Princess of Fire, page 2
Alaric started back to the center of the field. The Saxons were gone—slain or dispersed. Night was falling. It was time to separate the wounded from the dead, to pick up the pieces and plan further strategy.
Falstaff, carrying Alaric’s helmet and the gauntlets he had pulled from his hands, followed as Alaric went from one fallen soldier to the next.
Alaric had known many battles; he had fought at William’s side for years to retrieve the duchy of Normandy from the hostile barons who had tried to steal William’s inheritance. Alaric had fought—but he had seldom felt as he did this night. Bodies were entwined with bodies. Men cried out for water, for God, for life, and for death.
The priests had arrived and were quickly giving last rites. The surgeons and barbers and the whole men hastened to the wounded.
Alaric watched these ministrations and inhaled sharply. Just before him lay a boy with arm outstretched—dead beneath the body of a heavy Norman horseman. The sight of the youth hurt him. A young lad, fresh from his wheat fields, battling with nothing grander than a stick.
“He promised us rewards. Right, Alaric?” called a voice.
“What?” Alaric turned with a frown.
“Nothing, Alaric, nothing. I’ll speak when we’ve seen to the men.”
The grisly chore took them well into the night. William sent for Alaric, who made his way to the duke’s tent. As he entered, William clapped him enthusiastically on the back and handed him a silver chalice of wine.
Alaric downed the wine quickly, eyeing William.
Somewhat shorter than Alaric and broad in the shoulders, William was handsome at forty years plus. He still shook with excitement and emotion.
“Alaric, we’ve done it. In one day! Harold is dead, Alaric. We’ve taken England.”
“We’ve not taken England,” Alaric said bluntly, knowing their twenty-year alliance gave him the right to speak his mind. “William, ’tis a big country. Harold is dead, but the land stretches before us.”
William stalked across his tent, frowning. “I know. But God is with us—destiny has spoken. Alaric, my mother felt it when I was conceived; I was to be like a giant tree spreading its limbs across the Channel.” He paused, taking his comrade by the shoulders. “England will be mine! And you shall have any of it you desire.”
“Ah, yes, I shall be rewarded,” Alaric murmured. He walked to the rough wooden camp table in the center of the tent and pointed at a dot on the map.
“London, William. We must reach London; we must get the witan to proclaim for you and not for Edgar Atheling.”
“Bah! He’s just a boy.”
“William, you know as I do that the witan must proclaim the king. You must be crowned in London.”
“We’ll march for London, then,” William said, falling into his chair wearily. “We’ll battle all the way if we must. We’ll move carefully, but I will prevail. I had hoped . . .” He slammed his fist on the table. “By God, Alaric! England was promised to me! I meant to be a good king, a fair king, and now—”
“And now,” Alaric continued for him, “you owe a pack of French and German mercenaries half of your new kingdom—not to mention what you owe your loyal Normans.”
William clenched his jaw. “You are right; I am in debt.” He glanced at Alaric sharply. “The people will despise me.”
“Perhaps.”
“There is no question about it,” William said flatly. He sighed long and deep, shaking his head. “I will prevent what plunder I can. But the people must be broken, and my hold on this country must be like an iron fist. I shall prevail.”
“Yes, I believe you will.”
William rose. “I’m going back out. We must find Harold’s body. Christ in heaven, so many dead—’tis near impossible.” His voice softened. “He was an honorable adversary. I shall find him and bury him with all honor.”
“I wonder if the Saxons will appreciate it.”
“I do not do it for them; I do it for myself.” He smiled. “Ah, Alaric! My right hand. When I found you battling all alone on that ridge so long ago, I did not know that such a ragged scrap of boy could grow to be my strength. But then, you were a bastard, too, young but fighting for life and rights, as I had always done. We won those battles, Alaric, and we shall win the ones that await us. I shall be king.”
“William, Harold’s sons fought today. You know they will rise against you. There is more slaughter coming.”
“There were times when I wondered if we would ever see this shore,” William said softly. “I tell you it was destiny. We shall prevail.”
“Yes, I believe we shall,” Alaric agreed. “I just pray that it is not a wasteland of corpses and scorched earth that you rule.”
William lifted a hand. “I did not seek Harold’s death; he died on the battlefield as I might have done. If his sons are captured, they will not be slain—unless they refuse to surrender. They will I assure you, eventually swear an oath of loyalty. Harold’s family I will respect—”
“Oh, my God, family! William, I have his daughter, Fallon.”
“Fallon!” William said sharply, his teeth grating.
“We captured her on the battlefield, where she was fighting.”
“Fighting? I’m sure her father did not know,” William brooded.
“What shall I do with her?”
“She is still hostile, I imagine?”
“Aye, that she is.”
“Keep her prisoner, under tight guard.” He hesitated, and Alaric could see that William was remembering Harold’s daughter, too. He stiffened his shoulders and said coldly, “Take her yourself or give her to one of your men.” William’s words were harsh and bitter. He could be a merciful man when he chose. He could also be as hard as stone. “Or give her to all of your men. Her tongue is more dangerous than the strongest sword. She must accept that I will be king. She must swear an oath of allegiance.”
“She’ll never do that.”
“If she insists on fighting me, she will lose her head. Alaric, the battle will be long and hard. I will not have her at my back through it all! She is yours. Do with her what you will, but control her. If she will bend, she will have my love and protection; if she will not, she will have nothing, perhaps not even her life.”
William stood again and clamped a hand on Alaric’s shoulder. “Go, the night is yours. I will finish with the death detail this night and tomorrow. Then we will forge ahead, and I will pay heed to your strategy, as I did this day, and trust in your sword arm, as I have these past two decades.”
Alaric nodded and left. He was weary, having been awake all the previous night, awaiting the morning and the battle.
Outside the tent, Falstaff fell in behind him. Alaric smiled at his faithful follower, this great hulk of a man, deadly in battle, as gentle as a kitten to his friends and loved ones. Many times, with hostile swords at their backs, each had been saved by the other’s prowess and loyalty. When Alaric had first joined William, Falstaff had decided to protect him, and he had followed Alaric into battle ever since. He was a huge man, dark and grizzly, with pudgy cheeks and flashing dark eyes and a quick smile. He was not born to lead, but created to follow well. Alaric was the leader to whom Falstaff gave his allegiance; yet theirs was a fine friendship. Where Falstaff was eager, Alaric was wary. Falstaff was sympathetic, and his heart was easily won. But the years had made Alaric hard. His emotions did not show, and few knew what went on behind the steel-gray mirrors of his eyes. The hostile barons who had fought William in Normandy had learned that Alaric’s sword meant death; those who had come to honor their duke had then given Alaric their respect and their friendship, having learned, too, that he gave his gravest concern to his men, offering justice and a quick wit and careful use of his power.
“Wine, women, and song!” Falstaff declared, smiling broadly. “Alaric, William will be king! The country lies before us . . . . Which of our camp followers will you have tonight, my lord? The buxom redhead? The blonde? Or will you choose a Saxon wench from the towns we took upon arrival? Will you drink and dance and laugh?”
Alaric arched a dark brow. “I wish a bath and a good meal. Then I shall study the countryside we must traverse in order to reach London. And then—”
“Then?”
“Then perhaps I shall share some good wine with the redhead with the huge smile—”
“And the huge breasts!”
Alaric chuckled softly. They had reached their horses and they mounted, then started off at a brisk trot for their base camp.
“Alaric, William will give you anything you ask for, won’t he?”
Alaric shrugged. “He has little to give me as yet.”
“Alaric . . . ?”
“What are you trying to say, Falstaff?”
The great man gave him a sheepish smile, then leaned across his horse to grip Alaric’s arm. “I am a man in the deepest throes of agony. I have fallen in love; I wear my heart upon my sleeve.”
“For God’s sake, Falstaff, what are you talking about?”
“The girl, the lady, the princess! Harold’s cub. Never have I seen eyes so blue, hair so rich, flesh so fair! A face finer than an angel’s! A body—slender, supple, curved, and trim. Ah, but her lips are like roses; she’s as splendid as the rising sun, as glorious as the twilight, as—”
“Enough, enough!” Alaric laughed, looking at his friend curiously. It was true; the man was enamored of Harold’s beautiful little shrew.
“Alaric, please. I beg you! Ask William if I might have her. I will love her, I will be good to her. I will honor her and cherish her, and if she will have me, I will marry her. Alaric, if you would grant me any small favor, grant me this! At least speak with William.”
Alaric was silent, feeling a hammer thud against his heart. Nay, he could not do it. He could not give her to anyone, for he could not untangle his own emotions regarding the minx.
He spoke at last. “She is a witch! She despises Normans. She will fight you tooth and nail. She can be dangerous; she can rouse the people. And you saw her today; she knows how to wield a weapon. Friend, I grant that she is beautiful. But she is proud and knows nothing of bending. If you take her, you win only trouble.”
“You know her so well?”
“Oh, aye. I know her well.” For Alaric knew the sweet taste of her kiss, and the bittersweet fury of her heart. He knew what it was to want her beyond sense and logic . . . “I met her when she was a child, Falstaff. You must remember when she came to Normandy with her father.”
“Aye, I do! I adored her from afar!”
“When I came here this year as William’s messenger to Harold,” Alaric said, “I saw her again.” Touched her again, felt her fire and her wrath, and nearly lost his soul before it!
“Falstaff, before we came here as invaders, she had good reason to hate and mistrust us. She thinks us barbarians, rough and uncouth. ‘Norman dung,’ I believe, is her favorite epithet.”
“I will be so gentle and tender!” Falstaff declared nobly. “I love her, you see.”
Something about Falstaff’s passion rankled Alaric. Perhaps Fallon could spark in any man this deep emotion, this fury like a living blaze. How many times had he felt it himself? How often had he touched her and thought he was lost?
A strange feeling slid along his spine as he remembered battling her today. William thought it was fate that would give him England. Alaric thought it was fate that had decreed his struggle with Fallon today. Their feud seemed ancient; she had been a child when it began. Years and years had passed before he had seen her again, yet it had been there, between them, instantly—a hostility that filled the air with tension.
Alaric shook his head. He knew he had to answer Falstaff’s request. Aye, he should give her to the great bear who adored her! Alaric did not trust himself near her. Whatever it was, passion or pure hatred, it burned too brightly between them. Alaric had the duke’s business at hand. There was a whole country before them to conquer; he dared not find himself weakened by his efforts to save her from her own temper and wounded pride. She was beaten. She was conquered.
Alaric inhaled sharply. He wanted to wash his hands of her. He wanted to see her locked in a tower far, far away. He did not want to see her, or feel the ravaging desire she elicited from him.
William had given Fallon to him; she was his property now, to do with as he would.
She was Harold’s daughter, he reminded himself. And Harold had been his friend, a man who did not deserve dishonor in death. And still, wouldn’t he seek her life above all else?
He cocked his head at Falstaff, glad of this chance to so please his good friend. “Falstaff, she is yours.”
“Bless you—”
“Take care!” Alaric raised a hand cautiously. “Love her, cherish her, be tender—but take care, Falstaff. Fallon must be imprisoned and well guarded until she swears an oath of loyalty to William. You must watch your back!”
“I shall! I shall!” Falstaff chortled, a happy man. “Hurry, can you ride no faster! I’ll have her bathed and perfumed. I’ll order wine and have a minstrel play, and I swear, I’ll make her love me!”
“Umm,” Alaric murmured. He clenched his teeth and swallowed. He would have to forget her; she was Falstaff’s worry now.
His brow furrowed, and he forced his mind to other things. He wanted to bathe the blood of battle from his body. He wanted a drink, and he wanted to study the roads and determine what route they should take to London.
Fallon . . .
Unbidden, her name came to his mind. He pictured the rose-and-cream softness of her flesh, and he remembered a cabin in the rain where they had reviled each other, and shared a single kiss.
He remembered the touch and taste of her . . .
“Oh, be damned, haunting witch!” he swore out loud.
Falstaff stared at him curiously, and Alaric shook his head. “Friend, ignore me. I am battle-weary. Come; let’s hasten to our rewards.”
“Aye, let’s hasten!” Falstaff readily agreed.
* * *
William had ordered a wooden fortress built at the center of Hastings, and it was here, in a room sparsely furnished with a cot and a crude desk, that Alaric sat, studying the maps of England and the roads to London.
Harold was dead, but the country still had great resources of manpower. And in London it was most unlikely that the witan would proclaim for William, a foreigner. Edgar the Atheling—last surviving grandchild of Edmund Ironside—had come to England years ago to stand in line to inherit the throne, if necessary. Surely the English were hoping that William’s quarrel had been with Harold and that he would honor their wish to be ruled by Edgar.
Alaric shook his head. William believed that King Edward the Confessor had honorably bequeathed England to him. For fifteen years he had lived with the belief that England would be his upon Edward’s death. His connection to the crown was a shaky one—the king of Denmark and the king of Norway both had better claims to the throne—but William believed in Edward’s bequest and for years had dreamed of ruling England.
Alaric understood the Saxon people better than William did. He had spent more time among them. The Confessor promised William the throne at a time when Edward was at odds with Harold’s father, Godwin. That quarrel had ended, and Edward—who was unstable at best—had surely forgotten his bequest to the Norman duke.
Harold himself had made a similar promise to William. But how seriously could that vow be taken? William had cunningly extracted it while Harold was a prisoner in Normandy, at William’s mercy.
Harold, of course, had known that no one could make promises about the English crown. The witan had to approve the choice, even after that choice had been stated by the ruling monarch on his deathbed.
The witan had proclaimed Harold king, and Harold was not free to keep a promise to William, even if it had been made in good faith.
William had spent half his life fighting to secure his hold on Normandy. He did not condone wholesale slaughter, but he would accept it in order to secure this inheritance.
Alaric stared at the map, then sipped some spiced wine from his chalice and gazed idly across the room at the smoky fire that burned in the hastily constructed grate.
What would happen now?
Edgar the Atheling could be proclaimed king. Or perhaps the witan would choose one of the two surviving northern earls of England to be ruler. They were young men, but they had proved themselves in battle. Then there were Harold’s brothers who might rise to power. His sons, too, although they were very young.
An Englishman would ascend the throne in one way or another. William had to reach London and see what the churchmen and the lords of the witan would do, for their decision would carry great weight.
Alaric stood and stretched, thinking that they would not take the main Roman roads, but go by a more circuitous route. He winced, for where the army went, the army would conquer, and the land would lie devastated.
He walked to the mantel and leaned against it, glad to be free of his armor. He had bathed in the river and wore a clean shirt and tunic, and clean woolen hose. The smell of blood about him had been nauseating; no amount of wine could have washed it away.
There was a hesitant tap on his door; it opened a crack. He grinned slightly, glad of the interruption. Margaret, the redhead, stood there.
She was a “lady” of Matilda’s court, and she was, of course, a camp follower. Margaret was no great lady in truth, but she was lovely and voluptuous. She claimed a certain pedigree, and she “followed” only for him. Women always came along with the armies in such fashion, Alaric thought dryly. The Normans had scores of “laundresses” with them; they, too, were whores, offering a service much welcomed by weary warriors.
Margaret smiled warmly at Alaric and sauntered into the room, eyes sparkling, breasts billowing against her clothing, spilling over her bodice.
“Ah, my great, brave conqueror!” she told him, slipping her arms around him. “Already the minstrels are telling tales of your prowess upon the field. They say the Saxons shuddered and gave way where you walked.”
