“Gerta, you know the ancient rites are forbidden at Sheffield.”
“And you know that they are observed,” Gerta countered. “I have a right to be particular. I must give thought to the future of my son.”
“And the best possible situation for the child is to give him a father of whom he can be proud. Or would you rather return to Sheffield and resume your life there?”
“The Celts will never allow my child to leave Corvus Croft,” Gerta scoffed, “as we both know.”
“When the women begin to bear children there will no longer be any reason for you to remain here. Unless you are a woman wed and carrying your weight in the community, you will be free to leave.”
“By the time these women bear children I will be more ancient than Old Ethyl and it will no longer matter where I live.”
“The men are allowed but one wife each. If you will not wed, where do you plan to live?” Serine felt a tightness in her chest as she realized she already knew the answer to her question.
“I plan to remain right here,” Gerta said boldly. “Perhaps your luck will change and it will be you who returns to Sheffield.”
“Whether I return to Sheffield or not, I will see you well married before I go. Several of the men have spoken for you. Since you have no preference, I will make the choice myself, and don’t jerk your chin at me,” Serine scolded, “for you’ll not go to Rory with your complaints. He has gone to defend Corvus Croft from invaders and when he returns he will be pleased to learn of your betrothal.”
Gerta pulled her mouth into a tight line. “We’ll see about that,” she mumbled as she scooped up her baby and hurried from the room.
Serine sighed and stared after her. There was no doubt in her mind that Gerta had set her heart on Rory, and would not willingly give him up.
When he returned, Serine would ask him to reinforce her declaration and explain to the girl why her aspirations to become Rory’s wife, or leman, were impossible.
Serine remembered how Rory had embraced her, and the expression on his face when he had begged her not to leave him. And the tug on her heart as she had admitted to herself that, despite her love for Sheffield, she could not abandon the man she loved even more. Somehow she must find a way to secure her son’s inheritance and still keep close the man she loved.
* * *
The sea lay before them, lost in a thick gray mist that wove a pattern of light and shadows across the gleaming surface of the water.
“We cannot hope to find the enemy in this gruel,” Guthrie complained. “They will land and be upon the village while we search the shore.”
Rory studied the patterns of the fog as it parted and closed like a living thing, thwarting their every plan to keep the invaders from attacking their village.
It was as though the hand of the fog had closed around Rory’s heart. Somehow he must find a way to keep these men from Corvus Croft and Serine.
They will not have her. They will not take her from him, he vowed in silent desperation.
“We will split the men into small patrols to guard the coastline and hope we are lucky enough to discover where the invaders land and stop them before they are able to regroup,” Guthrie declared.
“Wait.” Rory placed his hand on his brother’s arm. “I think I see a way to force the marauders into our hands.”
The hope in Rory’s eyes was transmitted to Guthrie as Rory explained his plan. “The fog is our friend,” Rory explained. “We will sail out and around the enemy and push his ships toward the rocky shore. When they realize they are too close to turn back, they will be forced to find a place to land, and since there are but two, and those only a short distance apart, you will be there waiting. The enemy will be trapped between us and forced to surrender.”
“And what if the fog is not our friend?” Guthrie asked. “What if it dissolves, leaving us exposed?”
“Then we will no longer need guess their location.” He slapped his brother on the shoulder, knowing his plan had been accepted.
Through the fog they skimmed, slowly herding the enemy ships like errant sheep. The voices floated eerily through the mist as the men veered too near the rocks and called down curses on one another for poor seamanship. The landing took place where Rory had said it would, and Guthrie’s men neatly captured the would-be invaders as they came ashore.
Rory heard the cries of distress from his enemy mingled with the shouts of triumph from his allies and his heart swelled with relief. Corvus Croft was no longer in danger. Serine was safe. In a few hours Rory would hold her in his arms again and know that no danger would befall her. And it was well and good, but it was not enough.
Twice in the short time since Serine had come she had been endangered by invaders. The first time Rory had been gone and she had been forced to fight them herself. Only a stroke of luck had sent him back from the hunt in time to save her.
Fate dared not be tempted too far. Sooner or later the men would be tardy in protecting their women and their homes, and all would be taken from them.
And, even as the fog parted before him, Rory saw what he must do in order to protect Serine from a fate far worse than that which she had already endured. The men of Corvus Croft had invaded Sheffield out of desperate need to repopulate their village. They did not plunder, rape or kill. It behooved them to deal as gently as possible with the families of the children they appropriated so the youngsters would think kindly of their captors and learn to live in Corvus Croft without fear or hatred.
But the men who were intent on invading Corvus Croft came for slaves and plunder. What they did not steal they would kill after all usefulness had been destroyed.
Rory slammed his fists against the rail of his ship. He must put a stop to this senseless cycle.
Once before, with the help of the women, they had driven the marauders back into the sea, but each one they had driven out now returned tenfold. And, as long as conditions remained the same, they would continue to return, for it was the way of war and survival. It was up to Rory to stop them. To stop the enemy and keep Serine as safe in his home as she was in his arms. If she realized that only he could keep her safe, perhaps she would put aside her insistence on leaving him. For while Rory could defeat the enemy, he found the spirit of Serine of Sheffield undefeatable and for that spirit he loved her all the more.
With his plan in mind and the vision of Serine in his heart, Rory brought his ship to anchor and went to find his brother.
* * *
“Kill them!” Guthrie gestured his sword toward the prisoners that were being dragged from the water.
“That is senseless,” Rory admonished, placing himself between his men and the invaders.
“Senseless?” Guthrie found it impossible to believe his ears. “Senseless? Rory, it is the way of the victor. For what purpose should they be allowed to live?”
“To remind others that we are a force to be reckoned with and that if they will pay homage to us and become our liege men, we will allow them to live and return to their homes, free men.”
“You’ve gone soft in the head,” Guthrie chided. “Such a plan would surely be our demise.”
“Such a plan would be our victory,” Rory proclaimed. “Do you want to live in fear, wondering each time we must leave our village if we are to be invaded by such as these? Or would it be better if they were to pledge themselves to us and never dare invade our shores again?”
“They would lie to save themselves,” Guthrie declared.
“And to attack their sworn liege lords would be to defame themselves. They would be outcasts and unworthy of alliance. To prove themselves untrustworthy would be to open themselves to attack and invasion by any and all without recourse.”
Guthrie stroked his beard. “What you say holds merit, but how can we be certain they will not say we lie when we say they have pledged themselves to us?”
“We will call in the headmen from the rest of the villages along the coast. They will stand with us and witness the tru
th of our treaty,” Rory told him.
“It could be done,” Guthrie admitted as the guards forced the enemy to their knees. He held up his hand and stepped forward. “Hold your swords,” he called out. “We will first speak with our invaders.”
Side by side Guthrie and Rory walked toward the condemned men.
“I think your herb woman has made you soft,” Guthrie grumbled. “We should kill them and be done with it.”
“My woman has made me clever,” Rory growled back. “If we kill them, their children and their children’s children will come after us until we are no more. I look to the future. To kill these men, here and now, but protects the present. Look to tomorrow and you will see that I am right.”
“We will call a council of all the tribes who inhabit these shores. If they concur and the invaders agree, they shall swear themselves to us and we will allow them to go from our shores, but if they object to your plan, they will die.” Guthrie’s long stride took him toward the prisoners.
The prisoners were rough men, golden of skin and hair. Their clothing was coarse and worn and they came from the sea. Except for their coloring, Rory knew that they looked much as his own men had looked when they had landed on the shores of England and made their way toward the peaceful village of Sheffield.
He could imagine the terror that would appear on the faces of the women should these marauders reach them. He could imagine the screams, and the pleas, for he still heard them in his dreams. And he could imagine Serine being torn from yet another child...his child...and he could not allow that to happen. Somehow he must outsmart not only the invaders but his own brother, as well. Somehow Rory must find a way to safeguard his woman and his children, if not through brute force and death, then through fear of deserved retribution brought about by the code by which they all lived.
Somehow he must beat these men at their own game, for he knew how easy it was to conquer, and how hollow the victory. As long as there was a breath left in his body, or a thought in his mind, Rory would never allow Serine to be threatened or hurt again.
“Be at peace, brother,” he said. “I know what I am about.”
“I would be more at peace if Drojan were here.” Guthrie glanced over the landscape as though he could conjure up the man from sheer willpower.
“But Drojan is not here,” Rory reminded him, “and if he were, he would support my plan. How many times have we ignored his pleas for temperance?”
“And why should we not ignore such ideas now?” Guthrie asked. “Do we change our ways simply because you decide it is the thing to do?”
“We change our ways because for the first time in many years we have something more to protect than ourselves. Our land will live and prosper and I intend to see that every person living there has the opportunity to do so. Would you see these men come back and take Damask from you?”
“They could not take her if they were dead!” Guthrie noted.
“But their sons and brothers could. If a treaty is signed and an oath taken, all will be pledged to live under its rules.” Rory came to a halt and glared at his brother.
Seeing the determination in his brother’s eyes, and hearing the truth of his words, Guthrie gave in. “So be it,” he said. “But, by the gods, you had better hope you are right, for if you are wrong, brother or no, you are a dead man, for it is no secret that, even now, the men are against you. They conquer to kill the enemy, and you will take the euphoria of victory from them. They will not take kindly to my order, or to your plan.”
“Whether they take kindly to it or not, they will obey, for they are our liege men, and once our enemies have given their oath to support rather than fight us, our people will learn acceptance.” Rory tried to put into his voice assurance that he did not feel.
Once more Guthrie stopped as the last of the prisoners were brought ashore. “What if they refuse our offer?” he asked.
“Then we have no choice but to kill them,” Rory said despondently. “To kill them and to wait until their kin learn of what we have done and come in even larger numbers to destroy us and those we love.”
Rory’s words brought up the image of Damask being carried away by one of these fair-haired warlords from across the sea while Guthrie lay dead. He felt the sweat of fear slicken his hand as it rested on his sword.
“Tell the prisoners our demands,” he ordered, “and if they agree, send runners to the heads of all the nearby clans. We want as many witnesses as possible if this is to work. And, for the love of Woden, will someone find Drojan!”
“Think you Drojan can give you better direction than I?” Rory asked cryptically.
“If Drojan is wrong we can blame the gods, the Runes or the elements, but if you are wrong, little brother, the blame will fall on you and, more than that, on myself for being fool enough to let you take me into your wild scheme. Now ferret out the leader of this group and tell him of our demands before I lose the last remnants of my temper and regain my common sense and kill him myself.”
* * *
The air was fraught with anticipation as news filtered back to the village.
Tim, the weaver’s adopted son, was by far the swiftest of foot and ran back and forth between the battle and the village with the news.
“And Rory McLir went far out into the sea and came up behind the invaders, moving them toward the shore where Guthrie sent fiery boulders from the catapults. The enemy ships were broken and their men captured.”
“Then it is over.” Serine rejoiced. “When will our men return? How soon will they arrive?”
“We will have a great celebration, with food and winter ale for all,” Damask added. “I will give the orders to butcher the cattle and sheep, and...” Her face paled and she steadied herself, grasping Serine’s hand. “It is not something I enjoy,” she apologized, “but we must honor those who have defended us so bravely.”
“Come.” Serine took her friend’s arm. “I will help you.” She turned again to Tim. “Go and see when they return while we make ready their welcome.”
The two women went toward the kitchens while the boy ran back toward the coast. It was well after dark when he returned, and the excitement on his face had been replaced by weariness. He went directly to the manor and Serine, for she had been his lady in Sheffield and old habits die hard.
“Most of the men are on their way,” he told her, “but your lord will not come, nor will his brother.”
Serine jumped to her feet. “He is hurt,” she gasped.
“No, no, Lady, it is not the case. The overlords have chosen to remain behind to negotiate a treaty with the marauders. ‘Tis Corvus Croft that holds the advantage and must make clear to those who would invade our land that their antics will not be tolerated.”
“Did they not kill them and send their bodies back to their homeland?” Gerta came forth to ask.
“Rory chose to negotiate a lasting peace, rather than to continue the killing. We have the upper hand and therefore the ability to name our own terms.” There was pride in Tim’s voice as he spoke of his new home, a pride echoed in Serine’s heart. But even Serine did not guess what those negotiations would cost.
Chapter Fifteen
The birds called and fluttered from branch to branch. Drojan walked well ahead, while Ethyl moved from the forest path to inspect the new growth that might prove useful in Serine’s medications.
The rays of the sun cut a slanted line through the trees and Ethyl glared indignantly at its plane.
“Seer!” she called. “We have come too far. It will be dark soon. We cannot make the village before nightfall.”
Drojan stopped and waited for her to reach him. “On the contrary, woman. We have not gone far enough. There is a place I would have you see before we return.”
With one last skeptical look at the sun, Ethyl fell into step beside him. “This place you speak of had best have a warm fire and plentiful food, for there is a chill in the air and my stomach is empty.”
“The fire is no problem
,” Drojan told her. “As to the food, we have bread and cheese. Should you want meat I suggest you shoot your dinner and I will prepare it for you.”
Ethyl allowed satisfaction to illuminate her face. Her sharp eye searched the shadows as she nocked her arrow. One shaft flew, and then another. In the next moment Ethyl returned with two small birds skewered on her arrows.
“Think you this will be enough?” she asked.
“More than enough,” Drojan replied, “for it is not only meat and wine for which I hunger.”
Their eyes met and held until he offered his hand and escorted her through the trees. The path veered to the left, but Drojan guided her through a dense thicket of rock and brush opening into a secluded glen.
A thin shaft of water fell gently from the cliff high above. The grass was lush and thick, like green velvet against the azure water. Rocks of coral jutted upward enclosing them within their rosy warmth, and above, those same rocks parted to disclose the darkening sky.
The birds slipped in and out of the trees, curious at the appearance of their guests.
Ethyl looked with wonder as the last rays of the sun turned the stone to golden rose that deepened as though lighted from within. “I am glad that I was allowed one eye with which to see this beauty,” she said breathlessly.
“And I am glad to be able to share the beauty of this place with you.” Drojan slipped his arm about her and held her close, absorbing her warmth with the beauty of the moment.
Before the night’s chill could reach them, Drojan lighted a fire and cleaned and skinned the grouse Ethyl gave him.
He spread the bread and cheese on a flattened rock and brought forth a skin of wine.
Ethyl fidgeted restlessly. “It is I who should prepare our repast for you,” she insisted, but he stopped her protest with a light kiss.
“No, Ethyl, tonight you will relax and watch while I do for you. It is the way I wish it.”
And she relaxed under his gentle persuasion. His attention pleased her and she was glad she had decided to discard the black patch she had worn over her blind eye for so long and replace it with a patch of neutral color covered with silk. She removed the leather jerkin she wore and allowed herself the comfort of the loose tunic, for with the fire holding the warmth of the sun-heated rocks, their bower was fair comfortable.
Barbara Leigh Page 19