The Viking's Woman (35 page)

She smiled and sat and he joined her. His warm brown eyes were steady upon her. “You mustn’t judge all Vikings by those you have come to know.”

She lowered her head slightly, trying to hide the curious war of emotions within her. “I know no Viking as well as Eric, Patrick.”

“I refer to those who have ravaged this land. You would like Eric’s father very much. He never allowed slaughter—”

“But he seized land that was not his!” she protested.

“He has returned to Ireland tenfold anything that he ever took,” Patrick said, proudly defending Olaf. “He and his sons have fought time and again for the old Ard-ri, his father-in-law. Dubhlain rises as a great town—the greatest, perhaps, in all Eire. There are schools for the children and great monasteries that he supports. Musicians and scholars come and …” He
paused, grinning. “That is the Irish way. Do you know what one of the greatest crimes in all Ireland is?”

“What?”

“To refuse hospitality to those in need. You might travel anywhere beneath the jurisdiction of the Ard-ri, or of the great Irish kings, and be welcomed with warmth and kindness. It is our way. And in Eire a woman may readily own property, and she may be heard if she desires to plead her own case in any dispute. Why, the Ard-ri himself, my lady, is the most responsible man in the land, for it is the Irish belief that the higher a man’s status in life, the greater must be his forfeit for crime against a lesser man. Moreover, Ireland is beautiful, lady. You should see the land. Achingly green and beautiful, for mile upon endless mile. Yet the seasons bring change, and colors in mauve and purples and glorious oranges and—”

“Patrick! You should be at home, setting all these wondrous thought to paper, not facing war upon foreign soil!” Rhiannon exclaimed.

Patrick flushed deeply in the firelight. “Lady, I have told you these things because you must understand. Eric of Dubhlain is not a pagan or a barbarian. He is a cross between the lusty seafaring talents of the Viking and of the fine and ancient royal lineage of a land where civilization—in a golden glory!—has long flourished. He speaks many languages, has studied Greek and Roman verse, knows much of astronomy and astrology, and plays many instruments. It was never, ever meant that any here should suffer from our appearance from across the sea. Only the enemy we mutually fight, the Danes. I—I wish that you could see the difference between Eric and Gunthrum.”

“Patrick,” she said softly in the face of his sincerity, “I have come tonight because I wish to help.”

“You should not be here!” he exclaimed, suddenly remembering why he had been sent himself. “It is not safe!”

“I am the best archer I know,” she said flatly. “I must be here.”

He smiled slowly at her after a moment. “What if I requested that you turn around and go home?”

“Ah, but it would not be safe to send me in the night. Further, you could request that I leave, but you could not order me to do so, and I am commanding you to serve me now. As I am your lord’s lady, you are beholden to me.”

He was silent for a moment. “Tomorrow, with the dawn, we will cross that ridge. When the dew lifts and the fog clears, we should be able to see their progress along the coast.”

She nodded. Patrick decided that his hare was well roasted, and he pulled the meat from the fire and they shared it. She drank warm ale from his horn and settled down upon his mantle.

He slept little through the night, she knew. He kept a careful vigil over her until the dawn broke and morning came upon them.

Less than an hour’s time brought them to the ridge. As they had both anticipated, the cliffs and valley of the coast were clearly visible to them for miles and miles. Patrick was the first to catch sight of Eric’s party, winding through a trail far, far below them and many miles to the southwest. The distance was greater than Rhiannon had expected, and her heart thundered against her chest as she weighed her
chances of striking the trees before the men as they rode. Then she nodded to Patrick, and he stepped aside. She used all of her strength to set her arrow carefully within the crossbow. A brief second later she let it fly. They watched the arrow as it arched and flew. Moments later she cried out with delight as she saw it fall into the trees on their path. “Another!” she called quickly to Patrick. Over the next ten minutes she sent arrow after arrow.

Then she could shoot no more. The crossbow was heavy; it took tremendous strength to use. Her arm was in agony, and she doubted that she could shoot another arrow to save her own life.

She sank to the ground, dropping the heavy crossbow. “’Tis all right, lady! They’ve come across one at least!” Patrick assured her, stooping down beside her. “Look, they’ve paused! See there! They are forewarned and cannot be ambushed.”

She leapt back to her feet, finding new strength. Staring far down, she could indeed see that the riders had stopped and gathered together. She sighed with pleasure, then frowned as some other movement caught her eye. “Oh, dear God!” she whispered. “Look, Patrick, look! Behind them! The Danes are already behind them!”

The enemy had allowed Eric and his men to pass, and were now quietly following behind them. From her vantage point Rhiannon could see that the trail would lead them to a rise of cliffs that had to be carefully ridden. Eric would be trapped against the rise of rock. “We must warn them again! Patrick, have we any of the parchment left, any of the cords?
Quickly, help me.” Patrick moved with haste, finding the remaining warnings and the leather cords.

“Oh, but what shall I use for ink?” she wailed.

“Don’t despair, lady, give me a moment.”

She thought that he had gone daft, for he knelt down, gathering twigs and dried grass and branches. He drew flint and a striker from his saddle and started to build a fire.

“Patrick—”

“Ah, just one moment!” He smiled, then drew a branch from the fire. “We need only a few words. Write with the burned end, milady.”

In seconds she had crudely scrawled out the warning “Behind you.” She nearly cried out with the pain as she sent another arrow flying, but then the deed was done, and she closed her eyes and prayed. Then she and Patrick knelt upon the cliff together and watched anxiously.

“It’s been found!” Patrick said.

“How can you tell?” she demanded.

“Watch them; watch the battle formation they are taking. They are ready and waiting. They will slice down the Danes like dogs when they think to attack!”

The sun rose high. A trickle of sweat ran down Rhiannon’s cheek. From high above, she and Patrick watched the battle. Watched as the Danes approached … watched as Eric’s men countered their attack before it could begin.

Then Rhiannon let out a ragged sob, for she could not tell in the melee of death who was taking the field.

“The crest of the Wolf still flies, my lady. See? I
cannot so clearly make out the standard, but I know my lord’s colors, and they are clear!”

She could make out nothing for the trees and foliage below them. Horses lay dead, men lay dead, and she had to believe that Patrick knew what he was saying. Then she realized that they had spent the entire day upon the cliff—her vision was impaired because night was already falling.

All that was left to do was pray.

She was alone, she realized suddenly. Then, when she turned about, rubbing her eyes, she saw that Patrick had renewed the fire. He stood behind her with a large partridge, grinning. “My lady, I do try to make each meal a different treat.”

She smiled wanly. “Patrick, I could not possibly eat.”

“You must,” he told. “You cannot change the outcome of the battle by refusing to eat.”

He was right. And suddenly she remembered that there was another reason she should keep up her strength.

“Let me help—”

“Nay, I can pluck this bird in no time,” he assured her.

He cooked the bird and found a stream, and she discovered that she was starving and could wolf down quite a portion of the food and fresh water. They were both tense that night, more anxious than they had been the night before, and even through the long hours of the day. They were quiet, at ease with their silence with one another—they both knew they waited the dawn.

Very late, Rhiannon finally slept, curled up and covered
by the width of Patrick’s cloak. Surprisingly she slept dreamlessly, and deeply.

The harsh clang of swords was a rude awakening to her.

At the first clash of steel her eyes flew open. She leapt wearily to her feet, glad that at least she had carried a small dagger, sheathed at her ankle. But she had no sword, and the heavy crossbow was no weapon for hand-to-hand combat. She heard a curse, and again the clash of steel, and she swirled about. Patrick was nowhere in sight, yet she knew that he was near, for she could hear the fight. She raced for the edge of the cliff and saw him upon a shelf below. The stripping of the grass and the upturned soil quickly told her that the battle had begun much closer to her and that Patrick had waged his war as far from her as possible to give her time to escape.

“Why, bless you, Irishman!” she whispered aloud, then rushed back to the dying fire. Perhaps she could use the longbow, after all.

Sweeping up the bow and hoisting the quiver of arrows to her back, she hurried back to the cliff. There were two of them against Patrick—dressed in crude skin boots, no hose upon their calves, belted tunics clothing them to their knees. Both wore conical steel helmets and wielded heavy shields. They were adept fighters.

But so was Patrick. He held his own against the two burly giants, yet he could not last forever, Rhiannon thought.

She nearly screamed aloud with the pain in her arm as she drew back on the bow and set and aimed her arrow. She let it fly and watched as it caught one
of the men in the shoulder. She didn’t know if it was a mortal wound or not, but it caused him to bellow out in pain and drop his sword. Patrick, with barely a breath, dispatched his enemy with a neat, clean thrust, and then looked up to wave to her.

He smiled, but then his smile faded. A look of horror masked his features and he cried out a hoarse warning.

Too late, Rhiannon spun around.

There were three of them before her. Ragged, weary, filthy, and bloodied—Danes.

She screamed, then reached for her dagger, desperately vowing that she should not be taken. Yet there was no hope, and she knew it. She plowed at one in fury and with such speed that she managed to slice through his leather tunic and scratch his flesh. But that was all. She was seized from behind. The force set upon her wrist caused her to drop the dagger. She was dragged hard against the man who had seized her. She tried to bite his hand, and he laughed, lifting her from the ground.

She swore and called them swine and the dung of rodents in their own language, enunciating carefully, making sure they understood every word that she said.

“A she-cat with long, long claws!” Her captor laughed. She twisted to see him. He had dark blond hair, ruddy cheeks, murky dark eyes, and brows that met heavily across his skull. She kicked backward at him with all of her strength, and she must have caught some important piece of his anatomy, for his smile faded and he swore. “A she-cat I will tame here and now, by Odin!” He snarled.

The third man, a younger, slimmer blond with long, matted, and bloodied hair, stepped forward, wrenching her to him. His eyes were light gray, and she felt ill at the way they slid over her. “A she-cat with young, curved breasts and wicked long legs and a fine-shaped rump, my friends.”

“A bitch!” growled the man she had wounded, stepping forward. He, in his turn, wrenched her from his younger companion. Rhiannon gasped and staggered back in pain as his hand slashed out, cuffing her brutally against the chin.

She fell, tasted the dirt. Tears stung her eyes, and she realized suddenly that there was indeed a difference between Vikings. These would grant her no mercy. They would tear her to shreds right here upon this cliff.

She didn’t know what panic seized her, but she rose and leapt toward the cliff. She would attempt to roll, but if she caught rock and broke her neck or cracked her skull, then so be it. She would prefer the quick and merciful death.

But it wasn’t to be hers. She had barely given flight before her hair was caught and she was pulled back into the arms of the dark-haired man. His mouth split into a broad smile as he held her. His teeth, those that remained in his skull, were blackened and horrible. He watched her for a moment with that ridiculous smile, then he hurtled her toward the earth.

“I took her—she’s mine first!” he proclaimed. He lunged toward her, and she knew his intent. She leapt up again, but he screamed out to his comrades, “Take her arms, you fools!”

In a second they had her. She writhed and bit
blindly, then she was slapped hard in the face again, and her head began to ring. She heard a pounding and realized that it was not just in her head. Before the dark-haired menace could make another move, a voice rang out.

“Fools! Come, the Irishmen are returning!”

“We’ve caught a vixen, Yorg, a—” the dark-haired man began.

“And she is mine first, as are all the spoils of this war!” the rider called out sharply. “Give her to me! We ride.”

The blond man wrenched her up. Dizzy, Rhiannon realized she had to fight and escape these men before they could take her. She bit the blond, and he yelped out in pain and fury.

“What is the problem?” the horseman, Yorg, demanded.

“She bites!” the blond proclaimed.

“Bind her!”

Her last hope disappeared as Yorg tossed down leather thongs. She still hadn’t had a good look at him. Her arms were bound behind her back, and she was tossed up before him on the horse, stomach down. The horse reared as Yorg viciously turned it about.

And they rode.

She thought it was perhaps an hour that they rode, but she did not know in what direction, for she was miserable and dizzy and the movement in her position made her feel wretchedly sick. She was very glad when they stopped, and as she was lifted down, she realized that Yorg was perhaps Eric’s own age, well muscled in the shoulders and arms, a warrior with scars, and one, it seemed, well trained to battle. Dark,
shaggy hair fell down his shoulders, but his face was clean-shaven, displaying a long scar down his cheek that marred his appearance. Like the others, he was covered with blood, filthy, and ragged in appearance.