Lord of the Wolves

by Heather Graham

  “What do the stars say, astrologer?” Count Manon demanded with a certain humor.

  Astrology was an ancient science. Sometimes it seemed that the count properly respected it as such, but sometimes it seemed that he regarded it with as much humor as he did the old Roman legends that a god like Jupiter turned into all manner of animals to seduce human women.

  Most often Ragwald would have defended the study of the stars instantly, but tonight he suddenly could not. Strange, but he felt as if he had been somewhat blinded recently. He watched the moon and knew when the tides would rise high. He watched it grow and wane, and knew when the people would be in good spirits and wild, knew when babes would be born, when some men would go mad. But he felt as if he could see nothing, nothing at all of the immediate future but an awful black void, and that frightened him terribly.

  “The stars say your daughter must marry for her own safety,” he said stubbornly.

  “Perhaps.” The count spoke softly, smiling up at Melisande. “But to me she is still a child. And I"d like her opinion on the few men I have in mind.”

  “A child"s opinion?” Ragwald challenged.

  “An educated child"s opinion!” Melisande answered sweetly, her violet eyes amused and victorious.

  He started to wag a finger at her, then gripped his hands tightly behind his back instead. This young ward of his was too precocious.

  The count stared at the fire, watching the fantastic display of colors, listening for a moment as the logs snapped and crackled. “I would very much like to see her marry for love,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Love!” Ragwald exclaimed, so amazed that he flew around, his ragged cloak circling him as if he were a pagan dancer. “Love! Dear Lord above us!

  Who ever thought of such a foolish requirement for an advantageous marriage!” Count Manon grinned, looking from his daughter to his old mentor, and back to the fire. “I was in love with her mother,” he replied, his voice still soft, reflective. “So much so that I could never take another wife when I lost her. It is a marvelous thing, love, Ragwald. You must try it some time.” Ragwald sniffed. “You"re jesting.”

  “Father is very serious,” Melisande assured him.

  Ragwald shook his head, lifting his hands in bewilderment. “Count Manon, you married Lady Mary at your father"s command, you must recall. The love came later.” He cleared his throat delicately. “I believe, milord, that it is the, er, living together which creates this wonder of love.”

  “Still, it is something I wish for my daughter.”

  “Milord—”

  “We will talk of it no more tonight. I am very weary from my journey, and I"ve presents for you both!” He rose, striding quickly toward one of the many trunks that had been brought up to the keep. He drew his calf knife and slit the rope that bound it, then threw open the top. He took a leather satchel out first and presented it to Ragwald. “There, astrologer! This may well keep you busy for a while!”

  Ragwald looked from the satchel to the count. “And my good count? This is?”

  “Open it, open it, nothing that will bite!” promised the count. “It is filled with medicinal herbs, purchased from a Greek physician serving the Burgundian princess, a very clever man. They are acquired from all over the world.”

  Ragwald smiled, delighted with the gift. Chemistry was another science he adored, and he was fascinated with the healing qualities of herbs and how they might best be combined. For a moment, he forgot his determination to see to Melisande"s future well-being.

  “And this!” the count exclaimed. “This is for you, my dear daughter!” And so saying, he produced a tunic of mail.

  Ragwald set the herbs aside and stared at it. It was magnificent. The mesh was extremely fine. It would be incredibly difficult to penetrate. At the same time, the garment was beautiful, decidedly feminine. It was decorated in elegant patterns with a fine gilding. The golden coloring glittered magnificently in the firelight.

  “Father!” Melisande exclaimed. “It"s—exquisite!”

  “Of course, it"s for ceremony,” he said.

  “For ceremony,” she repeated, taking the garment from him almost reverently.

  “You"ll need it soon enough, for you"ll ride with me, and learn more and more of how the fortress must be managed.”

  “Oh, Father!” she threw her arms around him, her eyes alight.

  He kissed her forehead. “You must go to bed now, Melisande. For I am very weary.”

  “Of course, Father, of course!” she said quickly, penitent that she might have tired him in any way. “Now that you"re home, it doesn"t matter. It doesn"t matter! I"ll have you in the morning and hours and hours after! And days! And weeks, and—”

  “I believe your father mentioned going to bed, Melisande,” Ragwald said, staring at her.

  She smiled. She even kissed his cheek. “I love you, too, Ragwald. Sleep well!” She kissed and hugged her father again, then hurried up to her bedchamber, the mail still clasped in her hands.

  Ragwald looked back to Count Manon, then sighed deeply. “Milord, there are many men who believe that the whole of the collapse of the Roman empire might have been because of the emergence of women"s legal rights!” Count Manon laughed loudly. “Those who think it must be very weak men!” Ragwald leaned forward. “We live in a feudal society, Count Manon! This fortress is based upon your might, upon your skill! A woman"s place is to bear her lord"s children, to see to the management of the household—”

  “She wields a sword well, I have watched her with her masters.” Ragwald inhaled and exhaled. The sun rose and set on Melisande, as far as the count could see.

  But he didn"t really understand. Ragwald loved her, as well. And that was why he worried so.

  “She has an excellent mind, she is talented. But as good as she is, a stronger man would best her. Have you purchased that coat of mail so that she can go to war with your men? Would you see her wounded by a sword, her head split by a mace? An arrow might not pierce the armor well, but it might well catch her in the throat!”

  “I do not intend her to go to war! It is ceremonial armor. It is armor for men"s minds!” the count insisted, tapping his head. He shrugged. “And my daughter is right. Women have ruled. Wives for their husbands, mothers for their sons. And most oft—”

  “Most oft, as we mentioned, they came to evil ends!”

  “Not always. We both know our history, astrologer!”

  “What of Melisande herself?” Ragwald argued. “Would you have her spend her life alone, defending her property?”

  “No. I would have her be strong, and make her own choices. She is an excellent swordswoman—”

  “Fine. As she is bested by a man twice her weight, we will all commend her strength!”

  “Ah, but a weaker man would lose.”

  “She detests warfare.”

  “So should we all.”

  Ragwald sank deeper into his chair, exhaling a groan. “Have you any of that excellent Burgundian wine left, milord? You have given me a great need for it!” Count Manon laughed. “Indeed, Ragwald, indeed!” And he rose, poked the dying fire, and procured the wine himself for his old friend and adviser. “I am not so careless as you might think, Ragwald. Perhaps I have given you a twitch in that head of yours on purpose! I have looked carefully to a few men who might prove worthy of my daughter.”

  “And they are?”

  Count Manon stroked his chin. “One is the nephew of an old friend, an Irish prince—”

  Ragwald made a strangling sound. “The son of the Wolf of Norway?”

  “The son of the man who seized and built Dubhlain and claimed himself the Ard-Ri"s, the High King"s, daughter in the making of it!” Manon continued softly. Then he leaned down on the chair, staring tensely at Ragwald. “I do have enemies, and they can be crafty and powerful. We are prey to constant invasion.

  Who better to best an invader than one who is bred from such warrior stock himself?”

  Ragwald shook his head, staring at t
he count. “I think you"re ma—” He cut himself off. He and the count were the very best of friends, but it was still better wisdom not to suggest that one"s master might be bordering on insanity. He shook his head. “You spoke of love! Melisande has watched countless invasions, heard all the tales. And you think that she will fall in love with a Viking?”

  Count Manon shrugged. “An Irishman. A prince of Eire. It all depends on how you look upon a jug of wine, eh, Ragwald? It might well be half full—and then again, it may well be half empty. It"s better to savor the jug for the exceptional quality of the wine that is in it, rather than rue the fact that there cannot be more. This is an exceptionally fine wine!”

  “The logic eludes me!”

  Count Manon grinned. “Well, we shall see. That is all. We shall see. I"ve thought long and hard on it. I"ve visited with noble families here, I"ve looked to their sons. I am not completely a fool. Gerald swears his friendship, and I know that he is interested in Melisande—whether for himself or his son, I am not sure. You tell me constantly that what I need is power. That is why I have looked to a half-Viking prince. Why I have issued an invitation for him to come here. I will have them meet. If they become enemies, then we will need to think no more of it.”

  “What is a child going to think of a man!” Ragwald sniffed.

  “Conar of Dubhlain is not so old, nearly twenty-one. He has already waged war with his father, brothers, and uncles on numerous campaigns. He is reputed to be one of the finest sword arms in all the world.”

  “That shall surely win Melisande over immediately!”

  “Actually, he was here once, long ago. His uncle often rode his ships along these shores, more oft the trader than the invader. We swore peace between us, and so Conar will feel obliged on behalf of his own relations to honor us and aid my daughter in any difficulty.”

  Ragwald sniffed again. “The honor of a Viking!”

  “This is an unusual Viking, as I have said. Through marriage his brother is kin to Alfred of Wessex. Many of the maidens in the households I have visited would dearly love to be ravished by a Viking—were the Viking he! You have not seen his like, my friend.”

  Ragwald shivered, oddly cold. He sighed. “When will this Irish Viking come?”

  “Soon. But of course, it will still be years before I even think of allowing Melisande to become any man"s wife!”

  Ragwald shivered again, startled as a fiercer chill suddenly seized him. He tried to shake it off.

  “Years, aye, years. You are right, she is just a child,” he agreed. “A very beautiful child growing a sumptuous form, but a child nevertheless …” The count laughed. “Ragwald, you will not sway me! I am right in this.”

  “I pray it is so,” Ragwald agreed.

  They both looked to the flames. No matter how warm the fire, the chill seemed to stay with Ragwald.

  What was it?

  The stars had told him nothing. It had to be nothing. He looked at the count, grateful that he had returned, and the count smiled in turn.

  “ "Tis nice to have a peaceful night, eh, Ragwald?”

  “Indeed.”

  Neither of them had the least idea that it would be the last they would ever share.

  For the count was not right at all.

  Tragedy and circumstance were destined to alter all their plans of that evening.

  And Melisande would wed before her birthday.

  Indeed, she would wed before another twenty-four hours had passed them by.

  Chapter Five

  “Father!”

  Melisande had slept little that night and had arisen early. Shivering with the cool air of morning, she had hurried out to the parapets to watch the fortress awaken. The guards, on duty through the night, dozed with their heads bent down upon their own shoulders. Far below, the bakers and their wives were well into their day"s work, and the sweet smell of freshly baking bread was beginning to permeate the morn, thankfully taking away some odors that were not quite so pleasant. She could hear the blacksmith"s hammer, the song of a dairy maid. It seemed a very average day.

  Then, suddenly, she became aware of a rider coming over the ridge from the eastern side. Coming from Gerald"s territory. She arched a brow curiously at first. Gerald himself had come often enough in her father"s absence. There seemed nothing odd about his coming. She didn"t like the man and despised his eldest son. Geoffrey was twenty, yet Melisande, at twelve, felt years his senior.

  From what she had always seen, he spent his days endlessly torturing the hounds or trying to wrest any little trinket of any value from his younger sisters and brothers. He was tall and well built, a handsome enough youth, but with a certain light to his eyes and twist to his lips that made her acutely uncomfortable. His mother had been dead as long as Melisande could remember, and their household seemed a wild one. Everyone wondered and speculated on when Gerald would take another wife, and it had occurred to Melisande that he might intend for it to be her. The servants had whispered about it often enough.

  She shuddered at the thought. Marie de Tresse, the young maid who was her personal servant, had thoughtfully begun to teach her all the things she must know, though in truth, she had gleaned much of it by simply studying animal husbandry! The thought of being with Gerald in any such way made her feel violently ill. Yet the feeling did not persist, for she was assured in her father"s strength of will and determination. Maybe Gerald thought it natural that they should join their households together. She did not!

  Nor would she ever entertain the thought of being a wife to his son! She could imagine sitting at night with him, watching him try to throw his dinner bones at the hounds" noses!

  “Father will never let it be!” she assured herself.

  But the rider was coming closer, and she felt uneasy. Was this some message from Gerald regarding her? Would her father"s very definite refusal give cause to trouble—or battle—between them?

  She hurried away from the parapet, racing for her father"s tower bedchamber. It was a huge place with a great canopied bed in the center, a fireplace far before it, tables and chairs and trunks strewn about so that he might be visited within his personal rooms. Count Manon had already risen and was sliding his sword into the sheath at his waist.

  “Father!” she cried, bursting in on him, but he was quick to comfort her.

  “I have seen the rider coming. I"m going out to meet him.” Melisande hesitated. “Father, truly, you wouldn"t begin to consider making an arrangement—”

  He laughed, pausing to kiss the top of her head. “Truly, Melisande, never!

  Now let me see what is going on out there. He claims that I consider my land and my daughter superior—aye, girl, and that I do!” he said, smiling. But his smile faded, and he looked seriously into her eyes and stroked her cheek.

  “Truly you are superior! I have watched you grow into a young woman with a wisdom that far exceeds your years. You have a tender touch for all beasts, a kindness in your heart for our people. They are dependent on us! All dependent on us, that is the world we live in. And you do not look to your own value, but give great concern to theirs. You have done me very proud, Melisande. Any man must prove himself worthy of you.”

  Melisande stood up on her tiptoes, throwing her arms around her father"s neck, kissing his cheek. “If I have grown well at all, sir, it is because I have the wisest and kindest of all fathers!”

  She realized then that someone stood behind them. She swung around.

  Philippe, captain of the fortress guard, was there, staring hard at the count. “It is Gerald himself at the gate, begging an audience with you. He warns of danger, and asks that you come beyond the gates so that his words may be for your ears alone.”

  Ragwald hurried up behind Philippe. “I do not like this, not one bit, Count Manon.”

  Manon sighed deeply. “Ah, well, he warns of danger. I must ride forward and see what that danger might be!”

  He started forward, then turned again, kissing his daughter"s head tenderly once ag
ain. “Remember my words, Melisande. Always.” He hurried to the stone steps leading from the tower parapet to the ground below. Someone had already brought his great horse, and the count swiftly leapt upon the animal.

  He called out the order for the gates to be opened and rode out.

  Melisande remained on the parapet, uneasily watching what took place below. All eyes in the castle were trained on that meeting just beyond the gates.

  That must have been why, Melisande realized when she saw the danger at last, they had been so very oblivious to it at first.

  Other riders were coming over the ridge now.

  She saw it all too late and all too quickly. Gerald had led her father out some distance from the gates. He had come alone as a lure.

  And her father, in good faith, had followed him. Now riders were bearing down on him with deadly intent. So very many of them. Melisande stared at them and realized that many of them were different, they were not all Gerald"s men. They were Vikings. Clad in conical helmets, skin boots trimmed in fur, wooden shields carved just a little differently. They were Vikings. Just like those who had come to ravage the coast, like those they had beaten back upon occasion from the fortress walls. Vikings riding with Gerald.

  Because alone, Melisande thought, neither they nor Gerald could best her father. They had strength, Gerald did not. Gerald could reach her father, deceive him …

  And the Vikings could not!

  Melisande began to scream. For a moment she saw her father"s eyes. Below her, in the courtyard, the guards, too, realized the danger. There were screams and shouts, men mounted their horses and went racing out on foot.

  And all too late, as Melisande saw clearly. Gerald drew his sword against her father, and her father, excellent swordsman that he was, parried the first blow, and the second, and the third.

  But by then the horsemen racing down from the ridge were upon him. It seemed a dozen gleaming swords shimmered in the daylight, silver growing red.

  She began to scream again, sinking to her knees. All of Manon"s men were industriously engaged in the battle now, and all too late. She had seen her father fall from Warrior. She had seen the gates fly open again as the men from the fortress poured out, confused, fighting wildly, screaming, shouting.