by Alexa Aston
He set the boy on his feet but kept hold of his hand as he turned to Betek, surprised to see his friend on one knee, bow ready, his gaze searching the surrounding area.
He shook his head. “Nay, Betek,” he said, raising his voice. “Unless I am given reason, I will raise no weapon against these folk. If this child is so fearless, ’tis likely the people of his village are not warlike, as Yrsa foretold. Come. ’Twould appear the settlement is nigh. We will approach and learn if they are willing to share information, food and shelter in return for whatever we may offer.”
The child giggled and tugged at his hand.
He set off, allowing the little one to pull him along the path.
From ahead came a feminine call. “Alured? Alured, where are you?”
The child laughed. “Mama! Come see. I have a new friend.”
Elrik halted when the woman came into view. She stopped as abruptly, her eyes widening at sight of him.
“Mama!” The boy jerked at Elrik’s hold.
He loosed him.
The little one ran to his mother and held up tiny arms. She caught him to her breast and faced Elrik.
“Fear not, woman.” He held up his hands, palms out. “We come not here with war in our hearts, but to seek a valued one who was taken from us.”
He waited.
“Mama,” Alured exclaimed. “Too tight.”
He squirmed in his mother’s arms.
Elrik’s gaze stayed on the woman.
Her tense stance eased. She nodded. “Come, then.”
The boy clapped his hands. “Friends, mama. Go see papa.”
The woman turned to stride along the path, assurance in her step.
In single file, he and Betek followed. The reason for her confidence came quickly to light.
“Elrik!” Urgency limned Betek’s whisper.
“I know. I have known since the bridge.”
Bright sunlight now filtered through the riotous foliage above them. From those branches, and from among the tree trunks and undergrowth surrounding them, men showed themselves—warriors all, with lances and arrows ready to fly.
Chapter Ten
Sir Estienne de Wolfe watched the two Brabáncons lope down the path toward the valley floor. An impressive pair, big and determined, he knew without needing to see them fight they would prove powerful and highly skilled warriors.
“How think you we would fare,” William mused, his thoughts obviously following in the same vein, “did we find ourselves on opposite sides with those two in battle?”
Estienne shook his head. “I hope never to find out.”
William grinned. “’Tis truth then, the rumor that tangling with a Brábanter warrior is never wise?”
“Bet on it.”
But they would provide the diversion he needed.
“I take it you have no intention of waiting in this wood until they return?”
He threw a sidelong glance at William before turning to the horses. “You know me well, my friend. Our job is to take that Scot.” He secured the animals and returned to the verge of the wood. “Glad I am those two are on our side, but they are no trackers. When I scouted, I found a boot print and recognized it, for I have seen it before at the bothy. It belongs to Dugald. But there is a problem.
“After he examined the ground in the trough where the woman was abducted, Sir Hersin said he believed more than one man worked with the Scot that day. I have since confirmed his guess. Dugald did meet up with others, and they are many. Though they stay out of sight, ’tis my guess they are those for whom he waited. I wish I knew their purpose, though I believe ’tis not, at this time, to return to raids in Northymbre. Nay, they plan something else, and I must wonder if the trouble the woman spoke of is part of it.”
“You believe Yrsa?”
“Let us say rather, I trust my instincts, and they agree with her.”
He peered down the valley as if he expected to see those of whom he spoke. “I also wish to know where those other men are now. They brought the female—Yrsa—to this valley, but only Dugald passed into the vale with her.”
“Aye, I noted the signs and wondered that our companions did not.”
“Our companions are untrained and also in too much haste, but if Dugald is still here, I intend to find him.”
“Think you the people of this valley befriend him?”
“Mayhap, but we have used stealth to accomplish similar tasks in the past.” He stood just inside the shadow of the tree line and pointed. “See you. Except for that narrow defile yonder where the river exits the valley, this belt of woods continues in an unbroken ring around to the cliffs on the northern side. I propose to strike through the belt to reach the far side of the oxen pasture. As you see, the tree line there descends until it merges with the woods on the valley floor. We will enter that way, keeping as close as possible to the base of the escarpment. If we are successful in our quest, and unless he has already gone, we can locate Dugald and have him back here by nightfall.”
“And what do we do if confronted by suspicious valley residents?”
“Why, we hope they give us time to spin the usual tale before they kill us, of course.”
William guffawed. “I thought as much. The Brabáncon will not like it.”
“They have their purpose. We have ours. The two do not conflict. While they keep the valley residents occupied, we remain free to find the Scot. Where he is, we will likely find the woman. If so, we will rescue her and take him.”
“I like this plan.”
“Then let us be at it.”
Yrsa paced the confines of the chamber, anger fueling agitation. Hours. Hours it seemed since she woke the third time. No one came.
How long? Day or night? In this place, time would be measured only in the beats of her heart, the hunger in her belly and the peat burning low in the braziers. When the fuel was exhausted the dark—She swallowed. The dark and cold would return.
At first, it did not unduly alarm her to awaken, still alone. Restive, she crawled from the pallet and pulled on her boots. While the lump on her head continued sore to the touch, the medicinal draft had eased the pounding to a mild ache. A blessing, that, along with the light. It took but a moment to further explore the chamber, but apart from what she earlier noted, the only other items present consisted of a cup, a jug of the sweet mead, a comb and a bucket of tepid water with a towel beside it on the table. In the lingering warmth from the braziers, she took advantage of the water for a quick, refreshing wash, then gingerly combed and loosely re-braided her hair.
Time passed. No one came.
When the silence pressed too deep, she went to the passage entrance and called, hoping to gain attention. Then she cursed and finally screamed her frustration only to cease abruptly when that foolishness threatened to bring back the pain.
No one came.
She attempted the passage, but got no further than before. The darkness at its end smothered. She had not the courage or mayhap, the desperation, to push through it. Yet.
Surely, Elrik would soon find her.
The light from the braziers dimmed, creating shadows that lurked along the perimeters of the chamber. With it, the warmth faded. Her fingers curled inside the edges of her cloak, pulling them closed. No one came.
She paced to the far wall. Trembling, she closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cold rock. What if something had happened to Elrik, to Betek and the others? What if Branwen forgot her or could not return? What if no one ever came?
The cold and blackness roared into her mind like a thousand draugum bent on destruction. Her heart pounded until she feared it might burst.
Fear not. I come.
The whisper caressed, soft and tenuous as mist.
Elrik.
The panic eased, but had she truly heard it, or did her mind begin to play games? She had heard whispers of such a thing happening to men imprisoned for long periods in the dark.
Enough. She would not accept the implica
tion of that thought.
For a time, she paced some more. Finally, she returned to sit on the edge of the pallet. Closing her eyes, she touched her fingertips to her forehead and waited.
And waited.
Someone would come. Even did they not she refused to stay confined in this sorry pretext of a room, away from light and warmth.
A breath of sound reached her ears. She opened her eyes, startled to see the chamber appeared brighter. She got to her feet.
Torch in hand, Dugald the Scot stood in the opening to the passage. He looked tired, and his face bore the marks of the Norman interrogation.
’Twas no true surprise to see him.
Anger rose to the fore. “Why have you brought me here?”
He cocked his dark head and regarded her. “Is that not obvious?” He sauntered to stand in front of her. His gaze dscended to her feet and back to her face, lingering on the soft curves in between. He gently fingered a strand of hair at her temple. “Never have I wanted a woman as I want you, Yrsa of Ottham. I brought you here because you will be safe until I finish the task I have begun.”
Her lip curled. “And if I want you not and wish not to stay in this place, what then?”
A half smile twisted his lips. “The choice may not be yours to make.”
She clenched her fists to keep from slapping him. “’Tis not my way to wish violence on others, but you tempt me, Scotsman. I want out of this chamber. Will you take me, or must I find my own way?”
“Force will not be necessary. Your presence is required in the Hall of Council. Come.”
His fingers encircled her upper arm, and he led her into the passage. They traversed it quickly.
How strange to remember the distance along its length as much longer. At its end, she stepped into the open space she earlier sensed. The wall curved away to the right, but whatever might be above them lifted into shadow. A few steps later, she glanced behind. The entrance to the passage was no longer visible.
“Are we still underground?”
“Aye. We are now in the cavern’s main chamber.”
She swallowed and sought to control the quiver in her voice. “How big is it?”
“Large. Careful now,” he said. “There is a dip in the floor in front of us. ’Tis not deep, but ’tis sandy. The feet can easily slide.”
He kept a firm grip on her arm as they maneuvered their way through a concavity that, without benefit of light, could have led to a fall. The rest of the floor remained level. Dugald’s pace increased. Sand gritted beneath their feet. A line of dark silhouettes loomed to the right, startling a gasp from her, but as the torchlight touched the shapes, they materialized into row upon row of large butts of wine amid smaller casks and kegs of ale and mead. Of course. What better place than this to use for a buttery?
In front of them, but still some distance away, an outline of faint light appeared. Dugald made straight for it.
They approached an arched tunnel, or corridor through the cavern wall. Its length was about that of an oxen drawn wagon. A door framed the entrance, a solid wooden portal carved with unfamiliar symbols. Dugald had left it opened wide. They passed through to the far end of the corridor where a second door hung, this one heavier and stouter, obviously designed to provide protection from forced entry. Dugald grasped the iron pull and it opened inward.
The light dazzled. Yrsa gave a low cry and threw up a hand to cover her eyes.
Dugald paused. “I should have warned you.”
She cared not. The sweet, pure light of day welcomed. The fresh air cleansed her nostrils of the cold, dusty smell of the caverns. As her sight adjusted, Dugald urged her outside. He pulled the door closed behind him and then waited while she took in the surroundings.
She stood on a narrow platform of granite beneath a natural porch formed by an overhang. Behind her the door, its façade fashioned to resemble stone, blended into the rock face where moisture condensed along walls blanketed with moss and clinging vines. In front, close enough she could moisten her fingers, misty, feathery trickles of water formed a fragile veil that spilled from the overhang. Those rivulets dropped into a limpid, sunlit pool. They must escape from the river, for now that she stood outside, the continuous drumming of the water’s surge sounded much louder.
Beyond the pool, trees blocked the view. Sunshine, not nearly so bright as she first thought when emerging from the cavern, played hide-and-seek among the branches, splattering the lush ferns, grass and leaf litter that covered the ground. The intense green of the surrounding foliage dazzled as fiercely as the light.
She could not help but smile in delight. This was a fae place of such beauty it took her breath away.
“Come,” Dugald said. “They await us.”
Indulgence softened his tone.
She glanced at him.
His brown eyes watched her. A rueful smile gentled his countenance, but she hardened her heart. This man took what he wanted with no thought for others.
Fingers still wrapped around her arm, he pulled her to the right along the platform of rock until they emerged onto a path.
“This trail takes us where we must go,” he said. “The way is narrow. You will precede me.”
She walked, Dugald stalking behind, through what seemed endless trees. To their right, the noise of the river first increased, as if in another falls, then abated.
Along the path, cottages of timber or stone dotted the woods, each set within a clearing and graced with a garden. Chickens scratched and cats lazed in doorways. After a time, a second path intersected and merged with the one at their feet. Not far beyond it they rounded a curve and passed over a bridge. Here, too, among the trees dwelt valley folk, yet not one had she seen. Where were they?
A structure blocked the path directly ahead. The trees grew right up to walls so moss-encrusted it appeared the building grew out of the ground.
At sight of it, she stopped so unexpectedly Dugald had to catch her shoulders to keep from stumbling into her. “By the saints! ’Tis a mighty keep, and if I judge aright, ’tis old beyond ken.”
She stared. A huge edifice, ’twas once three levels high but now only the lower floor appeared intact. Through the skeletal outlines of the upper two, one could see it backed against a towering escarpment.
The path led straight to a low stoop, above which hung a carved oaken door identical to the one at the cavern.
Dugald gave her shoulders a little push. She started forward. The door opened and two men stepped out. Warriors. They took up positions on each side of the doorway. She climbed to the stoop and passed between.
Barely inside, she halted. No one worked outside because all waited here. The building was an ancient mead hall packed with colorfully dressed people. Men, women, and older children sat on benches and stools that ranged around a large, central pit in which a fire blazed. Silent as statues they watched her, expectant expressions on their faces.
Lit by torches in iron sconces on the walls and cressets dangling from the ceiling, the scene might well inspire Saxon scops to spin new tales of ancient days. A sweet, potent scent wafted through the room. Carved wooden beams of massive girth supported the ceiling. Stacked in one corner were trestles and plank tabletops. Skins carpeted the floor. Tapestries adorned the walls. In the spaces between them hung weapons, shields, clothing and furs, indicating the valley’s unmarried fighting men lived here.
“This is the Hall of Council,” Dugald said, so close his voice came from above her head rather than behind. “Go forward, along that aisle.”
She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and went. Gazing straight ahead, she walked halfway down the aisle that divided the people before she noticed those who waited, separated from the rest, on the far side of the fire pit. A warrior clutching a spear and Branwen, basket at her feet, sat facing the entrance. Their chairs were of carved wood with high backs, much like thrones. Guards stood at attention behind the pair and also flanked two men who stood to one side.
She rea
ched the open space on the nearer side of the pit and stopped. Across the fire, she met the healer’s look. Branwen nodded.
The relaxed man with the spear beside her must be her husband, Keir, the chief.
Dugald confirmed her guess. “The seated warrior is the chief of Tamescombe,” he whispered in her ear. “You have already met his wife. Go around the fire pit. Do not stop until you face them.”
She moved to obey, but instinct pulled her gaze to the left. She faltered. The two men standing apart and guarded were Betek and Elrik.
Joy surged. He came.
She could not take her gaze from him. He must have traveled hard after her, for he looked like a ruffian with his golden beard unshaven, his sun-streaked hair more tousled than usual and his clothing unkempt. No man ever looked more wonderful. Weaponless but unbound, and thank Freya unharmed, his gaze, fierce and proprietorial, devoured her. The hunger in his eyes sent shock waves ricocheting from head to toe, to settle in the pit of her belly.
No less fierce burned the responsive fire she put in the smile she sent him.
“Go,” Dugald said.
She started forward, halting only when faced with Keir and Branwen. Dugald continued until he stood alone, opposite Elrik and Betek.
Uncertain what else to do, she remained silent. Where were Sir Estienne and Sir William? Her dream clearly indicated the two Normans would come with them to the valley. Did they remain free to effect change, or did they languish, imprisoned, in the caverns?
Smoke swirled and the sweet scent teased her nose. It came from the central fire.
Dugald now stood at her right hand, some three steps away. Elrik moved to her left.
She stole a fast glance. His gaze no longer rested on her but on Chief Keir.
Keir rose. Though not a large man, he displayed a powerfully muscled body, as befit a warrior. Gray streaked his hair, but he stood strong and unbowed. A band of silver encircled his upper right arm while a wolf skin cape draped his shoulders. A great sword hung from his belt.
A murmur swept through the gathered throng and then died away.
“Long ago,” Keir began, his voice a deep rumble, “in the days of our ancestors, a great fortress of our people was built upon a high hill in the east and held dominion there. For years upon years, the warriors of this fortress protected the land round about and insured safety for the people who grew their grain, wove their cloth and lived their lives in peace.
