MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves (11 page)

He leapt upon his horse and quickly turned his mount around, riding through the clumps of still fighting men, riding hard for the gates to the stone fortress, closed tightly at the moment.

Few fighting men were left inside the great gates. There would be no choice but surrender. Gerald"s men would seize them, or the dragons who came from the north would.

“I need Melisande!” he cried to the sentry. “I must have Melisande!” There was a hesitance. Melisande should be in her room, awaiting the news of the battle. Perhaps with Marie de Tresse, perhaps with some other woman.

Someone should be comforting her, hiding with her.

Ragwald sat grimly on his mount. Nay, not Melisande. Aye, she would be in pain, agony. But he knew her better than anyone else. If he called her, she would come.

One of the kitchen women, pale with her fright, looked over the parapet.

“You cannot send a child to fight a battle for men, Ragwald!” she cried in dismay.

When the men are dead, I have nothing but a child, he thought.

Yet neither could he really think of her as a child anymore.

He heard her voice, soft, melodic, very feminine, and for all its youth, very strong.

“Open the gates. I will pass.”

Someone slid the great bolt, the gates parted outward, and she appeared.

Melisande.

She was trembling, Ragwald could see. She had loved her father dearly. But no tears ran down her fine ivory cheeks. Nor had she chosen to ride out on her small mare, Mara; rather, she had mounted on her fallen father"s great stallion, Warrior. Seeing her now, Ragwald realized quite suddenly that she had indeed grown up. She was tall for her years, extremely dignified now.

And she was clad in the armor they had all admired so greatly last night. The incredibly beautiful chain mail armor, decorated lavishly with gold and silver.

Her hair, rich, thick, and bounding well beneath her knees, flowed about her.

She was a figure to lead, a figure for men to fight for, for men to die for.

“You have heard?” Ragwald said softly. “Your father is dead. You are the countess.”

Her lower lip trembled, and he could see the wealth of tears about to spill from her beautiful violet eyes. She nodded. She would not spill those tears. Not now.

“There is a great deal of horror before us,” he continued gently. “But you are our only chance. Can you ride before men?”

She was afraid, yes, certainly. But the emotion showed in her eyes just briefly. She lifted her chin. “I am the countess. I …” She hesitated a moment, for they both heard—suddenly, clearly—the hard sound of an ax connecting with flesh and bone, and the agonized cry of a man. She paled, her pain for the man evident, but then she continued quickly, “I am the countess, and I will lead our men.”

Ragwald suddenly wanted to cry. Shivers ripped along his spine as he realized again the very great beauty of this child, the girl he had taught and now must serve. If they were to lose the day, if she were to be taken, what would befall her? She was somewhere in that strange age between childhood and womanhood, so innocent, so tender, so achingly lovely.

He had given this great thought. So, apparently, had she. There was no choice but for her to ride.

For a moment the petty little wars that they seemed to wage so constantly with one another meant nothing at all. His heart ached, and he reached out to her. “Come, Countess,” he said, bowing low to her. “Come, and we will rally our troops!”

They rode forward, he and Melisande. Men were slipping from the crest of the battle, heading for the deep forests.

“You must call them, speak to them—” Ragwald began. But it seemed he didn"t need to teach her any longer.

Melisande cried out to them. “My friends! We must fight on! We cannot give over this land to the men who betrayed my father! We cannot let them steal our livelihoods, rule us, slay us!”

Those who had been disappearing paused. Swords crashed and thundered, and one of the enemy fell before the huge captain, Philippe. On foot he hurried to fall before Melisande. “Countess! What can we gain? We fight this bastard—

and look to the sea! More dragons come, more and more!” Melisande saw the ships at last. Ragwald had thought it best not to mention them to her, but now he watched her violet eyes widen as they took in the multitude upon the sea.

“Maybe they have not come to wage war!” he said suddenly. Someone had to meet them. Beg for help, promise some reward. “They are a strange lot, and if they are Norse rather than Swedish or Danish, they might well fight
with
us rather than
against
us.”

Anguish seized him. He needed to meet the Vikings. He had been Count Manon"s aide for years, he had brought messages, he had negotiated peace again and again. He had to go.

And Melisande had to stay here, golden and shimmering, inspiring their troops to victory. To fight until help could come. Yes, yes! The Vikings had to fight with them, had to.

“Strange Vikings!” Philippe cried suddenly. “Look! Look beyond the dragon on that helm!”

It was the first time that Melisande was ever to see Conar MacAuliffe, and oddly enough, it was then she began her hostility toward him. For whether Ragwald managed to encourage the man to fight with them or not, she could not bear his look behind that dragon"s visage at the prow of his ship.

She had never seen a man quite like him.

The day had grown increasingly stormy. The sky was gray, the wind was vicious. Yet no matter what the violence or rage of the whitecapped sea, he stood without wavering. One foot, booted in skin and fur, rode the helm while he looked to the shore, his great arms crossed over his chest. Golden blond hair caught what slim light filtered through the gray of the day, and over a breast coat of chain mail, he wore a mantle most similar to that Melisande had seen upon the Irishmen who had come to her father"s house. It was caught at his shoulder by a great brooch in a Celtic design. He was strangely dressed—like a Viking, yet not like a Viking. His ship cut the water like hot steel, there was something very wild and raw about the way that he stood, and the way that his ship moved.

There was also something of absolute confidence and arrogance about him.

There was a dignity in the way he stood without flinching or faltering.

Suddenly Melisande was certain he was looking at her. Straight at her. He couldn"t possibly see her eyes, for she could not see his. But she was certain that he was staring at her, and that he saw her as a child, and nothing more.

“Strange Viking …” Ragwald said. Then he gasped, “Why, "tis him! Jesu, what a daft fool I have been here! It is
him!”

Melisande stared at him. Indeed, he had become a very daft fool!

But Ragwald stared at her, aggravated. “Conar MacAuliffe, son of the Wolf—and grandson of the Ard-Ri of Eire. Kin through marriage to Alfred of Wessex!”

Melisande followed his words quickly. Alfred was the greatest king they had ever known across the channel. He had fought for his people, and held his ground, in countless battles. He had forced the Danes to treaties.

And this man was kinsman to him?

Philippe cried out suddenly, warning them all of a greater danger. He pointed to the crest southeast from them, Gerald"s land. “There rides Gerald himself!

The bastard! With more men. The coward! He tricks your father out, sees that he is slain, and then retreats again until the battle is nearly taken. Now he rides out himself! And our forces are so greatly weakened!”

“Melisande,” Ragwald warned firmly, “you must cry out again, gather the men around you. I will go for help!”

“From those heathens from the sea?” she cried.

“Girl, you can"t understand as yet. I"ll explain it all to you, but aye,
there will
be help from those heathens from the sea!”

“Ragwald!”

There was no time. “Cry out again, Countess!” he warned her. “We must fight hard
now!”

She was suddenly alone, it seemed, though not alone at all, for hundreds of men, dead and alive, littered the battlefield. But indeed,
she was alone.
Her father was gone. Blessed father, he was gone. The incredible tall, kind man who had been her life, who had taught her dignity, who had stood behind her, and loved her more deeply than any man could love a son. Who had always given her an incredible worth. He was gone.

It could not be.

He could not be dead. He had been too tall to die, too strong, her protector.

He had seemed as invincible as the gods, and now she dared not look down to where he lay still.

The people were dependent on her.

She was the countess now. And no matter how she shivered inside to sit atop Warrior and look out over these men, she must do so.

Gerald had pretended to be her father’s friend. He had betrayed him. And he
meant to take their fortress and have it for his own. And God alone knew what
would happen to them all if they did not beat back Gerald’s forces!

She opened her mouth, determined to create some new rallying cry. For a moment, though, she was torn by what she saw around her. Her mouth went dry. The words would not come. Men lay about so haphazardly! Men like her father, strong men, men who had so recently lived and breathed, smiled and laughed! Now they lay about, mangled, torn, swept up in pools of their own blood.

She could not do it! She could not ride forward!

She could not let her father lie unavenged!

She drew the small sword from the scabbard about her waist. She raised it very high on the air. “For God and Our Right, my friends! For my father, slain, for our lives! Mon Dieu! Onward!”

Chapter Six

She hadn"t known that she intended it herself—perhaps she never had—but Warrior, so accustomed to battle, suddenly leapt forward.

And there she was, a few days short of her thirteenth birthday, leading her forces directly into the fray. Panic seized her along with the whipping of the wind. She clung low, suddenly, to Warrior"s neck. She had no desire to wield the sword she had held so high against another man. She didn"t want to feel the cracking of bone, the splitting of flesh. She didn"t want to feel the hot wet slickness of blood splashing over her.

And more than that, she didn"t want to feel the cold steel of a sword herself, or the merciless weight of a battle-ax.

Too late! She could hear the terrible clash of steel all around her, she could hear men"s battle cries, and she could hear the pitiful wails that escaped even the most powerful man, for flesh was flesh, and all men had been created to bleed.

Warrior, the great horse, stood his ground, awaiting her command. She sat upon him, her fingers curled tautly around her handsome sword. Then she realized that one of Gerald"s people, a stocky man with reddish hair and wild eyes, was moving her way. She cried out. In defense she held her sword tight.

From the rear someone else attacked the man.

He fell forward.

Against her sword.

His eyes widened, staring into hers. They never closed. He died with his eyes wide open in amazement.

A scream rose in her throat. She dared not let it escape, dared not let her people see her absolute horror and terror. She swallowed it. Warrior pranced hard, forward, backward.

She heard Philippe at her side. “Retreat! Call a retreat. Countess. We are outnumbered! We must get you safe somewhere, let Gerald have the fortress—”

“No!” she cried, and realized that she was fighting tears once again. Gerald had betrayed them all
and slain her father, who had given her everything!

Gerald wanted it all. Even the life and the blood.

Gaston of Orleans came riding up hard beside Philippe. “We must take the countess from here! She is all we have now. See how the men rally to her.
We
must keep her alive!”

Philippe argued with him quickly. “I am beginning to think that we must surrender. We have tried. We are outnumbered.”

“Sweet heaven above us!” Gaston, more wizened, older, maybe wiser than Philippe, moved his horse closer to Philippe"s, trying to keep his words from reaching Melisande.

He failed.

“Mother of God, don"t you see? Gerald wants any excuse to slay the child.

Then this will all be his! There can be no surrender. We must escape!”

“Slay her!” Philippe repeated, then shook his head. “He wants Melisande, he has always wanted the girl, just like the land. Maybe it makes no difference, maybe we must surrender, and then he would not dare slay her!”

“But if she fights him, and Melisande will—” Gaston flashed her a quick glance and broke off.

She bit into her lower lip to hide her fear. Even as he said the words, Melisande realized the peril of their predicament.

Her people had come through for her, rallying to her cry. But they were badly outnumbered. And now, even as Gaston spoke with Philippe, she saw new danger. The three of them were being cut off from the others.

She saw Gerald again. She thought bitterly that they were distant kin. Her father had been his second cousin. And he had done this anyway. After all those years when he had benefited from her father"s largesse.

She stared at him with the utmost hatred.

He was a large man like her father. Tall and well built. Just a bit older, with a leaner face, and a curl to his lip she had never really trusted. Something about his thin-lipped smile had always made her uneasy—she had hated to kiss his cheek and had always done so as quickly as possible.