Rising Fire

by TERRI BRISBIN

  Roger made his way through the crowds and held out a small, wrapped bundle to him. Peeling it open, William found a steaming pasty. Nodding to his friend, he bit into it. Since he dared not leave and risk being absent when finally called to the king’s chamber, Roger ran errands and brought food for him.

  “Any news?” Roger asked.

  Biting into the meat pie once more and chewing, he shook his head. After swallowing, he added, “The king is at his noon meal and will hold an audience after for . . . some.”

  “The men wait for us at the inn,” Roger said. “Though they grow restless.” A company of twelve men had accompanied him on this journey, all hoping for a place at his board. Twelve knights would be critical in controlling his new lands and in convincing the king to award the title to him.

  “Tell them—” William began. The herald’s call interrupted his orders.

  “William de Brus! The king will speak with you now. Come forward!”

  Heads turned to see who the lucky one was and then began to mutter as their names were not also called. William thrust the rest of the pasty back at Roger as he pushed his way to the other side of the chamber, where the herald waited. He’d forgotten his manners for a moment, and he turned back to Roger and handed him his helm, short dagger, and gloves. It would not do to appear in the king’s presence armed.

  It took a few minutes to reach the herald and then a few more to walk down the long hallway to the king’s private chambers. The guards opened the door to him, and the herald announced him to the king.

  “Come, William. Eat with me,” Alexander called out as William paused to bow before him. “My lord bishop, this is the son of my cousin, late of Brix in France.”

  “I am familiar with the de Brus family, Your Grace,” the bishop of Dunfermline replied, inspecting William from his place at the king’s right hand. William approached the bishop and kissed his ring. He could read nothing from the churchman’s expression, though he surely knew William’s true parentage.

  “Ah, but William is from a different branch of that family,” the king explained. Though the words sounded benign, the tone and the wink that accompanied them explained all the bishop needed to know.

  William was a bastard. The king’s own.

  “Come. Share this meal and tell me of your mother.”

  A servant pulled out a chair at the table, and William sat there. Another presented platters of food until his expensive, silver plate was filled. A matching cup held what was certain to be a similarly expensive wine, for the king ate and drank only the best.

  Whether strange or not, considering that the king had recently lost his own mother, William spoke about his mother as requested. ’Twas no secret at the royal court that William’s mother was the king’s cousin and something more. Madelyn of Coucy had caught the royal heir’s eye before he was crowned king and then she herself had been caught. She was married to a compliant de Brus before her condition was known, and William was given her husband’s name, but the truth of his parentage was widely known in France and Scotland. All because of the royal wink and nod.

  William spoke of the time his mother had spent with the dowager queen in Picardy instead of their largely ignored personal relationship. Alexander did not suffer an empty bed, whether now or in his younger years, so William was but one of many royal seeds sown in willing woman. ’Twas simply the way of things for kings.

  Soon the meal came to an end, and William waited on the king’s pleasure. With a wave of his hand, Alexander cleared the chamber. All of his servants and ministers, even the bishop, left with silent bows. The doors closed, and William waited to discover the true cost of his request of the king.

  It was not long in coming.

  “I know you wish me to rule in your favor in your dispute with the other de Bruses,” Alexander said in a quiet voice. “And I am willing to do that. . . .”

  William heard the pause that signified the conditions of that ruling and waited, holding his breath on the coming words.

  “But I have a small task for you to carry out first,” the king said.

  “Anything, Your Grace,” William answered quickly. Truth be told, he would agree to do anything to have his claim settled and the lands his for the taking.

  Alexander reached over and lifted the pitcher of wine before him, filling both of their cups and drinking half of his before continuing. And that worried William, as did the glances toward the doors and the king’s increased nervousness.

  “Is there aught wrong, Your Grace?” he finally asked.

  “Come,” the king directed. He rose and walked closer to the huge stone fireplace and as far, William noticed, away from the doors, windows, and tapestry-covered walls as one could get. William followed and waited, a shiver of warning tickling the back of his neck as he watched the ever-confident, ever-in-control king change into someone very different.

  Mayhap the king’s grief had caught up with him? Mayhap the lack of suitable heirs and his yet-unfruitful new marriage and the possible end of the Canmore dynasty had changed him from the decisive strong king he had been?

  “I have a matter that requires the utmost of discretion and cannot trust it to someone else,” he explained as he sat on a stone bench before the fire. “You . . . you I trust, William.”

  “I am honored, Sire,” William began, but a furious wave of Alexander’s hand stopped further words.

  “I am not so sure you will feel honored once you hear the matter. Sit close by and listen to my plight. I must have your word that you will speak of this to no one.”

  William hesitated, both intrigued and wary of such secrecy as this seemed to be. Still, the king held the power to grant or deny him his lands, so he would be wise to carry out regardless of his feelings on it. “You have it.”

  “Good. I’d hoped I could count on my kin in this, but none are so trustworthy as I know you to be,” he said, glancing toward the door once more. “For some time, I have begun to doubt the sincerity and loyalty of one of my councilors. Rumors persist, and his behavior answers not my questions about him. Strange stories abound. . . . ” He paused and glanced over his shoulder.

  William wondered about this suspicious demeanor, but the man was his king and was to be obeyed without question. “Which of your councilors, Sire?”

  “His advice has recently become less dependable and there are stories. . . .” The king shuddered as he spoke now. “Demons, William. ’Tis rumored that he calls forth demons from the other world.”

  The silence in the chamber surrounded and pressed down on him at the accusations. The old beliefs were long gone from the lands of the Celts and Gaels, but there were always rumors of those who had ungodly and otherworldly powers. William never believed in such things. They were for the fearful and the weak. He believed in the one true God.

  A sudden burning in his arm took him by surprise. Had he been sitting too closely to the fire? Tugging on his sleeve, he watched a patch of redness spread on his forearm.

  “William?”

  He pulled the sleeve down to cover the strange spot and turned his attention back to the king. Meeting his gaze, William asked again, “Which of your councilors, Sire?”

  “De Gifford.”

  William leaned back, shocked to hear this name. From another part of Brittany, the de Gifford family was old and powerful. The current lord, Hugh, was one of the most important men in the kingdom, having been one of Alexander’s regents. Lord de Gifford had continued in the king’s closest circle in the years since the king came of age and proceeded to succeed where his father had failed.

  “Hugh de Gifford? The rumors are about him?”

  “You must understand how important this is. My kingdom is at stake. My life and the life of my queen and”—the king paused to whisper—“and the possible heir she carries is at stake. I must know if I can trust his advice or if he has ulterior motives
for his words and wisdom.”

  William felt the irrational fear behind the words spoken as he considered them and did not answer immediately. So the queen was enceinte, then? Dredging up the logic that usually suited his purposes, he glanced at his king.

  “Sire, what accusations have been made? What makes you suspicious about Lord Hugh?” He ran his hand through his hair and stood, staying close to the king so he did not have to raise his voice. “Demons, Sire? Who says such nonsense?”

  Alexander’s gaze sharpened and darkened. “Many. And I am beginning to suspect there is more to this. I scoffed at the first reports brought to me.” The king brought his head up as though listening for something and then shook it. “I would not have believed it either had I not witnessed . . . something.”

  It took only a glance at Alexander’s face for William’s urge to laugh to be quelled. The king took in a deep breath and let it out slowly and, for just a moment, the confidence of someone born to royalty slipped and Alexander appeared a tired, old man filled with fear.

  “Tell me, Sire. What makes you think that Lord Hugh is something other than your man?” The king held out his cup, and William retrieved the pitcher from the table and filled it. Thinking on this situation, he filled his own and waited on the king once more.

  “I was journeying south to visit Melrose Abbey, and we stopped to see the progress Hugh was making on his new keep. He invited us to stop to see the high tower he had designed himself. It was . . . ungodly,” the king ended on a whisper, as though afraid to say the words aloud. “He wore the strangest garb when he greeted us. A long robe unlike any I have seen before. It seemed to glow as he moved, and his hands shimmered,” he said, staring at his own hands as though living the moment again and again.

  The king reached out and gripped William’s wrist. “And the sounds coming from the lowest vault made my skin crawl and caused me to want to rush forth from the place and never return. I prayed two novenas at the abbey and still the feeling of being near evil remained.” The shivers that shook the king’s body reinforced his words. “He controls demons, William. He casts spells. He”—he paused and swallowed several time before finishing the words—“he speaks to the otherworld.”

  William stood then and walked away. How could this be happening? It did not surprise him that the king would not speak of such things before other witnesses, for the words would damn him as a madman. Demons? Spells? What folly was this that plagued the king’s mind? He turned back to urge the king away from such . . . fears when his arm began to burn once more. Clapping his hand over the intense pain, he tugged the sleeve of his tunic up to look at the area.

  Where there had been nothing before, a raised and burning red patch took form on his arm. It changed before his eyes into something . . . something he could not yet discern. Covering it from the king’s view, he realized that this situation was quickly growing out of control. Worse, there was something now wrong with him.

  William reached up to touch his head and felt the sweat pouring down his forehead. His lungs could not draw in a full breath, and his skin burned everywhere. His thoughts jumbled, and the chamber before him grew hazy and smeared as though rain had run over it all and washed away the colors and textures. He lifted his hand to find support and instead grasped the king’s hand.

  With a jolt, his head cleared. Then plans for attack appeared before his eyes, as drawings would look. A stone castle surrounded by acres of farmland. The hills in the distance. As he watched the scene unfold, William knew the weaknesses in the castle’s defenses, the best path to approach and the strength and numbers of the guards. His blood heated and surged through him as his vision strengthened and his mind raced with options for deploying his men for the attack, how to control and even destroy Lord Hugh’s unholy demesne.

  He stumbled back at the realization of the vision before him. The king watched without a word, slowly nodding as though he could see what William did.

  “Something is awry in my kingdom, William. You are part of it.” At the solemn declaration, William shook his head, denying the truth of it.

  “Sire, I know not of what you speak,” he argued, but the visions flooding his mind and the need to fight, defeat, destroy, and conquer filled him, body and soul. His fists clenched against the strength of the need now flowing through him. He shook his head again, but it convinced neither him nor the king.

  “I was led to you, William. I cannot explain that part of it, but I knew you would be the one to help me in this task,” the king assured him.

  Whether the king’s words were madness or part of some bigger plan, William knew not. He was publicly a minor member of a very large and powerful family, and the king had had no way of knowing that William would arrive to request his sanction against another branch of the family.

  “I am your man, Sire, but this . . . this is not something I have experience in. Why not speak to Bishop—” Before he could continue with a list of possible people who could help him in this endeavor, the king leapt to his feet and grabbed William’s shoulders, forcing him close.

  “You must do this for me, William. For my kingdom. For all of Scotland and more,” he demanded.

  Regardless of the unexplainable things going on, no matter the strangeness of the request, this was his king. Obedience was a foregone conclusion, even if the methods of executing such a task were questionable.

  “Aye, Sire,” he said, with a bow of his head. “I am at your service.”

  The mad expression in the king’s eyes seeped away, leaving the one he recognized. With a nod of his head, Alexander released him. Stepping back, the king called out to his ministers.

  “Speak to no one about this, William. No one. The royal Exchequer will provide what you need. Mention the name of your holdings and he will understand.”

  The king’s councilors and servants returned quickly at his call, and soon they were surrounded with many other courtiers and concerns. William met the king’s gaze and bowed his head, acknowledging his orders. He backed from the chamber and turned down the hallway to return to Roger . . . and sanity.

  But as he strode toward the larger waiting area, the intense burning on his arm increased as some shape was drawn—burned—into him. Between that and the plans rushing through his thoughts, he was convinced that he, too, might be part of the king’s madness.

  * * *

  With only hours left before darkness fell over the city of Edinburgh, William led his two closest and most able friends to a table in an alcove at a noisy inn. Doubting this whole endeavor, he had followed the king’s instructions and visited the Exchequer. The bag of gold coins now lay beneath his hauberk, tied firmly to his belt where none could see. They’d eaten their fill and consumed a fair share of the inn’s finest ale before he allowed himself to think on what to say to them.

  Their lack of questions to this point in time spoke of their longtime friendship and their shared past of covering one another’s backs in battles large and small. Their patience was wearing thin now—he could tell from their exchanged glances and nods—but he doubted that either one of them would believe the tale if he told it.

  Which he could not, for so many reasons.

  “You were with the king a long time, Will.” Roger’s keen blue eyes watched William’s face for any sign and signal that he could not speak openly. Lifting the mug to his mouth, Roger asked, “Did he relent and promise his support?”

  “He has,” William began.

  “What is his price?” Gautier interrupted. When William and Roger looked at him, he shrugged. “There is always a price for the king’s consent.”

  Nothing came free in this world, and even kings commanded a fee of some kind—whether men to fight, gold to pay, or in this case, his soul. William needed to examine whether the cost of his claims to his lands was worth the odd price the king placed on it. To reveal it to his friends, however, the ones he would rely on to c
arry out the task, was against the king’s orders. So for now he would keep Alexander’s strange behavior and request to himself and give only the most general of explanations.

  “The king”—he lowered his head and his voice to keep his words from going too far—“would like me to investigate one of his councilors. A question of . . . loyalty.” That was plain enough with sufficient substance to leave the bewildering details to him alone.

  “Do you take up this task?” Gautier asked after downing the rest of his ale. “Do we take up this task?”

  William met their gazes and nodded. “I have no choice, but you do. I cannot give you more than I just have, and I do not expect you to agree blindly.” Blindly, without knowledge of the king’s possible madness. His friends deserved more than that. More that he could not—would not—give them now.

  “Will there be fighting?” Roger asked, drinking down the last swallow in his cup.

  “Aye, there will be fighting,” he replied without hesitation. He knew—he could feel it in his blood—that there would be fighting and death. He nodded to Roger.

  “And women?” Gautier asked. The randiest of the bunch, Gautier could be depended on to find the willing woman, or women, in any village or town where they journeyed.

  “I suspect so,” he said, laughing. Growing serious, he looked at each of his friends. “This will not be an easy task. But it is the one I must carry out to get clear title to my lands . . . and our future home.”

  “The others?” Gautier asked. They’d left the other ten of their group outside the city, camping in a clearing near the ferry road.

  “Too many,” William said, shaking his head. He leaned back on his stool and rested against the wall. “The three of us and one more. I will send for the others if they are needed.”

  “Just do not bring Herve. He is too pretty and will steal the good ones,” Gautier offered. The two were often in competition over women.

  “You will just have to hone your skills, Gautier. Herve is one of my best warriors.” Gautier slammed down his hands on the rough wooden table in mock anger.