MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves (17 page)

If only she would cease to fight him so, perhaps something could be worked out.

As the service ended, Manon"s closest friends came forward to lift him for his last journey, the one to the family crypt. It was below the storage level, deep within the foundation of the place. Double doors led to the blackness of the crypt, where, though it was day, only the torches gave light to lead the way to the stone bed where Count Manon might rest now for eternity, shrouded in his white mist.

Through it all, his young daughter had not broken. If she had cried, she had done so silently. But as Father Matthew spoke the last words and they turned to leave the crypt behind, Melisande stopped. “Give me a torch, Philippe. I would not leave him here alone so quickly now.”

Conar did not like it. The firelight barely touched the shadows here. The crypt was not heavily peopled with the dead, but he could see the shrouded figure that lay so close to Manon. The count"s wife, Conar was certain, and there were several other white-clad forms within the cold stone confines of the chamber. It did not seem a healthy place for the girl.

“Melisande,” he said. Those who remained within the chamber stopped at the sound of his voice. She turned to him, as if suddenly made aware of him. “It is not wise,” he told her.

Philippe quickly stepped before him. “I implore you, milord, let me abide with her for a while. I will see that she does not stay long.” Conar hesitated, then sighed. “Nay, my good fellow. You go on with the others. I will abide here with her.”

Philippe nodded after a moment, setting a torch into the wall. He followed Father Matthew out, and Conar was left alone with Melisande in the crypt.

She did not kneel, but stood at her father"s feet. Watching her, he was struck again by her slim height and easy grace, the simple dignity in the way she stood. Her head was bowed, and he could not see her eyes, only the inky length of her hair, touched by the firelight.

He waited and time passed. The torch burned low, the hour slowly and surely grew late. Conar shifted his weight at last and strode toward her. “It is time to leave.”

“He will be alone in darkness forever.”

“He will ascend to heaven, if he was but half the man his reputation claimed.”

She was silent for a moment. Her eyes touched his. “Heaven? Or Valhalla?” She goaded him. Even here. He would not be pushed, not at this moment.

“Perhaps they are one and the same,” he replied coolly.

She was silent again. “Come,” he insisted. “It"s time to leave now.”

“Just one more prayer,” she whispered, and he realized then that tears were streaming down her cheeks, tears she had not wanted him to see her shed.

He found himself slipping his arms around her once again. And for once she did not fight him but sobbed into his chest, soaking his tunic. He carried her determinedly from the crypt, closing the heavy door behind him and looking to the light that filtered down to them from the stairway.

He was startled then by the way it felt to hold her in his arms. It was amazing after everything else, but she awakened something of tenderness within him then, and he suddenly wanted to hold and protect and soothe her. He sat upon a low step, stroking her hair, marveling at its richness and mass, at the softness of it, the sweet fragrance of it. He rocked with her, feeling her shoulders shake and tremble with the violence of her sobs. He whispered the same words over and over, that the pain would ease, while the memories would last forever.

“How could you possibly know?” she gasped.

“I lost someone I held very dear. Someone very like your father, loved by everyone.”

“A Viking?” she whispered.

“No,” he replied with some amusement. “The Ard-Ri, my grandfather. The High King, my mother"s father. He was one of the greatest kings ever to gather the lesser kings of Eire together. What peace we have had has come from his strength and wisdom.”

She fell silent, seeming to have no argument for that. Then she whispered,

“But you see death every day.”

“Not every day. I do not seek it. In fact …” His voice trailed away for a moment, and she was surprised when she prompted him.

“In fact what, Viking?”

He sighed. “My mother used to hate it when we all practiced for war. She wanted her sons to find their destinies on Irish soil—peacefully. But my father warned her that peace could be won only through strength, and that her sons, all of her sons, had to learn the arts of peace—and those of warfare. And as it happened, when my grandfather died, and my uncle Niall was to take his place as the Ard-Ri, warfare broke out. We were all called upon to fight for peace in our own land. That, I think, was my grandfather"s greatest strength. He knew when to fight and when to negotiate. But he always knew that he could never sit back and have peace come to him.”

“My father knew that,” she whispered. “For all of his life, you see, the Danes invaded here. And the Norwegians and the Swedes!” she added quickly. “So he made this fortress very strong, and they would come and look at it, see its strength, and ride away. But then he was tricked!” she whispered. She suddenly seemed to realize that she was on his lap, that her hand lay against his chest, that her head had rested there, too, that her tears had wet his tunic.

She lifted herself away from him, struggling from his touch. “I"m quite all right now. I"ll not—I"ll not cry again!”

She escaped him, coming to her feet. She backed away from him, swallowing hard. Even in the dim light, her eyes were bright and beautiful.

“Thank you for honoring my father,” she said, “but I feel that I must tell you this. I don"t agree with his choice, and I believe that Ragwald has behaved detestably. So have you, of course, but you are a Viking, while he is a Christian and—”

“Melisande,” he said, grating hard on his teeth, “Ireland is among the most Christian of places—”

“And my father"s man, his friend. And mine. He should have known better. I will let you know now that though I am grateful you slew Gerald, I am furious that this marital arrangement has been forced. I do consider you to be a Viking, one with the hordes who have descended upon us all for so long—after all, bear in mind, your father did invade your mother"s land!—and I do not forgive you for anything. If I"ve made myself clear, I shall excuse myself, and keep my distance until you at last feel that you are free to leave.” He was so amazed by the arrogance of her speech that he only stared at her, eyes narrowing, for a long moment. She hurried past him and up the stairs. He could have stopped her, but for the moment he chose not to do so. He let her go.

“Damn me for a fool again!” he said softly to the cold walls around him.

Ah, but she would not rub his temper so raw again, he swore it!

Moments later he rose and followed her out to the light of day.

The count had been interred, his people had wept. They still wept, but they also went about the struggle to live, to survive. Children chased their geese, the blacksmith was back at work in his forge, and the rich scent of roasting meat wafted through the air.

Life went on, always, for the survivors.

He started back for the south tower, determined to go through the plans once again.

But he paused, for he saw Melisande standing by a well with one of the guards.

Not much of a guard, he thought, watching the pair. Rather a boy, certainly no more than sixteen.

Yet as he watched the two of them, he felt a heat flare within him. The boy was consoling her, he realized. Touching her hair, speaking to her softly.

Melisande was staring at him with her beautiful wide eyes, bright still with tears, but her lips were curled into a rueful smile, and she was nodding. There was something intimate in the way that they stood. They were both so young.

And maybe both so innocent, and maybe not. He had seen the beauty within the girl, but perhaps not the fire that Brenna seemed to be warning him about.

When she spoke with the boy, her voice was softly, sweetly melodic. Her every movement was lithe and sensual.

He clenched his hands into fists at his sides and strode back to the south tower. When he reached it, when he saw that food had been laid out once again, he sat down to eat, then found himself slowly joined by Philippe, Swen, and Gaston, who sat with him. He asked questions about the fortress, and they answered him.

Ragwald came in, hesitated, then took a seat. He stared at his plate, then looked at Conar, interrupting the conversation. “Milord, if I may ask, where is Melisande? She has not eaten, I"m afraid.”

“When she is hungry, she will eat,” Conar said.

“But—”

“I believe that she is not particularly eager to join me at the table. In fact, Ragwald, she is not eager to join me in anything. I do not foresee any mutual understanding between us in the near future.” The others could not see her yet, but he was aware that she had returned at last, and that she was upon the stairway, determined to escape them all and slip back upstairs to her room.

Or to her father"s room—his room.

It would be good for this conversation to continue now, and quickly.

“But, milord,” Ragwald was saying worriedly, “it is my understanding that you are returning to Ireland. Strengthening our position here and sailing away for some time. I will see to her, I have always done so—”

“Melisande sails for Ireland immediately. I have the perfect place for her.” He had the distinct pleasure of seeing her go dead still as she tried to tiptoe past them.

“And that is?” Ragwald asked anxiously.

“I"ve an aunt who is a nun. Melisande will reside with her for the time being.”

Her gasp was audible to them all. She no longer had any intention of slipping by them. She hurried into the great hall, having the good sense to stop far out of arm"s reach.

That did not stop her tongue.

“You"re going to send me to a nunnery!” she cried.

“Indeed, I think it best. We"ve all agreed that the marriage shall not, as yet, be consummated. Yet I find myself somewhat afraid to leave you to your own devices.”

“I belong here!” she insisted.

“Alas. Didn"t you hear? The place I had in mind is in my homeland.” She was still stunned, not grasping it all. “A nunnery!” she exclaimed, whirling around to stare at Ragwald. “You said if I married him, I wouldn"t have to see him again for years! And this is how I am to avoid him? I am to be sent away to a nunnery!”

Ragwald looked guiltily from her to Conar. “Milord, if you would only reconsider—”

“He need not reconsider,” Melisande declared firmly. “Oh, no, he need not reconsider!” Wild and exquisite, her eyes were on his. “I simply shall not go!” And with that she spun around and left them all.

Conar stared down at the table. Damn her! He inhaled and exhaled, then rose.

He could not lose battles with his own wife, and that wife a child!

A beautiful one with violet eyes and a quick easy smile for handsome young men nearer her own age.

“She goes tomorrow, Ragwald,” he said. “I need you to remain here.”

“But—”

“You, good friend, are far too easily influenced by her.” Both Philippe and Gaston stared at him. He needed them to serve him, not the young countess.

“There is no one gentler, kindlier—or wiser—than my aunt, I promise you.

Melisande will be tenderly cared for, but I must keep her safe, as Ragwald has so forcefully taught me. Else all might be lost. She sails tomorrow.” He turned and left them, and they all knew that he was going to inform Melisande of that fact. He climbed the stairs and found that she had entered her father"s room and bolted the door.

He hesitated, then swore. He threw his shoulder against the door. It shivered but did not give.

He was aware that all within the great hall must be hearing his effort.

Well, there was little that he could do. He threw his shoulder against the door again and again. He knew the bolt was about to break when he heard her cry out.

The door shuddered violently, then flew inward. She was behind the great bed, and he realized that she had been preparing to run. She was dressed in a heavy cloak with a satchel clutched in her hands.

Standing in the doorway, he shook his head. She was truly a thorn in his side, a temptation straight from the gods.

“Where do you think you"re going?”

“Away!” she whispered. “Until you"re gone. Until I can return. I am the countess here.”

“You are going to Ireland, tomorrow.”

“I"m not—”

“You are.” He slammed the broken door shut behind him, then sank down before it, resting his hands behind his head quite comfortably.

“What are you doing?”

“Watching over you—until tomorrow. At first light I will either walk or carry you down to one of my ships. You may sail either sitting—or stretched out on a plank, I really don"t care which. You will cease to be a wretched pain in the nether regions to me!”

“You will not do it! I"ll scream and shout every step of the way. My men will rise up in arms against you!”

“We will see, won"t we?”

She would give in now, he thought. Surrender.

But she did not. He did not budge; neither did she. It was hours before she at last dropped her satchel, hours more before she sat herself against a wall.

Sometime in the night he slept. He heard her first movement, though, as she tried to find a way past his body—that obstruction blocking her way.

“I think not!” he said.

She backed away, her cloak swirling. She took her seat against the wall once again.

“I pray that you die a slow, lingering death somewhere and that the gods throw you right out of Valhalla—right on your nether regions!”