voice was as cold as steel. The knight moved aside, revealing a woman in the light of the oil lamps.
“Milord FitzWarren,” she greeted Rorke with a silken voice. The pale blond beauty stepped forward, her manner aloof. She spoke in French and her gown was of the finest satin.
Vivian had seen little of the encampment, but she had seen no other women. It seemed odd now to find one here and so finely dressed, in the middle of a military camp. Perhaps she was the wife of the man who lay on that cot.
“I gave orders that no one other than my men was allowed in here,” Rorke snapped.
“I am not one of your knights,” the woman reminded him as she stepped closer to the cot. “You have no authority over me.” Then she added, “He asked for me. My place is with him.”
Vivian sensed the tension that moved through the tent. But from the woman she sensed many other things—the coldness of ambition, the heat of anger and passion, and traces of a sensual, almost erotic memory that reached out to Rorke FitzWarren. Vivian knew that in spite of the anger that seemed to leap between them, they had once been lovers. Perhaps they still were.
“It seems odd, milady, that one so grievously wounded would have the strength to summon you,” he responded coldly. He glanced to Gavin, and Vivian saw the man shake his head disavowing what the woman claimed.
“Remove her,” Rorke ordered.
“You may not have me removed,” she cried out. “My place is at his side!”
Rorke turned with a deliberate slowness, and again Vivian was reminded of that earlier impression of a dangerous animal. His features were hard, forbidding, and she was certain that icy gaze was capable of freezing a person where they stood.
“The only woman who may claim that privilege is his wife ,” he said in quiet voice completely at odds with the dangerous look he gave her. Then with a jerk of his head he signaled Gavin to have her removed.
“Take your hands off me,” she cried as Gavin turned to escort her from the tent. She wrenched her arm free of his grasp, wrapping her cloak about her as if it were the finest battle armor. She turned on Rorke, her voice dripping with hatred. “I will leave, milord FitzWarren. But I shall return when he asks it.”
“He will not ask it,” Rorke assured her.
When she had gone, he turned to Gavin. “Tell me everything that has happened.”
“Naught is amiss,” the older knight assured him. “Now that you have returned.”
Vivian heard the assurance in his reply, but sensed the knight’s unspoken thoughts of some trouble that he chose for the time being to keep to himself. Rorke nodded.
“We will speak of it later. There are more important matters here.” He stripped away leather gloves and shoved back the mail hood from that mane of dark hair. The circle of knights parted as he stepped to the cot.
“Christ’s blood!” he swore softly as he gazed down at the man who lay on the cot. She heard the undercurrent of emotion at his voice.
“How is it possible that he is even still alive?”
The man she glimpsed briefly as Rorke knelt beside the cot lay wasted and emaciated, his skin a gray, bloodless color above his bloodstained tunic. Over the mournful howl of the wind that sent the loose edges of the tent flapping, she heard the ragged breathing that was rapid and shallow, and very near death. This was the man who had laid waste of all England, carving a bloody trail of death and destruction across the whole of Britain—William the Conqueror.
Gavin gestured to the stained blanket that lay beneath him. “Yester eve, I found the bishop and that butcher of a healer’s apprentice bleeding him.”
“Sweet Jesu!” Rorke swore. “He has already lost enough blood for two men.” He stood abruptly and called an order back through his men.
“Bring the Saxon.”
Almost as one, the knights filling the tent turned and stood apart. They wore death, dressed in their bloodied and mud-caked battle armor,
“Milord FitzWarren,” she greeted Rorke with a silken voice. The pale blond beauty stepped forward, her manner aloof. She spoke in French and her gown was of the finest satin.
Vivian had seen little of the encampment, but she had seen no other women. It seemed odd now to find one here and so finely dressed, in the middle of a military camp. Perhaps she was the wife of the man who lay on that cot.
“I gave orders that no one other than my men was allowed in here,” Rorke snapped.
“I am not one of your knights,” the woman reminded him as she stepped closer to the cot. “You have no authority over me.” Then she added, “He asked for me. My place is with him.”
Vivian sensed the tension that moved through the tent. But from the woman she sensed many other things—the coldness of ambition, the heat of anger and passion, and traces of a sensual, almost erotic memory that reached out to Rorke FitzWarren. Vivian knew that in spite of the anger that seemed to leap between them, they had once been lovers. Perhaps they still were.
“It seems odd, milady, that one so grievously wounded would have the strength to summon you,” he responded coldly. He glanced to Gavin, and Vivian saw the man shake his head disavowing what the woman claimed.
“Remove her,” Rorke ordered.
“You may not have me removed,” she cried out. “My place is at his side!”
Rorke turned with a deliberate slowness, and again Vivian was reminded of that earlier impression of a dangerous animal. His features were hard, forbidding, and she was certain that icy gaze was capable of freezing a person where they stood.
“The only woman who may claim that privilege is his wife ,” he said in quiet voice completely at odds with the dangerous look he gave her. Then with a jerk of his head he signaled Gavin to have her removed.
“Take your hands off me,” she cried as Gavin turned to escort her from the tent. She wrenched her arm free of his grasp, wrapping her cloak about her as if it were the finest battle armor. She turned on Rorke, her voice dripping with hatred. “I will leave, milord FitzWarren. But I shall return when he asks it.”
“He will not ask it,” Rorke assured her.
When she had gone, he turned to Gavin. “Tell me everything that has happened.”
“Naught is amiss,” the older knight assured him. “Now that you have returned.”
Vivian heard the assurance in his reply, but sensed the knight’s unspoken thoughts of some trouble that he chose for the time being to keep to himself. Rorke nodded.
“We will speak of it later. There are more important matters here.” He stripped away leather gloves and shoved back the mail hood from that mane of dark hair. The circle of knights parted as he stepped to the cot.
“Christ’s blood!” he swore softly as he gazed down at the man who lay on the cot. She heard the undercurrent of emotion at his voice.
“How is it possible that he is even still alive?”
The man she glimpsed briefly as Rorke knelt beside the cot lay wasted and emaciated, his skin a gray, bloodless color above his bloodstained tunic. Over the mournful howl of the wind that sent the loose edges of the tent flapping, she heard the ragged breathing that was rapid and shallow, and very near death. This was the man who had laid waste of all England, carving a bloody trail of death and destruction across the whole of Britain—William the Conqueror.
Gavin gestured to the stained blanket that lay beneath him. “Yester eve, I found the bishop and that butcher of a healer’s apprentice bleeding him.”
“Sweet Jesu!” Rorke swore. “He has already lost enough blood for two men.” He stood abruptly and called an order back through his men.
“Bring the Saxon.”
Almost as one, the knights filling the tent turned and stood apart. They wore death, dressed in their bloodied and mud-caked battle armor,
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