MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves (43 page)

Gaston crossed himself, tears in his eyes. “How do we fight him, how—” Conar whirled on Swen. “Get someone down to the Danish prisoners. Find out where he might have taken her. Slip someone in among them, someone who can be one of theirs. Quickly, now!”

Swen hastened to do as he was bidden. Conar could not bear to stay in the room.

To stare at the bed where he had so recently loved her.

From where she had so recently been taken.

Had Geoffrey touched her as yet? The rage swept through him. Nothing that the man could do would change his love for Melisande, but if he hurt her in any way, Conar would want to kill him slowly, painfully!

His eyes fell upon the gilded mail. Upon her delicately engraved sword.

He could not stay. He left the room and paced the hall below as he forced himself to patience, forced himself to wait for word to come.

It did, quickly. His man Jute arrived soon with Swen, bowed, and spoke quickly.

“The Danes will soon lay siege to Paris,” he said swiftly. “Their numbers here are huge, and they have been paid in silver by Geoffrey Sur-le-Mont to fight with him as well. They camp by the old Roman ruins, from where Melisande was taking her stones. Geoffrey has taken her there. There are foundations there, with deep hallways and pits in the earth. There are burial chambers, too. The place is quite a maze and does not need so many guards.”

“I will go for her then,” Conar said.

“Have we the numbers?” Philippe demanded.

Conar shook his head. “I will go for her alone.”

Philippe gasped. “What insanity, milord! Brave insanity!” he added quickly.

“But to what avail?”

“Geoffrey came for her alone, and so walked through us all. It is a ploy we quite recently used in Eire, and I don"t think Geoffrey will expect it to be used against him now. I do know something of these ruins. I met Count Manon there with my uncle when I was very young and have ridden near them since. I remember the layout … and the look of the land.”

He strode to the table, knocking goblets from it with a sweep of his arm, then quickly replacing them to show landmarks. “The old tower lies here. There is a passage below, and it enters the burial vaults. There is another here, ending in what must have been a storage vault.” He paused and placed a goblet flat upon it. “Here!” he exclaimed. “Here is where they will have her. And here”—he paused, placing another goblet on the table—“is where his men will be gathered, behind this broken rubble of wall. They can camp and still keep their eyes upon the road. And there, my fine friends, is where you must wait for me with our numbers. When I appear with Melisande, you must be ready to charge.”

“If you can appear with her, dear God, we will still be so outnumbered!” Gaston worried.

But there was suddenly a loud exclamation. Conar turned to see Ragwald standing in the entry. He was breathless, and Conar realized that he had not followed them at first. His hair and beard were windblown. The old man had been outside. “Nay, Count Conar, nay! I do not believe we are outnumbered!” Ragwald turned and started up the stairs again. Curious, Conar and the others hurried behind him. He came to Melisande"s tower and hurried after Ragwald.

The night was dark. They could still see the sea. It was dotted with torchlight.

The torches illuminated a great army of ships. “Jesu, more and more Danes!” Philippe cried. But Conar smiled slowly. “Nay, friends. Ragwald is right. We no longer lack numbers!”

“But what—?” Philippe began.

“My family!” Conar said softly.

When Maelmorden was beaten, his father had told him, they would all be free.

And so they were.

And just as he had always answered a call for help, now he was being answered, when he had not even thought to voice the call.

“Aye! My family!” he repeated. “They have arrived!” He pointed to the ships, growing more and more visible as they drew closer.

Again, as if he had asked the sky for help, the clouds lifted away from the moon.

Aye, they came. Eric, his father, Leith, Bryan, Bryce, his brothers-in-law, cousins, uncles, cousins-in-law.

He swung around suddenly. “Swen, greet them. I must make haste to reach Melisande before she does herself damage in her fear of Geoffrey.” Or of me, he added silently. “Tell them what I have told you. They will know what to do.

They have done it once.”

He spun around, ready to hurry down the stairs.

“Conar!” Swen called.

Conar waited.

“How will you slip through them, what disguise will you use?” He grinned. “One that I am very adept with. One that will blend in.”

“Aye?”

He sighed. “I will go as a Viking, Swen. I will go as a Viking.” He turned and left them once again, and in minutes he was riding into the darkness alone, even as a vast army arrived on his shores to help him.

He was grateful. He needed help now.

But he also had to reach her. Quickly. Alone.

It was the only way to save her. He could only pray that they would follow.

Chapter Twenty-One

Melisande could see nothing, not even a form in the darkness. What little filtering of light that had come when the door opened left as soon as it had closed. She stood dead still, listening.

She could hear it. Deep, ragged breathing.

Geoffrey? Had he come back?

No, he would have brought a torch—he"d want to see the dismay on her face when he returned for her.

The person who had come now brought no light. He had come furtively.

“Where are you?” The soft question came in the Norse language, and she felt a cold wave of dread slip over her. Geoffrey had played with rapists and thieves. Now his thieves were wishing to steal the prize he had plundered himself.

She remained perfectly silent, then felt movement from the door. The Dane had entered, come down the steps, and was now swinging heavily muscled arms from side to side to try to trap her.

She ducked low just in time, feeling the whir of air as the hand struck the air, inches from her face. He crossed the room and started back.

A rat squealed, just at her feet. She bit her lip as her blood raced, ducking and fleeing across with only a breath to spare when he started back again.

The man laughed softly, a husky, chilling sound in the darkness. “Stay still, girl! Lady Melisande. Lady, lady, lady!”

She inched back against the wall. For a while it seemed that he pressed his hands against the dank stone on the opposite wall. She held her breath again. He was coming in a circle. She would have to move again, or he would find her.

She did so. He did not hear her, as his hands were slapping against the stone.

It went on.

She began to wonder desperately just how long she could hide from the man in the darkness. Could this game go on forever?

She thought about seeking the doorway. Perhaps he was the man sent to guard her.

And perhaps he was not. Perhaps it was another Dane, and if she dared touch the door, she would find herself trying to elude two. Should she move for it?

But then he swore softly, and heavy, impatient footsteps took him across the floor once again.

He was opening the door himself, up the steps, not far from where she stood, just cracking it to allow some of the torchlight from the underground hallway to leak in upon them. There was still little to be seen, except for silhouettes and shadows.

Her silhouette, a clean dark shadow upon the wall.

“Ah!” The man cried.

He bounded for her. She gasped and evaded him, sweeping by him. She tried for the door. He reached her on the steps, dragged her back. She beat her fists against him, she started to scream. His hand fell upon her mouth, and she was shoved down to the floor. She twisted and bit into fleshy fingers. He swore and cuffed her cheek, stunning her. The cloak, her only garment, was slipping away, and she could feel the rough texture of his clothing biting against her tender flesh, feel his hands, his weight.

Tears sprang into her eyes. He lifted his weight for a moment to free himself for his purpose, and she slammed her foot up against him with all of her strength.

A gasp escaped him, and then a bellow. Melisande rolled swiftly, leaping to her feet again. He was behind her, seized her, threw her back. She felt the hiss of his breath as he came close again.

But then he was suddenly lifted off her, thrown across the room. He fell hard against the wall, swore, leapt to his feet.

There were two men in the room, two Danes, Melisande thought. One lunged at the other now, and they were on the floor, dark shadows, wildly tearing at one another. She heard the sounds of blows, but then, in the darkness, she heard something more.

Knives. Knives met and clashed. And now flailed in the darkness.

She began to inch for the doorway but then went still, hearing a different sound.

That of a knife sinking into flesh. She held her breath. The two men had been standing.

Now one sank slowly to the floor.

She paused, barely breathing. The victor turned his eyes toward her.

She made a desperate leap for the door.

“No, Melisande!”

She couldn"t comprehend her own name at first, she was so terrified. She was trying to run until she could run no more.

But once again fingers wound into her cloak.

She was dragged back hard. She kept fighting. “No, no, no … !” She found herself spun around, pressed to the wall, a hand falling over her mouth once again.

“Melisande! It is me!”

Conar!

She went still, limp, disbelieving. Her teeth began to chatter. She was shaking so badly that she could not stand. She started to sink to the floor, and he caught her, lifting her into his arms, carrying her to where the greatest filtering of light from the cracked doorway now offered some dim respite against the shadows. With her in his arms, he went down upon his knee.

Indeed, it was him. Wolf skins covered his chest and shoulders and buffered his tunic of mail. His conical helmet, allowing only his fierce blue eyes to show, covered his head and nose. He stared down at her, seeing the rough borrowed cloak, the dirt that smudged her body, the tears in her eyes. His voice was suddenly impassioned, whispered, but filled with rage. “By the gods, if they"ve hurt you—!”

She shook her head wildly, fighting for reason. In all her life she had never been so terribly frightened, nor had she ever felt so keenly her own weakness.

But he was here now. He had come for her after all.

She fought for words, trying to still her shaking, trying to stop the tears that dampened her eyes, slid to her cheeks. “The ride was rough. This hole is damp and chill, but Geoffrey threw me here and left, and you—you came before this man could do me much ill.”

His hands moved upon her suddenly, covering the length of her. Stroking her cheek, assuring himself, she realized, that she was well and whole. They moved over her nakedness, and she curled against him, her arm around his shoulder, and a ragged sob escaped her.

“Melisande …” For a moment his hand stroked the tangled black fall of her hair. But then he pulled her away, his touch firm. He met her eyes. “Can you walk, can you stand?”

Her eyes widened on his. She realized that he was here, alone, dressed completely in Viking attire.

There had been so many Danes when she had arrived, littering the rocks and ruins beneath the moonlight.

“Can you stand?”

She nodded, bracing herself against his shoulders, managing to stand.

She was shaking still. But she released her hold upon him, standing of her own accord, the cloak falling back in place to cover her.

He stood before her.

“How did you get here?” she whispered quickly.

There was a fiery glitter in the blue eyes that gazed at her. “I told you, I would never let you go.”

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms. “I didn"t try to leave, Conar, I didn"t run. They came. They came into the keep, up the stairs …”

“Shh, shh! I know! But stay quiet. We"ve got to get out of here for now.”

“You"re going to fight all those Danes out there, alone?” He shook his head slowly. “I am going to walk right through them, just as I did coming here. Now listen. You must pretend that I am one of them. An awful enemy. Maybe that won"t be so hard.”

She winced inwardly, her lashes low. “Conar—”

“My apologies, lady. We"ve no time for recriminations. It must appear that you are the prisoner still, that I just escort you from one place to another. Do you understand?”

She nodded. Conar opened the heavy door. The hall was empty.

Her only guard had been the one who lay dead just behind her.

She inhaled, feeling Conar"s hand upon her arm. “Swiftly,” he warned her.

She ran down the hallway, clutching the cloak tightly to her throat. As they neared the end of the hallway, where the ancient, uneven stones reached back up to the cool air and soft blanket of night, they were suddenly challenged.

“Who"s there?”

A man in leather sandals, short trousers, and skins hurried down the steps.

“Where are you taking Geoffrey"s woman?”

“Friend, I am taking her out,” Conar said smoothly.

“Wait!”

The Dane drew a sword. “Taking her where?”

“Home!” Conar announced. The strength of his arm propelled her behind him, and instantly his sword was drawn. The Dane lunged, Conar lunged in return, his sword entering the man"s belly. “Home, friend,” Conar repeated as the man fell, and he withdrew his sword. “She is not Geoffrey"s woman but mine!”