Fire Dance

by Delle Jacobs

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to persons living or dead or to events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Fire Dance First Electronic Edition February 2000 by Delle Jacobs

  Fire Dance First Printing February 2006 by Delle Jacobs

  Fire Dance Kindle Edition January 2010 by Delle Jacobs

  Fire Dance copyright © February 2000 by Delle Jacobs

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Electronic books or eBooks are not transferable.

  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of the work.

  Delle Jacobs

  http://dellejacobs.blogspot.com

  cover by Delle Jacobs

  Electronically Published in United States of America

  Fire Dance

  ISBN 978-1-61658-496-2

  Published January 2010

  A NOTE TO READERS ON MEDIEVAL WORDS:

  Medieval novels are always tricky when it comes to language usage. Sometimes there is no modern equivalent for a term, the meaning has changed over the centuries. Too much Medieval language and readers become frustrated, but too little usage leaves the story feeling like a botched costume drama. As far as I know, every author who tries to capture the Medieval Era with some authenticity struggles with this problem.

  Wherever I have thought it appropriate, I have used the correct Medieval word instead of the modern English equivalent, trying always to make the context clear. But there are some medieval words that are clearly more trouble than they're worth. When it comes to the word, "botler", for example, I give up. It does not mean either bottler or butler. There were no bottles in Eleventh Century England, and the butlers of later centuries had only slightly similar duties. The botler of Medieval times did handle the wine, among other things. But there really is no modern word that will substitute correctly, and since the man was not really essential to the plot, I removed him so he could not create further confusion.

  If you come across a misspelling or typo, or even if you just want to question a particular word or phrase, please don't hesitate to email me and ask. Even after many drafts, there are almost always some errors in a manuscript, so the more I know about, the better I can make my book. And when you get to "allure", if you come up with a good alternative, please let me know.

  Fire Dance

  by

  Delle Jacobs

  For Jeff, the One True Hero

  CHAPTER 1

  Cumbria, England, 1092 A.D.

  The odor of death filled the chamber where Fyren lay, its fragrance like the sweetly rotten smell of carrion. Beads of sweat formed on his brow and in the crust of his unshaven beard. His bulky limbs convulsed as he fought to rise, then fell limp. Yet his eyes blazed with a fury so malevolent, Melisande thought she smelled Satan's brimstone.

  She stood alone in the chamber, for all his allies had fled. Her hands lapped loosely together and her face was as bland as she could make it. Even now, she dared not show her fear.

  Caught in the stiff April wind, the wooden shutter clattered open against the stone wall, startling Melisande from her concentration and whipping pale strands of her hair into her eyes. She crossed to the open window to study the clamor in the bailey below where her unarmed knights stoically awaited their uncertain fate.

  The Normans had reached the gate.

  She had not counted on them coming so soon. They were only moments from entering the upper bailey, and moments more from the hall. And still, Fyren lingered.

  Quashing her fear and setting her face once more to a mask of stone, Melisande returned to the bedside.

  "The Norman comes, girl?" The words hissed from Fyren's lips.

  "Aye."

  "He will kill you."

  All her life he had feasted on her fear while she had fought to withhold it from him. She kept her face rigidly controlled. "Aye."

  "This is how you repay me. I gave you everything. Taught you things no one else knows."

  She said nothing, made no move.

  "I am your father. I loved you. Have you no compassion?"

  "Compassion? Nay."

  "You hate me so much, girl?" His words began to slur. His eyes, once as bright blue as her own, faded as she watched, yet his rage at her audacity had not dimmed.

  "You should confess your sins," she replied.

  "I do not fear God." Fyren fought to eke out the words. "You will not escape me, Melisande."

  "You are but a man, after all."

  "You think I die. But I will come for you. You cannot escape."

  Even now, he threatened her. Yet Fyren’s eyelids sagged and closed. Perhaps the end would come now.

  But what if he did not die? He was Satan's own, and God would not favor her. That she now dispatched Fyren to Hell meant only that he would be there awaiting her own arrival. And all her suffering in this life would be as nothing compared to what he would do to her then. Fear rose in her like gorge. She gulped it back down.

  A whispered voice came from the doorway. "Lady?"

  She knew without turning that it belonged to Thomas, by its tone of urgency as much as by its gentle timbre.

  "I am here, Thomas."

  "Is he gone, then?"

  "Soon."

  "You must hurry, lady," he said, rushing to the window to peer at the commotion below. "The Normans are already within the gate."

  "Aye, Thomas. Soon." She bit her cheek to control her impatience, knowing his anxiety to be as intense as hers, but first she must see this finished. It was her doing. All of it.

  Once again, Fyren’s fading blue eyes popped open. "A last thing, girl. The purple. As a shroud."

  Her lips drew bowstring-tight, like the foreboding that twanged within her. "Aye. 'Tis fitting."

  Melisande crossed the chamber to a small, heavily carved chest that had once been a reliquary for the bones of some long-forgotten saint. Now it held only the purple cloak, a sacrilege in itself. She lifted the cloak carefully, not wanting to touch the detested thing, and smoothed it over Fyren's body. A shame, that such a beautiful garment could be such a malicious weapon.

  Fyren's breath came in shallow pants. His body lay stiff and motionless. His eyes drooped closed, then his breathing ceased. The stillness of death filled the chamber.

  "Is he gone?" Thomas called impatiently. "The Normans approach the hall. You cannot delay longer."

  "Come and see."

  Thomas approached the bed and lifted the limp wrist, testing the pulse. "Aye, he's gone. Come now, hurry."

  Dashing to the chamber door, he peered down at the hall. The clangs of metal and rough male voices resonated against the stone walls.

  "It is too late, lady. They are below. Perhaps they will not be so harsh. Who could blame you– "The Normans could. For all their violence, they are pious men. Never fear, Thomas. There is another way out, if you will delay them a little. You will do as I ask?"

  "Aye, lady. And I will see to the earl."

  Melisande turned toward the door, but then pivoted back to face Thomas. "Bury him deep," she said.

  Thomas's pale grey eyes reflected his concern and gentle fondness of her. "As deeply as shovel can dig. God keep you safe, lady."

  "And you, Thomas. Keep our people safe."

  It was as much of a smile as Melisande ever made, that small quirking of her lips at their corners, but she gave him the best she could manage. She had learned early in her life to stifle all signs of emotion, so that she now knew no other way.

  Her light slippers padde
d against the wooden floor as she ran to the door between the chambers and into her own room.

  Rough shouts echoed in the bailey.

  The demons screamed at her. Flee! The Norman comes!

  She set her jaw, refusing to let panic rule her.

  You are evil! You are no better than Fyren!

  Be still. I have no time for your mischief.

  Witch!

  I am no witch.

  But the Normans would believe it. When the Norman lord learned of the demons that tormented her, taunting her with her own fears, and of all the things she knew that she should not, he would have her burned.

  Even before she crossed her chamber, she jerked her silk kirtle over her head. Snatching up a simpler garment of homespun earthen grey wool, she flinched at its scratchiness. But she dared not keep her light linen chemise, for the Normans would know a common girl would not possess such a garment.

  Wadding her discarded clothing into a ball, she flung it all into the open chest near the window, and almost closed the lid before noticing her mother's ring on her finger. She hesitated, caressing the carved warmth of the gold band.

  Nay. All must be left behind. She jerked the ring from her finger, threw it into the chest, slammed the lid shut, and turned the key.

  Footsteps pounded on the bailey's hard earth.

  In the far corner of her chamber, Melisande pushed aside a painted wooden panel that mimicked the yellow plastered walls, then crawled through the hole and closed the panel. Down steps hewn into bedrock, she descended in darkness toward a cavern that was as familiar to her as her own bed chamber.

  One, two, three–

  both hands skimmed against the roughly chiseled stone as she counted the steps. The earl was dead,– -eight, nine– and the Norman had come. The Red King, William Rufus, would win at last the land he had coveted so long.– Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen– The Norman lord would take the castle in the king's name, then look about for the bride Rufus had promised him. And with any luck,– twenty-five, twenty-six– he would not find her.

  – Twenty-seven.

  Standing on the gritty cavern floor, Melisande bundled her fears into a tight little knot and shoved them deep inside her, too deep for her to feel. Deliberately she stretched each finger out from the tight balls made by her fists. She squared her shoulders.

  She wished she'd had more time to plan, but the word of the Normans' approach had come only the day before. And only then had she learned of the English king’s intent to wed her to the new lord. She was fortunate her hastily conceived plan had achieved as much as it had, for at his worst, the Norman could not be as terrible a lord as Fyren had been.

  For herself, she had little hope. Perhaps, given more time she might have also succeeded in her own escape. But she had no place to go, so she must hide under the Norman's very nose. But at least Fyren was dead, and his evil cloak would be buried with him. The destruction of the Devil himself could not please her more.

  * * *

  No one had stopped them. Not a sword raised, nor lance flung, from the time Alain De Crency and his knights had crossed the dry moat and ridden through the thick oak gate into the grassless bailey. Soldiers and knights stood about, their arms laid at their feet. Never before had he demanded a surrender and got it without a fight.

  And never had he seen a castle quite like this one. Nowhere in the north, in fact, had he seen a stone castle at all. The nearly complete curtain wall of grey limestone seemed new, yet it surrounded an odd assortment of buildings that looked as if they had been around a very long time. An ancient hall of yellow sandstone seemed to march up the hillside, and had a strange wing added at the back that rose into a second story. Beside the hall stood the partially completed shell of a new tower, no defense at all in its present state.

  "'Tis odd," said Chrétien, the knight's voice a low, cautious mumble as his brown eyes narrowed.

  "How so?"

  "I see but three men upon the curtain wall. All unarmed."

  "Mmm. What of the hall?" Alain asked him. "Stables?"

  "Naught. The defenses seem dismantled."

  From the moment Alain had brought his army within sight of the massive stone walls, he had watched for trouble. The king had expected a long siege, believing Fyren would furiously protest this ouster at Rufus' command. But nowhere did he see signs that the castle would be defended. No great stretch of archers along the curtain wall's high allure, nor engines against a siege. Surely it could not be so easy.

  Alain jumped down from his great bay charger and slapped the reins into his squire's hand. He strode across the bailey to the hall's paired doors, his eyes taking in all they could see.

  "Let me go first," said Chrétien, with the suspicion of a battle-hardened veteran.

  "Nay." Alain shook his head as reached the steps. The paired doors stood open. Did the earl's daughter hide within to attack him as he entered?

  But no great army hid in the hall's dim light. Inside, he saw the same ancient Celtic appearance, spacious and stark, as the exterior. Massive beams supported a lead roof. Unusual, outside a church.

  "Ah. A monastery. This was a monastery."

  Chrétien's only response was the questioning arch of his brown brows.

  Beyond the dais at the hall's far end, a silver-haired Saxon knight descended open wooden stairs and presented himself before them.

  "I am Thomas," the knight said. "I know what you suspect, lord, that a trap awaits you, but there is none. The Lord Fyren has died just this last hour, and his daughter Lady Melisande bids me cede the castle to you."

  Alain glanced at Chrétien, whose surprise equaled his own. "Fyren is dead?"

  "Aye, lord."

  "Where is the Lady Melisande?"

  "Gone, lord."

  "Gone? Where?" He should have thought she might abscond. That could be dangerous.

  "I know not, lord."

  "She is aware of the king's command, then?"

  "Aye."

  "And why does she dispute his order?"

  "She says that William is not her king, to so command her. She asks that you be content with the castle. She cannot marry you."

  No, he would not be content. He needed the bride as much as the demesne. But he was not one to play his hand openly, and he decided not to press that issue for the moment. "Then, take me to where the lord lies."

  Thomas led them up the narrow wooden staircase to an open wooden balcony facing three chambers, each with its own door. Alain frowned. No man short of the king himself had the luxury of three private chambers.

  He felt the shudder of a premonition run up his back. Rufus had said Fyren was no ordinary man. Certainly this strange castle spoke to that. Yet that powerful man had so conveniently died, and his daughter had merely opened the gates to them?

  True, women did not always have the fire in them for a fight. Perhaps Fyren's daughter was as meek as her father had been powerful.

  Thomas stood by the door to the chamber and waited for Alain to pass through. A carved bed stood in the center, with heavy draperies tied back against the posts. The corpse that lay on the bed, wrapped like a swaddled babe in a purple cloth, had a strangely innocent look to it. Seized by curiosity, Alain lifted the arm of the corpse and found it slack, rather than stiff. The skin was the ashen color of death.

  "We had not heard he was ill," he said to Thomas. "What was the cause of death?"

  "He took his own life, lord."

  "Suicide? I cannot believe it."

  "Still, it appears so. Some say he was driven mad by the ghost of the priest he killed."

  Stepping back, Alain folded his arms. "I know naught of this, Thomas. Tell me the rest."

  "After the death of his wife, the Lady Edyt, Father Leanian laid a curse on the lord. And for that, Lord Fyren had him murdered in his sleep."

  "You know this to be true?"

  "Aye."

  "Did the priest accuse Fyren of the lady's death?"

  "Aye. The lady died mysteriously. But t
hat was the way of those who displeased Lord Fyren. There are those who believe him a sorcerer, and easily capable of such."

  "Sorcerer." Alain tensed, recalling his last meeting with Rufus, a strange scene with much left unexplained.