Fire Dance

by Delle Jacobs

  "Melisande," he said gently, and kept calling her name, until she quieted, and words diminished to an unintelligible whisper, interspersed with gasps like hiccups. Her eyes stared off at nothing.

  "Melisande, it is but a dream. No one will hurt you."

  "Hurt– "

  "No, lady, no one will hurt you. Ah, lady, I am sorry. I had not meant to frighten you. I was wrong."

  "Don't– "

  He knew she had not yet come around. He kept talking.

  "I had no right to treat you that way, Melisande. And I do not want us to be enemies. I should be your protector, not the one that frightens you so. I will not let it happen again. I promise you."

  He reached out, stroked his fingers on her cheek, and wove them into her tangled hair. "You are so lovely, my lady. Even in your ragged clothing, you are by far the loveliest woman I have ever known."

  He would have expected her to recoil from his touch. Instead, her own small hand took his and held it at her cheek. He slipped his other arm around her and drew her into his arms.

  The gulping sobs and screeches faded to thin whimpers, then slowly faded to nothing as his hands stroked over her tangled hair, across her shoulders. "You will be all right, love. The dream is gone now."

  For a while he held her, not quite daring to break the spell. But the chamber was chilly and she wore no more than a light linen chemise. Not enough to keep her warm.

  Alain stood, awkwardly lifting her in his arms, then carried her to the bed, where he lowered her gently to the feather mattress. But when he straightened to reach for the quilt, her arms latched about his neck with a desperate ferocity.

  "Nay," she said, and clung tightly to him.

  "Lady, you are cold. I must get the quilt for you."

  "Nay," she pleaded, and her arms tightened.

  He bent and crawled over the top of her, grabbing at the quilt as he went, and lay down at her side. With his free hand, he pulled the cover over her and tucked it around her.

  "Don't leave me."

  "Nay, I won't go. I'll stay as long as you need me."

  She nestled her head into his shoulder while he stroked gently over her back and through her damp hair.

  Sudden need struck him as he drew her against his body, a passion forgotten in the frightening struggle just past. He would ignore it. God's Breath, he didn't know how, for he had long desired her, but he must. She needed his comfort, not his aggression.

  His lips kissed tenderly on her hair, then cheek, and she made no objection. Her lips invited him, instead. Just one kiss, to reassure her. If she did not like it, he would stop.

  He lifted her chin with his fingers and his lips found hers, touching like feathers. His body screamed at him, demanded its fulfillment.

  But he was not the important one at the moment. He would give her what she needed from him, for she was his wife, now.

  Wife. An odd word it seemed, now, for a new sort of meaning had become attached to it. A personal one. Something special. Someone special, this woman in his arms.

  As you find her. No questions asked.

  Ah, Rufus, what is it you know? Why would you not tell me?

  And what had been done to this girl? Was it Fyren's doing? Suddenly he wished the man alive, so that he might slay him, himself.

  He felt her hand straying across his chest, beneath the open tunic, felt its delicate fingers nestling in among the hairs, stroke across nipples that suddenly hardened with her touch. His body ran riot, demanding what he dared not give it. She surely did not know what her touch did to him.

  Yet she was a woman of the modern age; she had to know what all society expected of her. She had known well enough in the earlier evening hours when she had fought him with every ounce of her strength and being. What was so different now, that she would so readily forgive him? He had done little beyond soothe her in her terror.

  He did not trust himself. Never in his life had he said that, never before now. He should leave. Yet her body begged him to stay with her. And she needed him.

  Caught in the quandary, he again brought his lips to hers. Her mouth opened invitingly. He could not resist. With his tongue, he probed tentatively into the warm, moist, yielding corners of her mouth. The tip of her tongue found his, answered his with its own tender, tentative exploration.

  His body tautened, fiercely demanding satisfaction for its urgent need. God's Breath, how was he to manage this? He should have left. It was too late.

  "You have only to tell me stop, and I will stop."

  His voice sounded to him like a coarse, ragged whisper, and he feared he was lying. But she said nothing.

  In the dim glow of the guttering candle, her solemn blue eyes watched him as he pulled away as if she feared he would leave. But he sat and yanked the tunic off over his head and tossed it away, not caring where it lit.

  "My lovely lady, I have wanted you in my arms from the moment I saw you."

  With a gentleness, and a calmness he did not feel, he caught the hem of the linen chemise, and lifted it as his hands ran smoothly up her thighs and hips, raised it past her breasts, over her head. Aye, she even raised her arms to help him.

  He fought against the wildly rampant urge to take her now, hard and swift, before she changed her mind. He did not think she would send him away now, but what if she did? He dared not think of it. Instead, he skimmed the flawless white skin of her belly with his fingertips and ignored his barbarous urge to press her fiercely to him.

  "You have only to say the word, my love, and I will stop."

  "Do not leave me."

  Her arms again encircled his neck, tugged him downward to her. He was undone. Beyond calling back. A heavy moan coursed through him as he slid down so that he could capture the rosy tip of one nipple in his mouth, while both hands cradled her round breasts.

  Her eyes closed tightly and she whimpered with his touch. He felt her thighs separate beneath his weight, lodging him between them, where he wanted most on God's earth to be.

  He wanted her, but more than that, wanted her to crave him in the same deliciously painful way that he needed her. Lifting his body to let his hand pass between them, he found her source of passion buried in its curly nest. The first touch raised her high off the bed, her blue eyes bright and startled, before they softened to the smoky glow of pleasure.

  "Ah, lady, you like that. I will give you anything you want. You will see."

  And she did like it. Her whimpers became moans of passion as he stroked, increasing tempo with her rising demand. Ah, aye, he would give her anything, everything.

  But for himself, time was running out, his need too strong. And she was ready for him, welcoming his entry into her body. Exquisite jolts shot through him as he moved to join her, slowly, carefully, refusing to allow his wild aggression to take over. Slowly, with a rare and elegant motion, he slid within her, soon nestled snugly within.

  There was no barrier.

  As you find her.

  Nor did he care, for his need had quickened into voracious hunger, desperate for filling. All gentle tenderness vanished as his lust became obsession.

  She rode with him, each stroke becoming more precious, deeper, harder, faster, as she demanded more and more of him, and he sought to fulfill it. Again, again, again, until her body burst into a tempest of undulating contractions, and he, in a maelstrom of his own, felt the torrent of ecstasy flood through him, engulf them. He held her tightly against his still rigid and trembling body as they rode the last wave together, wrapped in its final warmth.

  The storm was spent at last, and they rocked on the gentle, quiet sea in each other's arms.

  His strength, too, was spent. He could do no more than rest his head against her breasts and caress with tiny strokes over her damp hair.

  "I will cherish you, my love, all my life. Aye, I think we will deal very well with each other."

  Her solemn blue eyes closed, left behind a look of peace on her face. Her hands rested against his back at his waist, finger
ing the indentation of his spine.

  Sweet Jesus, give me this precious lady for the rest of my days, and I will be happy.

  She slept. Once again he pulled the abandoned cover snugly about her body and arranged her long yellow hair outside it. Strange, that she should sleep with her hair unbound, after going about all day with it plaited. Or that she would sleep in a garment. Or that she was no virgin.

  But he did not care, only wanted to stay this night at her side, where he could touch and hold her. Now he saw reason for her strange solemnity. But he wished he could see her smile. Just once. Mayhap, tomorrow.

  * * *

  The first sounds of morning woke him, the morning bell, a kestrel's screech, the cock at dawn. He raised up on one elbow and peered happily at the prize beside him. She still slept. She had not moved from where she had been when his eyes at last had closed the night before.

  She would be tired. Very tired. Her wedding night, unexpected as it was, must have drained her. And there was no need for her to rise. None would expect it of her. Today, she would go back to being a lady. She would no longer need to hide from him, for they were now one.

  He sat on the bed as the early morning light sifted through the narrow double window, beyond the cracks of the shutters. He wanted to touch the tangled yellow hair, caress her soft cheek. Nay, let her rest.

  That they must talk, he understood. Perhaps she had feared what he would do when he discovered her lack of virginity. She might well harbor notions of Normans and their vindictive treatment of unvirtuous or disobedient brides, notions that were neither wholly inaccurate nor unjustified.

  She had deceived him in many ways, lied to hide herself. But he could forgive that, too. She had already forgiven much more.

  He picked up his discarded tunic from the floor, and tugged it over his head. He had brought naught else into the room save the candle, and its flame had long since drowned in its own wax. He took it, too, and walked through the door between the chambers. The latch clicked into its notch.

  He soon was dressed and out the door. He took the wooden stairs two at a time. Below on the dais, the knights stood, awaiting the day's events.

  Chrétien took one look at him and started laughing.

  CHAPTER 11

  "What is so amusing, Chrétien?"

  Chrétien's audacious grin spread even wider. "Yesterday I saw that big red tabby with a spindly mouse tail dangling from its mouth. Methinks he wore the same bold grin."

  The Norman knights leaned back, roaring with laughter. Robert slapped his broad hand on the table, and his eyes watered. The Saxon knights merely snickered into their ale. Even Gerard seemed more at ease than he had been the night before.

  Alain frowned and growled at Chrétien. But he could not deny to himself there was a certain spring in his gait that had not been there yesterday. And he guessed the smile he could not keep off his face looked unusually silly.

  "You were not at chapel this morning, Alain," said Robert.

  "I overslept."

  The loud guffaws echoed through the hall, Saxon and Norman alike slapped each other's back and wiped tears from their eyes.

  "Overslept, he says!" Robert laughed. "More like the vixen kept him up all night. She'll lead him a pretty chase, I'll wager."

  "Save your coin, Robert. I'll manage my own life."

  "Aye. Just the way she says!" Hugh spit out the words between bursts of laughter.

  Gerard's laughter joined the others. "He does swagger in his nether parts. "Aye, 'twill be so."

  Alain slanted a glance at Gerard, watching for signs of jealousy. But he saw none. If the lady had a lover within the hall, he would seem the most obvious possibility. But that was the trouble, it was too obvious. The man made no secret of his loyalty and showed only relief that things were turning out well.

  But if not him, then who? Wallis? He was a young and attractive man, mayhap would make a passable lover. Should he watch for that dagger in his back from another? Mayhap one of the knights who had absconded?

  There was another possibility. Rape. Aye, and that would explain Melisande's fear even better than a lover she did not want to give up. But Fyren's daughter? Who would have dared?

  He didn't mind their hilarity at his expense. He rather enjoyed it, in fact. But his own mood for it had passed. He ignored their banter as he drew the big chair up to the trestle table and helped himself to the generous piles of food.

  * * *

  Melisande woke, not with the usual dread and fear that morning brought, but with a devastating certainty.

  She had walked.

  What she had done, she didn't know. She never knew, only that it had happened. Sometimes she found herself asleep in a corner, or at all odd places in her chamber, or she might have by chance made it back to her bed. Sometimes, as now, woke completely bare, despite that she always wore the linen chemise to bed. Her hair might be unbraided and tangled, as it was now. And there would be an achiness to her body, as if every muscle had been strained beyond its capacity. That, always.

  But she had no memory of what she had done. None.

  She sometimes screamed and cried. Thomas told her that. Once she had clawed at the wall until her fingernails broke and bled. Like now. Yellow plaster clung beneath her nails. New marks scraped on the walls in the corner. She never knew why.

  If the Norman lord had seen her terror, seen the demons take hold, she would not live long. He would call for his Norman priest, and they would exorcize the demons from her. No matter that she would not survive their attempts.

  That was only one of her fears.

  Melisande sat up, shifted her aching body to the bed's edge, slid her feet to the floor and fished about with her toes for her chemise until she found it. She fetched it up and pulled it on.

  No point in continuing her charade now. She opened her chest and removed the folded blue kirtle, her favorite, and pulled it over her head, then her pale green overdress that fit closely to her bodice, and adjusted the side slits to reveal the kirtle's decorated sleeves and exposed embroidered hem.

  With her silver comb, she worked the tangles from her hair, until it flowed in yellow waves over her shoulders and down, nearly to her knees. She added a length of amber beads around her neck. Her mother's gold ring was still on her finger where the Norman had shoved it, and on the other hand, the new ring with its brilliant blue stone cabochon, symbol of her marriage.

  Melisande squeezed her eyes shut, as if that somehow would help her bring back some memory that had been lost from the night before. But it was like a tangle of odd threads, so jumbled she was not even clear on the order in which things had occurred.

  There had been that mockery of a wedding, and then the Norman's angry attack on her after he found her in the cavern. Then he had left. Simply left, without taking his due.

  Nelda had come and sat with her, soothed her, gently unbraided and combed her hair. Then left. After that, nothing. A black and empty gap in time, bounded by death and Hell.

  Shame flooded her. Once again she had allowed herself to succumb to terror. She tried to be brave, but she was the worst of cowards. She tried to tell herself that her death would not matter, but she knew where she was bound. God did not hear her prayers for salvation, for he had given her over to the demons.

  She would die and go to Hell, and Fyren would be there. Waiting. Satan would give her over to him, for he was much beloved by the Devil. She dared not imagine what he would do to her then.

  For all her fantasies of the Norman lord, he would not save her. He had shown her he was but a man, after all. And she was too cowardly to die. The one time when God had given her what she asked for, the Norman lord to save her people, she found herself too afraid to pay the price He demanded.

  As she reached for the door latch, she suddenly realized she really was still alive, and she had not expected that. Aye, she had forgotten, she was supposed to die on her wedding night. It must mean, then, that the Norman lord had not come back after she had fall
en asleep. He had abruptly risen just when he should have performed his duty.

  And he had left. And not returned. What sort of man was he? Did he not find her pleasing enough? For him, this marriage was merely a matter of land and position. He must think her ugly. That was it. Well, she didn't care what he thought. He was a brutish man.

  Mayhap, then he didn't know. If he had not returned, then he had not seen what the demons did to her. Mayhap she had one more day. One more day to live. Another day to torture herself. It would be better just to have it done with. If she only had the courage.