by Maura Seger
If he lived, there would be time for compromise later. But on this day he would fight purely as an Anglo-Saxon chieftain defending what was his. When he triumphed, as he was certain he would, the myth of the conquerors' invincibility would be shattered forever.
Odo shook his head despairingly. "The first part of the combat will be in the lists, with unsheathed lances. FitzStephen is renowned for his prowess there. He can hit almost any opponent, no matter how quickly they are both moving. Should he strike you as poorly protected as you now are, you will be killed instantly."
Colin shot the bishop a warning glance, reminding him that Roanna was listening to every word. She was pale but composed. He intended for her to remain that way.
"FitzStephen will not hit me."
In a gesture that was not the least pious, Odo looked heavenward. "It is fine to be confident, but this is sheer recklessness!"
Colin smiled faintly. He tested the edges of his longsword and the shorter blade that hung across from it before fastening both in place around his taut waist. Each was sharp enough to split a hair placed over them, a fact which did not go unnoticed by Odo, who fell abruptly silent.
No shadow of doubt darkened Colin's eyes as he said softly, "We shall see."
Forgetting the bishop for the moment, he took Roanna's hand in his and pressed a kiss into her palm. His eyes told her everything that was needed. Instead of the plain white robe that was the expected garb of accused witches, she wore the raiment of her wedding day. The gold silk tunic and amber damask bliaut were the perfect accompaniment to her radiant beauty. Her hair fell unrestrained to her waist A jeweled circlet proclaimed her rank, though no such declaration was truly necessary.
The regal self-possession with which she carried herself was eloquent proof of her true nobility. Never had she looked more strikingly lovely, or more stalwartly courageous. Strength flowed through Colin as he considered that, come what may, he was honored to fight for such a woman.
The crowd thought so, too. Ribald jeers from FitzStephen's supporters were easily overwhelmed by admiring shouts and praise for the couple who seemed at that instant to represent all the best that anyone could hope for.
Even William was not immune to the vision they presented of masculine power perfectly complemented by feminine grace. He had to fight down the urge to put an end to the whole absurd business right then. Only the knowledge that the fulfillment of his most precious dreams depended on keeping the support of all factions forced him to maintain a pose of neutrality.
Yet despite his best intentions, he had to look away as Colin touched his wife's face for just an instant in a gesture of boundless tenderness and comfort Even the raucous crowd was momentarily silenced, though their excitement resurged swiftly when the hooded monks who would guard Roanna until the matter of her guilt or innocence was settled by God escorted her to the waiting stake.
By the King's order, she was not tied to it as was usually done. Instead, she was allowed to stand a few yards away, just near enough to smell the dryness of what could be her funeral pyre and hear in her imaginings the fierce crackle of the flames.
The moment she was led from him, Colin began the essential struggle to put her from his mind. All thought all energy had to be absolutely focused on the task ahead. There was no room for even the faintest distraction as he faced what was easily the severest test of his life.
At a signal from William, both combatants strode to opposite ends of the lists and mounted their war horses. FitzStephen's huge roan was almost as heavily protected as his master. To carry the weight of both rider and armor, he was specially bred for girth and endurance. By comparison, Colin's ebony stallion looked smaller and less formidable. As the massive, razor-sharp lances were handed to each man, the crowd pressed forward. The last bets were placed, with the odds now even more in favor of the Norman, who smiled malevolently as he closed the visor of his battle helmet
A white cloth appeared in the King's hand. The crowd hushed. In an instant that seemed to stretch out forever, the very air reverberated with tension. Then the cloth fell, the mob surged to its feet and the heavy thud of pounding hooves shattered the stillness.
Colin and FitzStephen galloped directly at each other, the huge, heavy war lances held straight out before them. A man in full armor stood a chance of staying in the saddle despite being struck by such a formidable weapon. But Colin's only hope seemed to lie in evading the blow aimed directly at his chest
At the last instant, when it seemed inevitable that FitzStephen would strike him, he twisted lightly in the saddle. Roanna had to put a hand to her mouth to hold back a scream as he just managed to escape the piercing lance point But his own aim was also knocked off enough to leave FitzStephen untouched.
The crowd cheered his agility, but Colin did not hear them. Returning to the start of the list, he concentrated strictly on what he had just learned about his opponent In the moment before the lance had almost struck home, FitzStephen had slightly raised his right shoulder, as though better to absorb the blow's impact Was it a fluke, or did he unconsciously do the same thing each time he charged?
Colin soon had his answer. Twice more they went at each other at full speed, their lathered horses snorting wildly as clumps of dirt flew up from their hooves. Twice more he just managed to evade the Norman's lance and in the process noticed the same, slight movement
A faint smile touched his mouth as they prepared to charge yet again. The crowd was stirring restlessly. It was all well and good to see how agile the Anglo-Saxon was, but a real man did not depend on avoiding blows. Rather he concentrated on striking his own. Scattered jeers rose from the mob. Only a few of the most experienced fighters understood what Colin was doing. They leaned forward eagerly, forgetting for the moment whatever faction they happened to belong to. If he could actually pull it off . .
Again the horses were spurred forward, the war fences lowered to maim and kill. Again Colin swerved in the saddle, but this time his weapon did not move with him. It remained steady, pointed directly at the seam in FitzStephen's armor just above his right shoulder.
The impact stunned the Norman. Though the metal plating laid over toughened leather was enough to protect him from being wounded, he was knocked drastically off balance. His own lance flew from his hand, spinning harmlessly away, as he was hurled from the saddle. The ground came up in a rush beneath him.
Dazed and winded, FitzStephen had difficulty rising. His heavy armor weighed him down. He barely managed to get to his feet before Colin was out of his saddle and approaching with sword drawn.
Roanna watched ashen-faced as the two men circled each other warily. Under his closed battle helmet sweat streamed down the Norman's face, stinging his eyes. The massive blade he wielded had to be held with both hands. Whirled above his head and slammed down with crushing force, it could slice a man's head from his body or crush his chest with a single blow.
But without the burden of armor, Colin was able to dodge it repeatedly even as he searched out an opening for his smaller, lighter sword. FitzStephen was soon panting hard. He was not accustomed to fighting an opponent who turned his most formidable advantages against him. At Hastings, all his killing had been done from horseback, leaving him with the conviction that the English were inferior warriors. But now, matched face to face with a relentless enemy, he was quickly discovering such was not the case.
His chest tightened painfully as he raised his weapon yet again. Once more, Colin neatly sidestepped it. He darted behind FitzStephen, who turned lumberingly. Razor-sharp steel flashed in the air. A cry tore from the Norman as the English blade cut through his armor as though through butter. Blood ran red against the gleaming black metal.
The crowd gasped. In the grandstand, William leaned forward. His professional curiosity briefly overshadowed even the political implications of the clash going on before him. Colin seemed intent on giving a demonstration of the weaknesses of Norman fighting methods. The King, who aspired to greatness far beyond the lim
its of his homeland, was willing enough to learn from him.
FitzStephen, however, had no intention of becoming an object lesson. A red mist rose before his eyes as he raised his blade yet again. Colin noted the effort almost distantly. He thought the exercise had gone on long enough. Moving with the agility of a wrestler, he linked a leg around the Norman's and pulled firmly. FitzStephen's feet flew out beneath him. He landed in the dirt, sprawled like a beached whale.
This time, there was no chance to rise before Colin reached him. Almost insolently, he yanked the red-plumed battle helmet off and threw it to the ground. FitzStephen's small black eyes widened in shock as the point of the English blade came to rest against his throat
Colin's features were coldly implacable. With his massive chest rising and falling only lightly from bis exertions, his powerful legs planted firmly apart in a rock-like stance, and his quicksilver eyes glittering menacingly, he might have been some legendary war god come to shake the world.
Not even William could suppress a shiver of primeval fear as Colin stared down at his fallen foe. Harshly, he grated, "Do you yield?"
FitzStephen hesitated, hardly daring to believe he was being given the chance. Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded. A mocking smile curved Colin's hard mouth. Well aware of the insult he delivered, he said dearly, "Then rise, for you are not worth the killing."
From his awkward position, FitzStephen had to crawl to his feet. His once glorious armor was stained and dented. The wound in his shoulder still bled copiously. His face was ashen, but his eyes burned with hatred that was fueled even higher by the mocking shouts of the crowd. Even those who had supported the Norman forgot their disappointment long enough to hail the victor.
William was grinning broadly as both men approached He was well pleased, so far, with the outcome. Even those who had wanted to destroy all the remaining Anglo-Saxon lords could not help but be impressed by Colin's display of skill and courage. The sheer, relentless ferocity of his attack would compel serious reconsideration of their position. By sparing his opponent's miserable life, he had provided them with the excuse they needed to change their views and accept a peaceful accord.
Responding to William's summons, Roanna stepped forward quickly to stand beside her husband. Her eyes glowed as she stared up at him in the most profound relief and love. With his compelling gaze locked on hers, she hardly heard the King begin to declare her innocence. But she became abruptly aware when he was stopped by FitzStephen's sudden interruption.
In the rapid hush, the vanquished Norman shouted, "I challenge the outcome of this combat! The accused's champion must be sworn to chivalry before he can render God's judgment The Englishman took no such oath. The decision is meaningless, for he had no right to meet me on the field!"
In the pandemonium that followed this shocking assertion, William remained strangely aloof. He appeared deaf to the shouts of those who supported FitzStephen's charge and equally oblivious to those who hurled insults at the Norman for so abusing Colin's mercy.
The King waited until some semblance of order could be restored before stepping forward to address the crowd. With apparent reluctance, he said, "FitzStephen is quite correct. The decision of trial by combat is valid only if both the opponents are sworn to God's service as knights."
Odo opened his mouth to protest, vehemently, only to be stopped as his half-brother continued calmly, "However, I see no great problem in this." A royal hand reached out, beckoning Colin. He came at once, having anticipated what was to happen.
As the crowd gaped in disbelief, the victorious chieftain went down on one knee before the King whose vision of peace he shared. William calmly unsheathed his own sword. Laying it across Colin's right shoulder, he said loudly and clearly, "I accept you as liegeman to serve me well and loyally all the days of your life, and in return I pledge myself to the defense of our lands, families, and mutual honor."
Pausing for just an instant, as though to savor the moment, he concluded firmly, "Rise, Lord Algerson, Earl of Hereford."
Chapter 18
"Tell me the truth," Margaret pleaded anxiously. "Do you think I'm being foolish?"
Roanna smothered a laugh. Her eyes were gently teasing as she studied her nervous friend. Despite all she had lived through and triumphed over in her forty-some years, Margaret was acting like a timid young girl.
"Not at all," she assured her kindly. "Anyone who suggests such a thing is only envious of your great happiness. Few ever find true love. It's not to be turned aside at any age."
As she spoke, her mind flew unerringly to the man who was the source of her own limitless joy. Colin was downstairs with the rest of the household, waiting for the festivities to begin. His deep laughter reached her even over the voices of the other men.
A faint blush stained her cheeks as she remembered the passion-enthralled night they had just spent together. Since his terrible clash with FitzStephen, and its remarkable aftermath, their lovemaking had been especially ardent and tender. In the privacy of their chamber, they could not resist the need to celebrate the continuance of life in the timeless way of lovers everywhere.
Shaking her head ruefully, Roanna considered that given her recent lack of sleep she had no right to look so good. A quick glimpse in the mirror revealed a radiantly beautiful young woman whose skin glowed lustrously and whose tawny eyes shone with sublime satisfaction.
The lavender tunic she wore seemed to fit more snugly than usual. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she wondered if her breasts were indeed somewhat fuller. The faint, tentative hope that had first occurred to her several days before arose again. She touched a wondering hand to her still flat belly, breathing a silent prayer that she was right
Too quickly for Margaret to notice, Roanna hid her preoccupation. She resumed brushing the older woman's luxurious chestnut hair lightly sprinkled with silver. The soothing motion eased some of Margaret's nervousness. She even managed to smile as Roanna slipped the veil in place and secured it with the golden circlet that was Alaric's bridal gift
Shaking her head slightly, she murmured, "If anyone had told me a few months ago that I would be doing this . . ."
"But a few months ago," Roanna reminded her gently, "you hadn't met Alaric."
"That is true," Margaret admitted ruefully. "I really had no idea I was capable of reacting to a man so . . . uninhibitedly. . . ." She blushed lightly as she added, "It isn't that I didn't love my late husband. He was a good man and I was very fond of him. But we were married so young and what with the children and all the problems of the estate, we never seemed to really get to know each other. Whereas with Alaric, I felt as though I knew him the moment we met" She looked up, her soft gray eyes uncertain. "Does that sound impossible?"
"Not at all. I felt the same way when I met Colin. Well. . . perhaps not the first instant. . . ." She laughed, remembering her initial impression of him as a marauding Viking. "But very quickly, once I realized how strong and gentle he was, I knew he was the man I wanted to spend my life with."
"It must be startling enough to make such a discovery at your age," Margaret said softly. "But at mine.... I shudder to think what my children think."
"They all seem quite happy," Roanna pointed out Colin had sent an escort to bring Margaret's two sons and three daughters to London in time for the marriage. They had arrived several days before and showed no sign of being other man delighted at their mother's good fortune. Alaric's concern about how they would receive him faded quickly as he realized that the children who ranged in age from twenty to barely five genuinely wanted his help and support. For the first time in his life, he was discovering the pleasures of fatherhood
"It is good of your lord to give my youngest boy a position with his guard," Margaret said. "He can hardly believe he is to serve so great an earl."
Roanna laughed gently. "I think Colin can hardly believe it, either. It's taking him a while to get used to his new rank."
"I should think so! Imagine, the first Anglo-Saxon earl. Not,
of course, that he isn't perfectly suited to it" Loyally, Margaret said, "The King is lucky to have such a man holding lands for him."
"Lucky, and wise," Roanna murmured. "Colin will keep the peace as no one else could. And because of his authority, many others who might have rebelled will instead be inclined to accept William."
Margaret agreed. Many of the men waiting downstairs were the same who had attended that supper during which Colin explained his views and held forth for accord with the new ruler. Only a short time before, when Roanna was awaiting trial, they were ready to attack William and everything he stood for. But with their pride more than restored by the outcome and everything Colin had promised seeming more possible than ever, they Were of a different mind. No matter how unlikely it would have been only weeks before, they were now willing to give the new King time to prove himself.
Which was just as well, considering that William would be arriving shortly.
Smoothing a last tiny wrinkle from Margaret's gown, Roanna silently ran down the list of preparations, confirming that everything was ready. The Earl of Hereford's London residence fairly glistened in the summer sun. Freshly replastered, with new roof riles, shutters, and doors, it was a model of gracious elegance. The yard both front and back was swept clean, the ramshackle stables replaced by a far sturdier structure, and not a hint of dirt or disorder allowed anywhere.
Inside, the rooms were perfumed with the scents of fresh flowers and the aromas of the wedding feast being prepared in the sparkling kitchens. Long tables covered in white linen were set up in the great hall. Musicians were tuning their instruments and making their final selections of the melodies they would play.
In the men's quarters, a last polish was being given to chain mail and ceremonial swords, a last brush to unruly hair and unaccustomedly grand clothes. All the retainers had new tunics and cloaks in the bright emerald and scarlet Colin had selected for his heraldic crest The colors, he had told Roanna, signified that their land was worth any sacrifice, even to the cost of blood. They were a subtle reminder to William and everyone else that the Algersons held what was theirs.