MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves (45 page)

“Melisande!” His hands were on her; she was placed firmly behind him.

“Slowly,” Geoffrey promised. “Would you like to know what I"ve planned?

Four of the swiftest horses, each wrist tied to one, and each ankle as well. Then a whip will lash across their haunches and the mighty Lord of the Wolves will be ripped. Ah, but first, I think, we will slash your stomach and let your entrails hang. When you are split into the proper pieces, we"ll have a great fire and roast what is left of you!”

Conar didn"t even flinch. He drew his sword, still pressing her around his back. “Only in your sweetest dreams, Geoffrey! Only there!” Geoffrey swore. “Fool. Even as you face death—”

But he broke off. From far to their left, where the forest broke off and the remnants of the Roman wall stood, she suddenly heard motion.

She turned.

And her breath caught anew with the greatest pleasure.

With awe.

They were there. It was incredible, it might have been a dream.

But it was real. They were all there. Conar"s family. His father in the center in the line that seemed to stretch forever on the horizon of the night. Their men—so many of them—stretched out around and behind them.

They sat atop their horses, great beasts that pawed the air, that snorted out gray steam beneath the moonlight. They sat in their armor, mail and helmets that glittered against the soft glow.

They sat, formidable, invincible. She could see Olaf, Eric, Bryan, Bryce, Conan, and there—dear Lord—at the end of it all, Mergwin! She could not believe it; it had to be a trick of the misty night and the moonlight.

But then they began to move, and they were, indeed, awesome. Their great horses plowed over the walls and began to tear up the earth as they thundered down upon the enemy.

For a moment there was chaos. Conar was dragging her back, and they were watching the pounding horses arrive together.

“I must get you out of here!” Conar whispered fiercely.

“Nay, don"t make me leave you, I"ll be quick now to retrieve your sword, I swear it. I can wield one nicely enough myself, even though I cannot best you, I can—”

“Lady! Be safe that I may fight with a clear mind, I beg of you! Jesu, Melisande, obey this one time!” She had little choice, so it seemed. Suddenly he was thrusting her forward, crying out, and someone was reaching toward her.

“Father!” Conar called, and she was looking up into Nordic eyes, cool blue, so like her husband"s. Then strong hands clamped around her, and she was lifted up, swept away from the clash of steel and the thunder of men and beasts.

Someone attacked from the rear. The great white horse she sat atop reared high. The king of Dubhlain slashed down on his enemies and nudged his mount, and they were away. They came some distance and the horse rose again on its haunches, spun, and fell down flat. They looked back. They could see the battle now. Men fighting fiercely. Norse against Dane, the Frankish troops, Odo! Count Odo was there. Her own Philippe, dear Gaston. They were all assembled, and in such fantastic display, with such an advantage. They were all mounted, while only part of Geoffrey"s mercenaries were so prepared, and even those who had seized horses to ride, or who had been given them by Geoffrey, had not time to reach them.

Geoffrey had imagined that he would bring his ten men to capture Conar in the woods, seize her, slay Conar.

It wasn"t to be. Atop the white horse, the calm strength of her father-in-law behind her, she felt an amazing burst of warmth.

Aye, Conar had come home when he had been called. Yet tonight …

“Lady, are you well enough?”

Her trembling had caused the question. She turned to see what she could of Olaf"s strong features, fine eyes.

This would be Conar in time. He would so age, nobly.

She nodded slowly, biting into her lower lip. “I am merely thanking God, milord …” she hesitated just a moment, then added, “for the Vikings in my family!”

Olaf smiled beneath the steel of his visor.

“It is nearly ended!” he said softly.

The fighting suddenly seemed to cease. It had not really stopped, she realized men had simply given way. Looking through the sea of men, Melisande could see that a small clearing had been formed.

Within it Conar now faced his enemy alone.

They walked a careful circle.

Men began to shout.

Conar and Geoffrey …

“Why do they fight further?” Melisande cried with alarm, afraid. Conar was whole, he was in one piece.

He was weary. He had battled too many men. Brought her so far …

“They must end it,” Olaf said.

“But—”

“They must,” Olaf repeated, and fell silent.

And so there was nothing for her to do but watch through the veil of fear and tears that had so swiftly seized her.

Chapter Twenty-Two

A greater space was cleared around the two men.

Geoffrey lunged instantly and wildly. Conar immediately parried his blow.

Geoffrey fell back. He turned around and faced those grouped around. “A champion. I demand a champion. You, Horik!” he called to one of his men.

“Jon, send that berserker forward! Let one teeth-gnashing sea raider fight another. Winner takes all, Conar of Dubhlain, the woman, the land, the battle.” Melisande"s eyes shot to the one they called Horik. He was nearly as tall as Conar, heavier, bulkier. She felt fear streak into her system. “No!” she whispered.

But to her astonishment Horik was shaking his grizzled, platinum head.

“This is your battle, Geoffrey. The fight is yours and—his.” Geoffrey started to walk from the circle in a rage. “You"ve been well paid, you bastard—”

“Paid to fight a battle with men. Not to stand in your place against such a man as this Norse wolf.”

“He killed your companions—”

“He came for his wife. It is your fight.”

Geoffrey looked wildly from one man to another. He suddenly seized a knife from his ankle—Melisande saw the motion.

“Conar!” she cried. “Conar! He has a knife!”

In time, in time! Pray God! The treacherous Geoffrey was just turning, hurtling his missile expertly toward Conar"s eyes.

Conar ducked, and the knife sailed past his head. He stared at his enemy and drew his sword.

“Come at me, wolf dog!” Geoffrey shouted in a rage. His own sword at the ready, he entered into battle. He was not a weak swordsman.

But he did not compare to Conar.

Melisande remembered the way she had fought her husband, how he had kept her moving.

He fought Geoffrey just so now.

He calmly parried each blow that fell his way. He struck again, and again, and again. Geoffrey"s blade met his, clashing, clanging in the moonlight. That was all that could be heard, the awful sound of steel screeching against steel.

The circle widened and widened. Conar leapt backward over a tree stump in his way, Geoffrey nearly fell over it in his haste to reach Conar and offer another blow.

He was weakening, weakening fast, Melisande realized.

“Please …” she whispered in a soft sigh to heaven—or Valhalla.

The warrior gods were with him, great Wodin, mighty Thor. Conar raised and lowered his sword again in a mighty sweep. It caught Geoffrey"s. The man"s weapon flew.

And Conar"s blade rested against his throat.

“Kill him!” went up a cry.

From the Danes. From the man"s own allies.

Merciless when their leader proved his weakness.

Conar kept his blade tight against Geoffrey"s throat.

“If you ever glance her way again, Geoffrey Sur-le-Mont, I will slice you like a spitted boar, dismember you piece by piece, and feed you to the vultures.”

He turned, and seeing his father and his wife, started in that direction.

Melisande saw his eyes. His incredible blue eyes, impaling as they settled upon her. Her heart seemed to cry out.

But then, from the corner of her eye she saw Geoffrey begin to move once again. Hunching down at his ankles, reaching to the tight sheath above his left boot.

There was a second knife inside it. Within seconds his fingers had fastened around it.

And once again Melisande saw it coming.

“Nay!” she shrieked. “Nay!” Not now, not after all this.

“Conar, he has another knife!”

This time when Conar flew around, he reached down to his own ankle and drew his knife.

And threw it with an even swifter speed.

Geoffrey"s blade just grazed Conar"s shoulder and neck, with little space to spare.

Conar"s blade found its mark, flying straight into Geoffrey"s heart. The man stared at him for one moment, then keeled over in a smooth motion, dead before he hit the ground. His eyes remained open. He stared at Conar even in his death.

But Conar turned away. The battle was over for the evening. The Danes would go off on their own, with Geoffrey no longer there to guide them. Some might join up with other groups terrorizing the people here.

Some might sail home.

But the battle was done for the night. Conar"s numbers were the superior ones, the Irish line of the house of Vestfold had linked its mighty arms together.

They had left many slain and injured. They had done their damage.

Even Odo could be pleased with the night"s work.

For Conar it was time to go home. He slowly approached the line of horses, reaching up to grasp hands with each of his brothers. Only Leith had not come, for someone must remain behind. Eric had been safe enough to leave Wessex, for Alfred"s law extended well over his land.

He came to Mergwin and shook his head with slow astonishment. “You"ve mounted a horse to ride into battle.”

Mergwin shrugged. “I try to read the future for you and your siblings, I cast runes, I foretell great things. Once I have done so,” he said with a deep sigh, “I find that I must sometimes give destiny a hand.”

Conar smiled slowly.

He came to his father at last. Melisande still sat before Olaf on the great white horse.

“It seems the trial is over here, as well,” Olaf told him.

Conar nodded.

“And you are free.”

Count Odo had ridden up from behind. “The trials here are just beginning.

The Danes sail the rivers, they head for Paris, for Rouen, for Chartres. Our fight goes on!”

“Aye,” Conar agreed softly. “The fight goes on.” For him it would. Eric would sail back for Wessex, his father, Conan, Bryan, and Bryce would return to Eire.

For their fight never really ended either. But tonight"s battle was over.

“Thank you,” he told his father. He felt Melisande"s eyes on him, felt the tears within them. Had she cared so much, then? She might have saved his life twice tonight—her cries had alerted him to Geoffrey"s treachery each time. She looked so beautiful before his father, even if dirt smeared her cheeks and her ragged cloak. Her hair fell around her like ebony rain, waving, curling. The cloak draped around her slender form. Her eyes, their huge violet depths so haunting, remained steady upon him.

“I believe I"ve something of yours here?” Olaf murmured.

“Aye, indeed,” Conar agreed.

He stepped forward, stretching his arms up, reaching for her. He was careful to keep the cloak about her as he lifted her high, then slowly down against him.

“What a husband!” Olaf murmured. “Is that the best you can do in gowning your wife?”

Conar smiled slowly, looking back up to his father. “No, milord, I swear, I customarily keep her clad in a finer style!”

“We shall see,” Olaf said. “There stands Thor. Perhaps you would be good enough to mount him and escort us all to your home. We"ve come a long way, it"s been a wearying night, and we"re most eager to sample your hospitality.”

“Aye, Father!” Conar agreed.

Eric, smiling, brought Thor forward. Conar deftly wound Melisande in the cloak, set her atop the stallion, and leapt up behind her.

The remaining Danes watched as they turned and rode away.

Melisande closed her eyes, leaning back against her husband"s chest. Her heart had not ceased its frantic beat. She had never been so exhausted.

Nor so awake …

So weary yet …

So very alive. They were going home. Together.

The ride took time, but it didn"t matter. She was content to remain against him, feel his heartbeat, his warmth, his arms around her once again as they rode, tight, secure.

“So you keep me finely clad!” she murmured to him, as they rode.

“I don"t?”

“Nay, milord, it seems to me that you are forever making havoc of my clothing!”

His lips nuzzled her ear as he spoke. “Then we must thank God that the fortress can be filled with able seamstresses!”

She leaned back again, smiling. They rode in silence.

In time they came to the fortress.

Melisande was newly amazed to discover that Erin and Daria had come as well.

There was complete chaos when they returned, so many people filling the hall, so many people demanding to know everything that had happened. Erin had been quick to remind them all that Melisande had endured a great deal through the night, it was daylight now, and surely she needed a long bath and a cup of warm sweet wine.

And perhaps something more substantial than the cloak to wear.

It was with Erin that she came to her room, and though Marie was there to cast soap and oil into her bath, to enclose her fiercely in her arms and whisper her delight that she was back, Erin was the one to stay with her, to warm the wine over the fire and pour it into a chalice for her.

Sinking into the hot water and sipping the wine felt delicious. Knots eased from her body, she seemed to wash away some of the terror of being with Geoffrey.