Patricia Bates

by Patricia Bates

Cahal nodded once and guided his mount from the water. “My lord, both men and animals are weary. Can we not pause for a short rest? It will do no good to Amoda if when we reach your brother’s encampment and the men are too exhausted to fight.”

  “Aye, tell the men to rest for a few hours. At first light, I want a scout sent in either direction. Mayhap we can find a track. They can speak to the Irish lords that live nearby. It is possible that they’ve seen something.” “It shall be as you ordered.” Cahal turned and disappeared into the growing shadows. His voice boomed out over the men and they began to dismount, to make camp.

  Mykyl listened to the calming sounds around him and cursed profusely. Somewhere out there his precious Amoda struggled for her life.

  ~ * ~

  High pitch nickers and hooves stamped upon the soft earth. Men’s shouts and the crackle of wood devoured by ravenous flames muted the echoes of the river crashing over rocks.

  Atop a knoll, a lone rider appeared, unnoticed until the exhausted horse trotted toward the camp. A loud cry of warning rose, and men froze what they were doing to turn and watch the stranger. Like a slow wave they moved forward, their bodies primed for battle as men grabbed their weapons, their eyes never leaving the youth.

  From the milling, uneasy crowd, Cahal strode forward and grabbed the reins to the thick-legged grey, his hard gaze upon the youngster sitting astride.

  “What is the meaning of this trespass?” Cahal demanded as several other men moved to flank the youth, and a lone archer notched an arrow into his bow.

  “I beg the lord’s pardon. I travel with a missive from my mother to the Prince of Woodstown,” the boy stammered, glancing around fearfully. “I mean no harm. I travel with a—”

  “Aye, aye, you’ve said.” Cahal glanced at Vidor and jerked his head toward the camp. “My lord is the prince of Woodstown, and he is not at home. Speak this missive, and I will carry it to him.”

  “My mother bid me to tell no other but the lord.” The boy shifted uneasily, fear in his eyes. “She made it clear.”

  “Tell me what she said. Speak quickly, I shall carry the message,” Cahal repeated.

  “I cannot,” the boy pleaded. “She said to trust no one you see, the risks are too great!”

  “Risks? What risks? If you do not tell me what news you carry I shall beat it from you!” Cahal snapped.

  “Then you shall beat me, but I will not tell you.”

  Cursing, Cahal waved a hand at the boy. He had courage for his age. “My lord is a busy man. If your news is most unpleasant—”

  Cahal’s words boomed out over the crowd as Mykyl elbowed his way through the crowd a step in front of Vidor. Whatever the disturbance he had no time for it, not with plans needing made before the dawn. Stepping past two of his younger soldiers, he saw Cahal standing holding a weathered, old grey horse with a terrified boy atop it.

  “Cahal, what is this?”

  Cahal turned to him quickly, bowing slightly. “He claims to have a missive from his mother for you, my lord.”

  “Well then speak.” Mykyl glared at the boy. “What news is so important that your mother would send you to me, boy?”

  The boy slid from the horse and bowed before Mykyl. “My mother is Maeve. Her daughter is Brianna who took refuge within the walls of Woodstown this past winter.”

  Mykyl glanced at Cahal, who leaned closer to and whispered. “The villagers that Amoda mounted the defense for, that saved your city.”

  Mykyl nodded his understanding quickly and waved at the boy. “Continue,” he ordered, clasping his hands behind his back and standing at ease.

  “She asks that you make all haste to our humble home,” he croaked, his eyes never leaving Mykyl’s face. “Our Ri’s men stumbled upon a young woman in the woods to the west of our farm. She had been ill-treated and was in need of care. My mother is a healer so they brought her to us.”

  “Speak quickly, boy, what of this girl? Who is she? Why was your Ri looking for her?” Cahal snapped. “Mayhap of more importance, where does his loyalty lie?”

  The boy’s eyes darted between Mykyl and Cahal. Reaching a trembling hand into his pouch, he pulled out a small wrapped package and offered it to the Viking Prince. “She insisted you come, that your queen awaits your arrival within the safety of our home.”

  Mykyl frowned as he took the package and pulled back the leather. He stared at the simple gold armband he’d given her when he’d returned from aiding the Irish gentry. She’d treasured it so when he’d slipped it on her the night of his return. Aye, they’d spent many a pleasant hour after gifting it to her, tangled within the sweat soaked bedding. He slowly glanced at the young man who looked ready to expire. “Where did you get this?”

  “My mother gave me the item. I do not know what it is. She bid me give it to you and tell you to come,” the boy croaked. “I speak the truth, my lord. Please, I beg of you, don’t kill me!”

  Mykyl swallowed and shifted. “I want six armed riders ready to ride now! Bring me my horse and weapons,” he roared and tucked the package into his tunic. Staring at the terrified boy, he clasped his hands behind his back. “How far is it?”

  “Not far. We must take care. There is word that the Viking has been through the area. He has an alliance with the Ri to the west of us. I believe through marriage.”

  “Olaf.” Mykyl spat the name and turned as his horse walked up. Swinging into the saddle, he glanced from the boy to his men who stared back at him, wearing expressions of confusion. He had a chance now. He would not fail her again. “Come.”

  Twenty One

  The narrow path the boy led them down was littered with fallen logs and stones. The rapidly fading light made it all the more perilous. More often than not, they had to slow to a trot and ride single file. The delay irritated Mykyl, and tried his already thin control, the urge to race ahead strong with each stride.

  Shadows and pale white light danced along the men and horses as they tore through the brush. With each stride the silence stretched, grew until it became a living, breathing entity. Mykyl’s mind whirled with the possibilities even as he pushed onward.

  Could it be so easy? Had it all been for naught, had he once again underestimated her will? What would she do when she saw him? He prayed he could make her listen, could make her see what he had come to realize. The very thought that she wouldn’t, that she would cast him from her life, chilled him to the bone. He shuddered beneath his heavy cloak. Nay, to contemplate such a thing tempted the gods.

  The moon had already risen past the treetops when the distinct smell of wood smoke drifted through the night air. Pushing his horse faster through the thick foliage, Mykyl pulled up sharply in a small clearing.

  He leapt from the saddle of his still prancing mount. On edge, he cast an assessing glance around. Beyond the weathered old barn, animals snuffled and blew as they stood in the corral, protesting such a rude awakening as the other riders galloped noisily into the yard.

  “Who disturbs an old woman’s rest?” Faint, golden light spilled out over the ground as the door to the small, humble stone cottage swept inward.

  “‘Tis me, Momma.”

  “Back so soon? Did you do as I instructed?”

  Mykyl caught the suspicion in the woman’s voice even as she stepped into the soft light. “Aye.” Mykyl stepped past the boy who’d escorted them to the humble farm. “I am Mykyl.”

  “I know who you are,” the woman cackled. “I’m Maeve. Leave your men to the care of my sons and come inside. There is much to discuss.”

  Mykyl nodded at his men and turned to follow the woman inside. With Cahal only a step behind him, he ducked under the doorframe and stepped over the raised threshold to straighten inside.

  Quickly he searched the room for signs of Amoda. A roaring fire cracked and danced within the confines of a stone hearth. Over it, a small black pot bubbled and popped with a noxious smelling brew. The hard packed dirt floor beneath his feet bore the decorative swirls of a woman’s touch. A bow
rested in a corner and several knives lay atop a table, but he saw no indication of anyone other than the old woman living within the walls of this modest dwelling.

  “Where is she?” Mykyl demanded, turning around to check if he’d missed anything on his initial assessment of the room. He caught Cahal doing the same and nodded at his friend in understanding. If this were trickery, they would kill whoever played it upon them.

  “She fears her captor will return, so I’ve given her safe hiding to rest.” Hobbling to a nearly invisible door at the back of the room, Maeve opened it slowly and waved at the pair of men standing watching her with distrust. “Come.”

  “Make haste, woman. I would see her now,” Mykyl demanded and strode forward angrily.

  “Come, this way.” Maeve picked up a torch and stepped through the door with both men only a few steps behind her.

  Mykyl paid no attention to the old woman movements as he stepped through the door. He paused for a moment, his eyes searching the shadows. He caught the faint movements of the figure curled beneath a fur. Mykyl closed his eyes, nearly losing his composure when he realized who lay on the small bed.

  “Thank the gods,” Cahal breathed as he slapped Mykyl on the back. “She’s alive.”

  “Both her and the babe fare well,” Maeve said. “I’ve given her a mild drink to help ease her pain. Do you wish me to wake her?”

  Mykyl ignored Maeve as he moved closer to the bed, his hand already reaching out to cup her shoulder. Soft, warm, the flesh beneath his hand eased his fears. A gentle tug and she rolled over, her arm sliding across her dress to land on the edge of the bed, the torchlight showing the raw, jagged scars from the ropes crisscrossing her wrists.

  “What reward do you ask?” Mykyl demanded. His attention focused on the sleeping woman. “What do you desire from me for your aid? Name it and it shall be yours.”

  Maeve smiled sadly. “None, my lord. Our queen’s health is all that matters. To treat her is both my duty and my honor.”

  “You call her a queen,” Cahal started. “She is not—”

  “You do not know?” Maeve chuckled softly, her eyes falling upon Amoda who moaned a soft protest at the noise. “Come, let her sleep.”

  Mykyl and Cahal followed the old woman out of the room, leaving the door ajar and settling upon the heavy wooden benches that hugged the table. Mykyl ignored Cahal’s steady look as he faced Maeve who poured three cups of tea. “Speak up. I would know what you mean by your queen. Is she the one who ordered this villainy?”

  Maeve cast glances at both men and settled across from Mykyl, a look of understanding dawning upon her face. “You do not know? Nay, he would not reveal his treachery to anyone.”

  “Know what? You speak in riddles,” Cahal snapped.

  “She looks of her mother. However, for her eyes she could easily pass for her. You see, Amoda’s mother’s eyes were the deepest shade of slate, with long, flowing red hair that told of the fire within her.”

  “What does her mother have to do with this? Where is the woman?”

  “She is dead,” Maeve declared, her penetrating stare focused on Mykyl. “Has been in her grave for a great many years, fourteen to be exact. As you should know.”

  “What does that have to do with my lord?” Cahal interrupted.

  “Let her tell her story then we will ask questions,” Mykyl stated.

  “‘Twas summer, but a month after her sister wed when they came. There had been no attacks so far inland before. They came upon horses and in boats along the river in waves. Slaughtering and raping everyone in their path. The Gaill, Tyr, had returned, bringing with him that vile, disgusting cur of a son. If I had but the courage, I’d slit his throat myself.”

  “You speak of my father, my brother, but you have told us nothing of Amoda’s mother.” Mykyl struggled to hold his impatience and fear. Uncertainty and confusion crept over him. What secrets, what madness ruled his fate at the moment?

  “What has your father told you of his seizing of the lands you now rule?”

  “Seized in battle, wrested from an Irish Chieftain,” Mykyl replied weakly. “He took them when I was a boy.”

  Sadness filled Maeve’s eyes. “Aye, he seized them as a young man. The rivers ran red with blood and a line broke beneath the onslaught. Or so it has been believed, until now.” She paused and stared at the dancing flames, a distant, melancholy look in her eyes. “No one knew what had become of the youngest child, a daughter. We all feared her dead, and those who thought her alive prayed for her death. We have seen what happens to those taken as slaves. We all saw what your father did to those whom he felt had no value to him or his men. Men, women, children, all slaughtered like cattle. The very air hung heavy with the stench of death. My own son, the youngest that fetched you, came from their invasion. I was a younger woman then, still able to bear a child. Though my husband fought bravely, there would be no mercy for us. They washed over this land like a plague, leaving death and ruin behind them.” She rose to fetch more tea. “‘Tis true, but it is not the full extent of your father’s treachery and deceit.” She poured it carefully and sat back down. “Oh no, not the end, but a season that has not truly passed.”

  ~ * ~

  Long after Maeve had fallen silent and retreated to her bed, Mykyl sat at the table, staring at the flames that continued to dance, uncaring of the drama faced by mortals. He knew Cahal sat beside him, knew the other man had been just as shocked by what he’d heard, but he couldn’t make his mind focus.

  His mind spun with the words of their hostess, memories replayed with each of her bold statements. Anger and guilt slowly replaced confusion and disbelief. He’d been so very young when he had sailed away from Bratthl’id, mere months after his aborted wedding. He’d taken over Woodstown and its territory gladly, shamed by his brother’s cold disregard and glad to be away from his father’s court.

  Admittedly, he’d feared Tyr. He’d been as desperate as any young man coming-of-age could be to gain his father’s respect. He’d have done anything. No matter the victory in battle or the riches sent back to his birthplace, Tyr had never given him that which he had coveted.

  Faced with a new truth, with the horror of a betrayal so unsightly, Mykyl felt his stomach churn. Even now, the possibility remained that most likely his father had aided Olaf, had seized power of Woodstown. He cared nothing for any but himself, and Mykyl hated the man with such venom that his simple wooden cup cracked beneath the force of his grip.

  “‘Tis a mystery, Mykyl,” Cahal whispered. “What purpose would come from keeping the old king’s line alive?”

  What could his father have planned by keeping Amoda alive? What misery was she to have suffered at the hands of his father and brother? “I do not know. The truth eludes me. He will pay for his treachery, if only by my hand.”

  Nay, he could no more turn his back on his people than he could turn his back on the woman he loved. “I will stand against any threat, be it from my own blood or from a neighboring Ri. First though, we must return to Woodstown, fully prepared for battle and uncover the reason for his betrayal!”

  Softly, so that it wouldn’t have heard had there been no one awake, the shuffle of a tired step drew his attention to the doorway. Wrapped in the fur, Amoda leaned against the doorjamb, her battered and bruised face revealing surprise and fear. The light revealed in detail the results of Olaf’s rage. Saffron and yellow marks drifted like brutal flower petals across her tanned flesh. A thin, jagged scab traced her bottom lip like a lover’s caress.

  Her eyes darted between Mykyl and Cahal for a moment, doubt warred with fear eclipsed by hope that flared too briefly before ruthlessly crushed. The familiar proud, defiant look settled in her eyes, one Mykyl cherished even as it vexed him.

  “I take my leave,” Cahal whispered and slipped out of the room, leaving them standing, staring at each other across the room.

  “You’ve come.” Amoda whispered.

  “Aye, for you.”

  “For your heir
!”

  Mykyl shifted. “Your place is in Woodstown, Amoda. I have come to return you to it.”

  “Won’t your wife be unhappy?” Amoda bit off. “The woman so wanted to be rid of me, to draw you into her bed. She seemed eager to sell me off.”

  “Nay, there is no wife,” Mykyl replied. “The wedding has not happened.”

  “Aye, so you’ve come to take me home and parade me about before your father’s men before you take her?” Pain wove through her words, her tone like a gossamer thread.

  “I will choose my own bride!” Mykyl snapped, “As I will choose who warms my bed. I am in control of Woodstown, not Mallon or my father! When I say something is so, it is so.”

  “What would you have me do?” Amoda replied tartly. “Cry out for joy? You’ll forgive me if I’d rather remain silent. Your brother, the last I saw, headed northeast. I am certain he will gladly take from you the woman you covet.”

  “I care not where Olaf is at the moment. I know where he will return.”

  “He has no intention of returning for his wife. After all, my lord, he didn’t want a wife really. He just wanted someone to warm his bed, as you did.”

  “Aye, that means nothing.” Mykyl shrugged. “There are many women to choose from to occupy his bed.” “As you have chosen? Go back to your—” Amoda swayed on her feet, her shoulders hunched beneath some unseen weight. Sorrow twisted her face as she stared at the flames rather than at Mykyl.

  Mykyl swore and stepped toward her. “You are a most aggravating woman! I will have no more such talk from you, Amoda. Your place is with me, in my arms, in my bed! Our lives are not so dependent upon my father’s will that I will allow you to disobey me! What must I do to make you see?”

  Amoda shook her head, her eyes swimming in tears. Yet even as the tears gathered on her lashes, she refused to allow them to fall. Her face bore the now familiar stubborn, proud expression he longed to see, but she didn’t seem willing to believe him.

  “Amoda, I cannot change the laws of my people.” Mykyl protested, trying to reason with her. Desperation clawed at him as he saw his last chance slipping through his fingers. He knew only that if she did not want him, if he could not convince her of what lay in his heart, his world would darken. He wanted more than just a willing woman in his bed. Aye, he wanted, he needed Amoda Ni Cormac, mother of his child and keeper of his heart. Fear and uncertainty warred within him as he stared at her. Mayhap he’d hurt her too greatly for her to believe him, but he refused to give up. He had to try, had to make her see what lay within his heart.