness of men about such things.

  "Well, I shall stitch it, then. Nay, do not object. You are of more use to your lord for healing rapidly, and the stitches will take the strain off the wound."

  Chrétien looked to Alain for defense. Alain folded his arms and watched the girl take four deft stitches with needle and horsehair, then once again coat the wound with her salve. Chrétien grumbled his thanks before stalking away.

  Alain picked up the small brown crock and sniffed its contents. "What is this?"

  "It is but the juice of house leeks, with horsetail and mint. I use it commonly for all manner of wounds."

  "And it works?"

  "Many times. Your knight is in little danger."

  "It was fortunate. Hugh thought the arrow intended for my face, but Chrétien happened to ride up at that moment."

  "Indeed? Your knight does not stand taller than you."

  He tried to picture what she meant. Had she known the archer shot from above them? He eyed her, suspiciously probing. But there was a simpler answer.

  "Nay, but his horse stands taller than mine."

  "The archer must have very good eyes, and aim, then."

  "How so?"

  "To distinguish one Norman from another at such a distance. They look much alike to us. In their hauberks."

  She spoke as if she and the archer would both look upon the Normans in the same light. Was this passive girl a conspirator?

  She hardly looked like one.

  Mischief suddenly seized him. "Do we?" he asked.

  The girl tensed and stepped back a pace. Like hot blood, the instinct of the predator rose in him, the rush of excitement of the hunt.

  "Do we all look so much alike, Edyt?"

  "It is the hauberks, lord. And the coifs. There is no difference, one to another, save for size. When naught can be seen but eyes."

  "Is it so? And without the hauberks, Edyt? Is there a difference then?"

  "Aye." The girl again cast a glance over her shoulder. "I have things I must attend to, lord. You must excuse me."

  "Excuse you? I think not. I have something else in mind."

  The bright blue eyes flung a trapped look at him, and shifted hastily from side to side.

>   Alain smiled, knowing his smile possessed a lethal look.

  "Tell me more of our missing lady, Edyt."

  Again the girl stumbled back, bumping against the trestle table.

  "Do you know her well?"

  "As well as any might, I suppose."

  "Do you know why she absconded?"

  "It was as was said."

  "Then why? She cannot mislike me, knowing naught of me."

  "Um, there are some who do not wish to marry."

  "And is the Lady Melisande such a one?"

  "I could not speak for her, lord."

  "Guess, then."

  The blue eyes flitted from side to side. "I know only that she said this betrothal is not legal."

  He laughed. "Rufus is king. Whatever Rufus does is legal."

  "She does not wish to marry a Norman."

  Alain eased away, gave the girl more room. His eyebrows raised deliberately. "Surely she must know the king will not permit her to remain unmarried. I have no say in this, nor does she. In any case, were it not I, Rufus would find another."

  "Aye." She said it in a pale, reluctant sigh. It had meaning for her, then.

  "Tell me about this elusive lady."

  "I do not know what to say."

  "What does she look like?"

  "Much as anyone, I suppose," she said with a shrug.

  "An odd reply, Edyt. Can you not be more specific? Her coloring, mayhap? Her hair?" He could almost feel the tension rising in her. Wicked amusement bubbled in his veins.

  "A sort of blonde, I think."

  "You think? You do not know? Surely, if you know the lady, you know the color of her hair."

  "It is blonde, then."

  Alain stroked at his chin. "Indeed? Some say not, that her hair is dark."

  "Well, it is sort of dark."

  "Dark then, not blonde?"

  "M-mayhap more blonde than dark, I think."

  "Some say, red."

  "Red? Well, mayhap– "

  And were Edyt's eyes brown instead of blue, he might have mistaken the girl for a frightened doe, caught in the hunter's eye. Yet even that was no more than a flash before the mask of the obedient and passive servant slipped again into place. Guilt seeped into him, but he was having too much fun to stop.

  "I am confused, Edyt. Can it be that half the people of the castle are blind and the other half cannot see?"

  She gulped. "Um, mayhap it is a matter of perception. Mayhap some see her differently."

  "It occurs to me, nearly everyone here is blonde."

  "Aye, it is a common thing, here."

  "So then, you have told me naught. Her eyes, then?"

  "Blue," she replied, with a finality her voice had lacked before.

  "Ah, of course, as again, I see little else, here."

  "Well, I cannot change that."

  "How tall might she be, then?"

  "About the usual for a woman. Mayhap, my height."

  "Indeed? Do you see yourself as of a usual height for a woman? You appear to be taller than the usual."

  "I had given no thought to my height, or the lady's, lord."

  "Ah. Then could you say, is she slight of build? Heavy?"

  "I do not think either."

  He stroked again at his chin. "Then we shall say, she is not unusual in any way, looks more or less like every other woman. She does look like a woman, does she not, Edyt?"

  "A-aye."

  "Well, I will grant there is a common look among the people here. Mayhap they are not distinguishable, either. Mayhap, like Normans, they all look alike."

  Although she moved no part of her body, a twitch squirmed in her eyes. Yet she quickly brought even that under control. He was beginning to learn how to read her. The first and instant reaction was the true one, the rest a mask.

  "Look you, Edyt. Though you and all the folk of my demesne may shield her, she will be found. It cannot be avoided."

  Only a tiny sigh escaped her lips.

  "But your loyalty is commendable. I will hope for the day when I can command such loyalty here."

  He could not help the small smile that sneaked onto his face. Perhaps it was pity, that he teased her so mercilessly and she took him so seriously. He touched fingertips to her cheek and found skin softer than he would have thought. An unexpected, heady rush of passion jolted through him, urging him to pull the girl closer to him, to feel her pressed against his body, taste the first fruit of her lips.

  But he was not a man controlled by his desires, to take young girls without discrimination. He would not allow it of his knights, nor of himself. He had come to this wild land to conquer, and in conquering, take his bride. He would not permit distractions, nor bring another to grief for his own pleasures. He'd seen far too much of that. So it was he who backed away, rather than the girl.

  She lowered her eyes and turned away.

  Yet he was not ready to let her go. "Edyt."

  The girl stiffened. "Aye, lord?"

  "Where is the bolt hole?"

  "Bolt hole?"

  "One who has the keeping of the household would know. And Fyren was too sly not to have a way to escape. Where is it?"

  "I know not, lord."

  "You know. And mayhap you helped our elusive lady through it? I will find it myself if I must. But it will be easier if you show me, will it not? It is my right to know, Edyt."

  In her eyes, he saw a small defeat. He disliked what he saw. There was something proud and wild about her that he did not want to see tamed.

  "Aye. It is within the new tower."

  "Show me."

  She gave a small nod of assent, lifted the torch from its bracket, and walked away. Behind her, Alain mused to himself at the smoothness of her steps and the long yellow braid that swayed at its tip, the way a cat's tail might flick from side to side.

  She passed through the open door into the upper bailey, never looking behind her as she led him up the slope to the new stone tower. At the doorless entry, she paused. He motioned for her to continue.

  Edyt stepped through the small opening, ducking her head and lifting her hem. Inside, she skirted past uncleared rubble, beneath the ribbed vaults, leading the way with the torch. The rushlight's dancing shadows played against the rhythmic undulation of her hips.

  Suddenly realizing the direction his thoughts had taken once again, Alain frowned and shook his head. He needed a distraction. He set his attention to the perfectly done columns and blocks of the undercroft, and the symmetrical arcs of its vaults that supported a huge new hall above. Despite its incomplete state, the lower floor was already full of necessities for a siege.

  And mice.

  A huge reddish tabby dashed out from the shadows, chasing the startled prey.

  "Rufus! Scat! Begone!"

  The cat scrambled after the mouse and disappeared into the darkness.

  "Rufus? You have a cat named Rufus?"

  "King Rufus. He is the lady's cat, lord. And he is very red."

  "The lady has a cat named King Rufus. That certainly augurs well for the relationship. I shall pray that the king never visits."

  "He surely would not take offense. The cat was named years ago. Certainly with no thought to a man whose chance to become king was so remote."

  "He would not? As I recall, he has a vivid dislike for the beasts."

  "Surely not."

  "Surely so. They make him sneeze."

  The girl turned, frowned as if impatient, and moved on. He smothered the smirk that wanted to wiggle onto his face. She had no inkling that he teased her.

  She led him farther into the darkness, the torch's bright flame trailing backward. She stopped and pointed at a crude wall of coursed rubble.

  "Behind the barrels," she said.

  Alain grabbed the casks by their rims and rolled them away. Two thick wooden planks stood against the wall, and Alain raised each one with little effort. To this point, the bolt hole had both the remoteness and ease of access it should have. Also the greatest danger.<
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  "Easy access for an enemy, right into the tower of refuge. Did Fyren not consider this?"

  "It leads to a cavern," she replied. "No one goes into the caverns."