Restless, she rose and sat before the fire. Even as she brooded there, she heard a tap upon her door. She absently bade, “Enter,” expecting Adela, and started when Mergwin entered her room.
“Two messengers were sent!” he said, pacing the room.
“Mergwin, I do beg your pardon, but—”
“Two messengers left. One was sent to Alfred. I know not who sent the other, but I learned from the grooms that two lads set out.”
“Perhaps they were anxious that someone make it to the king in case of accident—”
“Or perhaps someone was sent to the Danes.”
She leapt to her feet, staring at him. A trap? To warn the Danes of Eric’s approach, to see that he was ambushed?
And he still suspected her of the last treachery. Of betraying Alfred, of attacking him by choice upon his arrival. He would instantly assume that she was the traitor once again.
“No, it can’t be—”
“You must send someone. I am too old, I cannot travel quickly enough to catch him anymore.” She had never heard the Druid swear, or lament his age before. Now he did, his leathery hands trembling. “My God, to see and not to see clearly, it is a curse! You must send the guard immediately!”
“No one can catch them! They’ll be riding hard, into the valley. And Alfred’s men will have already turned to reach him at Wareham. I don’t—” She broke off and ran to the window, studying the landscape. “I can go!”
“What?” Mergwin demanded, amazed.
She swung around. “See, Mergwin—see the cliff just north, above the valley? I shall take my quiver and shoot a warning down the valley. I can stop them!”
“You could shoot them,” Mergwin muttered.
“Ask your lord, Eric!” she told him. “I never miss. Well, I can be sure not to kill anyone, and I can send many messages, and surely they will notice the arrows, take cover, and discover the messages.”
“No. You cannot go. If you were hurt—”
“I won’t go alone. I’ll take the Irishman Patrick of Armagh with me.”
Mergwin hesitated, then shook his head. “Send Patrick. You must not go. You must not go. Do you understand?”
What was the meaning of this? She had ruled this land in her own right, and now these invaders were all telling her what she could and could not do. She started to argue, then smiled instead.
“As you wish, Mergwin, as you wish.”
“I shall go find Patrick.”
“I will change and see that the warnings are written,” Rhiannon said serenely.
As soon as he was gone, she hastily found heavy hose, a short leather tunic, and a dull brown mantle with a hood. She brushed and braided her hair and sat down with a quill and ink and wrote out the warning of treachery ten times, then decided on five more. She raced downstairs and found that Patrick was mounted with an English quiver of arrows at his back and an English longbow rested over his saddle. Mergwin was at his side, giving him instructions. The old Druid brooded so that he didn’t seem to notice Rhiannon’s apparel. She was grateful for that small mercy.
She smiled and offered up the warnings, and thongs with which to secure them, to Patrick, then she bid him Godspeed. As Patrick rode away, Mergwin sighed and reentered the house.
As soon as he was gone, Rhiannon raced to the stables.
No one other than Mergwin was left behind to defy her will. Rollo was with Eric, as were all the others high up in his command. When she ordered a horse, the stable boy, who had always done so in the past, thought not a thing of obeying her now. When she rode beyond the gates, she left word behind that she was merely catching up with Patrick and would return with him.
No one thought to waylay her. None could have stopped her except for the Druid, and she had deceived him, so she was free. If she hurt him, she was sorry, for he had already become very dear to her. This was something she had to do. She could not let Eric think that she had betrayed him again.
Patrick had not left so long before her, yet it seemed to take her hours to catch up with him. By the time that she did, it had long been dark, and she knew that there would be no way to warn Eric and his men that night.
When she came upon Patrick in a clearing, he had drawn his sword and stood wary, ready to face down an opponent. “Patrick, it is me, Rhiannon!” she called out quickly. By the light of the fire he had set, she could see the puzzlement that touched his features, as well as the dismay.
“My lady! What are doing here? It is not safe. If the Danes are moving in so close—”
She interrupted him with the ironic laughter that suddenly seized her. She saw the dismay cloud his features, and a certain irritation, and she tried to sober quickly to reassure him. “I’m sorry, Patrick, I really am. It’s just that I so recently fled this very way, and you and your …” She paused because Patrick was every inch an Irishman, a descendant of ancient kings, and she had no desire to insult him. She had no need to. He supplied the end of her statement softly to her on the night air.
“Vikings?” he suggested.
She shrugged, dismounting from the mare she had chosen and joining him by the fire. They stared at each other a long moment, then she apologized. “Yes, Vikings, Patrick. I’m sorry, but they are Viking ships—”
“And Eric is the son of a Viking king,” Patrick supplied. He smiled, his freckled face showing deep dimples as he did so, then he swept off the mantle he wore over a simple shirt of protective mail and laid it out upon the ground. “My lady, would you sit? What roasts is a plump hare, and I believe it will be quite tasty.”
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 thro
ugh 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!”