“She made a choice, as must we all.” De Warenne grabbed her shoulders and turned her, forcing her to look at him. “Listen to me. We have only moments left on this cursed vessel, so pay heed to what I say. These waters are not warm, but neither are they frigid. Assuming we can stay afloat, we should be able to survive for a while, at least. Panic is your enemy, as is exhaustion. Before you jump, take a deep breath and hold your nose as you plunge. When you enter the waves, the initial shock will be harsh, but you must resist the urge to empty your lungs. It is imperative that you remain calm and do exactly as I tell you. Is that clear? Tell me you understand what I just said.”
Still numb with shock, Giselle gaped at him. Around them, the flames snapped and snarled as the smoke thickened. Hell had truly found them and was busy unleashing its demons. Both shadow and firelight played on her protector’s face, distorting the contours. With his unkempt hair and unshaven jaw, Luc de Warenne looked not unlike one of Hell’s demons. She shivered and let out a groan.
De Warenne gave her a slight shake. “Do you understand, my lady?”
Sweet Christ. Anna. Oh, Anna.
“Giselle de Courtenay, do you understand?” he repeated, through gritted teeth.
Nay, not a demon. A demon would have abandoned me.
She blinked. “I… I think so.”
“Good.” He released her, hoisted the door above his head, and tossed it overboard. Then he scooped her up as if she weighed nothing at all and sat her, facing outwards, on the ship’s rail. “Steady,” he said. “I have you.”
Confronted with the seemingly endless expanse of lonely water, Giselle tensed and grabbed at his shirt. “Nay!” she cried. “I can’t do this. I swear I can’t.”
He clambered up beside her and placed his arm around her waist. “Yes, you can. Take a breath. Fill your lungs. Good. Now another. This time, hold your breath and hold your nose. Ready?”
Giselle whimpered and closed her eyes. How could one ever be ready for such a thing? How could one prepare or even hope to endure? Death surely awaited her in that seething, black mass. Her last thought as she pinched her nose was of Anna.
I pray she did not suffer long.
A heartbeat later, Giselle plunged into the cold grasp of a merciless sea. The sudden, bitter shock was unlike anything she’d ever felt. She sank down and down, lungs burning as the air within demanded release. A band of pain tightened around her skull as she kicked against the tangle of her skirts. Disoriented, unsure of where the surface lay, she dared to open her eyes. Beside her, the bloated hull of the ship wallowed like some great behemoth. Above, a hellish, golden light flickered and danced. Below, a terrible blackness like she had never seen.
She was going to die.
Panic grabbed her in a stranglehold and her lungs deflated on a cry of fear; an inhuman, distorted sound. Then she felt a strong hand around her wrist, pulling her upwards. Desperate for air, she kicked again and broke the surface, sputtering, her hands searching for something – anything – to hold on to. They found Luc de Warenne’s head and pushed it beneath the water.
An angry, muffled cry rose from the waves. De Warenne grabbed both her wrists and shoved her away, holding her at arm’s length. Then he broke the surface on a curse.
“Cease your struggling or…” he coughed, “or you’ll drown us both. Keep your chin up, out of the water. Aye, that’s better. Nay, do not resist me! I won’t let you go. Breathe, Giselle. Just breathe.”
“By the Devil’s hairy b-balls.” Giselle choked on a mouthful of seawater. “I c-can’t breathe. It’s… I’m… so cold.”
“The shock will ease in a few moments.” With his hands still tight around her wrists, he pulled her close. “Listen to me. I’m going to turn you so you can rest against me and breathe easier. I won’t let go, I swear it. Where is that damn—? No, God’s teeth, Giselle, don’t fight me! Let me… aye, that’s it. Good. Now, fill your lungs and let your body float. That’s right. Brave girl. There it is, thank Christ.”
She felt his legs kick beneath her. Moments later, something solid nudged her side. With a grunt, De Warenne lifted her up and onto the door. “Try to balance yourself,” he said. “Grab the other side and pull yourself… yes. Good. That’s it.”
Gasping for breath, Giselle managed to find some stability on the makeshift raft.
“And… and you,” she said, teeth chattering. She grabbed his wet shirt and pulled as he hoisted himself up beside her.
“Kick your feet like this,” he said, splashing his own in a vigorous effort to take them away from the burning ship, which now seemed almost entirely engulfed. Men spilled from the sides – those, she realized, who could not swim and had waited until the ship’s final moments before finding the courage to enter the water. Their cries and prayers filled the air. The terrible sound bled into the depths of Giselle’s soul. Then, from what seemed like the heart of the flames, a great black horse emerged as if on wings. It cleared the rails with ease before plunging beneath the waves.
She knew De Warenne had seen the horse… his horse. She heard his sudden, sharp intake of breath. Hindered by the rise and fall of the sea, Giselle watched, offering up a silent prayer that the stallion might survive his plunge. Moments later, he appeared, the whites of his eyes showing as he held his head up and away from the heaving surface. Then he circled, once, twice, before striking out on his seemingly chosen path, away from the ship.
De Warenne changed direction, following that of his horse.
“I trust his instinct,” he said, answering Giselle’s unspoken question. She didn’t respond. It had been mere moments since they’d entered the water and, already, her hope of survival had eroded, washed away by the bitter reality of their plight.
“Do not give up.” De Warenne’s voice brushed across her ear. “Do you hear me, lady? Do not give up. Kick with me. Keep moving.”
They continued to kick; slow, deliberate strokes that seemed to achieve little against the rise and fall of the waves. Yet the ship was already some distance away, the hull consumed by flames that climbed into the night. The cries of those in the water had ceased, Giselle noticed. Or maybe she simply couldn’t hear them anymore.
“Where are you taking me?” Numb with cold, Giselle suppressed an odd desire to laugh even as a sob escaped her throat. “Ireland?”
De Warenne’s hand moved to cover hers, where it clung to the edge of the raft.
“Keep the faith,” he said, his voice so gentle she barely recognized it. “We’re not finished yet.”
“I believe I’m close to b-being so,” she replied. “I c-can’t feel my legs.”
Was she still kicking? She didn’t know. Didn’t care. Body bitten by cold and fatigue, she looked up to see the clouds sliding across the night sky. She found their unified flight calming, somehow. Her muddled mind attempted to grasp some concept of time. How much of it had passed since they’d entered the water? Not too much, she thought, although it seemed like hours.
She summoned what little strength she had left and forced words from her throat. “There is something I would like to say, Sir Luc, while I st-still can. Will you hear it?”
There was a momentary pause, long enough for Giselle to wonder if the man had succumbed. No, for their unlikely vessel was still being propelled forward.
“I’m listening,” he murmured, at last.
Her teeth chattered as she spoke. “I know my uncle misled you about this mission. I sensed your resentment the f-first time we met. ’Tis no great honor for a knight of your st-standing to be given such a m-mundane—”
“Stop this,” de Warenne said. “Your uncle put his trust in me above all others. My sense of honor, then, is hardly compromised.”
“But, your life…”
“Is still with me, as is yours.” His hand squeezed hers. “We are not yet defeated, my lady. As your uncle trusted me, so must you.”
“I do. And I…I want you to know I’m no longer afraid to f-face the likely outcome of this night. I ha
ve taken c-courage from your presence. It might sound like madness, but in all my sh-sheltered life, I have never felt quite as protected as I do at this moment.” She turned to him. “May Christ protect you from a woman’s folly, Luc de Warenne.”
His teeth chattered. When at last he spoke, his voice seemed to labor. “You do me a great honor, my lady, but I gave you nothing that you didn’t already possess. Nor will I hear talk of finality. We are not yet dead.”
“I regret, m-my lord, I cannot endure m-much longer.” She turned her gaze back to the skies. “I see a light above us. Is it Heaven, do you think?”
She heard a sigh. “Stay with me, Giselle.”
“But the light. D-do you not see it? It’s so…” She closed her eyes, rested her cheek against the saturated wood, and allowed welcome darkness to creep through her brain. “F-forgive me, Sir Luc. I just n-need to sleep for a while.”
Chapter 6
Ninian set his quill aside and straightened his stiff spine, well pleased with his night’s work. No wine on earth, he mused, could compete with the sweet taste of accomplishment. Each letter had been carefully inked onto the soft parchment, forming words that had been strung together like jewels on a necklace. The recording of these ancient tales would be his legacy, his gift to the future. Long after his time, the stories would still be told and marveled at.
As it should be.
The candle flame flickered as Ninian slid off his stool. He leaned over and blew it out. Only the glow of the peat-fire remained, but it was enough to see by. Once he’d attended to his needs, he’d take himself off to bed. As he turned, his attention was snared by a faint light that edged the closed shutter. By all things sacred, was the sun rising? Had he worked all night? Or were his eyes deceiving him?
He rubbed them, but the light remained. It could not be moonlight. The moon was a new born and puny crescent. Ninian headed for the door, intent on solving the mystery. The answer came to him before he’d even crossed the threshold.
The splendor of the north! It had been some weeks since he’d seen it, the last time on a bitter cold night around the turn of the year. Muttering to himself, he tugged a wolf pelt across his shoulders, grabbed his hickory staff, and stepped out into the night.
The vision that greeted him halted his bare feet and held him fast. Ninian craned his neck and gazed up at the sky, heart responding to what his eyes beheld. Over the years, he had witnessed many similar visions. Such spectacles lifted the spirit and prompted the blood to surge. Often, the lights stained the northern horizon with swirling rainbows of color. At other times, they hung from the stars like rippling, silver curtains, reflecting, he assumed, the sparkling surface of those faraway frozen lands.
On this night, they appeared as a radiant circular column shoring up the sky. Being early April, such displays were common, although they often appeared at other times, too. No matter the month, however, one element tended to remain the same. The northern lights usually appeared on a still, clear night. And that consideration caused Ninian to scratch his head in growing bewilderment.
For this particular night was neither still, nor clear.
Clouds had blanketed the sky all day, spitting out a fine drizzle that had been whipped into a frenzy by a merciless, west wind. Though both rain and wind had now eased, the stars remained hidden behind a thick, gray swathe. An unusual night, then, for such a luminous display. An odd configuration, too, he mused, one he couldn’t recall seeing before. Nor had the lights ever looked quite as strange.
His dropped his gaze downwards, to the point where the phenomenon appeared to touch the earth. Then he took a step closer, as if doing so might allow him to better understand the impossibility of what he was seeing. As truth displaced disbelief, Ninian gasped and leaned on his staff for support. He’d misunderstood. Made a mistake. The lights were not hanging down.
They were rising up.
Like a beacon.
And their source?
“By all the gods.” His hand tightening on his staff as he stared at the distant circle of stones. “A ’gheata.”
Thirteen in number, the stones stood watch on the highest point of the island. Their sacred power was well known to him, but he had never seen it flare to life as it did now. What had stirred the magic?
The light obviously served as a beacon. Of that, Ninian had no doubt. But for whom did it shine? Apart from himself, he knew of only one other who could lay claim to the ancient line. His gaze drifted to the mainland, where a faint glow in the sky signaled dawn’s imminent arrival.
Nay. It canna be him. If he wanted ashore this sacred isle, he’d use the gate. Who, then?
Frowning, he dragged his gaze back across the water, his weary eyesight sharpened by a sudden surge of anticipation. This was, he realized, no ordinary night, and he had the honor of being witness to it. He squinted at the waves, searching for anomalies. A vessel of some kind. A ship in distress. Anything. But the sea’s vast, dark surface told him nothing.
Then, seemingly embedded in the blackness, a distant speck of light caught his attention. It appeared to be unsteady. Flickering like a tiny candle flame. He blinked hard, cleaning spots from his eyes, assuring himself they did not play tricks. No, there was no doubting the existence of the faint glimmer or the cause of it.
Fire. A burnin’ ship? Och, nay. Bless their wretched souls. Aye, and who could survive such misfortune on a night like this? He looked to the stones. Yet, the beacon…it surely shines fer someone.
Ninian’s gaze explored the area between the stricken ship and the island’s shore, hoping to detect some sign of human life. A futile quest, he realized, given the darkness, the distance, and the ebb and fall of the waves. Not to mention his questionable eyesight. Frustrated, he stabbed at the earth with his staff.
Then again, even if he did spot someone struggling offshore, what could he do? He had no boat, swam with little grace and even less efficiency. He’d be of no use until the shipwrecked soul pulled himself ashore. Then, of course…
“Ninian, ye daft auld fool.” He stabbed at the earth with his staff again, turned, and went back inside. A short time later, he emerged with a roll of blankets tucked under one arm, his trusty staff… and shod feet.
The island only had two places where a man might safely come ashore. Ninian pondered a while before choosing the larger of the two beaches, deciding it would be easier to see from the water. He continued to ponder as he splashed his way along the muddy path. At the cliff’s edge, he paused and, once again, cast his gaze out across the waves. To his dismay, the small light had vanished.
“May ye no’ have suffered long,” he murmured, wondering how many had been lost and how many might yet be saved. He offered up a prayer to the gods for both. He also wondered where the ship had come from and its destination. Most of all, he puzzled over whose blood had stirred the ancient magic.
He tightened his grip on his staff and started down the steep slope, using his staff for support – a somewhat clumsy effort, but successful. Once on the shore, he released a lungful of air and allowed his heart to quieten. Then he moved to the water’s edge and squinted into the gloom, hoping he’d chosen his vantage wisely.
“Now then,” he muttered, “where are ye?”
He glanced toward the other end of the island, assuring himself the beacon still shone. It did. A good sign, he thought. A sign the lost soul still lived. Anticipation set his blood surging as he returned his gaze to the sea. For a while he watched, seeing nothing but an endless succession of crested waves. Impatience set in, as did doubt. What if he’d chosen the wrong spot? What if the survivors had been thrown against the rocks? Yet the beacon continued to shine, which surely implied it was still needed.
At last, some distance away, Ninian thought he saw something moving through the waves. He craned his neck forward and squinted into the gloom. Had he imagined it? No, there it was again. A large, black shape, heading for the shore. Heading straight for him. Ninian straightened, his brow furrowed as he
tried to make sense of what he saw. It didn’t look like a man. It didn’t look like a mortal at all.
It looks more like…
“Each-uisge!” Every silver hair on Ninian’s head lifted. There had to be some mistake. The sacred stones would never have summoned such a demon. Had the ancient power been compromised somehow? Ninian took a step back and gripped his staff, preparing to defend himself.
Draped in blood-red seaweed, the great beast came ashore, snorting like an angry bear. Blacker than night he was, with bloodshot eyes and nostrils flaring. Water dripped from his thick mane and steam rose from his coat, surrounding him in a devilish cloud. It looked like a great, black horse, but Ninian knew better. The each-uisge, vicious devils that they were, often took such a form. The monstrous beast had, no doubt, been drawn to the stricken ship, like crows to a carcass. Each-uisge took delight in the terror of drowning men and enjoyed feasting on their poor corpses. Aye, well, this cursed thing would not bring its evil to Eilean Gheata. As self-appointed guardian of the sacred isle, Ninian could not – would not – allow it. He set his feet apart and raised his chin.
The beast never paused. It danced up the beach, lifted its great head, and emitted a demonic wail through yellowed teeth.
Ninian responded with a cry of his own, hoisted his staff, and swung it at the beast’s head. “Away with ye,” he cried. “Ye’ll no’ find sanctuary here, ye evil bastard.”
The staff struck the black devil above an eye. For a moment, the beast appeared shocked. It shook its dripping mane and took a step back. Then it bared its teeth, rose up on its hind legs, and released another unearthly wail. Ninian stumbled away from its flailing hooves, lost his balance, and hit the ground like a sack of grain. The impact pushed the breath from his lungs and his head snapped back. He heard a sound like that of an egg breaking, closed his eyes against a brief flash of light… and spiraled into darkness.
Isolated Hearts (Legends of Love Book 2) Page 6