Lord of the Wolves

by Heather Graham

  That did it. A child, indeed! One who had just seen her father slain. One who had gone to war.

  She had not done so very badly!

  “As I"ve said, milord Viking,” she spat out coolly, “we shall do everything in our power to repay our debt.”

  He still wasn"t looking at her. He was staring, baffled, at Ragwald.

  “A child!” he repeated.

  Ragwald began to speak very quickly. “But it was her father"s intention that you should form an alliance. In intended time, of course. He hoped you would form an affection for one another. Of course, now we haven"t the luxury of time. There must be a lord here, else we shall face this daily—”

  “What?” Melisande gasped, but they were all ignoring her. How extraordinary, when she had been so very important just moments ago!

  “Milord!” Ragwald entreated. “Aye, certainly, it will take some time to consummate the marriage, but it must take place! I implore you! Perhaps you shall wait for a bride, but you will gain these lands, rich lands! You have yet to really see the fortress, and it is a treasure, I assure you—”

  “The fortress is mine!” Melisande gasped out. She felt as if she were strangling. She stared at Ragwald as if he had lost his mind. He had lost his mind, surely. They had won! They had won, and now Ragwald was trying to get this Viking to stay here!

  Ragwald and the Viking both paused to stare at her.

  “Mine!” she repeated. “Ragwald, I am countess here!” The Viking looked back to Ragwald. “A very ill-mannered child!” he exclaimed.

  “What!” Melisande gasped again.

  “A beautiful one!” Ragwald countered.

  Those blue eyes lit upon her again. Raked her. She felt stripped and assessed.

  “Aye, and I imagine there"s a great deal of trouble to come,” he said wearily.

  “Milord, I entreat you—”

  “Let"s see the fortress then,” the Viking said coolly.

  Melisande, stiff upon Warrior, felt a streak of fury whip along her spine.

  Ragwald was trying to entice this pagan into marriage with her! He offered her—and the fortress. She had been found lacking, and so the Viking was determined to see if the fortress was a better bargain.

  “Oh!” she cried out. “This is incredible, this is inexcusable! Of all the arrogance—”

  “Indeed!” the Viking interrupted very softly. “It is quite inexcusable, your behavior, girl.” He turned to Ragwald. “I would determine her upbringing. I know where she can be more gently tamed.”

  “Ragwald!” Melisande cried out softly. She realized then that many people were around them. All of her father"s men. The men who had fought for him.

  All of the Viking"s men.

  She would not sit here and argue before them!

  “I will not do this, do you hear me? I will not do it! Be damned with you!” she told Ragwald softly, and spun Warrior around toward the castle walls, determined to escape them all.

  But despite Warrior"s great strength and power, she had barely raced across half the plain before she felt the thunder of hooves behind her. She turned, just in time to see a muscled arm reaching out for her. She cried out, nudging Warrior hard in the flanks, but her efforts were too late. She was swept from her horse and over to the Viking"s. Color and heat flooded her as he raced on, his arms tight around her, the cold metal of his mail clashing against her own, his chest seeming like an inferno of heat behind it.

  They tore for the castle gates that way. And the gates opened to their approach.

  The Viking did not slow his pace until they were within the courtyard.

  “You oaf!” she cried, shaking, trying to elude his hold. “You"ve no right!” She tore at the hands holding her. Large hands, startlingly fine, with incredibly long fingers. “I"ll bite you!” she promised. “I had Gerald bested on my own, and I will best you, too—”

  She broke off. He had leapt down and now reached up for her. He held her above the ground, her feet dangling. “Bite me, little girl, and I will spank you until your nether regions are raw, it is a promise!”

  “How dare you—”

  His eyes narrowed, he smiled, and then started to laugh. “I have been duped here to wed a child!” he exclaimed.

  “I will never wed you!” she swore. “And if you even think about laying a hand against me—”

  “Ah, little countess, I will think about it, indeed!” he whispered softly. “As to the wedding, well, we shall see.” He set her down. She could hear the other riders now, coming in their wake.

  She remembered her father. Lying dead, beyond the gates.

  “Let me go!” she entreated softly. “You may see to the fortress. I must—”

  “You must what?”

  “See to my father,” she said quietly, fighting tears.

  He released her. “Go then,” he told her. She started to walk away.

  “Melisande!” he called her back, and she turned.

  “Be advised, whatever you"re feeling, I will have no more outcries such as that before the men, do you understand?”

  “I am the countess here,” she said.

  He took a step toward her. “Let me try again, milady Countess! If you cannot behave as your situation in life demands that you must, then I will see what I can do to improve your manners.”

  Her eyes narrowed and she grated hard on her teeth. “I will not be taught manners by a Viking, I assure you!”

  “Oh, lady! Don"t delude yourself. You will be taught, I swear it!” he promised.

  “You haven"t the right!”

  Golden lashes quickly flicked over his eyes. He surveyed the walls of the fortress.

  “Then it seems I will have to wed a child to obtain it!” he informed her very softly.

  She swirled around. He caught her hand, drawing her back for a moment.

  “Run now!” he told her quickly. “For I think that this wedding will take place.

  And once it does, well then, little girl …”

  “Then what?” she demanded, head thrown back, eyes narrowed, passion and fury gleaming deep within them.

  “Then you will be in my power. Completely in my power. And I will see that you learn manners, Viking or other!”

  She ripped away and fled from him, vowing that no one could possibly put her beneath his power. She would not allow it.

  But even as she ran, she could hear the echo of his laughter, so close behind her …

  Chapter Seven

  When she came beyond the gates, Melisande discovered that, mercifully, others had come to her father first. He no longer lay on the field. When she turned, looking for him, she felt Ragwald"s bony but surprisingly strong hands upon her.

  “They"ve taken him to the chapel,” Ragwald told her. “I"ll bring you to him there.”

  She wrenched free from his touch, staring at him as if he were the greatest traitor in all the world. “I know where the chapel is. You stay away from me.” Ragwald sighed deeply, trying to come near her again. She backed away from him.

  “Melisande, stop it! You"ve got to listen—”

  “We had won! We had won, and you sat there bargaining with that Viking.

  We don"t need him, I hate him, I will not marry him, Ragwald. My father is dead, I am countess here, and you cannot make me!”

  “By your father"s soul, girl, have some sense!”

  “I have sense! Gerald is dead, the Viking killed him—”

  “And you are a very weak and very young girl! You cannot hold this land, you can"t provide the strength needed to support these men who were so willing to fight and die for you today. This Viking, as you insist on calling him, was your father"s choice.”

  “My father"s choice!” she exclaimed, astounded.

  “He can call upon help from across the seas, he can fight the Danes because he knows how to fight as they do. Melisande, you are not of an age to take power. Your welfare is left in my hands.”

  “Then stop this!” she demanded.

  Ragwald loo
ked at her sadly. “I was against it when I first heard of it, Melisande, but I think now that it is the only way you will be allowed to live long enough to care for this great fortress.”

  “Well, I won"t do it!” she insisted, coming closer to him. “I won"t do it! I"ll not be here when you and he come around to finishing with your bargains!” She was alarmed by the sense of panic growing within her every time she thought of what her fate might be at the Viking"s hands. He didn"t want her—

  other than to crush her. He wanted her fortress. It was humiliating. “I will run—

  ” she began, but she paused, hearing a soft footfall behind her. She turned around and quickly became aware that she and Ragwald were surrounded by the Viking"s men, a very strange lot of them, for some were so fair they were near white-haired, some were freckle-faced with fire-red hair, and some were very dark. Some were very Norse in their dress, while others wore the Celtic jewels and mantles so particular to Eire. She counted quickly. Ten of them surrounded her and bowed gravely as she stared at them.

  One stepped forward. He was nearly as tall as his leader, broad-shouldered, and with a full head of deep auburn hair. “Your father, Countess, is tended to now. If you"ll come with us, you might pray for his soul. Astrologer,” he continued, “my lord Conar seeks your council now.”

  Hot tears stung Melisande"s eyes. She wasn"t going to let them fall. She lifted her chin. “You all will accompany me to a Christian chapel to pray?” she inquired with an edge of sarcasm to her voice.

  But the man who had addressed her was careful to take no offense. “Milady, our island has long been a place where the greatest of Christian beliefs flourish.

  You must come there sometime. You will be amazed.”

  “Your island,” she said with a sniff. “And tell me, do they make those dragon-prowed ships of yours in those same places where your Christian beliefs flourish?”

  “Melisande!” Ragwald hissed.

  “Do they?”

  “Indeed, lady, they do. We have taken from King Olaf"s world all that is good and combined it with all that is fine from our homeland, and there we have found an incredible strength and beauty between the two.” He smiled and would not be disturbed. Melisande suddenly found her arm grasped by Ragwald again, and he was leading her through the crowd of men back toward the walls. His fingers were tense around her arm. “I have taught you all these years. I have frowned upon your father"s giving you lofty ideas, for it is a brutal and wearisome world beyond, and you must be made to see that! You have a fine mind, you are wise well beyond your years. You were willing to ride to your death this afternoon, but now you do not see how necessary this is for you and all who reside here. Do you care nothing for the people? Will you see them attacked again and again, laid low, beaten, massacred, because you are afraid of one man when you were not afraid of hundreds?”

  “I"m not afraid of him,” she whispered back furiously.

  “Then—”

  “I simply loathe the man.”

  “That is no reason not to wed him!” Ragwald exclaimed angrily.

  “I"m too young to marry—”

  “Girls have been wed from their cradles. Think on this, you may wed him now and most probably not see him again for years! But you will be safe and strong, don"t you see?” His voice dropped still lower. “Have you no respect for your father"s memory? Have you no dignity on his behalf? Of all times, Melisande, you cannot act like a child now!”

  “But I am a child. You keep telling me how young I am! As he says, I am a little girl!”

  “You cannot act like a spoiled one! You will mock your father, even in death!”

  If he wished to hurt her—but in so doing reach her—he had done so. Her heart and head still reeled with the simple fact that her father was dead. It was unbearable.

  She walked through the gates with Ragwald. They came to the center of the courtyard, and she spun around, staring at him. “Do what you wish then, astrologer! Cause this thing to happen. But don"t offer your advice to me again!”

  She whirled around and left him, aware of all the men behind her, but oblivious to them. The chapel was in the far north tower and she hurried there.

  The milling mass of her people, some white-faced, some with tears staining their cheeks from their own losses and hers, quickly made way for her.

  She burst through the doorway. She stood there a moment, accustoming her eyes to the dim and smoky candlelight within. The chapel was a simple place with rough wooden benches leading to the altar, an aisle in the center. A runner of crimson cloth had been cast down the aisle.

  Her father had been laid out on a like cloth on a wooden litter before the altar. Someone had tended to him carefully, the blood had been washed from his face and features, a cloth had been set around his throat where it had been so deeply severed. His eyes were closed, his fingers were folded around the hilt of his sword, so calm in death. He was a handsome man, a young man, Melisande realized.

  And when she looked at him now, she felt the tears she had fought so long burn like arrows in her eyes. She cried out, heedless that anyone might be near her, and she tore down the aisle to kneel at his side, to touch him, to let her tears flow.

  He looked so very much the same as when he had lived! But he was so stiff to her touch and growing cold so quickly. “No, no, no, no, no!” she cried over and over again. The tears fell from her face to land on his hands, and she felt against his coldness and his stiffness, his death, when she tried to wipe the wetness away. He could not be dead, she had to hear his voice again, his laughter again. She had not realized how very fragile life was, any life. The loneliness assailed her even as she sobbed, touching him still, hugging him, as if she could warm him back to life with her own body. She threw herself upon him, sobbing, praying that she might wrench him up and somehow breathe life into him once again.

  She suddenly felt a strong, warm touch upon her, one that was very much alive. She tried to fight, but the power behind it was too much for her. Seeing her father, feeling his body grow cold, had been more than she could bear. She hadn"t the strength to stand.

  Blindly she struck out at the arms that held her. She was not released, but pulled firmly away. She started to fall and was lifted up. She found herself staring into the endlessly blue eyes of the Viking who had avenged her father"s death but now stood to take his place.

  “Leave me be!” she begged him.

  “You cannot be with him, you cannot die with him. No living soul can do that for another,” he told her.

  A new well of tears sprang forward.

  “Hush,” he told her, and gently held her head against the breadth of his chest.

  “Shh, the pain is great, but it will lessen.”

  “Never!” she whispered. He was carrying her somewhere, she didn"t know where. She was dimly aware that they left the chapel behind them, that people broke apart to make way now for the Viking who held her.

  Darkness was falling. It had been just hours since her father had died.

  And already he was so cold.

  So stiff.

  Gone …

  She started to shudder and sob again. His fingers came to her face, smoothing dampened hair from her cheeks. A few minutes later he set her down in one of the mammoth carved chairs before the fire in the great hall.

  The hall was very quiet, yet there were men there. She could see them all as he set her down. Ragwald was there, very tall and lean, watching her with a strange, sorrowful light in his eyes. The great redheaded friend of the Viking was there, along with Philippe, Gaston, and a few others.

  The redheaded man came forward with a chalice. The Viking, down upon one knee before Melisande, took it quickly from him, pressing it into her fingers. “It"s warmed wine. Drink it. It will help.”

  “Nothing will help.”

  “Aye, time will help.”

  She drank the wine. The room remained very quiet. She felt the great heat and power of the man before her, watching her as she drank the wine.
She had had it oft enough before. Even very young children sometimes had sips of wine with their meals, it was all that was set upon the table to drink at times.

  This wine was potent. A rich wine her father had just brought back from his visit to Burgundy. That thought nearly brought the tears back to her eyes. She didn"t sip the wine, but drank from it deeply. It warmed her insides and nearly made her gag. In the aftermath of the warmth, though, she felt the first numbing of the pain.

  She drained the wine from the chalice and stared into the cool, demanding blue eyes of the stranger who suddenly seemed to be dictating her life.

  He watched her in turn, judging her, she knew. For the moment she kept her silence, though she bristled. Her lashes lowered at last, and she thrust her chalice back at him. He rose from his knees before her and strode back to the center of the men, then turned and faced her from a distance.

  “We have found your father"s documents,” he said. He waited for her reaction, but she allowed him none. “He had already had a marriage contract written with his agreements clearly set forth. Would you like to read it?” Her breath caught. She couldn"t believe it. Her father had meant to marry her to this man! He had always promised that she would have some say, that she would choose.

  She felt so numb that she couldn"t quite form an answer. In a way she was betrayed. Her father, like everyone else, had doubted her ability and her power.

  There was no way out of this, she realized, and anger seemed to flow through her body as hotly as the wine. She would not let them ridicule her in the future.

  And she wasn"t going to run again and be dragged down by this Viking.

  She stood, startled to discover that she was a little wavery on her feet, but she carefully hid that fact. She was glad that, even at her age, she was taller than some of the smaller men present.

  Not taller than him, though. She was certain that not many men were.

  I will not be afraid of him! she vowed to herself. “I don"t need to see the papers,” she said coolly. “In my father"s honor, I will follow my father"s wishes.” She stared at Ragwald.

  Long strides brought him back before her, blue eyes strong upon her. “Can you manage the chapel?”