by Phoebe Conn
She had simply become his bride, then his enemy, all in the space of one night. Fate had continually separated and then reunited them, but their lives were now so entwined he had lost all thought of her as a separate being independent from himself. Celiese was simply his; whether he called her wife or mistress did not matter when she was too great a part of his life to ever let her go. That she did not realize that fact for the truth it was caused him far more anxiety than the complexities of the voyage had ever presented.
"We have come a great distance, Mylan. I have not counted the days, have you?" Celiese stretched their blanket upon the soft moss covering the forest floor. They had seen several small settlements along the shores in recent days, but they had skirted them all, searching out the most desolate stretch of coast each night to make their camp. At sunrise they would be gone, leaving no trace they had ever tarried there. If they were being followed, they left no trail of clues by which they could be found.
Tugging his tunic off over his head, Mylan teased her sweetly. "I have counted only the nights." In truth he knew exactly how far they had come and how many hours it had taken them. A skilled captain, he remembered each nuance of a journey, the force of the wind, the contours of the shore, landmarks that would guide him should he travel that way again. He missed nothing, and thought it unlikely she had either; for she seemed to be observing all with the same intensity she gave to everything she attempted to master.
Turning to cast a seductive glance over her right shoulder, she responded skeptically. "You are too precise in your calculations for me to believe that. Are we not nearly there?"
He placed his hands on his hips, bracing himself for an argument he hoped would not come. "Do you find my company so objectionable you cannot wait for our journey to end?"
Saddened that he still did not appreciate the depth of her regard for him, she stepped close. "You are the best of all possible companions, as dear to me as anyone will ever be."
He racked his brain for a suitably complimentary response but could think of none, so he changed the subject with the first thought that entered his mind. "I wonder if Andrick has gotten over his fascination with Olgrethe."
Startled that he would think of his brother at such a time, she did not realize how much he had revealed about his own emotions with that question. "I certainly hope he never does," she replied with a lilting laugh. "He loves her; with all her faults I believe he truly loves her, and I know she adores him." That Mylan would soon be an uncle was not a secret she would reveal, however.
"What faults does Olgrethe have that my brother seems to find so easy to overlook?" He sat down upon the blanket and patted the place beside him to invite her company.
Not ready to join him, she slowly began to disrobe, hanging the layers of her clothing upon the nearby bushes until only her light shift remained. "I did not mean to be critical of her, but she has always been pampered and it is what she expects."
"Is a man not supposed to pamper his bride, whether she deserves it or not?" he asked, his confusion plain in his puzzled expression.
Kneeling down to face him, Celiese reached out to touch the curls at his temple. The sun had bleached his golden hair with streaks of silver, while his beard was still a dark golden shade. He was so very tan and handsome, his light eyes shining with an inquisitive gleam, and for a moment she could not recall what it was they were discussing.
"I believe love should be shared equally, Mylan, each spouse wanting only what is best for the other."
As she waited patiently for his response, he feared if he said he loved her now she would never believe him but think only that he had saved that weapon for the last in hopes of taking her back home with him. A painful knot filled his throat, and he would be unable to speak any words and retain what slight hold he still held upon his sanity where she was concerned.
His emotional turmoil was so plain upon his even features that Celiese did not insult him with questions about his mood. As always, he seemed to find the mere mention of the word love revolting in the extreme, and she had not meant to cause him such sorrow. She placed her hands upon his broad shoulders and leaned forward to kiss the pulse that throbbed steadily in his tan throat, her love unspoken but lavish in its expression.
Certain she would stop at nothing less than the most passionate response from him, he lay back upon the blanket, drawing her down into his arms where he held her in a tender embrace. Surely words were unnecessary between them when they had shared so much in the few months since they had met. With her he had known the joy of acceptance, which he had no longer thought possible, the bitter anguish of betrayal, the warmth of a friendship as deep as any he had ever known, and now this quiet pleasure he could not begin to adequately describe. He loved Celiese from the depth of his soul and, praying it was not too late, he moved to prove with his strong, sleek body what he had never been able to speak in words.
She welcomed him with a provocative purr, accepting his forceful affection with a grace all her own. She felt the exquisite joy swell within him until it flooded through her as well, bliss so delicious that her dreams were always sweet, filled with the memory of his rakish smile and magical caress. No matter what fate awaited her in her homeland, Mylan's image would fill her heart until the last of her days, and she prayed her face would light his dreams for half as long.
* * *
The next morning Mylan summoned Celiese to his side as soon as he had guided their ship through the surf to the open sea. "Stay with me today. We are close, and I will keep the Falcon near to shore. You may recognize something that I would not."
Taking hold of the rail so she could stand slightly in front of him, she gave the coastline a long, careful glance. "I was never out in a boat, Mylan, not until Raktor tossed me in the bottom of his to begin the long voyage to your country. I know the other view, from the land to the sea, not this one."
Suddenly realizing Raktor could come for Celiese whenever he chose, Mylan's expression grew stern. Perhaps the fiend would wait for the summer, or the next, but he could come for Celiese and she would have no way to defend herself if he were not there. "All I ask is that you try. We'll surely see the river when we come upon it, but perhaps there will be something more."
"I understand. I'll do my best." She turned to smile warmly, but his gaze remained locked upon the shore, searching for something she could only imagine. She watched the coastline with strict concentration, and it was early afternoon when she saw a cliff that seemed strangely familiar. There was a path visible through the rocks and a stretch of white sand where an old man sat fishing. Seeing the Surf Falcon, he threw down his pole and ran as though the devil himself were pursuing him. He scampered up the cliff with the agility of a mountain goat and was gone, the entire incident lasting no more than a few seconds. But Celiese was certain she had recognized the place, although she could not name it.
"Mylan!" She turned to touch his arm, excitement lighting her eyes with a bright sparkle. "I know that place, I'm certain I do! My mother liked to walk down to the sand when the day was warm, and I'm positive it was in that very spot."
Not discounting her enthusiasm, Mylan thought they were within a day's sail from the Seine. If they were that close to her home, then perhaps she did recognize the area as she said she did. It would do no harm to stop for a moment, but he wished they had not been seen, for surely the old man would give a cry of alarm, and whatever men there were to defend this small piece of land would come running. "I will not take the ship all the way in to the sand. Let us just go in part way, so you can have a closer look."
"You don't believe me?" she asked sharply. "Why did you ask me to watch for landmarks if you are going to disregard my reports?"
He gave the necessary orders to bring the ship about, shoving the tiller hard to starboard to turn toward the shore. "It is not your memory I am questioning, Celiese, but the mood of the crowd that old man may have summoned. You know yourself you would launch every arrow you owned before you would ask
why we've come."
"I am not afraid to go ashore alone. That way I can look around and allay whatever fears the residents might have. They would not attack a lone woman, not when I can greet them in a language they will understand."
He shook his head slowly. "Never. Now take another look, does the place still look like the one you remember?"
Exasperated with his domineering manner, she turned away. The afternoon sun struck the cliff with a golden glow, making the scene all the more appealing, but she was more convinced than ever that her home lay just over the rise. "Yes. The pattern of the rocks is what I recall. Our land reached to the sea, and this is the very spot. I'm sure of it."
By the time André arrived at the small village he was gasping for breath, his description of what he had seen nearly incoherent, but he had to do no more than wheeze the word "Viking" for his frantic message to be understood. Women went screaming to hide their children in the woods while the young men, armed with pitchforks and knives, ran toward the beach, hoping to stop the murdering northern bandits before they could reach their homes.
André loped along behind them. No coward in his youth, he planned to be in on whatever action there might be. When the small group reached the cliff they stood at the edge looking down on the tranquil scene below while they tried to plan how to mount an attack. The Viking ship André had seen lay at anchor offshore, while a tall, fair-haired man and a slender blonde woman walked across the sand.
Their clothes were wet from the short distance they had walked through the surf, but to the Frenchmen's delight they saw the man was unarmed. He wore no helmet nor suit of mail, carried no sword or shield, but instead offered his arm to the woman to lead her across the beach. Puzzled, they waited for André to reach them, and then stood aside to provide him with the best view, hoping he might have some explanation for the unusual landing party.
Still breathing heavily from the pain of his exertion, André watched closely as the young couple moved toward the path at the bottom of the cliff. The man was well built but had an uneven gait, a slight limp that was no doubt the result of some brutal raid, but the beauty by his side seemed to float across the sand, her grace and bearing so regal that André was reminded at once of the noble family he had spent most of his life serving. He knew it could not be possible, but as the young woman drew near tears filled his eyes, and when she reached the summit of the hill he threw himself at her feet, kissing the damp and sandy hem of her gown as he whispered her name.
His companions heard no more than the name d'Loganville, and they moved back to a more respectful distance in order to observe what might transpire between André and the young woman whose fair beauty seemed to glow with a light from within, as they had been told the angels did. Indeed, in her flowing gown she was the closest being to an angel any of the men had ever seen, and their awe was as great as the old fisherman's.
While Mylan gaped in astonishment, Celiese bent slightly to pull André to his feet and began speaking in a tongue he did not understand. "André, is that you? My dear friend, I had not expected to see any face I'd recognize, but such devotion is unnecessary." The French words rolled off her tongue with a lilting accent, the result of her years in Denmark, but that her speech was somewhat unusual did not occur to her. She kissed the old man's weathered cheek sweetly before turning to look up at Mylan.
"He was a groom in my father's stable, a dear friend I had not dared hope would still be alive." Backing away, André continued to regard Mylan with a terror-filled gaze, and then said, "That you have returned when we need the d'Loganvilles most is a great blessing, but who is this barbarian at your side?"
Knowing Mylan could not follow their conversation; Celiese spoke to him first, carefully choosing her words so he would not be insulted. "He is happy to see me, as there seems to be some trouble, but he is puzzled as to who you might be."
Mylan gave the most charming smile he could manage, hoping to put the assembled group at ease since Celiese seemed to have found a countryman who knew her. "Say I am your husband, for they seem to admire you greatly, and to describe our relationship as anything less than a lawful one would destroy that esteem."
Celiese gave the Viking a withering glance, but knew he was right. She was now home, where she had little other than her good name, and she had no desire to sully it. Lacing her fingers in his, she introduced him to her old friend. "May I present my husband, Mylan Vandahl. He rescued me from the villains who destroyed my home, and wanting only to please me has brought me home to France. You are in no danger from him, for he is a good man, unlike the other Danes you have known."
Mylan thought Celiese's native tongue very pretty to the ear, but did not trust her to say what he had asked until he saw by the men's curious appraisal that she must indeed have introduced him as her husband. That they had planned to attack him with pitchforks brought a smile to his lips, but he had to admire their courage. Small in stature, with dark hair and brown eyes, they were exactly the type of men he had expected to see in France, but that still did not explain why Celiese was so different in appearance.
Turning to lead the way, André spoke excitedly. "You must come with us, for there is much to discuss. I have a little wine, not much, perhaps you would honor me by coming to my home."
"Will that be all right, Mylan? André has invited us to his home, and I would like to go," she translated quickly.
After waving to the men on board the Falcon, Mylan took Celiese's hand. "Yes, but please tell him again that I am your husband, for I do not want to walk unarmed into a trap."
Shocked that he would accuse André and his friends of such treachery, she whispered softly, "My countrymen are nothing like yours. These are peaceful men who will do you no harm, so you have no need to worry." Then, just in case his suspicion should prove true, she reached up to kiss him lightly. Turning to André, she praised her "husband's" virtues for the entire walk into the village.
The homes of the farmers were little more than crude huts. Deserted now, they lined the muddy path with a sorrowful, vacant silence. "Where is everyone, André?" Celiese looked around, wondering where the women and children might be at that hour of the day, since she had seen no one working in the adjacent fields.
"Forgive me, but I did not know it would be you aboard the Viking ship, and all our loved ones are hidden." With an embarrassed gesture, he showed them to the small house he called his own.
"How clever of you, André. Have there been many attacks?" She stopped to warn Mylan to be careful, but he had had years of practice in entering homes through doors not made to accommodate men of his size and had already slipped through without mishap. There was a small table, two rickety benches, and a bed alongside the wall. The fire on the hearth was cold, but the smell of fish still pervaded the one-room structure, and Celiese thought André must catch most of his food and hoped he did not often have to go without, but the village did look like a very poor one. She took a place upon one of the benches, and Mylan sat down beside her ready to leap up should his weight prove to be too great, but the old wood held together with only a slight moan.
André produced a flask of the promised wine and three wooden cups. Taking a place opposite his guests, he poured them a small sip of the beverage and apologized for having no more. "It was a great tragedy we lost the vines, but they are all gone, burned beyond recovery, and no one has been able to travel inland in search of cuttings we might cultivate to begin our vineyards anew."
When Celiese translated, Mylan thought the tragedy a slight one after he tasted the deep red wine, for it had a most unpleasant aroma and taste. Celiese smiled sweetly as though it were delicious and he attempted to do the same. As always, she seemed to have the finest of manners. He could well imagine Olgrethe refusing to enter such a humble abode let alone sample the wine, but Celiese appeared quite at home, the most gracious of guests no matter what her surroundings.
"I have lost count of how many times our land was ravaged, our possessions stolen, our women
raped, our sons murdered. Now King Charles has handed over to that rascal Hrolf what little we have left. It seems we cannot escape the greed of the Danes, except in death." Glancing toward Mylan to be certain his words were not understood, André continued. "There are many who would fight the king's decree, many who recall the proud name of d'Loganville and would rally to your side should you wish to lead them."
Taking a deep breath, Celiese asked pointedly, "How much belongs to Hrolf now, exactly how much does the man have the audacity to call his own?"
"All of Neustria, dear lady. The lands on both sides of the Seine are his."
Worried by the frantic troubled glances passing between his companions Mylan interrupted. "What are you two discussing so earnestly that you have no time to describe it to me?"
Celiese brushed away the tears flooding her eyes and spoke proudly: "It seems the king is the coward you thought him to be, for he has given Hrolf the entire province, not only my estate but dozens of others, as well. André thinks many would fight, however, were there someone to lead them."
Knowing only too well who that someone would have to be, Mylan shook his head as he issued a stern warning. "Raktor is a playful child compared to Hrolf, Celiese. Do not encourage this man in his belief Hrolf can be defeated by peasants wielding pitchforks."
Celiese had seen as much as Mylan. This village was not simply poor, but destitute, and despite her own rage she would not risk the lives of the few surviving inhabitants on a quest to regain what was hers. She would have to reclaim it by means other than a fight, but knew not what it could be. Finding the close confines of the small home suffocating, she thanked their host warmly for his wine and asked to be excused, explaining, "I would like to see what is left of the house. There is still light, and the way cannot be far."