“Phagin!” Mellyora called, but he hadn’t intended to walk out with an explanation. At the door he turned back to them. “Lord Renfrew attacked MacInnish land a little more than a decade ago. He slaughtered farmers, tradesmen, and peasants. He had an army of Viking mercenaries who were promised great riches when he prevailed. Renfrew and most of the Vikings were killed, many of them by a lad the king took on as his ward—your husband, Mellyora. Renfrew and his men had slaughtered his whole family that day. Waryk avenged his kin—this Viking is out to avenge his. His methods are as bloodthirsty and treacherous as those used by his father and Renfrew. I will reach Waryk and Daro. No one will stop a priest, and the countryside could be very dangerous now. Mellyora, get to the fortress immediately. You are your father’s daughter. Renfrew and this Viking—his name is Hallsteader, by the way, Ulric Hallsteader, known as Broadsword—will be coming to attack Blue Isle.”
“Hallsteader!” Mellyora cried, leaping up. “Hallsteader. Anne’s father was a Hallsteader, he must have—”
“Aye, he must have used Anne. It’s no matter now. She is surely as innocent as a babe in this, Mellyora. I’m going. Get to the fortress.”
Waryk rode, with the full size and scope of his army plus Peter’s armed men, to the walls of the Viking camp. Yet, even as he reached the camp—and he was certain that word had gone out that he was coming and that Daro would be prepared—he felt doubt working into his reason. Daro would have had no need to come to a camp in the forest. Daro could have visited them at their home. He could have murdered him in his own bed, and been inside the fortress walls—great Adin’s brother, already known by many.
Yet as this plagued him, he saw that Daro—bareheaded—was riding out toward the gates, Ragnar and others of his immediate council at his side. As Waryk had suspected, Daro had heard that he was coming.
Viking archers lined the walls.
His men were armed and armored; he had archers, knights, and foot soldiers ready to fight beneath him. Messengers had been sent to the king; greater forces were coming.
As Daro rode out and Waryk saw his eyes, he knew that Daro would fight to the death.
“Tell your men to halt, Waryk. We will meet one on one in this!” Daro roared to him.
Waryk lifted a hand. Daro was riding outside the wooden palisade the Vikings had erected around their camp as protection.
He rode toward Daro. On a white destrier, Daro rode in a circle around Waryk. He spat on the ground. “I never did you harm!”
“Where is my wife?”
Daro shook his head. “My niece!” he reminded him. “I don’t have her. You come to challenge me, while once again you have been careless with a woman who is my own flesh and blood!”
“Someone uses your camp. You have been careless!”
They circled one another once, twice, a third time.
Daro suddenly raised his sword in a fury, slamming it down. Waryk raised his shield in just enough time to ward off the blow. He nudged Mercury into a sideways dance, slamming his sword in a hard series of blows against Daro. The Viking deflected each one and went on the offensive again. Waryk went on the offensive also, returning the blows, and each time, they were deflected by Daro’s shield.
“Bastard!” Daro cried to him. “You haven’t the sense to see a friend!”
“Fool! You are used then, by those beneath your very nose!”
“Bloodthirsty Norman.”
Waryk gritted his teeth. “Scot! I’m a bloodthirsty Scot!”
“You don’t deserve my niece—”
“What we all deserve is truth!”
“I should kill you!”
“I should kill you!”
Waryk raised his sword again, hacking at Daro’s shields, slamming sideways once again with Mercury. It wasn’t so much skill that gave Waryk the edge, but luck. Daro’s horse stepped into a hole; the animal tripped, and Daro went down with the great horse.
Waryk leapt from Mercury, approaching his enemy, his sword held tight in both hands. Daro lifted his blade from the ground, staring at Waryk. “Kill me if you would.”
Waryk stared at him a long time. Then he lowered his sword, and reached out a hand. “God help us both, Daro. Where is Mellyora, what in God’s name is going on?”
Daro hesitated, staring at him. Just as the Viking gripped his hand, a cry was suddenly heard. Both men looked.
Father Phagin, white beard and black robes whipping in the wind, was bearing down on them. “Stop fools, don’t kill each other!” he shouted, reaching them. He dismounted, panting so hard that he had to lean against Waryk as he reached out to support him. “I’m too old; my heart can’t take this. Daro, you’ve been used.”
“Aye, I’ve been used! I’ve never been your enemy, Waryk!”
They were all interrupted by the sudden sound of a woman’s screams.
Anne Hallsteader came running out on the field, screaming. “Stop, oh, my God, stop, I didn’t know …”
Waryk looked at Daro. Daro shrugged. “I had men holding her in my long hall. She would have come between us.”
Waryk smiled ruefully. “Aye.”
“Daro, Waryk, for the love of God, I know what is happening—”
“Aye!” Phagin snapped. “Fine time for discovery, lass, when I’ve ridden to my death to reach these madmen with the truth! I will tell it. It’s Hallsteader, out for vengeance with that fool son of Renfrew. Mellyora is at the fortress; she escaped Ulric Hallsteader, the Viking who dressed in your clothing, Daro, hoping you and Waryk would tear one another apart and weaken your forces when you finally realized the truth and came against him.”
“It’s all my fault,” Anne groaned softly. “He wrote that he wished to visit me. He was my father’s cousin.”
“There is no one at fault!” Phagin said sternly. “But for the love of God, will you muscle-bound whelps listen to an old man? Fault be damned. Now is what matters. Don’t you two understand? If the fortress isn’t under siege now, it will be as soon as Hallsteader and Renfrew can reach it!”
Daro and Waryk stared at one another. “Anne, get back to the hall!” Daro commanded.
“But—”
“Do as I say!” he added fiercely.
Huge tears touched her eyes. Waryk touched her cheek. “You’re not at fault, Anne, get to safety, or else we shall have to worry about you as well!”
He turned, leaping upon Mercury, while Daro strode quickly for his own horse. Waryk started to ride back to his troops.
“Waryk!” Phagin cried.
He paused, impatient.
Phagin came to him. “Pray God you will reach the fortress before he pulls another of his tricks. He has his ways … his father and Renfrew are men who find the weakness in others and prey upon them. The walls of Blue Isle are impregnable. The people within are not.”
“Phagin, I need all speed. Catch up with us if you will. I will be wary. Now, you must let me go—”
“One other matter.”
“Aye?”
“I believe Mellyora to be expecting your child. Bear that in mind.”
His child …
As if he didn’t feel enough terror in his heart. “Aye, Phagin,” he said simply. He spun Mercury around, racing his horse to reach his troops. “We ride for the fortress!” he cried.
CHAPTER 23
Eleanora was quite impressed. The village was charming, protected by a new wood wall, occupied by an intelligent and clever group of people.
She was greeted by the man Waryk had said she should find. She was welcomed politely, taken to a cottage, and given wine. The MacKinny had obviously been very ill; he was still weak. But he saw to it immediately that she was taken care of, and with such courtesy! She was quickly assured that Mellyora was all right, and had already ridden across low tide for the fortress. He was arranging for a boat for Eleanora since the water was growing deeper. It was very cold, and only those who lived here were accustomed to riding across the sea.
“But Daro and my brother and
Waryk will go to battle!” she said, distressed.
Ewan shook his head. “Nay, lady. Phagin, our priest, has gone to warn them. Whatever troops may be coming here to assault the fortress, Phagin will make it through. If you’ve warmed yourself, lady, we should make the journey to the castle. No one can touch you there.”
He bowed to her, helping her to her feet. He had beautiful hazel eyes she thought, gold in places, forest green in others. He was grave, he had a quick smile. His hands were handsome, his fingers were long.
“Thank you,” she said. And she smiled. “I should be helping you. You were so seriously injured.”
“I am much better.”
“Mellyora MacAdin is such a fine nurse?”
“Phagin, the priest, served in the Crusades. He saw the way the Muslim doctors healed injuries with poultices rather than amputations. He taught her all that he learned, and she took it a step farther, since her mother knew herbs, and the healing properties of seawater and grasses and such.”
“I should love to learn,” she said, as they stepped out of the cottage.
He looked up suddenly, instantly alarmed.
She smelled the fire.
The new wall had been drenched with oil, and set ablaze.
Ewan MacKinny put his arms around her, and they started to run. Outside the walls, Eleanora screamed as netting fell around them.
She struggled. She and Ewan were caught together, trapped and rolling, in the net. Captured and snared like flies in a spider’s web, they went still.
“Courage, all will be well,” Ewan whispered to her softly.
All could not be well. But, strangely, in his words, she did find courage.
Ewan struggled to his feet as the net was lifted. He came out with his fists swinging, striking two men. But another man stepped forward hastily, using the hilt of his sword to strike Ewan on the back of his head. Ewan fell. She cried out in alarm, ready to bend down to him.
But a man reached for her. He was helmeted and dressed in mail. She could see nothing but the curiously cloudlike shade of his nearly colorless blue-toned eyes through his visor.
“Ah, well, hello there, my beauty. You must be the legendary Eleanora. How I would like to get to know you! But alas, we’ve so little time …”
Mellyora knew how to defend the castle.
Reaching the fortress, she’d dressed swiftly in a linen shift and warm, woolen knit gown and immediately gone to the parapets to take charge.
The gates were closed, to be opened only at the command of Jon of Wick, and she would give that command to him herself if necessary. Jon and Mallory were with her, at her side, ready to advise her and give counsel. She wished that Ewan were with her, for he had worked most closely with her father.
She wished that Waryk was here.
And she was anxious that Ewan hadn’t reached them yet, and when she saw that the palisade was afire, she knew that Hallsteader had come.
Archers were prepared; they lined the parapets. The fortress was not at full strength since Waryk and so many men had ridden out, but the power of Blue Isle lay in the rock on which it had been built. She rose out of the sea with majesty and strength. Her walls were thick, formed of rock and stone that could not burn, that could not be rammed. In times of danger, a heavy portcullis was closed behind the main gate. Boiling oil could be poured onto any attackers who breached the first gates. Cauldrons bubbled now with oil to be cast down upon any attackers who neared the walls.
Weakness could only come from within …
She knew that well, and she didn’t mean to be weak, but when she saw the fire burning across the water, she was sick at heart. Ewan hadn’t reached the fortress; he was in danger. Or dead. And the others—Igraina, their family, their friends, the very old, the very young, the little babes …
Waryk will come, Waryk will come, oh, God, he will come soon …
She thought it over and over again, and it gave her strength. But she was afraid. So afraid. She had come to know Hallsteader. He’d been willing to risk any number of his own men. Had he slain those who hadn’t managed to flee into the woods on the mainland?
The first assault came immediately after the fire. The water had been growing deeper, but Hallsteader’s men came across it on horseback and afoot. He had been joined at the head of the troops by a second man. His banner was red, a dragon graced his surcoat. Renfrew, she thought. His armor was rich; his horse was huge and powerful and dressed in trappings every bit as costly. Behind him, his standard-bearers carried not just his colors, but those of Stephen of Blois, King of England, as well.
Hallsteader and Renfrew directed the assault, but were not part of it. They knew the death that would come, and still, they sent their first wave of men to test the walls, men with a ram to charge the gates, others with grappling hooks to attempt to scale the walls.
The archers brought them down with such speed that the ram was abandoned. The warriors regrouped, out of range of the castle’s archers.
“What now?” she murmured to Jon of Wick.
He shook his head. “They can’t come close; they know it. They’ll have to give up and go away.”
“They won’t give up,” Mallory advised with assurance. He gazed at her, his lined face stern. “They won’t give up, ever. They want the fortress, or you.”
“They cannot have Mellyora!” Jon said fiercely.
“Mellyora! Mellyora MacAdin, surrender the castle and yourself, and your people will receive mercy!” Ulric Hallsteader suddenly called across the green slope leading to the castle walls. “Surrender now, and all will be well. No one will die.”
She walked to the wall. “Retreat, sir, and save your own life before the laird returns and slays you all!” she called back.
She couldn’t see his face because of his helmet. She’d never really seen his face. He was still wearing Daro’s helmet.
He suddenly took it off, as if he were reading her mind. He smiled. He had sandy blond hair, cool eyes, a clean-shaven face. He might have been a handsome man. He even had something of a look that reminded her of Anne. But there was something about him that wasn’t quite right as well. Something in his eyes, in the twist of his jaw.
“Surrender, Mellyora.”
“Leave, Hallsteader, or die!”
“Ah, lady, you’ll be worth the fight!”
He rode to Renfrew and conferred with him. She heard his laughter once again. It held an evil twist, a sound that seemed to carry loud and clear on the air. She realized suddenly why he was so very frightening. Nothing meant anything to him, except his quest. He could take any risk, perform any deed, because he meant to have his way—or die. If he perished in his quest, he would sit at the high table at Valhalla. And if he did not …
His laughter rang out again. And once again …
Waryk rode with Daro at his side, Angus, Ragnar, and Peter close behind them. The fastest of their horsemen hurried with them; the foot soldiers would follow behind, they didn’t dare wait for such troops to follow their lead.
He was afraid, deeply afraid. She was free now, Phagin had said that she was free. Strange, when she’d been in the deepest danger, he’d thought her Daro’s prisoner. And he had known that Daro would never hurt her. He hadn’t the sense to be terrified when she’d been seized because he hadn’t realized that it had been a Hallsteader who had taken her. A clever man. Plotting and planning year after year. Causing irritation after irritation. Never betraying himself. And now …
Mellyora had now escaped, but she had been Hallsteader’s prisoner. He’d had her in his power. For how long? Where had he taken her, what had he done to her, had she really survived it in her heart, in her mind? Would she ever forgive him for the doubts he’d had which had cost them all so much?
He’d cast blame upon her. Upon the Vikings, upon Daro.
And all along, the enemy had been his, his from a distant time, a distant day. A man seeking vengeance, for the vengeance he had wrought …
“Run, Mercury, run,
race, like the wind, boy, race like the wind!” he urged, and, looking over at Daro, he spurred his horse to greater speed.
What would Hallsteader do next?
Hurt her, use her, wound her, to wound him. Take her, because she was his. A Viking’s daughter, he would think he had more right to her. To Blue Isle. Any man knew that she was the key to the power there, and any man would learn that the lady was the prize …
She carried his child. Hallsteader couldn’t know such a thing. He would want to take her, use her, and if he could not kill Waryk, taunt him for as long as they lived with the belief that his wife might bear another man’s child …
But, he realized, it had ceased to matter. He wanted only one thing.
His wife.
Ulric had dismounted. He stood on the green slope below the wall. His men dragged a woman toward him, and Mellyora bit into her lower lip, startled to see that the woman was Eleanora of Tyne. “Look who arrived here for safety, my lady! Now, I haven’t time to ram the gates, Mellyora MacAdin. I’m well aware your husband is close behind!” he called.
“Is there no way we can reach him with a hail of arrows?” she asked Jon of Wick, standing at her side.
He shook his head. “He’s just out of range.”
“What is he up to? He has taken Eleanora …”
“Come out and ride with me that I can negotiate with your husband, Mellyora. If you do not, I will slit her throat.”
Slit Eleanora’s throat? To what sense, she wondered.
She hadn’t asked the question aloud; he meant to answer her anyway.
“Peter and Eleanora are traitors to the English cause of King Stephen, my lady. I will not be amiss in such a simple execution!” Lord Etienne Renfrew suddenly cried out, joining in with Hallsteader’s claim.
“You will die a slow death, Hallsteader!” she found herself crying in return. She winced. She hadn’t intended to let them know she was concerned.
Waryk could not be far behind. Nor could Daro.
Unless Phagin hadn’t reached them. Unless they had already massacred one another and their troops …
“It’s so very simple …” Ulric shouted. He left Eleanora standing as she had been, hands tied behind her back. He walked back through the ranks of his cavalry and then reappeared, dragging a man behind him who wore Peter’s colors of Tyne. The man was middle-aged, graying, dignified. He didn’t glance at Ulric, but stood very straight. He brought the man next to Eleanora, whispered something to him, then looked back at the gates. “Mellyora MacAdin. This is Walter of Tyne. He has served young Peter and Eleanora since they were children. He has told me that he would gladly die for them.”
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