MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves (15 page)

Viking!
Melisande thought.

Yes, it took one to fight them!

“Melisande!”

It was Ragwald hissing at her. She realized that she hadn"t been listening, hadn"t heeded the proceedings.

“Do you enter this union of your own free will?” Father Matthew repeated.

No!

The priest cleared his throat, but the Viking spoke for him impatiently.

“Do you enter into this union of your own free will?” he demanded, his words strong, his voice very sure.

Any second now he would pluck her up, nod her head for her, she was certain.

It was her father"s will. She had said that she would do it. For all the people who depended on the lord and lady of the fortress.

“Yes!” she snapped. “I do this of my own free will.” Those Nordic eyes were upon her again. Icy blue. Yet tinged with just the smallest light of respect.

“A ring,” Ragwald whispered, to the Viking this time. “It"s very important here that you give her the ring at the doorway to the chapel. Then we may enter in.”

The Viking drew the ring from his finger, the ring with which he had set his seal to the wedding contract. He set it on her third finger, then tried her thumb.

She wrapped her fingers around it so that it wouldn"t fall to the ground.

Were that to happen, the entire crowd would moan as one, and everyone would be convinced that the Danes would wipe them all out by morning, that their children would burn to cinders, and that a plague of locusts would descend immediately.

The ring didn"t fall. Father Matthew announced that they would enter the church for the wedding mass.

“Do you really go to mass?” she inquired of the man at her side, her tone cynical.

“When it is opportune, most certainly,” he assured her. Melisande opened her mouth to speak again but fell silent.

Her father lay before them. She nearly tripped, nearly fell. Strong arms were there to prevent her from doing so.

“I cannot do this!” she whispered.

“You must. Lean on me.”

It was the last she really remembered of the ceremony. Father Matthew spoke of her father, of his goodness, of how he had been slain. He spoke of the strength needed to hold steady against their enemies, and thus this unseemly haste in a marriage. He spoke of the fact that Conar MacAuliffe had slain Gerald, who had slain Manon, and thus it was fitting that the avenger should sit in the lord"s house. And when all this had been said, he at last moved on to the wedding.

In the end she had to be nudged to speak again. By then it didn"t matter what she said at all. She would have sworn to marry twenty dwarfs from the forest.

Upon her knees before the altar at his side, she heard Father Matthew pronounce them duly wed, before God and men.

She couldn"t quite seem to stand on her own, but Conar helped her to her feet. His lips touched each of her cheeks.

There was no cheering, no revelry. He led her from the chapel and back to the south tower.

And there Marie de Tresse was waiting. She slipped an arm around Melisande and brought her up the stairs to the bedchambers.

They passed by the room where her father had slept. They stopped.

Melisande went stiff, staring into the room. She wanted to go there, to touch his things.

“No!” Marie whispered gently. “Not now.” Melisande felt numb at that moment, so cold and so weary. Marie pushed her beyond that door and down the small hallway to her own room. Once there, Marie helped her to slip off the suit of mail, and then Melisande collapsed upon her bed. Once again she thought of her father. Tears began to fall down her cheeks.

Marie came to her, brushing the tears away. But Ragwald came, too, and Melisande turned on her side, away from them both.

“Melisande!” Marie said softly. Ragwald caught Marie"s arm and led her away. “Let the girl be,” he said softly. “She needs the tears.” The door closed. And Melisande was alone. A bride—and an orphan.

In all of her life, she had never felt so surrounded.

And never, never so alone.

Chapter Eight

Not until the next morning did Conar give much serious thought to his precocious young bride. It was Brenna who made him look at her through new eyes.

Brenna was the child of one of his father"s dearest friends and greatest warriors—and one of his mother"s favorite women. They shared a wild heritage, that of the fierce defenders of Eire and the determined seafarers of Norway. The closest of friends since they were very young children, born within the same week, they had never been anything deeper, and loved one another like sister and brother.

Not that he didn"t have enough siblings of his own. There was Leith, of course, the oldest, his father"s heir. Then Eric, who he seemed to resemble most. There were his brothers Bryan, Bryce, and Conan, and then his sisters, Elizabeth, Megan, and Daria. It had been a full household with vibrant personalities, but because of all that had been shared within it, Brenna had found a place there, too.

Brenna always traveled with him. She had no interest in warfare and always stayed far behind the fighting, but she was often his right hand in many ways.

When she had been very young, Mergwin, his grandfather"s ancient adviser, very akin to a mystic, versed in Nordic runes and the ancient Druid ways, had touched her hand one day and declared her his pupil.

In recent years Conar had come to realize just what Mergwin had seen in Brenna. She had an ability to read men, she knew when they lied and when they told the truth. She could see into the hearts of people and know their motives.

She could read runes, of course, but many had the ability to cast the Norse runes and read their message. As a
Catholic
prince—his father had embraced Christianity for his mother"s sake—Conar didn"t put great faith in the reading of runes other than as a greatly entertaining and sometimes intriguing form of amusement.

Maybe that wasn"t quite the truth. He had set great faith in Mergwin throughout his life, as had all of his family. Mergwin could
see
things, and they all knew it. He guided them all, steered them from danger when he could.

He oft foretold the future, but warned them always that their own actions would forever influence destiny, and that they must remember that life itself called upon strength not only of the body, but of the spirit. In his heart Conar believed that there must be a heaven and a hell, and that it didn"t matter much whether it was peopled by one god or by Wodin and his hordes, whether men reached for the clouds or the halls of Valhalla. And just the same, it did not matter to him if Brenna read runes or looked to the stars and prayed to God for guidance—or even if she practiced the ancient Druidic rituals Mergwin had most assuredly taught her. He very often sought her counsel, no matter how she arrived at her wisdom.

On his first morning in the fortress he awoke still exhausted, which might have had some bearing on his future relationship with his child bride. His head throbbed, his muscles were sore from battle, his flesh ached from minor wounds sustained in the fighting. He awoke in Count Manon"s bed, which caused him some sorrow, for although he had met the man only once before, while learning sailing—and therefore fighting—with his uncle, he had earnestly liked and admired Manon. The count had been intelligent, strong, and fair, and with a pleasant sense of humor. In turn, he had seemed to admire Conar very much, and when Conar had received the invitation to come here, he had thought that Manon might sense some danger. Yet he had never imagined that he might arrive in time to fight it—but not to prevent the treachery that had seized his host"s life.

He saw Melisande instantly upon waking. Perhaps it was even her presence that had awakened him, for he had learned to be a very light sleeper. She stood in the doorway, staring at him, her face pale, violet eyes stricken. He found himself staring into those eyes. They touched him now, as they had touched him the first time he had seen them. Their color was unique, so very deep a hue, and they were large and fringed with rich and exquisitely long, dark lashes.

She had come to go through her father"s possessions, he thought.

She had not expected to find him here.

He pushed himself up, sitting on the bed, and she went a shade paler, then turned and fled. “Melisande!” he called, but she was gone. He realized that he had been sleeping naked, that the battle scars upon his shoulders might well be alarming, and then again, quite frankly, that she didn"t like him one bit—even though he had saved her from having her throat slit or from being raped and enslaved by the very man who had slain her father.

She didn"t give a damn about the battle scars, he determined. She didn"t like his sleeping in her father"s bed, and she had no intention of obeying a single word he had to say.

Well, she would learn. And soon.

He rose, sliding into tightly knit trousers that served as leggings as well, pulled on his boots, and donned a linen shirt and heartier tunic. There was no need for battle dress today, but he was never without the knife he sheathed to his ankle and seldom went without his sword, sheathed in the scabbard he wore about his hips. Just as he buckled his scabbard, a boy brought water for washing, and he drenched his face, trying to awaken more fully.

He left the bedchamber behind him, admiring the fortress once again. He liked the way the bedchambers rose just above the hall, and the way the hall was set above the ground and the storage. Air passed more freely here, so it seemed, allowing the scent of the castle to be a sweeter one. Thanks to Mergwin"s determination, he had studied the old Roman ways of building their fortresses, and he could see all the advantages in this one. There was no moat surrounding the works now, but there was a trench before it to set the fortress itself upon the motte or mound, and it would certainly be an easy enough matter to deepen it and fill it from the sea, if that ever seemed necessary.

When he came down the steps to the hall, he found Swen—Norse-named but extremely Irish with his red hair and fine flurry of freckles—sitting at the table, and beside him, Brenna. They were alone, but it seemed that the workings of the castle moved smoothly along despite the recent demise of the count.

Handsomely carved wooden plates had been set out along with chalices and ale and trenchers of food, smoked eel, fresh bread, fish, fowl, and slabs of venison.

He hadn"t realized the extent of his hunger until now. The long hours of yesterday had been so filled with events that none of them had thought about eating.

He sat down and Brenna quickly stood, reaching for one of the chalices, pouring him ale.

“So, milord, how did you sleep?” she asked him.

He shot her a curious gaze, accepted the ale, and looked to Swen, who shrugged.

“Well, you must admit, Conar, that we did not think we"d come here to stay.”

Conar shook his head. “We"ve not come to stay. I cannot stay now. There is too much at risk at home.”

“There"s grave risk here!” Brenna said. She continued to serve, piling a plate high with food, setting it before him. “And this is now
your
home. Look around you, Conar. You"ve managed quite well. Your father would tell you that you have acquired an excellent estate.”

“And my father would tell you that upon occasion, estates must manage themselves. I"ve not spoken long with this man of Manon"s, Ragwald, but I"m quite certain that he can keep things running smoothly in my absence. I"ll not be gone for very long.”

“No one will be able to manage things and protect this place—not with the girl here,” Brenna said.

Frowning, Conar set down the crust of bread he had chewed. Sitting back, he crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing Brenna. “All right, then, Brenna, just what is on your mind. What difference does it make where I leave the girl?”

“Have you gone blind?” Swen demanded, incredulous. He saw the glittering in Conar"s eyes and quickly amended himself, “I beg your pardon, Conar, but

…” His voice trailed away.

“What are you talking about? Both of you?” Conar demanded, throwing his arms up in exasperation.

“Have you taken a look at the girl?” Brenna asked him softly.

“A good look?” Swen added.

Conar stared at them both. Brenna sat on one of the carved chairs at his side.

“Manon sent for you because he felt danger increasing here, because of his daughter. She would be a prize if she were haggard and hairless because of this fortress. But word is going out about her, many men have seen her, and she is growing older.”

“Manon"s daughter is not yet thirteen!” he exclaimed.

“Your bride
is an exceptionally stunning girl,” Brenna told him.

Irritated, Conar slammed down his chalice. “To me, Brenna, she is a child. I agreed to this wedding because Ragwald was so insistent, because it seemed the best way to protect these people—and yes, because I have been handed an incredible inheritance. But the girl is to grow, we have all agreed on that.”

“Yes,” Brenna agreed. “She is young, but women do become wives at thirteen. You might wish to recall the time when you first discovered an interest in my gentle gender!” Brenna said.

“Now, Brenna, how would you know—” He broke off. Brenna was smiling.

Brenna had known. How old had he been when he had first found himself in the fascinating arms of the young dairy maid?