Read Daughter of Fire for Free Online

chill morning air, unable to see what lay in the future for the first time in her life.
    As she crossed the abbey yard, she saw the full extent of damage Vachel’s soldiers had inflicted at Amesbury Abbey. One of Poladouras’ hounds lay trampled in the yard. Sheep from the field were scattered everywhere, a young lamb bleating plaintively for its mother that had been trampled under the hooves of the warhorses, the prostrate body of the shepherd, who must have run in from the field at the first sight of the soldiers.
    “Conal!”
    He lay on his side, the wound at his head bleeding heavily. She slipped an arm beneath his head and shifted him against her shoulder.
    “Soldiers!” he whispered, the warning thick with pain as he struggled to sound the alarm, unaware they were all past any hope of escape.
    “You must leave!”
    “Aye, Conal,” she spoke softly.  She wiped the blood from the wound with the edge of her shawl. The knot of anger at the cruelty of the Norman barbarians tightened, leaving no doubt about the fate of the villagers if she refused to go with them.
    The rain that had threatened earlier that morning began to fall. The outline of mounted soldiers, horses, and armed knights was a dark ominous shadow in the gathering gloom.
    “There is no time for this. Leave him,” Rorke FitzWarren ordered, his large warhorse suddenly looming over her. The animal moved restlessly in the gathering downpour, and could have easily trampled her had it not been for that powerful hand clamped over the reins.
    That brilliant blue gaze locked with his in stubborn refusal. “He is badly injured,” Vivian protested. “I must close the wound.” Then she added, her voice filled with all the contempt she felt for Rorke FitzWarren and all Normans, “Surely, milord, even you are capable of understanding this.”
    Those cold gray eyes narrowed, his lips thinned making him seem as Vachel had cursed him—like Lucifer himself. She shivered at the resemblance to such evil.
    “I understand very well, demoiselle,” he informed her. “Leave him where he lies, or you may be assured of his imminent death.”
    “You would not kill an injured man!”
    Rorke FitzWarren’s sword hissed from its sheath. “As I explained, demoiselle, the choice is yours.”
    Just as the choice for the lives of the villagers hung in the balance, so too did Conal’s life hang in the balance.
    “Forgive me,” she whispered, stroking his face with a gentle hand. “Meg will see to your wounds.”
    His hand closed over hers with surprising strength. “I will find you,” he whispered.  “And they will pay with their blood for what they have done here.”
    “Say no more,” she pleaded. “I could not bear your death.”
    Conal had wanted desperately to go with the other men to Hastings, but an injury from childhood that left him partially crippled had prevented it. Instead, he remained at Amesbury to tend the sheep and watch over the village. Now, her heart ached at the wounds he had suffered, for they were childhood friends and she cared for him deeply. She eased her arm from beneath his shoulders as Meg found her way near and crouched beside him.
    “We leave now!” Rorke ordered her, steeling himself against the wounded look in her eyes. He understood her pain and anger, and experienced a self-loathing for what these people had suffered, but there was a much more urgent need elsewhere.
    “I will see to his wounds,” Met reassured her.  “Go now, my child, and remember what I have said.”
    Vivian slowly stood, hatred burning in her eyes as she felt the reassuring shape of the knife at the bottom of her pocket that he had unwisely returned to her. 
    “Hate me if you will, mistress,” Rorke FitzWarren told her, “but we delay no longer.”
    He reached down, his arm encircling her as he leaned from the saddle. His gloved hand moved across her belly, wrapping with surprising gentleness around her waist. She was easily lifted and settled in the