Garreth rejoiced. Hooking the end of the blackthorn onto it, he painstakingly pulled himself, inch by inch, toward firm ground.
»«
Ailinn gripped Lyting’s hands, their gazes riveted to where Rhiannon held their daughter atop Cahercommaun’s wall, crowning the towering cliff. Ailinn thought her heart would cease beating altogether, so terrified was she for Ailénor.
Rhiannon cried out something from above, disturbing the birds perched on the ledges there. Inky-black choughs lifted from the dark sandstone cliff and winged out to sea, ominous specters against the dawning sky.
“Could you grasp what she said?” Lyting pressed, having no real knowledge of Gaelic. “Do you think she threatens to harm Ailénor should we begin the climb?”
Ailinn shook her head. “‘Tis precisely what she wants. She is waiting. For me.”
Releasing her hold on Lyting, she started to step away, determined to face her stepcousin and bring this torture to an end. But Lyting caught her at once and pulled her back against him.
“You cannot think to confront her alone, Elskan mín.”
Lyting looked at his wife with consternation. He had not revealed to her what his keen sight allowed him to see — a glint of metal, a knife, in Rhiannon’s hand, held to their daughter’s side. Rhiannon’s treacherousness did not surprise him, but he wondered if she could be expected to act sanely.
“Once you step into her trap, there is naught to keep her from harming you both. And mayhap no way I can help you. I’ll not risk you both.”
Anguish lacerated Ailinn’ s golden-brown eyes. “Oh, do you not see, my love? This has ever had to do with me alone, not Ailénor. Neither she, nor any of our children, will be safe until Rhiannon and I come face-to-face and put an end to this enmity.”
Lyting shared her pain — and her unspoken fury — for all that Rhiannon had visited upon their child and family. Gathering Ailinn close, he pressed his lips to her hair.
“I cannot deny the truth of what you say, my darling. But we shall face Rhiannon together and devise some way to save Ailénor. I expect your presence will prove a great distraction to Rhiannon. One we should be able to use to advantage.”
At Rurik’s approach, Lyting eased his hold on Ailinn and met his brother’s somber gaze.
“The crew is seeing to the ship and will join us forthwith.” Rurik halted beside them, then lifted his gaze to the clifftop. A muscle worked in his jaw, then he slowly scanned the wall, his eyes the color of polished steel, their blue having drained long ago. “Have you seen evidence of a guard? I have yet to spy even one armed man.”
“Nei,” Lyting returned. “If Rhiannon retains any, they must be few or they would have given some show of force.”
“Unless ‘tis a trap.”
Lyting concurred with a nod. He refrained from adding there was also no sign of Garreth. From what they had learned in Lundenburh, Garreth had been seized along with Ailénor outside their lodgings. He might now be dead or incapacitated. In either case, he would be of no help to them. Witnesses also spoke of a barbarian fitting the description supplied them previously by Lia’s kinsmen. The barbarian, Lyting noted, was also in absence.
“Ailinn and I intend to confront Rhiannon directly,” he apprised Rurik. “Mayhap you and the crew can follow behind, keeping from sight. You’ll need ropes and grapples.” He glanced to the fortifications topping the cliff. “There are three distinct defense walls visible. ‘Tis likely Rhiannon will permit only Ailinn and myself inside the gates.” His gaze shifted to Rurik. “Are you up to scaling walls, broðir?”
Rurik rubbed his jaw, looking from Lyting to Ailinn and back again to Lyting.
“Actually I was about to ask you the same question. I have a suggestion as to how we might free Ailénor.”
»«
Lyting paused in his steep climb up the rocky cliff, then gestured to the crewmen below him to do the same. Glancing toward the top, he watched Rurik help Ailinn up the last of the difficult path. The two disappeared as they stepped away and headed toward the hill-fort.
Lyting signaled the men to advance, then resumed his climb. Rurik’s plan required they exchange places. He held no qualms in entrusting Ailinn to Rurik, or relying on his brother’s ability to save Ailénor should the chance open to him. It only grated on him that he could not be immediately present to his wife and daughter.
Lyting leaned into the climb, adjusting the bow and quiver of arrows slung to his back. Rurik was right, of course. Given Rhiannon’s capacities, they must assume the worst — she would not free Ailénor and might spitefully end her life. ‘Twas plain what they must do — disable Rhiannon before she could injure Ailénor.
The weapon of choice was, naturally, a bow and arrow with which Rurik and he were both proficient. Lyting’s aim and skill were more consistently accurate than Rurik’s, however, and his exceptional sight a much needed advantage. The only concern was whether Lyting could emotionally meet the task, being ‘twas his own daughter who was at risk. Lyting vowed he could.
‘Twas agreed Rurik would accompany Ailinn and pose as himself. Eighteen years had intervened since Rhiannon last saw him, and his and Rurik’s features were so similar they felt confident they could fool her. ‘Twas only Rurik’s golden hair that might betray him, but that was easily covered.
Meanwhile, Lyting would infiltrate the fort and take up a position where he could mark Rhiannon. As she and Ailinn confronted one another, Rhiannon would, Lyting hoped, step for a moment from Ailénor’s side. To that end, Ailinn would attempt to draw her out. Lyting would be ready.
Long ago, Rhiannon’s cankered soul cost another young girl her life — her sweet cousin, Deira. Upon his sacred vow, this day, she’d not have Ailénor, too.
Reaching the clifftop, Lyting kept low and carefully peered over the edge. Ailinn and Rurik stood before Cahercommaun’s gate, Rurik’s hood now drawn up, concealing his hair.
Half of the massive door drew open a crack, and a gaunt man in coarse clothes emerged. Obviously a servant, his eyes rounded as he took in Rurik’s stature and warrior’s physique. With a trembly hand, he gestured to Rurik’s sword, indicating he should disarm himself.
Rurik stared down at the man, causing him to shake all the worse, but gave no real resistance. Lyting presumed Rurik’s thoughts ran with his own. Even if Rhiannon maintained no armed force to oppose them, she did hold Ailénor, quite literally, and could kill her on a whim.
Lyting watched as Rurik unbelted his sword and unsheathed two knives, laying them on the ground. Ailinn added her eating dagger, then held open her mantle for the servant to see she carried nothing else. Satisfied, the man ushered Rurik and Ailinn inside the fort and closed the gate.
Waiting several moments longer and continuing to skim the area for watchful eyes, Lyting finished the climb and motioned the men to join him. Together the small group hastened to the defense wall, pressing into the shadows and doffing their gear. As the men readied the grappling hooks and ropes, Lyting gauged the height of the wall.
“Save your strength, my lord,” the man Torfi whispered at his elbow. “I’ll go over and see the door open.”
“Have a care, then, friend,” Lyting rejoined. “When you reach the top, keep low lest you be seen. Rhiannon herself might have a clear view of you from her position on the farmost wall.”
Torfi nodded his understanding, then turned to where the others — Hamar, Geir, and Lars — worked at securing the grapple in place. Hamar swung the iron claw overhead, measuring out the rope. At the precise moment, he let it fly and succeeded in hooking it over the wall.
With a stout yank to assure ‘twas lodged fast, Hamar passed the rope to Torfi. Torfi made quick work of scaling the wall on his short, bandy legs. Gaining the top, he flattened himself upon the stone and glanced about, then signaled Lyting and the others all was clear. At that, Torfi disappeared from sight only to reappear moments later when he opened the gate.
Slipping inside, Lyting and the others immediately e
ncountered a second defense wall, as tall as the first and equally uninviting. This time ‘twas Lars who offered to mount the wall. A strong and able young man, he accomplished the deed with quick efficiency, again finding no opposition, and opened the door without incident. Passing through, Lyting and the men faced the third innermost wall protecting the very heart of Cahercommaun.
Lyting ran a hand through his hair, frustrated and anxious to know what transpired within. “I’ll take this one,” he said, handing over his bow and quiver of arrows to Hamar.
Gripping hold of the rope, he climbed the wall, pulling himself up, hand over hand, and “walking” the full height to the top. There he dragged himself onto the ledge and stretched out. Below, a handful of buildings lined the inner wall. In the courtyard beyond, Ailinn and Rurik stood facing the west wall where Rhiannon now held a knife at Ailénor’s heart.
Rage exploded through his Norse veins. Had he his weapons and a clear shot, he’d drop Rhiannon this instant. Lyting beheld the stark fear in his daughter’s eyes, then realized as she looked to Ailinn and shook her head that Ailénor’s fear was for her mother.
Lyting pressed his lashes shut and took command of himself. God’s might, he must not fail them. Opening his eyes, he studied the yard below and observed several thin servants clustered at the end of one building, watching the events beyond. Rhiannon shrilled something, sending them darting back inside. Perusing the grounds further, he still found no sign of any guards or of the barbarian.
Lowering himself to the ground, Lyting moved to the gate and withdrew the heavy bar. As the men joined him, they sought cover behind the nearest building. Lyting retrieved his bow and quiver from Hamar and quickly strung the stave. He then directed the men to spread out and keep from sight.
Like a shadow, Lyting melted along the lengths of the buildings, moving cautiously from one to the next, seeking the best vantage point from which to sight the she-devil, Rhiannon. His heart pumped hard. Any moment he half expected to be discovered or to come upon Rhiannon’s barbarian companion.
Moving behind a small stone structure near the west wall, he found the position well met his needs. Seizing a handful of arrows from his quiver, Lyting stabbed them into the ground next to him for instant access, then nocked one in place.
Sighting Rhiannon down the shaft, he narrowed all thought to his target. Marking her, he drew on the string and waited for an opening to fell her without risking his daughter.
As he bided the moment, Ailinn stepped from Rurik’s side to boldly confront Rhiannon. But as Lyting sharpened his ear to her words, he heard instead a boot fall, off to his right.
Swiveling, he drew full upon the string and marked the half-crouched figure, covered in filth and carrying a curved sword. Lyting readied to discharge the arrow, but the man halted, and their eyes met.
Garreth froze in his boot prints as he saw Lord Lyting’ s deadly arrow drawn on himself. Dropping the sword, he held up his hands. To his enormous relief, Lord Lyting directed the weapon aside and to the ground and allowed the string to slacken.
Ailénor’s father looked every bit as stunned as he did to see him. In truth, he thought the man standing with Lady Ailinn in the courtyard to be Lord Lyting. He realized now ‘twas Lord Rurik and was astonished Ailénor’s family had been able to track them here.
Joining Lord Lyting, Garreth crouched down behind the stone cell — the entrance chamber leading to the souterrain — and exchanged a brief nod of greeting.
“I feared you to be dead,” Lord Lyting whispered.
“Nearly so, but for the grace of God.”
Garreth edged to the corner of the structure and glimpsed the scene in the courtyard. He started to rise at the sight of Rhiannon pulling Ailénor along the wall to the top of the steps, pressing the cold steel against her flesh.
“Easy, son.” Lyting stayed him, gripping him by the shoulder. “Patience. Lady Ailinn will try to lure Rhiannon from Ailénor’s side. If I can get a clear shot, I’ll take Rhiannon down. Meanwhile, Rurik is prepared to do what he must. Our crewmen are in position as well.”
Garreth glanced again to Ailénor and saw her terror. He could not sit idly by and wait.
“An underground passage lies below. It opens onto the cliff’s face. With luck, I can scale it. If Rhiannon can be drawn down the steps, I might be able to approach her unseen from behind.” Seeing a look of concern cross Lord Lyting’s features, he held up a hand. “I’ll not risk Ailénor or place her in further peril. Upon my oath.”
Lord Lyting agreed but signaled to one of his men. “Take Hamar with you. He has the ropes and grapples that saw us over the walls.”
Garreth started to turn, then seeing the sword lying where he had dropped it, he caught it up and gave it over to Lord Lyting.
“Mayhap this will be of some use to you. ‘Twas Varya’s, Rhiannon’s barbarian consort.”
“Was?”
“Was,” Garreth confirmed. Bidding Hamar to follow, he slipped around to the cell’s entrance and descended into the souterrain.
»«
Ailinn suppressed her horror at the sight of her daughter being held, her hands bound behind her, a knife at her heart. Suppressed her shock and outrage at the sight of Rhiannon, scarred and witchlike, holding the blade there.
Ailinn blocked the images from her mind and armored herself for the trial at hand. Iron-hearted, she stepped from Rurik’s side to the center of the enclosure.
“I have come, Rhiannon.” Her voice rang out in the courtyard. “Ailénor is innocent of anything that lies between us. Let her go.”
Rhiannon pulled Ailénor along the wall to the top of the steps, her green eyes burning into Ailinn, fever-bright, her look triumphant. A shrill of laughter rose from her throat.
“Ailinn of the Érainn!” she crowed. “Long have I awaited this day.”
“As have I,” Ailinn returned, steel in her tone. “Ever since your men seized Ailénor.”
The words brought Rhiannon up short, and an unreadable look flickered across her eyes. She lifted a brow.
“A mistake,” she tossed lightly with no real remorse. Her smile turned reptilian. “‘Twas you they sought.”
“And I am here. But Ailénor is not part of this. Release her. Then shall we see this to an end, the two of us.”
“Yes,” Rhiannon hissed, forcing Ailénor down another step. “Yes. The two of us. To an end.”
Again Ailinn moved forward, stopping a short distance from the stone steps. Rhiannon’s eyes glittered with anticipation, and she began to compel Ailénor down yet another step. But Ailénor suddenly braced her feet against the stone and resisted Rhiannon’s prodding.
“Non, maman!” Ailénor cried out. “Stay back! She will kill you!”
Rhiannon’s piercing laugh filled the air. “How touching,” she exclaimed with venomous delight. “The mother seeks to save the daughter. And the daughter the mother.” Her eyes cut to the hooded man. “Has the father naught to say?”
Not waiting an answer, she broke into fresh laughter. But her laughter died as abruptly as it had begun, her mood shifting tempest-quick. Securing her grip on Ailénor, she slashed Ailinn with eyes that had turned to daggers.
“Look on me! I am back from the dead. I have endured a living hell these many years on the Steppe. But I refused to be conquered and I lived for my revenge. Now I am returned, and this day I shall take it and savor it to the full.
“Look on me!” she repeated, turning her head to expose the scars marring her cheek and neck. “Look on me! I was enslaved, violated, disfigured, and abused in ways you cannot begin to imagine. The lot I bore should have been yours!”
Ailinn recoiled before Rhiannon’s vehemence. Never had she understood the seeds of Rhiannon’s hatred for herself. Seeds that were present from the beginning, manifest in the first moments they met, long ago in Clonmel.
Rhiannon had nurtured her hatreds and denied reality as it suited her, possessing a great capacity to twist things in order to justify and
believe whatever she wanted. But over these many years, Rhiannon’s hatreds and self-deceptions had ultimately driven her to madness as she continued to blame everyone else for her misfortune.
Non, Ailinn corrected. Rhiannon blamed all her ills upon herself — Ailinn of the Érainn — alone. How could she reason with a madwoman?
“‘Twas not I who caused you to be enslaved, Rhiannon. We were all captured that day in Clonmel and lost our power over our destinies. On the Dnieper, when the horsemen attacked, you were not chained with the other women and easily carried away.”
“Ní hea. It should have been you! I pushed you into their path that they might take you. But again you defied fate. Then, and earlier with the Norsemen. You alone were spared their lusts. You bewitched them, as you did my people — you and your mother — with your temptress looks and manipulative ways, both of you naught but lowly Érainn. I spit on you!”
»«
Garreth and Hamar worked apace, securing a length of rope through the iron rings embedded in the wall and fastening its end about his waist. Additional rope had been found in the storage chests, lining the passage wall, and proved amply long to make the climb.
The women’s voices sounded from above, but Garreth could understand naught of their Gaelic tongue. He stepped toward the cave opening, wondering whether Rhiannon had yet moved from the wall.
“Mayhap this will be of use,” Hamar said behind him, offering him the grappling hook. “Mayhap you can hook the witch’s foot and drag her over.”
Garreth declined with a shake of his head. “‘Twould be too risky for Ailénor’s sake.”
Frustratingly, like Lord Lyting, Garreth found himself trapped in the moment, waiting upon circumstance. He hoped Lady Ailinn and Lord Rurik would be successful in luring Rhiannon from Ailénor’s side.
Grasping on to the wall at the cave’s opening, he leaned out slightly and glanced up the face of the cliff. ‘Twas rugged with little on which to grab hold. Mayhap ‘twas sheer madness to attempt the climb. He had no solid plans even should he reach the top.
The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series) Page 33