The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection

by Joanne Bischof

  Ari watched as Ronan’s words grew heated. Although he gestured wildly in the air, it was clear he would not lay a hand on Britta. The two seemed to reach a tentative agreement, and the powerful man strode out the door.

  She resumed her position, sitting back in the gold-studded chair by his pallet and picking up her holy book. She chose a page and began to read, but he interrupted her, croaking out a word for the first time in days.

  “Ari.” He pointed to his chest and repeated it, louder. “Ari.”

  She hesitated, her huge blue eyes searching his.

  He nodded and said it again, motioning to himself. “Ari.”

  She leaned forward—if Ronan were here, Ari knew he would reprove her for a lack of caution, and Ari wouldn’t blame him. She was altogether too trusting.

  “Britta,” she said, resting a pale hand on her embroidered ivory dress.

  He repeated the word, enjoying the way it sounded with his heavy accent. “Bree-ta.”

  Her gaze returned to her book, and she seemed lost in her own thoughts. Finally, she pointed to a word next to a hand-drawn picture of a room filled with golden goblets and their holy cross symbol. “Mon-a-ster-i-um,” she said, drawing out each sound.

  It was a long word, but perhaps he needed to show her he was grateful for her daily teaching, even though the word she spoke was a reminder of the divide between her people and his. His ancestors had attacked such monasteries to gain the wealth needed to secure their power. Even now, his bronze heirloom bottle was hidden on the floor beneath his pallet, one side of it bearing a slight indentation from the misplaced blow of the mace. He would not leave this place without it.

  With effort, his rough voice sounded out, “Mun-e-sterrr-i-um.”

  The smile that spread over Britta’s face replaced all the anxiety that had clouded it when she exchanged words with Ronan. Ari wished he could think of other ways to make her smile.

  Leaving Ari in Florie’s capable, but still somewhat-resistant hands, Britta hurried to her room to change out of her ivory dress. She wanted to wear something that would indicate her position as princess.

  Although her father’s kingdom was small, it was well respected. It was quite an arduous journey over the hills for Father to discuss matters with the high king, and he only went twice a year. She hated that this was one of those times. She never knew how long such travels might take—once, he had stayed for a full month.

  She hoped her actions would please her father, but deep inside, she was fairly certain that he would have agreed with Ronan and disposed of the Viking invader, instead of allowing the injured man to rest on a pallet in his room.

  Shaking such doubts from her mind, she donned a tea-colored silk dress with pink roses scattered over the skirt. She placed a narrow, golden crown on her head.

  For good measure, she pulled up her skirts and strapped a belt around her waist. Attached to the belt was a long sheath she tied in place on her thigh. From a drawer next to her bed, she retrieved her antler-handled dagger and carefully slid it into the sheath. She hoped the Vikings would not attack her when they realized she carried no sword, but if she were captured, at least she would have a secret weapon.

  Yet her best weapon was Ronan, who had refused to let her approach the encampment alone. It was a foolish thing for him to come along, because if they were both killed, the castle would fall. True, he would place one of the guards in charge, but no guard was as vigilant and deadly as Ronan.

  As she descended the stairs, she watched to make sure the chunky dagger handle did not protrude beneath her skirts. Realization struck her—how would she communicate with the heathen warriors? Hand gestures could prove deadly if they were misunderstood.

  Perhaps Ari could teach her what to say, something that would make her peaceful intent clear.

  She turned, hoping she could trust the Northman to share a word that would protect the castle, instead of one that called for an attack.

  Chapter Four

  Florie met her in the stairwell, her pink face anxious. “M’lady, I was just coming to fetch you. He’s gaining strength in his foot, ’tis certain. He’s trying to hide it from us.”

  Britta could not be distracted. Even now, Ronan was probably putting on his mail shirt and gathering his weapons. She patted Florie’s hand. “We will watch him closely. For now, he will go nowhere—our guard Clancy stands just outside the door, and he is wider than the Viking. Do not fret.”

  Florie tucked stray wisps of hair beneath her kerchief and straightened her apron. “As you say, m’lady. I’ve dressed his foot, so I’ll be going down to prepare our meal.” She paused, her gaze trailing from Britta’s crown to her nicer clothing. “Have you dressed early for the evening meal?”

  “Ronan and I will be traveling today.” Britta did not elaborate. Much as she longed to tell her nursemaid about her dangerous mission so she could savor some motherly sympathy, she would not allow herself to do it. Florie had already risked her own life, attacking the invader in the dark with a mace. What would she do if she realized the princess herself planned to stride into a Viking war camp? Britta could just envision Florie, her stout form clad in a man’s mail shirt, spear in hand, accompanying her charge. She hid a smile. No, her loyal Florie must not know her plan.

  As she entered the room, Ari turned his gaze from the window to her. His curious yet appreciative glance swept over her royal clothing and crown. Knowing she had no time to waste, she rifled through her stack of books on the floor, searching for one she had read many times.

  When she found the volume she wanted, she searched out a particular picture in it then held it up for Ari to see. His cool eyes moved across the colorful page. It portrayed two armies facing off, but their weapons were no longer drawn. Two men met in the middle, helmets in hand. One carried a stick with a white cloth tied to it. They were obviously seeking a truce.

  She pointed to the page where the two men stood. “Peace,” she said, hoping he understood.

  He gave her a blank stare. Did the Vikings have no concept of peace? It would certainly fit with the stories she’d been told as a child. The Northmen were villains who slipped onto Irish shores in dragon-head ships, killing to take what they wanted, stealing natives to make them slaves. There was nothing fair about the Viking attacks, no chance to be armed against a force that was nearly invisible until the last minute.

  But she must have something to say to the Viking men in the camp. True, she could bring along one of Ari’s things, like his sword, or the bottle he’d tried to hide under his pallet, but then the Vikings might assume he had already died at their hand. If so, surely their wrath would be swift.

  With renewed fervor, she tapped at the men in the picture. Then she placed the book on her lap and rammed her fists together to indicate fighting. Finally, she abruptly pulled her hands apart, holding them upright to show that the warring sides were at peace.

  “Peace,” she repeated, praying for a word, just one word, that could save her family home.

  Recognition sparked in Ari’s face, and his lips slid into a half smile. He spoke carefully: “Greethe.”

  She repeated the word several times. When Ari nodded in approval, she placed her book on the floor then stood and hurried from the room.

  As the door slammed behind Britta, Ari flexed his foot, pondering. She had been carefully dressed as royalty, and she had asked him how to say grið, the Norse word for peace. Although his thoughts were sluggish from something in the tea, he sat bolt upright as he began to understand.

  She was going to see his men. She was going to ask for peace. That was the only explanation for her behavior.

  How would Sigfrid react to Britta’s approach? Thankfully, Ari’s second-in-command never acted rashly, but when he determined someone was a threat, he would not hesitate to crush them.

  Ari could not let his crew fall upon the helpless, trusting woman who had kept watch over him for days. He felt beneath his pallet, hoping they had not taken the knife he had hidde
n there, but it was gone. His eyes widened as he realized his heirloom bottle was also missing. The tea must have made him sleep through their pilfering. But why would they take something of no value to them?

  He allowed his fear for Britta to flow through him. It washed away thoughts of the bottle and subdued the throbbing, heavy pain in his foot. Determined, he pulled his leg to the side of the pallet, allowing his foot to touch the floor for the first time since his injury. Although he could hardly bend his ankle, he tried to rotate his stiff foot before grabbing the back of the chair and pulling himself to a standing position.

  The foot gave way, and he let out a light groan, which he quickly stifled. If he had to crawl to Britta’s side, he would. Sigfrid would see him and stay his attack plans until he gave the word.

  Someone shifted outside the door. Doubtless, they had left a guard behind. Where was his sword? Glancing around, he realized that not only had they taken his weapons, they had also taken his boots.

  The still-swollen foot needed support. Unwilling to bend to the level of the low pallet, he struggled to take his tunic off then ripped into the bottom of the linen with his teeth. He managed to tear off a strip of cloth and wrap it around his foot. Each move was agonizing, but he could not give up. Wrestling his way back into his tunic, he scowled at the sight of his half-exposed stomach. It still bore a deep bruise from the impact of the mace on the bottle. Sigfrid would fear the worst had happened to him. But there was no time to search for another tunic.

  His only advantage over the guard was the ability to surprise. He haltingly shuffled to the door, senses alert. The man outside sniffled then sneezed. Ari could only hope he was weakened with an illness.

  An image of Britta, her pale cheeks flushing as she met his eyes, sprang to mind. If his men killed her, he would never forgive himself.

  Gathering his strength, he pulled up the latch on the heavy wooden door, thankful it locked from inside. In one fluid move, he yanked the door back, thrusting his body forward to assault the unwitting guard.

  Too late he realized that there were only two long steps between the landing and the first steep stair. When he collided with the large Irish guard’s frame, he knocked them both into the darkened stone stairwell. Their bodies plummeted onto the jutting steps, tumbling over one another.

  Fresh pain gave him a light head, and when they reached the bottom step, Ari’s world went black.

  Chapter Five

  When Britta met Ronan in the great hall, she was not surprised to see that he was wearing his long mail shirt. His sword was sheathed, and he carried his mace over one shoulder. Trying to look at him as the Vikings would, she imagined he would seem like a regular demon, with his blazing eyes and red wool clothing.

  She rested her hand on her friend’s arm. “We must first pray.”

  Ronan nodded, taking the lead. “May the shield of God protect us from these pagans. May the angels of God give us protection. And may Christ be over all. Amen.”

  She felt safer walking toward the unknown with this God-fearing demon Irishman at her side. Their steps echoed as they entered the stone courtyard outside the entryway. The morning was brisk, and the cold air made her wish she had donned her woolen cape. But she wanted to appear unarmed to the Northmen.

  Ronan led the way through the plush green grass, around the small streams she knew so well. She tried to forget her mission, noting how the clouds cast shadows and patterns on their hills. But after they climbed the final rise, she gasped. The field that edged the rocky gray coastline was dotted with drab-colored tents—at least twenty of them.

  Farther off, where the grass gave way to the shoreline, they had dug a semicircular earthen rampart, blocking their long, dragon-prowed ships from easy attack. At least ten fully armed men guarded the dirt blockade.

  As they drew closer, smells of cooked fish assailed them. The Northmen themselves struck her as incredibly hairy, with beards and fur vests and long, wild hair. Each one seemed to have several weapons on his belt.

  These were barbarians indeed, handily shaping the land to their own purposes and sleeping outside in the elements. They were rough and rugged as the stags on Crow Mountain.

  Ronan grasped her arm. “You do not have to be the one, Britta.”

  She shook her head. “Indeed I do. You cannot enter their camp alone. They will see you as a threat because you are a threat. You cannot hide the passion shining in your eyes—you would like to see them all dead.”

  He looked to the camp and nodded. “You are correct. But you must admit it is wise to be distrustful of these heathen. You have read the stories, Britta, and you have heard our monks’ fearful prayer: ‘From the fury of the Northmen, deliver us, O Lord.’ These Northmen have ravaged our shores for so many years, I am certain they intend to plunder our castle.” He paused, his russet eyes searching hers. “Your blond invalid is no innocent. He came to vanquish us—make no mistake. I see the passion in his eyes.”

  Britta could not deny it was true. Occasionally when he wasn’t watching her, she noticed how a strange sadness would darken Ari’s countenance. It was as if he were pining for someone. Was it a woman from his homeland? Perhaps a wife?

  She shook off her doubts, pointing to a leather-clad, grizzle-bearded man who had silently moved toward them. When they glanced his way, he leaned on a tall spear, affecting carelessness. “It is too late to argue over this. They have already seen us.”

  With feigned boldness, she strode toward the man, holding her crowned head high. She could feel Ronan’s solid bulk moving directly behind her.

  About three feet from the scar-faced warrior, she stopped short and gathered herself to her full height, which apparently didn’t amount to much. The Northmen towered over her as they began to form a semicircle around their leader. Their hands hung by their sides, but they had easy access to the sharpened swords and axes on their belts.

  She closed her eyes, asking God to help her. Then she focused on the leader’s one clear eye, since the other was merely a sightless, tight-lidded slit. “Greethe,” she said slowly.

  The man’s lips twitched, and his gaze sharpened. She repeated the word.

  Ever watchful, Ronan stood in silence slightly to her left. If any Northman moved her way, she would need to drop so Ronan’s mace could hit him square in the head. He would follow that strike with a sword thrust to the gut.

  The Northman scratched at his rough beard. “Greethe?” he asked.

  She nodded. Hoping it was not a mistake, she slowly withdrew Ari’s bronze bottle from a silken pouch she had tied to her belt. Taking a step closer to the obviously unwashed man, she held the bottle out to him, cupped in her palms. “Greethe.”

  The man snatched the bottle from her before Ronan could step between them. He spat out a string of clipped words to his men.

  She caught one of the words and repeated it. “Ari.” She put on a cheerful smile, trying to indicate that the Viking was healthy and alive. But how could she show them he lay abed, without leading them to believe he had died?

  A stick lying in the dirt caught her eye, and she saw her opportunity. She slowly bent to pick it up. Silence fell upon the skittish Northmen. Ronan glided a step forward so he was at her side.

  She took the stick and carved into the damp soil. It was slow going, but she was finally able to depict a rectangular castle with a jutting mountain behind it. Then she drew the sea and cliffs on the other side and scratches to indicate the camp. Finally, she drew a deliberate, deep line between the castle and the campsite. Her voice was firm and steady as she said, “Greethe.” She tapped her crown to bring attention to her authority.

  For a long moment, the bearded man did not respond. He gripped the bronze bottle tightly as he examined her dirt drawing. When he looked up, she slowed her erratic breathing so she could meet his gaze. Instead, the man fixed his eye on Ronan. Some wordless understanding passed between the men, and Ronan did not react when the Northman extended the bottle toward her.

  “Ari,”
he said, his voice charged with concern.

  She nodded, wrapping the cold bottle in her hands. Comfort flooded her. God had spared her life, and she would be able to return the vessel to its rightful owner. She let her voice soften as she said, “Ari. Greethe.”

  Ronan’s hand squeezed her shoulder as he brusquely steered her away from the circle of Vikings. A truce had obviously been reached. The Northmen would not attack while Ari was within the castle walls.

  But from the wild look in the Viking warriors’ eyes, Britta knew the truce would end the moment Ari rejoined his crew.

  She must find a way to delay him until her father returned home with his soldiers.

  Chapter Six

  Shifting on the rough board he rested on, Ari tried to recall what had happened after he attacked his guard.

  Memories flitted around like swirling seabirds. He caught snatches of images: the Irish guard nursing a bloody lip, the sheath of the man’s sword banging into his leg, and the pain that finally tore into his foot like a wild berserker charging his enemy. When the heavy guard’s full weight had landed on Ari’s wounded foot, the agony had knocked him senseless.

  He could slightly remember two men moving him to a side room on the ground floor. They had placed him, none too carefully, onto a low board resting on two wooden blocks. A rough wool blanket was tossed over him, and they left, locking the door behind them.

  Now it was night, given the darkness and the dim moonlight trickling through the high window. As he cautiously bent to touch his twisted foot, a metallic sound captured his attention. Someone was fumbling at the latch. He lowered back to the board, pretending to be asleep as he watched through narrowed eyes. A dark figure noiselessly stepped into the room, hastening to his bedside. The person leaned in close, as if listening for movement.