MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves (47 page)

Louis was not in Paris when the siege was laid. The Vikings had devastated Rouen and then moved in upon Paris. There Count Odo, Bishop Joscelyn, Conar, and perhaps another two hundred barons defended Paris against seven hundred Viking ships and their numbers. Paris burned, orange clouds touched the skies. But the defenders held the city. The Danes went on to ravage much of the countryside, and Paris lay under siege for a year, but Odo and his men turned them back each time they might have taken the city. The warfare was endless, yet despite it, and despite the dangers, Conar did manage to come home. And when he did, it was always a heart-stopping occasion for Melisande.

Even as time went on, she discovered that her heart still beat too quickly each time she saw him riding home to her, the sweet fire of Wodin raced through her limbs, and she would die to be in his arms.

He always managed to find a way to come home when it was really important. He was there in the late fall of 885 when his son was born, and he was the one to insist the boy be another Manon, for her father, Manon Robert, and yet somehow the babe came to be known to them all as Robbie.

Her son was all that she had expected him to be, all that Conar might have commanded he be.

His eyes were sky blue, his hair a deep, rich, sun gold. He was a big baby, hale and hearty from the beginning, and the strength of his lusty wails kept them all laughing within the household. Conar had been there through all her long hours of labor, down in the hall—drinking with his father, for Erin and Olaf and Daria had also managed to return for the birth, along with Mergwin. In the midst of absolute chaos, happiness had managed to reign. Conar was determined to be at her side, even when she had called him every dastardly name that would come to mind, and Erin had assured her that it was quite all right, it was the one time she could call him anything she desired and be immediately forgiven for all.

She did call him many, many things. He nodded, agreed with them all, and allowed her to curl her fingers around his knuckles so hard that they might have shattered. He held her when she cried out, when she struggled. He held her even when she swore that he should let her go.

And he smiled and reminded her that he would never, never let her go.

And in due time, with him holding her still, the babe was born.

To Melisande, every unhappiness in the world was forgiven, everything became a taste sweeter, a bit more beautiful, the moment Robbie entered her life. The family doted over him; poor Marie de Tresse was distressed to find that she never had the babe to herself.

Conar adored the lad, and the most wonderful times of all were those precious moments when they would lie with him, together on their bed, marvel at his fingers and toes, and weave their own tales for his destiny.

Sometimes Melisande almost felt guilty for finding such sweet happiness when so much of the country suffered. Hers was a wonderful home, where Ragwald and Mergwin sat for hours discussing the sky and the stars, chemistry and medicine—and the future. Everyone enjoyed Robbie, and the household was filled with life and warmth. Not even Melisande could remember its being so before.

She wished her father might have seen his fortress now.

The terror that ravaged France did intrude, however, for Conar would come home and ride away again. But by the end of 886 Louis the Fat managed to return to Paris, and though Odo demanded the king take a strong stand, Louis paid the invaders danegeld for promises from them, and they turned around and devastated the countryside further.

Count Odo was hailed for his actions, as was Conar. From being a foreign prince, he became one of the most popular of the Frankish nobles, known the countryside over as the Lord of the Wolves. Odo granted him further tracts of land, and though the Danes remained to plague them, their Danish power was disbanded, and they knew the strength of the fortress and kept far from it.

Erin and Olaf had not stayed with her too long when Robbie had been born, but they were back now, and Olaf was out riding with his grandson, a lad now nearly a full two years old. He was not far, Melisande knew. Even now, she didn"t dare stray too far from home unless she knew someone was near. Conar had been gone several days now, in deep consultation with Odo and other barons, and she missed him dearly and yearned for his return. Her father-in-law, knowing her love for the stream, and fully aware that winter would soon keep her away, had suggested he accompany her and Robbie here. They had carried bread and cheese and skins of goat"s milk and wine to enjoy beneath the trees.

But now those two had gone, and she was alone, able to stare up at the branches, to cool her feet, to doze, to dream beneath the glorious blaze of colors.

It had become a good life for her. Rich. Still such a tempest at times, and still richer for that tempest, for their feelings always ran deep, their tempers, their opinions and their love.

She thought she heard a slight sound and looked up.

He was there, returned.

The Conar she knew so well, seated so expertly and casually upon his ebony Thor, shoulders so broad, chest clad in mail, a fiery red mantle cast over his shoulder. His helmet sat atop his head, for these could still be treacherous times for travel, and his eyes were shimmering, brilliant sky blue, searing out at her from the slits within the visor of his helmet. He seemed so indomitable there, a warrior.

A Viking. Golden, towering, striking, compelling. And as always now, a sight to create a stream of joy within her.

“Conar!” she cried softly, and tried to struggle up to reach him.

“Wait, lady!” he commanded, and slipped swiftly from Thor, tossing his helmet carelessly to the ground as he came to her. He helped her as she flailed, for she was sadly out of balance now, nearly nine months gone with their second child.

“I can rise—” she began.

“Stubborn,” he chastised. “As always. I"m here to help you. Be still.” Despite her cumbersome weight, he quickly had her plucked up in his arms, and he sat against the trunk of the tree, cradling her in his lap.

“Will this suffice?”

“Oh, Conar!” she clasped his cheeks within the delicate embrace of her hands and kissed his lips. She did so in a long and leisurely fashion, trembling just to feel his warmth, his vibrant touch once again. She lifted her lips, and he groaned softly, eyes sparkling as he ran his hand over the huge cup of her stomach.

“Ah, my love! Have mercy on a husband gone too long—yet too soon to be a father again!”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Fine. Scold me for being so very delighted to see you!”

“Never,” he promised. Then he asked gravely, “How are you, well, I pray?” She smiled, stretching back contentedly in his arms. “Very well, thank you.

And Robbie—”

“I saw him with my father. They are both quite well. I saw that myself.” Melisande smiled, then grew grave. “And what of our world, Conar? What is going on?”

Conar sighed. “They intend to depose Louis. The barons are set upon it, and how can one defend such a weak king for whom we have fought so hard, only to be undermined by him so continually?”

She stroked his cheek, knowing that he was still bitter over what had been done in Paris. “What will happen then?”

“Charlemagne"s old empire will be broken up, my love.” He studied her eyes. “Odo will become king of the West Franks, and we will continue to give our fealty to him.”

“That should please you.”

“Aye, it does.” He fell silent for a moment. “Geoffrey"s lands have fallen to us, and we have been granted still further land to the east. Does that please you?”

She shuddered. “Aye, and nay. Nothing to do with Geoffrey pleases me greatly.”

Conar shrugged. “Aye, that is one way to see it. There is also another.”

“Aye!” she asked curiously. And he smiled, tracing his finger over her lip.

“Were it not for Gerald"s treacherous determination to have you for himself or his son, I"d not have acquired my beautiful child bride to begin with. And then again, if it hadn"t been for Geoffrey"s abducting you that night, I"d have never believed that my hostile, disobedient—yet exquisite—wife, turned to a woman then, might love me.”

“You knew before I said the words,” she told him.

“But you did say the words, right before Geoffrey, don"t you remember? He wanted to have me drawn and quartered, fed to vultures. And you threw yourself in front of me and told him that he could never slay love.”

“Umm! And you threw me right behind you again!”

“Ah, but the words burned fiercely in my heart!” he assured her. She stared into his eyes and couldn"t help smiling once again, couldn"t help kissing him, hungry for his lips, for any touch at all.

Ah, it was so sweet. Every time she kissed him, she felt such wondrous things. A tempest, a turmoil. Fever in her blood, knots in her stomach.

She broke away from him, ruefully realizing the sudden knots in her stomach were not from his kiss.

“Conar?”

“Aye?”

“Nothing. Nothing. Never mind.” She kissed him again.

The knot tightened, harder and harder. Her breath caught. She drew her lips away.

“My beloved wife,” he whispered, “what sweet effect you have upon me as well …”

“Conar?”

“Aye?”

“ "Tis not your kiss.”

“Nay?”

She wet her lips and smiled. “Still your effect, milord, I do assure you.”

“Then—”

“The babe!” she whispered softly.

He was up, swiftly, carrying her with him. Long strides quickly brought them to Thor.

“Milord, it may take a long, long time.”

“And this is a second child, and he may come quickly as well.”

“It is not a he, Conar. Mergwin has told me that we are to have a daughter.”

“Then she may come quickly!” he said with exasperation, and leapt up behind her.

In minutes they were back at the fortress. And she was incredulous—and just a bit annoyed—to discover that he was right. Their daughter was born within a matter of hours, and she didn"t call him half so many names as she did the first time.

This baby was beautiful, too. Her hair was neither blond nor dark, but a fiery red, and there was a startling wealth of it. Her eyes were as blue as a summer"s sky, even deeper perhaps.

“Violet,” Conar determined, inspecting the babe. He sat at the head of the bed, inspecting the baby as Melisande lay with her in the cradle of her arms.

Melisande was sweetly exhausted, and her eyes started to close. Erin was swiftly there to scoop the newborn from her arms. Half asleep, Melisande felt Conar shift, and her fingers wound around his hand again.

“Nay, milord, don"t leave me!” she whispered.

He sat at the top of the bed, shifting her weight so that she rested curved into his shoulder against the carved headboard.

And she heard his soft, tender whisper. “Nay, my love. I shall never let you go.”

She smiled, and her eyes closed, and she lay there exhausted, but so content.

For she knew that it was true.

Viking, Irishman, tormentor, demon, friend, warrior, protector.

Husband.

Lover.

He would never let her go.

And she would love him forever, her Lord of the Wolves. For life, for all eternity.

Time was theirs now, life was theirs now, and the sweetest of all, love was theirs, always. The years stretched out before her with wonder. It was incredible now to remember how she had fought him, how she had hated him, tried to hate him.

Loved him, and feared that love.

Ah, but they had come far! They had paid with times of anguish for the joy they shared now. They had so very much. One another, Robbie … this little lass!

She wondered what Mergwin would have to say of their new daughter, of their future.

Held securely within her lord"s arms, Melisande smiled and, at long last, slept.

And began to dream anew, sweet, sweet dreams.