Fire Dance

by Delle Jacobs

  And why the cloak? Did it have some mysterious power? Was it a sorcerer's tool of some sort? Her obsession and revulsion had been puzzling from the beginning.

  Was she a witch? He remembered Anwealda's dying word.

  He sighed and once again left the chamber.

  * * *

  Melisande sat on the narrow sill of the double-shuttered window of her chamber and idly observed the movement of soldier and villein in the lower bailey. There seemed to be a greater bustle about than usual. She deduced that Rufus would come soon.

  For her, the war was over. Cyneric and Anwealda both dead, following Fyren into Hell, and Dougal chased off. The Norman held her castle and people. He was a good lord, and for the time he had left would see to their welfare along with his own, and administer his justice fairly. But she could not save him now. Only the truth remained now, and he would not believe it.

  She heard the key turn in the creaking lock. The door opened to admit Lynet, anxious and tentative.

  "I am glad to see you well, lady," said Lynet, and hastened to her side.

  Melisande tried to manage a smile, but could not find one. "Aye. Well enough for what comes."

  "Oh, lady, I do not think you a witch. Nor does Gerard."

  "It does not matter what you think, or I. The accusation itself is enough."

  "Gerard refuses to leave. He says he will demand a trial by combat, for he must defend your honor."

  Melisande startled. "Oh! He must not. You cannot let him."

  "I cannot stop him," said Lynet, shaking her head.

  "But you must. Tell him I demand it."

  "He will not listen to you this time, lady. He is determined."

  "Nay, Lynet. He must not. Do you not understand? If he defends me, he must fight Alain, and one of them will die. I could not bear it."

  "I will tell him what you say, but I know he will not change his mind."

  "Send him to me, then."

  "The lord will not allow it. Only Nelda or I may see you."

  "Lynet, then you must find a way to persuade him. Think on this, that what I wanted has come about, and there is someone to replace Fyren who is worthy. Fyren's evil is gone, at last. But if they fight and one dies, there will be a division, and the Scots will overrun us again. All will be lost. None has ever been vindicated from a charge of witchcraft, Lynet. Gerard must not waste himself on something he cannot change."

  "But it is not fair!"

  "Naught is fair, save for those with power. I am but a woman. I should not have sought to reach beyond it. I was doomed from the beginning."

  "Oh, lady, I do not believe that."

  "Please believe it, Lynet. Do not allow Gerard to sacrifice himself needlessly, or to kill my– Alain."

  Melisande sighed, seeing the hopelessness of it. She stood and walked away from the window. "Come, Lynet, help me with this kirtle. I am well enough now to wear more than this thin chemise."

  Lynet dressed her in the bright yellow kirtle with a blue border, laced up the sleeves, and helped her with the blue surcoat. She reached for the yellow wimple, but Melisande shook her head. She had always hated wimples. She would not wear one now. Instead, she put on her amber necklace.

  "Some think amber is made by witches," she mused. "Let them think I am that clever."

  "'Tis much better, lady."

  "Aye, thank you. But you must go now, Lynet, lest they think I have cursed your unborn child."

  "You do not frighten me, lady. I fought against Cyneric, recall?"

  At that, she could smile. "Aye. I know your courage, Lynet. I wish I had as much."

  Lynet curled both lips inward tightly between her teeth, and her eyes began to tear. She spun about and ran to the door, and wrung her hands waiting for the guard to open it.

  Poor Lynet, to think that life might be fair.

  Melisande returned to the window and her idling pastime.

  From her eastern window, she watched as the bright day faded, its feathery twilight clouds mirroring the last vivid colors from the western sky. Without seeing the sunset, she knew rain would soon fall. Mayhap tomorrow.

  She could not find the strength to care.

  A small meal sat untouched on the little table next to her storage chest. The little stool on which she usually sat was still pushed beneath the table, for she remained at the window and watched the last of twilight fade.

  The key creaked in the lock again. She glanced up, then away before she saw who entered. She knew by the sound of his footsteps, of the clink of his mail, and the squeak in his leather scabbard. She need not look.

  "You have not eaten." Bitter anger tinged his voice.

  "I am not hungry."

  "You have not eaten for days, Melisande. You cannot expect to get well."

  "You would merely have me hale and hearty for my execution. An unimportant task."

  "I have said naught about an execution."

  "You need say naught."

  "I want some answers, Melisande."

  She turned, caught a glimpse of his eyes, and quickly turned away, lest he see the pain in hers.

  "Who is your lover?"

  "I have none."

  "You cannot deny that you had one once."

  "Not a lover."

  "Are you a witch?"

  A wry twist curled over her mouth. "Nay."

  "Then why did you take the cloak?"

  "I asked for it. You gave it to me. It was mine to do with as I chose." Yet, it did not surprise her that he had taken it back. She had never wanted to believe in spells, but she could no longer deny the cloak had bound itself to him.

  "For what purpose?"

  "To destroy it."

  "I do not believe that. You wanted it for something. What power does it have?"

  The power to seduce its wearer until he dies of it. But it was useless to say it. It would only convict her. "It has no magic, that I know."

  "That is untrue. I want the truth."

  She folded her arms, then unfolded them, stood, and jutted out her chin in defiance. Her hands gripped together so tightly her fingers hurt. He wanted the truth? Nay, he wanted confirmation of what he had already decided was the truth.

  "Tell me the truth for once, Melisande."

  She sat back to the window ledge, stared hopelessly out at the darkening valley. But why did it matter? She lost nothing more by saying it.

  "It is poisoned. It killed my mother. And it would have killed you."

  "Do you think I will believe that?"

  "You asked for the truth, not what you would believe. You asked and I will tell you. Whether or not you listen or believe is for you to choose."

  "Then tell it."

  "This place, where Fyren built his castle, was once a monastery, that was sacked long ago by the Viking army that roamed the land in those days. Fyren was fascinated with it, and came day after day to explore it. Being afraid of fire, he did not trust wooden buildings and sought to use its stone to build his own castle on its site.

  "Eventually, he found a hidden chamber, and in it, some ancient books. Most were written in Greek, which he could not read, but some were Latin, and others had been partially translated into Latin. In them, he found things that had been known to the ancients, but long forgotten. One of them was the secret of the purple dye."

  She glanced at him. He folded his arms over his chest. Nay, he would not believe. She sighed and continued. "There is a stone, called Dragon's Blood, an ore of arsenic. When powdered, it makes a dye that produces that wondrous reddish-purple color. People become so enchanted with it that they will not stop wearing it, even when they become very ill."

  "You are saying that the cloak made me ill."

  "Aye, that and none other. My mother learned of– something Fyren was doing that struck her with horror. She demanded he stop– what he was doing, or she would expose him to the world.

  "Fyren never cared what my mother thought, but I suppose he could not afford the exposure. Or mayhap he simply grew tired of h
er. He needed no excuse. So he had the cloak made for her, and persuaded me to give it to her as a peace offering.

  "Poor mother actually believed him. He, who had not touched her for years, save to abuse her, she now saw as wonderful, repentant, and loving. He laughed as she died, still huddled in the cloak. I was sure he had poisoned her, but I did not know how. He told me after she was dead."

  "I fail to see how a cloak could be poisoned."

  "There are some poisons that can be taken in through the skin. And the cloak has a powdery residue that rubs off on its victim's hands. Then what the hands touch goes to the mouth. It can even be breathed.

  "I thought when Fyren lay dying and asked for the cloak as a shroud, that it would be buried with him, at last be gone forever, and no others would be victims of his crimes. But I was a fool. Even with his last breath, he schemed. In wrapping it around his body, he had me place the cloak where you would be sure to see it. And you would have to take it because it was so beautiful, and because it had been his. It made a perfect symbol of your victory. So even from his grave, he reached out to snatch another victim."

  "A wonderful story. Had you been a man, you could have made a fascinating bard. But explain, if the dye is so poisonous, how the dyers survived."

  "They did not. He killed them, and threw them into the deep pits in the cavern below the castle."

  "Where, of course, they cannot be found. And who embroidered the gold and silver thread?"

  "It was done before the dyeing, though it would not have bothered him to kill them, also."

  "And how is it that all these people disappear, yet no one says a word?"

  "You have only to ask, now that he is dead. Hardly a family in the village has not lost someone to his cruelty, some simply never seen again. So they might suspect, but none dared say."

  "And I suppose you can also explain why you felt you must cross the countryside with it."

  "I needed to destroy it."

  "Burn it. Bury it."

  "The arsenic rises with the smoke, and poisons the air." Again she looked back at him. He had not moved. "Anything buried could be dug up. And arsenic is a preservative. It could last forever. I even thought of the caverns below. But water flows through them, and comes out in the becks and rivers. It would poison the water."

  "Then, what did you mean to do?"

  "There is a deep hole called the Butter Tubs. It is like a cavern, and it goes down into the earth a very long way. I meant to wrap a rock in it, and drop it in."

  "You could not have just told me this cloak was poisonous?"

  "You would not believe it."

  "I do not believe you now."

  "Of course." She felt her nostrils flare. Never would he believe her again.

  "I admit, I was a fool." His voice grated with his bitterness. "I did believe you cared for me. I was ready to forgive anything, Melisande. But now you tell me such a preposterous story that I cannot. Nay, I think it is something else entirely, that you have a lover, and you sought somehow to get the cloak to him, for whatever reason I cannot fathom. But now you dare to tell me you did this to save me?"

  "I did."

  He shook his head, and his jaw set bitterly. "I think not. Rufus comes soon. I will let him decide what to do with you."

  He whirled away, punctuating his decision, and left through the door. The key clinked and squeaked in the lock. She shook away the tears. She had never been one for them, before, and did not intend to start weeping now.

  But she had lost it all. Had she not become ill with whatever that strange thing was, she might have made it there. All for naught. Now he had the cloak back again, and this time the poison would win, for he would be too stubborn to admit to its effect until it was too late.

  * * *

  He had never heard such a farfetched story. A poison cloak. How dare she think he would believe such rot? He had nearly slammed the door, but refused to give her such satisfaction. Alain stalked down the wooden stairs, his long spurs occasionally catching behind him and threatening to trip him.

  In the hall, no one spoke, yet everyone eyed him warily. Just as well. He had no desire to spout pleasant banter. He snatched a jug from a startled servant and gulped down a good portion of its sour wine, made a face, and finished it off.

  How dare she? He slammed the jug down on the trestle table. The jug clattered and wobbled on its base before finally settling down. Well, at least the witchcraft explained her peculiar behavior. Explained a lot of things. He had been right there and watched her treat Robert's slashed ribs, and he had never seen such a thing.

  But nay. He had been right there. He had seen every step, stood by as she ransacked her brain for a way to do it. He had even made his own suggestions. There had been nothing illogical or magical about it. It made sense from beginning to end. An example of her brilliance, not magic.

  But it would explain her mysterious disappearance from a locked chamber on their wedding night. Although he had quickly deciphered that one, and caught her in the bolt hole. More likely, she simply knew something he didn't. This place had many secrets. Jean Nouel's death must surely be attributed to one. And Anwealda's appearance in his chamber must be explained in the same way.

  But that was mayhap the oddest. She might have smelled a snuffed candle. That fleeting scent was certainly distinctive. But she woke up knowing someone was there. Was it a second sight, or had a dream awakened her at just the right time? But he too had sensed the scent of a man in the dark chamber.

  And he would explain away everything, if he merely gave himself long enough at it. Had he loved her all that much, that he would try to overlook everything?

  But there were other things, many little times, too. That odd revulsion, yet obsession with the cloak, and getting it from him. He had thought it amusing once, not insidious.

  And the way she had lurched at him, knocking his prized horn cup from his hand. She had tried to pass it off as clumsiness, but she could not have accidentally fallen in that way. He could still see her face, stunned by horror, the instant before she dashed at him. All he had done was to wipe the rim–

  Sweet Jesus! He had wiped at a smudge on the rim of the cup, then raised the cup to drink. To take the poison into his mouth!

  Dangerous or not, she had believed it. Could she really have been trying just to keep him alive, all this time? Then why not have told him?

  Ah, yes. Just as she had said. He would not have believed her. The entire thing, a dying man's evil revenge, in such a preposterous way? Even here, in the manor where she was so well loved, there were those who whispered of witchcraft. He had been more willing to believe that than the explanation she had given.

  "Chretien!"

  Chretien looked up, startled, from the far corner of the dais where he talked with Thomas. "Aye?"

  "Tell me again where you found her."

  "To the south, crossing the eastern fells."

  "Know you of the Butter Tubs?"

  "Butter tubs?"

  "A hole in the ground."

  "Nay."

  "I know of it," said Thomas. "'Tis a hole into Hell, some say."

  "Where?"

  Lines furrowed Thomas's brow. "East in the fells, toward Muker Common."

  "How do you get there?"

  "Go south, through the Mallerstang, then east across the vale, and climb the fells to the pass."

  "Knowing where Chretien found her, might she have been going there?"

  Thomas puzzled but a fleet moment. "Aye, 'twould be there."

  "Sweet Jesus!"

  He threw himself out of the chair and raced up the staircase.

  "Open it!" he shouted at the guard, who fumbled at the lock, dropped the key, and managed it on the second try. He dashed into the chamber.

  Empty. Gone again. He searched frantically about. If she escaped this time, she surely would be gone forever.

  At the far corner, he heard a small scraping noise, and his eyes darted toward it. A hole in the wall. A hidden bolt ho
le. A narrow gap not more than a few feet tall closed as a panel slid into place, and the small hand that closed it disappeared inside, beyond the wall. So that was how she did it. The candle was gone, too. Of course. It would be black as pitch in there.

  He dashed out the door, intending to retrieve a candle from his chamber, but whirled around and grabbed the reed torch in the bracket beside the guard.