Fire Dance

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 padded 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.