by Shana Ab
Fuller didn't respond immediately. He walked beside Arion, looking down at the rough grass of the ground they covered.“I cannot say, my lord.”
“You cannot say? Why? Because you don't know, or because you don't want to tell me?”
The steward seemed almost to smile, but his reply was sober enough. “I cannot say because there is no way to know.” He lifted his gaze, faded blue eyes that took in the surroundings. “The MacRaes have been our enemy for so long, I don't think anyone here considers it much anymore. They are the enemy because they have always been so. Oh, you might point to petty fights along the borders, or insults hurled at passing groups—even the occasional undermining of this wall here—but our two kings have done what they could to stop true bloodshed between us. Yet the hatred remains.”
Arion nodded, not saying anything, so Fuller continued.
“But with the Northmen it's easy to understand the threat. They want our home, our land, and our wealth— and not just that, but our lives and those of our loved ones. They have no respect for our island or our way of life, which is not something you could say of the MacRaes. In fact, I would think that there is one factor that both families share, and that is that both love this land and how we live on it.”
Fuller stopped, sounding almost puzzled by his own words.
“I have an idea,” Arion said.
“It won't work, my lord.”
They both paused outside the heavy wooden door that was the entrance to the keep.
“Why not?” Arion asked, not at all surprised that Fuller had anticipated his thoughts.
“I was born on Shot, my lord. I don't think you knew that. I grew up here on the island; married and buried my wife and our child here. It was only in the past few years that I went to the mainland to serve as steward to your uncle. What I'm trying to tell you is, I know as well as anyone the mood of these people, and although you might say there is no new bloodshed between us and the MacRaes, no one has forgotten the past. No one will. And they will never join a cause that might benefit the MacRaes.”
“But what of benefit to us?” Arion asked quietly.“If we band together we are stronger in the face of the in-vaders. We will save ourselves, not just the MacRaes.”
Fuller glanced away again, shaking his head, and Ari felt his heart sink. If he could not convince this man, who had become his closest ally among his people, he hadn't a chance with the rest of them.
“Think on it,” Arion urged. “You know I'm right. Without their help, Shot is a lost cause.”
Fuller let out a long sigh, and as if in reply a breeze came and swept around their feet, bending the grass. At last he looked up, and Arion could see the reluctant agreement in his eyes.
“I'm not saying you're not right, my lord. I'm just saying it's going to take something terrible to convince them.”
“All right, then.” Arion walked to the door of the keep, stepping into the sheltered darkness inside. “I'll think of something terrible.”
E WAITED UNTIL THE EVENING meal, when the sun had softened to a faint lavender light, and everyone had eaten enough to take away the sharp edge of irritation that could come with hunger. He waited until enough mead and ale had been passed around that wits were still alert but not quarrelsome.
Arion himself ate almost nothing, nor did he touch the ale. He sat there and turned his thoughts over and over, gazing out the high window at the other end of the great hall, watching the clouds skim by in shades of pink and purple and dusky blue.
He idly considered what a heavy notion it was to own something. About how this wild, rich island was his—part of it, at least. The land, the animals and people. The responsibility could be crushing, if he let it. As he watched the sky beyond the arched window he wondered if it might even be said that the clouds belonged to him, with their dusky magic, and then gave a private, rueful smile at the thought.
Arion was overlord, for better or worse. He had faced danger before, and death, and sacrifice. He knew the pain of loss, the obligation of success. He had risen high enough in court to understand how the power of a man might turn in a heartbeat, how clever words could change minds. How even a single look could alter fate itself.
He had known too many men to rise to the favor of the king with cunning and guile and betrayal. Men of noble title, and ignoble dispositions. He had never wished to become like them, had indeed spent a good portion of his life striving to prosper in exactly the opposite manner. Even now he wasn't certain that he had been successful. Was it possible to be a man of might and integrity together? Wa s it possible to clutch leadership in the palm of your hand without losing honor?
Not to Ryder, Earl of Morgan, nor to most of those cunning courtiers.
But he was Arion, not Ryder. He was not any of those men he had seen and tried not to emulate.
He was the new Earl of Morgan, and this was as good a time as any to become that man. It was well nigh time, in fact, to put the lessons of his past life to good use.
The noise of conversation around him was a combination of cheer and buoyant aggression, certainly nothing subdued. By now everyone knew what had happened on the beach with the Vikings. There was vast relief at the safety of the men, underscored with tension, fear, and resentment. The MacRaes had come and interfered, Ari heard said. The MacRaes had spoiled the fight for our boys. The MacRaes had kept them prisoner at Keir. The MacRaes, the MacRaes …
Fuller, sitting nearby, looked at Arion with worried eyes but said nothing, just continued to eat his meal.
Arion ran his fingers over the coolness of the pewter goblet in front of him, filled with untouched ale. He stayed silent until there was a drop in the noise around him, one of those unplanned moments when it seemed no one had anything more to say. When it came, Arion looked up and said loudly:
“Benedict Morgan. I understand I am to congratulate you on your recent marriage.”
A young man sitting at a table not too far away appeared startled, then pleased. The attractive girl next to him blushed and smiled down at her hands in her lap. She looked to be no more than fifteen.
“Thank you, my lord,” the groom replied, and the people in the hall began to laugh and call out more felicitations.
Arion stood up, raising his goblet.
“ To the happy couple. May they always prosper on our island.”
Before anyone could repeat the toast, Arion quickly lowered his goblet. The beginnings of sound died all around him. Everyone stared.
“Alas, I cannot drink to it,” Arion said.“I'm sorry.”
Gasps came from around the room. The young man named Benedict began to turn red—astonishment, humiliation.
“My lord?” he choked out.
“I would sincerely like to toast your future happiness,” Arion explained gravely. “But it would be a lie. And I don't lie.”
Benedict stood up at his table, and the hush in the room was so complete that Ari heard the ragged anger in the man's breathing.
“My lord does not wish to offer his blessing to my lady wife?” Benedict asked, each word measured, almost disbelieving.
“Your wife is lovely,” Ari said.“Under other circumstances, I would say you are truly fortunate. But I'm afraid her very beauty is what is going to endear her to the Northmen, when they come. You'll lose her soon enough, I think.”
The room exploded with comment, people expressing their shock and ire at Arion's words.
Fuller, off to his right, leaned back in his chair, watching the chaos with him.
Several men were standing, arguing to him, speaking so loudly over one another that Ari couldn't make out what they were saying. Arion's soldiers from Morgan looked uneasy, muttering among themselves, shifting along the benches on which they sat.
Arion set down his goblet on the table and raised his hands. The noise thinned out, everyone staring at him as if he had lost his mind, and then finally there was quiet enough for him to speak again.
“You came to me for help.” He spoke calmly, firmly, the way he had l
earned in London worked best with adversaries. “You sent word to your overlord that you were being attacked, that people were dying. It was the right thing to do, and as your overlord, I have come to defend you. You should know that I will die defending you. But that is all I can do. The Northmen will keep coming. We will not be able to defeat them as we are.”
Again the explosion of sound, of comments and opinions that drowned out one another, but with a little less hostility this time.
Good, Ari thought. They were beginning to lean in the right direction.
“My lord!” It was a new man, big and burly, a thatch of blond hair.“What do you mean, my lord? Are you saying the Vikings will win? That they'll take over Shot?”
“Aye, that's what I'm saying.” He held up his hands again to stay the comments. “I'm being as honest with you as I can be. You are my people, and as the Earl of Morgan I am pledged to protect you as best I can. I have fought beside the king. I have earned my knighthood on the battlefield with him, and I have seen enough of war to know when one is lost before it even begins. Our battle here on Shot with the Northmen is fated to fail. We do not have enough time. We do not have enough men.”
“Not enough men?” he heard repeated, a few voices, incredulous.
“That's right. The Isle of Shot is too large for us to patrol at all times, even our half of it. You know it as well as I. It's how the Vikings keep sneaking past our guard. It's why they keep coming back.”
A woman stood.“But, my lord! To say we are going to lose—”
“ We will lose,” Arion interrupted, hard and cold.“It's just a matter of time.”
“The king!” said the burly man, reckless. “The king will send help for us, will he not? We are his vassals, and he has taken the same pledge to defend us in times of need!”
“The king has no men to spare,” Arion said.“Believe me on this. He has wars of his own that plague him, that drain his coffers. We're fortunate he hasn't called away any of our own men to replace the deaths left from his battles. The king will not be able to aid us.”
He didn't have to do anything now to gain quiet.
Every single person in front of him was silent. He thought he recognized the numb despair on their faces, the desperate looks they exchanged with one another. Such emotions had dwelled in his own soul for so long now.
But perhaps he had redemption for them all.
“No, we will not win against the Vikings,” Arion said, slowly surveying the room. “Not like this. Not alone. But there is a chance of getting the help we need….” He let his voice trail off, as if uncertain whether he should continue.
“But—you just said, the king has no men to spare,” said one of the men.
“That's correct. Alone in this battle now as we are, we will fall. Our women will be forced to serve these invaders. Our children will be slaughtered or put to labor. But,” he shrugged,“at least it will be an honorable battle for us, before that happens.”
There was a collective moan in the room now, denial and fright and blustering outrage. The man named Benedict shouted out his next question over the noise.
“Then what was the help you spoke of, my lord?”
“The only help we have available,” Arion replied. “The help of the only other people in the world who care as much about Shot as we do. The help of the MacRaes.”
For the space of a heartbeat it seemed the room had gone dead. Ari had never experienced a moment of such complete suspension, when everything around him just stopped—no breathing, no words, no movement. Just unequivocal astonishment. Then:
“The MacRaes!” It was the name on everyone's tongue, repeated with varying degrees of derision and fury and disbelief. Arion let it wash over and around him, not trying to stem the torrent of emotion, only standing firm amid it, a rock in the ocean of their rancor.
“Never!”
“Outrageous!”
“We would rather die!”
“Would you?” Arion shouted out now, his voice deep and powerful.“Would you truly rather die? Because that's what will happen!”
People began to subside, muttering. Arion gazed around the room, letting them see his face, serious, unyielding.
“Are you truly so willing to throw your lives away? The Vikings have already had a fine taste of our blood. How many men have you yet buried due to this outside threat?”
Everyone here knew the answer—far better than he did, in fact: dozens. Arion had lost only faceless vassals, islanders he had never met. But these people had wept over their lovers, husbands, sons, brothers. He wanted them to remember that. He wanted them never to forget.
He pointed to Benedict in the crowd, speaking more quietly now.“Would you rather die, Benedict Morgan? Would you condemn your bride to die with you?”
The young man said nothing, only throwing one agonized glance at his wife.
Arion continued, relentless. “But as I said before, I doubt she will die at your side. She'll become a favorite of the Vikings instead, fair as she is. And if she does not submit to them, you may be sure they'll kill her, and they will not be kind about it. While you, brave man, will be naught but blood and bones, no help to her at all.”
Benedict placed an arm around his wife, who turned her head against his shoulder and began to cry softly.
“How many of you would choose such a fate for your wives, your daughters, your sisters and your mothers? How many? Tell me now, so that I will know the faces of the men who would sacrifice their families for their vanity.”
Silence filled the room again, strained, broken only by the muffled weeping of Benedict's wife.
Arion met the gazes of those who were staring at him and said clearly, “I have come here to lead you! I have come here to fight for you, and your home! But do I lead an island of fools? Shall I lead you all to your deaths, or to your futures? The choice must be yours.”
Murmuring broke out, dubious tones, people shifting in place. He heard them whispering the name of their old enemy, but it was softer now, less emphatic.
“How could we?”
“How could we trust them?”
“Fight with them, beside them? The MacRaes?”
“The MacRaes,” Ari called out, “are our one true hope to save Shot. The MacRaes have just as much reason as we do to defend our island. If they lose their side of Shot to the Northmen, we are finished. There will be no hope for any of us. We will be destroyed, one by one, until the last of us are dead or enslaved. But if we join forces with them—willingly, eagerly— we might stave off this terrible fate.”
Fuller chose now to stand beside Arion, remaining close behind him, his arms crossed over his chest.
“The Earl of Morgan is right,” he said.“We must do this thing. We must join the MacRaes, for the sake of Shot, and for all of our souls.”
And slowly, gradually, Arion saw the realization take over them all, the undeniable logic of it beginning to drive out the prejudice. It came as a softening of the anger, blurred lines of fear and confusion now mingling with tentative hope. Men dropped their heads and frowned or stared blankly around them. Women looked to one another and gave small nods, clasping hands.
“ We must do it,” repeated Fuller, plain and strong.
Arion saw all his people begin to nod, a reluctant agreement.
“Very well.” Ari raised his goblet once more, looking down at the tearful face of the new bride. “I lift my drink to you, young mistress, in sincere and hearty hopes of your well being in the future. God bless your union.”
“God bless!” echoed the people in the hall, uncertain, muted.
But everyone drank.
HE NIGHTTIME DARKNESS ON SHOT had a unique kind of crispness to it, Arion thought. Brisk and welcome, not yet bitter from winter. The shadows that draped and fell over him and his mount were clear and sharp in the moonlight, even though the moon was just a curving sliver above him. Stars seemed brighter. The richness of the midnight sky seemed deeper, bluer than it had back on the mainland.
It was another example of the unexpected beauty of this place, of this island he found he was beginning to care for more and more.
His horse was black, to blend better with the shadows. Ari kept the gait slow and smooth, in no hurry. The moon was not yet at its apex. He had time to sit and think and let the horse take him to where he needed to be.
Arion knew that he was risking a great deal, not even so much with his own life but with the well-being of an entire people. It was a weighty matter, and he did not want to leap into it without first contemplating all that might go wrong. But he had considered it and considered it, and uniting with the MacRaes truly seemed the only hope of salvation against the savagery of the Northmen.
They might fail anyway. It could be that even joined as a common force, they would not be strong enough to defeat a relentless line of invaders. But he believed it was the best chance they had.
And he could not deny that the thought of working with Lauren MacRae, instead of against her, was exciting, a challenge he actually looked forward to.
Careful, Ari thought, shaking his head. Don't be distracted by her face. He should not forget where her loyalties lay. Her blood ran deep and true to her family.
But what a pleasant pastime it made, riding alone to meet her liaison, considering what it might be like to kiss her full lips, to taste her sweetness, to run his hands through her hair, letting the rare color of it wind through his fingers with rich sensuality….
The beach appeared deserted, as did the flat of the ocean beyond it. No Viking ships tonight, at least not here. Ari glanced up and found the moon, still not as high as it should be, so he led his steed to the deception of a spot of dappled moonlight beneath a cluster of pines, then settled back in his saddle to wait.
The ocean swelled and shrank again from the shore, with enough noise to mask most of the other sounds around him. Arion listened anyway, intent on honing his skills.
An owl, about thirty paces behind him, he guessed, calling out soulfully for a mate.
Wind, brushing the tops of the trees around him with occasional rustling, delicate and subdued.