Fire Dance

by Delle Jacobs

  "The lord takes you with him? Is that not dangerous?"

  "Oh, nay, father. It is perfectly safe. Else, he would not take me at all. Thank you, father. Do not forget!"

  "I will not forget."

  "And right away, father!"

  "Of course."

  She sped away, wondering what the penance was for lying to a priest. It could not be significant, compared to her other sins.

  * * *

  "Alain, you should not do this." Chrétien's brown eyes were wide beneath his worried brow.

  "I think I must. There is something about her, and I am not sure what, that needs this. I know the risk is great. But I think Dougal is gone north, as we guessed before. There is only Anwealda for threat."

  "How will you protect her, yet fight if we are attacked? Beyond the walls of the castle, we are all at risk. Alain, if she should be captured, Rufus's cause could be lost. Will you sacrifice her then? I think you will not."

  "I cannot tell you why I believe this, Chretien. Mayhap if she talks with you as I have asked, you also will see."

  The furrows of Chrétien's worried frown deepened, but he said no more. They did often disagree, but not to such depth. But Alain knew how badly the wounded men would need the lady's help, and knew also her need to give it to them.

  Aye, she would be greatly risked. Fear tightened his throat at the thought. His mind threw at him images of Heloise and her bloody body lying across that of her child, as he had last seen her. And he saw Gerard's lovely wife, Lynet, remembered her face intent on her husband's as she meted out that precise, silent count that had led to Cyneric's death and her rescue. If her cooperation, her faith in her husband, had been anything less than perfect, she would have been the one who died, not Cyneric.

  He wanted that sort of love, as did Melisande. Never had she said as much, but he knew it. Melisande was a woman out of her time, extraordinary. For all her fears, she would give her life as bravely as any knight. What right did he have to make her a mouse in a corner, a simpering lady embroidering linens for the altar?

  A splendid grey courser was brought out for her, a long-legged creature, fine of bone and high in spirit. A horse to match his exquisite lady, vigorous enough for the ride, faster than the knights' heavier chargers. Yet not sturdy enough to defend against a mightier beast. And the lady's saddle did not ride as high as those of the knights, to keep her safe within it. It was an animal neither suited to nor equipped for battle. He began to have doubts.

  But he had given his word.

  He assisted her into the saddle, knowing his help to be unnecessary, but she did not resist. Her heavy green mantle flowed around her, lapping over the provisions stored behind her saddle in leather pouches. Pride and excitement etched deeply into her solemn face. But what if she found herself immersed in a real battle? She would not flee from danger. Like Lynet, she would do what she must do, willingly. His paradoxical lady had more courage than many a man he had known. And she was no stranger to pain and tragedy.

  He raised his arm and launched the march. The knights rode down the sloping bailey, through the gate house and the village below. Without a word, the Norman knights positioned themselves around their lady. Alain gave over the forward command to Chretien, who rode with Robert's messenger, then fell back to ride awhile beside the lady.

  She looked wary, as if she expected him to suddenly change his mind and order her back. To that, he smiled. Surely she did not know the way his heart tripped over itself with fear for her, but she could not help but know his men thought him demented to risk his wife and future bearer of his heir in such a way.

  But they could not understand. They did not see the deep wounds in her soul he saw, that could not heal without trust. And he must give her his trust and confidence, more deeply and truly than he had ever thought possible, before she could begin to give it back.

  "Have you been about the countryside much, lady?" he asked her, noticing that her eyes roamed eagerly to search about the valley.

  "Not as a common thing, lord. I went about more when I was younger. But I have my responsibilities, now."

  Aye, she did. He had learned from Thomas that Melisande had been seeing to the household matters for several years, long before her mother's death. Her mother had taken to her bed and only rarely risen from it for years before she actually died, although none knew the nature of her illness. He wondered if Melisande's strength was of her own making, or the result of the circumstances into which she had been forced.

  Melisande's hand pointed toward the dark fell to their left. "Here you have Arkle's beck, that flows from the fell beyond the castle," she told him. "And Arkle's holding, but a little ways beyond."

  But a short way farther, she pointed again, across the valley.

  "Thorkel's holding, and his beck," she said.

  She knew enough of the territory to be a reasonable guide. As they rode up through the Vale of Eden, she pointed to him small, narrow valleys with their becks that fed into the round-bottomed Eden Valley. A cavern. A cliff face she called Freya's Hair, for its strange vertical rock, like stringy pillars. Where the good pasture was, or swampy ground. He watched her ride, hair flying to the side with the wind, her face reflecting an oddly somber joy.

  More happiness than he had seen before. Still, it was not a smile. He wondered at how her delicately curving lips might form one. Mayhap just at their corners? Or broad and open?

  Chretien fell back next to his lord while the columns of knights rode on. "Trouble," he said.

  "What?"

  "Our little track of a path takes us around the bend. Anwealda almost caught us on such a one, before."

  "How much farther?"

  "Just beyond."

  "Lady, do you know this place?"

  "Aye."

  "What think you?"

  "If Anwealda chooses an ambush, it could be a good place, for he could hide safely, even after your first men come into sight. He is secretive and sly. Ambush would be his way. But he might do better to wait until we reach the wounded men and are occupied with their care."

  "Aye, I do see that," agreed Chretien. "If that place worked once, why not use it again?"

  "Save that Robert has left men there to guard them, who would increase our numbers."

  Chretien frowned. "If they have not been attacked again."

  "Can we circle them, as we did before, and approach from their rear?"

  "Nay," she said. "There is no usable track that would not take us hours away from our path. Nor do we know where to find them."

  "Then we ride as if we suspect naught. We have no choice. But let us be prepared."

  The word passed through the knights quickly, and they held their lances ready for action. Now he wished he had not let his lady come with them. But she knew his thoughts, and her blue eyes flashed fire. She would defy him if she thought she must.

  She always would, not merely now. He'd best get used to it.

  The road wandered alongside a deceptively peaceful valley, bright with young green crops, punctuated here and there with a lone croft or Norse cowshed. Below, the Eden River flowed on, a meandering path across the undulating valley floor. They rode past the curve of the hillside, their eyes scanning every tree or rock large enough to hide horse or man. Nothing moved but the villeins in their rocky fields, who stopped to watch them pass. Alain motioned to Chretien to set an outrider to the road ahead.

  He avoided the furtive glances at the lady who rode beside him, whose composure had not faltered. But her eyes, like theirs, scrutinized everything about her surroundings.

  The lone outrider again reached a bend that obscured their sight, and cautiously rode around it. He disappeared, and Alain stood high in his stirrups, watching. Then the rider returned to the bend where they could see him, and motioned. Alain spurred his white mount. The knights urged their horses onward.

  "Nay!" Chretien shouted, and his horse balked at the jerked reins. "That is not our man!"

  "Aye, I see it. The same
horse, same crimson cloak. But not our man. Move on as if we suspect nothing. Chretien, take my lady to our rear."

  "You have let me come this far, and I am needed."

  For a fleeting moment, he eyed her. "You will be needed, lady, but not to battle. Chretien, see to her. Bind her if you must."

  "Nay, Chretien, you must protect him."

  Alain turned hard eyes on to her. "Do not disobey me, lady. The price to me is too high."

  Chretien seized her wrist and gave the lady his smile, assurance that all would be well. With silent gestures, he signaled the men who would form her guard.

  Alain, satisfied that she would be protected, rode his white stallion to the fore to lead the force around the hill.

  * * *

  "Chretien, you cannot abandon him. They will kill him!"

  "What do you know, lady? What have you not told us?"

  "Naught, save that he must not die. Do not waste your time with me when he needs your aid!"

  "Nay, lady. He is a knight, and he is my lord. I did not approve of your coming, but I will not leave you defenseless. You will do as he asks, or I will bind you."

  His gentle gaze hardened. She must concede. They were men, and men knew of war. She had been foolish to come, for she threatened them with her potential for capture.

  "Give me your word, lady, or I will not loose you."

  "Only do not let him die, Chretien. I have a bargain with God!" She gasped, suddenly realizing she had betrayed herself.

  "A bargain with God, lady? Over the lord's safety? Tell me of this."

  "I cannot." She chewed at her lip, prayed he would ask no more.

  "Why, then?"

  "Please. I cannot say."

  "But you seek him no harm?"

  "Nay."

  "Then you may keep your secret with God. But you must also give me your word you will stay out of the fray. He is a brave knight, and he does not need a lady to defend him."

  "Aye," she said. "But you must leave me and go to him if he needs you."

  Ahead, the clash began. Shouts, ringing metal, screams of rage or pain. Four Norman knights fell back to her side, their lances and swords ready.

  "Nay!" she shouted. "To the fray! I am safe!"

  But she had been sighted. One large Saxon burst forth from the melee, sliced alongside the Normans instead of fighting head on, and surged toward the ring of Norman knights surrounding her.

  Anwealda. She saw him, the great blond giant in his bright hauberk of shiny discs. Even from here, she could see the fierce gleam in his eyes and knew he had spotted his prize. She'd been a fool. She was more a danger to the Norman as a captive than dead.

  CHAPTER 15

  Anwealda bolted past the startled Norman vanguard that swiped at him as he barreled toward her. The Normans that swarmed about her bristled like a hedgehog with their great lances. She pulled her dagger, it being all she had. Puny and feeble.

  Anwealda drove his charger closer. As the giant Saxon lunged for her, Chretien yanked her from the courser's saddle, out of Anwealda's reach. A Norman knight's lance pierced the chest of the Saxon's mount. The horse folded on its forelegs, and threw the Saxon forward onto the dusty road bed.

  Anwealda landed hard on his great arms, rolled, and stood, drawing his sword as the Normans closed about him, dodged lances as a red-haired Scot drove his war horse around the pack of Normans. Anwealda leapt and grabbed the warrior's extended arm, throwing himself up behind the saddle as the Scot galloped down the narrow dirt road, away from the fray.

  The melee swirled ahead of them as the Normans pushed the offensive back on the perplexed Scots and Saxons. Anwealda's hasty gamble had failed. They wheeled and fled up the steep slope, scattering as they rode.

  "They've broken! After them!" cried a Norman knight.

  "Nay. We have other business." The Norman lord called back his men and assessed their state. Melisande saw few wounds, none dead, save Saxons and Scots.

  "I know this man," she said, leaning down to one as he lay helplessly in the dirt, dying. An arrogant man, one she liked little. Still she could not deny him a final kindness. Chretien released her and she slid to the ground, knelt at the slashed body.

  "You are a traitor, lady," the man said through clenched teeth, then fell silent, his body limp.

  Aye, she often felt that way. The Normans were not her people. She closed the Saxon's eyes.

  "Nay, lady, you are not," said another, who now pushed himself off the ground to sit, helped by one of Alain's men. She did not know his name. "'Twas Anwealda who rose against you."

  "The lady had no choice," said the Norman lord, "save to watch the death of her people. Bring this man with us. Put him in one of the carts."

  Melisande gave the Saxon a cloth to hold against the slash across his chest. It stained the cloth with bright color, but was not deep. She would stitch it later.

  The Norman lord's gaze fixed on her, a sharp, assessing look in his formidable face. He turned and signaled to his men to remount.

  Once more, Anwealda had slipped their grasp.

  Melisande hurried after him as he strode toward his charger. "I am sorry, lord. I should not have asked to come."

  "You apologize? The decision was mine, lady. I do not regret it."

  "But I caused distraction."

  The Norman grinned wickedly, baring beautiful white teeth that gave him a ferocity that she would expect in a hungry wolf. "Aye, you did. Anwealda's distraction. He made a grave mistake to try to seize you. He saw an opportunity, and acted quickly, but did not think of its cost. And I now know something of him. He is too impulsive."

  "If Chretien had not pulled me away, he might have succeeded."

  The lord lifted her into her saddle. "Aye. He caught us off our guard with his bold move. But Chretien is also quick. He saw the plan and thwarted it. Nay, lady, you were a boon to us. It is usually a mistake to divide one's forces in the midst of a battle. It was a mistake for Anwealda. If he had held his men together, we might not have prevailed."

  "But you will not take me again."

  The rumble in his chest burst forth as a great chuckle. "Likely not. I do not think I could survive the fright again."

  "Nor I," said Chretien, who did not smile or laugh, but clucked at his mount and spurred ahead to the lead.

  "We are not far now from where the men await us," the lord said, and he reached out, took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

  "But we are not far from the new motte, lord. Why did they not go on there?"

  "The messenger said they meant to try, but had to seek a defensible place to protect those who could not travel."

  "Do you not fear that Anwealda has already attacked them?"

  "Aye. Most likely, he has."

  "Then you do not expect to find them alive."

  He shook his head. "They should have tried to make for Hugh's motte. It is their love for Robert that makes them take such a foolish risk."

  "Why did Hugh not come to their aid?"

  "He is not strong enough. Anwealda would have caught Hugh outside his defenses, and then, the motte, itself. We cannot risk all for those who fall in battle."

  "I wonder, will the time come when men no longer fight over this land?"

  "Nay."

  "Never?"

  "Men have always fought, lady. It is their nature."

  She fell silent. It was not what she wished to hear. Somehow, she had hoped he would say there would be an end to the warring, that men might stop stealing from each other, their lands and people, their women. She had hoped to hear that her sacrifice might have some meaning. But the Norman did not see it in his future. If some now lived because of her choice, others would die for it.

  The one thing of value from what she had done was that the Norman lord was a far more able and caring administrator than Fyren had been, and had none of the earl's extreme cruelty. She did not regret her choice. God's choice. She had merely cooperated.

  Mayhap God had heard her plea, after all. She was
still alive, and as long as she lived, and the lord, as well, she had a chance to wrest the cloak from him. If God had chosen this man, surely He would not let him die while he was so badly needed.

  The knights and their supplies rode on, following Robert's messenger. Melisande tried to keep her eyes from flitting in the direction of the Norman lord. All her life, she had hidden her thoughts, yet this man seemed always to break beneath the surface and divine what she concealed. She did not want to trust him. To trust him was to bring on her death, and with that, his own.