Fire Dance (23 page)

"Melisande. Come now, wake up. It will all be gone then. Wake up." He wriggled his arms in about her waist to raise her from the floor.

"No!" she shrieked. "You can't make me!"

"Up, girl."

He brought her to her knees, then lifted her higher, to her feet, except that she couldn't seem to stand on them. He pressed her gently against him, to absorb her weight, held her still and talked softly, stroked tenderly at her back. "Come now, girl, you will be all right."

Somehow her feet began to take her weight. She leaned her face into his chest, and slowly the cries subsided to an occasional gasp.

"You see? It is but a dream. There is no one to hurt you."

Aye, it was but a dream, brought on by the terrible way her life had spun about her, like Chrétien's dreams. How could he have forgotten? Her father had died merely a week before, and not long before that, her mother. Then the Normans had come, taken over her home and forced her into marriage. She needed better of him than she had gotten.

"Come to the bed now, love. I will stay with you until you sleep, and you will be safe."

She went obediently. Her feet seemed almost not to touch the floor as he led her. She didn't seem to know how to find it by herself, but stood submissively at its edge, looking at him, her eyes darkened with earnest, pleading fear.

"I'm cold," she said.

"Let me wrap you up, then."

"It's so cold. And dark. It's so dark down here. Please don't leave me."

"I won't leave you."

"Please don't leave me down here! It's so dark and cold!

Please don't! Don't leave me down here!"

She didn't know he was here. She was looking straight at him, yet did not see him, or know he was here. Her words were not for him, but for some mysterious tormenter. She was locked inside her dream, and couldn't get out.

Alain pulled her into his arms, gulping back his own sorrowful shock. Oh, sweet Jesus, what had he done? She had not invited him to her bed. She had only been begging her abuser to let her free.

"Ah, lady, I have wronged you again. I did not know. I thought you wanted me. You do not remember anything, do you?"

Of course she did not, for her dreams were not like Chrétien's after all. She appeared awake, but she was not, for the dream still possessed her. Unlike her, Chrétien always remembered every horrifying detail.

What was he to do now? He could not leave her like this. What might happen next? Might she, in her dream state, somehow hurt herself? Yet she would be furious if she found him with her in the morning.

Well. She might as well become accustomed to it. From here on, he was going to be beside her every morning. Alain scooped her into his arms, grabbed her quilt of down by its corner, and carried her into his bed chamber. He eased her down onto his bed.

"Nay," she said, and clung to his neck as he began to straighten.

"I will stay with you. But you must let go now."

She still clung, and protested when he pried her loose. He lit his wax candle from the brazier and brought the second quilt over her before crawling into the other side of the bed. He drew her body snugly against him.

"You will never be cold again, my lady. And as long as you need it, there will always be a candle burning. Someday, you will wake for me, and the darkness will go away forever. You will see."

CHAPTER 12

The dawn came softly, in pale slivers of pink and grey light through the plank shutters. Encompassed in her down cocoon, and becoming aware of a delicious, comforting warmth, Melisande slowly opened her eyes.

Her hand wrapped about another hand, a large one with silky black curls on its back, that rested against her breast. She jolted awake. Her gaze traced from hand to arm to the Norman lord, whose body nestled against her back. Her startled shriek split the air.

His eyes popped open beneath his black, angular brows as she flung his hand away from her, and he smiled. A lazy, easy smile.

"Good morning."

"What are you doing here?" Melisande squeaked, as the thought dawned on her the more appropriate question might be, what was she doing here, for this was not her bed chamber.

"It is my bed," he said, and fell back again onto his pillows to watch her. He stretched his long arms outward, then folded them behind his head. The quilt fell away from him, baring a broad chest with a sprinkling of black hair on it. Very likely, he had nothing on beneath the quilt.

As it was she who broke with custom and slept in a chemise, she checked her own body, relieved to see that at least she still remained clothed. Unlike yesterday.

That stiff soreness in her body told her she had once again walked. And he knew it. Very possibly, that wasn't all he knew. She dared not ask, but dashed off to her own bed chamber. The door slammed abruptly behind her before she could force her lungs to take another breath.

But wait. If anything had happened, he wouldn't have been smiling. Why hadn't anything happened, then? He was a healthy man. For two nights in a row, he had not taken what was rightfully his?

Mayhap he wasn't normal. She had heard about men like that. The stories about the king's court were full of men who did not find their pleasure with women, but with other men.

Or mayhap he merely thought her too ugly to be interesting. That seemed more plausible.

Then, what had happened? Could she possibly have walked into his chamber in the middle of the night and gotten into his bed? When she walked, anything was possible.

Her fingers trembled as she lifted the chemise over her head and sought a cleaner one. This one was stiff with sweat. She ran her fingers through her scalp. It also felt sticky and stiff. It had been one of those terrible nights, then. Yet she had waked feeling warm and content. Could she be wrong?

Wondering how soon she could contrive to take a bath, she jerked her kirtle off the peg and pulled it over her head, wiggling it into place, then unfurled what was left of her braid to make it into some semblance of neatness.

The door creaked. She sucked in a quick breath and held it, as the Norman lord entered. She sighed her relief. At least he had taken the time to don clothing.

"I did not invite you in."

His smile was impish. "You do not need to. Do you fare better this morning, lady?"

"Better. Better than what?" Not that she did not know.

"You were distressed last night."

"I am often distressed. It is no concern of yours."

"It is my concern. I am your husband."

"And I do not wish that, either."

"You may not wish it, but you cannot change it, any more than can I. And when you cry out to me in your distress, it is my duty to give you comfort."

"I do not wish it."

"Then you have only not to call me, and I will not come."

Call him? Surely she had not. She could not truly say she had not. Who knew but him what she had done? But she would not ask him what had happened. She turned away and attacked the tangles in her hair with her comb.

"I will help you with that."

He reached for the comb, but she jerked it away. "I do not need help. I manage my own hair."

"Your hair is beautiful," he replied, and paused a moment to stroke it. "When you have dressed, we will go down to chapel."

She stifled the protest that rose in her throat. She could not tell him God did not want her in His chapel. Yet it would not be the first time she had defied God and His order, and lightning had not struck her. Mayhap God had taken note of her plan, might see she meant for some good to come of it, despite that she herself was damned. She nodded, shifting her gaze back and forth from floor back to his dark eyes.

The gentle smile he gave her as he departed confused her. He did not seem to be a gentle man, but a fierce, aggressive warrior who would take what he wanted at any cost to others.

Gentle or no, she had no time. Already, she saw signs that the poison was gaining on him. She had little enough time left to find a way to deprive him of that cloak he thought so wonderful, and she had no more ideas how to do it. Thievery had failed, as had persuasion and chicanery. It must have a spell on it. Why else would he cling to it so tenaciously, just as her mother had?

Worse, she had no idea what she would do with the thing once she got it, for it must be destroyed for all time. Anything buried could be dug up. Fyren had told her the arsenic in the dye would preserve the fabric forever, and it might be so. She had never known whether or not to believe Fyren.

She could not throw it in the river, for it would poison the water people drank, mayhap the fish they ate. She had never seen the sea, but suspected even it would not be deep enough to be safe. And if she burned it, the poison would be carried into the air by the smoke, where people would breathe it.

She had once thought of the cavern beneath the castle, where there were several deep pits. No one would be likely to go in them, ever. But water flowed through the cavern's bottom into the becks that fed into the river and would poison her own people. Nay, it must be something that would be safe forever.

Who was she, to judge forever?

When the last tangle in her hair yielded to the silver comb, Melisande straightened herself and breathed deeply. From now on, she would watch him as thoroughly as he watched her, would learn everything about him, find something that would give her the opportunity she needed. She would be close to him as often as she might without arousing his suspicion.

And then, she would betray him, in order to save his life.

* * *

"What news of Rufus?" Alain asked of the group of men huddled about the crude map on the oak table in his chamber.

"He comes by way of Wensleydale, as you thought," said Chrétien. "A messenger has just come and says all goes well."

"You have sent to Rufus our situation?"

"Aye. And of the new motte at Anwealda's old holding."

"And what of the motte, Robert?"

"Hugh does well. Some villeins and a few archers were killed in the forest while they cut timbers. Anwealda also lost men. You did well to send archers, for his knights were at disadvantage in the wood."

"And when the palisades are raised, knights will be at disadvantage again. Gerard, you are pensive. What think you?"

Gerard's soulful brown eyes hardened suddenly, so that Alain wondered about the man's thoughts.

"I wonder where Anwealda is. He hides somewhere, surely near his holding, for twice he has attacked near there."

"Where, do you think?"

"I know not, lord, yet we must find him. Rufus' path must fall through the Mallerstang and the Vale of Eden. And that gives Anwealda too much advantage."

"Thomas, what think you?"

"Caverns, mayhap? How else could he hide so many men?"

"Mayhap," Gerard agreed. "Yet we have not the men to patrol the hills. He could be camped but another dale beyond, and we would not know it."

A puzzled frown crept onto Alain's face. "Yet did you not say men would not go into the caverns?"

"Some, it is true," said Thomas. "But some caverns do not have hobs. And some men do not fear them, I think."