Fire Dance (18 page)

The girl lowered her head, her chin nearly touching her chest. Her eyes pinched closed as he slipped the ring over the tip of each finger in succession in the ancient ritual, before sliding it onto its proper place. Again he lifted her face so she must look at him.

"Say the words, Melisande," he said softly.

Her mouth opened, but nothing came forth.

"Look about you, lady. Do you want their blood spilled? Then say the words."

"– With all my worldly goods I thee endow– "

The remainder was lost in an indistinguishable whisper. But he was sure they were said. Satisfied, he called to Father Hardouin who led them into the small chapel, now aromatic with new herbs and rushes. He did not have to tell her to kneel, for she did it of her own accord. Her lips moved as if in a silent prayer as the priest laid his blessing on them. She stood again at his command.

Alain drew his bride into his arms, brought his lips down on hers, but found nothing of response from her. He released his hold, dropped his arms to his side.

"You liked me well enough before."

"I like you not at all, now."

What did she expect of him? He had done no more than what he had intended from the beginning. Nothing beyond what the king had commanded of him. "Then, why did you not leave before now?"

"There is no place to go." They turned to walk side by side out the chapel door. Silence filled the bailey and its crowd of Saxons.

"Surely you do not expect me to believe your friends in Strathclyde would not shelter you."

"You are mistaken, lord. I have no friends in Strathclyde."

"Not Anwealda? Not Dougal?"

"I have never trafficked with them."

"It appears to me you have."

"Believe what you will. I care not."

"As you have not persuaded me otherwise, I have little choice. But know this, Melisande. I will not tolerate a betrayal. You are my bride. I will have your loyalty."

Her face looked flat, but her jaw was tight. "You have forgotten your own words, lord. My loyalty is not something you can command."

"Then I will settle for obedience."

"And if you do not get it, what may I expect?"

"What do you expect?"

"You are a Norman, after all."

"And if you are wise, you will not forget it. Give me your hand, Lady Melisande."

She held out her hand, long fingers curling in a graceful, natural arc. Her trembling had passed, replaced by a puzzling, distant poise. Her face seemed carved in ice, her body no more than limbs that responded with all the plodding of a donkey in a weary pack train.

But he took the hand and wrapped his own huge one around it, realizing as he did so just how easily he could crush her delicate bones in his grip. With all the ire she did provoke in him, he would have to exercise caution to keep from hurting her. He placed his other hand atop hers, for he meant to reassure her, but she stiffened at the second touch. It was not so very much to ask, and she did ask, in her own way. He dropped the second hand away. But she accepted his lead in returning to the hall.

Chrétien stood back from his lord's side, his brow furrowed in concern that brought Alain another pang of guilt.

Mayhap he could be a bit gentler to the girl. He had accomplished his goal. There was, after all, the remainder of their lives together which could easily be turned from bliss to nightmare. And he liked her. From the beginning, he had liked her. Wanted her, if he would be truthful about it. Tonight then, after they were alone, he would try to make peace with her.

"Chrétien, see if someone might put together some sort of wedding supper," he said.

The girl's lips drew into a tight, grim line. She had never smiled, to his knowledge, but now her bleak face made her previous solemnity appear almost joyous.

"Aye," said Chrétien, and his face lightened. "Mayhap it is nearly done, for the sun begins to set. And might the lady be allowed to change into more suitable garments for the occasion?"

Before he could answer, Melisande broke her silence.

"You are kind, Chrétien, but I have no wish to dignify this occasion with finery. Nor do I care to make mockery of an ordinary meal, to pretend it is a feast."

Alain felt his jaw tighten and tension invaded his arms all the way down to his fists. He ordered himself to ease the grip on her small hand. "So be it, then. There will be but ordinary meal this night. Proceed with it, Chrétien."

"It is my duty," said Melisande, and she tugged against the hold he had.

"Yours no more. You are no servant in your husband's household.

"Am I not? All know what wives of Normans are used for. I would rather perform a useful function."

"It is the function of all wives, lady, not merely those of Normans. And it is as vital a function as any can be. But if you wish to perform menial work, then so be it. Go."

She gave a mocking curtsy, stiff with rage, and fled. The yellow braid bobbed about as she ran to the wooden outbuilding.

"Alain, could you not be easier on the girl? For all her bravura, she is sorely afraid."

"I know. I would rather not frighten her. But her rebellion is dangerous, for others follow her too easily. That is why I thought to let her return to something familiar for a while. But put a guard at the bolt hole, and be sure none let her slip out the gate or sally port."

"Why not just put a man to follow her about?"

"I would rather be less obvious. You were right to begin with, I have bullied her. Why do you question me for easing up?"

"You need not be so angry, Alain. This is more your making than mine."

Irritation flared. "And I, like you, seek only to carry out Rufus' commands. Now, begone, and do as I ask."

As the man walk away with a certain stiffness, Alain regretted his sudden and infantile temper. It was unlike him to fall prey to frustration so easily. As unlike his as was that damnable headache and the occasional odd tremor in his hand. And the way his vision blurred.

He had been too harsh with her. Chrétien knew it, and merely spoke of what he saw. It was guilt that motivated his bad humor.

* * *

"My lady, are you all right?" Nelda ran to her as soon as she saw Melisande released from her lord's clutch.

"Aye. He has not harmed me, Nelda. He merely seeks to secure his hold on this land. You know that. But find me something to do. I vow I cannot think for myself, just yet."

"Aye, lady, but the bread is done, and the ox already roasted to a fine turn. Only the hall still needs attention. I am trying to do my best without you, but I have grown accustomed to your help. And now I must learn to do without it again."

"Why? I am still the same."

"I do not think the lord will allow it, lady."

"Women are servants of men, Nelda. It is merely that the higher born must serve them differently, but they will always debase us in that way. I should far rather cook and clean."

"We all must have our place, lady. And the men give us their protection."

"Some do, sometimes. But none can be trusted to protect when it is most needed."

Nelda sighed. "It will be all right, lady. He is not like your father."

Of course he was not.

Melisande clamped her teeth tightly and hurried off to the hall to see that all was properly set. The servants scurried about, gave her weak, fleeting smiles, then looked away and pretended concentration on their tasks. Truth to tell, she was sure that most of them had no real sympathy for her avoidance of the marriage to the Norman. Marriage was expected of her, and it would bring them more security. How could they know, when she had not shared her secrets with anyone? She supposed, in a way, the loyalty they had given her, with no knowledge of why she asked it of them, was a special kind of tribute.

But they were glad, nevertheless, in their hearts. Like Nelda, they believed she merely needed to get used to the idea of marriage and all it entailed. She wished they were right. But this time, they were not.

Now and then, one of the maids would stop, rest a hand lightly on her shoulder. She would nod and study the stone floor, for she could not meet her eyes nor find even a hint of a smile. Then the girl would go on about her tasks. Some of the men did as well. None of them had ever touched her before, save possibly as an infant. A frightening ache grew inside her. She began to jerk with each touch, rather than to graciously accept their offering.

"Melisande."

He had certainly grown used to her name quickly enough. She raised her head but did not look at him. The edge of her lower lip was beginning to feel worn and raw.

"Melisande, you belong on the dais."

"I must finish with the linens first."

"Then the trenchers and goblets?"

"Aye, of course."

"Very well. After that, the task goes to others."

She supposed she should feel grateful. Or should she feel ungrateful, that he so easily turned her into servant? She confused herself with her roundabout thinking. She was the one who made herself a servant. He merely sought to placate her. She did not want to be placated. She wanted to fight. Or flee.

She smoothed her carefully pressed linens onto the table, arranging their fold lines to be perfectly square with the tables' sides. The trenchers were laid out and goblets set about according to their owners. With each chore, she kept her guarded gaze from catching his eye.

How odd it was. Before this horrible day, without realizing it, she had actually begun to think of him as some sort of shining angel sent from Heaven. And she, having heard of his coming, had chosen him to rescue her people, though not herself. Yet despite herself, she had hoped.

He could not. In the end, he could only do as Normans, as all men, always did, and slay the one who betrayed them.

Aye, she had hoped. Somewhere in her distorted mind, in the part where demons did not frolic, hope had taken hold. If she had realized it, she would have quashed it. Hope only led to worse disappointment. Like prayers, it would not be fulfilled.

Nothing else remained to do. She did not even sigh as she ascended to the dais to take her place beside the man who would soon take her to his bed, and after that, put an end to her life.

Mayhap, he would be swift about it.

She sat in the high-backed chair that had once been her mother's, beside the Norman in the chair where Fyren had once sat. Her eyes blurred, yet she did not cry. She had been past crying for years, her tears long dried up from fear and pain.

The handsome Norman lord trimmed off slender, juicy slices of beef from the roast he had been given, and laid them before her. She had always loved beef, and this ox had been beautifully done. But she could not eat. She shook her head.

"Eat, Melisande."

"Thank you, I am not hungry."

"A little bit."

"Nay."

"Something else, perhaps? The pheasant?"

"Nay."

"A turnip, or bread?"

She felt as if her throat were no longer joined to her stomach, or had clamped shut and would not let anything in.