MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves

by Graham, Heather

  Lord of the Wolves

  Heather Graham

  Prologue

  The Blood of the Wolf

  A.D. 865

  The Coast of Eire

  Land of the Scotia

  The tall boy was rigid, his young soul in a tempest of indignation. Golden blond, already strong beyond his years, he withstood the wind well as it whipped around him, almost as if he drew more strength from the force of it.

  His mother had rued his behavior and told him he was acting like a Viking.

  Well, he was a Viking!

  “Look to the sea, my son!” his father told him, and the king"s hands set upon his son"s shoulders. “Look out to the whitecaps, breaking on the water. Imagine them our ships! So many of them, lean, sharp ships, ships that slash the water and can best any storm out there! See the great dragon prows, my son, the bared teeth, the mouths drawn back in snarling grimaces! See the carving of them, the excellent way they are crafted! We are the masters of the seas, and that cannot be denied.”

  He smiled up into his father"s eyes. “Vikings, Father. We are Vikings. And we still sail such ships from here!”

  “They are the best ships, as most of the world has seen. It is a world in which we are often under attack and a world in which we often make alliances, and so we need strong ships,” the king commented thoughtfully. “And yes, we are Vikings, or Norsemen, in one way, Irish in another. Sometimes, son, it is not so wise to remind your mother of that fact.”

  The boy grinned. His mother was every inch the Irish princess. She had taught them all the great Irish laws of hospitality, and the Brehon laws that made the people so civilized. She had seen that they were taught art and history, languages, and religion. But he did not know if his mother really so much minded his father"s being a Viking. Whatever else his father might be, he was a great man who had perhaps invaded once, but then had stayed to fight for the land—and the people.

  His mother had been the one to send him to his father now.

  He had gotten in trouble, for Leith had teased him, taking his newly hewn sword, the very handsome one that his grandfather had fashioned for him.

  Leith always had everything, or so it seemed. But then Leith was the eldest son. Leith was their father"s heir. He would rule here, in this place that was so rich and green, so beautiful, that they all loved so much. He knew that, he understood it. He even loved his brother who had been trained to be a king, who was older, wiser, dignified, and, like his mother, very thoughtful and very fair.

  But today he had tried to take the sword!

  The worst of it had been that it had all begun in the chapel during mass. His mother had taken his hand and led him from the church, and her emerald eyes had looked upon him with a deep anger.

  “Leith took my sword!” he had told her, his small jaw set, his eyes blazing.

  He should have been sorry, of course. He loved his mother deeply and was sorry to disappoint her.

  But he would not back down.

  “The land is his! Dubhlain is his!” The little wooden sword had been in his hand, and so he had lifted it high. “I will defend his right to it to the death against any invader!” he had vowed passionately. “But this sword, Mother, is mine!”

  The words were so sure and so passionate, the queen had thought. Her son was so proud, so determined!

  A pain had clenched at her heart, for despite his youth, she had suddenly realized, he would be like his father. He would love his brothers and sisters, honor the land of his birth.

  But he would need more, crave more, fight for more.

  She"d bitten her lip. Indeed, he was like a miniature version of the great Wolf of Norway, as were several of her sons, but perhaps none so much as this one!

  His hair was pure gold, his brows were high arched, his face was a little man’s face, finely, ruggedly hewn.

  His eyes were that cold Nordic blue of his father"s people. Bright blue, direct blue, impaling blue. He was a boy, but it was so very hard to look away from those eyes! He stood like his father, tall already, nearly her own height. His shoulders gave promise of great breadth.

  And his will …

  Was one of steel.

  He had waved in the air the wooden sword he had so determinedly retrieved.

  “I am a younger son, Mother,” he had explained impatiently. “But I will not have everything taken away from me!”

  “You are the younger son of a king known round the civilized world,” she had reminded him shrewdly, “And—”

  “I will make my mark upon that world!” he had said defiantly.

  She had thrown up her hands suddenly. “Your behavior today is horrid!

  You"re acting just like a Viking—”

  “But my father is a Viking, Mother.”

  She had inhaled and exhaled, trying to control her temper. She"d already survived this temperament once. Was she going to have to do so again?

  “A very Irish Viking, my son. Tamed by the land, tamed by—”

  “You?” he had suggested impishly.

  Her emerald eyes had widened as she started, then she laughed. “Nay, I think not! And don"t you dare say such a thing to him! He is a Viking, but a civilized one. One who reads, one who thinks, one who judges and is fair, one who learns everything about a people.”

  “Still a Viking.”

  “Fine, fine, my young Lord Wolf! Your Viking father has gone to the cliffs, so, my love, go bring your complaints to him!”

  Standing very tall and very straight and angry all over again, he had started to walk away. “My son!” she had called to him.

  He"d turned back. “I love you!” she"d called softly.

  Some of the anger had gone out of him. He had smiled in return and run on, outside the walls of his home, and across green fields to the rise of cliffs, and there he had found his father.

  Standing there, the ultimate warrior, one booted foot set high upon a rock as he stared out to sea.

  “Do you miss it, Father?”

  The king turned to him. “Never, son, for I have found my place in life.” He sighed. “They accuse us—Vikings—of evil deeds, and of so many we are guilty! But, my son, I never came to ravage the land. I came to take it, aye, but always to build upon it. I brought it strength, and it brought me …”

  “Aye, Father?”

  “It brought me beauty and peace. A place to call home. It brought me your mother.”

  The youth smiled. He stood next to his father, one doeskin-booted foot high upon the cliff, his arms crossed over his chest, his blue eyes out upon the sea. It called to him, just as the legends of his father"s gods called to him, the great warriors feasting in Valhalla, the angry Wodin riding his eight-legged horse across the skies.

  “It can be good to sail,” his father said softly. “Good to seek. Good to go a-Viking. To lift your sword for another, perhaps, to find your rightful place.” He met his father"s eyes. “I will sail the seas!” he vowed passionately, small golden head thrown back, wooden sword facing toward the heavens, toward those gods of his father"s people, Wodin and Thor, toward tempest, thunder and lightning. His cloak flew in the wind behind him. He closed his eyes and felt the sea air.

  “I will sail the seas,” he repeated more softly. “And I will find my rightful place upon this earth, and rule there! I will be the law, and I will bring the peace. I cannot be king of Dubhlain like my father, but I will be his son. They will call me Lord of the Wolves, Father, like the great Wolf of Norway! Indeed, Father, I will fight for right—”

  “And for what is yours?” the king mentioned shrewdly, amused, yet knowing that this was the way it would be.

>   “And for what is mine, always! Fighting is how one acquires land, Father, isn"t it?”

  The king grinned. “Well, son, there"s that. And then, one can marry for it, too.”

  “Marry for it or fight for it,” he mused.

  The king laughed. “And sometimes, son, it"s really quite one and the same.” The golden-haired boy looked out to the sea again. “I will go a-Viking, I will have my rightful place, however much I must fight for it—others, or my wife!” A crack of lightning tore across the sky. The king looked up to it.

  Mergwin would call it an omen, the Norse king of Dubhlain thought. Then he felt something, he didn"t know what, not unease, but a warning. He knew, without turning, that Mergwin himself was behind him, staring at the boy, and looking to the heavens.

  The king sighed. “All right, magician. What is it you"re about to tell me?” Mergwin, long white hair and beard flying in the wind, stared at the king, affronted. “I am not a magician, Olaf of Norway.”

  “Druid, aye, and rune master!” Olaf said wearily. The boy turned and flashed a quick smile to the old man, then stared back at the sea, his eyes intense.

  “Do you mock me?” Mergwin asked. “After all these years, king of Dubhlain?”

  Olaf smiled. “Tell me, then. You vowed once that Leith would live long and well, and rule wisely. You promised a tempest for Eric upon his birth. Now …

  what say you about Conar?”

  “Well, I don"t know, milord Viking, what would you have me do? Slay a lamb and pray to the ancient gods? Ah, but then I am like the boy, half Irish and half Norse. But it is the Norse I see in him today. Close your eyes, great king.

  Imagine the man!”

  Olaf wasn"t sure he really closed his eyes at all. For a moment he was convinced he saw his son as a man, regally tall, golden, a man of taut muscle and sinew, a warrior to defy any enemy of god or man.

  “Aye, great king, this son will travel, too!” Mergwin prophesied softly. “He will be a mighty power, strong and shrewd. And he will sail …”

  “Sail where?” the king asked.

  Mergwin hesitated, frowning. “His journeys will take him south across the channel, he will quickly claim what it is that he seeks …”

  “Then?” Olaf demanded.

  “Then he will have to fight to keep it. And … it, and her! It will not be easy.

  Vast hordes will come, a battle as has never been imagined must in the end ensue.”

  “Her? Mergwin, who is the her?”

  Mergwin shrugged, looking to the boy who stood so tall, straight and proud, blue eyes trained out to sea.

  He sighed, eyes twinkling as they met those of the king of Dubhlain.

  “No sacrificial lamb in the ancient Druid way, eh, milord? Nay, nay, that wouldn"t be right!” He clutched a bag that hung from his robe belt and shook it slightly. “Remember, my king, that I am like the boy, partly Viking, partly Irish, and that is why I am so strong! For a Viking lad, then, I must cast Viking stones!”

  Viking! Olaf closed his eyes, suddenly certain that his son would go a-Viking, cross the sea to distant lands.

  And there he would find a woman, one to battle, one to marry, and their lives might well be at risk again and again, for they would be at odds, and fighting one another …

  He had wanted peace for his sons. But it was not a peaceful world.

  He looked to the boy, and he saw himself, and he knew that whatever sorrow it caused him, he would have to see him go.

  Mergwin suddenly stooped, shook the bag, and cast his finely carved wooden runes upon the earth.

  The wind howled. Lightning slashed against the sky again.

  “Indeed, like his father, he will be called the Lord of the Wolves!” Mergwin said.

  Olaf stared at his son, then back to the ground, looking at the symbols upon each of the little wooden squares. Mergwin looked up to him, grinning.

  “Indeed, it will be so, the lightning has decreed it so, just as if Wodin himself had etched the words across the sky!”

  “Umm,” Olaf said, crossing his arms over his chest. “And pray tell, old man, just what else has Wodin etched across the sky. Where will he sail? Who is this woman, this— her?”

  “Patience, milord, patience!” Mergwin advised, and grinned mischievously.

  Arching a brow, he looked to the tall boy upon the cliff, then back to Olaf.

  “Let"s look to the stones, Wolf of Norway, let"s look to the stones! The Viking way, for a Viking prince …”

  “And the woman?” the Wolf demanded.

  “Aye! And the woman!” Mergwin agreed. “She"s very beautiful …”

  “But troublesome, I imagine.”

  “Like a tempest!” Mergwin agreed, laughing. But then the laughter faded from his eyes and his voice grew thoughtful and grave. “Aye, indeed, tempests whip ahead, the enemy will number in the thousands, and to best them all, they must survive …”

  “Survive what?”

  Mergwin rubbed his beard. “Themselves, I believe.”

  “Read further!” the king commanded.

  And there, on the rugged, windswept coast, their future was foretold …

  1

  The Lady and the Land

  Battle Thus Engaged

  Chapter One

  Spring, A.D. 885

  The Coast of France

  “Melisande! Melisande! His ships are here!”

  Melisande had been a flurry of motion. The words brought her to a dead standstill in the center of the tower, a sudden cascade of both fear and anticipation sweeping through her.

  She had not believed that he would come!

  But with Marie de Tresse crying out the warning from the wooden parapet beyond her open tower door, Melisande could no longer doubt his promise that he would have his due.

  She stared at Marie"s anxious face for a moment, dropped the tunic of delicately crafted mail she"d held, then tore through the doorway from the high tower chamber and ran out along the stone wall to stare out to the sea from the parapet.

  Indeed, he was coming.

  Dear God, it had been a day like this when he had first come. It seemed so long ago now! Was he always to catch her in adversity such as this? Would she always be left to wonder if he had come to her aid—or to destroy her completely?

  There was no question today, she told herself. He had come for what he considered his.

  She felt suddenly hot and cold at once. She pressed the back of her hand to her face. Her face felt like fire, her hand like ice.

  God, he was coming, he was coming. Wave after wave of tremors shot through her, sweeping her up. It seemed so long since she had seen him. As if it weren"t enough that a thousand Danes under that loathed Geoffrey were at her door! Now, he was coming, too. After so long. Maybe there was a lot he had forgotten.

  And maybe there was a lot he had remembered.

  And God, how ridiculous! She wasn’t half as afraid of meeting the Danes as she was of meeting him!

  Not afraid …

  Yes! Afraid, after all that she had done.

  And surely, with what his coming must mean!

  Dear Lord, he was almost here. She could see his ship, see the man!

  It was an extraordinary ship with its huge dragon prow. He rode his ship just as he had those many years ago when she had first seen him.

  One booted foot was high upon the helm. His great arms were crossed over his heavily muscled chest.

  A crimson mantle, broached at his shoulder with an ancient Celtic emblem, flew wild behind him with the whip of the sea wind. His hair, as golden and rich as the sun, also flew back.

  She couldn"t see his eyes yet, but she didn"t need to see them. She could remember them all too well.

  God, yes, she could remember their color! Remember that astounding, piercing blue. Sky blue, sea blue, deeper than cobalt, brighter than sapphires.

  They were eyes that looked at her, and through her, stripping her bare to the soul.

  “So, he will not come, eh?�
�

  She heard the taunting question spoken from a rich masculine voice at her rear and spun around quickly. Ragwald was there on the walkway with her, as ancient as the moon, as nagging as a fisherwife. He wagged a finger at her.

  “Milady, you cannot turn your back on a bargain with such a man!”

  “I made no bargain! You did.”

  “I bargained for our lives!” Ragwald reminded her with great dignity. “And thank the good Lord! It does appear that you might have need of the man again.

  Then again, perhaps the young jarl is angry and not in the mood to be very helpful, eh?”

  “You—” Melisande began, ready to tell him that he was the adviser, she was the countess, and therefore, hers was the final word. But she broke off, biting her lower lip. There was a more immediate danger. When she stared down from her vantage point on the fortress wall, she could see her men already engaged in battle.

  Odd, how things came around! They"d made these very enemies they fought now that long ago day when he’d first come, and now they were embroiled in battle again, even while his ships sailed through the seas, their great dragon prows slicing the water.

  Strange that the day was gray, that lightning ripped, that thunder drummed.

  Strange that he had a penchant for coming in such a tempest, as if he were one of the gods himself, casting down his fire bolts as if he cast out his fury.

  “Which shall it be?” Ragwald mused. “Has he come to slice and dice us—or has he come to the rescue once again? A Norse Viking—to fight these Danish Vikings!”

  How could it be that they lived in such a lawless land? Melisande wondered for a pained moment. She used to love to hear her father talk about the great King Charlemagne, and about his love for the arts and astrology—and peace!

  But Charlemagne, like her father, was dead. He had ruled nearly a hundred years ago, and many things had changed since then. Charles the Fat was king in Paris—except that he wasn"t in Paris, he was off somewhere in Italy, and the Danes had been ravaging the coast, heading for Rouen, forever, or so it seemed.