The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection

by Joanne Bischof

  Ari pressed a hand on Father’s back, leading him into the castle. Impulsively, Britta strode over to hug her father. He gave her a sad smile, kissed her forehead, and said, “Promise you will stay safe. You are my only heritage, my most valued treasure.”

  She nodded, and Ronan loosely wrapped his fingers around her upper arm. His sword remained in his other hand, ready to carve a path, should the need arise. She met his searching gaze. Did he hope for a declaration of love in these final moments of uncertainty?

  “Come,” he said gently, pulling her from the balcony. “You cannot be seen here. And leave the crown behind.”

  She had forgotten she was wearing her small jeweled crown today. Florie had instructed her to do so, to cheer the men as they fought for her and for their kingdom. She removed it, shoving it into a bookshelf as they left the room. She turned, remembering Ari’s bottle on the balcony, but it was too late to retrieve it.

  As they passed through the kitchen, she snatched Florie’s long linen shawl and draped it around her silk dress, hoping to further conceal her royalty.

  Ronan nodded at the wisdom of her action and then pointed to her long, flowing hair. She quickly knotted it as the commoners did. As they entered the back garden, she took a handful of dirt and smeared it on her face and hands.

  “You are stronger than you think,” Ronan observed.

  The simple words made tears spring into her eyes. It was what she had always loved about Ronan—he believed in her, and he always spoke the truth.

  “Will Father fight?” She could barely ask. If only Ari were whisking him into hiding, just as Ronan was hiding her.

  “He must fight. This is no time for hiding in the shadows. Your father is a skilled warrior, and his presence will inspire the men to greater sacrifice.” Ronan slowed, taking in her face, which seemed to be frozen in terror. Although he gripped her hand, it still felt chilled.

  He rubbed her hand with his battle-toughened fingers. “You are going to live, Britta. James and Florie will protect you. Your father will also live—you can be sure I will let no harm come to him.”

  She felt like bursting into tears, knowing Ronan would definitely lay down his life for her father’s, but she nodded briefly and scrambled over the nearby stone wall. She would not detain this warrior any longer than necessary.

  “Thank you,” she said, knowing he caught every undercurrent of anxiety and sadness in her words.

  “You are my princess,” he replied.

  After crossing several fields and pastures, they arrived at James and Florie’s humble farmhouse. Britta tried not to think of the numerous cow piles she hadn’t been able to avoid, but she knew her cloth shoes were utterly ruined.

  Ronan gave five sharp raps on Florie’s short wooden door, and the woman hastened to open it. Britta could make out nothing inside the hut, and she realized curtains had been pulled over the windows, plunging it into a deliberate darkness.

  James spoke up from his bed. “We been waitin’ on you, Princess. And prayin’.”

  She stepped over the stone threshold, turning to catch one last glimpse of Ronan. He nodded at her, a strange shaft of sunlight piercing the heavy clouds and lighting his dark hair. With his sword in hand and a fierce look on his face, he looked ready to single-handedly take on the Norman armies.

  “Bolt the door behind me. If anyone comes and does not knock five times, do not open the door. Florie, do you have a weapon?”

  Her nursemaid nodded. “Aye, we have a spear and James’s sword. I will give Britta my dagger.”

  “It will do.” Ronan looked directly at Britta’s face. “Stay hidden. And if you are found out, keep the dagger close. We do not know how the Normans treat their conquests….”

  As his voice trailed off, she grasped his unspoken thought. Perhaps it would be better to kill herself than to be taken by the invaders.

  “I understand,” she whispered.

  Florie hugged her. “Now, off with you, m’lord. We have everything in hand.”

  Ronan gave a short bow and left for the castle without another word.

  As Florie bolted the door, Britta walked to James’s bedside. She could hardly make out his face, but he took her hand in his. “Now you must be strong, m’lady. You must hide in the kitchen cupboard. It’s dark and tight, and Florie will pack sacks of wheat and dried meats around you, so it might not smell the best. But I swear to you, they won’t live to find you.”

  The certainty in his tone verified his words. Her sickly friend would doubtless stagger from his bed to protect her. And she shuddered to think of what her beloved nursemaid would do before she let anyone approach her princess.

  “Thank you,” she repeated, the inadequacy of the words squeezing at her heart like hot blacksmith’s tongs. Would they live to see tomorrow? Would she ever be able to thank her loyal friends for their willingness to sacrifice their lives?

  Would God let the O’Shea kingdom stand?

  Chapter Fourteen

  After helping the king into his battle attire, Ari paced outside the room. Ronan was taking a long time returning. Did it mean he had been waylaid? Surely he had kept to the back paths.

  Ronan had told him not to assemble the troops until his arrival, but what if that did not happen? Ari had to do something—they couldn’t be caught unawares. He approached the king’s door and knocked.

  “Enter.”

  Ari bowed his head as he stepped through the shorter chamber door, an unintended reminder of his lowly position here. He should be leading the troops, giving orders, yet he had to place himself under the king and Ronan.

  “I believe it is time to move into position,” he said.

  The king turned toward his window, watching his men as they milled around the courtyard, full of restless energy. “I agree.”

  It did not take long to muster the men. Ari cringed again when his gaze traveled over the unimpressive force. Without Ronan’s strength and experience, he and the king would likely be the most skilled warriors.

  But the king had not practiced with them, presumably to save his energy. Ari suspected he was weary from his recent extended trek across the countryside. King O’Shea was not a young man anymore. Some older men, like Sigfrid, were strong warriors, but they had to train their bodies every day for the fight.

  Perhaps this was Ari’s chance to step up and lead the Irishmen. But he feared he would lead them to defeat instead of victory, given his lingering injury.

  Britta’s forlorn parting look filled his memory. She would be crushed if her father died and the castle fell to the Normans. Even worse, she might be abused at the hands of the bold invaders.

  Fresh vigor filled his veins, a protective rage he had not felt since the day his brother returned to their longship, bloody and gasping for life. He would never let them touch her. She was so trusting, so compassionate. Perhaps her faith in the one God would be sufficient, but Ari would do anything to aid her God in keeping her safe.

  Clomping hooves pounded the dirt and one of their spotters raced up the road, his stallion frothing at the mouth. The sentry attempted to speak several times, but words would not come forth. Finally, he gave a hoarse shout.

  “Prepare! They are nearly upon us!”

  Ari led the men as they surged forward, limping only a little. He refused to ride a horse, to show the men he would not seek to escape if the battle did not go in their favor.

  Using rocks, ditches, and the trees lining the road, he pointed select men to their hiding places. They would try to use the terrain to their advantage.

  The chains groaned and shook as the castle gate was drawn up behind them. The horsemen pulled up the rear line near the gate, both to keep the animals alive as long as possible and to give them a powerful advantage, should the initial attack come to naught.

  The king produced a bright yellow sash for Ari to drape over his chain mail. “The men must be able to locate you quickly,” he explained. Ari knew Ronan’s red tunic was the one the men were accustomed to.
He tried not to ponder what sort of person could have stopped the Irish warrior in his race to join the troops.

  “Will you speak to your men now?” Ari asked.

  King O’Shea shook his head. “You must rally them. You will be their commander in this battle. I must needs saddle my horse and take up my position by the castle door.”

  Ari nodded, accepting the task that had fallen to him in Ronan’s absence. He climbed onto a nearby rock, ignoring a slight twinge in his bruised foot. At least he was able to keep his balance without his stick now. His words filled the air, silencing the men.

  “Look here. I am not one of you, but I wholeheartedly fight for you. Call it fate, call it God, call it what you will, but I am here and I will not retreat. Hear me now: I will never retreat. We will win this battle and grind those half-breed Normans into the dirt. Not a one of them will live to tell others of their hideous defeat. Fight for your king, fight for your land, and fight for your honor!”

  The men beat their shields in a slow rhythm, shouting their enthusiasm. As the Norman horses topped the first hill, the chants of the Irishmen roared in a wild cacophony.

  Before the first arrow flew, Ronan shoved his way through the ranks, sword and shield at the ready. He took his place next to Ari. His voice rumbled out, full of determination and a deeper sentiment.

  “For Britta.”

  Ari nodded, drawing his shield close. “For Britta.”

  Moments faded into hours as Britta lay on her side in the pitch-dark cupboard. Sounds were muffled by the food sacks that had been closely pressed around her. Florie had not shirked in making sure the Normans would never suspect that someone could fit into the space she now occupied. If she ever emerged, she would smell like garlic cloves, and it might take days to comb the spilled grains out of her hair.

  Was it day or night? Florie would not open the door to speak to her, for fear the Normans would burst inside that very moment. Before Britta had clambered into her hiding space, both Florie and James had given her a final hug and sworn again to protect her at all costs.

  As a distraction from her tight, stuffy quarters, she let her mind roam where it wanted. She touched her mother’s ring. Had Mother ever faced an invasion of this size? If so, did she run and hide, or sit proudly on her throne? Britta hated that she didn’t know the answer to these questions. All Father had ever spoken of was her mother’s beauty, but surely there had been more depth to her character?

  And Ronan. The man was a wall of support to her, a friend from her childhood who had never failed to treat her with respect. A beautiful Irishman, truth be told, with his flashing eyes and dark hair. A man among men. He felt strongly for her, she knew. But was it the kind of love she wanted from a husband?

  She couldn’t stop herself as her thoughts jumped to Ari. What pulled her to the towering Northman who had come to plunder their castle? Was it his honesty, his willingness to admit he had been wrong? Or was it that love of learning new languages and words, a love she shared?

  A tingle ran through her, forcing her to acknowledge that on some level, her attraction was purely instinctual. Every time the man touched her arm or hand, her mind danced into some star-strewn realm where it seemed nothing could ever hurt her again.

  Yet she knew such visions were unrealistic. Hadn’t she seen James struggle to make ends meet for his farm after he was struck with the coughing disease? Hadn’t she watched Florie cry for days when she feared James had taken a turn for the worse?

  One thing she knew: real love was not easy. It was not floating on a cloud of happiness. Life and death, survival and failure, happiness and grief were woven together with the unbreakable cords of marriage.

  She had to choose carefully which man she tied herself to.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Things were not going well.

  The Irish archers in the woods had initially caught the Normans by surprise, but it did not take long for the invaders to rally and gallop into their ranks, forcing them to scatter. Although the Irish warriors had managed to unhorse many Normans with their spears, they were at a disadvantage in hand-to-hand combat because the Normans were well outfitted with chain mail and helmets.

  For each Norman Ari cut down with his sword, two Irishmen fell to the rocky ground they fought on. To make things worse, the heavy clouds finally burst into rain, making their leather shoes lose their grip on the uneven terrain.

  As a helmeted Norman thrust his spear at him, Ari parried the blow with his shield. The deerskin-covered wood cracked, and he groaned. If his shield broke, he was doomed.

  Ronan made his way to Ari’s side, dodging the Norman’s thrusts and driving the mace into the man’s neck, dropping him to the ground. He turned and threw a bleak smile Ari’s way, but not before a Norman stalked up behind him and thrust a sword into his shoulder. Ronan’s mace dropped, and he sank to the ground, blood spilling freely from his wound.

  Ari howled like a wolf and charged the Norman, bringing him down with little effort. Even as he took up Ronan’s mace and attacked more Normans, from the corners of his eyes he saw how many Irishmen lay scattered around him.

  They were overwhelmed. There was no hope. And now Ronan might die, because he had tried to protect him.

  Suddenly, another howl met his ears, and he recognized it immediately.

  Sigfrid.

  His friend had come!

  His hopes renewed, he charged afresh, bringing down two Normans with one blow. Viking warriors crested the hill. His entire crew had returned!

  The leather-clad Vikings swarmed the Normans like an angry hive of bees. Sigfrid stood back-to-back with Ari and they cleaved their way through their enemies, dropping bodies in their wake. Driven by the bloodlust of war, Ari nearly forgot his foot was injured.

  Thanks to his warriors, the Irish victory came swiftly. When the battle was over, Ari was shocked at the good-sized group of Irishmen left standing. King O’Shea himself was only bleeding slightly from a leg wound.

  He scanned the bodies for Ronan, but to no avail. The king pointed to the edge of the wood, where someone had positioned the fallen warrior out of the way. Ronan writhed in pain, his left arm hanging useless as the blood continued to spill from his shoulder.

  Ari moved as quickly as his foot would allow, dropping to his knees at Ronan’s side. Sigfrid joined him, tearing off his tunic and pressing it to the wound.

  “Don’t stand there gaping,” Ari shouted to the nearby soldiers. “His groans are a good sign! Fetch us a cot!”

  When the men returned, they were able to roll Ronan onto the cot, although he cried in pain when his wounded torso was handled. Inside the castle, the men positioned him on the floor in the small chamber where Ari had been held.

  Ari watched as his best healer, Valgerd, removed Ronan’s mail shirt then stuffed the wound with cloth to stanch the flow.

  “We need herbs,” Valgerd said. “If they have yarrow, that might slow the bleeding. There are other things I could use, should they have them.”

  Positioning Sigfrid by Ronan’s side, Ari led the healer to the herb beds.

  His man pinched off a handful of leaves. Finally, he said, “This is good, but do they keep dried herbs?”

  One woman would know where all the herbs were and would be able to aid his man. Her faithful care had good results, as he could attest from the way his nearly healed foot had performed in battle. Florie. And Florie watched over Britta. He had to retrieve them both.

  Racing toward the stables, Ari said, “Do your best. I will bring you a woman who can help.”

  He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks, finally acknowledging a possibility he could no longer ignore. What if the Normans had sent forces into the village and fields before they had attacked the castle? Would he even reach Britta in time?

  Britta yawned. Her legs cramped beneath her. She tried to straighten them, knowing they would merely bash into the corner of the cupboard again. The only way to ignore her confined situation was to give in to sleep.
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  Just as she dozed off, thuds reverberated in the wood beneath her. What was it? She strained to listen for voices but heard nothing more than muffled movement.

  She pressed closer to the cupboard wall. She prayed the Normans would not harm Florie or James, that they would not search the small farmhouse and discover her. The dagger lay beneath her. She would need to snatch it if they dragged her out.

  She shuddered. Would she be forced to kill herself before the Normans could harm her? And how would she do it? Stab herself in the heart? Surely she would lose strength the moment the knife entered, so maybe it wouldn’t work.

  The cupboard door swung open, and a hand fumbled toward her. She was blinded by the light that poured in, but she managed to still her breath, even though she could not silence the pounding of her heart.

  The hand shoved several bags aside then grasped at the bag on her head and yanked it down. She tried to shift out of reach, but the hand touched her face and a familiar voice poured through her soul like a healing balm.

  “M’lady! Have you heard a thing I was sayin’? ’Tis the Viking come to retrieve you.”

  “Oh! Thanks be to God!” She crawled from her hiding place, much to the apparent amusement of the Norse giant, who quirked a half smile at her. His trousers were filthy, and his hair fell wildly about his shoulders.

  James sat on his bed, beaming. “They’ve held the castle, Princess! The Normans won’t try for it again, I’ll wager.”

  Ari helped her to her feet, but worry creased his brow. “We paid a heavy price for our victory. In truth, I have mostly come for Florie. Her skills are needed. Ronan has suffered injury.”

  Britta gasped for air, unable to fill her lungs.

  “Ronan?” she croaked. Her head felt like she was underwater.

  Smoothly, Ari slid his arm around the curve of her waist, steering her toward a chair. “You must sit. This has been a shock.” He turned to Florie. “You take the horse. There is no time to waste. I will walk the princess back when she is ready.”