In the bailey, Rangvald, Lorna, and Kenneth led the Highlanders and Rangvald’s warriors. A tree trunk pounded into the gate. “They must have chopped the tree when we arrived,” Kenneth mused. “Too bad it didna land on them.”
The wooden gate rattled but held tight with the planks of wood wedged against it, the metal rivets doing their job to keep the wood from splintering. “We need more archers on the barbicans,” Lorna cut in. “We need these men dead nae slamming their pole into us.” She walked to where Tyra and Freya were stationed and called up to them. “We need ye above the gate. They’re battering the portcullis.”
“We’re coming,” Tyra called down. She looked to Freya who nodded and grabbed her own quivers. The women crawled out of the shield wall and remained hunched over as the ran to the gatehouse. Bjorn watched Tyra, torn between going as her shield guard and remaining with the spear wall. He chided himself for not giving Tyra or Freya enough credit. They fought alongside one another for years, protecting each other with a savage determination. It was only since Hakin began causing trouble that Bjorn began to partner with Tyra. He needed to remember the women were a team, but it did not make it any easier to watch the distance grow between them.
“It’s a struggle, and I will let you know if I ever reconcile myself to watching her walk away,” Erik consoled him. “You’re not alone in your protectiveness, but it’s been the two of them since long before we joined in.”
Bjorn nodded as he forced himself to concentrate. If being distracted got him injured, Tyra might finish him off.
Freya peered over the wall at the team of Highlanders who rammed the tree trunk into the gate. She turned back and called down to Lorna. “Do they have one at the postern gate?”
“No. They dinna seem interested in that one since it’s too narrow to let many men in at once. The archers would get them.”
“Good because they’re bringing another battering ram. I just saw it.”
“Bluidy bleeding hell,” Lorna looked at her husband. “If the girls canna get them, they will be through the gate in minutes.”
“I know, my love. I need you to gather your shieldmaidens while Kenneth gets our men and his. We will be ready to greet our guests.”
Lorna and Kenneth split up to go their separate directions while Rangvald remained to call out commands. Tyra and Freya had no way to light their arrows as the fires on the barbican were only smoldering now they no longer boiled the grease. They fired in rapid succession, but they failed not stop the second tree trunk’s arrival. The Highlanders and Norsemen positioned themselves so they could batte the gate with alternating thrusts. The power and force was enough to splinter the wood. Rangvald issuing commands, but Tyra was too focused to interpret what he said.
“Freya, I’m almost out of arrows,” she hissed at her friend.
“Me, too.”
“Take mine and continue shooting while I go back for more,” Tyra offered.
“There aren’t more. At least not ones the others won’t be using. Mine are hitting their mark, but there are so many down there that we can’t get them all.”
“We have to tell the jarl,” hissed Tyra as she peeked over the wall.
“I know. I’ll do it. Then we join them below.” Freya crawled to the back of the gatehouse and looked down at the bailey. She spotted Lorna gathering her warriors as Kenneth ordered his into formation.
“Rangvald, we’re out of arrows. There aren’t any more for us. The others need the rest elsewhere. Tyra and I are coming down.”
Tyra followed Freya to the bailey where they drew their swords, having left their bows behind. They fell in with the mixture of Norse and Highland fighters who stood waiting for the gate to give way. Their wait was not long; the gate swung open as shards of wood flew toward them. The attackers dropped the battering rams, and the warriors flooded the bailey. Freya and Tyra positioned themselves to protect each other’s blind spots. They swung and sliced as Highlanders sneered, underestimating the power of the two trained shieldmaidens. They fought their way forward as Grímr’s Norse warriors now joined the melee. Shields clashed together as they served as both a weapon and a defense. Tyra jammed her shield into the face of her opponent, obscuring his sight, before plunging her sword into his belly.
“Ty!” Tyra spun to discover Freya fighting off two men as a third approached. Tyra ran toward the new assailant, her shield blocking her body as she raised her sword high above her shoulder, taking aim at the man’s chest. Tyra was slim and agile, so men did not considered how much force she transferred from her lithe frame into her attack. She slammed into the man and made him stagger back several steps. She was relentless as she drove her sword into his shoulder then swiped it across his thigh until she got a clear path to his belly.
“Thanks,” Freya said as she stepped over the body of a man she slayed. “He came out of nowhere.”
The sound of a war cry neither of them understood drew their attention to the gate as Welsh longbowmen rode into the bailey on their ponies. They took aim at anyone who appeared Norse, killing several of Grímr’s men in their pursuit of Rangvald and Ivar’s forces. Freya and Tyra rushed toward a corner of the keep that gave them shelter from the new attackers.
“Now what?” Tyra panted.
“I’ve haven’t a clue. I never considered they would ride into the bailey. They’ll pick us off like chickens roosting.”
Tyra slid toward the edge of the wall to peek at the archers who guided their horses with their knees and continued to shoot bolt after bolt at close range. Tyra looked up at the battlements where she last saw Bjorn, but she could not spot him. She prayed he was just too far away and not lying dead. She scanned the bailey and watched Norsemen and Sutherlands falling like autumn leaves. They had the advantage until the Welshmen entered the fray. Now the tide was turning, and it was not in their favor.
“Have you seen Grímr?” Freya whispered.
“No. I doubt he’s even here. Maybe one of our archers riddled him with arrows, and he never made it to the keep.”
“I would venture to guess he never made it here, but not because any of us stopped him.”
“You’re most likely right. The bailey is being overtaken by Grímr’s forces, but the Welshmen are struggling to use their bows now that they’re in close quarters. It’s not to their advantage after all. We need them to dismount.”
Freya tapped on Tyra’s shoulder, and they switched places.
“Their ponies seem a bit high strung. A good spooking, and they may throw their riders.”
The women looked at one another before darting away from the wall. They ran wide of the first rider, but Freya let out a high-pitched screech while Tyra banged the hilt of her sword against her shield from behind the animal’s right flank. It danced about as its rider tried to control it. Freya dared get closer and continued to wail as Tyra added a piercing whistle to the noise. Many of the horses were becoming more and more agitated despite being trained for battle. Several other shieldmaidens recognized what Tyra and Freya were attempting and lent their voices to the bedlam. With more whistles and screeches coming from multiple directions, several ponies reared, unseating their riders. Norsemen and Sutherlands pounced. In no time, the Welsh were killed or subdued, but Tyra became confused when another wave of Highlanders tore through the gates.
“How many of them are there?” she muttered.
“I don’t--” Freya did not finish as the men running into the bailey appeared to be running from something rather than toward the fight.
“The hounds of hell are on us!”
“The Devil rides.”
“Nay, it’s God’s avenging angels.”
Tyra and Freya looked at one another with furrowed brows not understanding what the men meant. Then they heard it. A great war whoop went up from just beyond the gate. More of the enemy forces ran into the bailey searching for shelter. Tyra and Freya charged to the steps leading to the battlements and found Erik, Bjorn, and Strian grinning. Strian pointed, a
nd the women looked out to discover a wave of Highlanders on horseback galloping toward them. Their faces were painted with blue woad and their horses wore metal-studded chaffrons over their heads. The horses also wore metal peytrals to protect their barrel chests, the metal links ringing as they collided with each hoofbeat.
Lorna and Rangvald raced to the top of the steps, and Lorna hung over the top of the wall before her husband pulled her back.
“Bratach bhan chlann aoidh!” The White Banner of Mackay. Lorna called as Alex and his men galloped closer to the keep.
“Manu forti!” With a strong hand came his responding bellow.
“Hold fast!” Came a deep, booming voice.
“The MacLeods are here, too,” Lorna cheered.
“Tulach Àrd,” came another baritone as the horsemen drew closer.
“Bluidy hell,” Lorna whispered. “The Mackenzies came.”
A tidal wave of warriors on horseback and foot flowed toward the keep as more and more men appeared. They divided on Alex’s call. It resembled the Red Sea parting as echelons, staggered lines moving diagonally, broke apart as the MacLeods and Mackays set their sights on the keep. The Mackenzies took a path to the camp.
Alex and Andrew rode into the bailey as their men swarmed the Welsh, Norse, and Highland mercenaries that still stood. Rangvald whistled, and Bjorn and their forces fell back so the new arrivals did not confuse them with the enemy. Once the MacLeods and Mackays recognized which shield patterns belonged to the enemy, Rangvald’s and Ivar’s warriors rejoined the fight. The Sutherlands remained fighting since the Mackays and MacLeods recognized their plaids. Tyra led the charge back down the battlement steps as she and Freya moved into position. Both women blinked rapidly as Bjorn and Erik pushed them took their places defending their backs.
“Now we fight,” Bjorn growled.
Fifteen
With the added support of the Mackays and MacLeods, the tide turned once more in their favor. The fight ended soon after as bodies draped with the Ross plaid or clutching Norse shields littered the ground. Nervous Welsh ponies continued to dance about, still agitated from the distraction Tyra and Freya caused.
“Cousin, it is good to see ye, ye auld goat,” Alex gripped Rangvald’s forearm as he pulled Lorna in for an embrace with the other. “Where’s Erik?”
They looked around to find Erik taking Freya to task for the risks she took with the horses. Bjorn was near to the couple as he chastised Tyra for the same thing. Both women stood with their arms akimbo with their sword hilt resting against their hip. It was comical to watch how the two couples’ movements mirrored one another. Once Freya and Tyra listened to all they were willing to, they each grabbed an ear attached to the man they loved and twisted. They pulled the men toward them before diving in for a passionate kiss. It almost seemed like they competed for the longest kiss.
“Our son takes after you, Rang,” Lorna teased. “He’s worn off on Bjorn, poor lad.”
“And those young women must have been listening to your stories.” Rangvald swiped away Lorna’s hand as she reached for him. He pulled her in for a quick, hard kiss and a tap on the backside.
“If all of ye tender hearted couples are through fornicating,” Alex failed to keep the laughter from his voice, “Perhaps we’ll discover whether the Mackenzies nabbed that toad. He’s slipperier than an eel.”
Tyra and Bjorn walked over to the rest of the group with Freya and Erik following not far behind.
“Good of you to show up,” Erik teased his cousin. “We thought you might have gotten lost.”
“Just gathering a few friends to join the ceilidh.”
“Hardly a party, but I will dance a jig over the mon’s grave,” Lorna growled.
Rangvald and Kenneth left the group to issue orders before they all headed to the castle gate, which hung off its hinges. They only made it a couple hundred feet past the castle when a young man with a mop of flaming red hair rode up. He nodded to the men and grinned at each of the women. He was handsome in a boyish and charming way that had Rangvald, Erik, and Bjorn pulling their women against their sides. Strian, Kenneth, and Alex laughed.
“It’s wise ye men keep yer women from the bastard before he has them chasing after him,” Andrew MacLeod walked up behind them.
“MacLeod, thought you were dead. Always late to everything except for every meal,” goaded the Mackenzie warrior.
“Tormod, still wanting everything ye canna have.” Andrew laughed.
Tormod Mackenzie dismounted and stepped toe-to-toe with Andrew. The two men remained at a standoff until they burst with laughter. Tormod slung his arm around Andrew’s shoulder as he drew his horse behind him, and they all moved back into the bailey.
“I worried aboot ye,” Tormod grinned. “Ma sister would have ma bollocks in haggis if aught happened to you.”
“She likes ma pretty face.”
Tormod snorted, “I doubt that is the only part of ye she likes.”
Andrew blushed despite puffing out his chest. Tormod turned toward the foreigners.
“Tormod Mackenzie,” he extended his arm to Rangvald.
“Are ye Angus’s lad? Ye look like him,” Lorna asked. “How is he?”
Tormod reached for Lorna’s hand and bent over it. No one had offered her such a courtesy since she left Scotland with Rangvald.
“He is with ma mother,” Tormod murmured.
“Ach, lad. I’m sorry to hear that. How long have ye been laird?”
“Eight years.”
“Ye were but a wean,” Lorna sounded saddened at the news.
“It is as the Lord planned, ma lady.”
“Aye, it is. Being with your mama is where he wanted to be.”
Lorna stepped back, and Tormod looked at Freya and Tyra, eliciting glares from Erik and Bjorn. Both women looked at their men before smiling prettily at Tormod.
“I wouldnae, if I were ye,” Alex warned. “I didna ken what Freya meant to Erik when they arrived the first time. I learned fast; I feared I’d lose ma life for staring.”
“You came close,” Erik grumbled, but he stepped forward to shake the younger man’s forearm. “I’m Erik Rangvaldson, and this is my wife, Freya Ivarsdóttir.”
“I am Bjorn Jansson, and Tyra Vigosdóttir is my bride.”
Tyra’s blinding smile made him realize he had not referred to that way yet. He had told her and the others she was as good as his wife, had even called her that, but she discovered a new joy at the promise of their future together. She leaned into his embrace and rested her head against his shoulder.
“And last but not least, I am Strian Eindrideson.”
A gasp sounded over Strian’s shoulder making him spin around. A pair of emerald eyes stared back at him before melting into the shadows of the keep. Strian made a strangled sound and raced after the small figure. The others watched him disappear around a corner. Bjorn shrugged.
“I gave up trying to understand him when we were children. He’s not secretive, but he only reveals what he wants others to know. We’ll find out when he’s ready. Onto what matters, Mackenzie, did you find Grímr?” Bjorn brought the conversation back to the reason they stood together in the enemy’s bailey.
The young laird shook his head with disgust. “I laid eyes on the bastard, but it was as if he disappeared into thin air. By the time I got across the camp, he’d disappeared. I didn’t see him run or ride in any direction. He just wasn’t there.”
“He makes a habit of that,” Erik interjected.
“So, what now?” Freya looked at her husband then her father by marriage.
“We spend the night. Say our farewells to our dead, then we deal with their dead in the morning,” Erik shrugged.
Alex shook his head, “We’ll tend to the Christian burials while you send your warriors to Valhalla.”
His voice was soft, ensuring it did not float beyond their immediate gathering. Lorna reached out her hand and gave his arm a squeeze.
“Thank you, lad.”
Strian was sure he was seeing things. He did not dare trust the eyes he looked into belonged to the woman he remembered. He kept the slight figure in his sights as she dashed toward the postern gate. Rather than try to pass through, she leaped as she reached the wall and began scaling it. Strian was on her in a moment, grasping her around the waist and pulling her to the ground. She spun around swinging, but Strian’s much larger body was no match. He pressed her back against the wall and pulled the woolen hat from her head. Waves of blonde hair tumbled to her waist.
“Gressa,” Strian choked out.
“Hello, Strian.”
“You ran from me,” the agony in his voice made Gressa flinch.
They stood staring at one another until Strian made a sound similar to a wounded animal. His mouth descended, but he paused before bringing his lips down to hers. Deep blue eyes stared back at moss green ones. Strian pressed his mouth to Gressa’s as memories flooded both their minds. When they parted, Strian brushed a tear from her cheek. Gressa tried to duck under his arm, but he pressed her back against the wall.
“You ran from me,” he repeated. “Do you know how long I searched for you? And now you try to escape.”
“That was a long, long time ago, Strian.”
“It feels like yesterday. I think about it every day as though it was only a moment ago.”
Gressa’s spine stiffened as she pushed at his chest.
“Well, you shouldn’t. There’s no point.”
“There is every point. Where have you been for the past ten years?”
“Where the hell do you think?”
Strian’s eyes widened.
“Are you a Christian now?”
“I’m many things now, most of which you wouldn’t understand.”
Tyra & Bjorn (Viking Glory Book 3) Page 18