“Aye, ‘tis me,” he said, coming forward.
Then he was right before her, his broad shoulders limned against the glow of the kitchen fire for he’d left her door open. The soft reddish light flickered in his hair and edged the whole of him, making him look like the devil.
She shivered, hoping it wasn’t an omen.
“You needn’t worry o’er your wee dog.” His smile flashed, and he pulled her into his arms. “‘Tis beef twists he’s chewing.” He glanced at Glaum who’d leapt back onto the bed, and was now happily devouring one of the treats.
“I ken he likes ‘em,” he said, sounding amused.
But how could he be here?
Katla looked at him, her heart racing. “What are you doing here? Is something wrong? I’d hoped you’d come before now, but didn’t think it would be of a night, in the middle of the small hours.”
“We must speak.” He opened his plaid, swirling it around her to warm them both. “I cannae stay. Thon auld woman saw me - the crone who sent me to your herbarium. She was on the shore when I rowed in, as if she knew I was coming.
“I didnae like the way she looked at me.” He frowned, glanced over his shoulder at the door. “She could be hurrying now to sound the alarm. I’ll no’ be stirring trouble for you.”
“You saw Devorgilla.” Katla smiled, her worries lightening. “If she gave you a look, it was surely an enchantment to keep our night patrol from noticing you.”
Aye, well,” he said, clearly not believing her. “I still cannae stay. I only wanted to warn you that it’ll be a few more days until I come to speak to your laird. Ross is still missing, but I’ve learned where to find him. I hope to catch him on the morrow.”
“You mean you will fight him.” Katla knew it.
“That is so.”
“He could kill you.”
“He will try,” he admitted, the three words freezing her heart. “Dinnae look so stricken. All Highland men fight, lass. And I wield a sword better than many.
“For sure, I have greater skill than my cousin.” He pulled her closer and kissed her. “You mustn’t worry.”
“How can I not?” My heart just turned to ice! I can hardly breathe.
I cannot lose you – again!
Not forever.
He frowned as if he’d heard her, lifted a hand to touch her cheek. “Precious lass, I’ll return to you in two days, possibly three.” He lowered his hand, his expression sobering. “If I dinnae make it by then, I’ve brought something for your chieftain.”
Reaching inside his cloak, he withdrew a rolled parchment, tied with a string, and sealed with a glob of red wax bearing the Druimbegan crest.
“Let nae man know of this.” He set the scroll on her bed, and then drew her again into his arms. “We’ll burn it when I come for you, as its message will then hold nae importance. If aught goes wrong-”
“No, please.” She grabbed his face, kissing him with all the desperation in her soul.
It was a wild and ravaging kiss, open-mouthed, and full of tongue and panted breaths. He’d unsettled her and now he was leaving! All she wanted was to keep him with her – or to go with him now. That didn’t seem likely, so she clutched at his shoulders, pressing herself against him, willing him with all the strength she possessed not to pull away from her.
But he was.
“Katla…” He shook his head, already backing toward her still-open door. “Keep thon scroll hidden, and say a prayer to the old ones that you willnae need it.”
“I shall put it in my coffer.” She glanced at the iron-shod chest beside her bed – the place she kept her finer clothes and a few things she cherished: her mother’s silver comb, a small silken pouch filled with hair from her first dog, a sheepskin book of old Norse poems said to have belonged to her g-g-grandfather, and a few stones from Trondelag, her mother’s birthplace in Norway.
“You’ll no’ peek, lass.”
“I won’t,” she said, already wondering how to break the scroll’s seal without actually doing so.
“Just keep it safe, and your sweet self.”
“I will,” she promised, turning back to him – only to find that he’d gone.
On her bed, Glaum attacked a new beef twist with gusto.
Katla sighed and snuggled under the covers beside him. His teeth-and-tongue smacking wouldn’t rob her of her sleep. Indeed, she didn’t even hear the noise.
How could she when her ears tilted toward her room’s one small window, straining to catch the dip and splash of a coracle’s oars, rowing away into the night…
~ * ~
High above the Vale of Thieves, Skye
Late the next day…
“We could end here, my friend.” Squall stood on a ledge of rock, peering down into the gorge. “‘Tis’ a cold, gray day to leave this world.”
“To be sure,” Gunnar agreed, casting a glance at the thick clouds and mist. “Even so, there are worse ways to die. Fighting for honor, the weal of good men, and our beloved Skye, is a braw way to go.
“But I’m thinking the day is ours.” It must be, for I’ll no’ leave Katla alone.
“Dinnae think of her.” Squall proved his ability to probe men’s minds. Turning away from the drop-off, he lowered his voice for other men were near. They huddled behind a jumble of rocks embedded in the steep slope. “In my days at Stirling, serving the King, I saw more than one man cut down because his heart was with his woman and no’ the sword in his hand.”
He gripped Gunnar’s shoulder. “I’ve nae taste for going to Kintail and telling the lass you are nae more.”
“It willnae come to that.” Gunnar hoped not. “Besides, how would you explain yourself? You ne’er leave this blighted vale. Rarely even speak to the folk who visit your inn.”
“Mayhap I’m of a mind to make an honest inn of the Hag?” Squall hooked his thumbs in his sword belt. “With a few changes, it could be done.” He swatted at a swirl of drifting mist, smiling. “I can see the possibilities - especially with MacLeod blessings, a nod from the MacKenzies.”
“You shall have all the support you need,” Gunnar promised.
But Squall’s levity was gone, his face sobering.
“It willnae be long now,” he said. “We’re ready. The best spearmen I could gather are at both ends of the gorge, well hidden,” he went on, taking his own spear from where he’d propped it against an up-thrusting jut of rock. He also had a shield and an ax slung over his back, his sword belted low at his hip.
“I’ll wait with the men at the head of the vale.” He shifted the leather strap that held his war ax, then looked again at Gunnar. “We’ll move in when you blast the ram’s horn, using our spears to bar the way out. Have a care charging down the hillside. We’re blessed there’s nae so much snow, but the rocks are iced.”
“The more slippery they are, the faster we’ll greet my cousin.” Gunnar touched his Thor’s hammer all the same.
To Squall, he gave a nod. “The gods be with you, my friend.”
“With us all, MacLeod.” Squall raised his spear in salute.
Then he disappeared into the low clouds and mist, hurrying back to the bottom of the gorge.
His footsteps faded quickly, leaving only the rushing wind and the hiss of the river. Gunnar joined his men behind the rocks. He knelt beside Munch, hoping they wouldn’t have to wait long – and they didn’t. Almost as soon as he crouched down beside the big man, they caught the swell of men’s voices and the crunch of booted feet on hard, ice-crusted ground.
Ross and his horde were coming.
So Gunnar did as planned and crept carefully into a break in the rocks, leaning forward to peer down into the tight-sided heart of the gorge. He kept his gaze on the track that edged the river, and then raised his arm, making sure it remained hidden behind the outcrop’s jutting edge.
At the right moment, he’d whip his arm down, signaling Munch to blow the ram’s horn.
The time was nigh, for men were coming into view. Mist bl
urred their outline, but Gunnar could still tell that Ross led them. Their weapons – swords and axes, but no spears – glinted in the pale light of the cold, gray afternoon.
Leaning closer to the gap in the rocks, Gunnar pressed his forehead to the icy stone, squinting to be sure that the group’s leader was indeed his cousin.
He was.
Closing his eyes, Gunnar said a silent prayer asking his ancestors’ forgiveness for what he was about to do.
MacLeods didn’t slay their own.
But then, Ross had lost all rights to the name.
Gunnar flashed a look over his shoulder at Munch, saw that he held the ram’s horn to his lips, waiting.
The hour had come.
And so Gunnar lowered his arm, swift and sure.
Leaping to his feet, Munch blew the horn. The blast filled the gorge, its echo ringing through the surrounding hills. From below them came another sound, damning for any in its path – the war music of spear shafts beating on shields.
Squall and his spearmen were taking up their position, moving in to prevent Ross and his warriors from fleeing the vale. The same deadly thunder rose at the vale’s other end as the second group of spearmen spread out before the Toothless Hag.
Then Gunnar and his friends lost the rhythmic beats as they made a ruckus of their own, charging down the hang, shouting war cries, their swords out and raised.
The battle that would someday be known as the Lord of Winter’s Honor had begun.
Chapter Nineteen
In the heart of the Vale of Thieves, Skye
The Lord of Winter’s Honor…
“I am prepared to die, Cousin!” Gunnar raised his voice above the roars of fighting men, the clash of steel-on-steel, the crush of shields as – finally – he fought his way through the sword-swinging, ax-wielding men to stand face-to-bearded face with Ross. “You can live!” he challenged him. “Admit your dishonor to John, your perfidy to our clan and others – and I’ll spare you.”
“A pig’s eye!” Ross snarled, knocking aside the sword Gunnar aimed at his heart.
“A spit o’ rock in the sea – that, I’ll give you!” Gunnar shouted back, whipping up his blade, this time pressing the tip against Ross’s throat. “You can live out your days drinking brine and eating seaweed.”
Ross laughed, spinning about to swipe at Gunnar’s middle. “You were aye mad!” he jeered, glaring when his blade cut air, for Gunnar also whirled, blocking the blow with flat of his sword.
“You’re as addled as my father!” Ross lunged again.
“You slur the word honor!” Gunnar smashed down his cousin’s sword, closing in as Ross leapt backward. “You are the fool – no worthy of our name.”
Around them, Gunnar’s men growled agreement, the battle fray quieting as warriors on both sides formed a ring around their two leaders.
Those that were still on their feet – others, mostly Ross’s mercenaries, lay battered and bleeding on the frozen ground. Some sprawled in the rocky, rapid-chased river, their wounds reddening the water.
“Honor is everything, you black-heart!” Gunnar roared, sidestepping another vicious sword swipe.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Squall, Munch, and two of his fiercest oarsmen push through the circle of men. They carried bloodied swords, though Munch clutched a big red-sheened ax. “Stay back!” Gunnar yelled them off, not wanting them with him in Valhalla if Ross sent him there.
“Come nae closer!” He warned, keeping his attention on Ross’s blade.
Whirling, Gunnar carved an arc with his own sword. His blade screamed down Ross’s mailed sleeve to cut deep into his left wrist. Reeling, Ross howled. But he caught himself and charged, his sword aimed like a spear at Gunnar’s gut. Again he pierced air as Gunnar leapt to the side.
Gunnar’s men cheered and shook their swords, some raising fists above their heads.
Ross’s mercenaries looked grim.
“Come, you!” Gunnar called as Ross stumbled on the slick ground. “I’m no’ wanting to spill clan blood, no’ even yours. Give and you’ll wake on the morrow.”
“Join me and we’ll rule Skye – Kintail, and beyond,” Ross panted, righting himself.
“I’d sooner fall on my sword!” Gunnar tossed back his hair, blinked against the sweat running into his eyes. “Have done, Ross. You shame our name.”
“I have pride, ambitions!” Ross swayed, the blood from his wrist drenching his side where he clutched the wound to his ribs. His hand was almost severed, an injury that would bleed him out. “I’m a man!” he raged, bending double, wheezing.
He looked up at Gunnar, his eyes glazing. “You’d sit on an ice floe, counting seals!”
Ignoring the slur, Gunnar jerked his sword point at the rocks along the riverbank. “Throw down your weapon! There, by the water.”
“Come take it!” Ross hissed, straightening. But he weaved on his feet, clearly weakened.
“I’ll nae fight ye so.” Gunnar raised his own blade and brought it down fast, ramming the end into the earth. “I’ll no’ strike a man who cannae stand.”
It was then that the two troops of spearmen approached. They came from both ends of the Vale of Thieves. The thunder of their war music – the low beat of spear shafts against shields – echoed through the cold, mist-clogged gorge.
“Calling in the rearguard?” Ross twisted round to peer behind him. Then he spun about to try another lunge, this time almost falling flat on his face – had not one of his mercenaries dashed forward to catch and right him.
“‘Tis over, Ross.” Gunnar gave him one last chance. “Have done, or you’ll no’ leave here alive.”
~ * ~
“So speaks a spineless worm!”
Ross clutched his sword, glaring at him, then glowering round at all the men. As his gaze swept the ring of watchers, he roared when he spotted Squall.
“Traitor!” he screamed, tossing aside his sword. Grabbing his ax, and with a burst of final energy, he ran at the innkeeper. “I’ll have your head, you fork-tongued arse!” He leapt at Squall, the ax raised for a cleaving blow.
A strike that never hit because Munch roared and barreled into him, sinking his own ax blade deep into Ross’s shoulder, and then kicking his legs out from under him.
“For Borg,” he snarled, glaring down at Ross.
Dropping to one knee, Munch lifted Ross’s fallen sword from the slushy mud and pressed it into his hand, curling his fingers around the hilt. “Hold tight and you’ll feast in Valhalla this e’en,” he said, standing, dusting his hands.
But it was clear that Ross didn’t hear him.
Even so, he left this world with a clear path into Odin’s feasting hall. What the gods would then make of him – well, that fell to them to decide.
Gunnar still stood with his legs braced apart, his hands folded on the hilt of his sword, its point lodged in the ground. “Good men – sheathe your steel!” he shouted, casting a look at Munch and Squall, before he turned his gaze on Ross’s surviving men.
“Listen well,” he urged them. “You of Surt, and where’er. I’ve friends in Orkney. Generous men in need of strong, healthy hands to row their ships, work their farms, and fight at their sides.
“Hear me,” he raised his voice above the wind, the thunder of the remaining spearmen’s approach. “I make this offer only once. To honor my uncle, the laird, I will see you to my Orcadian friends. You can serve them for two years, leaving then. Or stay on as free men, if you so desire.”
The mercenaries said nothing.
But the looks they gave each other, the stir of mumbles exchanged, told Gunnar they were keen.
“Anyone wishing to go elsewhere may do so,” he finished, smiling now. “If you wish to leave this gorge alive, I’ll have your oath to be gone from Scottish soil by the rise of the morrow’s moon. If you remain, or e’er return, you’ll be found.”
He said no more, for they understood the threat.
“We’re for Orkney.” A burly man stepped f
orward, speaking for the rest. Dropping to one knee, he offered his sword to Gunnar, hilt-first in obeisance.
“We thank ye,” the others spoke as one, nodding as Gunnar took their leader’s arm and raised him to his feet. He gave back the sword, nodding.
“Then all is well.” Gunnar turned away as the mercenaries moved off to see to their wounded and dead.
Striding over to Squall and Munch, he clapped a hand on their shoulders. He was more grateful for their help than anything he could’ve said.
If the gods were good, they knew.
He just hoped they’d understand when he tore off for Kintail after the battle.
“Can you forgive me if I break away?” He glanced at the reddened ground, the chaos of the battle. They’d not lost a single man, but there were injuries. “My men will stay behind to tend the wounded. They’ll also help clear the track to your inn. I’ll thank your remaining spearmen on the way.”
Squall shook his head. “I have nae more warriors.
“They’re all in this gorge.” His lips curved in one of his rare smiles. “They tossed aside their long spears a while ago, have been fighting with swords alongside the rest of us.”
“Yet more approach.” Gunnar frowned. “Do you no’ hear them?”
“Nae.” Squall and Munch answered in unison. “We see ‘em coming.”
Gunnar looked at them, wondering if the battle joy had maddened them. Bloodlust and clashing steel was known to get to men, fuzzing their wits long after a battle.
“Aye, they’re here now.” Squall’s smile became a grin.
Munch appeared even more pleased.
Indeed, he seemed awed, his gaze on something behind Gunnar’s shoulder. It was then that Gunnar realized the foot-thunder was almost upon them. Also the chink of armor, the soft creaking of leather – the thunder that he now recognized as the heavy hoofbeats of a powerful charger.
“Odin’s balls!” His heart almost stopped.
The prickling at his nape should’ve served as a warning. Ignoring it, he whirled to see a great lord approaching. He was magnificent, and rode an equally great warhorse. A seemingly endless line of warriors trudged behind him. Fierce guardsmen in gleaming black mail. But it was the clan banner held aloft by one of his men that left no doubt to his name.
Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses Page 60