Forbidden Love (21 page)

T
he enclosed field in front of the keep was crowded. William and the other dignitaries occupied the small grandstand draped with heraldic banners. The bleachers on either side were packed so tightly that hardly a breath of air could move amid the occupants. Those not fortunate enough to get seats were jammed into the far side of the bailey, behind a bulwark of men-at-arms who knew they would be hard pressed to keep the mob under control once the action began.

Though it was not yet noon, the day was already warm. Barely a cloud showed in the cobalt sky. A flock of ravens perched on the palisade, peering balefully at the strange goings-on. Along the nearby river, the tide was heading out A soft summer breeze carried the fecund scent of rotting vegetation and salt spray.

A few square-sailed merchant vessels drifted past, but most ships were securely tied up at anchor. The usual crowds were missing from the dockyards and markets. Most people had chosen to stay inside, waiting with differing degrees of fear and anger to hear the outcome of the great event taking place within the royal stronghold.

The eyes of all those privileged to witness it were fastened on the door of the tower through which the accused would be brought along with the two men who would be the means by which God decided her fate.

Though wholly Norman, the crowd was divided in its sentiments. Some confidently expected to see FitzStephen triumph. They made derisive comments about the lack of fighting skill among the Anglo-Saxons and offered contemptuously high odds in the betting that quickly sprang up.

Others were less certain. There were those who remembered the prowess Colin had shown at Hastings and recalled that it had taken half a dozen Normans finally to bring him down. They suspected he would fight even more fiercely today, and were not anxious to predict the outcome.

Many were not so hesitant. The large faction of the crowd that sided with the Bishop Odo in his desire for accord with the Anglo-Saxons were frank about who they wanted to see win. They detested FitzStephen not merely for his political stance but for his willingness to attack Colin through Roanna.

When the tower door at last swung open, the mob pressed forward eagerly. Boos almost drowned out the cheers as FitzStephen strode forward. His long, hard body was encased in black armor. A massive war sword was strapped to his side. Behind him, a squire carried his plumed battle helmet, while another held the shield emblazoned with a fiercely snarling wolfs head. The horse he would ride was a massive ebony stallion whose glistening hooves pawed the ground impatiently as steam shot from his flared nostrils.

The Bishop Odo appeared next. His usually smooth features were distorted by a worried frown, the product of his unsuccessful struggle to convince Colin to wear Norman armor. It was bad enough that he had only recently learned to fight from horseback. To go against FitzStephen without full protection was, in the bishop's opinion, sheer madness. He had even tried to lend his own equipment, only to have the offer politely but firmly rejected.

"It would only hinder me," Colin had explained calmly. He had deliberately decided to make no concessions at all to Norman ways. Instead of the heavy metal armor that would both protect and weigh down FitzStephen, he wore his usual leather jerkin and chain mail. The coppery pelt of his hair still hung to his massive shoulders, defying the new, much shorter style. His powerful legs were bare beneath his short tunic. Only soft leather boots covered his feet and calves. Even his weapons appeared lighter and less threatening than those of his foe.

If he lived, there would be time for compromise later. But on this day he would fight purely as an Anglo-Saxon chieftain defending what was his. When he triumphed, as he was certain he would, the myth of the conquerors' invincibility would be shattered forever.

Odo shook his head despairingly. "The first part of the combat will be in the lists, with unsheathed lances. FitzStephen is renowned for his prowess there. He can hit almost any opponent, no matter how quickly they are both moving. Should he strike you as poorly protected as you now are, you will be killed instantly."

Colin shot the bishop a warning glance, reminding him that Roanna was listening to every word. She was pale but composed. He intended for her to remain that way.

"FitzStephen will not hit me."

In a gesture that was not the least pious, Odo looked heavenward. "It is fine to be confident, but this is sheer recklessness!"

Colin smiled faintly. He tested the edges of his longsword and the shorter blade that hung across from it before fastening both in place around his taut waist. Each was sharp enough to split a hair placed over them, a fact which did not go unnoticed by Odo, who fell abruptly silent.

No shadow of doubt darkened Colin's eyes as he said softly, "We shall see."

Forgetting the bishop for the moment, he took Roanna's hand in his and pressed a kiss into her palm. His eyes told her everything that was needed. Instead of the plain white robe that was the expected garb of accused witches, she wore the raiment of her wedding day. The gold silk tunic and amber damask bliaut were the perfect accompaniment to her radiant beauty. Her hair fell unrestrained to her waist A jeweled circlet proclaimed her rank, though no such declaration was truly necessary.

The regal self-possession with which she carried herself was eloquent proof of her true nobility. Never had she looked more strikingly lovely, or more stalwartly courageous. Strength flowed through Colin as he considered that, come what may, he was honored to fight for such a woman.

The crowd thought so, too. Ribald jeers from FitzStephen's supporters were easily overwhelmed by admiring shouts and praise for the couple who seemed at that instant to represent all the best that anyone could hope for.

Even William was not immune to the vision they presented of masculine power perfectly complemented by feminine grace. He had to fight down the urge to put an end to the whole absurd business right then. Only the knowledge that the fulfillment of his most precious dreams depended on keeping the support of all factions forced him to maintain a pose of neutrality.

Yet despite his best intentions, he had to look away as Colin touched his wife's face for just an instant in a gesture of boundless tenderness and comfort Even the raucous crowd was momentarily silenced, though their excitement resurged swiftly when the hooded monks who would guard Roanna until the matter of her guilt or innocence was settled by God escorted her to the waiting stake.

By the King's order, she was not tied to it as was usually done. Instead, she was allowed to stand a few yards away, just near enough to smell the dryness of what could be her funeral pyre and hear in her imaginings the fierce crackle of the flames.

The moment she was led from him, Colin began the essential struggle to put her from his mind. All thought all energy had to be absolutely focused on the task ahead. There was no room for even the faintest distraction as he faced what was easily the severest test of his life.

At a signal from William, both combatants strode to opposite ends of the lists and mounted their war horses. FitzStephen's huge roan was almost as heavily protected as his master. To carry the weight of both rider and armor, he was specially bred for girth and endurance. By comparison, Colin's ebony stallion looked smaller and less formidable. As the massive, razor-sharp lances were handed to each man, the crowd pressed forward. The last bets were placed, with the odds now even more in favor of the Norman, who smiled malevolently as he closed the visor of his battle helmet

A white cloth appeared in the King's hand. The crowd hushed. In an instant that seemed to stretch out forever, the very air reverberated with tension. Then the cloth fell, the mob surged to its feet and the heavy thud of pounding hooves shattered the stillness.

Colin and FitzStephen galloped directly at each other, the huge, heavy war lances held straight out before them. A man in full armor stood a chance of staying in the saddle despite being struck by such a formidable weapon. But Colin's only hope seemed to lie in evading the blow aimed directly at his chest

At the last instant, when it seemed inevitable that FitzStephen would strike him, he twisted lightly in the saddle. Roanna had to put a hand to her mouth to hold back a scream as he just managed to escape the piercing lance point But his own aim was also knocked off enough to leave FitzStephen untouched.

The crowd cheered his agility, but Colin did not hear them. Returning to the start of the list, he concentrated strictly on what he had just learned about his opponent In the moment before the lance had almost struck home, FitzStephen had slightly raised his right shoulder, as though better to absorb the blow's impact Was it a fluke, or did he unconsciously do the same thing each time he charged?

Colin soon had his answer. Twice more they went at each other at full speed, their lathered horses snorting wildly as clumps of dirt flew up from their hooves. Twice more he just managed to evade the Norman's lance and in the process noticed the same, slight movement

A faint smile touched his mouth as they prepared to charge yet again. The crowd was stirring restlessly. It was all well and good to see how agile the Anglo-Saxon was, but a real man did not depend on avoiding blows. Rather he concentrated on striking his own. Scattered jeers rose from the mob. Only a few of the most experienced fighters understood what Colin was doing. They leaned forward eagerly, forgetting for the moment whatever faction they happened to belong to. If he could actually pull it off . .

Again the horses were spurred forward, the war fences lowered to maim and kill. Again Colin swerved in the saddle, but this time his weapon did not move with him. It remained steady, pointed directly at the seam in FitzStephen's armor just above his right shoulder.

The impact stunned the Norman. Though the metal plating laid over toughened leather was enough to protect him from being wounded, he was knocked drastically off balance. His own lance flew from his hand, spinning harmlessly away, as he was hurled from the saddle. The ground came up in a rush beneath him.

Dazed and winded, FitzStephen had difficulty rising. His heavy armor weighed him down. He barely managed to get to his feet before Colin was out of his saddle and approaching with sword drawn.

Roanna watched ashen-faced as the two men circled each other warily. Under his closed battle helmet sweat streamed down the Norman's face, stinging his eyes. The massive blade he wielded had to be held with both hands. Whirled above his head and slammed down with crushing force, it could slice a man's head from his body or crush his chest with a single blow.

But without the burden of armor, Colin was able to dodge it repeatedly even as he searched out an opening for his smaller, lighter sword. FitzStephen was soon panting hard. He was not accustomed to fighting an opponent who turned his most formidable advantages against him. At Hastings, all his killing had been done from horseback, leaving him with the conviction that the English were inferior warriors. But now, matched face to face with a relentless enemy, he was quickly discovering such was not the case.

His chest tightened painfully as he raised his weapon yet again. Once more, Colin neatly sidestepped it. He darted behind FitzStephen, who turned lumberingly. Razor-sharp steel flashed in the air. A cry tore from the Norman as the English blade cut through his armor as though through butter. Blood ran red against the gleaming black metal.

The crowd gasped. In the grandstand, William leaned forward. His professional curiosity briefly overshadowed even the political implications of the clash going on before him. Colin seemed intent on giving a demonstration of the weaknesses of Norman fighting methods. The King, who aspired to greatness far beyond the limits of his homeland, was willing enough to learn from him.

FitzStephen, however, had no intention of becoming an object lesson. A red mist rose before his eyes as he raised his blade yet again. Colin noted the effort almost distantly. He thought the exercise had gone on long enough. Moving with the agility of a wrestler, he linked a leg around the Norman's and pulled firmly. FitzStephen's feet flew out beneath him. He landed in the dirt, sprawled like a beached whale.

This time, there was no chance to rise before Colin reached him. Almost insolently, he yanked the red-plumed battle helmet off and threw it to the ground. FitzStephen's small black eyes widened in shock as the point of the English blade came to rest against his throat

Colin's features were coldly implacable. With his massive chest rising and falling only lightly from bis exertions, his powerful legs planted firmly apart in a rock-like stance, and his quicksilver eyes glittering menacingly, he might have been some legendary war god come to shake the world.

Not even William could suppress a shiver of primeval fear as Colin stared down at his fallen foe. Harshly, he grated, "Do you yield?"

FitzStephen hesitated, hardly daring to believe he was being given the chance. Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded. A mocking smile curved Colin's hard mouth. Well aware of the insult he delivered, he said dearly, "Then rise, for you are not worth the killing."

From his awkward position, FitzStephen had to crawl to his feet. His once glorious armor was stained and dented. The wound in his shoulder still bled copiously. His face was ashen, but his eyes burned with hatred that was fueled even higher by the mocking shouts of the crowd. Even those who had supported the Norman forgot their disappointment long enough to hail the victor.

William was grinning broadly as both men approached He was well pleased, so far, with the outcome. Even those who had wanted to destroy all the remaining Anglo-Saxon lords could not help but be impressed by Colin's display of skill and courage. The sheer, relentless ferocity of his attack would compel serious reconsideration of their position. By sparing his opponent's miserable life, he had provided them with the excuse they needed to change their views and accept a peaceful accord.