Blow

by Demelza Carlton

  Behind her, the gates clanged shut, and darkness descended.

  "You must let me in! You must!"

  Shouted words woke her, and Portia struggled to rise. How long had she slept? It looked near noon, but it was hard to tell with so many clouds in the sky.

  Loud clanging as someone rang the gates like they were a bell. "Let me in, damn you!"

  Portia stuck her head out of the tower window.

  Mason sat in a boat outside the gates, whacking at them with his oar. He shook his fist at her. "Let me in or I shall take a stick to you, like your father should have, you ugly whore!"

  "Insulting my lady will not let you in, you great blubbery fool," Grieve shouted back from the walls above the gate. "In fact, I am honour bound to keep you out, for you threatened her, and I must keep her safe. Go back to your homeland, for you're not welcome here, or anywhere else on the Southern Isles."

  "But there's an army on the way! An army of Vikens! The only safe place is inside those walls!" Mason insisted.

  "Then I thank you for building them, as they will protect my lady. 'Tis a fitting parting gift you give her, after trespassing on her hospitality so long. Get you gone before they get here, man. For if they catch you outside the gates, they will squash you like the cockroach you are."

  "What about your laws of hospitality?" Mason demanded.

  "'Tis not my roof you lived under, nor my lady's. You may ask her father for shelter if you wish, but I've seen you shit upon guest right for too long to be stupid enough to offer it to the likes of you. Perhaps you should not have sent Lord Angus to fight so far away. Maybe if you hurry, you may reach his house before the Wolf's army do. Maybe he'll give you shelter if you offer to build him a castle such as this."

  "I hope he gives that ugly whore you serve to his men, so that they may rape the bitch to death. She deserves no better," Mason shouted as he rowed back to shore.

  Portia wanted to shout back in kind, but the barb in his words had hit home. Perhaps the man was right, and that would be her fate. She would rather take a dagger to her own breast first.

  She slid down the wall to sit on the cold flagstone floor. Would she end her days in this prison?

  "My lady, I will not let that happen." Grieve stepped into the tower room and closed the door behind him. He moved to the window and pulled the shutters closed, too, filling the room with shadows. "There is a reason why I chose this room for you instead of the lord's chamber, though the other is warmer. We have taken the room below you as our barracks, so anyone attacking the castle must fight their way through us before they can reach you. And if they do, then you must escape." He slid his fingers down the window frame, and pulled a section away from the wall. A dark void beckoned – a space within the walls Portia would never have guessed existed. "You must climb down, then follow the passage to the hidden door. There is a boat down there, so that you may row ashore. If the castle walls are breached, we will give you the time you need to get away." His eyes met hers, saying the words that he did not.

  "I won't let you die for me, Grieve. None of you," Portia said.

  He smiled faintly. "Lady Portia, you are the second most powerful lady I know, and not even you have the power to prevent that. I stand by my oath."

  "And what of Lady Rhona?" Portia demanded.

  "If nothing else, Rhona will avenge me. She has a temper that matches yours, my lady." He bowed. "Now, get some sleep, while it is still quiet. Or you'll wish you had, for there will be an end to peace once that army arrives."

  She had to laugh at that. It was either that or cry.

  Crying could wait until she had to make use of that secret passage, she promised herself. For if she descended into the darkness, all would be lost.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  That blocky stone structure rising out of Loch Findlugan where Council Island should be was an abomination. The gods of the old faith would have struck it down with lightning, thunder and whatever else they had in their arsenal. He wished the new ones would do it instead, but he didn't think saints dealt in lightning. Pity. He'd happily hail it as a miracle if they did.

  At least his army were getting better at setting up camp, though he had to admit the failing light hurried them along better than he could. No one wanted to be caught out in the rain without their tent up. Not when they'd marched in it all day.

  Perhaps they were too tired to start any fights tonight, was all. Or awed by the place where they stood – for Loch Findlugan was the home of Council Island, a holy place where no Islander was allowed make war on another.

  And he'd brought war to it.

  Lord Angus would never forgive him for this. 'Twas a good thing he wasn't here to see it.

  Rudolf would not have done this if it was an Islander who held Portia prisoner. No, he'd have called the man out and the battle would have been between just the two of them, as was proper. But the Albans had brought in their army and fortified Council Island itself. He had no choice. Better that it was a Viken leading this army and not an Islander, then, even if Islanders outnumbered the Vikens in his army.

  He'd been considering possible attack strategies since the castle came into view, and he still had nothing. How did one attack a rock? Not even Rhona could burn stone. In all his years of fighting, ambushing and being ambushed in Viken and on the Southern Isles, he'd never come up against something like this. You couldn't climb those smooth walls the way you scaled a cliff. And the damn thing was in the middle of a lake, with no sign of the boat fleet that had carried him to the island last time. A tiny coracle was the only craft he could see – a one-man craft that might take two or even three, if they were slight and didn't mind the closeness. Children, maybe, or two women...

  He would not need to attack if he offered them something they wanted. More than anything, he wanted an end to this war. If Portia was safe, he would be willing to trade almost anything.

  Portia was the politician, as astute as her father, or Lord Lewis. Rudolf was a warrior and a strategist. She would know what to offer, when all he wanted was her.

  A trade, perhaps. If he offered the Albans her sisters as hostages, perhaps they'd be willing to negotiate. Maybe even open the gates...

  Lina settled Arlie in the boat, shoving a cushion between her sister's back and the gunwale. "If anything happens to her or the babe because of you, Wolf, I and my kin will hunt you to the ends of the earth to exact our vengeance."

  Rudolf nodded. Coward that he was, he couldn't look her in the eye, so he'd worn his helm for this. Full battle dress, in fact, as he paced along the shore, letting those in the castle get a good look at him.

  A young Eriskan lad had volunteered to row the ladies across the lake. He looked no bigger than Rudolf himself had been the day he arrived at the Southern Isles, but he had the same courage. And so Rudolf had agreed, letting the most vulnerable members of his army assault the castle. For they had a better chance of gaining entry than he.

  His men lined the shore, and theirs lined the battlements, watching the coracle's progress as it rippled between them. Could two armies hold their breath? For it seemed the only sound he could hear was the plash of oars as the two flame-haired girls retreated from him.

  A third flash of orange at the tower's top window stopped his heart. Portia!

  He wanted to fly across the water and take her in his arms, but she was as far out of reach as heaven itself right now. Even her face was out of view – hidden by her hair as she faced the oncoming boat, not him. She'd seen her sisters, all right.

  She turned her head further still, meeting the eyes of...was it one of the men on the battlements? She gestured imperiously, her meaning clear. She wanted them to let her sisters in.

  One of the armoured men on the battlements let out a shout, waving his arms with as much energy as Portia.

  Was he commanding his men to open the gates, or fire on the defenceless boat? Surely no man of honour would open fire. They couldn't...

  The gate at the waterline began to rise.r />
  Lina shouted and pointed, and the Eriskan boy headed for the opening gate.

  The boat slid into the darkness before the gate clanged shut once more. His army began to disperse, heading for their tents or whatever they wanted to do while they waited. Polish their armour, perhaps.

  But Rudolf was rooted to the shore, his eyes fixed on the tower window that no longer held the flaming beauty who'd haunted his dreams for so long.

  Gods help him, from the old faith and the new. He'd sacrificed a boy, two women and an unborn babe just for the hope of seeing her again.

  He hoped Portia would forgive him if he failed.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Despite all her talk of wanting to run and shoot and do all the things she hadn't done in the barracks hall, Portia found herself peering out the window just like she had when she lived in the loft. She could sit in the tower windows, if she'd wanted to, but the stone was too cold, so she hung back, not wanting to touch it. There was plenty to see.

  The army came in an orderly column, creeping into the valley like ants until they grew into men and settled on the shore where her own men had left their horses. The beasts were gone now, back to her father's stables with a groom, for there were no stables here to house them. Most of the army marched on foot, with a few hooded or armoured figures on horseback.

  The Wolf Prince could be no one other than the proud peacock who led them, probably insisting no one else could ride before him lest they kick up dust or mud that might foul the highly polished sheen of his armour. His poor horse had to bear the weight of not just him, but all his weapons, too, for the man had sword, shield, axe, bow...he carried an armoury on his back, as though he expected an attack at any time. And so he should. A Viken who attacked the Southern Isles was an oathbreaker of the worst kind, breaking an alliance that had stood for centuries.

  She wanted to take up her bow and shoot him then and there, but she knew he was out of range. Even from this height, she was too far from shore to shoot anything not on the lake's surface. If he could be persuaded to board a boat, though...

  The tiny coracle Mason had left in the mud wouldn't stand up to more than a few well-placed arrows before the holes in the hide let in enough water to sink it. Wearing so much armour, the Wolf was sure to sink, and good riddance.

  His army set up camp with alarming efficiency, which surprised her when she realised only the first few ranks of troops were Viken. The lines marching over the hill now were unmistakeably Islanders – so many men! She hadn't known there were that many men on all the Southern Isles, yet here they were.

  Why?

  Why would her own people follow a man who burned their homes and killed their families? No man of the Isles would throw away his own honour in such a way. He'd kill the Wolf with his own hands, for sure.

  For the first time, she began to doubt the tales she'd heard. That the Albans feared him, she'd known. But her own people...they weren't stupid. They wouldn't stand by and watch their own people die.

  Did they believe the Wolf was their ally? Big and vulpine, perhaps, but not so bad?

  The vast army made themselves at home on the valley floor, while the Wolf paced the camp. He was a big man, bigger than most, and he'd pitched his own tent in the centre of the camp, bigger than the rest, of course. The cloaked riders favoured the second largest tent, on the far edge of camp, away from the water. Three of them. One waddled like he was as fat as Mason, but there was something about the way the figure walked that made her certain it wasn't him. Besides, an Alban among this army would be in chains, or tied to a stake. Not free to walk about the camp.

  "Have you never seen an army before?"

  Portia looked up to meet Grieve's raised eyebrows. "Not like this one."

  "Me, neither. Now I know what Lord Angus faces in Alba. 'Tis a fearsome sight." He held out the covered bowl he'd carried up the stairs. "I brought your dinner. Seeing as you didn't come to the dining hall with the rest of us..."

  She took the bowl. "Thank you. I suppose I have spent so long alone, I am not accustomed to...to..."

  "Freedom?" Grieve supplied. "This is all new to me, too, my lady. There is what I know, and then there is...this." He waved at the view.

  "What are they doing?" Portia leaned out of the window, to get a better look. "They're sending someone out in the boat."

  Two of the cloaked figures. Witches? Priests? She couldn't be sure. They were accompanied by an Islander boy who rowed the boat like he'd been born to it. A fisherman's son, probably. But the cloaked riders...

  The Wolf stood on shore, speaking to the riders. Together, they reached up and lowered their hoods.

  Portia let out a shriek. "It's Lina and Arlie! My sisters! And Arlie...Arlie's pregnant!" She pointed at the girl's belly. "I'm going to be an aunt!"

  Grieve swore and bolted down the stairs.

  "If you don't let them in, I'll open the gates myself!" she called after him.

  Soon after, he appeared on the battlements, gesticulating wildly as he argued with Brian. More than once, he stabbed a finger in her direction. Finally, Brian headed down to the gates.

  Portia watched the boat sail beneath the castle, before it was her turn to race down the stairs. She was breathless by the time she reached the bottom, but she didn't slow. It had been too long since she'd seen her sisters.

  They clambered up the steps, looking just as tired as she'd been when she first arrived. Of course, they'd been riding all day.

  Portia issued orders for a feast to be prepared, and for water to be brought up to her room so that they might wash, for where else would they sleep? The enormous bed was more than big enough for three of them.

  She wasn't sure who to hug first. Arlie, lest her baby decide to arrive this very moment, or Lina, who she'd only just missed?

  Grieve stood beside them with a grave look on his face. "Tell them what you told me."

  Arlie's face crumpled as she burst into tears, leaving Lina to say the words: "We are here as the Wolf's envoys. He offers everyone in the castle safe passage off Isla, if they open the gates and lay down their weapons."

  Portia's mouth was dry. It was too easy. It must be a trick of some kind. Or..."What does the Wolf ask in return?"

  "That King Donald gives up all claim to the Southern Isles and its people..."

  Portia had expected that, and she would happily support it.

  "...and that you surrender Portia to the Wolf."

  Even Lina leaked a few tears as she said it, though she quickly wiped them away. "I'm sorry, Portia. That's what he wants."

  "What does he want of me?" she asked.

  "It doesn't matter. He shall not have her!" Grieve said.

  The men on the walls rumbled their agreement.

  "How long do I have?" Portia whispered.

  "It does not matter. He will have to tear down the walls and kill every man among us before he can touch you!"

  "He wants your answer by noon tomorrow," Lina said.

  Portia nodded. She blinked back tears. Tomorrow, it would be time to end this.

  "Then tonight we shall have a feast, to remind us of happier times, and tomorrow, he will have his answer," Portia said.

  "His answer lies at the point of my sword!"

  Portia linked arms with Arlie and Lina. "Come, I'll take you to my chamber where we may wash while the men make plans for the morrow."

  It took some time to help Arlie up the stairs, and even longer to catch her breath. Being cooped up in that loft had not done her any good. She hoped the Wolf would let her see the sun a little, at least. What there was of it.

  While Arlie collapsed on the bed, complaining about how her back hurt, Lina pulled Portia aside. "There's something else. I didn't want to say it in front of all those angry men out there, for they are beyond reason right now."

  "What is it?"

  "It's Rudolf."

  Portia's mouth was dry once more, and she feared it might be a desert until the day she died now. "What news of Rudolf?"r />
  Lina wet her lips. "He's down there. He rides with them, Portia. This is the help he brought, at our father's command. Most of the men are our people, fighting to be free of the Albans. They fight with the Wolf, not against him."

  "And Rudolf?"

  "He has the Wolf's favour, I am certain of it. Because he was the one who took us prisoner, and it was nothing like I had heard. He has treated us as well as any of the men in that vast horde. Food, a place to sleep, a tent to keep the rain off...horses to ride, while the men march. None of the Vikens has laid a finger on us, and no man among them has even hinted at it. They fear the Wolf's wrath." Lina gripped her shoulder. "Portia, make your men see sense. When they surrender, you'll get to see Rudolf again. Isn't that worth it?"

  She wanted to say that it was. A week ago, she might have given anything to see Rudolf again. But to see the man she'd loved for as long as she could remember as she surrendered herself to another man? A man who owned his allegiance, as he would own her, too?

  Darkness lay on her heart, as never before. This morning, she thought she could bear whatever the Wolf would do to her. But if Rudolf had to watch? It would break her heart.

  She forced a smile for her sisters. "No more talk of war, or the morrow. Tonight we feast, and talk of the past. For I have missed much, it seems. I know Arlie was always a greedy guts, but when did she learn to eat melons whole?"

  The talk turned to lighter things, but the darkness within remained. Later, she would surrender to it. Now...she had her last supper to enjoy.

  THIRTY

  Portia waited until her sisters had fallen asleep before she crept over to the window. Despite their protestations about receiving kind treatment from the Wolf, their journey from their burned homes to here could not have been an easy one. They would sleep for some hours yet – so soundly, perhaps, that they wouldn't notice her absence at all.

  Night air puffed through the window, chilling her bare arms. It was colder out here on the loch and the stone walls seemed to drink the chill, making the castle colder still.