Fire Dance (27 page)

Oh, please, God, let it be so.

But she could not wait. There would also be times, when he might rub the fabric across his lips, or, as he had before, wipe the rim of a cup with it. Such an act could fell him quickly.

The old manuscript said nothing about this, only that the poison would penetrate the skin in time. She had read it repeatedly, carefully translating the Latin. But she could never be sure of her translation, for she had not been properly taught, but had deciphered it on her own. The words might have other meanings she did not know. How could she be sure her understanding of the words was correct? She was not even sure how the words were pronounced.

Then, before she had found her answer, Fyren had taken the books away from her. She had no idea where he had hidden them, and no hope of learning more from them.

Nor had God answered her request for hot weather, but that did not surprise her. Mayhap she could persuade someone who was in good standing with God to make the prayer, instead. Mayhap the priest. But how, without telling him the truth?

All she could hope for was that the Norman might snag the cursed thing on a tree limb, or fall into the mud. But despite his great size, he was a graceful man, rarely prone to accidental stumbling.

Mayhap she could help that along. He might be graceful, but he already thought her a clumsy thing. Wine, perhaps? Or food? Greasy food. Very greasy food. A big greasy blotch, right in the middle of it.

And in the meantime, the priest. Aye, there was a way.

Again, her gaze flitted covertly in his direction. He was so very handsome. Were she an ordinary maiden, she would now have everything she had ever dreamed of, for no prince or king could be more comely, or more gentle and kind. None other would tolerate one such as she. That he had lost his patience with her at all had been her fault, not his. She had merely been hysterical, and unable to explain it to him.

But what was she thinking? She was no ordinary maiden. She was consigned to Hell, and no great courage or will of his could change that.

Again she sighed, and surprised herself for doing it. She had meant to keep all sign of emotion boxed securely inside her. But now she fought against herself and betrayed herself at the same time, both wanting and not wanting. Utterly at a loss.

There was one thing, however, that must not be left unsaid.

"Lord, I meant to thank you, yesterday."

"Thank me?"

"For your help to Gerard and his family."

"He is mine, and I am his, Melisande. That is the way of fealty."

"But was it not also something else?"

"And you refer to Chrétien's loss."

"Aye."

"It was that, too. I could not have such a thing on my conscience again."

She tried not to look at him, but lost that battle. "Yet you could not have saved Chrétien's family."

She saw the swallowing bob in his throat. He returned a sad smile for her effort. "I will never know that. It seems I did all that could be done, but mayhap I could have learned sooner, or fought harder."

"Chrétien does not blame you. Why should you?"

"Chrétien must deal with his own soul, and I must deal with mine. But I am glad we deduced Cyneric's deceit in time."

"And Hugh?"

"I have not heard."

"Battles cannot always be won."

"Ah. My little philosopher. We shall win, you and I."

She allowed the corners of her mouth a small, almost bitter quirk. There was no word to convey her despair.

Their peace was interrupted by noise from the bailey and the hurried clip of horses' hooves. A furtive glance at the Norman lord at her side caught his eye.

"Word from Hugh," he said. "Or from Rufus." He burst into a rapid stride down the stairs.

She sped along with him. "Good news, do you think?"

"It has the sound of urgency about it, lady. I must go." He dashed over the steps two at a time.

"Wait, I am coming."

Still running, he glanced back, his heavy black brows raising in sharp arches over questioning eyes.

"I may be needed," she explained. "Someone may be hurt."

"Then, come. Hurry."

She needed no prodding. Urgency permeated the air like the acrid scent of burning flesh. Her slippers skimmed the steps and rounded the bend in the stairs as if flying, then down to the dais. Knights poured in the outer door to the great aisled hall. The Norman's hand flew instinctively to his sword before relaxing the moment he was assured the men were his own.

Chrétien led the group that rushed toward the lord. "Alain! It is Robert! He was set upon by Anwealda before he reached Hugh's motte!"

"The situation?"

"Robert is hurt, as are several others. Four men are dead. The others remain where they are, to protect the wounded who cannot be moved. Only one rider has come."

"Then we go, immediately."

"They mean to draw you out, Alain."

"Well, they succeed. Without Gerard here, there is none else to go. Someone must remain, but not I."

"Then send for Gerard, lord," said Melisande, then she stepped back, gasped at her own audacity. What would he do to a woman who dared meddle in men's business?"

Chrétien nodded sharply. "Aye, Alain. Gerard will come despite his losses. His threat is now so small. Thomas to remain here, and I to ride out with you."

Alain glanced about, first to the lady he called wife who had been too bold, then from Chrétien to Thomas.

"Thomas?" he asked.

"A good plan, lord. If Anwealda was too much for Robert, then he outnumbers you as well, so you cannot ride alone. And Hugh cannot come to your aid without seriously threatening the new motte. Send for Gerard."

"And what of Rufus? Is his position known, yet?"

"Last heard, he still comes through Wensleydale. None know how far he has progressed."

"So be it, then. Chrétien, call the knights to horse. My thanks to you, lady. An excellent plan, though I did promise Gerard not to disturb him."

"Take me," she said, again shocking herself at her effrontery.

"We go to battle, lady."

"Aye. You have wounded men, and may have more. I will be needed." She gripped her hands and pleaded with her eyes.

His dark eyes narrowed behind black lashes, piercing her. Her heart flopped around, out of control. But she met his gaze without faltering. He would not do it. She knew he wouldn't. Normans did not allow their women the honor of dangerous deeds.

"Gather what you need, then, and make haste. Bring a warm cloak. If you are lucky, you will spend tonight within Hugh's holding. If you are not, you will be very cold."

She had no voice to reply. The best she managed was a quick bob of her head as she spun about and raced toward the kitchen. This was more than just aid to the wounded. This might be her chance to pry the accursed mantle away from the stubborn Norman.

"Nelda!" she shouted as she ran. "Fetch my things. I go with the lord to aid the wounded."

The old woman's eyes grew huge and round. "You cannot, lady. You must not."

"Aye, I can. The lord says I may, and I am needed. Hurry!"

Melisande was always prepared to treat the injured. Her preparations for the siege had left adequate supplies already at hand, organized and ready to use. Nelda had only to see them packed on the horses.

She ran back to her chamber, yanked her warmest cloak from its peg, tied on wool stockings, and pulled light boots on her feet. Then she raced back down the stairs to join the Norman lord and his knights.

One more thing. Melisande scurried across the bailey to the chapel, where she found Father Hardouin sweeping. The priest's eyebrows raised at her untimely appearance.

"Father, I must have your help." She gasped to catch her breath.

"Aye, my child? Is it your wedded state?"

"Nay. I mean, well, nay, it is not. It is that we go to rescue the injured knights who left yesterday, and we must have dry, hot weather."

"We must?"

"Aye, we must. It is the roads, you see. They are still muddy from too much rain, and the horses will mire down."

"I had not thought we have had so much rain, lately."

"Well, not here, so much, but higher in the fells, it rains much more. You must, father. We must get there in time!"

"Well– "

"And the cotters and villeins, too, father. The time for rain is past. Now their crops need the sun, and much of it. We do not get enough sun ofttimes, you see, because of the fells, and the crops will not ripen."

Father Hardouin folded his hands patiently. Mayhap he had heard of her malady. Believed her head wrongly touched. "Well, child, I will pray for hot weather for you, if that is what you wish, but– "

"Thank you, father. I must hurry now. The lord awaits me."

She turned to run, but Father Hardouin snagged her arm.

"The lord takes you with him? Is that not dangerous?"

"Oh, nay, father. It is perfectly safe. Else, he would not take me at all. Thank you, father. Do not forget!"

"I will not forget."

"And right away, father!"

"Of course."

She sped away, wondering what the penance was for lying to a priest. It could not be significant, compared to her other sins.

* * *

"Alain, you should not do this." Chrétien's brown eyes were wide beneath his worried brow.

"I think I must. There is something about her, and I am not sure what, that needs this. I know the risk is great. But I think Dougal is gone north, as we guessed before. There is only Anwealda for threat."

"How will you protect her, yet fight if we are attacked? Beyond the walls of the castle, we are all at risk. Alain, if she should be captured, Rufus's cause could be lost. Will you sacrifice her then? I think you will not."

"I cannot tell you why I believe this, Chretien. Mayhap if she talks with you as I have asked, you also will see."

The furrows of Chrétien's worried frown deepened, but he said no more. They did often disagree, but not to such depth. But Alain knew how badly the wounded men would need the lady's help, and knew also her need to give it to them.

Aye, she would be greatly risked. Fear tightened his throat at the thought. His mind threw at him images of Heloise and her bloody body lying across that of her child, as he had last seen her. And he saw Gerard's lovely wife, Lynet, remembered her face intent on her husband's as she meted out that precise, silent count that had led to Cyneric's death and her rescue. If her cooperation, her faith in her husband, had been anything less than perfect, she would have been the one who died, not Cyneric.

He wanted that sort of love, as did Melisande. Never had she said as much, but he knew it. Melisande was a woman out of her time, extraordinary. For all her fears, she would give her life as bravely as any knight. What right did he have to make her a mouse in a corner, a simpering lady embroidering linens for the altar?