MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves Read online

  The battle was about to ensue, he had said. He was here, to lie with her, sleep with her.

  He would come back.

  No!

  She did hate him …

  Love him.

  No, no, no. She had promised herself she would not.

  She started suddenly, hearing a sound within the room. He had come back, she thought, silently, as was his way.

  She turned, aware that she must always be ready with him.

  But it was not Conar who had crept so silently into the room. She gasped, a scream rising in her throat as she saw who had come.

  Geoffrey Sur-le-Mont, her most loathed enemy. Tall, lean, with his cruel, handsome face, gold-tinged hazel eyes, lank dark hair. He stood there, staring down at her as she clasped the furs to her.

  She inhaled, ready to shriek and scream like a wild woman. She had no chance. As she stared at Geoffrey, a hand clamped hard over her mouth. She struggled valiantly, kicking, wriggling, but there were three men in all, Geoffrey and two of his ablest henchmen, Gilles and Jon de Lac.

  “Bastards!” she gasped, breaking free for a moment, but Geoffrey had ripped the sheet and it was instantly tied around her mouth.

  She was trussed into the furs, her hands tied behind her back. They rolled her and picked her up. Gilles threw her over his heavy shoulders, and Geoffrey, chuckling softly, lifted her head by her hair, meeting her gaze.

  “I have said that I will have you, Melisande! And see! I do have you! And I will have this fortress, too, before God! I swear it!” She shook her head wildly. He moved the gag just a half an inch.

  “He"ll kill you!” she gasped.

  “Ah, you think so? I heard some of your conversation. I don"t think he"ll realize at first that you were abducted, dear Melisande. You did threaten not to be here. And he is fully aware you are less than fond of his presence! Ah, Melisande, if and when he realizes that you did not leave here of your own volition, it will be much too late!”

  “You will never get out of this castle with me!” she hissed.

  “Ah, but I will. My Danish friends are remarkably like the Wolf"s own Norse warriors! We shall just act drunk and wind our way among them. It is a celebration tonight, Melisande. I will celebrate, you will celebrate! It"s as it should have been, all those years ago!”

  “You will die, Geoffrey, he will slice you to little pieces—”

  “That he will, Count Sur-le-Mont,” Gilles said quickly, looking nervously about. “We must be gone!”

  The gag was still off her, Melisande realized. She inhaled and quickly began to scream. Just as quickly the strangling gag was brought back over her mouth.

  “What if she screams again?” Jon demanded.

  “She won"t,” Geoffrey promised.

  He had his assurance of her quiet well planned. Even as he spoke, he lifted a brass candle holder from the trunk at the foot of Melisande"s bed.

  And brought it down hard over her head.

  There was little she could regret or bemoan at that moment.

  Some time later she awoke. She was still tied, still wrapped in furs, tossed over a horse. They had managed to escape the castle with her. And God alone knew where they were now.

  “Ah, you"re awake, my lovely!” Geoffrey"s husky tones touched her ear.

  “Soon, very soon, we"ll be there. Where, you would ask—if only you could!

  Ah, the ruins of the old Roman fortress—yes, that same place where your father found so much of the stone for his excellent castle! The Viking will not find you there. And if he does … well, I"ve a very large Danish contingent there.

  They"re going to Rouen, and on to Paris. All they really want is plunder. And all I really want, my love, is power. And you. So the Viking must die.” Flapping against the horse, bound as she was, Melisande could not reply.

  Geoffrey suddenly stopped his horse, leapt from it, and wrenched her from the brown mount she"d been cast across. As he lifted the gag from her mouth, she stumbled over a piece of the wrap of fur that covered her. “A cloak!” Geoffrey commanded, catching her before she could fall, completely uncovered, to the ground.

  He hadn"t minded his henchmen"s finding her naked to help him, but now it seemed he was finding the decency to see what he coveted clothed.

  He wrenched her around, untied her hands, and swung her back to him. A cloak was produced and he put it around her shoulders just as the fur fell to the ground. Someone picked it up. Melisande kept staring at Geoffrey.

  “He will kill you,” she promised him. “You will be in so many pieces, you will not be recognized. Unless you let me go now—”

  “Ah! And are you so very sure that he will come for you, Melisande? Can you believe he loves you enough to risk all?”

  She kept her eyes coolly level with him. “He has risked his life for me many times.”

  “Maybe. And maybe he has risked his life for your very desirable property.”

  “He will come for me!”

  “Because he loves you?” Geoffrey taunted.

  “He will come for me because I am his!”

  Geoffrey shook his head, furious with her calm. “Not this time. Do you understand? Not this time! He will sacrifice everything to do so!” He wrenched her around again, throwing her up on the brown horse. She scrambled to stay seated, lest she break a limb and destroy any chance of escape.

  Geoffrey stared into her eyes as he grabbed her mount"s reins. “Gilles is to your left, Jon to your right, milady. Make a single move, and one of them will pierce your leg with an arrow, and you"ll not walk again for a week. You see, you won"t need to walk for anything I desire of you.” She stared right ahead. “How long do we ride?”

  “You can see the ruins in the light from the moon,” he told her. “There, ahead. Not far now.”

  Not far—it was much too close. They were too quickly there.

  And indeed, there was a large Danish contingent there. So very many!

  Camped among the ancient stones, almost invisible in the shadows!

  There was a place for her. Down a flight of ancient steps that led into the earth. Geoffrey had her brought there, allowing Gilles and Jon to drag her struggling form along. She bit Gilles and he cried out. She went flying into the center of the dank cellar at the bottom of the steps, and fell to the cool stone.

  Looking up, she saw that Geoffrey was there, unruffled, smiling.

  “I have to see to our defenses, Melisande. But I"ll return as soon as I may.” She swallowed hard. How many times had she tried to fight Conar?

  Each time wanting him, but so afraid! Fear at first, then the rising fascination. Then the pain of missing him, of jealousy, of fear again. Yet always the aching, always the hunger, the desire.

  The love.

  And now—this! She wanted to die.

  “He will come for me!” she told Geoffrey. “He will come for me!” Geoffrey started to laugh. “We shall see, won"t we?” He whirled around. A heavy door swung shut. She was left alone with only the darkness.

  She wrapped the borrowed cloak tightly around herself, trying not to sob out.

  “He will come!” she cried out loud again. He would, he was the Lord of the Wolves, no man bested him, no man took what was his!

  Please, God, I do love him, don’t let him die, don’t let me be taken, let him come, let him come.

  Yet why should he? She had fought him since the very beginning. Defied him, vowed to hate him.

  But would he put it all together and come for her anyway, would he want her enough, despite everything?

  She lowered her head to her knees, cold, frightened, and feeling the sudden warmth of memory flooding over her.

  Aye, they had hated.

  But aye, in their way, they had loved!

  It seemed so long since the first time they had met, on a day so very much like today …

  2

  Before …

  Chapter Four

  Summer, A.D. 879

  The Coast of France

  “He"s
home!” Melisande cried. “Father is home!”

  She had watched the old Roman road for hours each day for the past week, knowing that he had promised to return for her thirteenth birthday, and knowing that if he had promised to do so, he would.

  Ragwald, who sat in his student"s chair, head sunk wearily into his hands, immediately came to his feet, forgetting that his young ward was exasperating him no end. He was immensely glad to discover that his lord had returned, for these were the most treacherous of times for travelers. Not only were the Danes and other Vikings continually plaguing the shores and rivers, but in defense against those Vikings, many barons, lords, counts, and wealthy landowners had begun a somewhat new way of life. Ragwald was old, and in his memory things were not so terribly different. Military strength had always been tremendously important. But it had been in this century—with the coming of the Vikings, or so it seemed—that their system of feudalism had arisen. Great lords now designed fortresses or castles, trained the right men to fight for them, and took in a number of vassals, men and women to work the land. These vassals provided the food and bounty, and received protection in return. With all these castles and fortresses risen across the land, the law had gone into the hands of those strong enough to hold it. A traveler could easily be waylaid—indeed, he could easily disappear completely.

  Ragwald quickly joined Melisande on the parapet wall to watch with her as her father"s party neared the castle. He smiled. He shouldn"t have worried so.

  Count Manon de Beauville was one of the most powerful of the barons—and, Ragwald had determined, certainly one of the smartest. For one, he had taken Ragwald into his employ many years ago.

  More than that, Count Manon was a noble with a keen mind, a man who looked to the past to learn from the mistakes and triumphs of others. In studying the Romans and their effect upon all the peoples they had conquered, he had discovered the many usages of stone. His fortress was one of the finest in the land. Motte and bailey, and as was customary, the main buildings were set upon a mound, a great trench was dug around them, and a wall was created before that trench. There were four towers to the castle, one to face the sea, one to face east, one west, and one south. Parapets in wood and stone lined the walls between the towers, giving the men a fantastic fighting ability from within. Few offenders had ever come too near the castle, for the retainers within the walls were expert with the firing of burning arrows, and they excelled with their caldrons of boiling oil. Strength brought respect in these days, and they were able to live within the castle walls in a realm of peace. They had never been attacked by any countryman seeking greater glory, and the almost inescapable raids here by the Danes had been quickly repulsed. Mostly the Danes came to plunder and take what they could. Sometimes, though, they came seeking their own lands, younger sons with nothing for them in their distant homes. When they found themselves battling Count Manon, they quickly went on to easier pickings.

  There was so much of the coast that was unprotected!

  Ragwald set a hand over his eyes, shielding them from the sun, watching as Count Manon rode his massive stallion, Warrior, across the trail through the fields. He was followed by mounted men all with linden shields, two carrying the blue and red colors of the castle with the battling rams of Beauville upon them, an insignia chosen by this count"s grandfather when he had served Charlemagne.

  The count himself was a striking man, tall, dark, with just a few strands of gray in his head. His eyes were deeply blue against the sun-bronzed shade of his face. He sat on a horse very tall and very well. Seeing his daughter and Ragwald so eagerly awaiting him, he lifted a hand and smiled, then spurred his horse.

  “Father!” Melisande cried delightedly, and ran from the parapet.

  “Melisande!” Ragwald called after her. “By all the saints!” he cried in aggravation, lifting his hands to heaven. “Melisande, you are the heiress to a mighty stronghold, milady. Will you show the world some dignity, please!” He spoke to empty space. He lifted his hands again in surrender, and followed her down the south stairs to the courtyard below.

  The great gates had opened in anticipation of the count"s arrival. Manon rode through, and his daughter came running to him, pitting herself against Warrior, so very anxious to reach her father.

  “Melisande!”

  Count Manon threw his leg over the animal"s haunches and fell with an agile thump to the dirt, encompassing her into his arms. “Ah, sweeting, I have missed you sorely!” he assured her.

  “You came back!” she said, overjoyed.

  He nodded. Ragwald noted that the count studied his daughter with a slight frown. As well he might! In the few short months in which he had been gone, Melisande had changed. She would be thirteen years old in a few days" time.

  She had grown very tall, taller than many men. Her hair, as rich a black as man might imagine, fell down the length of her back in beautiful inky, soft waves.

  Her face was no longer a child"s face, but finely sculpted, a face with exquisite bones and coloring, one to rival any beauty of the ancient Greek or Roman tales. She was quickly acquiring a woman"s shape, as well, Ragwald determined, deciding then and there that the count must soon be reminded that he had avoided making marital arrangements for his daughter.

  For the moment, though, the joy that father and daughter found in one another was so deep that Ragwald kept his distance while the count spoke of presents and the girl demanded to know if he had been well, and then, of course, that he tell her everything about where he had been.

  As the count told his tale, he slipped one arm around his daughter, then one around Ragwald, escorting them to the main tower, the keep. The ground floor, dug into the earth, stored their food and weapons, the upper floor housed their bedchambers, and the middle floor afforded them a great hall with a huge fireplace and massive oak table, a hall where a number of men could meet, or where their small family could gather intimately.

  Everyone was delighted the count had returned, from the meanest of his vassals to the most affluent of tenants. The servants flocked to see him, and their best efforts went into the meal that welcomed him home. While he was greeted, he entertained them with stories about Paris, about the pilgrimage he had begun from there, about his visits with the Burgundian king.

  The hour at last grew late. The servants had left them, and the count sat in one of the huge oak chairs before the fire, studying his daughter while she poked at the fire. Her cheeks were still pink with pleasure at his return, Ragwald noted.

  “Gerald has called often in your absence,” Ragwald said, referring to the count of the neighboring land that jettied out into the sea.

  “Has he? To see to the welfare of this place? Why, he must not know the mettle of my men, to think that Philippe and Gaston would not have had the fortress secure!” He smiled.

  Ragwald was not so quick to smile. “I don"t trust him,” he muttered.

  “Well, what do you think he is after?” the count demanded.

  Ragwald shrugged, then felt his eyes stray to Melisande. “I don"t know.

  Perhaps your daughter.”

  Melisande, still poking at the fire, started, and spun around to look at him, her delicate nose wrinkling. A wise young judge of character, milady! he thought, but did not say so out loud.

  The count himself was frowning. “Gerald is older than I am!”

  “Such things have never stopped a marriage before. And perhaps he does not want her for himself, but for his son, Geoffrey.”

  “I like Geoffrey even less,” the count murmured.

  There was a definite look of relief upon Melisande"s face. She looked to Ragwald with a certain triumph in her violet eyes.

  He ignored her, addressing the count. “The girl is your only heir—”

  “And there have been numerous laws stating that there is no reason a daughter should not inherit when there is no legal male issue!” Count Manon said firmly.

  Ragwald inhaled and exhaled slowly. Noblemen could be so very difficult when
they chose!

  “My point, milord!” Ragwald said at last. “This is a powerful fortress—no man who knows it has dared attack it. The foreigners who have invaded here have quickly fled for more promising places. Someone might well covet your daughter and her holdings, Count Manon!”

  The count watched Melisande. “She is only twelve years old—”

  “Nearly thirteen. And children are oft wed at birth!”

  “Betrothed,” Manon corrected.

  “What difference is it?” Ragwald replied impatiently. “Many girls are brides at her age.”

  “Well, she will not be,” the count said stubbornly. “Unless …” he began thoughtfully.

  Melisande quickly leapt in, coming behind her father"s chair and staring at Ragwald. “Did you know, my dear tutor,” she said sweetly, rubbing her father"s shoulders, “that King Charlemagne never had his daughters wed, but kept them home and at his side, determined he would share them with no others.” Ragwald waved a hand in the air. “Aye, lady! And wretched lives those girls then lived, for they did not wed, but took lovers, and their children were illegitimate!”

  She frowned at him. “Ragwald, I have been taught as well as any son—”

  “And you think that you will be as strong as a man?”

  “Nay, sir! I shall be as strong as any woman!” She smiled. “You have taught me about the strength of my gender, Ragwald. Think of Fredegund, the wife of King Chilperic! She schemed to have his first queen repudiated, and then to have her slain, and she managed all manner of political assassinations once she was in power!”

  “Oh, indeed! Think of her!” Ragwald snapped. “She ended her days being tortured and executed!”

  “You are missing my point. She caused as much mayhem as any male might!”

  Ragwald shook his head wearily. Count Manon was watching his daughter with amusement and affection. She was an incredibly bright young woman, ever thirsting for knowledge—and despite her youth, very aware that her father"s men assumed that she would marry and, when she did, give her power over to her husband.