Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (101 page)

Now what was she to do? Turn and flee down the steps, a voice whispered.

Warn the castle.

Her legs would not move.

If only her
gifts
would not mark her for a witch and condemn her to her
maman’s
tragic fate. She shivered as the wind, bitter as ice, lashed her face and froze her tears. In that instant, she saw herself again as a child of four, standing atop a knoll of forsaken graves, the white lily she’d picked for her mother held firmly in her little hands. In her mind, the voice came back to her with such clarity.
“What possessed you to come here, child?”

Hearing Sister Heloise’s voice, Elienor had nearly cried her relief. She had swung about and hurled herself into the sister’s welcoming arms.

“The lily!” she said, squirming. The old nun struggled to keep Elienor within her embrace. “The lily!” Elienor insisted.

“Non, non ma petite! ’Tis raining. We must go now! I will bring you again.” she coaxed. “When the rain has—”

Elienor struggled more fiercely. “Nay!” she cried.

Freeing herself, she scurried to the blossom and hastily scooped up a handful of wet soil from the center of the mound. Handling the lily gingerly, she planted the end of it into the hollow she’d formed, covering it carefully, taking her time whilst Sister Heloise hovered above her, shielding her back from the pattering rain.

Elienor’s eyes filled with tears as she turned and thrust herself back into the sister’s arms.

Sister Heloise lifted her up. “There, there, now,” she soothed. “Sister Heloise will love you now, ma bonne petite. Together we will care for your maman’s lily. Oui?”

Elienor nodded into the warmth of Sister Heloise’s shoulder. “Maman loves lilies,” she said sadly. Her chin turned up a notch, and a tear slipped defiantly from her dark lashes. “She loves them so much!”

Sister Heloise carried her away and she turned to peer over the nun’s shoulder. With stark violet eyes, she watched the grave recede as they made their way down the hill. Her words were broken with emotion as she raised her little hand to wave farewell.

“Adieu, Maman. Adieu!”

 

The fates were cruel, indeed.

Elienor gulped back a sob of despair. The pain of her mother’s death was still fresh in her heart, even after all these years. To die so cruelly, for naught more than predicting the course of a babe’s illness... and the greatest insult of all… a cold grave far from hallowed ground.

She blinked, focusing on the specter ships below. If she warned the castle, would they question why she’d come to the tower tonight? She closed her eyes and begged for strength.

Mayhap it was yet a dream...

But nay, for she felt the bitter wind as surely as she felt the numbness stealing into her bones. If only she were not such a coward. The thought of meeting the same fate as did her mother made her knees weak and her tongue weave knots.

Even now she could hear her mother’s screams and see her writhe helplessly against the flames of hell.

At four, they’d made her watch, restraining her by the hair so she could not look away.

Her mother’s final shrieks still echoed in her brain.

She bit into her whitening knuckles as she watched the ships advance—black shadows against the river.

No more time to linger.

There was no need to say what had driven her to the tower, was there? No one need know. She could tell them that she had come for air—that she could not sleep.

But warning them would not save them, she knew. Nothing could save them tonight.

Stricken with grief for the fate of Brouillard, Elienor watched only an instant longer, needing to be absolutely certain. But she waited no longer than to see the Vikings land their vessels upon the moonlit shores, for little more time could be spared if she were to warn the folk.

She spun about and hurried down the tower stairs, tears brimming in her eyes, her body stiff with terror and cold.

She should have known it was too good to be true. That Count Phillipe had asked for her hand in marriage and her uncle had assented was true enough, but that it might actually come to pass was more than she should have dared to believe.

With assurances from Mother Heloise that Elienor was not beset with her mother’s curse, her uncle had withdrawn her from the cloister mere days before she was to make her vows to the church. So long she’d waited and despaired. Tonight marked one full month since she’d first come to Brouillard, and in little more than a fortnight she would have become its countess. At last she might love and be loved in return. She would bear children into the world, love them, care for them. At last.

But it would never be.

Despite the fact that Mother Heloise had plainly perjured herself for Elienor’s sake.

Tears welled in her eyes as she rushed down the stairs. Fumbling for the silver ring that hung about her neck, she lifted it out from within the neckline of her bliaut and pressed it firmly to her breast. The night was well advanced. She only hoped she could rouse the castle in time to save a few—but to what end?

Tears streaked down her pale cheeks, for deep down she understood.

Their fates were sealed.

The Viking would prevail tonight.

T
hey moved quickly, soundless shadows creeping through the night.

Flattening their war-hardened bodies against the stone walls, they stole toward the hidden portal.

She was gone now, but Alarik could not wrench his gaze away from the tower above. Even once his men toiled to destroy the wooden portal, his eyes sought her. Once it was breached he could delay no longer, and he shuddered away a prickle of foreboding before turning to his men.

There was no guard posted at the hidden portal—arrogant, stupid Franskmann.

His eyes glinted with loathing. “Eyes to your backs!” he warned his men, and then he raised his gilt-edged sword into the night. “May Dragvendil spare no man!” he said. “May your own blades dole no mercy!” And with that, he stooped to lead them through the tiny, well-concealed portal.

‘To arms! To arms!”

Swiping at the tears that blinded her vision, Elienor shouted at the top of her lungs. ‘To arms!” she called again as she spiraled downward. Her frantic voice carried down before her into the hall below, and she was relieved to hear the ensuing commotion as men stirred from their slumber.

One man darted up the tower steps, tripping over himself as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, only to halt when he saw her. “My lady!” he gasped.

“Gaston!” It was the sentinel. He’d come in from the cold to warm himself only to fall asleep at the foot of the stairs. She’d passed him on her way up, had tiptoed around him so as not to wake him—so certain had she been that her dream would not hold true. Had he been at his given post tonight, it would have been Gaston who spied the Viking ships, and not Elienor. She wished, with all her soul that it had been so. Her heart pummeled against her ribs. For an unbearable instant, neither spoke.

“The Northmen are come!” she told him. “I have seen them from the tower. Go quickly—warn the castle!”

The man’s eyes widened. “My lady, art certain?”

“Aye!” she exclaimed. “Even now they climb the banks! Go!”

Sobered by her revelation, he did not hesitate to wonder why she’d been in the tower to begin with, nor did he linger to offer explanation as to why he was not, and she said a silent prayer of thanks. She watched as he whirled about and raced back down, sounding the alarm.

Knowing there was little time to spare, Elienor followed, praying she’d not lose her footing on the slippery steps. So intent was she on her descent that she nearly tumbled over Stefan as he came loping up the dimly lit stairwell. Despite the fact that his newly acquired sword clanged and scraped clumsily against the wall, she did not see that he was there until she was virtually upon him.

“My lady!” he reproved. “You will fall to your death!”

Elienor shrieked as he caught her arm. “Stefan!” Sweet Jesu! How could she have overlooked him? Despite the fact that he was no more than a boy of thirteen summers, he’d been the only one with wisdom enough to understand her apprehension over coming alone to a strange new household. The rest had kept themselves apart. It was her duty to save him if she could.

“My lady? Is it true?” There was a tremor of excitement to his voice. “Gaston says you have spied the Northmen?”

A quiver of fear passed down Elienor’s spine, but she recovered herself, seizing him by the wrist. Knowing full well that he would feel obliged to hie to his lord’s side, she ignored his question and tugged him after her. “Quickly,” she commanded on impulse. “Follow me!” If his face had been revealed to her in her dream, she would have known the futility of altering its course. But it had not been, and Stefan was far too young to die.

“My lady!” he protested. He cringed as the sword Count Phillipe had so recently presented to him shaved the wall. “My lord...”

“I spoke to him,” she lied. “He said you were to come with me to the chapel!” It was only a small lie, she reasoned. Surely God would forgive it.

“My lady?” He tried freeing his arm from her frenzied grip, but Elienor clutched it all the more fiercely. “Did you not realize that my lord has gone to Pa—”

“Please!” Elienor appealed. “Heed me—if only this once!”

Stefan dug in his heels stubbornly.

There were no torches burning in the great hall at this late hour, and the muted light came from the single torch that graced the stairwell behind them. As Elienor turned to face him, tears shone in her eyes. “Stefan,” she cried. “I beg you!”

His shoulders slumped in frustration and his brow furrowed, but he nodded. Elienor nearly wept her relief.

Clasping his hand firmly, she drew him at once out of the hall, into the narrow pentice, which provided them with a covered passage from the hall to the kitchens. Once in the kitchen, certain that in scant moments the donjon would be overrun with the Northmen, she ran across the smoke-permeated room, to the far doors. It was the quickest route, she knew, and there was no time to waste. Count Phillipe’s small numbers were simply no match for the scourge of the north.

As they left the kitchen and entered another narrow walkway between buildings, she pulled the boy to her protectively. Stefan recoiled at once. “My lady, please! I have no need of such coddling. I am elevated to squire! Aide to my lord!” he protested.

“Hush, Stefan! Instruct me to your heart’s content once we are safe within the chapel!”

But then Elienor grimaced, recalling the enemy. Since when had the Northmen regarded the Church as hallowed ground? Mother Heloise told her that the fiends never spared castle or monastery, whether Roman, French, or English. Their pillaging of Grande Bretagne’s Jarrow and Wearmouth were well renown, as well as the numerous parishes of her homeland. It was true that their reign of terror had subsided of late, but only now that most of northern Francia was at last under their barbarian rule.

The chapel door stood ajar a scant few feet away, the dark interior a greater beacon to her now than the brightest of lights, and she prayed, begging for God’s mercy and aid—not for herself, but for young Stefan.

Let us reach the chapel—please, please, please.

Tonight, she would live, as the dream foretold... but Stefan? There was no time even to make the sign of the cross, or she would have.

Within the chapel it was darker even than it had first appeared, but having spent so many hours within its cobbled walls, Elienor had no need of candle to light the vestibule. Letting her memory guide her, she snatched up the wooden bar and placed it within the stout metal rings on either side of the heavy door, locking the two of them securely within.

“My lady?” Stefan protested, this time with an edge of desperation to his voice. He was clearly growing impatient, yet having no choice, Elienor continued to ignore him. Taking him by the hand once more, she led him to a place beyond the crossing, well into the chancel, and finally behind the altar. There she shoved him with all her might onto his haunches. She shoved again when he resisted until he fell back upon his lean little rump.

“
Bon dieu
!” Stefan exploded. “Enough, I say! Tell me what goes here! Why do you bar the door when you know I must—”

From the donjon, shouts of ambush could be heard. Giving Elienor an accusing glance, Stefan bolted for the door.

Elienor seized him by the wrist. “Nay! You cannot! ’Tis done! ’Tis done!”

“My lady! I beg you release me! ’Tis my duty you would deny me!” Shouts of the wounded and dying escalated and so did his desperation. “Release me, I say!”

“Nay!” The scraping of metal upon stone could be distinguished beyond the chapel doors. “Nay!”

They heard a bloodcurdling scream. Elienor could picture it all so vividly, the savage Northmen with their axes raised high into the air. There was little use in closing her eyes, for the vision originated from within, from some accursed second eye within her soul.