Daughter of Fire by Carla Simpson Page A

him. He had not considered that the maid would be clever enough to accomplish it. Nor could he fathom how she might have done it. But he knew beyond doubt that he must find her and bring her back lest William suffer a relapse and worsen without her care.
    He had no clear explanation for the healing technique she had used the night before. Whatever its origin, it had been effective. The future of England was at stake, and along with it his own future. William of Normandy must live to claim his throne.
    “Which direction did she flee?” he asked.
    “East toward the sun,” Tarek informed him.
    Rorke frowned. “Then she has not returned to Amesbury,” he said with more than a little surprise, for he was certain that was the direction she would take.
    His eyes scanned eastward and Rorke realized why she had taken that direction. He had only forbidden her to return to Amesbury or forfeit the lives of the villagers.
    “Jesu!” he swore. “She has set out across the battlefield. Does she not know the danger of wandering alone through a field camp filled with soldiers?”
    Rorke’s gaze narrowed as he scanned the edge of forest that rimmed the battlefield. She could easily conceal herself among the trees. She had spoken of it on the journey from Amesbury.
    “What was it you called her?” he asked Tarek as they set off following those tracks in the muddied earth, with his men fanning out about them for some other signs of those same tracks. “Jehara? I do not know the word.”
    “They are the enchanted ones who live between the worlds of what we can and cannot see,” Tarek explained. “It is said they have great powers, among them the ability to move between the real and spirit world.”
    Rorke glanced over at his friend. “Do you believe in such things?”
    “I believe there are a great many things that we know little about. I know that she was in the tent one moment, and then gone. I left only once and your guards were at their positions at all times.”
    “What are you suggesting?”
    “It is said the Jehara may take many forms.”
    “Into what, pray tell?” Rorke snapped. There were times his friend’s odd beliefs were amazing.
    “A gnome or elf? Perhaps a troll small enough so that you could not see her? That would account for the small tracks you found!”
    “There are many such legends among the Saxons,” Tarek speculated. “As there are in my own culture. The most widely held belief in such creatures is the one called Merlin.”
    Rorke frowned. “The sorcerer who made Arthur king of all Britain.” He shrugged, dismissing it. “I have heard of the legend. There are many such legends among all cultures. Among the ancient Greeks, there are similar legends of gods and goddesses and mythical creatures with extraordinary powers. Legends and myths.”
    “And yet,” Tarek pointed out, “there are those who believe in them. Among my mother’s people it is believed that such creatures also possess great healing powers. Can you explain otherwise what we saw in William’s tent last night?”
    “I cannot explain it,” Rorke admitted, his voice low and thoughtful. “An ancient Saxon remedy perhaps. The girl is gifted in the healing arts and I have need of those skills. I care not the source.” He whipped his horse forward. “We must find her.”
    ~ ~ ~
    Mist blanketed the ground, swirling on currents of air one moment, then shrouding everything in shades of gray. Silent as a wraith, Vivian slipped past the Norman guards into the Saxon encampment at the edge of the battlefield.
    She had been roused by dreadful dreams that were like images of the day before and the horrible death scene they’d come upon as they entered the valley. The faces of the dying Saxons haunted her, their voices whispering to her through the dark veil of sleep, and she knew she must go to them.
    They were there, they must be—the injured Saxons who had somehow lived through the dreadful battle of Hastings and even now lay wounded