Lord of Falcon Ridge

by Catherine Coulter

  “Like Ragnor of York, I have great respect for your brain, Chessa, but to bring forth your mother? I don’t think so. I think it was something Varrick did—cast some sort of spell. Perhaps he has the ability to look just a bit into your mind and he saw your mother there.”

  She shivered and it had nothing to do with the mist that was now swirling lightly around them. It was as if the mist caressed them. It wasn’t wet now or chill, it was there, as light as a lover’s fingers touching them. They were nearing the far south end of Loch Ness. Low hills spread out around them, sheep grazing on them. Buzzards and falcons flew overhead. Gulls dove into the loch. There were barley fields being tended by slaves. There were thick stands of trees. Huge boulders lay in piles as if tossed there by a mighty hand. “Varrick’s lands go on forever,” Cleve said. “He told me that this is called Falcon Ridge, a name he gave it when he called the birds to him and three falcons landed on his outstretched hand to welcome him.”

  “They will never be your lands, brother.” It was Athol and he jerked on his stallion’s reins, making the horse rear up on his hind legs. “These are my lands. Go back to Norway. You have become a Viking like those men who come to trade in Inverness. We are different here. We are Vikings, yet we are more, more than you can imagine. You are too ignorant to know anything. You aren’t welcome, despite the words my father now mouths to you. He doesn’t know you even though it was his seed that filled your mother’s womb. Go away, Cleve of Malverne. There’s nothing for you here.”

  Cleve studied Athol’s face. Nearly a man, he thought, with passions boiling too close to the surface, too much passion and not enough control. He said, “I wonder whether when you reach your man years you will gain control and perhaps a bit of wisdom. Many men never do. I know you feel displaced. I can’t blame you for that. I am new to you. Like everyone else you believed me dead. But I’m here now and you will have to make the best of it.”

  “No,” Athol said. “Never.” He wheeled his stallion about, to ride back at the fore of their group.

  “I want you to keep your knife close,” Cleve said to Chessa. “Damn, I wish Kiri weren’t with us.”

  “But why?”

  “I have this feeling, nay, it is more than that. Keep close watch, Chessa. By all the gods, we shouldn’t have come with this half brother of mine.”

  The attack came so quickly there was no chance for her to answer. Cleve took a wild look at Kiri, now tucked securely against Merrik’s side, even as he drew his sword.

  There were at least three dozen of them, not at all like Viking warriors, but wild men garbed in bearskins and wolfskins, their trousers filthy and ripped, their feet bound in coarse leather sandals, all of them wielding small swords over their heads. They carried wooden shields and wore wooden helmets. They looked strong and ready to kill. They were yelling their heads off and their faces were painted with the blue and red circles and squares. Picts, Cleve thought, and his eyes glittered. He didn’t doubt for a moment that Athol had summoned them after he’d spoken to Cleve but minutes before. No doubt at all, the little bastard.

  Cleve calmly rode forward, even as the Malverne men and Varrick’s men were shouting and positioning their horses, preparing for the attack. The loch was at their back, the outlaws hemming them in. There was no escape, not that a Viking would ever avoid a fight or want an escape.

  He watched Athol even as he brandished his sword above his head. Ah, aye, he was right, it was some sort of signal to the outlaws. Cleve was on him in the next moment, his arm about Athol’s throat, his knife poised directly above his heart. He pulled the boy off his horse and over onto his. He said in his ear, “Call off your men, Athol.”

  The boy struggled, nearly shrieking, “They aren’t my men, Cleve, they’re outlaws, thieves. They want our swords and our jewelry. They want the women.”

  “You call off your men now or I will stick my knife clean through your heart. Do you understand me?”

  “I would rather die than let you have—”

  The knife slipped through Athol’s tunic, touched its cold tip to his flesh and then gently eased in. The boy screamed.

  “You see, death is never preferable. I learned that during the fifteen years I was a slave. A man can bear anything if he believes he can survive. Call them off or you will never draw another breath.”

  Athol shouted, “Sarva! Stop! Nay, come no nearer. You and your men withdraw. Now, or I will die.”

  The man in the lead paused a moment, and Cleve could see the frown on his painted face. These were no Scots. They were indeed outlaws, men loyal to Athol. But how had Athol gotten to these men so quickly? He shook his head, but Athol, feeling Cleve’s knife pressing deeper, screamed at him, “Go back! Don’t attack.”

  Sarva slowly raised his hand. The men behind him stopped, then circled around him, speaking amongst themselves.

  Merrik said, “Why don’t we go kill them?” As soon as he spoke, he realized he was holding Kiri against his side, her face pressed against him. “Nay, I didn’t mean that. Everything’s all right, Kiri. See, your papa’s solved the problem.”

  “Papa always solves problems,” Kiri said, and brought her face out of Merrik’s armpit. “Papa, who are those men?”

  “Soon they will be gone, sweeting, and then we will find out,” Cleve said. He whispered in Athol’s ear, “They were here so fast, all ready to kill us. You’d better hope that Sarva listens to you, Athol. Do you like the feel of this?” The knife went in just a bit further. Athol groaned, not moving.

  Then the men melted away behind three low hills, behind the piles of massive boulders, simply disappearing into the mist. It seemed to swallow them, pulling them through a gray veil.

  Cleve withdrew the knife. Calmly, he sheathed it at his belt. Then he lifted Athol by his tunic and threw him to the ground. He jumped off his horse’s back and stood over the boy. “Stand up, you puling coward.”

  “So,” Chessa said, riding her mare to within a foot of Athol. “This was your idea. You wanted to kill all of us. You wanted to kill Cleve, to kill Kiri.” Her voice rose to a near shriek. She slid off her mare’s back, pulled her knife and dove toward Athol. Cleve managed to catch her. “No, Chessa, no. I don’t want his miserable blood on your hands. Kiri is all right. We’re all fine now. Think of him as another Ragnor of York, the poor fool. You really didn’t want to kill him, you just wanted him to be gone.”

  “He put you and Kiri into mortal danger,” Chessa said, panting hard, still held in her fury. Cleve shook her. “Come, Chessa. Come back to me.” He leaned down and kissed her hard, then squeezed her against him.

  Kiri said to Igmal, whose horse was next to Merrik’s, “My second papa won’t let anyone hurt me or my first papa. Her eyes turn red when she’s really mad. I’ve seen her dive at a man who wanted to hurt someone she loved. She’s wonderful, my second papa. But I wasn’t sure I wanted her to marry my first papa. We did well before she came.” Kiri sighed, much put upon. “But she has brought excitement to our lives and I think my first papa thinks she’s splendid. She’s not my real mama, you know.”

  Igmal nodded. “She’s a Viking woman. She’s strong and proud and she very much loves your first papa, if I’m not mistaken, and I’m not. You could do worse for a stepmother, Kiri. You call her your second papa. You must explain this to me.”

  Cleve leaned down and pulled Athol to his feet.

  “I’m bleeding, you cut me.”

  Cleve just smiled at the boy’s outrage. “He reminds me so much of Ragnor, both whining little worms.” Cleve sent his fist into Athol’s jaw. He wished he’d heard a crack but he hadn’t. He would have liked to have broken the little bastard’s jaw.

  “Too bad,” Merrik said. “A broken jaw would have done him good. Every word he tried to say would have killed him. He just might have starved to death. But you tried, Cleve.” He grinned. “Five years with you and I didn’t manage to instill enough killing instinct in you, but you did hurt him, and I trust you enjoyed it.”
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br />   “Aye, I enjoyed it.” Cleve then sent his fist into Athol’s belly, doubling him over, and then he kicked him, sending him sprawling to the rocky ground. Cleve turned to Varrick’s man, Igmal, and said, “We will take him back to the fortress. Varrick will decide what to do with him. I don’t want his blood on your hands any more than I want it on my wife’s hands. Do you agree, Igmal?”

  Igmal looked down at Athol, who was lying on his side, knees drawn up, hugging his belly. He looked both sad and yet not surprised. “I saw him come from his mother’s womb, whole limbed, squalling, ready for life. I watched him grow tall, but he didn’t grow straight. A darkness grew in him, a cramped black place I didn’t understand. I’ve watched him since you came, Cleve, watched the fear in him, knowing he would lose everything, then I saw the calculation, the hatred, the determination. And now he would have killed you, his flesh and blood, the women, and the little girl who makes me laugh. This is a shame that drowns all of us.” Without saying another word, Igmal pulled a short slender knife from its scabbard, leapt from his horse, and bent down. Cleve grabbed his arm even as it was descending to Athol’s heart. “No, Igmal, no. This must be up to Varrick. He must decide. You speak of shame. It isn’t your shame, but my family’s. We must return him to Varrick.”

  “As you will, Cleve,” Igmal said, and straightened, slipping that knife back into its scabbard. “You will be master and lord here someday.” He turned to spit down at Athol. “He saved you,” he said, staring down at Athol as if still uncomprehending that the boy had done such a thing. “You would have killed him, yet he saved you. He saved you from his wife and from me.” Igmal spat on Athol, then turned his back and motioned his men back onto their horses.

  “Igmal,” Kiri called out.

  The ugly man looked at the child and gave her a ferocious smile that showed those blazing white teeth of his. “Aye, little one?”

  “I will ride with you back to the fortress.”

  Merrik just shook his head and handed Kiri over to Igmal, who tucked her neatly in the crook of his huge arm. “I begin to believe all of us are here just for her pleasure.”

  Cleve nodded, then said, “Let’s get him on his horse. I don’t know what Varrick will do.”

  Athol, now alive and knowing Cleve wouldn’t kill him, looked about for the outlaws, then said, “My father loves me. He will take my side. He will forgive me.”

  “Actually, he won’t,” Chessa said. “Or if he does, then he has no more wisdom than you do.”

  “You’re a damned witch. My mother said you were a witch after she saw you holding the burra, and I knew then it would be best if you died, your evil with you. You’re just a woman, yet you would have stuck that knife in me.”

  “Mayhap you’re right that I’m a witch,” she said, just smiling at him. “You’re a fool, Athol, if you think you can ever overcome me. Don’t forget that. Your father knows me for what I am. You’re stupid if you forget it.” She knew he was watching her with fear and hatred as she walked to her mare. She stood there, waiting for Cleve to hand her up.

  One of the men gave a shout. “It’s the monster. It’s Caldon! By all the gods, it’s Caldon.”

  Chessa whirled about to look out over the loch. There was naught but the heavy gray mist, veiling everything in sight.

  “Over on the eastern side, just yon!”

  Then she saw it, a shadow, a long neck, it seemed, with perhaps a head atop that long curving neck, a small head that looked upward, then slewed about and looked toward them. But then she couldn’t be certain, for the mist divided that long neck into three parts, showing dark mottled flesh and then thick sheets of mist, mingled together until nothing was clear, nothing was certain.

  The men murmured amongst themselves. They believed they saw Caldon. They believed they saw the monster of Loch Ness.

  Chessa didn’t know what she saw. She looked toward Cleve, who had managed to get Athol atop his horse. He just shook his head, saying nothing.

  Kiri was staring in silence toward the loch, just staring, her head cocked to one side. Igmal said to her, “The monster is a good creature, Kiri. There’s nothing to fear from it. It has a family, babies, just like you.” He paused, and Chessa knew he’d lied, and he’d done it well, cleanly and without hesitation. She wanted to kiss him, for Kiri just nodded and leaned back against his chest. Suddenly she straightened and said, “Igmal, the bearskin smells bad. I’ll wash it for you.”

  The ugly man just stared down at the little girl on his lap. “You’ll wash it for me?”

  “Aye, unless you have a wife. You don’t have a wife or the skin wouldn’t smell, would it?”

  “You’re right about that,” Igmal said. He looked over at Chessa. “Cleve is blessed in his women.”

  Athol screamed, “He’s a damned bastard! He’s nothing. You’ll see, Igmal, my father will kill you for trying to harm me. He’ll kill Cleve and he’ll kill that damned witch.”

  “I wonder if he’ll leave anyone alive,” Igmal said. “Be quiet, Athol, else Cleve just might break your jaw, and I think all the men would like that.”

  Chessa wondered if Athol’s mother, Argana, knew what her son had planned. She prayed it wasn’t so, but there was the woman’s silence, the woman’s utter devotion to her son. Argana was Cleve’s half sister, but still, blood was blood. She didn’t want to return to Kinloch. She didn’t want to see Varrick.

  24

  WHERE THE HELL was Kiri? Cleve had looked in the sheep byre, in the privy, in the bathing hut. Where was she? He turned to look back toward the fortress, but he didn’t see her amongst all the people standing there. He strode toward the barley fields. He’d shake her good for disappearing like this.

  Inside the huge fortress, Varrick, as was his wont, stood on the raised dais, regarding the fifty-some people in the great hall. He said in a calm voice that seemed to ring from the blackened wooden beams above, “Argana, you will come here to me now.”

  Chessa frowned. Where was Cleve? Why was Varrick calling Argana to him? She looked to see Athol, standing next to Igmal and his men, but he didn’t look frightened. Indeed, there was a stark look of pleasure on his thin face. He looked triumphant. She frowned, puzzled. What in the name of the gods was going on here?

  Argana walked tall and proud to the dais, to her husband. She stood below, flinging back her head to look up at him. “Yes, Lord Varrick? What is your pleasure?”

  “You will learn of it shortly. Answer me now. Would you agree, Argana, that our son, Athol, is only a boy?”

  “Aye, he is but sixteen. But he is nearly a man. You yourself have been seeking about for a suitable wife for him. You have said you wish him wedded soon. You wouldn’t want a boy to be a husband.”

  “But he is still not of full reason. He is still easily swayed by those he admires, those he loves, those he trusts. Like you, Argana.”

  “I trust that will be true when he has reached even your years, Lord Varrick.”

  Varrick was silent, just staring at her, but Chessa wasn’t fooled, the insult had made him furious. Suddenly, a wind came from the wide-open shutters behind him. He was holding the burra, fingering its surface with his long white fingers. There was conversation all around her, low and frightened. Where was Cleve? She looked over at where Merrik and Laren stood, Laren holding Kiri. The little girl looked bored, but she stayed quiet in Laren’s arms.

  Slowly, the winds died. Varrick said nothing until there was utter silence both inside and outside the fortress. He sheathed the burra once again at his belt. It was a quick gesture, a furtive gesture. She wondered if anyone else had noticed that he’d had the burra out when the winds had so suddenly arisen. “A mother has great influence over her children, particularly her sons.”

  “Aye,” Argana said quietly, “that is usually true. But here at Kinloch, with you, Lord Varrick, it isn’t. Athol takes his direction from you and from no other. All here take their direction from you and none other.”

  “Didn’t you call Chessa a wit
ch?”

  “Aye, she is a witch. What of it? Did you not tell us that her father was Hormuze, the greatest magician you’d ever known?”

  “Didn’t you tell your Athol that she was a witch and she would be better dead?”

  “Nay, I didn’t say that.”

  “But it is what you believe, is it not?”

  Slowly, Argana turned and looked at Chessa. She was frowning slightly, as if she didn’t understand something that she should understand. There wasn’t particular dislike in her look, but confusion. “Perhaps,” she said, and it was clear to all that she was uncertain, that she didn’t know where Varrick was leading with all this talk. Chessa felt the flesh on her arms rise. She was frightened. Where was Cleve?

  “Athol has told me that you ordered him to kill Cleve and all the visitors with him, including the child and Chessa. He has told me it wasn’t his fault. He was only following your wishes, your orders.”

  “Nay, I did not. Cleve is your son. Why would I want to have one son kill another?”

  “Ah, Argana, then you call your beloved son a liar and you want to see my knife slide between his ribs for his supposed treachery?”

  Argana smiled. “That was well done, husband. My only question is why?”

  Varrick didn’t answer. “Athol will learn honor. He will come to regret his actions of this day. He will no longer have a mother who incites him to violence, to betrayal.” He drew a long slender knife from his belt and slowly walked to Argana, who just stood there, staring at him, accepting.

  Chessa couldn’t believe this. Argana, just standing there, watching him walk toward her, his knife raising, ready to come into her heart. All his talk, it had been to convince everyone that the mother had incited the son to violence. Chessa screamed, “Don’t you dare kill her, Varrick! By all the gods, what are you doing?”