He buckled on Mochrie’s sword and sword belt. Then he handed her the dagger, hilt first.
She frowned at the smaller weapon in derision. “The sword is mine by rights.”
“And so it shall be, once we’re safe behind castle walls. Until then, ’tis mine to wield.”
“By what right?” Some of her shakiness dissipated in the wake of rising ire. “I saved your life. You said it yourself.”
His gaze was soft and sincere. “You should not have to fight for my life.” He reached out to gently squeeze her upper arm.
But no matter how genuine his concern was, his touch felt condescending. She shook off his hand, incredulous. “Do you doubt my skill?”
His expression hardened. “Do you doubt mine?”
She’d seen him with a blade. She knew he was an able warrior. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of telling him so.
When she didn’t reply, he spit out a foul curse, then unbuckled the sword belt and let it drop to the ground. He limped over to the fallen log and sat down, crossing his arms over his chest. “’Tis yours then. Go. Leave me.”
She blinked, unsure of how to respond to this.
“If you can’t trust a Knight of Cameliard to defend you,” he bit out, insulted, “then you’re better off alone. I’ll only slow you down.”
“I’m not leaving you in the forest.”
He gazed stonily off into the woods. “I’m not giving you a choice. I’m not moving from this spot.”
A desperate frustration began to foment within her. She had no time for this nonsense. He was going to come with her, like it or not. She jerked the fallen sword from its sheath and advanced on him.
“You’ll come with me. Now,” she said, slashing a whistling threat through the air.
He faced her with an unwavering gaze. “Nay.”
“Don’t be a fool. I wield a sword.”
He sniffed. “Then you’ll just have to slay me.”
For a long moment, they stared at each other, at an impasse.
Helena knew from his steady eyes that he meant it. He’d let her lop off his head before he’d go with her unarmed, and likely never flinch from the blow. Curse his hide, he was giving her no choice.
“Shite!” She tossed the sword at his feet in surrender and turned her back on him, unwilling to see the triumphant gleam in his eyes. But as she walked away, a thunk sounded beside her in the sod. He’d fired the dagger toward her. With a snort of irritation, she retrieved it, shoving it into her belt. Then she fumed silently as, behind her, she heard Colin buckling on the sword, her sword.
This was why she’d never wished to marry, she reminded herself. With marriage came compromise and sometimes surrender, and she had no desire to do either. She was her own woman, and she was perfectly capable of making her own decisions without the interference of a man who believed himself abler and wiser simply by virtue of being a man.
“You don’t have to assist me if you don’t wish,” he said. “But please stay within a step or two, for safety’s sake.”
“I will assist you,” she insisted, ducking under his arm to take his weight upon her shoulders. Then, so he wouldn’t misunderstand her motives, she grumbled, “If I don’t, ’twill be nightfall before we reach the keep.”
The closer they hobbled toward Rivenloch, the heavier the burden of impending dread became for Helena. For as long as she could remember, the only threats to her land had been the seasonal raiders from neighboring clans, an occasional miscreant passing through, and The Shadow, whose victims tended to be travelers. Rivenloch had seemed an impenetrable fortress.
But now that halcyon age was over. Despite her hopes that the enemy scout had exaggerated their number, that it was only by chance that a band of English mercenaries had wandered into the woods, that they posed no real threat to the Scots, she sensed in her gut that the foe lay as thick upon the land as mold upon year-old cheese.
The scout had overpowered Lord Mochrie. Yet Mochrie was a giant of a man with a chest like a barrel. It would have taken more than just one scout to lay him low. Furthermore, if Mochrie’s four brawny sons were with him, it would have required at least a dozen or so Englishmen to put up a good fight.
To make matters worse, Mochrie’s keep was only a half day’s ride from Rivenloch. If he’d been slain on his own land, then the English army was already close, perilously close.
Indeed, by afternoon, as she climbed to the upper branches of a tall oak to scan the misty countryside, Helena discovered just how close. Though their ranks disappeared into the thickening fog, the infestation of English knights ranged over the hills like fleas on a hound, as far as the eye could see, and they were heading towards Rivenloch.
Her face bloodless, her heart pounding, she scrambled down the tree.
“What is it?” Colin asked.
She shook her head. Her mouth was too dry with fear to speak.
“How many are there?”
She gulped. “A hundred. Maybe more.”
He seized her by the shoulders and demanded her gaze with his own. “Hear me well. Pagan will not let Rivenloch fall. The keep is strong, and the Knights of Cameliard are the best in the land. I swear to you, I will die before I let these English bastards take your castle.”
His words, heartfelt and determined, restored her strength. After a moment, she nodded. “A storm is coming. We have to hurry. Can you run?”
“I will.”
It was all Helena could do to help Colin down the rise once Rivenloch at last came into view. The temptation to tear through the gates was great. But she wouldn’t abandon him, not when he’d run himself half-dead to outpace the English to the castle. So they limped toward the barbican, Helena taking as much of his weight as she could.
Of course, like most men, once in the presence of his captain, Colin claimed his dire wound was but a scratch. Helena, however, spared no details when it came to telling Deirdre about the impending invasion. She gave her an estimate of the enemy’s number, their direction of travel, and a warning about the ominous cast of the sky.
Orders were flung about like gauntlets cast in challenge, as preparations for siege were begun at once.
To Helena’s satisfaction, though Pagan had indeed assumed control of Rivenloch, it appeared Deirdre still held some sway over the Normans. She assigned Helena command over the archers, both Rivenloch’s and Cameliard’s, much to Colin’s vexation, who wished her to take shelter with the other women and children.
At first, Helena was discomfited by the number of Cameliard denizens bustling about the hall. Faces she didn’t recognize surrounded her, Norman knights and ladies and servants who seemed to overrun her Scots keep like mice. Yet they all seemed bent on helping to defend Rivenloch, carrying supplies, aiding the men-at-arms with their weapons, gathering the livestock within the walls. Rivenloch’s people had been drilled in siege preparations, but it appeared that Cameliard’s were well versed in their execution.
She was likewise impressed by the discipline of the Cameliard archers. They never questioned her orders as she lined them up along the curtain wall, and their response was quick and accurate. It was a heady feeling, being in control of such a powerful force. Maybe this Norman-Scots alliance was not so terrible a thing after all.
Indeed, even Deirdre and Pagan seemed to have formed a partnership, at least when it came to protecting the keep. Whether that alliance extended to their bedchamber, Helena didn’t know. But it appeared that while Pagan was unquestionably in charge of the fighting forces, he did so with Deirdre’s counsel.
If only, she thought, all husbands were so agreeable.
Colin was sure he’d been sent on a fool’s errand. Deirdre had requested that he search for her father. Lame as Colin was, he was hardly the man to climb the tower stairs, looking for the addled lord. The high-handed wench had no doubt given Colin the task to keep him out of her way.
Why Pagan let the woman command him, Colin didn’t know. He thought by now his captain would
have tamed the headstrong damsel. But it seemed Pagan had fallen under the enchantment of the Warrior Maid of Rivenloch, and now he bowed to her authority. It was most distasteful, most unwise.
But what gnawed at Colin’s gut the most was the fact that while he hobbled up and down the interior stairs on this futile mission, Helena roamed the curtain wall, the castle’s first line of defense, wholly exposed to the enemy.
That Pagan allowed this was a travesty. She was a maid, for the love of God. Had they not sworn upon their spurs to protect ladies? Yet Pagan posted her at the most vulnerable spot of the castle. The thought made him ill.
And as soon as he finished this task for Deirdre, he intended to climb the curtain wall and relieve Helena, forcibly if need be.
All at once, a deep thud shuddered the walls about him, shaking the very foundations of the tower. He stumbled to one knee as a shower of pebbles rained down upon him. Dust rose in thick plumes as the impact jarred loose the mortar between the ancient castle stones.
Lucifer’s ballocks! Unless lightning had struck the tower, the English must have some war machine. A catapult. Or a trebuchet. The bastards didn’t intend to lay siege then. They meant to attack.
He scrambled to his feet and clambered up the stairs. Aware from the sudden damp draft sweeping past him that a good portion of the tower had been destroyed, he was eager to finish his task before the enemy reduced it completely to rubble.
As misfortune would have it, this was indeed the tower Lord Gellir had ascended. When Colin emerged upon the landing, he found the roof blasted away, completely open to the heavens, which had begun to rage with a punishing storm. And through the heavy rain pelting the splintered oak, he spied the white-haired Viking lord, lost and confused, crawling about the remains of his floor.
“Bloody hell,” Colin said under his breath. Suddenly this fool’s errand had turned into a matter of life and death.
“Lord Gellir!” he called above the rising roar of the storm.
The old man seemed not to hear. Or maybe the voices in his head drowned out Colin’s words.
“Lord Gellir!” he cried again. “Come!”
But as bullheaded as his daughters, the lord turned and began creeping toward the crumbling edge of the tower.
“Nay!” Colin yelled.
But the man couldn’t hear him. Or wouldn’t. Which meant Colin would have to take stronger measures. Muttering a prayer for surefootedness, he limped carefully forward across the rain-slick planks.
“My lord!” he called. “Come away from the edge!”
But Lord Gellir seemed deaf to his pleas. Colin hobbled slowly forward, racking his brain for the right words to reach the old man.
“My lord! Come below!” he beckoned. “We’re starting a game of dice!”
The lord froze and cocked his head.
“I’ve got six shillings!” he continued. “Silver I won off of you a week ago! Do you remember?”
The world seemed to stand still, but for the incessant rain, as the lord’s troubled brain struggled to untangle Colin’s words. He twisted his head about, narrowing sharp blue eyes at Colin.
“Aye, ’tis I, Colin du Lac, Knight of Cameliard,” he said hopefully, brushing the rain-drenched locks from his face. “The Normans need you for a game of dice, my lord.”
But as quickly as the lord’s visage cleared, it clouded again, and the old man resumed his perilous course.
“Nay, my lord!”
Colin cursed in frustration. He dared not follow. Already the floor listed dangerously. If he added his weight to that of Lord Gellir…
“I pray you, my lord, for your daughters’ sake…” he tried, but the old Viking was beyond hearing again.
And then the lord did the unthinkable. At the very precipice of the tower, he struggled to his feet. Colin froze, afraid to move, as the old man raised his arms to the sky like a sacrifice to Thor.
Then a movement beyond the lord, on the nearby hill, caught Colin’s eye. Through the dense curtain of rain, he saw men priming a trebuchet. In another moment, it would fire upon the tower.
Purely on instinct, Colin dove forward, catching the lord about the ankles. But true to his fears, their combined weight caused the floor to tilt, and instead of stumbling backward, Lord Gellir was flung over the edge.
It took all Colin’s strength to hold on, to keep the lord from falling. The Viking warrior was large and heavy as he dangled over the precipice. But Colin clenched the old man’s ankles with a death grip, even as he felt himself slipping inexorably, inch by inch, toward the edge.
It seemed an eternity before relief arrived, and Colin’s arms trembled with fatigue. But when Colin finally heard Pagan’s welcome voice bellowing at him to hold on, he knew he’d succeeded. Lord Gellir was saved.
Before he could rejoice, the air was split by a horrific pounding and the shriek of splitting wood. Colin was shoved backward by an unseen hand. The last thing he remembered was his head thudding against something hard. Then the world went black.
Helena had never heard such ungodly sounds. The second impact shook the entire castle, even the eastern wall where she stood with her archers. Firing off a quick command to them to keep an eye out for sappers, she scrambled down the steps to assess the damage.
Deirdre, too, had heard the noise and was crossing the courtyard toward the west tower when Helena met her. She’d never seen Deirdre look so pale, and when she beheld the destruction to the tower, she saw why.
The floors were completely splintered, leaving the stone tower a hollow shell filled with rubble. The top of the tower and part of the wall had crumbled away. Still, that wasn’t the worst of it. Lord Gellir had been in the tower when it collapsed, and Deirdre wasn’t certain he was still alive.
The two of them clambered up the ruined steps and were digging through the piles of debris, determined to find their father, when Deirdre revealed another chilling detail. Apparently Colin, attempting to save the lord, had climbed the tower a moment before it was hit.
Helena’s heart lurched, and her determination turned to desperation. With treacherous speed, she bolted up the stairs to the top floor, which now lay exposed to the sky.
Splayed upon the tilted planks of the tower like a broken, lifeless quintain was Colin du Lac. His knee had snagged upon a chunk of stonework, saving him from sliding to certain death upon the rocks below. But that meant nothing if he was already dead.
With a sharp cry, she hurtled forward, throwing herself down at his side. His handsome face was as pale as parchment, and his wet locks made dark slashes across his cheek. She swept the hair from his face and took his head between her hands, willing him to wake.
“Come on, Colin,” she muttered, giving his head a shake. “Come on, damn you.”
But he was silent. Rain pelted his face, dribbling between his parted lips. She slipped one hand around the back of his head. It came away bloody.
“Don’t you die on me, Norman,” she bit out.
Her heart hammering at her ribs, she quickly searched for a pulse. Hot tears of anger and desperation rolled down her cheeks to mingle with the cold rain.
“Come on, you son of a—”
At last she found it—a weak heartbeat throbbing in his throat. He was alive. An involuntary sob of relief escaped her.
But there was no time now to try to revive him. From the tower’s edge, Deirdre was crying out for aid.
Lord Gellir had fallen from the tower, outside the wall. Somehow, by the grace of God, he was yet alive, and Pagan had descended to rescue him. But the English were coming at a furious clip, and by the time Pagan tied a rope about Lord Gellir’s waist, Helena and Deirdre had to work with breakneck speed to haul him out of their clutches.
But for Pagan, it was too late. The enemy descended upon him at once. While Helena and Deirdre watched helplessly from above, unable to save him, the English took him captive.
Helena had never seen such tragedy in Deirdre’s eyes as they dragged him away, never heard such
despair in her voice as she screamed for Pagan.
It was then Helena realized the truth. Her sister had fallen in love. She loved her Norman husband.
Helena clutched her sister’s trembling hand as Pagan and his captors disappeared from view.
“I promise you, Deir, we’ll get him back. Somehow. Some way. We won’t let Rivenloch fall.” They were rash words, she knew, but in that moment, she would have said anything to erase the hopelessness in Deirdre’s eyes.
Deirdre gave her a stiff nod.
“Now,” Helena continued, giving her hand a squeeze, “can you take Father below?”
She nodded again. Then her gaze caught on Colin. “Is he..?”
“Alive.” Helena’s voice cracked on the word. “Barely.”
With a quick glance of empathy, Deirdre turned then to take Lord Gellir’s arm, guiding him toward the stairs.
Helena wasted no time. Colin might be alive, but he wasn’t awake. His heart might be beating, but that didn’t mean his body was whole. He might yet breathe, but the crack to his skull might have left him with only half his wits.
A tear wandered down her cheek at the thought.
She angrily swiped it away. It wasn’t like her to weep over such things. She was a warrior, not a worrier. This was only one more battle she must fight. And if there was one thing Helena knew, it was how to wage war.
With a furious oath, she crossed to where he lay and scowled down at his pale and silent form. “Listen, you great overgrown son of a whelp!” she shouted. “You’re going to live. Do you hear me?”
Blowing out a hard breath, she hunkered down and reached under his arms, hefting him up as best she could.
“I did not stitch you up…and nurse you…halfway across Scotland,” she said between clenched teeth, dragging him with great effort across the slippery planks, “just so you could…die…from a stupid bump on the head.”
Chapter 18
Helena had never felt more thwarted in her life. She bit her thumbnail, keeping vigil over Colin beside the hearth of the great hall. The cursed Norman was still unresponsive, despite the goading insults she’d showered upon him. Now she watched in silence for the flutter of an eyelid, the movement of a finger. But mostly she listened with disbelief to the mutiny transpiring among the ranks of Normans.
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