Princess of Fire Read online

  CRITICAL PRAISE FOR HEATHER GRAHAM

  “An incredible storyteller . . .”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “Engrossing, sexy historical romance . . .”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Never fails to amaze and entertain . . .”

  —Rave Reviews

  “A master storyteller . . .”

  —Romantic Times

  “Each page keeps one eager to get to the next. A must read!”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  NOW READ HER MOST GLORIOUS BESTSELLER YET—PRINCESS OF FIRE!

  They met on the field of battle.

  He was Alaric, a Norman knight

  sworn to the service of William the Bastard.

  She was Fallon, a Saxon princess

  who dared to take up arms to save her country.

  They were enemies—and yet, these two people were

  destined to be much more than that to each other.

  In the year 1066, the clash between Normans and

  Saxons threatened to tear the whole world apart.

  Their love was a battle as fierce as the war. . . .

  PRINCESS OF FIRE

  More sweeping historical romances by Heather Graham

  The King’s Pleasure

  Come the Morning

  Conquer the Night

  Knight Triumphant

  Seize the Dawn

  The Lion in Glory

  When We Touch

  Ondine

  PRINCESS OF FIRE

  HEATHER GRAHAM

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  CRITICAL PRAISE FOR HEATHER GRAHAM

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  PART ONE - The Bastards

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  PART TWO - The Warriors

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  PART THREE - The Conquerors

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 1989 by Heather Graham Pozzessere

  Previously published under the name Shannon Drake.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-3816-0

  Prologue

  Hastings, October 1066

  “The Norman duke is dead! Duke William is dead!”

  The cry had begun as a murmur, but it rose like a shrill wind at the least opportune moment. Among the left division of the Normans, the knights had broken. A chaotic and horrible retreat had begun, and the horses slipped and fell in the marsh. Men and animals alike shrieked, but the Saxon line remained unbroken.

  “Fools!” Alaric thundered over the cacophony of clashing battle-axes and swords. “William lives! There, see! He casts his helmet aside to prove he is alive!”

  Alaric’s emphatic declaration stilled the panic, but the situation remained bleak. The damned English! They were a mob—a disorganized but stalwart body. William, leader of the Normans, attacked with horsemen; Harold and his English forces had none. But if William’s forces were fewer, his battle plan was superior. His weaponry was more advanced and deadly, whereas a number of the Saxons fought with nothing but crude slingshots—and desperation. They fought for their homeland and for Harold, their king, Alaric realized, and they would probably do so bare-handed if necessary.

  William rode before his troops; Harold was afoot. How order could be sustained, Alaric did not know.

  But in spite of it all, the English were holding the day upon the battlefield of Hastings. William had come in with arrows and missiles to break and confuse the ranks; his knights followed on war-horses to trample down those broken ranks, and foot soldiers finished the grim task. Yet for all William’s military finesse, nothing went right. The horsemen moved before all the arrows had flown, and Norman arrows had downed Norman fighters. The Saxons’ shields had created an impenetrable wall, and little damage had been done.

  Caught in the melee with the retreat in abeyance, Alaric paused and stared at the line of Saxons upon the ridge of their defense. Thousands had died; more men came to replace them. England was being defended by a wall of flesh and blood. And by God, for all that Alaric would lay down his life for William without hesitation, he was heartily sorry for the bloodshed. Harold Godwinson was a good man and a fair one—an excellent king. Somewhere among his troops he fought, barely returned from battle with Viking scavengers in the north. He had fought with genius, it was said, and with mercy; he had proved himself both a man and a king. Now, today, he fought again; fought with raw men, and raw weaponry, fought in desperation—and Alaric was one of those invaders he must fight.

  Among the Norman banners was that of the pope—and Alaric suspected that this pennant was the most potent weapon on the field. For he knew Harold, and he shuddered to think of the Saxon’s feelings when he believed that even God had turned against him.

  “God’s will,” Alaric muttered between his teeth, and drew his sword, for a Saxon defender was upon him, swinging a crude ax and letting out a horrible cry. Savage blows rained on him, but Alaric was well trained in the art of warfare, and the Saxon fell before him in a pool of blood.

  “Alaric!”

  He turned his horse around. William was calling to him—tall in his saddle, tense, and still bareheaded, to assure his troops that he lived.

  “They come; the English are attacking. Hold the ranks and cut them down as they come!”

  Perhaps the counterattack was the Saxons’ first mistake, for they were cut down. The Norman retreat was halted; horses trod upon screaming Englishmen where they fell in the mire. Chaos reigned again, but at last the tide was turning.

  “By God, ’tis Harold! Harold is dead! The Saxon king is dead.”

  It began as a murmur; it rose to a chant. And this time, the news was true. After the long and bloody battle, Harold lay dead. The shouts of victory rose. It seemed that no one near Alaric really knew how Harold had died—some claimed he had been wounded in the eye by an arrow, then hacked to bits by t
he Normans. But he was dead.

  And the Saxon wall of defense, which had been unbroken by arms and carnage, blood and death, now scattered like autumn leaves in the wind. Harold Godwinson, the Saxon king, was dead.

  Alaric smiled bitterly. He had liked and admired Harold; now he felt no victorious joy—only pain. He knew that this moment was only the beginning. This bountiful land of forests and fields would fall, too, before William’s pillaging troops.

  William did not advocate rape or murder or mayhem. But he had promised riches to those who rode with him, and riches were attained through plunder. Like the Saxon king, the land would bleed and scream . . .

  “Alaric! Count Alaric!”

  Falstaff of Boulogne, heavy in armor, was riding his charger over the corpse-strewn battlefield toward Alaric.

  “A large group of Saxon swine retreated down the ravine, and our men went in chase. Their horses tumbled and fell, and the Saxons fell upon our men, slaying them. They are fighting fiercely still, led by one who knows nothing of surrender or retreat.”

  Alaric swung his horse around and cantered toward the ravine. He did not make the mistake that had killed his men, but dismounted and made his way downward on foot, drawing his sword to join the battle.

  Sheer force of numbers brought the Normans and their Breton supporters to triumph as swords clashed and axes fell. The Saxons began to flee and beg for mercy.

  “My lord!”

  With a heavy, shuddering sigh, Alaric strained to retrieve his sword from the fallen form of his latest foe. Falstaff—great, bearlike Falstaff—was behind him again, calling for his attention.

  “The men—they pause—there, by the oak! ’Tis a Saxon swordsman so adept that our men can only circle about him. They ask if he seeks quarter—he asks none! He fights like a madman gone amok—like a Viking berserker, by God! My lord—”

  Alaric waited for no further explanation but sped up the ridge. The climb was difficult for him, for he was in full armor—so heavily clad that nothing of him showed but his thunderous, brooding gray eyes.

  At the ridge he mounted his horse, spurring the well-trained steed to hasten, and quickly came upon the scene at the tree.

  Like many of the Saxons, this warrior was clad in leather armor, a tunic that protected his body, a mask to shield his face. Alaric was annoyed to see that ten armored and well-armed Normans were still circling this one fighter. The position had been a fine choice for the Saxon warrior; his show of bravado had surely allowed many of his men to escape into the forest.

  Alaric watched one of his own men move in; he saw the defender’s prowess with the sword, and his mouth tightened.

  “Stand back!” he ordered grimly. “The fight is mine.”

  Perhaps it was not fair, for the defender was surely exhausted, yet so were they all, for it had been a bloody day. Nor did Alaric intend to fight to the kill, for he admired the brave show and would rather have had him a prisoner. But he moved in with a measured fury, for by God, he would see no more of his own men slain or crippled.

  Alaric was mounted; the Saxon was on foot, and yet prepared. As Alaric moved in, the defender’s sword came up and caught his own.

  But Alaric’s strength was greater, and he was aided by the speed of his mount. The Saxon’s sword flew high into the air like a silver bird or a comet with a flashing tail—foreshadowing doom for the defender. That same force sent the Saxon to the ground, flat upon his back. He did not rise, but lay there—panting, gasping for breath, awaiting the death blow.

  Still grim, Alaric rode in a circle around the fallen swordsman. His great steed paused with his hooves just a foot from the Saxon’s head.

  Alaric leaned down and pressed his bloodied sword against the Saxon’s throat. “Surrender and live,” he said quietly.

  No answer came his way. With great agility he leapt to the ground, graceful despite his armor. He reached for the leather mask that concealed the Saxon’s face.

  “Nay, leave me be!”

  Alaric started. A wave of astonishment seized him, and a fiery sizzle cascaded along his spine. The voice was soft; it was English, naturally, but melodic and fluted . . .

  And it was no man.

  Alaric’s senses told him who the woman was. Just as he had known Harold, so, too, he knew her. Disarmed and fallen, she still fought, struggling viciously with her bare hands against his hold.

  He felt vicious himself as he grappled with her with clenched teeth and bulging muscles. She was strong, but she was not his equal hand to hand.

  He caught the tie at the back of her head and furiously wrenched the mask away.

  She paused at last in her struggle and tried to stand.

  Smiling grimly, Alaric planted his foot on the tress of midnight hair that had fallen free. She was forced to stare up into his face, into his eyes.

  He spoke English to her—bitter, biting English, for she had sworn herself his enemy and proved it many, many times before this battle had been joined.

  “Cease, Fallon! You are beaten!”

  “No! Never!” she choked out. “Never!”

  With a startling and desperate surge of force, she lunged at him, tearing her own hair beneath his boot in her frenzy to attack him and free herself. He saw her eyes dart, and he knew she sought to escape into the trees, as her mates had done. She flew against him, seeking his weakness, his inner thigh where the armor did not protect his flesh. Her teeth hit him and in exasperation, impatience, and raw ire, he swore out an oath and released her for the briefest moment. She tried to spin and run, but he lunged after her and threaded his fingers through her hair, dragging her hard against the cold steel that covered his body.

  “Bloody Saxon bitch! You are beaten. Surrender!”

  “To the bastard henchman of a bastard duke?” she retorted, as tears of pain filled her eyes. But her courage was unshaken. “Nay, William will not have England!”

  Even then—ill clad and muddied with the filth of the battlefield—she was strikingly beautiful. Eyes as blue as the crystal sky over the northern realm of her Viking ancestors, hair as black and glistening as ebony night. Her face, a delicate heart, lips as red as potent wine. Beneath the dirt her skin was as fair as cream, her cheeks like rose petals. Her brows were high and arched like a pixie’s and, laughing, she was more stunning still, like a playful goddess, more enchanting. Like a princess . . .

  She was a princess—if not by birth, then by the acclaim of the English people. Harold Godwinson’s daughter by his “Danish marriage,” she was as proud as any queen and as English as the earth on which they stood.

  She was a beauty, yes—a great and enchanting beauty. This Alaric could acknowledge, for it was as simple as the grass being green, or the ocean blue.

  She had been a thorn in his side since the day he had met her, and standing there he knew she had to be subdued if ever William was to rule all of England. Fallon was Harold’s cub, and she had to be tamed.

  Alaric released her, then removed his helmet and ran his fingers through his hair. “Fallon, you are done. You are my prisoner—”

  He halted, gritting his teeth as she spat in his face.

  He wiped his face with a gauntleted hand, watching her defiant blue eyes. Then he caught her wrist in no subtle grasp and wrenched her back to him. “Lady, you are done! England is done!”

  Her head fell back and she stared into his eyes, her own still gleaming rebelliously. “England, sir? This is but a battle, and England is a big country. My father’s country.”

  “Your father is dead!”

  She suddenly seemed to wilt, as if consciousness were leaving her and she would fall. He reached out to steady her; furiously she wrenched her arm from him.

  “No!” she denied hoarsely. “My father is not dead! He cannot be dead!”

  “Fallon, I tell you the truth. Harold is dead.”

  “No!” She stared at him, seeking some word. He knew that she longed for him to deny himself, to tell her that Harold lived. “Please! For the love
of God, Alaric . . .”

  Alaric stood as stiff and cold as steel. He longed to reach out to her and soften the blow, for she had adored her father. He did not wish to be cruel, yet for Fallon just now, perhaps, swift cruelty was the greatest kindness. He was too busy to spend time tangling with her, but she had to be handled.

  If she kept fighting, she, too, would soon be dead. She was lucky she did not lie among the dead now, after the fool’s stand she had taken to save her friends.

  She had to be beaten, Alaric realized wearily. She had to be beaten so thoroughly that she could not rise again and bring about her own end.

  “England is not lost!” Fallon cried out. “Surely my brothers live! Edgar Atheling lives, and the English will turn to him! William will never, never be king—”

  “Take the—uh—princess back to camp,” Alaric told his men, interrupting her, his tone a cool dismissal of her. “See that she is kept under guard until we determine what we shall do with her.”

  Two of his armored knights stepped toward Fallon, each taking one of her arms. Thank God for armor; she struggled against them still, biting and kicking. But sadness clouded her voice when she spoke again. “The bastard will not be king! The lords of the witan meet together to choose the king in England. The law creates the king! The witan made my father king, and my father—”

  “Get her out of here!” Alaric commanded his men. He turned away, clenching his jaw, glad that few of his Breton horsemen spoke English, for they would surely take exception to her calling William a bastard—true though it was. He was Duke William to those who loved him, and that was that.