Fire Dance (29 page)

"You apologize? The decision was mine, lady. I do not regret it."

"But I caused distraction."

The Norman grinned wickedly, baring beautiful white teeth that gave him a ferocity that she would expect in a hungry wolf. "Aye, you did. Anwealda's distraction. He made a grave mistake to try to seize you. He saw an opportunity, and acted quickly, but did not think of its cost. And I now know something of him. He is too impulsive."

"If Chretien had not pulled me away, he might have succeeded."

The lord lifted her into her saddle. "Aye. He caught us off our guard with his bold move. But Chretien is also quick. He saw the plan and thwarted it. Nay, lady, you were a boon to us. It is usually a mistake to divide one's forces in the midst of a battle. It was a mistake for Anwealda. If he had held his men together, we might not have prevailed."

"But you will not take me again."

The rumble in his chest burst forth as a great chuckle. "Likely not. I do not think I could survive the fright again."

"Nor I," said Chretien, who did not smile or laugh, but clucked at his mount and spurred ahead to the lead.

"We are not far now from where the men await us," the lord said, and he reached out, took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

"But we are not far from the new motte, lord. Why did they not go on there?"

"The messenger said they meant to try, but had to seek a defensible place to protect those who could not travel."

"Do you not fear that Anwealda has already attacked them?"

"Aye. Most likely, he has."

"Then you do not expect to find them alive."

He shook his head. "They should have tried to make for Hugh's motte. It is their love for Robert that makes them take such a foolish risk."

"Why did Hugh not come to their aid?"

"He is not strong enough. Anwealda would have caught Hugh outside his defenses, and then, the motte, itself. We cannot risk all for those who fall in battle."

"I wonder, will the time come when men no longer fight over this land?"

"Nay."

"Never?"

"Men have always fought, lady. It is their nature."

She fell silent. It was not what she wished to hear. Somehow, she had hoped he would say there would be an end to the warring, that men might stop stealing from each other, their lands and people, their women. She had hoped to hear that her sacrifice might have some meaning. But the Norman did not see it in his future. If some now lived because of her choice, others would die for it.

The one thing of value from what she had done was that the Norman lord was a far more able and caring administrator than Fyren had been, and had none of the earl's extreme cruelty. She did not regret her choice. God's choice. She had merely cooperated.

Mayhap God had heard her plea, after all. She
was
still alive, and as long as she lived, and the lord, as well, she had a chance to wrest the cloak from him. If God had chosen this man, surely He would not let him die while he was so badly needed.

The knights and their supplies rode on, following Robert's messenger. Melisande tried to keep her eyes from flitting in the direction of the Norman lord. All her life, she had hidden her thoughts, yet this man seemed always to break beneath the surface and divine what she concealed. She did not want to trust him. To trust him was to bring on her death, and with that, his own.

"Beyond this bend," he said, an interpolation of the signals sent to him from the outrider.

She nodded, and studied the Saxon prisoner who rode behind her in a cart. The cloth she had given him was soaked with blood, but he fared reasonably well. The three wounded Normans still rode their horses, and managed well enough.

The outrider disappeared around that bend in the road, then came flying back, kicking his spurs into the flanks of his mount, and leaning low to its racing body. At the vanguard, he reined up, hard. The Norman lord rode up beside him.

"They're gone, lord. Save for a few dead Scots, they're all gone. Not even a horse."

"Another trap, Alain?" guessed Chretien.

"Hostages, mayhap."

Melisande's heart lurched. "Mayhap they made it to the motte."

"Mayhap, lady," said Chretien. But she could see he had little hope of it, nor did the lord.

The lord motioned his troop forward. "The blow we have already struck to Anwealda may be damaging enough to keep him from striking again. But he has probably hit here first, where the Norman forces are weakest."

"Would Robert command a high ransom?" she asked, then saw the covert apprehension in the Norman's eyes.

"Aye. He is a second son, but his brother is not well."

They reached the ground where the battle had been fought, when the messenger pointed excitedly to the rocky ledge above. The Norman shook his head and watched as two men scrambled up the steep slope to the sheltered area. They climbed over a rock shelf and disappeared behind it. Within minutes, they reappeared, waving wildly, and gesturing with their hands.

"Up here, lord. Robert lives."

She bolted out of the courser's saddle and yanked at the thongs that tied on the pouches. Others tore up the steep slope, carrying water and food, blankets, supplies. The Norman lord grabbed her pouches, tossed them over his shoulders, and dashed up the rocky slope ahead of her. She was no stranger to the jagged fells where they climbed. Only where she was not tall enough to grasp the next hand-hold did the Norman need to reach behind to help her up.

At the outcropping, a narrow band of grey limestone had worn away into a low cavern. Near the entrance lay five bodies, shrouded in their cloaks. Beyond, those who protected the wounded heartily slapped the backs of their rescuing comrades. And stared open-mouthed when they saw the lady in their midst.

"Where is Robert?" asked Melisande, to shake off the intensity of their astonishment.

"Here, lady." Robert's voice, yet weak, tenuous.

"Where are the others?" asked the lord, hurrying to him.

"I have sent ahead any who could go, Alain." Robert paused, taking a ragged, gasping breath. "The Saxons took the other horses, so I had little choice. I meant to make it look as if all had gone." He was a Norman knight. He would think of the hale first.

"Then, let us hope you were right. Likely, Anwealda was fooled."

In the dim cavern, only the barest outline of the wounded men could be seen. Melisande knelt beside Robert, frustrated. "I cannot see to tend them, lord," she said.

"'Tis as well, lady," Robert replied. In spite of his pain, the sweet tone she knew of his voice still lingered. "You cannot save me."

Behind her, a flint scraped, bringing the smoldering, charcoal scent of tinder. A reed torch flared, then another. Robert, his tunic soaked in blood, lay to one side so he could cough out the blood in his lungs. He was probably right.

She lifted his tunic, stiff from dried blood, and pulled torn fabric away from the skin about the wound. It was too late to stitch it. And if it had turned putrid, she could do nothing.

"It is not as deep as I first feared," she said. "The lung must be punctured, yet it already shows signs of healing."

The Norman lord knelt beside Robert while she worked. "Such a wound would usually kill, Robert. Was the man a weakling?"

"Aye, once I removed his head." Robert's weak smile twitched wickedly.

"He must not be moved just yet, lord," she said, and packed fresh linen to the wound.

"Nor can we stay here," said Chretien, as he bent over another knight. The man moaned at his touch.

Melisande rummaged in her pouches for fresh bandages and her salve. "You do not continue to cough up blood, I see. The blood here is old. And you breathe passably well."

"Aye. It is not the worst way to die, I'll wager."

"I do not think you will die, Robert. Your ribs are broken, and I cannot stitch the skin, and but your lung may be healing as we speak. If we can just keep you still for a day or two."

"But you cannot," Robert protested, still forcing a smile. "It is too dangerous to stay here. Alain, if Anwealda has any sense, he will hit at your center, now that you are away."

"Aye, he may do that. But Cyneric is dead, by Gerard's hand, and his men who have survived have submitted to me. Gerard comes north to aid Thomas, while Wallis watches the south. Anwealda has just taken another blow, and only barely escaped us. Know you anything of Dougal?"

"None of him, nor his men. He must have pulled north to Carlisle."

Melisande bound Robert's chest, giving him scant room to breath, then moved on to the next man, whom Chretien tended. She looked up at Chretien, and knew he thought the same as she. The man would not survive. She gave the knight a kind caress, to which he did not respond. She moved on. The next two, she thought had a chance, if they could reach safety and good care, yet would likely die if she moved him. A dilemma. Robert also might die if they moved him, for the broken ribs lodged dangerously against his lung.

Yet, if they could carry him on a litter, he might survive. Aye, that might do it. Not the bone-jarring ride of a cart. Certainly, not on horseback.

If only she had some way of lifting the ribs away from the lung, so that he did not risk further puncture of his lungs. Mayhap fastening them to a board of sorts. But she did not have such skill.

Quietly, Melisande continued. But merely touching each man, cleaning their wounds, and seeing them warmly wrapped and given water was all she could do. Sadly, she realized she had dreamt of great miracles, not these simple acts of bringing comfort. She returned to the front of the cavern where Robert lay. His lord helped him drink from a horn.

"What think you, lady?"

"Give us a little time, lord. It is but a few miles farther to Hugh's motte, is it not?"

"Aye."

"Robert may go if carried by litter, and three more may survive better if they are carried, than if they remain here. One, I cannot tell. One other will not."

"If we remain, will he live?"

"I think not. But I cannot leave him alone."

The Norman lord rose from his place. "Take me to him."

He knelt beside his man, and his huge hand caressed the knight's forehead. "You have been with me a long time, Ivo."

The knight's voice was barely more than a rattle.

"We will not leave you."

"Nay. Go."

"We will stay, Ivo."

"Save the others."

"Aye. I send them on to the new motte."

"Go. Only come back to bury me, lord."

He would not leave his man to die alone. She knew that, already. All that he had said of not sacrificing the hale for the injured was belied by his actions this day. And she would stay with him, as well.

"We will stay. Lady, you will go with Chretien. See to those who survive."

"Nay, lord!"

"That is why you came. You must give your aid and comfort to those who might live because of it."

But she also had come to protect him from the viciousness Fyren had infused into the purple cloak. If he stayed, he would surely wrap himself in it for warmth while it continued its slow, insidious killing.