“The chapel?”
“Aye, Melisande. It is best to do this properly. In the chapel, before God and all the people.”
“Even while my father"s body lies there?”
“Especially because your father"s body lies there. Do you need more time?”
“I think not,” Ragwald murmured uneasily. The Viking looked his way, and Ragwald shrugged unhappily, gazing over to Melisande. “I don"t think Melisande needs time to think now, nor to be alone—”
“Because she might run away?” the Viking asked.
Ragwald didn"t reply. The Viking smiled, shaking his head. “No one runs from me, Ragwald. I run faster, you see. She must have it her way in this. I ask you again, Melisande. Do you need time?”
Those eyes! No one ran from him! Because if she ran, he would catch her.
And life would be far worse. He hadn"t wanted any part of this, but he had made his decision now. And that was it, the law, as great as God"s own, so it seemed.
One day I will run from you! she thought. Far, far away!
But her breath caught then, as she realized what he was trying to tell her. Her father lay dead in the chapel, and they must go there now and marry, with his cold body alongside them.
Count Manon would, after all, be present for his daughter"s wedding.
She curled her fingers into her hands, her nails biting her flesh. The people.
She had to do this because of all the people. The farmers, the smiths, the craftsmen, the milkmaids. They were weak now, so vulnerable. And this would make them strong.
“I"m ready now.” She stared at Ragwald. “I am not running anywhere.” She stared from one man to the next in the room, and a distant smile curled her lips.
“It wouldn"t matter anyway, would it? You would do this all by proxy, and nothing I said would matter.”
“The church demands your agreement,” the red-haired Viking assured her.
She lifted her hands, shaking her head. “So it"s said, but I"ve yet to see a woman"s choice in any matter mean a thing. Indeed, I remember a cousin"s wedding, in which she did not agree, yet wound up in her would-be husband"s arms, with his forceful grip upon her head causing her to nod at the appropriate time. Messires, I ask you, wouldn"t the same fate befall me?”
“Alas, milady, surely no—” the redhead began.
“Indeed, it is quite possible!” Conar MacAuliffe strode before her again, his blue eyes searing into hers. “Shall it come to that?”
“Why are you doing this?” she asked him. “You were so opposed to a child!”
“Children grow,” he said with a shrug. “And I have assessed this land. It"s worth the wait.”
“You could die in battle while you"re waiting,” she told him quickly. “And therefore die with no heir or issue.”
“You"re a very clever child,” he told her. “And perhaps my wait will not be so long.” He grew impatient then, turning from her and striding across to the great table, where documents had been strewn about. “I hereby swear to honor Count Manon"s demands as regards his daughter and his property, and set my hand and seal to it now, thus vowing my life to this new course.” He plucked a quill from the table and signed a document. A candle was quickly brought, and wax dripped upon it. The Viking pressed the ring from his little finger into the wax upon it, and thus the contract was signed.
He turned back to her. “Shall we go?”
“Isn"t my signature needed upon it?” she inquired.
He shook his golden head slowly, eyes upon her. “This is just the contract.
Your father signed it.”
Melisande seethed. He couldn"t have meant this, she thought. Not Count Manon. He couldn"t have meant to so cruelly cast her into this world where her thoughts and wishes meant nothing.
She clenched her teeth. It was a world in which a woman"s desires meant little or nothing. A woman was her father"s ward until her marriage.
And then her husband was full guardian.
Perhaps there would be no real marriage tonight. But this Viking would not be her guardian.
She almost sank back to the chair. Then she vowed she would not. He would learn that she had been raised to be independent, to think, to rule her own destiny. And if he did not, well then, both their lives would be hell.
“We shall go,” she said, and turning, started from the great hall. She bit into her lower lip, determined that no more tears would fall from her eyes before them, before him. Despite her best efforts, they blurred her vision as she hurried down the stairs to the entrance of the tower, then burst back out into the courtyard.
It had grown dark at last. The sounds of moaning and confusion had faded.
The dead had been collected, the injured attended to. Torches lit the courtyard in an eerie glow, because there seemed to be no light from the moon that night.
She felt his hand upon her elbow suddenly. “Melisande,” he told her softly,
“it is far more proper if you walk with your intended lord.”
“You are not my intended, you are my father"s.”
“I will not parry words with you tonight.”
“Then perhaps you had best not speak with me.”
His fingers curled around hers tightly. He didn"t really hurt her. He wielded just enough force to let her know that he could cause her head to nod if he so desired.
“I am weary, too,” he told her.
“Your father does not lie on a slab in yonder chapel,” she reminded him.
“I am sorry for that, deeply sorry. And so, milady, I have forgiven much.
Tonight.”
“Ah. Tomorrow you will forgive no more?”
“Tomorrow you had best take care. The more I speak with you, the more I find you to be overly wise for your years, too determined, brash, and reckless.” She spun on him quickly. “It is how I was raised. How my father intended my life should be.”
They had come before the chapel at last. Behind her, Ragwald was reading from the marriage contract, announcing the union of two noble houses, informing all the people that because of circumstances, the wedding would take place immediately.
“I intend, milady, that you should live long enough to provide heirs for this fine estate,” the Viking said flatly. “And as that might well take some time, you can no longer be so determined, brash, and reckless!”
“Where"s the bloody priest?” Ragwald muttered.
“I am here!”
Melisande was dimly aware that their priest, Father Matthew, had arrived at last. She hadn"t seen him all day. Father Matthew was not the bravest of men.
He had surely been hiding in the storage rooms beneath the chapel throughout the day.
If the Viking had come to him before, Melisande was certain, Father Matthew had certainly promised that he would wed the two of them—and put the fortress in his hands—no matter what Melisande should or shouldn"t say.
Father Matthew, snow white hair wild upon his head, let his small dark eyes fall briefly upon her, then he quickly looked away. In his way the priest was a gentle and caring man.
She was certain that he was sorry, but that he intended to act anyway.
The night air was cool. It made the chain mail armor she still wore icy to the touch. Melisande closed her eyes and felt the air brush her cheeks. Father Matthew stood upon the first step to the chapel and announced her name and title and family to the people who had begun to gather after Ragwald"s announcement. Then he announced the Viking"s. Impressive. He was the son of the king of Dubhlain, grandson of the high king of all Eire, and son of a very great Norwegian jarl.
Viking! Melisande thought.
Yes, it took one to fight them!
“Melisande!”
It was Ragwald hissing at her. She realized that she hadn"t been listening, hadn"t heeded the proceedings.
“Do you enter this union of your own free will?” Father Matthew repeated.
No!
The priest cleared his throat, but the Viking spoke for him impat
iently.
“Do you enter into this union of your own free will?” he demanded, his words strong, his voice very sure.
Any second now he would pluck her up, nod her head for her, she was certain.
It was her father"s will. She had said that she would do it. For all the people who depended on the lord and lady of the fortress.
“Yes!” she snapped. “I do this of my own free will.” Those Nordic eyes were upon her again. Icy blue. Yet tinged with just the smallest light of respect.
“A ring,” Ragwald whispered, to the Viking this time. “It"s very important here that you give her the ring at the doorway to the chapel. Then we may enter in.”
The Viking drew the ring from his finger, the ring with which he had set his seal to the wedding contract. He set it on her third finger, then tried her thumb.
She wrapped her fingers around it so that it wouldn"t fall to the ground.
Were that to happen, the entire crowd would moan as one, and everyone would be convinced that the Danes would wipe them all out by morning, that their children would burn to cinders, and that a plague of locusts would descend immediately.
The ring didn"t fall. Father Matthew announced that they would enter the church for the wedding mass.
“Do you really go to mass?” she inquired of the man at her side, her tone cynical.
“When it is opportune, most certainly,” he assured her. Melisande opened her mouth to speak again but fell silent.
Her father lay before them. She nearly tripped, nearly fell. Strong arms were there to prevent her from doing so.
“I cannot do this!” she whispered.
“You must. Lean on me.”
It was the last she really remembered of the ceremony. Father Matthew spoke of her father, of his goodness, of how he had been slain. He spoke of the strength needed to hold steady against their enemies, and thus this unseemly haste in a marriage. He spoke of the fact that Conar MacAuliffe had slain Gerald, who had slain Manon, and thus it was fitting that the avenger should sit in the lord"s house. And when all this had been said, he at last moved on to the wedding.
In the end she had to be nudged to speak again. By then it didn"t matter what she said at all. She would have sworn to marry twenty dwarfs from the forest.
Upon her knees before the altar at his side, she heard Father Matthew pronounce them duly wed, before God and men.
She couldn"t quite seem to stand on her own, but Conar helped her to her feet. His lips touched each of her cheeks.
There was no cheering, no revelry. He led her from the chapel and back to the south tower.
And there Marie de Tresse was waiting. She slipped an arm around Melisande and brought her up the stairs to the bedchambers.
They passed by the room where her father had slept. They stopped.
Melisande went stiff, staring into the room. She wanted to go there, to touch his things.
“No!” Marie whispered gently. “Not now.” Melisande felt numb at that moment, so cold and so weary. Marie pushed her beyond that door and down the small hallway to her own room. Once there, Marie helped her to slip off the suit of mail, and then Melisande collapsed upon her bed. Once again she thought of her father. Tears began to fall down her cheeks.
Marie came to her, brushing the tears away. But Ragwald came, too, and Melisande turned on her side, away from them both.
“Melisande!” Marie said softly. Ragwald caught Marie"s arm and led her away. “Let the girl be,” he said softly. “She needs the tears.” The door closed. And Melisande was alone. A bride—and an orphan.
In all of her life, she had never felt so surrounded.
And never, never so alone.
Chapter Eight
Not until the next morning did Conar give much serious thought to his precocious young bride. It was Brenna who made him look at her through new eyes.
Brenna was the child of one of his father"s dearest friends and greatest warriors—and one of his mother"s favorite women. They shared a wild heritage, that of the fierce defenders of Eire and the determined seafarers of Norway. The closest of friends since they were very young children, born within the same week, they had never been anything deeper, and loved one another like sister and brother.
Not that he didn"t have enough siblings of his own. There was Leith, of course, the oldest, his father"s heir. Then Eric, who he seemed to resemble most. There were his brothers Bryan, Bryce, and Conan, and then his sisters, Elizabeth, Megan, and Daria. It had been a full household with vibrant personalities, but because of all that had been shared within it, Brenna had found a place there, too.
Brenna always traveled with him. She had no interest in warfare and always stayed far behind the fighting, but she was often his right hand in many ways.
When she had been very young, Mergwin, his grandfather"s ancient adviser, very akin to a mystic, versed in Nordic runes and the ancient Druid ways, had touched her hand one day and declared her his pupil.
In recent years Conar had come to realize just what Mergwin had seen in Brenna. She had an ability to read men, she knew when they lied and when they told the truth. She could see into the hearts of people and know their motives.
She could read runes, of course, but many had the ability to cast the Norse runes and read their message. As a Catholic prince—his father had embraced Christianity for his mother"s sake—Conar didn"t put great faith in the reading of runes other than as a greatly entertaining and sometimes intriguing form of amusement.
Maybe that wasn"t quite the truth. He had set great faith in Mergwin throughout his life, as had all of his family. Mergwin could see things, and they all knew it. He guided them all, steered them from danger when he could.
He oft foretold the future, but warned them always that their own actions would forever influence destiny, and that they must remember that life itself called upon strength not only of the body, but of the spirit. In his heart Conar believed that there must be a heaven and a hell, and that it didn"t matter much whether it was peopled by one god or by Wodin and his hordes, whether men reached for the clouds or the halls of Valhalla. And just the same, it did not matter to him if Brenna read runes or looked to the stars and prayed to God for guidance—or even if she practiced the ancient Druidic rituals Mergwin had most assuredly taught her. He very often sought her counsel, no matter how she arrived at her wisdom.
On his first morning in the fortress he awoke still exhausted, which might have had some bearing on his future relationship with his child bride. His head throbbed, his muscles were sore from battle, his flesh ached from minor wounds sustained in the fighting. He awoke in Count Manon"s bed, which caused him some sorrow, for although he had met the man only once before, while learning sailing—and therefore fighting—with his uncle, he had earnestly liked and admired Manon. The count had been intelligent, strong, and fair, and with a pleasant sense of humor. In turn, he had seemed to admire Conar very much, and when Conar had received the invitation to come here, he had thought that Manon might sense some danger. Yet he had never imagined that he might arrive in time to fight it—but not to prevent the treachery that had seized his host"s life.
He saw Melisande instantly upon waking. Perhaps it was even her presence that had awakened him, for he had learned to be a very light sleeper. She stood in the doorway, staring at him, her face pale, violet eyes stricken. He found himself staring into those eyes. They touched him now, as they had touched him the first time he had seen them. Their color was unique, so very deep a hue, and they were large and fringed with rich and exquisitely long, dark lashes.
She had come to go through her father"s possessions, he thought.
She had not expected to find him here.
He pushed himself up, sitting on the bed, and she went a shade paler, then turned and fled. “Melisande!” he called, but she was gone. He realized that he had been sleeping naked, that the battle scars upon his shoulders might well be alarming, and then again, quite frankly, that she didn"t like him one bit—even th
ough he had saved her from having her throat slit or from being raped and enslaved by the very man who had slain her father.
She didn"t give a damn about the battle scars, he determined. She didn"t like his sleeping in her father"s bed, and she had no intention of obeying a single word he had to say.
Well, she would learn. And soon.
He rose, sliding into tightly knit trousers that served as leggings as well, pulled on his boots, and donned a linen shirt and heartier tunic. There was no need for battle dress today, but he was never without the knife he sheathed to his ankle and seldom went without his sword, sheathed in the scabbard he wore about his hips. Just as he buckled his scabbard, a boy brought water for washing, and he drenched his face, trying to awaken more fully.
He left the bedchamber behind him, admiring the fortress once again. He liked the way the bedchambers rose just above the hall, and the way the hall was set above the ground and the storage. Air passed more freely here, so it seemed, allowing the scent of the castle to be a sweeter one. Thanks to Mergwin"s determination, he had studied the old Roman ways of building their fortresses, and he could see all the advantages in this one. There was no moat surrounding the works now, but there was a trench before it to set the fortress itself upon the motte or mound, and it would certainly be an easy enough matter to deepen it and fill it from the sea, if that ever seemed necessary.
When he came down the steps to the hall, he found Swen—Norse-named but extremely Irish with his red hair and fine flurry of freckles—sitting at the table, and beside him, Brenna. They were alone, but it seemed that the workings of the castle moved smoothly along despite the recent demise of the count.
Handsomely carved wooden plates had been set out along with chalices and ale and trenchers of food, smoked eel, fresh bread, fish, fowl, and slabs of venison.
He hadn"t realized the extent of his hunger until now. The long hours of yesterday had been so filled with events that none of them had thought about eating.
He sat down and Brenna quickly stood, reaching for one of the chalices, pouring him ale.
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