Fire Dance (35 page)

Melisande felt her defiance surging through her. "Then if it was so dangerous, why did he let me go?"

Something flashed in his eyes, and he looked like she had slapped him. "Because men in love are rash and foolish." Chretien gave a stiff, small bow, and tromped after Gerard for the hall.

In love? Could it be? Chretien did not look as if he lied, and he knew his friend far better than she. Mayhap there was hope in that. Yet a man in love would have farther to fall when disappointed.

"I see we have both been thoroughly set down for our folly."

Alain now stood beside her. An angry red mark spread across his jaw, discoloring the skin beneath the bristle of black beard that had grown since they had left the castle the day before. The swelling made his grin lop-sided.

"You are not hurt?"

"Nay. But the point was made. I suppose they are right. It was an unwise decision. I should have left you within the safety of the castle."

It felt like a slap on her face. "Why didn't you, then?"

"I cannot explain. But with Cyneric dead, I did not think the risk was that great. We were fools to think Dougal gone to the north merely because he had not been seen about."

"So you also do not value my skills."

"Not so, lady. But I value you, yourself, more than my own life."

"Gerard brought Lynet. How was she safe, when I was not?"

His throaty chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. "He could not very well leave her behind, for the south is too weak without his presence. But do not worry yourself. They will calm down. It is always easier to criticize after the act."

"I have never seen Gerard so angry. And Chretien, I thought him the most even-tempered of men. He has always seemed so placid, as if naught at all ruffled him."

"Nay," he said, taking her arm to walk. "He is a very angry man. For all that he seems at peace with the world, his pain and grief are still very deep. As is his loneliness."

"Mayhap he should marry again."

"I think not. Not yet. A woman could not find her place in his heart, so soon. Come now, mayhap you will want to wash up before your supper, or see to your guest."

"Aye," she replied. "There is time enough. Will you not want a bath, lord?"

"Leave the water for me," he said.

"Nay, lord. You may have it first. As you have said, I must see to my guests."

Melisande and Lynet had never been close, although she called her friend. They had seen each other but a few times. Gerard loved his wife, yet Lynet harbored a wariness over the lady he protected. She had never wanted that. But Gerard, like Thomas, had kept his secret watch because he feared Fyren's evil, not because he held some undeclared love for Melisande.

Still, Lynet was here, and it was Melisande's obligation to make Gerard's wife comfortable within the hall. Stopping only to pass through the kitchen and see that supper preparations were properly done, she hurried toward the paired doors that opened out onto the upper bailey.

At first sight, Lynet emitted a little squeal and ran up to Melisande, her arms draped quickly around her quarry in a delicate embrace. Even that small gesture engendered discomfort that perhaps Lynet sensed.

"We were so worried," said Lynet, "when Gerard saw the rebels and guessed their plan. Why did you go, Melisande?"

"I was needed."

"Aye, but it is so dangerous."

"Do you not think sometimes a risk must be taken? I would do what I must to defeat Anwealda, for he is no better than Fyren."

"Aye, 'tis so. 'Tis a terrible thing to say, I know, but all are glad Fyren is gone. Gerard would not allow me to come to you as long as Fyren might be here. I hope I do not offend you."

"You do not offend me, Lynet. I know very well of Fyren's evil. And I am gladder than any that I no longer need fear him." If only that were true. But that was something Lynet did not need to know. "Where is the babe, Lynet? I would see her."

"She sleeps. But she will wake soon. Thomas has given us your chamber as he says you do not use it. You do not mind?"

Thomas knew better. The liar. "Of course not."

"Do you know, I owe my babe's life to the Norman lord? It was he who persuaded Botolf to let her go."

"Aye, so I heard. But do you know they have all but made a saga of your rescue? It was such a brave thing you did, Lynet. Alain says you could have been killed."

Lynet smiled, a bright smile as full of mischief as her sparkling brown eyes. "But Melisande, I would have been killed, otherwise. It was something Gerard taught me for my own defense, to go suddenly limp and drop. I confess, I was not certain I believed it would work."

"And the count?"

"It is something he does when he trains his knights and squires, when he wants them to all do something at the same time. I knew by his eyes he expected it of me, so I counted to be sure he knew when it would happen. But come, after such a long journey, and even a battle, you must be the one needing to rest. My dear, you do look ill-used."

Melisande suddenly stared at the blood-spattered kirtle that she still wore. "Oh, I am sorry, Lynet. I hope I have not offended you."

"Of course not. But the water is being prepared. Allow me to help you with your bath."

"It is my place to see to your needs."

"But allow me, in gratitude that you live, and for my babe. He is a fine-looking man, your Norman. Are you happy with him?"

"I– "

Lynet's saucy brown eyes grew narrow, and she laughed. She took Melisande by the hand and urged her toward the bath house.

* * *

In the hall that night, the wine flowed freely. Melisande sat with Lynet and the baby, between the two husbands. Husband. She was becoming accustomed to the word, although she thought she might never become accustomed to their Norman ways.

"You have not answered my question," said mischievous Lynet in a low voice.

"You needn't have whispered, Lynet. The men are too elated with their own successes to notice our small talk."

"You evade me. I ask again. Are you happy with him, Melisande?"

"I know him little, Lynet."

"But well enough, I vow. Your eyes do shine when you look at him."

"He is kind. He is not like the Norman I expected. Nor are they like Saxons, Lynet. Ah, but you would know that."

The corners of Lynet's lips turned up. Her brown eyes glinted. Melisande had always known Gerard was happy with her.

Melisande had never really thought of Gerard as Norman. Like Saxon men, Gerard did not look upon women as unequipped to deal with the world, mindless creatures that must have a man to tell them what thoughts to have. But the Saxons no longer ruled England. The Normans had come, and changed everything else. She supposed they would have their way about women, too. Yet Alain, her husband, did not seem so inclined.

"All my life, I have heard of Norman brutality. It was no mere rumor of the thousands slain, innocents and rebels alike, in the Harrying of the North. Even now, a generation later, it is said villages remain deserted and fields untilled. In my mother's day, many fled to Strathclyde and became serfs where once they had been wealthy artisans or merchants. Many more returned to their land and starved to death. My mother survived, having been married off to Fyren earlier in that year. Her family all died."

And none had lived to defend her against Fyren's evil and tyranny.

"Aye, I know the stories. That they raped and pillaged like their bloodthirsty Viking ancestors. They beat their wives, and killed them when they were dissatisfied with them. But I think, Melisande, there are such men everywhere. Mayhap there are also good men everywhere."

Was he really different? And did it matter? How could any man be satisfied with her, once he learned the truth?

If only she could use the challenge he had issued her, both to keep alive and to get the cloak from him. But the best she could hope for was to use it to keep him at a distance long enough to find a way to dispose of the malicious garment. But what if she did not? Or if his disappointment in her was so great that he did not honor his promise?

She had tried to think of a way to explain to him the danger of the cloak. If she had not already made such a fuss of disliking it, he might now believe her. But not now. Fyren's sorcery was widely speculated among the Normans. Anwealda had openly called her witch. And the Normans had seen her ways of healing. She had made a mistake when she had treated Robert so boldly. How could they not wonder about her? If she told him of the poison dye, how it worked through the skin, he would see it as nothing less than sorcery. And mayhap he would see that as the explanation of why she still held herself aloof from him.

She would be branded witch. And once so, would never have another chance to wrest the cloak from him.

Fyren had once said that magic was no more than knowledge beyond the ordinary man's ken, but then he had buried himself so deeply into his evil deeds that he had lost his humanity, and believed in his own lies. The magic became real to him.

She could never know. Was it, or not?

I am the spawn of Satan. You dare not refuse me.

She would never know. Until she found herself at the Gates of Hell.

* * *

"You will sleep with me tonight, Melisande," he said quietly as he climbed the stairs beside her. His long arm draped across her back, his hand resting just below her shoulder.

She had come to expect that already, and found no need even for response. How odd it was to find such joy and comfort in his arms, even knowing how it would one day end in pain and death. Yet even the smallest touch from him, she treasured.

And Thomas had given her chamber to Gerard's family, as he had given her mother's to Chretien. No point in protesting, really.

With fingers that skimmed lightly over her, he helped her undress, undid her laces, lifted her gown over her head. She stopped him when he raised her chemise. Disappointment filled his eyes, but he said nothing. She combed through her free-flowing hair, and pulled it back to braid.

"Leave it," he said.

"But it will tangle."

"Nay, leave it." He raised his hand in a gesture that both caressed her cheek and smoothed her hair away from her face.

So she left it to fall about her shoulders and crawled beneath the thick down quilt. She watched as he shed his own clothes, his skin like gold in the candlelight.

He was so very beautiful. Strong, blocky, with muscles that bulged out like crags on the fells, rugged and fascinating. The silky black hairs spread lightly over his chest and tapered downward and disappeared at his waist, to reappear and surround his manhood. She loved the feel of them between her fingers.

Had she done that? Aye, she had. It was not a memory. Simply knowledge.

He hid nothing from her. Not even the great bulge of his erect member. Well then, they would find out tonight if he was right. Or if she was. But, for his vows, men did not long deny themselves, once aroused.

"I do not think you can keep your word," she said.

He laughed, like a roll of thunder, yet soft and quiet. "You will see. You accept the challenge, then?"

"Aye."

She watched as he hung his dagger by its belt around the post of the bed. That would be the way she would go, then, for the dagger would be at hand when he learned the truth. Still, she prayed for one more day, one more chance to get the cloak. She must not let it all be in vain.