Lord of the Wolves

by Heather Graham

  And more than that, she didn"t want to feel the cold steel of a sword herself, or the merciless weight of a battle-ax.

  Too late! She could hear the terrible clash of steel all around her, she could hear men"s battle cries, and she could hear the pitiful wails that escaped even the most powerful man, for flesh was flesh, and all men had been created to bleed.

  Warrior, the great horse, stood his ground, awaiting her command. She sat upon him, her fingers curled tautly around her handsome sword. Then she realized that one of Gerald"s people, a stocky man with reddish hair and wild eyes, was moving her way. She cried out. In defense she held her sword tight.

  From the rear someone else attacked the man.

  He fell forward.

  Against her sword.

  His eyes widened, staring into hers. They never closed. He died with his eyes wide open in amazement.

  A scream rose in her throat. She dared not let it escape, dared not let her people see her absolute horror and terror. She swallowed it. Warrior pranced hard, forward, backward.

  She heard Philippe at her side. “Retreat! Call a retreat. Countess. We are outnumbered! We must get you safe somewhere, let Gerald have the fortress—”

  “No!” she cried, and realized that she was fighting tears once again. Gerald had betrayed them all and slain her father, who had given her everything!

  Gerald wanted it all. Even the life and the blood.

  Gaston of Orleans came riding up hard beside Philippe. “We must take the countess from here! She is all we have now. See how the men rally to her. We must keep her alive!”

  Philippe argued with him quickly. “I am beginning to think that we must surrender. We have tried. We are outnumbered.”

  “Sweet heaven above us!” Gaston, more wizened, older, maybe wiser than Philippe, moved his horse closer to Philippe"s, trying to keep his words from reaching Melisande.

  He failed.

  “Mother of God, don"t you see? Gerald wants any excuse to slay the child.

  Then this will all be his! There can be no surrender. We must escape!”

  “Slay her!” Philippe repeated, then shook his head. “He wants Melisande, he has always wanted the girl, just like the land. Maybe it makes no difference, maybe we must surrender, and then he would not dare slay her!”

  “But if she fights him, and Melisande will—” Gaston flashed her a quick glance and broke off.

  She bit into her lower lip to hide her fear. Even as he said the words, Melisande realized the peril of their predicament.

  Her people had come through for her, rallying to her cry. But they were badly outnumbered. And now, even as Gaston spoke with Philippe, she saw new danger. The three of them were being cut off from the others.

  She saw Gerald again. She thought bitterly that they were distant kin. Her father had been his second cousin. And he had done this anyway. After all those years when he had benefited from her father"s largesse.

  She stared at him with the utmost hatred.

  He was a large man like her father. Tall and well built. Just a bit older, with a leaner face, and a curl to his lip she had never really trusted. Something about his thin-lipped smile had always made her uneasy—she had hated to kiss his cheek and had always done so as quickly as possible.

  Now she knew why.

  And she wanted to shriek and scream at the triumph she saw in his face as he watched her now.

  She started, realizing that she was hearing something different. Then she knew what she heard that was so strange. The clang of swords had stopped. The cries had ceased.

  What she heard was the sudden sound of silence, for everyone was watching her and Gerald. Watching and waiting.

  Gerald sat atop his white spotted stallion and smiled. “I will take my little cousin off your hands now, Philippe. Give me the child, and you and Gaston and the others may lay down your arms and live.”

  “You"ve slain her father through the most vile treachery!” Gaston cried out bravely. “And you ask us to entrust you with her?”

  Gerald pointed to Melisande. “This delicate child, has taken arms against grown men. And slain them, so it seems. And I might point out, my good fellows, something that you have missed. You have no choice!”

  “You will not hurt them!” Melisande cried suddenly and fiercely. She fought tears again. She had tried so hard not to look, but she could still see her father"s body on the ground. She didn"t care if she died or not anymore. All she wanted was to scratch Gerald"s eyes out.

  She set her heels against Warrior"s flanks.

  It was a brave and foolish gesture, and had she been just a little bit older, she might have realized just how foolish. She could ride well, even as well as her battle-experienced distant kin. She reached his side easily enough, with everyone still standing incredibly still and watching her. But as she reached his side, her courage—and her foolhardiness—remained with her, along with the awful rage and anguish that were tearing at her heart. She threw herself from Warrior to land atop him and take him to the ground. Gerald swore angrily, condemning his men-at-arms. A gasp of astonishment went up from the men surrounding them, Gerald"s and her own, for such a slender young woman to have unseated such a hardened warrior.

  Melisande managed to rip her nails into his throat, tearing at his flesh.

  “Hell"s fire, someone get this she-devil off me!” Gerald raged, trying to protect himself. He stared at her with fury and amazement, and Melisande tried to strike him again, but this time his men were there. She was caught mercilessly by each arm and dragged back. But as he stared at her, Gerald didn"t smile his thin-lipped amused and cunning smile. There was blood upon his cheek, and down his throat. He wiped at it furiously. “You"ll pay, sweet cousin!” he promised her. “Wretched little bitch!” He staggered back to his feet, having been weighed down by his chain mail. “Run them all down!” he shouted to his men. “Kill each and every one of her infernal protectors!”

  “You swore they"d go free if you had me!” Melisande cried.

  Gerald"s squinting hazel eyes touched upon her briefly and he smiled. “Ah, but I didn"t have to trade, vixen. You threw yourself so gently upon my mercy!” He raised his voice again. “Slay them! Slay them all! And you!” He directed a finger at her. “You shall learn to obey me in everything, or else you shall die an exceptionally slow death!”

  “You wouldn"t dare! The king would have you disemboweled!”

  “We"ll see, won"t we?” He reached out, catching a swatch of her ebony hair, jerking her toward him. He was a powerful man. Before she knew it, she was being thrown upon his horse, with him leaping behind her. “Pretty child!” he mused. “Maybe I can sustain my hatred enough to see you enslaved by some of my Danish friends! Maybe they"ll be willing to wait for you to grow up. Maybe they won"t give a damn if you grow up or not. There"s not much difference between a pretty boy and a little girl. Then again”—he laughed—“maybe I don"t care much myself! Your father thought you too pure for a union with me or mine. Maybe I don"t give a damn if you"re completely formed or not!” He raised his voice suddenly. “The girl is mine!” he cried in triumph. “Witness all, the girl is mine, the fortress is mine!”

  There was silence for a moment. A silence like death, that seemed to stretch out forever.

  But then that silence was strangely broken. The earth seemed to be trembling. Even with Gerald"s restricting arms around her nearly suffocating her, Melisande could feel the wild shaking of the ground.

  Riders. Riders coming hard.

  And then they appeared over the ridge.

  He appeared.

  He rode a pitch-black mount, a huge one, and horse and rider both seemed bigger than life for several long moments as they rode forward in the lead. He sat on his horse with an incredible ease, tall in the saddle, one with the beast.

  He was very broad-shouldered, and that size was emphasized by the mantle that flowed over his shoulders and the coat of chain mail he wore beneath it over his torso. The mail glinted in what little
sunlight peeked through the clouds.

  He wore a conical Viking helmet, silver in color, with a nose plate, leaving only his chin and eyes visible. His chin was strong, squared, set in a cold anger.

  His eyes, as he approached, blazing out from the silver of his helmet, were the most extraordinary she had ever seen. Framed by his helmet, they were true blue, the brilliant blue of the sky on a summer"s day, the blue of the ocean, a blue that pierced and sliced and assessed. They seemed to see everything at once, seemed to see through everything.

  She found herself shivering violently as he stopped perhaps fifty feet before her. She realized that she was far more afraid of him than she would ever be of Gerald, which made little sense, for Gerald wouldn"t bat an eye before slicing her throat.

  But Gerald didn"t wield the same kind of incredible power that this man seemed to exude. The power that touched the soul, that demanded all and brooked no resistance.

  Fool! What did he think? she wondered. That they had not fought Vikings here before? That a Frankish count did not have the men to slice his meager forces to shreds?

  Perhaps not. She bit her lower lip. She hated all Vikings. The Danes had invaded these shores as long as she could remember. They had killed, raided, captured, raped, and pillaged. They had now joined forces with Gerald, for whatever reward he had promised, to kill her father. They were—all of them!—

  a race of creatures!

  But this Viking was definitely one to be reckoned with.

  One to be feared even more than others!

  She had never seen one quite so finely muscled, so well displayed in both armor and clothing. One so golden, or one who seemed to sit upon his horse quite so easily, quite so tall. Should she ever need to describe the Norse god Thor, the great, raging god of battle and thunder, she would need only recall this man!

  “Who in the Devil"s own hell are you?” Gerald demanded of him in a snarl.

  The startling eyes within the frame of the silver helmet seemed to burn with a wild blue fire. “Conar MacAuliffe of Dubhlain. Friend to one Manon de Beauville, slain upon yonder field, and therefore now, foe to you, or so it does appear.”

  Melisande felt the pressure of Gerald"s hand as he pushed her forward and drew his sword swiftly from its scabbard at his side.

  “Another enemy?” he inquired. “That is your choice. You may die with these Frankish swine with whom you have cast your lot.”

  “Let the girl go,” Conar commanded him, and for the briefest moment she felt the blue ice of his eyes as they swept over her.

  Then she felt Gerald"s rise of tension, his arms tightening around her.

  “Over my dead or dying body, Viking.”

  There was a short silence. The air itself seemed alive. The Viking smiled slowly, no warmth touching his piercing eyes. He spoke softly, yet his tone was deep, and seemed like death upon the air.

  “You need to use this girl as your shield?” the Viking said mockingly.

  “If I die, she dies.”

  “Oh, I think not, you treacherous fool! I think not!” Suddenly the Viking was riding toward them with startling speed, with ice-cold fury and raw determination.

  Gerald didn"t have time to slit her throat. He was indeed busy clasping her against him as a shield. His arm around her, he drew her back hard against his chest. Melisande could see his hands locked around her rib cage. They were mottled a deep red with his fury. He seemed to be choking.

  She decided to take her advantage. Suddenly straining against his hold and shifting, she sank her teeth deeply into the flesh of his right hand. His concentration had been on the Viking. He screamed out, easing his grip for one moment, and Melisande seized upon that moment. She pushed free from his other hand and slipped from Gerald"s horse and started running.

  Someone shouted. She spun around. One of Gerald"s men had been about to hurl a dagger at her.

  He had been stopped. The Viking was amazingly quick. The man was screaming in agony, his hand pierced through by the Viking"s blade.

  And still, the man on the great black horse charged down upon Gerald, his sword high, barely having blinked to save her life when she had fled!

  Gerald let out a cry of absolute fury. He spurred his horse, charging the Viking.

  The Viking, with his deadly blue eyes, smiled his wickedly cold smile as he raced onward to meet his foe.

  For a moment it looked like a scene out of Valhalla. The two fantastic warriors, all alone on the plain. The day had darkened so that it seemed they both raced through gray mist. Their horses" hooves did not need to touch the ground.

  Swords swung, the horses thundered ever closer to one another, and then they met.

  Melisande turned away at the awful impact. She heard the rise of a cry, a cheer. She started to turn back, but Philippe had come to her, sweeping her up and running with her back toward their own lines.

  “What is it? Let me see!” she cried.

  “You don"t want to see.”

  “Who—”

  “The Viking is victor here,” Philippe said. He paused a moment. “And Gerald"s lying head no longer sits atop his body.”

  “Oh!” Melisande gasped. She clasped her hand over her mouth. After all that she had seen she was not going to be sick. She had to maintain her dignity and courage. Somehow her home had been saved for her. She had to prove that with help, Philippe"s help, Gaston"s help, Ragwald’s help, she could hold on to it.

  “Up, Countess, to Warrior!” Philippe said, helping her atop the great stallion.

  A chill seized her. She looked out across the field. Gerald"s men had fallen back. They waited uneasily upon the ridge. Now they dared not flee.

  The Viking had not come alone. His men, with their miraculous abilities, were lined up behind their leader. Waiting, and with her father"s men. Her men, now. Gerald"s people were far across from them, equally still. Not even the shuffling of horses" hooves upon the ground could be heard. It was as if they were afraid to move!

  Her men had nearly lost the fray when her father had been killed. Now Gerald lay dead, and his forces were the ones in confusion!

  Between them and around them was the gray mist of the day, making it all seem like something out of a dream world.

  If they so chose, Melisande thought, her forces could mow down the offenders like harvest-ripe wheat if they made one single movement.

  The temptation was great.

  The gray sea mist remained upon them. Bodies littered the ground. Her father"s body among them, her heart cried out. Broken, fallen, bits and pieces of carnage here and there.

  What did she do?

  Then, out of the mist he rode, his massive sword slicing the air above his head, his hoarse, guttural cry one of victory and warning.

  He needed go no farther. The offenders, Danes and native men—instantly and as one—whirled their mounts about, and began to race into the oblivion of retreat.

  The Viking paused, his sword reaching to the sky, as if he took his power from a thunder god. His black horse reared high, the sword touched the very heavens. Then the horse fell to its four legs, swirled about, and once again the Viking was facing Melisande.

  The chill that had gripped her deepened. There was little to see of his face, as his helmet covered so much of his features, but even that Viking helmet he wore made him different from other men. Through distance and haze, his eyes still seemed to burn.

  What was this that she and Ragwald and her father"s men had done to acquire victory? Sold themselves to devils and demons? Made pacts with heathens?

  What price would they pay?

  He came toward her, his searing eyes touched upon her, and she could not look away.

  She straightened her shoulders. She reminded herself that her father was dead. That he had always sworn this land would be hers. She swallowed hard, swearing that she would not tremble before this arrogant man. She reminded herself that she was of the finest Frankish blood.

  She was her father"s daughter.

  “We t
hank you, friend, for all that you have done here today,” she said regally. “We welcome you and offer all of our hospitality.” He was silent for a moment, and she wondered quickly if he spoke their language, if he understood her. Then something flickered across those extraordinary eyes. A trace of amusement, she was suddenly certain.

  “Indeed? You welcome me? And who might you be?” he inquired.

  “Countess Melisande,” she informed him. “And as I"ve said, we are grateful, and we welcome you!”

  “Ah, well, you will do much more than welcome me, Countess!”

  “And that is?”

  Those blue eyes flickered over her. “Obey me, little girl.” Anger ripped through her. “Obey you! What arrogance! I don"t even know who you are, and I do not obey heathen Vikings!”

  “Melisande!” Philippe whispered. “Remember, please, what he has done—”

  “He"s a Viking!” she hissed back.

  “Milord! Milord!” came a cry, and it didn"t matter what she had said or thought, because Ragwald was coming forward now. He hated to ride, Melisande knew, and he looked very strange upon the war-horse, his cloak flapping about him, his hair and beard wild.

  “Ragwald,” the Viking acknowledged.

  Melisande realized the two knew each other. Of course, Ragwald had ridden out to meet him, to entreat him to save her from Gerald"s forces, from Gerald himself.

  There was more. Maybe Ragwald hadn"t actually known the man before, but somehow, she was certain, he had known of him!

  “Melisande!” He frowned at her severely in warning. “This man is Prince Conar MacAuliffe, of Dubhlain. We are entirely in his debt!”

  “Then our debt must be paid,” she said in return.

  But the Viking with the very Christian name was looking past her to Ragwald.

  “This, then, truly, is Countess Melisande?” He seemed dismayed.

  “Indeed, milord, every bit as beautiful as promised—”

  “She"s a mere child!” the Viking exclaimed.