by Kira Morgan
At last, Rane let out an enormous yawn. “Enough.”
“Just one more game,” Florie pleaded.
“ ’Tis nigh morn, darlin’.”
Florie didn’t care. She wasn’t sleepy in the least. Indeed, she couldn’t recall having so much fun. Even working far into the night over a particularly ornate piece of jewelry didn’t please her half as well as poring over these silly wooden pieces with Rane.
“But I’ve just conquered ye,” she taunted.
“I care not.”
“Indeed?” She pouted, something she’d never done before in her life. “I thought ye were the son o’ fierce Viking warriors.”
His grin was sleepy and unguarded, and it made her heart melt. “Fear not. The battle is far from over, sweet. For tonight, slumber. But take care ye don’t oversleep, for I will triumph on the morrow.”
She returned his grin. Curse his weary bones. The morrow seemed an eternity to wait.
Rane was engaged in the strangest dream. He was a toefler in silver armor, guarding against a vast opposing army. But instead of protecting the Hnefi, he kept vigil over Florie.
At first ’twas an easy task. Florie remained on the throne, and one by one, he picked off the dark warriors advancing on her. But then their number increased, and Florie refused to stay where she was safe. He battled fiercely, but every time he slew one knight, two more would appear, and Florie was growing farther and farther distant…
“Hist! Rane!”
The whisper shredded his dream like silk, but Rane, still caught in its threads, awoke and spun toward the sudden sound, whipping out his dagger.
His movement knocked the board from crouching Florie’s hands, scattering wooden pieces to the floor with a clatter. Startled, she gasped and scurried backward.
“What the devil?” he demanded, his dagger aimed at her breast.
“God’s eyes!” she hissed. “’Tis me—Florie.”
Disoriented, he shook free the dregs of the dream and lowered his blade, grumbling, “’Tisn’t wise to startle a sleepin’ toefler.”
“A what?”
“Huntsman,” he corrected irritably, rubbing at his eye. Thor’s hammer, he’d never had so vivid a dream. But then, he rarely went to bed at so late an hour. He peered at Florie through one blurry eye. “Didn’t ye sleep at all?”
“Oh, aye.” She picked up the board and, recovering quickly from her fright, began to hum a merry tune as she replaced the pieces. Apparently, even the threat of his dagger couldn’t chase the cheer from her this morn. “The sun’s been up for nigh three hours now.”
“Ye went to bed an hour before it rose,” he accused.
Her face blossomed into a wicked smile. “Who can sleep when there’s war to be waged?”
Rane was exhausted. After all, he’d been fighting all night in the land of dreams, a far direr battle than any waged on a hnefatafl board. Still, the sight of her eager face—her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparking like steel on a whetstone, her lips curving into that enticing, mischievous grin—seduced him like tender young clover seduced a doe.
He supposed ’twas his own fault. He’d introduced her to the cursed game, knowing full well how addictive it could be.
He sighed, sheathing his dagger, then sat up. He scrubbed at his gritty eyes. “’Tis your strategy, I’d wager,” he groused, “challengin’ me to battle when my wits are only half engaged.”
She flashed a coy smile. “Maybe.”
He helped her pick up the toefler pieces, stopping to examine one of the dark-colored men. Apparently, while he slept, Florie had been toiling away. The warrior he held was carved with intricate designs, scale armor, and a buckler shield, and its face bore a braided beard. Another warrior carried an ax over one shoulder, and his face was obscured by a nose-plate helm.
Rane picked up a light piece. A cloak, carved with ripples and folds, covered the man’s back, the eyes were blank hollows, and he carried a cat in one arm. “Is this…”
“Father Conan.”
He shook his head at the expert handiwork. It did look like the priest. How had she done it? How had she managed to capture Father Conan’s essence in a tiny piece of wood?
“I found a knife in the storage room,” she explained.
He glanced up at her. ’Twas obvious in the way she bit at her lower lip that she waited for his comments, but he hardly knew what to say. Never had he seen such craftsmanship. “How did ye… What… When did ye have…”
“I’ve been awake for a while now,” she admitted.
“These are…” he said, snatching up the pieces, one by one, from the board, at a loss for words. “These are… magnificent. How did ye learn to…”
She shrugged but, beneath her seeming nonchalance, beamed at his words. “I’m accustomed to workin’ in gold, but carvin’ wood isn’t so different.”
He examined the priest again. “This looks exactly like Father Conan.”
Encouraged by his praise, she placed a dark piece in his palm. He turned it over. A stern bearded figure in a figured doublet scowled up at him. In one hand was a broadsword. The other made a fist. And hanging about his neck was a large medallion with a crest he recognized.
“Lord Gilbert!” he shouted, laughing. She’d captured the marrow of the handsome man, from his neatly trimmed beard to the furrow that seemed to have taken up residence upon his brow since his recent marriage.
The depth of Florie’s talent overwhelmed Rane. With her skill, he realized, she could create priceless pieces of art. He imagined her carving magnificent flagons for Lord Gilbert’s table, making new reliquaries for the reconstructed churches of Edinburgh, fashioning chessmen for the amusement of the Scots royals themselves! With such a gift, Florie would one day be a successful artisan… if only she weren’t a fugitive bound for the gallows.
His smile faded. He didn’t want to think about it. Not yet.
Several times in the last few days, dread had reared its dragon’s head, threatening to incinerate the thin fabric of hope that shielded Florie. Thus far Rane had managed to relegate the nasty creature to the dimmest corners of his mind. He must eventually war with the beast, he knew, and his heart trembled at the thought. But while time was still his ally, he wouldn’t dwell on the battle ahead. ’Twould serve no purpose.
Exactly when his heart had shifted, he didn’t know. Maybe at the very beginning, when she’d trusted him to pull the arrow out.
Or when she’d nestled against him in her sleep.
Or sobbed upon his shoulder.
Or pressed thirsting lips to his.
Or sighed gratefully when he brought her the basin of warm water.
Or cheered when she beat him at hnefatafl.
Whenever it had happened, the wee thief had stealthily stolen his heart. And now he could hardly bear to consider what might befall her, because he’d… grown fond of her.
’Twas a curious thing, he decided, to be fond of a lass. He often desired lasses. They kept him amused and aroused with their soft curves and seductive glances. But never had he felt so profound a tenderness as he did for Florie.
’Twas completely contrary to reason. After all, how much affection could she bear for a man who’d shot her, scalded her, humiliated her?
Likewise, he shouldn’t be attracted to her in the least. He’d seen her at her worst—bloody, sweaty, filthy, fevered. That she was a known outlaw only added to the absurdity of his feelings.
But rational or not, he admired Florie, truly cared for her, and his soul quivered with a terrible rage when he thought of the travesty of executing such a lass.
Rane glanced up at Florie just in time to see her sneaking a light-colored piece from the board. He thought he glimpsed the top of a longbow before she enclosed it in her hand.
“What’s that?” he asked, nodding at her fist.
“Nothin’.”
He knew instantly by her deep blush who the figure was. “Let me see.”
“’Tisn’t…’tisn’t finished,” s
he lied.
He seized her hand in his own, trapping her. “Let me see.”
“’Twas… a mistake.”
He lifted the corner of his mouth in a half smile. “We all make mistakes.”
She frowned. “Let go o’ my hand, then, and I’ll show ye.”
He knew her too well to fall for her wiles. She’d likely stuff the piece down the bosom of her kirtle as soon as he released her. “Show me. Then I’ll let ye go.”
“’Tis nothin’. Indeed,” she hedged, “I intended to throw it away and make another.”
He grinned, still holding fast to her fist. “All right, then. I refuse to play hnefatafl with ye until ye show me that piece.”
Her brow furrowed so deeply that one would have thought he’d told her he was going to drown her favorite kitten. “Nae.”
“Aye.”
He watched her mull over his demand, but he knew she would eventually surrender. After all, once the hnefatafl flea bit, there was no soothing the itch but with another game.
With an uneasy sigh, she loosened her fingers, and he pried open her hand. There on her palm was the most detailed figure of all. A bow was slung across the archer’s shoulder, and a quiver of arrows rested upon his back. His shirt was belted about his hips, and his hose were even wrinkled at the knees, above the fold of his boots. His long hair spilled over his shoulders, a stray lock falling across his brow, and the mouth had a subtle upward curve to it, as if the figure kept an amusing secret.
’Twas perfect. Indeed, ’twas so perfect that looking at it sent a strange chill through him, as if he looked upon his own soul.
He nodded, mirroring the enigmatic expression on the figure. Then, feigning perplexity, he teased, “Who is this? Your foster father? Wat, maybe?”
Her artistic hackles rose instantly to the bait. “Wat?” Suddenly she realized he jested with her. Not to be outdone, she lifted her chin and countered with a jape of her own. “Aye, ’tis Wat,” she told him, her eyes calculating. “Can ye not see the ignorance in his face? The willfulness? The empty gaze that those o’ lesser wit—”
His laughter drowned her words. He clapped his hand to his heart. “Ye’ve cut me to the quick, lass.” Then he took the piece between his finger and thumb and studied it more closely, sobering. “Is this truly how ye see me?”
“I told ye,” she said, lowering her eyes. “’Tis flawed.”
“Nae, ’tis not flawed,” he argued. “Indeed, the piece is not so flawed as the man, I fear.”
Her gaze snapped back up to his. “Flawed? Ye’re not…” She blushed. “That is, on so small a piece… one cannot capture all the… the intricate aspects of a person’s… character.”
Nae, he thought. Florie could definitely capture every last detail, down to the laces of his jerkin and the taut string of his bow. The unfortunate truth was that she did see him as unflawed. Which simultaneously pleased his ego and weighed heavily on his mind.
He was far from perfect. Loki’s thumbs, considering all the torment he’d put her through, ’twas amazing she thought so. Surely she’d change her mind when she discovered he was Lord Gilbert’s man… if he ever let her know.
“Ye won’t throw this piece away?” ’Twas a question, but he said it like a threat.
She shrugged casually, but her gaze remained riveted on him.
He feigned a sigh of exasperation. “I suppose ye wish to see how he well he guards the king at hnefatafl before ye decide.”
Her eyes lit up. “Aye.”
“Very well,” he groused. “We’ll see if the archer earns his keep.”
They played on the steps of the church. Bundled against a fine veil of mist through which the sun peered occasionally like a shy bride, they scarcely noticed the chill air, so hot was their blood for battle.
Under Rane’s command, the little archer proved well worth his bow. Nothing interrupted their play, neither the Father, who planned to be gone all day at the home of an ill friend, nor Methuselah, who swished his tail in irritation as he stalked past, nor the repast of oatcakes, cheese, and cider that awaited them in the sanctuary, food that the priest had left the night before for their meal today.
“Oho, ‘Father Conan’!” Florie cried in victory as her Lord Gilbert piece sidled up to Rane’s wooden priest, removing him from the board.
Rane clucked his tongue. “ ’Tis hardly fair,” he complained. “The Father is blind, ye know.” Then he slid his archer forward to seize Gilbert in turn, eliciting a gasp of shock from Florie. He winked. “Always watch your back, ‘Lord Gilbert.’ ”
As his fingers closed around the tiny wooden warrior, his attention was caught by a movement from the brow of the hill behind Florie. Five dark shapes slowly emerged from the fog like blood seeping through linen, a company on horseback cresting the ridge.
Oblivious to their arrival, Florie playfully rapped at Rane’s knee with her captured priest. “That archer o’ yours is as much a blackguard as ye are,” she taunted. “I think I’ll…” She trailed off, alerted by the wariness in his face. “What? What is it?”
Misgiving prickled the hairs at the back of his neck as the riders neared. Florie heard them now, and she began to turn her head to follow his gaze.
“Nae!” he hissed. “Don’t turn around.”
Chapter 14
A week ago, the stubborn wench would have disobeyed him. Now her eyes mirrored her trust. She froze as he willed, an urgent question in her gaze.
“Go into the sanctuary,” he bade her. “Now.”
She blanched, dropping the wooden piece onto the board, knocking over two more. “Who is it? Gilbert?”
“Mavis.”
Rebellion flickered in her eyes then. “I’m not afraid o’ that—”
“Go in,” he warned, “or I’ll never play with ye again.”
Her jaw dropped.
“Go on,” he insisted.
Muttering under her breath, she complied. But her skirts caught on the board as she rose, upsetting it and scattering wooden pieces over the step. He heard a soft curse as she succumbed to the urge to glance toward the approaching threat. Then she slipped through the church door, closing it firmly behind her.
As they rode up, Rane came to his feet and nodded his head in deference to Lady Mavis, who was flanked by four of her personal guard.
“That was her—the thief!” Mavis exclaimed without preamble. “Wasn’t it?”
Rane saw no reason to lie. “Aye, my lady.”
“She was outside the church.” She regarded Rane expectantly, as if she spoke to a slow child. “Outside the sanctuary?”
“Aye.”
“Yet ye did nothin’?”
“What would ye have me do, my lady?”
“I believe my husband charged ye, huntsman, with guardin’ against her escape.”
“She did not escape.”
Mavis snarled an oath vile enough to spook her horse. “Damn ye, huntsman! Ye’re tryin’ my patience. Is she close to breakin’?”
“My lady?”
“The thief, bloody hell, the thief!”
“Breakin’?”
“Aye,” she said, staring at the closed church door. “She’s far from home. She has no allies. Surely hunger will loosen her tongue.” She smiled smugly. “I expect a confession will be forthcomin’.”
“Ye mean to starve a confession from her?” Rane asked incredulously.
“I won’t wait forty days.”
“But, my lady,” Rane said, “she’s been given the protection o’ the church.”
“The protection, aye. Not the sustenance.”
So she assumed Florie received no food. “There are those who may show her compassion, my lady. Surely ye won’t command them to withhold their mercy.”
Mavis ground her teeth as if she wished she could command such a thing. But she was no fool. Even a noble couldn’t contradict the church’s doctrine of pity and absolution. She shifted angrily in her saddle. “I expect her to surrender soon.”
&nb
sp; Rane arched a brow. He expected Florie wouldn’t surrender in a thousand years.
Mavis’s brows converged then, and her mouth began to work, alternately pursing and thinning with the frantic, sinister turnings of her mind. The last time Rane had seen that expression on her face was two months ago, hunting game. Lady Mavis, humiliated by the fact that Gilbert had come back empty-handed after a hunt, had conspired to pass off Rane’s deer as her husband’s catch.
“Maybe,” she muttered at last, a dark, desperate glimmer in her eyes, “there’s another way.”
Rane frowned. For the sake of Lord Gilbert’s pride, he’d allowed him to claim the deer. But he wasn’t about to let Mavis claim Florie.
Mavis straightened with sudden inspiration. “Huntsman,” she said, “in my husband’s absence, I can grant you leave to hunt in Ettrick.”
Rane scowled. “Aye?”
Mavis’s eyes flattened as her lips curved into an obsequious smile. “Let the wench escape,” she said silkily. “You’ll track her.” Her eyes glittered. “And bring her down.”
Rane blinked in disbelief. God’s wounds! Could Mavis actually mean for him to chase Florie, to slay her in cold blood? She had no idea how close he’d already come to doing just that unintentionally. Nor how much it had sickened him.
His body began to tremble with suppressed rage. The idea of deliberately hunting down a maiden as if she were an animal…
Drawing himself up to his full height, he spoke through clenched teeth. “I won’t commit murder for ye, my lady.”
Mavis gasped at his gall. Then, spurring her horse forward and gnashing her teeth, she raised her riding crop and struck Rane hard across the cheek.
The leather whip stung like the devil, but Rane knew better than to duck the blow. Thwarting Mavis would only make matters worse.
She sneered. “If ye can’t corner this prey, archer, then perhaps my husband should find himself a more skilled huntsman.”
Rane gave no answer. ’Twas oft better to be silent and misconceived than to speak and be understood too well.
With a threatening glare and a smart crack of her reins, Mavis wheeled about and rode with her men toward the road again.