Bjorn watched as Tyra and Freya fought several feet in front of him. He watched both women gather bows and arrows before taking aim at the people on the ground. He and Erik pushed through the melee to get to their women. They stood with their backs to the women and fended off any man who attempted to cut them down. One pointed his bow at Tyra and received Bjorn’s sword blade through his eye for casting his glance in the wrong direction.
It was not long before the Sutherlands were streaming through the gate having sent several of their men over the wall to raise the portcullis. The Sutherlands flooded the bailey and overwhelmed those the Norse archers had not shot. Laird Ross roared as he stormed through the keep doors onto the steps. Kenneth was there waiting and ran the older Highlander through before he swung his sword.
“Ye should have listened to yer priest, auld mon,” Kenneth spat out as he looked at the dying man. “Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.”
A man slipped from the shadows and dashed toward the corner of the steps pointing toward the gate. Bjorn was certain his eyes were deceiving him.
“Sutherland! There he goes! Grímr, we shall hunt you down and leave your bowels for the carrion. May Odin’s ravens, Hugin and Munin, carry the word of your disgrace back to Valhalla.” Bjorn leaned as far over the wall as he dared, and Tyra pushed him out of the way seconds before an arrow sailed over where his head had just been. She landed her fist in his gut.
“You promised not to die. Don’t be an idiot,” she kissed him before getting to her feet and running toward the stairs.
“See what you’ve been missing,” Erik jested as he took off after Freya.
Bjorn looked again, but Kenneth was fighting another Ross, and Grímr was nowhere in sight. Bjorn scanned the bailey, but was sure he would not find the man there. He ran to the other side of the wall near the portcullis. He would wager Grímr was fleeing, but it was too dark to tell.
The battle in the bailey was over within half an hour. With the Sutherlands present, the Norsemen allowed the Rosses to keep their lives. The Norsemen raided the keep but were not willing to fight the Sutherlands over the kirk. There was grumbling from many, but Lorna silenced it with one loud whistle. They bound and gagged the remaining Ross warriors while women huddled in groups as they shielded the eyes of their children.
“And that is why they grow into weak men and women. They shield their children from death when no one can escape it,” Tyra sneered as she and Freya wiped their swords clean. “We are victorious because we accept it and do not fear it. We mourn those we lose, but we know we shall meet again in glory while we feast with the gods.”
“Blasphemous heathen,” one woman screamed. “Savages.”
Tyra turned to find the woman sobbing as her friends tried to silence her.
“We’re savages?” she mused as she walked closer to the woman. “And just what are your men who whore themselves to our enemy, a pagan at that? Your jarl, or laird, whatever you call him, sold your men’s sword arms to a Norseman. We aren’t the savages when it was your leader who invited us to your table.”
“The good Lord will smite ye and have his vengeance.” The other women failed to silence her.
Tyra spread her arms wide and looked around.
“Then you will not want me to stand too near when your White Christ shoots his bolts of lightning at me. Ah, but wait, that would be my mighty god, Thor, who commands the lightning.”
Tyra laughed as the woman cowered. She looked at the woman in disgust.
“Stop your sniveling. We are not Grímr or his forsaken brother. We do not wage war on unarmed women and children. You will live to see another sunrise, but your voice grates on my nerves. You cower before your children and cause them to fear what is no longer a threat to them. Show some courage and teach your children to be stronger than you ever will be.”
Tyra watched as the woman shrank back into the shadows and pulled her children into her arms. She shook her head as she moved to stand with Freya once more as Lorna walked toward them.
“Lorna Mackay!” The same woman’s voice screeched.
Lorna looked up confused.
“Aye?”
The woman screamed again, “Ye traitor. Ye whore. Ye brought the Devil’s men to our door.”
She brandished a knife as she ran toward Lorna, rage disfiguring the woman’s face. Tyra took a step forward, ready to block the woman’s path. She drew back her sword, but Freya’s arm flew out to stop her. The Ross woman charged Lorna and ran into Lorna’s fist. The impact made the woman’s head snap back before she collapsed to the ground.
“‘We do not wage war on unarmed women and children.’ Remember?” Freya whispered.
“I dinna ken who she is, but she kenned me. Then again, there arenae many Highland women who run off with a braw Norseman and return to fight alongside the mon whose brother killed ma family. I suppose I stick out a bit.” Lorna shook out her fist and checked for broken skin. “Bluidy hard head. I may have broken ma wee finger.”
“You told her to have courage,” Bjorn said as he stepped behind Tyra.
She spun around and jabbed her finger into his chest. He wrapped his hand around it and grinned at her. “And I told you not to get yourself killed. That wasn’t courage up there. That was arrogance,” Tyra’s voice broke.
“Come here, my wee beastie.”
“Don’t tease me,” Tyra’s bloodlust dissolved as she let Bjorn pull her into his embrace. “I’m not ready to lose you.”
“Good thing because I’ll insist upon being found.”
“Not funny,” she murmured as she wrapped her arms around his waist. “Are you all right? Did you get hurt?”
“No. You?”
Tyra shook her head. She breathed in his scent. Beneath the grime, sweat, and blood, she still smelled pine from the needles they slept on. She did not understand how it was possible after their dip in the firth, but it soothed her.
“Grímr got away,” Bjorn spoke over her head to the others. He looked down at Tyra, and his heart slowed, reassured she was unharmed and in his arms.
“We know. Kenneth was ready to go after him, but he had to fight off the blacksmith who came at him with a red-hot poker. He’s being treated for a burn,” Rangvald informed them as he pulled his wife to his side. They whispered as they reassured one another that they were hale.
“So what now?” Freya asked.
“I suppose we rest and wait for daylight. Grímr knows we’re here. We have guards posted on the walls to make sure he doesn’t attempt what we did or tries to sneak off in the night. We’ll fight tomorrow as we planned,” Erik shrugged.
Tyra looked at the women and children who still huddled in the dark. She found a young woman who seemed more in awe than in fear of her. She approached the girl, but stopped a healthy distance in case she might try to follow the example set by the clanswoman who called out Lorna’s name. When the young woman neither moved nor flinched, Tyra spoke to her.
“Take the women and children into the keep. Get them blankets and fed. They can use the laird’s family’s chambers for the night. They’ll not be harmed up there. No one will disturb them.” The young woman nodded and started to usher the others toward the keep steps. Tyra warned, “Paint me a fool for my mercy, and I will make an example of you.”
The young woman only nodded as she herded the others toward the keep. Tyra turned back around and discovered the others watching her.
“What? My mother died when other Norsemen raided our homestead. No one offered her any mercy, and I have lived with the guilt of her hiding me and protecting me. I may not respect them, but I won’t be the cause of a child’s suffering. I’m not a monster,” she trailed off.
Strian stepped forward and embraced her. Had it been any other man, Bjorn would have ripped his limbs from his body. “No one offered my mother mercy either during that raid. I live with the guilt of being on my first raid while my mother was being attacked and killed.”
No more was said on the matter as the conversation moved on to the upcoming battle.
Fourteen
The remainder of the night crept by as they did little but wait for sunrise and Grímr’s inevitable attack. Kenneth tasked his men with finding vats of lard and tar. Once they gleaned information from the surviving Ross clan members, warriors from all three groups moved the vats onto the battlements and set logs below and tinder spread around them. They already raided armory, so fresh swords and arrows were on hand. Warriors spread additions shields on the battlements. It took less than two to complete these preparations, so they sat and waited.
As the sky pinkened with the first hints of the sunrise, Bjorn made his way to the battlements to check on the boiling cauldrons. They set the fires, and the mixture of grease and tar was already releasing a pungent odor. Bjorn wondered why the noxious fumes were never enough to warn away attackers. The scalding brew had splashed more than once over the years, and he had burn scars as evidence. Tyra and Freya moved into place with their bows and several quivers nearby. Kenneth, Rangvald, Strian, and Erik worked to reinforce both the portcullis and the postern gates. There were warriors positioned facing out toward the surrounding fields and the bailey in case the Rosses attempted to raise a defense.
Bjorn scanned the tents pitched beyond the castle wall and tried to find Grímr. Even though Grímr recovered from the leg wound he sustained months earlier, he still walked with a slight limp. Bjorn struggled to find him, but he told himself he should not be surprised, since Grímr never fought on the front line. Their nemesis claimed to stay toward the rear to cover the backs of the advancing fighters and to encourage the subsequent waves of warriors. It did not fool anyone. He remained in the rear to stay alive. He was far more ambitious than his older brother, Hakin, gave him credit for. Had Freya not already killed Hakin, Grímr would have done so after his brother put forth the effort to capture Rangvald’s and Ivar’s settlements. Greed and deviousness drove Grímr and made him a legitimate threat, where his brother preferred brute force to make his point.
Movement caught his eye as men exited three tents. He was unprepared for how many fit in each, but each man carried the distinct Welsh longbow. Bjorn swore under his breath and was glad they found the extra shields. The archers could fire their arrows from where they stood in the field and strike down warriors standing on the battlements.
“Freya, dip your arrows into the tar,” Tyra rushed to get through her quivers. Their archers would light them and then fire them as the enemy approached. They would also use them to set ablaze the men attempting to scale the walls. The archers were close to done as orders were barked as men climbed the steps to the wall walk. Erik led a group of men while Strian brought up the rear as they carried a fence made from spears tied together. They would raise it as the first men came over the wall, impaling them before they got their feet on the battlements. Tyra looked down at the bailey and recognized something similar at the portcullis and the postern gate. She turned around in time for the first flaming arrow to sail toward the keep.
“Shield wall,” she called as she dove for hers. The shields banged together as they protected themselves from the onslaught of arrows. Tyra crept to her embrasure and thrust an arrowhead into the cauldron fire next to her.
“Open,” she called, and the two shields in front of her separated enough for her to release a flaming arrow as the first warning to Grímr that they were prepared to fight. More arrows sailed over their heads, and the warriors maintained their shield wall.
“We wait them out. Don’t waste any arrows when we can’t yet reach them. Let them use up their arrows before we even use ours,” Freya’s orders traveled through the still morning air. She looked to Tyra, who nodded. It was a toss-up on any given day as to which of the women had the better aim. They were both among the best in their tribe, taking quick aim but having the patience to hit their mark.
Hundreds of arrows landed on the wall walk, and they heard screams of agony when one broke through the shield wall. The warriors were quick to close the gap when an arrow felled a warrior. Bjorn crouched low as he moved toward the barbican where Erik kept watch. The gatehouse was more elevated and gave a clearer view of the area behind Grímr’s camp.
“Do you see aught?” Bjorn asked.
“Naught. Only their camp. It isn’t as large as we supposed last night.”
“They are sleeping tight in their tents. I watched Welshmen stream out of three tents. They must have sat up to sleep.”
“Then perhaps they will be too tired to put up a fight,” Erik’s jest made Bjorn smile, but they had gotten little more sleep than their enemies. Bjorn followed Erik’s finger as he pointed to the right side of the camp. “There. That’s Grímr. I’m sure I saw him limp toward one of his men.”
Bjorn and Erik ceased talking as they strained to see across the expanse to where two men conversed.
“You’re right. That is him, and it looks like he’s just given the order for them to attack.”
The two men watched as a hoard of Norsemen stampeded toward the castle, banging their sword hilts against their shields. Tyra’s voice rang out.
“Hold!” Tyra counted to five. “Hold!”
She poked her nose into the embrasure to watch as the Norsemen drew closer.
“Hold!” she bellowed once more. This time counting to twenty before drawing her own bowstring back. “Fire!”
The shield wall parted as archers lurched into their openings and launched their blazing missiles at the enemy. The shields clanked back together as the archers reloaded. Each archer called out to their shield guards when they were ready to fire once more. Tyra and Freya picked off one man after another, pausing only long enough to light their arrowheads. The bellows of pain coming from the ground far exceeded the ones the women heard when the Welshmen took aim. The shield wall remained intact as the Welsh continued to rain down their own flaming arrows. When one of the Norse archers fell on the wall, another took their place.
“Ready the tar!”
Bjorn’s voice surprised Tyra when it came from behind her, but she did not dare turn to look. More men pushed forward into the shield wall as they lifted the handles of the cauldrons. It would take at least four men to lift each one. Bjorn slid between two warriors to get a closer look at the approaching army. The first wave of fighters who survived the arrow barrage were hurtling toward the wall, and ladders hit the masonry as he looked to his left. They did not stay propped very long, the Norsemen waiting until the climbers were just high enough to be maimed or killed when they fell. However, some of the ladders were remaining where they butted against the wall as men and women tried to scramble up them.
“On your mark!” Bjorn called. He watched as the cauldrons began to dump the boiling mixture onto the attackers, each group of men deciding for themselves the right moment to pour. The contents of the vat between Tyra and Freya streamed down and splashed across the heads of a score of Norsemen and women. Freya was the first to release a flaming arrow, and the greasy tar erupted in flames. Tyra pointed her arrow further down the wall toward the vat that tipped over on her other side. She, too, fired an arrowhead that burned bright red. The howls of agony grew as more and more of Grímr’s fighters fell victim to the aggressive defense of the keep.
“Look,” Erik pointed his sword through an opening. “The next group comes.”
With most of the grease and tar already spilled over the wall, they would rely on the fire that spread between the keep and their onslaught of fighters. It made it difficult—but not impossible— for the ladders to thud against the wall as Grímr’s forces swarmed the base of the keep. The archers continued to shoot those who came within range. Despite the flames, tar, and arrows, some were reaching the top of the ladders.
“Spears,” Strian called from near the barbican. Bjorn and Erik helped the others raise the spears and push them over the heads of the shield wall that broke apart for the new defense to take their place.
“Stay d
own,” Bjorn said over Tyra’s shoulder. “If you must, get off the wall and go to the bailey.”
“And leave you here? No.”
“If I’m dead.”
“Then I shall be a berserker.”
That was all there was time to say before Bjorn and the other warriors thrust the spear fence into the enemy who survived long enough to scale the wall. As more fell from the ladders, they knocked down many who were climbing behind them. The landing killed some and injured others enough that they were no longer a threat. Freya and Tyra drove arrows into the chests and backs of those who moved. They might not be a threat again that day, but neither would they live to be a threat another day.
Tyra & Bjorn (Viking Glory Book 3) Page 17