Fire Dance

by Delle Jacobs

  She jerked upward, suddenly sitting. He was awake, smiling. At what? She nearly fell from the bed in her haste to depart, untangling bed covers as soon as her feet hit the floor. The door between their chambers remained open, and her bed askew. She darted through it and slammed it behind her, recalling now how she had shoved the bed against the door. A futile effort.

  She yanked her kirtle over her head, fumbled with its laces, then pulled on the overdress. Her braid had come loose in the night, and her yellow hair cascaded about her shoulders, hanging in awkward snarls. She snatched up her silver comb and attacked a section of it.

  When he came in, he also was dressed, although she was quite aware he had worn nothing in bed. She pretended not to see him, and worked away at another section of her hair.

  He merely stood and watched.

  She could not stand the silence. "Why do you do this to me?" she demanded.

  "Do this? You cry out for my help. I must come."

  "You need not. No one else comes."

  "You have ordered all else away. But I am your husband. I must come. Have no fear, lady. I have not molested you."

  "You are not a normal man."

  "Oh?" His black eyebrows arched in steep angles over dark eyes. "Is that what you want? You have only to say so. But as long as you are dreaming and cannot wake, that is a different thing."

  "I did not say– "

  Stop. She was about to betray herself. She diverted herself instead to a snarl near the ends of her long hair.

  "You do not remember, do you?"

  Her eyes flickered over him before she could stop them. She turned her gaze away from him and began running the comb through the strands she had just untangled.

  "If you remembered, you would know that I have already apologized to you for my churlish behavior. But you don't know."

  Apology? She froze where she stood.

  "I know that you don't, Melisande. And because you do not, I must say it again. You did not deserve the way I treated you on our wedding night."

  "You were angry."

  "A man should not allow his anger to rule him. I did. And I was not justified. You were very frightened, and I should have seen that and taken it into account. You did not merely mean to spite me. I do not understand your fear, but I do know it is there. You are not merely a frightened, balky bride who simply needs to be tamed and taught. There is far more to this. You will need time to learn you are safe."

  "Who else have you told?"

  "Chrétien only."

  Chrétien. For all she knew, the man might gossip like a woman at the village well. She'd be in a dunking stool or tied to a stake before May Day.

  "Do not fear him, lady. He is our ally in this, for he suffers the same malady as you."

  "He cannot. He is a brave knight."

  "Ah. And you think yourself without courage? You are not. That I know of you, already. But we are all children in our sleep, and subject to a child's fears. Even were it not so, many a brave knight has seen things he would rather forget."

  "And Chrétien?"

  "He was there, and helpless, to watch his wife and baby daughter tortured to their deaths. I arrived too late to save them. He has lived with this for three years, and only now begins to find some measure of peace."

  Sudden moisture filled her eyes. She raised fingers to her mouth and whispered a quick prayer, wishing God would hear her.

  "It is not demons, Melisande, whatever is said by the Church. You have horrible memories, as he does. But not demons."

  "They speak to me."

  "The demons? Indeed. What do they say?"

  "They tell me to kill you."

  "I am glad you have not heeded them."

  "Do not mock me."

  "I do not mock you, love. If demons held your soul, they would never allow you to say what you have just said. I think your fears visit you at night, as they do all of us, but you have far more to fear than I."

  "You know naught of demons."

  "I will not let the demons have you, Melisande."

  She jerked at the words, then tried to make it appear she had merely lodged the comb on a tangle. "You presume too much. Some things cannot be changed."

  "I will not let the priests have you, either."

  "Now you threaten your own soul."

  "Then let it be so. I do not stand alone in this. And remember, the priest is mine. He will condemn you no more than he has Chrétien."

  She wished she had the courage to tell him the rest. He thought her dreams were the end of her secrets. But it was only the top of many layers. Many, many layers. In the end, he would feel betrayed because she would not tell him. In the end, he would let them have her, or he would kill her, himself. With time, he would turn from her in complete repugnance and repudiate his vow.

  "Come, lady, let us go down to chapel."

  An odd sort of resignation filled her. Aye. with time he would turn on her. But there might be those small moments still to come, fragments of time with him she could cherish, hold fast in the secret reaches of her heart, against that time when he must do what he must do.

  As she stood, she allowed her hand to rest on his arm. She found comfort in him, despite that she had no right to seek it.

  What difference, after all, did it make if she did?

  CHAPTER 14

  Waking up next to him was like waking up in a lion's den with a sudden desire to be eaten.

  Melisande sneaked furtive peeks at the huge Norman who walked beside her, his arm linked in hers and holding her hand gently atop his arm. He caught her glance, as he always seemed to do, and laughed.

  But she could not stop, all the same. He was compelling. His charcoal eyes, that seemed black as an eagle's in the shadows, midnight blue by firelight, and the color of charcoal in the light of day, seemed always to brim with laughter behind their long, thick fringe of nearly straight black lashes. His lips had a sensuous curve about them that seemed an inseparable part of the deep thunderous roll of mirth that poured forth from him, and of the gravelly whisper of his voice that lured her inescapably to him.

  And his body? Was there any part of it she did not long to touch? She was not exactly sure she hadn't.

  She could not let him die. This perfect man must not die. Yet even now, he wore that damnable cloak. And even now, it poisoned him. She must find a way to save him.

  For all that he wore it constantly, he still seemed strong enough, but that would change quickly if the cloak had its insidious way. Although he did not mention them, she could tell the headaches were becoming more than an occasional nuisance. She saw the minute squeezing of his eyes beneath his frown, and the odd blinking to clear vision that had momentarily blurred. And she saw the trembling that came to his hands, although he tried to hide it. If not stopped, the men would soon question his fitness. And they would be right to do so, for his mind would next become confused. That would probably be too late.

  His skin had not yet yellowed and he had no difficulties eating. For her mother, those things had come last, before she weakened and died. That still gave her hope.

  And he was a very big man. That would work in his favor, would it not? Would it not require a higher dose of the poison to kill him? And the way he wore the cloak, more often than not over his hauberk, surely would lessen the contact with his skin. And his habit of wearing leather gauntlets must help.

  Oh, please, God, let it be so.

  But she could not wait. There would also be times, when he might rub the fabric across his lips, or, as he had before, wipe the rim of a cup with it. Such an act could fell him quickly.

  The old manuscript said nothing about this, only that the poison would penetrate the skin in time. She had read it repeatedly, carefully translating the Latin. But she could never be sure of her translation, for she had not been properly taught, but had deciphered it on her own. The words might have other meanings she did not know. How could she be sure her understanding of the words was correct? She was not even sure how
the words were pronounced.

  Then, before she had found her answer, Fyren had taken the books away from her. She had no idea where he had hidden them, and no hope of learning more from them.

  Nor had God answered her request for hot weather, but that did not surprise her. Mayhap she could persuade someone who was in good standing with God to make the prayer, instead. Mayhap the priest. But how, without telling him the truth?

  All she could hope for was that the Norman might snag the cursed thing on a tree limb, or fall into the mud. But despite his great size, he was a graceful man, rarely prone to accidental stumbling.

  Mayhap she could help that along. He might be graceful, but he already thought her a clumsy thing. Wine, perhaps? Or food? Greasy food. Very greasy food. A big greasy blotch, right in the middle of it.

  And in the meantime, the priest. Aye, there was a way.

  Again, her gaze flitted covertly in his direction. He was so very handsome. Were she an ordinary maiden, she would now have everything she had ever dreamed of, for no prince or king could be more comely, or more gentle and kind. None other would tolerate one such as she. That he had lost his patience with her at all had been her fault, not his. She had merely been hysterical, and unable to explain it to him.

  But what was she thinking? She was no ordinary maiden. She was consigned to Hell, and no great courage or will of his could change that.

  Again she sighed, and surprised herself for doing it. She had meant to keep all sign of emotion boxed securely inside her. But now she fought against herself and betrayed herself at the same time, both wanting and not wanting. Utterly at a loss.

  There was one thing, however, that must not be left unsaid.

  "Lord, I meant to thank you, yesterday."

  "Thank me?"

  "For your help to Gerard and his family."

  "He is mine, and I am his, Melisande. That is the way of fealty."

  "But was it not also something else?"

  "And you refer to Chrétien's loss."

  "Aye."

  "It was that, too. I could not have such a thing on my conscience again."

  She tried not to look at him, but lost that battle. "Yet you could not have saved Chrétien's family."

  She saw the swallowing bob in his throat. He returned a sad smile for her effort. "I will never know that. It seems I did all that could be done, but mayhap I could have learned sooner, or fought harder."

  "Chrétien does not blame you. Why should you?"

  "Chrétien must deal with his own soul, and I must deal with mine. But I am glad we deduced Cyneric's deceit in time."

  "And Hugh?"

  "I have not heard."

  "Battles cannot always be won."

  "Ah. My little philosopher. We shall win, you and I."

  She allowed the corners of her mouth a small, almost bitter quirk. There was no word to convey her despair.

  Their peace was interrupted by noise from the bailey and the hurried clip of horses' hooves. A furtive glance at the Norman lord at her side caught his eye.

  "Word from Hugh," he said. "Or from Rufus." He burst into a rapid stride down the stairs.

  She sped along with him. "Good news, do you think?"

  "It has the sound of urgency about it, lady. I must go." He dashed over the steps two at a time.

  "Wait, I am coming."

  Still running, he glanced back, his heavy black brows raising in sharp arches over questioning eyes.

  "I may be needed," she explained. "Someone may be hurt."

  "Then, come. Hurry."

  She needed no prodding. Urgency permeated the air like the acrid scent of burning flesh. Her slippers skimmed the steps and rounded the bend in the stairs as if flying, then down to the dais. Knights poured in the outer door to the great aisled hall. The Norman's hand flew instinctively to his sword before relaxing the moment he was assured the men were his own.

  Chrétien led the group that rushed toward the lord. "Alain! It is Robert! He was set upon by Anwealda before he reached Hugh's motte!"

  "The situation?"

  "Robert is hurt, as are several others. Four men are dead. The others remain where they are, to protect the wounded who cannot be moved. Only one rider has come."

  "Then we go, immediately."

  "They mean to draw you out, Alain."

  "Well, they succeed. Without Gerard here, there is none else to go. Someone must remain, but not I."

  "Then send for Gerard, lord," said Melisande, then she stepped back, gasped at her own audacity. What would he do to a woman who dared meddle in men's business?"

  Chrétien nodded sharply. "Aye, Alain. Gerard will come despite his losses. His threat is now so small. Thomas to remain here, and I to ride out with you."

  Alain glanced about, first to the lady he called wife who had been too bold, then from Chrétien to Thomas.

  "Thomas?" he asked.

  "A good plan, lord. If Anwealda was too much for Robert, then he outnumbers you as well, so you cannot ride alone. And Hugh cannot come to your aid without seriously threatening the new motte. Send for Gerard."

  "And what of Rufus? Is his position known, yet?"

  "Last heard, he still comes through Wensleydale. None know how far he has progressed."

  "So be it, then. Chrétien, call the knights to horse. My thanks to you, lady. An excellent plan, though I did promise Gerard not to disturb him."

  "Take me," she said, again shocking herself at her effrontery.

  "We go to battle, lady."

  "Aye. You have wounded men, and may have more. I will be needed." She gripped her hands and pleaded with her eyes.

  His dark eyes narrowed behind black lashes, piercing her. Her heart flopped around, out of control. But she met his gaze without faltering. He would not do it. She knew he wouldn't. Normans did not allow their women the honor of dangerous deeds.

  "Gather what you need, then, and make haste. Bring a warm cloak. If you are lucky, you will spend tonight within Hugh's holding. If you are not, you will be very cold."

  She had no voice to reply. The best she managed was a quick bob of her head as she spun about and raced toward the kitchen. This was more than just aid to the wounded. This might be her chance to pry the accursed mantle away from the stubborn Norman.

  "Nelda!" she shouted as she ran. "Fetch my things. I go with the lord to aid the wounded."

  The old woman's eyes grew huge and round. "You cannot, lady. You must not."

  "Aye, I can. The lord says I may, and I am needed. Hurry!"

  Melisande was always prepared to treat the injured. Her preparations for the siege had left adequate supplies already at hand, organized and ready to use. Nelda had only to see them packed on the horses.

  She ran back to her chamber, yanked her warmest cloak from its peg, tied on wool stockings, and pulled light boots on her feet. Then she raced back down the stairs to join the Norman lord and his knights.

  One more thing. Melisande scurried across the bailey to the chapel, where she found Father Hardouin sweeping. The priest's eyebrows raised at her untimely appearance.

  "Father, I must have your help." She gasped to catch her breath.

  "Aye, my child? Is it your wedded state?"

  "Nay. I mean, well, nay, it is not. It is that we go to rescue the injured knights who left yesterday, and we must have dry, hot weather."

  "We must?"

  "Aye, we must. It is the roads, you see. They are still muddy from too much rain, and the horses will mire down."

  "I had not thought we have had so much rain, lately."

  "Well, not here, so much, but higher in the fells, it rains much more. You must, father. We must get there in time!"

  "Well– "

  "And the cotters and villeins, too, father. The time for rain is past. Now their crops need the sun, and much of it. We do not get enough sun ofttimes, you see, because of the fells, and the crops will not ripen."

  Father Hardouin folded his hands patiently. Mayhap he had heard of her malady
. Believed her head wrongly touched. "Well, child, I will pray for hot weather for you, if that is what you wish, but– "

  "Thank you, father. I must hurry now. The lord awaits me."

  She turned to run, but Father Hardouin snagged her arm.