"Portia?"
Portia shook her head. "Mm?"
"I said he will be here by nightfall. Do we have sufficient supplies for a feast, or will we need to send for more?" Angus asked with a bite of impatience in his tone.
It was Portia's turn to sigh. Lina would know, if she were here. She would have enough on hand to feed every man on Isla. "I will ask the cook." She turned to go.
Father caught her arm, his grip gentle but firm. "Keep your men near all the time now. I fear you will have need of them."
Her father was rarely wrong, and there was no point in arguing. "Yes, Father." At least she wouldn't be lonely.
She buried herself in preparations for the impromptu celebration that she had no heart for, so deeply that when she heard the clop of hooves on the road, she was surprised to find the sky fading into dusk.
It sat ill with her to set a place for Donald's man at her father's right hand, for that was Rudolf's place, though it had been years since he'd last sat there.
Would he ever return?
"My lady, are you well?" Grieve's voice cut through her grief.
Portia nodded and wiped her eyes. "Of course. A mote of dust in my eye, is all. Blown up from the road, as our guests approach. We should take our places in the hall before the dust in the yard gets worse with so many men and horses." She lifted her chin turned her gaze on the open doors to the hall.
Donald's envoy shuffled inside like a seal walking on its tail flukes. A wide, grey column of a man, tapering only at his feet. A gold medallion suspended from a thick, gold chain was his only badge of office, distinguishing him from the other members of his small party.
When the envoy reached the dais that held the lord's table, Father rose, spreading his arms to offer a traditional welcome.
"You call this a hall?" the seal man complained. "I wouldn't keep pigs in this." He sniffed. "And where is the girl?"
Father hesitated for only a moment, but it was long enough for Portia to feel his anger build. Not that he let it show in his voice. "Sir, I welcome you to our humble home, where you will be offered every hospitality. I am Lord Angus of Isla, and this is the Lady Portia, of whose famed beauty I'm sure you have heard much."
And woe betide him if he hadn't, Portia added silently.
"That plain, freckled lass looks nothing like a lady, or a beauty. Prince Malcolm will be most disappointed. He'll have to bed her in the dark with his eyes closed. If she's the best you have, your women must all be uglier than this hall. I'm surprised King Donald thinks you are worthy allies at all. Savages like you people don't deserve to own land."
Portia rose, her blood heated to boiling within her. "And I am surprised you are fool enough to insult a man in his own hall, when his men outnumber you so. King Donald must be even more of a fool to send you as an envoy, unless he dislikes you so much he wants you to die."
The envoy paled, tugging at his collar as he licked his lips. "Tame your sow, Angus, and teach her to be silent, or Prince Malcolm will cut out her tongue."
"My lady," Grieve whispered. "Might I recommend – "
"No, you may not," Portia hissed. Only two men could tell her what to do. Rudolf, who was not here, and –
"Portia, please," Angus said.
Portia sat down, glaring at the envoy.
Angus continued, "Will you accept our offer of hospitality...ah, I do not believe I caught your name, sir."
"You may call me Lord Mason, for if a hall such as this makes you a lord, then I am surely one twice over, for I have a castle and my cousin is a captain in the king's guard," the pale-faced seal said with shaky grandeur.
A nobody, then, and Portia had guessed right. Donald did not care if this man lived or died.
Yet her father sat the nobody beside him in the place of honour and served him first.
Mason's complaints continued:
"This lamb is too tough."
"We only give such food to pigs."
"Why have you no music in this hall?"
Portia choked at the third one. Men sang when they were merry, and deep in their cups. Not when they waited for a word from their lord to avenge the insult done to him by his ungrateful guest.
Mason clapped his pudgy hands. The sound was moist, tasting of fear. "My men shall provide music for us."
The small band of men who'd followed him into the hall now clustered in front of the closed doors and pulled out various pipes and drums. To Portia's fascination, they began to play.
What came out couldn't be called music. No, it sounded like two tomcats fighting over a she-cat screaming in heat.
She wanted to laugh, or cover her ears as many of her father's men were doing, but she could not. No, she sat like the lady Mason said she was not, and presided over the meal with the composure of a queen. Pretending the caterwauling was as pleasant to her ears as it apparently was to Mason.
Food came and went from the kitchen, and Portia began to grow drowsy. Too much wine, she suspected, but it was too late to do anything about that now.
Mason rose to his unsteady feet. "Now, where is this bed you promised me? Little more than a straw pallet, I suspect, but King Donald will change all that in time!"
King Donald would change nothing at the islands, Portia swore, then rejoiced as the pipers finally finished. The silence was...heavenly.
Except that it wasn't silent. There was the clink of metal, the thump of boots, the...
Someone threw the doors open. "My lord!" the man gasped.
"What is it, man?" Angus asked.
"A...an army! Albans, by the look of them. The yard is full of them. Men and horses!"
Mason seemed smug. "You offered King Donald's envoy your hospitality, Angus. You didn't think I'd be fool enough to come alone, did you? The rest of the envoy waited for their horses to be brought ashore. Some of them may have to sleep in the fields, for now, until we can build barracks for them."
"Get into the barracks with your men. Now!" Angus hissed before he rose and forced a smile. "Of course, Lord Mason. I wish I had known how many guests you'd brought. I fear our paltry feast tonight will not feed so many."
Portia let Grieve hustle her through the kitchens to the barracks, her men falling in behind them. "You, get her things. You, clear mine out and find me a bed in the barracks hall. You and you, you're to stand watch until I tell you otherwise. No one enters the barracks unseen, you hear me?"
His men murmured their assent and divided to do Grieve's bidding.
Portia stared at the barracks hall, a smaller version of the longhouse with beds lined up along the walls. Fires at either end failed to keep away the chill tonight as Portia shivered.
"You will have your cloak soon, my lady," Grieve said. "You shall sleep in the loft, and pull the ladder up after you. Your men will sleep below to keep you from harm."
Portia couldn't seem to form words. Chaos swirled in her head, and she thought she might faint. She drew in a steadying breath, followed by another. "Grieve, tell me true. Is there an Alban army outside, one that outnumbers my father's men?"
Grieve looked into her eyes for a long moment. He had served her for long enough to know not to lie to her. "Are you sure you want to know?" he said finally.
"You could have just said yes," she grumbled. "I want to see them."
"Ascend to the loft. You will see all you need to, my lady."
She hauled her body up the ladder, and soon saw what Grieve meant. The roof that looked so solid from the outside had peepholes along its length, large enough to see through. Or shoot an arrow through, she thought idly.
Men milled around in the yard, and in the fields beyond. Small fires burned on all sides, silhouetting men like monsters from a nightmare.
King Donald had invaded, and she did not know if any of them would survive until morning.
SIXTEEN
Day dawned, and no one was dead. Except the dozen sheep they'd slaughtered to feed the Albans.
Portia dressed and made her way down the ladder.
"Wait, my lady. We must go with you."
Portia remembered just how many Albans were outside, and decided to do as Grieve said. Cowal and Damhan blocked the doors to the kitchen and outside, anyway. Or they did, until a nod from Grieve had them leading the way out into the yard.
Swallowing, Portia followed.
There were no horses here now, but that meant room for more men. Men who stared with longing and awe.
"That's the girl?"
"Prince Malcolm's bride?"
"Wish I had a wife so pretty."
"Beautiful, isn't she?"
"Wonder why the king doesn't want her himself."
Portia allowed herself a tiny smile at their admiration. It almost soothed away the sting of Mason's insults from last night. He might think her ugly, but he stood alone.
"Make way for milady!" Cowal bellowed, his hand on his sword.
He wasn't the only one. All of them were poised to draw their weapons in her defence. Portia prayed it would not be necessary.
As though they'd heard her silent prayer, the tide of yellow tunics parted, bowing with respect that did not appear feigned. She straightened her spine and marched proudly to the hall. When she reached the warmth it offered, she wanted to relax, but she knew she could not. Men crowded in here, too, as thickly as the yard.
"Good morning, Portia," Father said gravely.
"Good morning, Father," she said as she took her accustomed seat. A servant brought her bread and meat and fruit, and she thanked the girl profusely. When Mason curled his lip and made a disgusted sound, Portia turned to him and said, "Good morning, Lord Mason. I trust you slept well."
His response was a wordless glare.
"I wonder how long you will be willing to endure our humble hospitality?" Portia bit into her bread, not expecting an answer.
"Until something more suitable is built," Mason said. "I have sent men scouting for suitable locations already. I don't suppose there's a quarry on this island. Wood and straw, everywhere I look." He eyed the thatched roof as though it had insulted him.
Portia wouldn't have been surprised if it had. Mason definitely deserved it.
"I hope you find what you're looking for soon," she said sweetly.
"The sooner I have a house befitting my station, the sooner I can keep the prince's bride safe, where she will not be a distraction to my men. Angus, is there somewhere you can keep her in the meantime where she will stay out of trouble?" Mason asked.
Portia wanted to tell him that he was the one who'd brought trouble to her island, but her father's quelling glance kept her quiet. Mason wasn't worth wasting her breath.
"Portia, it might be best if you took your meals in your chambers from now on," Father said.
Her chambers? Or did he mean the loft in the barracks?
Grieve seized her plate. "Let me carry that for you, my lady." He motioned for Damhan to take her cup. With Dermot following close behind her, Portia found herself herded through the kitchen and back to the barracks.
By the time the door closed behind Dermot, Portia was so mad she could spit. "Do you mean to hold me prisoner here? Me?"
"Lady Portia, those are Albans out there. Our people honour you as you deserve but those men would carry you off whether you will or no. When they fight battles on their own soil, they expect their wives to follow after them, and collect the valuables off the corpses of those they've slain. If one of those men tries to take you..." Grieve trailed off.
He didn't need to continue. If someone tried to take her, her men would defend her. That would violate the tenuous truce between guests and host, and there would be war. Her men would die. Her father would die. And Portia herself...she swallowed. Whatever happened, she wouldn't like it.
Hiding in a loft was a small price to pay for her freedom, and her life. Even if her freedom was restricted to a smoky loft above a room where ten men slept and snored and occasionally forgot there was a lady listening.
"I will bring you anything you ask for, as long as you stay safe, my lady," Grieve pleaded. "As long as we have you, Donald cannot conquer Isla."
If only he could bring her Rudolf. She could endure anything, if he were here.
"If you swear to bring me news of everything that goes on outside these walls..." When she saw Grieve nod, Portia bowed her head. "Then I surrender myself to your care, Grieve."
SEVENTEEN
Rudolf woke to someone trying to yank his head off.
"One, two, three, pull!"
No, make that two someones.
"Stop, you hellspawn whoresons! You'll pull my head clean off my shoulders!" he roared.
"Will you listen to that? He's not dead, after all. The king will be pleased."
Rudolf couldn't see through his helm any more, so he reached up to take it off. The steel wouldn't budge. A careful examination revealed a sizeable dent that ran from his eye to his mouth. If he hadn't worn a helm the blow would have killed him.
"Right, let's try this again. You pull, and I'll try to manoeuvre it so that it actually comes off without taking my head off, too," Rudolf said.
An eternity of tugging, face-pulling and swearing later, a third man joined in the fray, shoving down Rudolf's shoulders as the other two men pulled the helm up.
"Fucking...whoresons...rot in hell!" Rudolf shouted as the steel ripped off his nose, or at least that's what it felt like. When he dared to feel his face, he found his nose still attached, but badly broken. "Thank you. I hope you get your hats stuck on some day so that I might return the favour."
They all laughed, including Rudolf. Because that's what you did if you survived a battle against the odds.
Then a healer came over with a cloth he pressed to Rudolf's already tortured nose. "Fuck off!" Rudolf mumbled through the cloth, but the healer took no notice.
Reidar's wound was tended to, Rudolf noticed with satisfaction as the king sat down beside him. Reidar still looked like something troubled him, though – something that made him send the healer away.
That got Rudolf's attention.
Reidar dropped his voice so low that only Rudolf would hear the words. "Why did you do that? Call the men to me during the battle?"
Because he needed the help and he was busy, Rudolf wanted to say, but that made Reidar sound weak. Angus would not have questioned it. Harald had been a fool for not teaching his son the most basic things about kingship. "By Lucifer's leathery balls, man! Because it's a man's duty to protect his king. We're yours to command. There's no doubt in anyone's mind that you can fight as well as any man here, and none of us question your right to rule." He tried to smile to lighten his words. "But if you fall in battle, I'll have to sit on your seat, and Aunt Regina will never forgive me."
"What, you don't want a crown, cousin?"
Rudolf's head throbbed at the thought. "Right now, I want nothing on my head at all. My ears are still ringing from the blow to my helm. I would much rather a cup of ale than a crown." And Portia's hands carrying the cup.
Reidar's face clouded, then he turned away from Rudolf as he called for ale.
It took a moment for Rudolf to realise what caused the cloud – suspicion. Regina's poison had truly taken hold in Reidar, and he would never be the king he needed to be while he clung to the lacings of his mother's gown. Reidar belonged on his fucking throne while Rudolf dealt with the borderlands, and it was time the man saw that. To damnation with suspicion and jealousy and playing politics. They spoke plain in the Southern Isles and Rudolf refused to dance around the truth any longer.
Rudolf seized Reidar's arm and pulled him close so that no one might hear his words. "If you die without an heir, your crown falls to me anyway. We both know this. Go back to your castle, get yourself a bride, and put a boy in her belly. Several, if you can. Let me lead the army in your stead."
Reidar raised hopeful eyes to meet Rudolf's. "To what end, cousin? You have a plan, I am sure of it."
Harald had needed Varg, as much as Reidar needed Rudolf now. Rudol
f cursed inwardly. Portia would have to wait. "All men plan, but not all plans bear fruit. Rest assured, mine do not need you to die here on a battlefield like my father and yours. I want this kingdom secure as much as you do. These raiders and would-be usurpers must die!" Rudolf raised a fist and shook it, as much at the Opplanders as at the Albans keeping him from Portia.
Reidar regarded him for a long moment before he nodded slowly. "Very well. Will the men follow you?"
Rudolf laughed. "They did today. They're loyal men who serve their king. Why would they not?" Angus would not have doubted him. But then Angus knew him, as Reidar did not. The sooner Reidar left, the sooner he could take command of this army and scour the borders of men who thought the King of Viken was weak. The sooner he was victorious, the sooner he could ask to return to Isla with an army to drive Donald from her shores forever.
EIGHTEEN
News trickled in slower than the rain leaked in through the thatch above Portia's bed. Oh, she'd moved the bed and set a pot beneath the leak, but it hadn't helped speed up the messengers bringing word to Angus about what had befallen the rest of the Southern Isles.
Befallen was the right word, all right. Most of the isles had fallen, much as Isla had. Islanders were hospitable folk, after all. There were exceptions, of course. Lord Calum had taken umbrage at his envoy's demand to hand over his daughter to be the man's bedwarmer, and slain the man on the spot. Dermot had lost two brothers in the ensuing brawl, but Lord Calum still lived, albeit under the heel of an Alban boot. They'd heard no word about his sister, Bedelia, except that she was being held hostage to Calum's good behaviour.
Much like Mason held her here, Portia thought but did not say. Her men knew better than to mention her captivity, and Dermot hastened to continue his report.
"Lord Lewis alone holds out against the invaders," he announced, with a nod to Grieve. "A contrary sea delayed the invaders' ship, so the rider Lord Harris sent from Orken Isle reached him in time to warn him of the treachery of Donald's envoy. Mahon met them with a storm of fire arrows, as though they were the Viken raiders they hate so much. Some still made it ashore, though, and now it is war on Myroy Isle. Lord Lewis has disappeared, leaving Mahon in his stead, intent on killing as many Albans as he can."
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