Patricia Bates

by Patricia Bates

  “Nay, they won’t.” Mykyl lunged forward, pressing closer to his father’s cowed figure. “Your army was crushed by the weight of those loyal to me! Your entire army has scattered to the seas or buried beneath the soil of my lands! I pity you, old man. You’ve shown yourself to be as disloyal and deceitful as any traitor. If I passed judgment upon you, I’d cast the three of you out upon the sea as you are in a boat full of holes and let Odin take you.” Mykyl straightened, a smile crossing his face as he caught sight of Erin and Amoda in the shadows. “If I were the one to pass judgment. Indeed, I shall leave that choice up to my wife.”

  “Lady Mallon will not dare oppose—”

  “Lady Mallon is, by now, at her father’s estate, pleading for mercy, from him and the Eire lord she was promised to,” Mykyl replied swiftly. “I cast her from this place long ago. Nay, my wife is a woman I have chosen.”

  “Who?” Tyr glanced at Olaf and Rognvaldr. “Who would you dare to wed without my blessing?”

  “A woman far above your choices,” Erin stated quickly.

  Everyone turned to stare as Erin stepped to one side, bowing slightly as Amoda walked past her to stand in the flickering light of a torch.

  The startled gasps from the trio before him drew a smirk from Mykyl. Walking across the floor, he offered a hand and pulled Amoda forward. “I believe my wife has decided to join us.”

  “You cannot mean!” Rognvaldr gasped, staring at her with horror and shock in his eyes. “A slave! How can you…?”

  Mykyl’s booming voice silenced the old shaman. “Ask my father. I am certain he will be pleased to tell why he kept the last of the line alive.”

  Tyr shook his head. “You ignorant bastard. A wretched defiled maggot is what you are!”

  “Curse me all you want,” Mykyl growled. “But you will tell her why! I demand it in the name of all those who you have betrayed!”

  “I am king of—”

  “Not any longer. Arnstein has taken over the throne,” Mykyl chuckled. “Neither of you will return to Bratthl’id.”

  Unease and fury filled Tyr’s face as he looked from Mykyl to Amoda and back. Mykyl could guess what troubled the old man—the secrets he’d tried to bury had risen from the cold grave he’d buried them. Now his deceit would cost him every ounce of wealth and power he’d stolen.

  Erin shifted, a slight frown puckering her brow. She bowed slightly, “Mayhap an example of your power, my lord.”

  Mykyl nodded slowly, “Aye, an example!” He strode to the side of the room and returned with his sword clutched in his grip.

  Startled looks flew around the room as Mykyl smiled softly at Amoda, who looked at him, a puzzled frown on her face.

  Amoda stepped closer to Mykyl at his direction. Confusion settled in her gaze as she watched him face her and the assembled peasants, warriors, and former king alike. “What are you doing, my lord?”

  “Providing an example of my power and my loyalty,” Mykyl replied softly. Turning the blade, he held it so the tip of the blade pointed directly at his heart. “I offer to you, my wife, mother of my child, my life. If I be untrue pierce my flesh with this blade, spill the toxic blood within me so that your honor shall be restored.”

  Amoda glanced around uneasily before taking the hilt of the sword from him. Unlike the other sword she’d held, this one seemed weightless, intricate patterns the like of which she’d never seen danced along the blade. A secret she knew of the Viking sword makers, one that entranced her for a moment before she focused on the waiting crowd. Holding it steady, she stared at Mykyl, aware of the hush that hung over the crowd.

  “Nay.” She shook her head. “The blood that will flow will not be my lord husband’s.” She stepped back. Her fingers tightened, shifted on the hilt to secure her grip before she turned suddenly. The blade easily found its mark, sinking deep into the old priest’s flesh. His agonized scream filled the room as she pulled the sword free.

  Rognvaldr moaned in agony as he clutched his flank, his blood flowing freely across the hard packed earth, turning it a dark burnt copper. Those standing close could see the gaping muscle, the white of his bone, and the deep scrape that had nearly severed his manhood from his body.

  “Mayhap you would have a suggestion of penance for them.” Mykyl stepped closer, his hand wrapping around hers on the hilt.

  Amoda smiled a cold, twisted shifting of muscles that did nothing to reveal humor. “Since they do so love to inflict pain and suffering upon those weaker then themselves, mayhap, they should experience it.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Hang them. A slow, cruel death befitting any Celtic punishment. Much more reflective of their talents than burning them in a basket, wouldn’t you say?” Amoda sneered at them. “Take the very breath from their throats with the power of your hands. Then plant them in a box, and leave them to rot!” Whirling, Amoda stalked from the room, unwilling to look at the men who’d made a misery of her life another moment.

  “She is strong-willed, and her punishment shall be carried out. First, you are going to tell me why you spared her life, old man. Think of it thusly, the longer it takes you to explain, the longer you have before your last breath.”

  Tyr swallowed harshly. “I do not fear you.”

  “I care not if you do,” Mykyl ground out. “You betrayed your own blood, and I will have my vengeance. Now speak, old man, before I begin to cut bits of you to feed to the dogs!”

  “I will tell you.” Rognvaldr panted. His hand raised in pleading, red rivulets dribbling down the pale flesh to drip onto the floor. “Spare me, and I will tell you anything you desire.”

  “Tell me why Amoda survived and the rest of her family was slaughtered.” Mykyl ordered and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “She had been promised in the alliance,” Rognvaldr sobbed, ignoring Tyr’s furious glare. “They agreed that she would be wed to Olaf when she reached the age.”

  “Yet you kept her as a slave?” Cahal interjected.

  “A slave can easily be replaced, my lord, but to have the line of a king broken by the weight of the shackles about her. It shows cunning and an unwillingness to be merciful to those who betray our king.” Rognvaldr panted.

  “How could Ui Cormac possibly have betrayed your king?” Erin spat furiously. “He did nothing to warrant the attack!”

  “I wanted another, not that whelp of a girl,” Olaf whispered weakly. “I had refused her. I chose another but the old man refused me.”

  “Who did you desire?” Mykyl gaped at his brother who glanced at him before shrugging.

  Olaf wheezed out a breath before he spoke. “She was wed but days before our attack…to Ri Tuath Ui Naille.”

  Muted gasps filled the hall as everyone stared in shock. Mykyl glanced from his brother to his father to Cahal, and the rest of his men. “You lie,” he snarled, grabbing his brother’s throat. The very idea that he’d left Amoda in the care of another of her line seemed so beyond reason that fury unlike any he’d known tore through him. Cold, merciless, it was a killing rage he knew, but held himself in check for the moment. “Druantia Ni Naille is not of this line! She cannot be.”

  “Nay, he speaks the truth, no matter your desire otherwise,” Tyr hissed as Cahal stepped upon his fingers. “I pleaded with Cormac to allow the marriage, offered more than was expected of a bridal price and still he refused. What better way to pay back his deceit than by destroying that which he coveted so much.”

  “So you slaughtered a man you’d pledged to aid because he honored his word?” Mykyl shook with fury.

  “I wanted her, she should have been mine!” Olaf groaned.

  “You stole a child and kept her in bondage to satisfy your pride?” Mykyl swallowed harshly. “It was not enough to punish these people. You had to defile the very innocence and honor you could not keep?”

  “It made no difference,” Tyr snickered. “He still would have taken her, if you hadn’t stolen her away!”

  Mykyl turned from th
em, his heart heavy and cold. Amoda had belonged to Olaf most of her life. She had been destined to be his bride, given to honor an allegiance, which went dishonored. “By Odin’s power,” Mykyl whispered. “I would right this wrong but for the poison within my blood!”

  “Mykyl, surely, you don’t believe these lies, this trickery of theirs. What matters if they speak lies, they are to die this night, and they know?” Cahal gazed upon the men beneath them. He turned to Erin and waved a hand. “Fetch Amoda, surely she can shed some light upon this.”

  Mykyl watched Erin bow and scurry off in a flurry of her skirts. He turned to stare at his father for a moment. Hatred, thick and vile slithered along his heart and mind. His hands knotted into fists. His breath came in harsh, deep pants as he glared at the weak, rotting figures beneath his boots.

  “Nay, I have no doubt that they speak the truth. Druantia spoke of such a matter to Amoda when my son was born. Still, it matters not,” Mykyl declared darkly. “My son will sit upon the throne you destroyed.” He chuckled at Tyr’s paler and shock. “As will the entire line of my children. You have failed old man. You should have killed her. Now I claim her and the throne.”

  Tyr shook his head. “You will have your brothers upon you in war!”

  “I think not.” Mykyl nodded toward the back of the room. “I have already sent word to them, seeking their aid and their loyalty as servants to my wife’s throne. They have all agreed.”

  Wilting suddenly, Tyr shook his head as he sank to the floor. “All my careful planning, my scheming has been for naught. Your mother was wrong in suckling you. She should have cast you aside.” He ground out as he looked up into Mykyl’s face.

  “It would have made no difference.” Mykyl caught site of Amoda in the shadows and smiled. “I have no desire to claim your throne. I rather like this one.”

  Mykyl turned to Cahal and Vidor who stood a few inches away. “Carry out the sentence. The Queen of Woodstown demands it.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Cahal smiled coldly.

  “Slaughter a sheep and a cow. Prepare a feast for everyone,” Mykyl called out. “‘Tis a night to celebrate. Amoda and I are married. She delivered unto me a son. We are victorious.”

  Mykyl turned and smiled at Amoda who stood watching with a shocked look in her eyes. The deep green depths shimmered like the stars with unshed tears she was too proud to let fall. He walked over to her and cupped her cheek for a moment before taking her hand.

  Pulling Amoda closer to him, Mykyl smiled and nodded as Irish and Norse mingled, coming forth to offer well wishes and show their appreciation in small gifts. His fingers laced through Amoda’s, he surveyed the room as several women distracted her. He glanced at Amoda who stood deep in conversation with an older woman from within the city.

  “If I may be so bold,” Cahal muttered. “I must say the best move you ever made, my friend, has been to steal her. She’s much more worthy of you than Darina.”

  Mykyl smiled a slow, warm expression that crossed his entire face. “Darina? She was but a woman of flesh and blood. Amoda is of the very earth that I have claimed. Who could demand more?”

  Cahal smiled crookedly before moving into the crowd to embrace his wife. Mykyl nodded. There could be no doubt within him that he would enjoy his wife’s favors, this night and the many nights that came with a lifetime together. Crossing his arms over his chest, he watched as the women gathered around Amoda, even as his men dragged his father, brother, and Rognvaldr out the doors. As the doors swung shut, he sighed. ‘Twas a night of celebration, he would concern himself with thoughts of his father no longer.

  Walking across the floor, he paused behind Amoda and slid his arms around her waist, “Come, wife. It is growing late,” he whispered, pulling her flush against him. “And the night wraps its cloak about us for such a short time.”

  Amoda smiled and turned in his embrace as life flowed around them. Music rose along with the din of voices, of laughter to warm the interior of their house. “My lord, whatever shall I do to please you? I hear you are a rather demanding lord.”

  Throwing his head back, Mykyl roared with laughter and swung her into his arms. “My love, you have always pleased me, even when you have infuriated me.” He kissed her gently. “Come let us retire. Our people can celebrate without us.”

  Amoda smiled coyly, “Indeed, ‘tis neither mutton nor beef I hunger.”

  Mykyl traced a gentle finger over the gold band she wore and sighed. Casting a final glance over his shoulder, Mykyl caught Cahal and Vidor’s nods and returned them. They would have peace.

  About Patricia

  A long time writer, Patricia lives in British Columbia with her son, husband, cat and three fish. She fell in love with the written word when she was still quite young, before she actually started school, and has never fallen out.

  She’s a huge history buff, dabbling in everything from Ancient Egyptian to American Civil War, and the settlement of the Canada. Her love of history has combined with her love of the written word and produced her love of historical romances.

  Visit our website for our growing catalogue of quality books.

  www.champagnebooks.com