Ronan. The man had listened to her, protected her, even stood up to her father on her behalf, for as long as she could recall. And now she returned his unspoken affection with open interest in a complete stranger’s life.
Florie patted her hand. “‘Tis naught you can do, m’lady. The heart will answer when it is called. No flood, no earthquake, no falling stars can stop it. I see how you look at him, how you cling to his every word. Ronan loves you, ’tis sure, but you’ve given him no promises.”
It was true. “Thank you. Tell James I will visit him tomorrow to borrow his new book.”
Florie huffed. “He paid out the nose for that trifle, I tell you. But the man loves nothing more than reading. Takes him away from his pains, he says.”
How well did she understand that. In fact, she’d taught James to read so he could have some reprieve from his suffering. They had fallen into the habit of trading books so they could discuss their merits and inconsistencies. James had a simplistic way of looking at the world—he would often miss nuances in the writing—but he had a way of perceiving overarching themes that took Britta’s breath away.
Would she ever have such intense discussions with Ari? Although he seemed the type who was a born warrior and leader, he also had a natural candor and seemed to delight in learning.
Florie hugged her briefly and set off toward her home, skirts kicking up dust.
Britta stared at the field that led to the encampment. If only she could have joined the men, but neither of them would have allowed it.
Ronan knew that if Ari turned on him, one word from the Viking leader would mean his death. She had to believe that Ronan saw some measure of trustworthiness in Ari, perhaps because of his willingness to stay behind and fight for them.
Regardless, she began to pray.
Chapter Eleven
As the Viking camp finally came into view, Ari exhaled. His friends—his people—watched as they approached. He took in the familiar earthy smells of camp. How he longed to join his men on their return voyage, to see his parents again. But he brought no news of a vengeful victory for his brother’s death. Instead, he must now fight to protect the very people he had hated for so long.
Sigfrid strode over, his eye appraising Ari’s injured foot, his foreign clothing, and the Irishman astride the large white mare.
He spoke rapidly in Norse. “What has occurred? Should we kill this man?”
Ari shook his head, motioning for the men to help him down. He groaned when his injured foot touched the ground, and his crew was visibly dismayed as he pulled the walking staff from his saddle so he could stand.
Sigfrid repeated, “What has occurred?”
Ari spoke loudly, so all could hear. “Many things, but the most important is this: I led you to the wrong castle. This family has done nothing to my brother. They are innocent of his blood.”
Unbridled chatter broke out among the men, and Sigfrid commanded silence. At his shout, Ronan’s dark gaze turned sharp and his hand dropped to his sword.
Sigfrid shot Ronan a glare then motioned to Ari’s foot. His lips tightened and his jaw flexed. “But they have injured you.”
“No. This was my own doing. It is too much to explain. You must believe that they have carefully nursed my wounds.”
Sigfrid glanced at Ronan, looking doubtful. He suspected the Irishman had forced him to say this.
“You saw their princess,” Ari added. “She is incapable of harming someone.”
At this, Sigfrid finally relaxed. Britta had made an impression. He slapped Ari’s shoulder, excited. “We shall sail tomorrow, then. The longships are ready, and it will not take long to pack up camp.”
The men whooped for joy, but Ari held up his hand. “You may surely sail tomorrow. But I have promised to aid this kingdom as the Normans will soon descend upon it. I must do this for my family honor, which was marred when I brought us here.”
Sigfrid leaned in uncomfortably close, gripping Ari’s cheek in his dirty hand, his heavy breath on his face. Ari squirmed under the relentless gaze. He should have known he could not fool his old friend and battle partner.
“You want the girl!” Sigfrid finally declared, giving him a crooked smile. “This is not only about honor. I knew your heart was searching when we set sail, and now you’ve found the treasure you really sought.”
The men had fallen silent, and Ronan shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, poised to gallop away if the men turned on him.
Ari decided to put his mind at ease. He spoke to the Irishman in his own language. “They understand.”
Some of the fire went out of Ronan’s eyes, but his expression remained wary.
Ari spoke to his men. “You will sail tomorrow. I will find another way back after I battle the Normans. There will be no plunder for you here.”
The men murmured in agreement. They began to thump him on the back, saying their good-byes.
As the crew dispersed, Ari pulled Sigfrid into a hug and whispered into his ear, “Tell my parents of what has happened. Someday, I will find a way home.”
The grizzled man nodded, but his eye glistened. He surely knew Ari’s promise was in vain. This was likely their final farewell.
Burying his sadness, Ari turned toward Ronan. “It is settled. Now we return to the castle.”
As the horses trotted off, he took one last glance at the men who had followed him so loyally. The Irish soldiers would never respect him as these men had—in fact, they probably despised him for breaking their man’s arm. They would doubtless relegate him to the rear flank, given his foot injuries.
Yet it was no one’s fault but his own. His bitterness and grief had culminated in this disgrace.
He would make amends the only way he knew how. He would lay down his hatred of the Irish, even as he laid down his life.
Behind them, the sun had nearly sunk into the horizon. The horses plodded on, anxious for fresh hay. When they were a good distance away from the camp, Ronan finally spoke.
“Why are you really joining us?”
Ari remained silent, letting his thoughts slide into order. Truly, he was motivated by the desire to restore his family honor. He had no wish to stoke the fires of fear and hatred the Irish rightly felt toward the Northmen, due to raids that had occurred centuries ago.
Yet Sigfrid had discerned a deeper need that had led him to these distant shores. The need for answers to his unasked questions. Why had Egil died so young? What was the point of living if he didn’t strive for the gods’ favor? What hope was there for him if he doubted the existence of Valhalla? At home in Norway, he had suspected the Christian churches held answers, but he did not want to openly defy his parents’ beliefs to attend.
Now he was in Ireland, at the wrong castle, and a princess had begun to tell him of the same Christian God he sought.
Ronan did not prod him, but he finally answered. “I must atone for my foolhardiness.”
“There is another reason,” Ronan said firmly. He gave him a stormy gaze that said he was unwilling to accept half-truths.
“It is true, I find Princess Britta very endearing. But I understand there is no hope for us. Her father would never let her marry a Northman.”
“So you have thought of marriage.” Although Ronan’s tone was careless, Ari sensed calculation.
“I have,” he admitted, as much to himself as to Ronan. “But I understand she is betrothed to you.”
Ronan’s expression soured. “There is no such betrothal.”
The Irishman could have lied outright to protect his interest in Britta. Instead, he had told Ari the truth.
Ari took a long look at the glowering man riding by his side. He seemed to be in pain. Was his love for Britta so great?
The castle came into view, putting an end to his musing. Now was the time to prepare for battle, not to discuss the princess. Ronan seemed to understand the shift of focus and urged his horse into a trot.
Britta walked out to greet them, carrying Ari’s sheathed sword.
Her smile of relief was quickly replaced with a serious look. After he dismounted, she handed Peacebreaker to him. “Father says you must begin training immediately. The men are gathered in the courtyard. The Normans have been sighted, only a couple days’ journey from us.”
Chapter Twelve
Training began straightaway, even in the gathering darkness. Britta insisted on aiding the townswomen by keeping torches lit and giving the men water.
Ronan had demanded that the handful of men who had chain mail wear it when sparring, so even in the cool of the evening, they overheated easily. Britta made sure the water bucket stayed full so they could occasionally wipe down with wet cloths, a luxury they would not have in battle.
After serving the men, she retreated up to her stone balcony, where she could get a better view of the clashing swords, shields, maces, and daggers. Some of the men wore bull-hide vests that would scarce protect them from the well-armed Normans. Some had no protection at all.
She felt grieved by the poorly dressed state of her father’s soldiers, but most Irish kingdoms were the same. If only they were wealthier, able to afford well-crafted swords like Ari’s. She had caught Ronan coveting that shiny blade, touching it to see how sharp it was.
Ari’s family must be wealthy. Perhaps his father was a chieftain or king? She cringed, knowing the Viking royals probably rose to power with the aid of plunder they took from Irish monasteries.
The courtyard training was halted by a deep shout from Ari. He stood, one hand in the air, as if to silence everyone. Was he unable to spar with his injured foot?
Even as Ronan strode toward him, Ari began to guide the scattered Irish soldiers into a formation. He barked a word here or there to indicate what they were to do—some were to move forward with shields while others protected the sides with swords and maces. The men with daggers were sent away, only to return bearing spears.
From what Father and Ronan had told her, the Irish soldiers rarely used a structured formation in battle. They placed a high value on surprising their enemies, rather than meeting them head-on. Most of her father’s soldiers were simply landowners and slaves; they understood more of farming than of fighting. Thus far, the only invaders they had faced were loose marauding groups from other kingdoms, bent on stealing cattle.
To be safe, her father had already ordered the women, children, and elderly to take the cattle and livestock into the caves of Crow Mountain. Although it would be slow travel at night, they would be out of harm’s way by morning.
Father had recommended she accompany the group to the mountain, but at Ronan’s insistence, he had allowed Britta to make the final decision. She wanted to be close to Father, no matter what happened, so she planned to stay with James and Florie in their cottage during the attack. It was doubtful any Norman would trail to the outskirts of the village, much less care about raiding a small farmhouse.
Her attention was pulled back to the sparring men below. Ronan and Ari stood off in a mock battle, but their intense, savage looks made her catch her breath. Ari held his gleaming sword and shield, and Ronan held his beloved mace and smaller shield. As the weapons clashed in a slow, deliberate fashion, it became obvious that although Ari still favored his injured foot, her father’s toughest warrior would be bested by the Viking.
At the last moment, however, Ronan dealt a feigned, final blow that knocked Ari’s sword to the ground. Both men nodded briefly out of respect then began to practice with the next man in line.
Would they be able to prepare her father’s men in time? Would they know how to defeat the Normans?
As Ari effortlessly knocked an unprepared, helmeted man to the ground with his shield, she began to doubt it.
Ari had hoped the second day of sparring would be easier than the first, but it had proved more difficult. The men were tired from fighting yesterday and from doing farm chores in the morning. They hadn’t had enough sleep to build up their energy.
But war never came at a convenient time. And these Irishmen had to understand how to counter the Norman attack.
If only he had one of his father’s berserkers with him. Just one of those wild warriors could stave off many men and strike fear into the rest.
Sigfrid and the men would be under full sail by now. Longship voyages were always indescribably fulfilling experiences. He could almost feel the rush of sea air against his skin—that briny, fresh smell that made him feel so alive. How he loved pulling the oars those final lengths as they glided into the fjords of home. The deep blue sky and the formidable mountains always seemed to rein them in with invisible hands.
As Britta brought a loaf of bread to the table, he wished he could share his thoughts with her. Maybe she would someday sail with him and enjoy the delights of the sea, but if he could not stop the Normans, his death would be sure.
He did have one question to ask her before he fought, however. He withdrew his bronze bottle from his tunic and set it on the table.
“Around the neck of this bottle, there are letters. I wondered if you could tell me what they say?”
She traced each letter of the inscription with her finger. Some were worn, and he wondered if she could make them out. But it did not take long for a smile to break across her face.
“Spero.” She carefully returned the bottle to his open palm. “It is a Latin word, probably carved by monks.” Sadness briefly replaced her joy. “You have stolen this from the Irish monks?”
“Not I. But yes, my family did, generations ago.” He could not restrain his curiosity. “What does it mean?”
She took a deep breath, a shiver running up her arms. “Perhaps it is a sign—a whisper from God. The word means hope.”
He started. It was the very word he had heard so clearly in his spirit. Did it mean there was hope for him with Britta? Hope the Irish would triumph?
Or did it mean he had hope of salvation by the Christian God?
“There is always hope,” she murmured, catching his gaze. “I have spent too much time fearing the worst. But God will watch over His own, even if it means carrying us home to heaven.”
“I will not let that happen to you.” He took her hand, toying with her amber ring. Perhaps someday he could give her a ring of his own.
Ronan stood abruptly, motioning the men back to the courtyard. As Ari rose to join them, he handed the bottle back to Britta. “Keep this safe for me. I will retrieve it after the battle.”
Tears sprang into her eyes, but she cradled the bottle in her hands. “I am honored to do so.”
He continued. “And to keep the bottle safe, you must promise me you will stay hidden, no matter what happens.”
“I promise.” Her voice wavered, and he had to fight the urge to pull her into his arms.
This was no time to go soft because of a woman. He strapped on his sword. He would channel the heat and fire of his emotions into sheer rage against the invading Normans. He would put thoughts of Britta, with her soft hands and heart, out of his mind for now.
Chapter Thirteen
Father joined Britta on the balcony to watch the warriors. She tried to read the thoughts behind his serious gray gaze but could not.
When the grunts and shouts lulled, he spoke. “I understand your desire to stay with Florie and James. But I have not been able to sleep, knowing the risks of that dangerous choice. It is too late for you to follow the others to the mountain, but you must allow me to set a guard outside their house.”
She did not want to go against her father, but at the same time, she knew every warrior was needed for the battle to come. Although her father’s men seemed to have improved in technique, their number was still abysmal. It would not require many Normans to overtake them, especially if they were on horseback.
Father gave her no time to respectfully decline. Instead, he patted her cheek, as if she were still a young child, and peered into her face.
“Britta, I must ask you. Have you any interest in Ronan?”
“Not as a husband.” The speed and c
ertainty of her response surprised her.
“Yet you know him so well, and you have been friends these many years.” He shifted in his seat, adjusting the golden belt wrapped around his linen tunic. He looked at the heavy purple clouds that hovered above them. “I knew how he felt toward you, of course. But I implored him to approach you only as a friend and mentor. In fact, I do believe I threatened to banish him from the kingdom should he be bold with his feelings toward you.”
So that was why Ronan had never declared his love! No wonder he had never discussed his heart with her. There had been too much at stake.
Father continued. “But now you are of marriageable age, and I must acknowledge there are many who seek to wed my beautiful daughter. I thought perhaps you had developed feelings for Ronan of your own accord, without his prodding.”
As if summoned by their conversation, Ronan charged through the doorway. Removing his helmet, he ran a hand through his sweaty hair, making the front of it stand up straight. He unsheathed his sword.
Father jumped to his feet. “What is the meaning—”
“No time to talk,” Ronan breathed. “I am taking Britta.”
She stepped back, gripping the ledge of the balcony so she wouldn’t topple to the ground below. “What are you about, Ronan?”
He dropped into a curt bow, his dark eyes apologetic. “I must rush you to Florie’s home. Norman troops have been spotted on horseback, just outside our western wood.” He turned to her father. “King O’Shea, Ari will guard you until I return. The men are preparing their weapons and armor, and Clancy is gathering our horses.”
Ari stepped onto the balcony behind Ronan. His blue eyes were cold, like the frozen waterfalls she marveled at in winter. His jaw clenched, and his cheekbones formed angular lines. For a fleeting moment, she saw the deadly Viking who had fearlessly invaded their castle, and he was a terrifying sight—a Norwegian giant with no aim but to conquer his foe.
The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection Page 6