Blow

by Demelza Carlton

  But Rudolf was better versed in such things. Regina would never have allowed her precious son to play-act, but Portia and her sisters had pulled him into their playing as often as they could.

  Rudolf took the offered cup with both hands as though it held the blood of the saviour himself. He held it aloft as he knelt before Reidar, praying he wouldn't spill any. It wouldn't do to splash the king's shoes. He raised his voice to a shout that matched Reidar's for volume. "Nay, a toast to my cousin, the new King of Viken. May his reign be long and filled with so many victories the bards forget to sing of anyone else!"

  Silence reigned for a long moment as the other men waited to see their king's reaction. Rudolf barely caught the tiny nod, but it was there. Reidar might not be perfectly comfortable in the role yet, but he was definitely their king.

  The men shouted, raising their own cups to second Rudolf's toast.

  Only then did they offer him a place at the fire. And Rudolf took it, pleased to be accepted back into the land of his ancestors.

  A land that was no longer home.

  THIRTEEN

  If there was one good thing about the threat of war, it was that Portia's archery skills improved. The finger guards Rudolf had given her clung like a second skin even as they protected her, while she loosed arrow after arrow at a target so full of holes it resembled cork instead of wood.

  "Portia."

  Portia lowered her bow. "Yes, Father?"

  "I have some men you must meet."

  Sighing, she unstrung her bow, knowing she would have no more time for practice if they had guests.

  Sure enough, the hall seemed full of men – young, loud and dressed in their best armour. Lords' sons, she guessed. Now, more than ever, she ached with loss at Rudolf's leaving. He would have greeted the men and deflected their acquisitive stares. Without him, she had the distinct impression they regarded her like a succulent leg of lamb. That desire to devour.

  Portia shivered, then straightened. She was the lady of this hall, and her welcome must honour the ancient laws of hospitality that bound them all. "Good day, and welcome to my father's hall," she said.

  The men stumbled all over each other to bow.

  "We thank you, Lady Portia," said a man with hair as red as her own. "I certainly think I will enjoy my stay here." He made no effort to hide his approval as he looked her up and down.

  Like he was buying a lamb for slaughter, Portia thought uneasily.

  Angus edged into the hall beside her. "The council agreed that you deserved a guard of your own to protect you, now Rudolf has returned to Viken. Each of the lords offered one of their best fighting men to be your protector. With the prospect of war, I thought it prudent to accept their offers. All of them."

  Best fighting men? Portia gave a breathy snort as she surveyed the newly puffed-out chests and proudly lifted heads. Finest fighters indeed. These were men who did not realise guard duty was nothing to be proud of. Men their lords would not miss. They were certainly no true replacement for Rudolf.

  "Welcome to my father's household, then," she said, fighting to hide her fury. She turned to her father. "May I return to the practice field, please?"

  With her father's permission, she marched back outside and across the field to the target. She ripped the arrows out, not caring if they took chunks of wood with them. She'd ask for a new target when she'd shot this one to pieces – next week, at this rate.

  Her arms filled with arrows, she turned and found the band of men watching her from the edge of the field. Had they never seen a girl shoot before?

  She let the arrows clatter to the sod at her feet, then strung her bow. If they wanted to watch, so be it. She would give them a show.

  Notch, draw, aim, breathe, loose. It was Rudolf's voice whispering the words in her head.

  Loose.

  Loose.

  Loose.

  Unbidden, a smile warmed her lips. It was almost like having him here beside her once more.

  "Lady Portia?"

  This whisper was not Rudolf.

  "Lady Portia, I just wanted to say that you have no need to defend yourself now, for I would be delighted to do it for you. My sword is always ready."

  Portia followed his gaze to his sword hilt, raising her eyebrows at the tent his other sword had pitched beneath his tunic. "So I see," she said drily, turning away. Her next arrow skimmed across the top of the target.

  As she notched another arrow, an arm snaked around her waist. "Lady Portia, if you will permit me to assist you. I am a skilled archer, and I always hit my mark." His hand drifted higher, headed for her breast.

  Portia stomped on the man's foot and twisted out of his embrace. "Not today, thank you." Not ever.

  Her next arrow fell short of the target.

  A heavy hand landed on her shoulder. "Lady Portia, if you but lift the bow a little higher – "

  Portia whirled, drawing the bow back. The heavy handed one backed up so quickly he almost landed on his arse. She pointed her arrow at each man in turn, punctuating her words. "The next man who says my name or touches me is going to get an arrow through his manhood. And no matter how small that target might be, I will not miss."

  When no one moved, she added, "Didn't your fathers warn you about me?"

  Now they backed up a few steps. All but one man, who held his ground.

  Portia aimed her arrow at the stubborn one.

  He bowed deeply. "My father, Lord Lewis, did indeed warn me about you. He said that one day soon, we would all be forced to fight for our homes, as foreign kings battle over who owns us. And not just us. King Donald offered his son to be your husband, and King Harald will undoubtedly do the same. As the Lady of Isla, you are at the very heart of our people, of our home. When you marry, the council will crown your husband not as Lord of Isla, but as our king. None of us deserves that honour. Not yet. We are here to defend your honour, because to lose you is to lose all the Southern Isles." Now he straightened and lifted his chin, so that he might meet her eyes. "Lady Portia, I will defend you with my life. And any man here who thinks he has the right to seduce you against your will, a lady who is courted by kings, will have to get through me." He marched across the no man's land and planted his feet firmly in the middle ground between Portia and her would-be suitors. He drew his sword, then threw it on the ground, followed by his dagger. "Go on. If you think you're man enough to be king, fight me!"

  His first opponent was the biggest of them, as broad and tall as Rudolf. He bunched one meaty fist and swung it at young Lewisson.

  Lewisson dodged. His elbow swung behind him slightly before he jabbed his own fist into the giant's midsection. The man went down, with Lewisson on top of him.

  They rolled on the ground, kicking and punching, until someone said thickly, "Yield!"

  The two men broke apart. Only then could see Lewisson was the victor while the other man limped away, pressing a hand to his bleeding nose.

  Lewisson's second opponent charged at him while his back was turned. Portia shouted a warning, but the stocky man bulled into Lewisson just as he turned to face him, too late to keep his balance. Lewisson grabbed him as he fell, so they both tumbled to the ground together. They wrestled for some time, each trying to break the other man's ribs as they rocked first one way, then the other.

  "Enough!" Angus roared.

  Lewisson rolled away from his opponent. He still had the presence of mind to place himself between the other men and Portia.

  "You're here to protect the lady, not fight amongst yourselves. I have your oaths, boys. Break them, and I will send you home in disgrace."

  Most of the men ducked the heads, shamefaced. Boys indeed.

  All except Lewisson.

  Portia held out her hand to help him up.

  He laughed, waving away her offer of assistance as he clambered to his feet. He wiped away a trickle of blood from his split lip. "My father forgot to warn me about how beautiful you are, Lady Portia. Now I see why a war will be fought for you."
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  Portia shook her head. Her voice was chilly as she said, "Not for me. For my home."

  He inclined his head. "As you say. We all fight for something. I will fight for your honour and mine, Lady, but I have more at stake than most. I am the youngest son of Lord Lewis, to be sure, but I was fostered at Rum Isle with Lord Ronin and his daughters. Lady Rhona and I have...an understanding, I suppose you would call it. Her father had no men to send to serve you, so he sent me. If I serve you well, Rhona and I will be allowed to marry when I go home."

  Portia's expression softened into a smile. "I'm sure you will. I pray that Lady Rhona will have you home soon."

  His answering smile was bleak. "If my father is right, as he usually is, this war will be long and bitter. You will have need of every man among us to defend you. But at the end, I hope to invite you and your husband to my wedding."

  "Thank you." Portia remembered her manners. "What is your name?"

  His eyes widened, and he bowed low. "Forgive my rudeness. Lady Portia, I am Grieve Lewisson, foster son to Lord Ronin." He straightened. "I should probably let you get back to your archery practice. You set an example we should all follow." Grieve turned and cupped his hands to his mouth. "Oi, you lot. You can't expect Lady Portia to shoot all the invaders herself. Get your bows and show the lady you can do more than stand around looking pretty and staring at her arse!" He reddened. "Sorry, my lady. Your bottom, I meant."

  Portia waved away both the swearing and the apology. Instead, she watched in wonder as the other men hurried to obey Grieve.

  They soon had a row of targets, bristling with arrows.

  Grieve roared, "Cease fire!" He waited for the bows to lower before he pointed at the targets. "Right, retrieve!"

  Portia marched across the field with the rest of them to refill her quiver. Out the corner of her eye, she watched Grieve as he walked the line of targets, offering advice to the others. Most of the men nodded in response.

  So that was how you commanded men, she thought. Idly, she wondered if Rudolf would be as capable. He was no lord or lord's son, but there was something about him that made you want to follow him.

  Grieve appeared at her side. "Do you need help with those, my lady?"

  Too late, Portia realised she'd been so busy watching him, she'd forgotten about her arrows. Her face grew hot.

  "No, but thank you," she said.

  She might not have Rudolf, but Grieve might be a suitable substitute. At least for a while.

  FOURTEEN

  Rudolf had never liked the wait before a battle began. His armour hugged him like a protective parent, though he wished he'd forgone his helm for this battle. He wanted to see things clearly, and he was willing to risk his head to do so. Truth be told, he wanted to see how his cousin fought, and generalled the battle, but Reidar had placed him on one wing while the king himself stood in the other. Once the fighting began, he wouldn't be able to see across the Opplander army, for their men stood as tall as Vikens. Well, they must be kin, however distant, if they thought to claim Reidar's throne.

  That, or fools who didn't care if they died.

  Rudolf surveyed the Viken army. The Opplanders were fools indeed, no matter whose kin they were.

  A roar rose up, commanding the Vikens to charge. As though they were one man, they did, Reidar with them.

  Rudolf swore and took off at a run.

  The king leading the charge? To hell with the Opplanders. Surely Reidar could not be such a fool as to believe he was like the great hero kings of old?

  Rudolf blocked an attack that came in from the side, taking it on his shield as his sword slid below to gut the man before he could strike again. Rudolf pulled his sword free and kept running.

  An axe came at him and he twisted away, but not before it took a chunk out of his shield. The man tried to raise his axe again for a better blow, but Rudolf was faster. The men of the Southern Isles sometimes fought barehanded, and when they did, they fought dirty. His boot caught the man in his midsection, folding him in half. He screamed as his axe bit into his own flesh, but Rudolf leaped over him and ran on.

  Another axe clattered across his shield, badly thrown, followed by the arm of the unfortunate axeman. His corpse must be one of those littering the ground, a carpet of groaning, crawling dead, the like of which Rudolf had been told dwelled in hell. Something squashed and spurted beneath his foot, but Rudolf didn't care. His only care was his cousin, the king.

  A giant of a man came at him, two hands clenched around his axe haft as he swung it in a deadly arc.

  The blade took off the head of the Viken beside Rudolf, slowing for but a moment before coming to collect his.

  Rudolf was faster. He ran at the giant and slashed upward with his dagger, aiming for the man's unprotected throat. Blood bubbled, but not before the axe finished its half-circle swing, for the weapon had a momentum of its own. Down went the giant, with Rudolf on top of him, pinned to the dying man by the axe handle across his back.

  Rudolf stabbed again, determined to fight his way free. The giant screamed, gurgled, then stilled. Rudolf wiped the gelatinous globe that had once been the giant's eye off his blade before he rose.

  He had a moment to see someone slice Reidar's side before another axe-wielding giant blocked his way. Rudolf hated giants.

  "Protect the king!" Rudolf bellowed to the men around him as he lifted his sword to meet the down-swinging axe. Something squelched under his foot and a surprised Rudolf slid several feet before he stopped, now behind the giant who'd wanted to cleave him in two.

  Now, there was nothing between him and Reidar, except the king's opponent, whose axe blade was red with Reidar's blood.

  Rudolf broke into a run, lifting his sword to run the man through. Perhaps he should have slowed, for his blade went straight through the man's throat as he turned to avoid a sword wielded by another of the king's men. It mattered not. The king was alive, and his opponent was dead.

  Reidar eyes were wide with a panic Rudolf shared. Yes, he had almost died. "Thank you," Reidar said.

  Rudolf longed to tell him to leave the battlefield to his more than capable men, but Reidar would not welcome a command from his cousin, however well meant. So all he said was, "Any time, my king," before he turned away to take on another Opplander.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Rudolf saw Reidar leave the field of his own volition, not as a coward, but as a general walking among his troops. The battle was almost won, anyway – only a few Opplanders remained.

  Including one last giant, who charged up to Rudolf as though he was a human battering ram. "You killed my brothers!" he shouted.

  Rudolf didn't see the man's axe strapped to his back until it came up in a deadly arc he was too slow to dodge, though he knew it would cleave through his head, helm and all. So he grabbed the giant's arm instead, and hung on with all his weight.

  Then the axe blow landed, and the world went black.

  FIFTEEN

  Father threw the scroll down on the table with a sigh. "Portia, do we have everything we need to put on a lavish feast? The sort we'd do for an important guest?"

  Portia's heart leaped within her. "A guest?"

  With her sisters married and gone to live with their husbands, that left just her and Father in the huge longhouse, and sometimes not even him, when another council meeting was called. Oh, she had her men, as Father called them, but they slept in the barracks across the yard. A barracks they'd built, to protect her honour, they said, though she suspected she had Grieve to thank for that.

  He had this habit of asking her, oh so politely, every morning how she'd slept. After one particularly noisy night, she'd confessed that the men's snoring had kept her awake, and they'd started building the barracks that very afternoon.

  They had settled down to do what they'd been sent here for - protecting her. Protecting her from what, Portia wasn't sure. Herself, maybe. Not that they had much to protect her from. The most dangerous thing to occur in all their time guarding her had happ
ened yesterday, when her bowstring had snapped and sliced her arm. Rudolf would have seen the thinning string and told her to replace it long ago, she was sure of it, but he was still in Viken, and she was here with...her men.

  Unless he was the guest.

  Father sighed. He did far too much of that lately, and his smiles were more rare than summer snow. "Donald keeps sending more messages, and the council refuses to respond. In the last one, he said he would send envoys that we could not ignore. According to this missive, his envoy has arrived at Isla, and he invokes the ancient laws of hospitality for us to welcome the man."

  Laws the Islanders obeyed, but would the foreigners? Portia wondered. Sharing bread and meat with someone under your roof gave them guest right, the right to your protection for as long as they stayed. Accepting this hospitality then gave the guest an obligation to honour the host. Neither could take up arms against one another while they dwelled under the same roof. Twenty years had passed, but people still spoke about the day Calum had struck her father at a feast. Portia had only been a baby at the time, and her father still grieving her mother's death, but she knew the details as though she'd been there.

  Calum had arrived late, when everyone else was seated. He'd marched into her father's hall, and levelled him with one blow before accusing him of murdering Portia's mother. He'd remained in the hall only long enough to seize the remains of a ham which he swung by his side as he marched out, never to return.

  When Nurse had told it, she'd added some fanciful embellishments of her own. Calum's eyes had glistened with tears, and his usually cleanshaven face had been shadowed with stubble. He'd never shaved since, Nurse said. Or that he'd called down a curse on Angus as he departed, swearing he would lose everyone he loved, a fitting fate for Catriona's killer. Then he'd choked on the ham and she'd had to save him.

  Given how many times she'd had to save Arlie from choking on whatever food she tried to swallow whole in her eagerness to eat, Portia had believed it.