Fire Dance

by Delle Jacobs

  Alain spurred his bay stallion, agitation goading him. He was not particularly impatient by nature, but today he had not Chrétien's presence to caution him. He had only the trust of this Norman knight who seemed Norman in skin only.

  Alain watched the knight closely, seeing only the anxiety in his deep brown eyes. It was the thing of hauberks, that they concealed many of the gestures that betrayed a man's thoughts. But Gerard was afraid.

  Gerard led them over the low hills and down a deeply carved, round-bottomed valley. A shallow stream flowed through it before joining a small river. Ahead, at that junction, stood Gerard's half-timbered hall within the high wooden palisade. The clamor of a fight echoed off the surrounding hills.

  He was right. But was he also too late?

  CHAPTER 13

  Cyneric had broken through the gate.

  Terror flashed in Gerard's eyes. The knight was close to rash choices. If Alain did not take charge fast enough, Gerard would move without him. Their intervention would turn to disaster.

  "We ride together!" Alain called to his force. "We hit hard at their center- split them at the gate, drive the remaining ones through it. Gerard's men in the bailey still resist, and we will pound them between us."

  Gerard nodded. A dangerous choice. It would work if they were not out-manned, or pinned in their own trap.

  "Once inside, Gerard will press forward. I will back him and spread out. Lowell, you will hold the gate with the archers against more comers. I need prisoners, but spare none until we are secure. At all costs, defeat them."

  He had not needed to say that. Gerard had earned respect among the Normans who had already ridden with him. And all knew he valued his family.

  The jangle of spurs rang in his ears as the war horses lunged into a full gallop and raced down the slope onto the green where the wooden castle and its village sat. The din below obscured their coming, but soon they would be spotted.

  With a sweeping arc of his arm, he called up Lowell as they rode, and pointed to his chosen position for the archers, to each side of the main gate. Lowell split away. Alain spurred forward as Cyneric's horsed knights sighted the advancing Normans.

  Inside the outer bailey, Gerard's household knights held the inner gate at their backs, slicing against the relentless force of Cyneric's men afoot.

  Rage burned in Gerard's eyes as he slammed horse and sword against the invading knights to the left of the outer gate. Alain rode beside him, slashing at the right. Others flowed ahead like water between them, hit at the center, then swerved to one side, giving unspent knights the vanguard.

  Alain's great bay stallion screamed as a Saxon sword struck through its throat. Alain leapt down. With a mighty heave, he swung, caught the Saxon in the middle of his breast, slicing through mail and tunic to blood and bone. His shield blocked the return blow as he slashed beneath it. The Saxon dropped to the ground, screaming agony.

  Knights fell all around him. The household knights surged with new vigor, drove down from their last stand beside the half-timbered hall. The insurgents, harried at their backs, bloodied before, fell, one by one.

  Alain forced through the outer open gate to the bailey, taking each of Cyneric's knights as he came. Gerard's cry of fury rang out as he leaped over bodies to dash up the steep slope.

  The sounds of clashing metal waned. The fight was over, save for two knights who stood, backs against the timber hall, holding a woman and very small girl.

  Lynet and her baby. Gerard's wife wrestled against the knight's rough grip. The second knight who held the little girl looked uncertain.

  "The baby," said Alain. "Give her over."

  The man's eyes flooded with fear, and he shook his head.

  "You will live if you hand them over unharmed. Hurt either of them and I will hunt you down and kill you, do you go to the ends of the earth."

  "Nay!" shouted the knight who held the wriggling woman. "We will not turn them loose until we are free of this castle."

  "You will not get that far. You do not deal with Gerard, you deal with me. I will cut a hundred pieces from your body before I let you die."

  The knight with the little girl released her, and Gerard scooped her up before she could run to her mother. He passed the baby to safety to the knight behind him, ignoring her screams.

  "Your name, knight," said Alain.

  "Botolf."

  "Then, Botolf, you are free to go. If ever you raise arms against me again, you will die."

  The second rebel stood alone. The din behind them ceased, replaced by hard breaths and the anxious squeak and clank of tense men in armor.

  "Let her go, Cyneric," said Gerard. His voice growled like a raging bear.

  So this was Cyneric. Hard, cold, not a scrap of fear.

  "You always valued her too much, Gerard. You are a fool."

  "You will quickly be a dead fool. Let her go."

  "I am not so stupid to believe you will give me the same pardon you did my cowardly knight. She fits nicely in my arms, does she not?"

  Cyneric tightened his hold of both the woman and his sword. His shield lay split on the ground. Alain circled to the man's vulnerable left, caught Cyneric's attention as he moved. Mayhap he could keep it.

  "You shall not take my back, Norman," said the Saxon as he turned.

  Alain scanned over the lady, trying to devise some way he might save her. Her eyes were fixed upon Gerard, and she silently mouthed words in unison with her husband.

  One, two, three–

  "Drop!" shouted Gerard.

  Like a falling rock, the woman dropped limply to the ground, too quickly for the startled Cyneric to catch her. Gerard's sword swung, caught the Saxon at the neck, bit through hauberk iron. As Cyneric fell, his head lobbed to one side, still suspended by the last remnants of mail.

  A shout split the air as Lynet leapt into Gerard's arms. Tears fell from Gerard's eyes in a torrent.

  "Come, little one," said Alain, and took the squirming, screaming child from the knight who struggled with her. Alain felt as honored as if he presented a great gift to the king as he placed the babe in her mother's arms.

  "Most obedient wife I've ever seen," Alain commented, and turned away to survey the damage.

  * * *

  When the knights had ridden out in the early morning, Melisande had stood to watch. Between dinner and supper, she had immersed herself in her duties. Now, with pots still simmering in the kitchen against the hope that the knights would yet come before dark, the sun set in dark streaks behind the fells, and she stood upon the allure again. A cold wind blew in clouds that would soon become an evening storm. She pulled her cloak more tightly and strained her eyes to the distant vale toward the south.

  "They will return, lady. All will be well."

  "She had been preoccupied. She had not heard Chrétien come up to her.

  "I expect it of them," she replied. Still, she watched, as if she doubted her own words.

  "He will not disappoint you. He makes an astute move, this one against Cyneric."

  "You think he is right, then?"

  "Aye. Alain has a knack for discerning the moves of his enemies. God grant him speed, to be there in time."

  "Do you trust Gerard, Chrétien?"

  "Not entirely. Were it not for his concern for you, lady, I would not trust him yet, at all. But he would stand for you to his death, so I know him to be a good man."

  "Does the lord trust him?"

  "We shall see. He puts himself in Gerard's teeth today."

  "How so?"

  Chrétien gave her his gentle smile, but for a fleet moment she glimpsed the heavy heart obscured behind it.

  "Alain goes into Gerard's abode, with but a small accompaniment. If Gerard seeks to trap him, he will never have a better chance."

  "Gerard will never do that."

  "I believe you."

  "Do you? Why?"

  "Because he honors your wishes."

  "Then your trust in me is mislaid. I have done naught but de
ceive the Norman lord."

  "Aye. But you will learn you have naught to fear of him. Look, lady, beyond the beck. They ride in."

  "What if it is not them?"

  "Then we will not open the gates."

  But she could see by his affable smile he already knew who it was. Mayhap it was his soldier's eyes, for she could not yet tell. Nay- Now she also saw. Barely half the men who had ridden out came riding back. Her hand went to her mouth.

  "Be at ease, lady. Gerard is not with them. That is the best of news."

  "How so?"

  "He stays behind with his men. So they have possession of his hall. And it still stands."

  "They could have left them with Wallis. Or they could have all been killed."

  "Ah. You do have a soldier's mind. But you will see. I am right."

  "I defer to your judgement, for I have never been on campaign."

  The knights and their mounted archers raised their lord's pennon, and Melisande could distinguish their faces. The Norman lord, his great purple cloak billowing behind him, rode at their head on a white war horse instead of his familiar bay. She could see none of Gerard's men, yet she counted roughly enough to make up the lord's contingent. She tightened her lips, hoping Chrétien was right, and followed him down the stone steps to the upper bailey.

  The knights rode in, dusty, tired, and some bloody. So there had been a fight. Alain flung himself down from his high saddle, as if he still held the energy of morning in him. But Melisande could see the fatigue in his body. Was it the battle? Or did that malevolent cloak drag his strength from him?

  "I must see to supper," she said, and hurried off toward the kitchen.

  She did not have to see to supper. Everything had been seen to, twice over. But now that he was back, she suddenly found herself loath to face him. She could not say why. Aye, she could. He would read the relief on her face.

  The linens were laid squarely over the trestle table, trenchers in place, and the great roasts she had set aside for them were already being carried in. Her Norman would not be served cold beef, this night. She called for more ale and wine, for the men now entering the hall overflowed with the excitement of a battle well fought.

  "Thomas," she said, "Have you seen to the bath?"

  "Aye, lady. It will be ready by the time the lord finishes his meal."

  And not only that, he would be seen to by two young pages, while she would keep herself busy elsewhere. She had also seen to that.

  At the far end of the hall, she set up to care for those who had been injured, with Nelda to assist her. Soon, she felt an odd prickling at her neck, and then the warmth from the Norman lord's body as he stood behind her. She focused her gaze on the slashed arm she was attending, and the task itself kept the nervousness from her fingers as she daubed the wound with her salve and began her stitching. But she could not manage the silence. "The injuries seem too slight for the sort of conflict I had imagined."

  "Those with more serious injuries remain with Gerard in Lynet's care."

  Her worst fears dissolved, and a sort of piteous hope set in. How foolish of her, to hope. Yet when he turned away to join Chrétien, she allowed her eyes to follow covertly. Wishing, wanting, hoping. Foolishly hoping.

  Now if she could only find some way to keep her hideous dreams at bay so he would not hear her cry out, all would be well for the night. He had said, had he not, that he would not come if she did not cry out? But the only thing she could think of was to sleep in the caverns.

  Never. Her flesh crawled at the thought.

  * * *

  As soon as he alit from his charger in the bailey, Alain clapped Chrétien on the back.

  "All went well, then?" Chrétien asked.

  "Fair to well," Alain replied. "We caught them in their attack, having already cut off their outriders without knowing we had done it. Cyneric died in the fight. And," he paused while his eyes followed Melisande, who scurried away across the bailey, "Gerard's family is well. He remains there. I will not call him back until Rufus comes. I did not know she is with child."

  "Mayhap it is his heir. And the others?"

  "Wallis holds his own, and Cyneric's as well," Alain continued. "We must hope that Robert also reached Hugh in time. You have not heard?"

  "Nay."

  "Then if we have not learned by tomorrow, we will send more men. All is well here?"

  "None complain. The lady has kept a meal ready for you in the event you came home tonight."

  Alain's eyes darted again in her direction, but she was already gone.

  "She has also ordered a hot bath for you," Chrétien added, in a slow, knowing drawl. "Thomas saw to it. It will be ready after you eat."

  His mouth gaped, for he had not expected her to think of his needs so thoroughly. Mayhap she merely meant to keep him busy.

  "Excellent. We are all hungry. The day has been hard."

  * * *

  Ah, there it was. He'd begun to doubt himself in the last hour. But he should have known she would not fail him. Nay, it did not matter how much she avoided him, nor how much she pretended otherwise, something deep inside her had already come to count on him. In some way, though she might remember none of what transpired, she knew he would be with her in the night when the terrors hit. He smiled to himself as he rose from the bed. This time he would be there before they got such a grip on her.

  He pulled the latch and pushed on the door. It seemed stuck. He shoved again, and it gave against his weight, but slowly. Bright girl. She'd pushed her chest against it. But she should have realized that anything she could push there, he could push away. The heavy door yielded, bit by bit. Ah. It was not the chest at all. She had pushed her bed against the door. No matter, as long as it moved. But knowing her cleverness, he decided to watch where he walked.

  Good thing. She'd left the chamber pot where he could stumble into it. Fortunately for her, he learned the way her mind worked. He was the one fighting the winning battle.

  She cringed high up on the bed, pushing her hands against the mattress, shoving herself back, as if the headboard might give way and let her escape. The little whimper that had awakened him erupted into an ear-splitting scream.

  "Come along now, lady, you have nothing to fear anymore. I have come for you. You are safe now."

  He didn't know if she heard him. Yet she always seemed to. Though she still trembled and gasped with a whispered torrent of oddly mixed words, she gave no resistance as he lifted her off the bed, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. Her arms found their way about his neck, fiercely clutching.

  Again he carried her through the door, and left it ajar. The candle he kept lit for her cast its amber glow from the small table where he had sat it. No matter if she remembered the promise, or not, he did.

  First silent, her hurried, urgent whispers began again as soon as she touched the bed. He could not understand the words, yet knew the ordeal was not over for the night. Instead, he sat at the bed's edge, pulled her back into his arms, and cradled her like a child. Soon even the whispers ceased.

  "You see, it gets easier, love. I am here, and I will always protect you. Some day, there will be no more dreams."

  He eased her down onto the bed and raised the down quilt to cover her before sliding into the warm nest beside her. As he lay on his back, he felt her small hand curl onto his chest, and he drew her closer, to let her head rest in the crook of his arm.

  "Tell me, my sweet," he whispered, "that you do not want to be in my arms. You will find me very hard to convince."

  But she would be even harder to convince that she did. He would have to tell her some day, and soon, what had happened on their wedding night. He could not tell her now, for she would not be able to understand that he had not taken advantage of her weakness. She probably had not the slightest notion what she was like when she dreamed.

  Yet if he waited too long, she might discover it some other way, and would never trust him again. That he would tell her, he had no question. She must be t
old. It was just a matter of discerning when she was strong enough. And trusted him enough.

  * * *

  She felt the warmth first. Felt it as something beyond the soothing snugness of the soft quilt. Something male.

  There he was again, or rather, there she was. It was her head that rested in the crook of his arm, just as it was her hand running over and through the silky black hairs on his chest. She had already memorized their pattern, a wide band across the top of his chest, coming to the center and down, column-like, between the firm, plated muscles over his ribs. It went down, down–