Cahal gave a quick jerk of his head and turned to gallop away. Mykyl watched him vanish into the blood soaked sea of men and beasts. The sun would set tomorrow with him back in control of Woodstown. He would not rest until it came to pass.
Three within the walls would feel the bite of his blade, “Aye, they will know my vengeance before long,” he muttered turning his mount away from the looming city before him. They would care for the wounded and regroup.
The sun had barely begun to peek over the horizon when the army broke camp. Without fires to draw attention to them, they simply gathered bedrolls and weapons before starting to form ranks in the cool, crisp of a winter’s morning.
In the distance, the massive walls of Woodstown stood unyielding. Impregnable. Thin columns of smoke drifted into the pink and gold sky, but there were no other indications of life.
“He appears to be sleeping.” Cahal shifted in his saddle.
“Nay,” Mykyl disagreed quickly. “He’ll use my people as cover. If we hit him head on, we stand to lose most of our people. If we wait, we stand to lose most of our people.”
“What do you suggest?” Aed settled his mount, his gaze steely upon the city. “Bargaining?”
Cahal shifted in the saddle, his gaze scanned the open expanse of ground around the city’s wall. “Nay, we hit him from both sides. Send a wave of men he thinks are easily broken against him while archers come at him from the flank. Victory is assured.”
“How do you know?” Fagen demanded.
Mykyl grinned. “Because it has worked before.”
“Where did you think of that?”
“I did not. Amoda did when Olaf’s allies attacked us last winter. Amoda suggested catching them in crossfire and we cut them down. Victory was ours.”
“‘Tis a sound plan. Our men know the layout of the city; know the weaknesses. Take as many of them as you wish and carry out your plan.”
Cahal nodded and galloped off to gather his forces.
“Your woman is a warrior?” Guthrie spoke for the first time since they’d ridden out.
“She is a rarity. A woman of many talents and skills,” Mykyl acknowledged.
“It shall be a relief to worry about cattle thieves again,” Fagen said. “Once that vile curse upon our land is gone, we shall have only our own troubles to deal with.”
Mykyl nodded in understanding. He looked forward to a time of peace, of learning about his wife, his child. He caught movement in the field and turned to assess it. Slowly, his right hand moved down to grip the hilt of his sword as he watched the single figure moving through the burned skeleton of stalks of corn and wheat.
“Who goes there?”
“Someone from within the city.”
Mykyl waved a hand, and a rider galloped past them, headed for the figure skulking through the early morning light. They watched the rider snatch the intruder from the ground and onto his mount. The horse galloped back to stop before the men, a struggling, squirming figure laying face down over the saddle. A hard smack of his hand upon her buttocks stilled her movements.
“What have you there, Thomas?” Mykyl demanded, “A child?”
“A girl. She is young, and bites worse than a dog.” He dropped her to the ground and trotted off.
“You cowards!” the woman hissed, rubbing her posterior. “You’re as vile as that pig that sits upon my lord’s throne. Well, have done with it. Rape me then kill me as you want to do, but you will not win. Disgusting, vile, cowardly curse upon our lands. Aye, that is what you are. You are not worthy of fear.” She spat at the men and stood glaring at them, her hair hanging loose about her face.
“Tell me your name.”
“‘Tis of no importance to you. I shall not scream or struggle if that is your wish. I am not as weak as that!”
“Be still woman,” Aed snapped. “Quickly now, tell us your name or you’ll be sent from before us.”
The woman crossed her arms over her chest and glared at them. Fear and pride danced in her eyes as she eyed each of them but she remained stubbornly silent.
“You abandoned your family and my city. You insult my allies. Speak, give me your name and I shall see you safely away from the coming battle,” Mykyl declared, hiding a grin at her proud refusal. Her actions, her words were all reminiscent of Amoda at her fiery best. She had earned his admiration for her courage.
“Bede,” the girl replied. “Now you have my name to cry out while your men violate me!”
“I have no desire to violate you, nor does my army!” Mykyl dismounted angrily. He stalked over to tower over her. “Tell me of the inside of the city. Who is in control?”
“Tyr, he calls himself king but he is not,” Bede replied; a frown upon her pale face. “He claims he is going to kill those who oppose his rule. Sonja has sent me to get help.”
“How many are dead?”
“He has killed several already. Byrne, one of the first, and several young boys who defended their mothers, their sisters.”
Mykyl ground his teeth together and stepped around her to stare at the walls of his city, his home. The news of his old friend’s death sat as a heavy weight upon his heart, awakening a slow burning rage.
“How strong is Tyr?” Aed demanded.
“He has many men. Vile, possessed men who have not treated us well at all.”
“Women and children?” Mykyl demanded without turning.
“‘Tis better not to speak of such things,” Bede whispered. “But with the summer winds there will be more than one babe born of those curs.”
“Your safety is important. I’ll have a warrior see you away from the battle.” Mykyl turned to face his allies. “We cannot wait another moment. With each passing day, he has men and supplies coming in, and we must get inside! My standards are to be at full mast. We charge now.”
The frozen ground shook beneath the wave of men and horses as they flowed endlessly toward the walls of the city. Screams from within the city rose as the first wave of men hit the wall, using axes and battering devices to weaken the defenses. Ropes whistled through the air as they sailed atop the wall.
Cold and bitter, the very air pressed in upon them as cracks began to form in the walls. Men fell from the walls, their screams echoing in the frozen morning. Galloping headlong into the fray, Mykyl swung his sword at the nearest Viking. The ringing of metal filled his mind as he swung again and again, ruthless in his pursuit to get inside.
Shouts in Gaelic and Norse struggled to be heard above the clamor of swords and axes clashing. Voices filled with urgency as the sound of flames hungrily devouring dry wood reached out of the city to those trying to get inside.
Mykyl roared in pain as he felt an arrow sink its shaft deep into his leg. Gripping the wound, he turned and stared at the wall, watching with sadistic pleasure as a large piece of it fell inward. Men and animals flooded through the opening like a tidal wave.
Merciless, brutal, the battle continued onward. The screams of men echoed in the winter sun as the local forces drove forward into the fray. The hard packed snow beneath their feet turned red with the river of blood that flowed as Mykyl and his men started up the steps of the manor.
He burst through the door and paused for a moment, his sword clutched tightly in his hands. He turned at a high-pitched scream and ducked, his brother’s sword slicing over his head as he buried his shoulder in the man’s fatty gut. Their combined weight sent them crashing against the wall in a tangled mess of limbs and weapons.
Mykyl stepped back slowly. His eyes remained on his brother as he advanced, an ugly, rage filled expression upon his face. He swung his sword, catching Olaf’s arm, sending blood streaming onto the floor. Again and again, they clashed, their swords ringing in fury until Mykyl had the other man pinned into a corner.
A quick, agile leap dodged the incoming blow from Olaf, and Mykyl’s sword arched through the air. The red stains trickling like tendrils from a sea monster as they flowed over the sharp instrument.
Olaf�
��s roar of agony pierced the upheaval of battle as he crumpled to the floor. His hand clutched at his arm, blood spurting forth to stain the wood as he hunched over. Each pulse sent another stream of blood spurting from the severed appendage.
“Curse you,” Olaf ground out as Mykyl kicked him over. “Curse you and the wretched wench you’ve bedded!”
Mykyl allowed himself a slow, cold grin as he stared down into his brother’s face. “I would take every curse you have if it would rid me of this tainted blood. You shall live long enough to face my wife. ‘Twon’t be me that passes judgment upon you. I have left that decision within Amoda’s hands.”
“My lord?”
Mykyl turned and stared at the blood soaked man watching him. “My father? His priest?”
“Both are seized. Your throne is your own once again,” Cahal replied staring between Mykyl and Olaf. “What of him?”
“Find someone to bind the wound. Your wife and children?” Mykyl nodded slowly at his old friend, thankful that he had survived the battle.
“I have no—”
“Send someone in to bind this wound then go to them. Justice will be done this night.” Mykyl stared around him at the main hall. “Cahal,” he paused and turned to look at the man in the doorway. “I ride to get Amoda in three days. I’ll not wait another moment to go to her. Let it be known that I shall hear charges against these Gaills by my people—justice will be done.”
Cahal nodded a grim look upon his face as he turned and disappeared out the door, the sounds of battle still echoing within the manor house. It would be a long day, not all of Tyr’s men seemed as willing to surrender to the inevitable.
Twenty Four
With Aidan sleeping soundly with Creidne to watch over him, Amoda slipped out of the warm, inviting house silently. Pulling her mantle around her a little tighter, she walked along a well-worn path to the keep and glanced up. Snow, thick and deep, blanketed the rolling hills in white as a line of riders galloped into sight.
No standard flew that she could see, and the riders bundled against the cold. Unease filled her as she glanced around. Spotting a young girl, she waved at her. “Come here!”
“My lady?”
“Do you know Vidor?” Amoda asked, glancing up the road.
“Aye, he’s the older man who watches you.”
“Run and tell him there are riders coming. I do not know whom. Go! Now! Run!” Amoda pushed the girl toward the small shack the guards occupied and stepped closer to the open gate.
A frown crossed her face, as they got closer. There had been no fighting within the Naille’s territory. Could these men be messengers? Would there be an end to the war? Thoughts raced through her mind as she watched them get closer. A sudden warm weight on her shoulder made her glance up.
“It is best you go inside, my lady,” Vidor instructed.
“I am no weakling,” Amoda muttered as the riders topped the rise and thundered toward them.
“But you are Mykyl’s woman, and he would have my head if you —” Vidor pushed her back behind him as the first rider tore through the gate and into the middle of the courtyard before pulling up.
Pinned to the wall behind her, Amoda stared past Vidor’s shoulder at the men as they milled about. A tall, powerfully built sorrel pushed through the throng and stopped a few feet away.
“What missive do you bring? Speak quickly,” Vidor demanded, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
“Missive? You dare to question me?” Cahal grinned through his mantle’s hood. “You’re getting old, friend, if you can’t recognize one of your own.”
“Mykyl?” Amoda pushed past Vidor. “What of Mykyl?”
“He fares well.” Cahal glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder. “And you, my lady?”
“Where is he? What of the battle?” Amoda questioned impatiently. “What of Woodstown? Is all well?”
“My lady.” Cahal raised a hand to halt her questions. “How do you fare?”
“I am well, can you not see that?” Amoda waved aside his question. “Tell me of the war? Is he victorious?”
A warm chuckle from behind Cahal drew Amoda’s attention. Narrowing her eyes at the upstart soldier, Amoda turned back to Cahal. “You will tell me what I wish to know!”
“Victory is ours,” Cahal drawled and swung down. “Come, Vidor, assist us with the horses.”
“But you have not told me what I wish to know!” Amoda protested as Vidor stepped past her and took the reins of a tall grey. “Cahal? When can I return home?”
Stomping her foot in a rare public display of temper, Amoda glared after the retreating soldiers. The fools had not given her any answers, and she would have their hides for it. A slight movement off to her right drew her eye, and she glared at the soldier who’d laughed at her. “Well? Do not just stand there. Do you expect others to tend your animal? Go on with you.”
“A true queen’s command.” He bowed low before walking toward her. A step away he reached up to push back the hood covering his face.
Amoda’s eyes widened comically as she recognized the blond hair and beard covering the face that appeared. “Mykyl!” Leaping into his embrace, she hugged him tightly, relief burning through her as he pulled her even closer.
“I told you I would come for you,” Mykyl whispered against her temple. “And I have.” Pressing his lips to hers, he kissed her fiercely, desperately. Incoherent mutters fell from his lips as he pressed soft kisses to her mouth.
Amoda buried her hands in his hair, pulling his head toward her as she struggled to get closer, to deepen the kiss. Moaning softly, she nipped at his full lips, welcoming the tickle of his beard. The gentle teasing of his tongue along hers enough to draw a strangled moan from her as she pressed closer, her grip tightening when he moved to pull away from her touch.
Stumbling blindly, she barely felt the icy snow against her bare flesh as it managed to soak through her dress. Rather she welcomed the heat of his weight upon her in the snow. Franticly, she pressed kisses along his face, welcoming his touch through her clothes even as she whimpered with longing.
The sound of a throaty cough drew their attention and both glanced up to see Cahal, Vidor, and Aed Naille standing, looking at them, and matching looks of mirth upon their faces.
“Mayhap, you would like to use the comfort of her bedchamber?” Aed suggested quietly. “‘Tis better than my courtyard for such things.”
Flushing brightly at their stares, Amoda pushed at Mykyl’s shoulders. “Let me up, my lord,” she whispered.
Amoda squeaked in shock as Mykyl rose, pulling her up with him and standing stone-faced behind her. Ducking her head, she shifted uncomfortably, waiting for Ri Tuath Ui Naille to speak.
“My house is that way.” Aed pointed and Amoda glanced from him to Mykyl before nodding. A swift curtsy and she scurryied toward the door.
“We’ll talk later.” Mykyl muttered at his ally and friends. “Much later.”
~ * ~
Amoda waited for Mykyl before they walked side by side toward her bedchamber. She pushed the door closed as he stepped beyond it and moved further into the room.
Amoda quickly tossed aside her cloak, her fingers ruffling her hair as she glanced around the room. Aidan’s cradle sat empty by the fire with the bedding turned down. A slow, understanding smile crossed her face as she turned to face her lord.
Her blood throbbed within her body, pulsing along thickly as desire began to wash over her. The sound of her heart pounding filled her ears as she gasped for breath, her eyes never leaving Mykyl’s as his gaze moved over her from head to toe, inspecting her body carefully.
“The babe?”
“A son.” Amoda shrugged as she stepped toward him, too impatient to wait for him to come to her. “I named him Aidan.”
“A good name. Strong, aye, a fine name,” Mykyl whispered as she closed the distance between them. “You are well?”
“Indeed, my lord, Mykyl,” Amoda whispered, pressing against his body.
Her hands crept up along his chest, pushing off his thick mantle and the stiff leather armor under it. She felt the heat that pulsed from his touch as he cupped her hips, pulling tighter against his body. “I’ve missed you.”
Mykyl bent his head to pepper short, soft kisses across her face, pausing at her lips. “Gods, woman, I want you. I want to touch you, hold you.”
Amoda gasped at his words, her fingers working more rapidly to relieve him of his attire. “Please, Mykyl, I want you so badly.”
“I vowed it would be our bed, in our home.” Mykyl protested softly, his breath hitching as she pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses to his face and throat.
“I care not if it’s in a bed, in the snow, or on the floor,” Amoda admitted, pushing his tunic aside and nipping at the warm, newly scarred flesh of his chest. “I need you, my lord. I’ve longed for you for so many nights.” She welcomed the bruising force of his kiss, gasping as he tugged on her hair.
Amoda clung to his shoulders desperately, every nerve in her body aflame, whimpering as his tongue stroked over hers. Need raced through her, too strong to deny as he broke from her lips to gasp for air. She moaned in protest, and she drew him back to her, pressing her lips to his, her tongue licking at his bottom lip. Even the familiar tickle of his whiskers stoked the fire that settled low in her belly.
The heated length of him pressed against her stomach, and she arched against Mykyl’s hard frame. The familiar strength of his thighs pressed against her as she shifted, arching against him impatiently. Sweet friction stirred the embers as she pressed against his chest. Her hands traced over the corded muscles and fair colored hair that covered it.
Amoda drowned in the slow, hot throb of desire too long denied as it pulsed through her. He pushed at the collar of her chemise, and she tugged at his trousers, anxious to have him naked. His hot, hard flesh pressed against her softness. Mykyl grunted in frustration as she loosened his trousers. Amoda pushed them down over his lean hips. She wiggled, aware of her top falling past one shoulder to uncover a full, heaving breast.
Her head fell back as his lips trailed down her throat, nipping and tasting the flesh he had so quickly exposed. Amoda gasped in shocked pleasure as he took a turgid nipple into his mouth. The strong suction of his lips around the tip echoed deep within her and she pressed closer to him. The chill that clung to his fingers drew a startled intake of breath from her as they trailed up the warmth of her inner thighs. A subtle shift of his body and she felt the floor beneath her.
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