Rebel Warrior (Medieval Warriors #3) (2 page)

In the distance, Kessog streaked toward a duck, but missed his strike.

Catrìona watched the falcon for a while until a sharp gust of wind made her shiver. She had a sudden urge to return to her father’s hillfort.

Whistling Kessog back to her uplifted hand, she fed him a bit of meat from the small leather pouch secured at her waist.

Not far away, Angus, her faithful guard, waited patiently next to the horses. His craggy face broke into a smile. “ ’Tis best we go back, milady. Yer mother will be wantin’ to see ye about the final packin’ fer yer journey.”

“Mother did not want me to fly Kessog today,” she said with a smile, “but I had to, just one more time.” She set the falcon on his perch affixed to the pommel of her saddle. Fastening the velvet hood over his head, she stroked his breast feathers and secured his jesses.

Angus helped her to mount and as she turned her pony toward home, her heart warmed as she thought of her trip east to visit her cousin in Atholl. This time she would have Domnall’s escort for the journey.

The garrons she and Angus rode over the mountain pass were sure-footed ponies and easily found their way over the rock-strewn path.

As they approached the last ridge where they would begin their descent to the River Clyde, instead of the quiet she expected, men’s shouts, cries of terror and women’s screams rent the air.

Urging her pony forward, she reached the crest and slid her feet to the ground. Wide-eyed, she stared into chaos fifty feet below where two longships with dragonheads carved into their stems were belching forth silver-helmed warriors wielding axes, swords and spears.

Northmen
.

The longhaired raiders shouted what sounded like battle cries as they ran across the sand toward her father’s hillfort, ruthlessly cutting down her father’s men as if butchering cattle.

Men moaned as they fell, pierced through with spears and swords, grunting their last as blood spurted from their bellies.

Unarmed servants shrieked as axes sank into their backs.

Panicked women ran in all directions, shouting for their children.

Catrìona’s heart raced and her mouth gaped as she watched the unfolding terror. She gripped the seax at her waist. “
A Dhia m’anam
!” God preserve us! “I must go to them!”

Angus pulled her back from the crest. “Keep away from the edge lest they see ye. The bushes provide scant cover.” Grabbing up the reins of the horses, he led them away from the ridge.

“But—” She looked toward the crest, unable to see but desperate to know if her father’s men prevailed. “I want to help…”

“Ye can do nothing fer them, milady,” Angus said in a low voice as he returned to her. “Stay down. We can only await the end of it.”

Fear of the brutal Northmen warred with the desire to help those she loved. Rising panic nearly overtook her as she remembered what she had heard of Norse raids. But what help could she offer? In the face of so many bloodthirsty warriors, she would only become another victim. Angus, sworn to protect her, might die trying to prevent her death.

With the sounds of the mayhem ringing loud in her ears, Catrìona dropped to the ground and crawled on her belly to the edge of the rise, pulling her hood over her flame-colored hair to blend with the shrubs.

Angus came to join her, lying on his stomach in the grass. “Are ye certain ye want to see this?”

She peered down at the scene below, not wanting to witness the bloody fighting, yet unable to turn away. “Somewhere down there is my family.” Tears streamed down her face as the women’s screams pierced her like knives through her heart. “I cannot look away.”

Huge Northmen grabbed screaming women and dragged them over the sand and pebble-strewn beach to one of the longships.

Men fought and continued to fall. Some of the fallen were Norse but most were her father’s men. Bowing her head, she prayed God would give the men of the vale the strength to defeat this horde from Hell.

Raising her head, she winced as a Norse raider swung his axe, severing a man’s head. It flew through the air to land on the ground while the man’s body dropped where he had stood. Sickened by the sight, her gorge rose in her throat, choking her. She closed her eyes tightly against the sight of it. The man was father to one of her friends. Only that morning he had wished her and Angus good hunting.

Forcing her gaze back to the unfolding horror, she searched for her father, her mother and younger brother, but did not see them. Niall had gone hunting that morning, his bow and arrows slung over his shoulder. She prayed he had not yet returned.

Suddenly, a tall giant, covered in the blood of those he had slain, shouted orders as he cut a path through her father’s men guarding the palisade gate. His greater height and long black hair contrasted sharply with the other Northmen.

He must be their leader.

Her father, strong and robust, his fiery hair so like her own, suddenly appeared at the gate with sword raised.

Catrìona cringed in fear for him and her mother who she knew must be in the hillfort behind him. Cormac, Mormaer of the Vale of Leven, would give his life for his family.

Lord, protect them
.

Closing her eyes, she sobbed. She could not watch.
Not this
.

Angus laid his arm across her shoulder. “I would go to his aid, milady, but yer father swore me to stay by yer side and I will nae leave ye. Either Cormac will prevail or God will take him.”

The shouts and screams died away and she opened her eyes, her gaze darting to where her father had stood. He lay on the ground in front of the gate, blood dripping from a gash in his tunic.
Nay!
He could not die, not her powerful father.

Mother
… where was her mother?

Tears filled her eyes and coursed down her cheeks. She wiped them away and surveyed the scene below.

The fighting was nearly over.

The ground in front of the hillfort was littered with bodies from the palisade fence to the river’s edge.

The Norse raiders, splattered with the blood of those they had slain, retrieved their dead and wounded and carried them to the longships. At the top of one mast flew a banner, a black raven on a field of yellow. Stirred by the wind, the raven appeared to fly. The eerie sight made her shudder.

Having struck and killed, the invaders now descended like a flock of vultures to pick clean the corpses, gathering prized swords and treasures accumulated over a lifetime, hauling them to the longships.

The sound of women sobbing drew her attention to one of the ships where a small group of women huddled together at the base of the mast. A harsh command from one of the Northmen cut short their wailing. A crimson gown worn by one of the women caught her eye. It was one of Catrìona’s own gowns she had given her handmaiden, Deidre, that morning to wear to the festivities planned for that evening.

Oh, Deidre
.

A terrified bellow sounded from a cow as one of the Northmen prodded the animal up a boarding plank onto the ship. Another raider followed, leading her father’s stallion.

Suddenly, a Northman appeared with a blazing torch. Holding it high, he strode toward her father’s ship, climbed aboard and set the flaming brand to the furled sail. It burst into flame.

My father’s ship
! Catrìona sobbed, watching in horror as the hemp and sailcloth burned, sending great billows of smoke into the air.

Once the oars and the hull caught fire, the Northman jumped to the sand and carried the torch to the palisade fence. Another of his band joined him to splash what looked like pitch onto the timbered posts. Lit by the torch, the wood began to burn.

The two Northmen walked to the palisade gate, stepped over her father and headed toward the hillfort, their terrible task not yet done.

“Nay!” she whispered hoarsely. “My home.”

“Best ye not look,” said Angus, his dark eyes filled with torment.

“I will look,” she said, determination turning her voice hard. “I want to remember their leader, their ships and their banner.” The terrible events of this day would be seared in her memory forever.

A short while later the Northmen climbed aboard their ships, rowed out to the middle of the river and raised their sails. The wind filled the square canvases, carrying the ships toward the Firth of Clyde and the open sea beyond.

The determination Catrìona had felt only moments before drained from her, leaving in its place the shock of what she had witnessed. Her eyes burned from the tears she had shed.

She cast a defeated glance at Angus who seemed to have aged since they had arrived at the crest, the creases in his face etched deeper than before, making him look older than his thirty summers. He had no wife or children to lose, but he had served her father for ten years and could count many friends among the fallen.

With a deep sigh, Angus got to his feet and helped her to rise before walking toward the horses.

Mindlessly, Catrìona brushed dirt from her cloak. “To where do those heathen dogs sail?”

“I canna say fer sure, milady, but I would guess the Orkneys from the raven banner. They claim it assures them victory. They were young, mayhap an errant band out fer mayhem and plunder.”

She trudged to her horse and Angus helped her to mount. Steeling herself for what lay ahead, she said, “We must hope some of our people yet live.”

What they found when they reached the bottom of the hill confirmed what they had seen from the crest, only now they could smell the stench of bodies ripped asunder. Covering her nose, she stood staring out at the field of dead.

Slowly she walked forward, stepping around bodies strewn upon the blood-soaked ground, listening for a groan or a sound that would tell her some still lived. She avoided looking at their faces, for she would know them and that would be worse. But she scanned the dead for auburn hair like her own and sighed with relief when she did not find Niall.

She went next to her father where he lay in front of the palisade, knowing by the blood covering his chest and the vacant look in his eyes he was dead.

Catrìona wanted to scream but no sound came from her throat. Her heart sank with her knees as she dropped to his side. She kissed his forehead and closed his eyes, paying her last respects to the father she loved. No one else called her “little cat”. In her mind she heard his voice as he told her the stories of Ireland from long ago.

She stood. Inside, she felt numb and hollow. Her eyes burned from crying and the still rising smoke.

“I will see to him,” said Angus coming alongside her.

She looked back at the bodies. “There are so many…”

“Aye, but Domnall’s men will help bury them when he arrives.”

Nodding, she stumbled forward to the gate. The palisade’s timbers still burned but the flames had not yet reached this point. The acrid smell of smoke filled her nostrils and stung her eyes, but she forced herself to keep going. She had to find her mother.

As she stepped through the gate, she spotted her lying on the ground in front of the hillfort, a knife not far from her open hand. Her skirts were crumpled to her waist, her bare legs outstretched. Her dark hair was loose and tangled. Her throat had been slit.

Oh, Mother
.

Refusing to give in to tears, Catrìona pulled her mother’s gown down to her ankles, covering her shame, and kissed her forehead before rising. Retrieving her mother’s knife, she saw the blade was still clean. Now it was Catrìona’s. Securing it in her belt, she vowed, if given the chance, to draw Norse blood with it.

Wrapping her arms tightly about her waist, Catrìona held in the emotions threatening to overwhelm her, the sorrow, the despair and the anger for all that had been done here. In one morning she had lost her parents, her home and her people.

Stumbling back through the palisade gate, she searched for Angus, wanting to be assured he was close.

Movement drew her eyes to the edge of the trees next to the palisade. A figure ran toward her, bow and arrows slung over his shoulder, his bright auburn hair flying out behind him.

“Niall!” She broke into a run. When she reached him, they embraced. She clung to him as tears she could not hold back poured from her eyes. “Thank God you were not here.”

He pulled back to face her. “Who did this, Cat?”

“Northmen.” She looked around but saw none of the dead raiders. “They took their wounded and their dead. Oh, Niall, ’twas ghastly. Angus and I had just reached the crest when we realized the hillfort was under attack. I can still hear the screams of the women.”

“Father? Mother?” His voice faltered as he looked toward the bodies scattered upon the grass between the river and the palisade.

“Dead with the others. Father fought bravely, as did his men, but they were greatly outnumbered.” When the rush of words ended, she paused, then added, “All the men were killed.” Remembering the small bodies scattered among the others, she said, “Even the children. The only ones taken were some of the women. The young ones.”

“Deidre?”

“Aye, taken with the other women.” Her pretty handmaiden had lived sixteen summers, older than Niall by only a year. The two had grown up together as friends. Catrìona could still see Deidre’s smiling face when they had talked of their coming journey to Atholl.

Niall clenched his jaw and shut his eyes as if to gain control. When he opened them, his face was set in stone, much like her heart.

Angus approached, wiping soot from his forehead with the back of his hand. “ ’Tis glad I am to see ye’re safe, Niall.”

Her brother’s face twisted in anger as he clenched his fingers around his bow. “I wish I had been here to fight the whoresons.”

“Cormac would not have wanted that. He would want ye to live to protect yer sister and one day father yer own sons.” He turned to Catrìona. “None who lay on the grass are alive, milady. I have moved yer mother away from the burning hillfort to lie next to yer father, just there.” He pointed to a patch of grass some distance away where two bodies lay apart from the others. Angus had covered their faces. “The wind will feed the fire,” he said. “Soon ’twill all be consumed.”