The man laughed softly, a husky, chilling sound in the darkness. “Stay still, girl! Lady Melisande. Lady, lady, lady!”
She inched back against the wall. For a while it seemed that he pressed his hands against the dank stone on the opposite wall. She held her breath again. He was coming in a circle. She would have to move again, or he would find her.
She did so. He did not hear her, as his hands were slapping against the stone.
It went on.
She began to wonder desperately just how long she could hide from the man in the darkness. Could this game go on forever?
She thought about seeking the doorway. Perhaps he was the man sent to guard her.
And perhaps he was not. Perhaps it was another Dane, and if she dared touch the door, she would find herself trying to elude two. Should she move for it?
But then he swore softly, and heavy, impatient footsteps took him across the floor once again.
He was opening the door himself, up the steps, not far from where she stood, just cracking it to allow some of the torchlight from the underground hallway to leak in upon them. There was still little to be seen, except for silhouettes and shadows.
Her silhouette, a clean dark shadow upon the wall.
“Ah!” The man cried.
He bounded for her. She gasped and evaded him, sweeping by him. She tried for the door. He reached her on the steps, dragged her back. She beat her fists against him, she started to scream. His hand fell upon her mouth, and she was shoved down to the floor. She twisted and bit into fleshy fingers. He swore and cuffed her cheek, stunning her. The cloak, her only garment, was slipping away, and she could feel the rough texture of his clothing biting against her tender flesh, feel his hands, his weight.
Tears sprang into her eyes. He lifted his weight for a moment to free himself for his purpose, and she slammed her foot up against him with all of her strength.
A gasp escaped him, and then a bellow. Melisande rolled swiftly, leaping to her feet again. He was behind her, seized her, threw her back. She felt the hiss of his breath as he came close again.
But then he was suddenly lifted off her, thrown across the room. He fell hard against the wall, swore, leapt to his feet.
There were two men in the room, two Danes, Melisande thought. One lunged at the other now, and they were on the floor, dark shadows, wildly tearing at one another. She heard the sounds of blows, but then, in the darkness, she heard something more.
Knives. Knives met and clashed. And now flailed in the darkness.
She began to inch for the doorway but then went still, hearing a different sound.
That of a knife sinking into flesh. She held her breath. The two men had been standing.
Now one sank slowly to the floor.
She paused, barely breathing. The victor turned his eyes toward her.
She made a desperate leap for the door.
“No, Melisande!”
She couldn"t comprehend her own name at first, she was so terrified. She was trying to run until she could run no more.
But once again fingers wound into her cloak.
She was dragged back hard. She kept fighting. “No, no, no … !” She found herself spun around, pressed to the wall, a hand falling over her mouth once again.
“Melisande! It is me!”
Conar!
She went still, limp, disbelieving. Her teeth began to chatter. She was shaking so badly that she could not stand. She started to sink to the floor, and he caught her, lifting her into his arms, carrying her to where the greatest filtering of light from the cracked doorway now offered some dim respite against the shadows. With her in his arms, he went down upon his knee.
Indeed, it was him. Wolf skins covered his chest and shoulders and buffered his tunic of mail. His conical helmet, allowing only his fierce blue eyes to show, covered his head and nose. He stared down at her, seeing the rough borrowed cloak, the dirt that smudged her body, the tears in her eyes. His voice was suddenly impassioned, whispered, but filled with rage. “By the gods, if they"ve hurt you—!”
She shook her head wildly, fighting for reason. In all her life she had never been so terribly frightened, nor had she ever felt so keenly her own weakness.
But he was here now. He had come for her after all.
She fought for words, trying to still her shaking, trying to stop the tears that dampened her eyes, slid to her cheeks. “The ride was rough. This hole is damp and chill, but Geoffrey threw me here and left, and you—you came before this man could do me much ill.”
His hands moved upon her suddenly, covering the length of her. Stroking her cheek, assuring himself, she realized, that she was well and whole. They moved over her nakedness, and she curled against him, her arm around his shoulder, and a ragged sob escaped her.
“Melisande …” For a moment his hand stroked the tangled black fall of her hair. But then he pulled her away, his touch firm. He met her eyes. “Can you walk, can you stand?”
Her eyes widened on his. She realized that he was here, alone, dressed completely in Viking attire.
There had been so many Danes when she had arrived, littering the rocks and ruins beneath the moonlight.
“Can you stand?”
She nodded, bracing herself against his shoulders, managing to stand.
She was shaking still. But she released her hold upon him, standing of her own accord, the cloak falling back in place to cover her.
He stood before her.
“How did you get here?” she whispered quickly.
There was a fiery glitter in the blue eyes that gazed at her. “I told you, I would never let you go.”
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms. “I didn"t try to leave, Conar, I didn"t run. They came. They came into the keep, up the stairs …”
“Shh, shh! I know! But stay quiet. We"ve got to get out of here for now.”
“You"re going to fight all those Danes out there, alone?” He shook his head slowly. “I am going to walk right through them, just as I did coming here. Now listen. You must pretend that I am one of them. An awful enemy. Maybe that won"t be so hard.”
She winced inwardly, her lashes low. “Conar—”
“My apologies, lady. We"ve no time for recriminations. It must appear that you are the prisoner still, that I just escort you from one place to another. Do you understand?”
She nodded. Conar opened the heavy door. The hall was empty.
Her only guard had been the one who lay dead just behind her.
She inhaled, feeling Conar"s hand upon her arm. “Swiftly,” he warned her.
She ran down the hallway, clutching the cloak tightly to her throat. As they neared the end of the hallway, where the ancient, uneven stones reached back up to the cool air and soft blanket of night, they were suddenly challenged.
“Who"s there?”
A man in leather sandals, short trousers, and skins hurried down the steps.
“Where are you taking Geoffrey"s woman?”
“Friend, I am taking her out,” Conar said smoothly.
“Wait!”
The Dane drew a sword. “Taking her where?”
“Home!” Conar announced. The strength of his arm propelled her behind him, and instantly his sword was drawn. The Dane lunged, Conar lunged in return, his sword entering the man"s belly. “Home, friend,” Conar repeated as the man fell, and he withdrew his sword. “She is not Geoffrey"s woman but mine!”
The Dane was dead, and Conar stepped around him. Melisande stood still, stunned, staring at the man.
“We must move,” Conar told her.
She started for the steps.
“Nay, not these. Take the corridor there.”
Melisande paused. Her gaze met Conar"s and his hand gripped hers again.
She had scarcely seen the near black opening to a further hallway.
But now he led her along it. At first she could see nothing. Then, barefooted, she tripped upon something on the ground. She
staggered, for the object had pierced her flesh. She reached down, trying not to step upon it again.
She lifted a bone. A human bone.
A shriek rose in her.
“Shh!” Conar swiftly silenced her, taking the offending femur from her hands and tossing it aside.
“What is this place?” she cried.
“A Roman burial chamber. Come, let"s go. It lets out far closer to the woods.”
She inhaled. She stepped carefully again, yet a gasp left her lips, for the floor here was littered with bones.
As were the walls, she realized.
Row after row of bodies lay in perfect symmetry to her left. Some nothing more than bone, some still clothed in ancient costume, some in shrouds, and some left to rot with no gentle gauze to cover the ravages of death …
“Oh, my God!” she whispered. “You"ve brought me through a city of death!”
“Milady, I am trying to rescue you!” he reminded her, sweeping her off the floor as she gasped at another sharp fragment in her way. His eyes touched her.
“You are not supposed to complain about the method.” She was still terrified, yet his words made her smile. “Your pardon, milord. I will take care that should I be abducted in the future, I will do so with shoes.”
“And clothing!” he reminded her curtly.
“You had just left me,” she said softly.
They were far from safe as yet, Melisande knew. But as those eyes touched her, she felt a furious trembling begin again within her. She felt amazingly secure at this moment, protected, warm, safe.
Incredibly happy.
He had come for her.
The strength of his arms was around her. The heat of him filled her.
Why had she ever sailed away?
Because he had ridden off to war.
But she had been wrong. No matter how great her passion for home, she had been wrong. She wanted to tell him so, but he moved too swiftly, it was not the time, or the place.
Yet would they ever have the time, or the place?
He fell silent, his long strides carrying them quickly through the hallway of corpses. She lay against the cool metal of his mail, her eyes closed.
Then he set her down again, pulling on her arm so that she followed him.
She saw there was another set of white stone steps just ahead of them, steps that led back up to the moonlit night.
“Up the steps, quickly,” he commanded, and she scrambled up, nearly slipping on their lichen-covered slickness.
Then they were out in the moonlight. Her breath caught.
The Danes were everywhere. Clumped in groups by rocks and boulders, resting on the remnants of ancient stone walls.
Fires burned.
Melisande closed her eyes for a moment against the things the fall of night could not hide.
Vikings could be so coldly, brutally cruel. They sometimes played with their captives before killing them.
They sometimes killed them very slowly, binding them to trees, cutting out their entrails, and letting them die thus. They were known to cook their meals in the stomachs of their slain enemies.
There were bodies tied to trees. Sagging bodies. The scent of blood was rich on the air.
And they were alone amidst all of this. If they were captured again, Geoffrey would only take her back.
He would kill Conar in the most hideous way possible.
Her knees grew weak. His hand was upon her elbow again. “Nay! Don"t fail me now!”
She shook her head. “Walk. See the rise of wall there? Let"s keep to the rear of it. And hurry along. It must seem that I am escorting you as I have been commanded.”
She nodded and began to walk. They covered some fair distance. She realized that Conar was trying to reach a place where the Roman wall had ended, where the forest still claimed the land.
They had traveled some distance before Conar was suddenly tapped on the shoulder. He paused, turning back swiftly. Three men stood behind them.
“Where are you taking the woman?”
“He has sent for her.”
“He has sent for her? You are going the wrong way.” Conar started to shrug. Then one of them laughed. “Ah, it"s not like the lovely countess has no knowledge of a man, eh? There"s nothing to be saved for his fine Frankish pleasure!”
“Being wed to a Viking,” another agreed. “She"ll be craving more than his poor sword!”
“We take her out, share her, return her,” the third said, “and no one is the wiser!” He bellowed out a laugh. “And if anyone is the wiser, then damn them, for he does not pay us enough to keep us from such a tempting morsel.”
“Share her …” Conar murmured. Melisande"s eyes widened on him, but he wasn"t even glancing her way. “The clump of trees yonder, behind our lines.
Let"s take her there.”
Melisande opened her mouth to protest. Conar"s hand slammed down upon it, and the other men quickly formed a guard around him, hiding the fact that he now dragged her along. She struggled against his hand, for she couldn"t breathe. He lifted her off the ground, and her toes dangled just above it.
They passed by the rocks where the Danes lay and drank and kept a casual guard. They passed the end of the broken wall and entered the trees.
“Here!” Someone commanded.
“Deeper!” Conar said. “We cannot afford for others to hear her screams.”
“Aye!” came a simultaneous cry.
And so they moved deeper into the woods, into darkness. They came at last to a cove with pine carpeting. They could still see the fires, but they were some distance away.
“Here!” the biggest of the men demanded again. Like Conar, he was clad in mail. His helmet was winged, with no nose guard. He was heavyset, and not as well muscled as many of his fellows. The man behind him was shorter, but square, stout, and heavy-muscled. The third was slimmer, well built.
“Aye … here …”
Her eyes widened with alarm again as he brought her forward, dropped her instantly, and unsheathed his sword, swinging on the others.
“What—” began the heavyset one.
“Friends, she is mine!” Conar said quietly.
“By all the fires of a bloody Christian hell!” the heavy one exclaimed. “By the rood, man, she is ours!”
He, too, drew his sword, lunging forward quickly. Conar waved a hand to Melisande, and she leapt behind a tree trunk, her heart in her throat as she waited.
“Take her then!” Conar commanded.
The first man fell to his goading and rushed forward. There was no real clash of swords. He lunged wildly for Conar"s throat, and Conar instantly parried the blow, then drove his blade homeward at the man"s nape. He fell with a loud whooshing sound.
It had all happened so fast. His two companions instantly drew weapons, the one a mace, the other a sword, and began to circle Conar. Conar crouched low, watching them both. They rushed him. He parried the mace, but the sword slashed across his chest. He grunted with the force of it, yet his mail kept the blade from piercing his flesh. He staggered back and shoved his foot against the chest of the first man to come for him again. The man fell back, stumbled.
The other waved his mace in the air and brought it crashing down. Conar moved with seconds to spare. The heavy steel ball of the weapon crashed into a tree trunk when it might have cleaved his skull.
He swung around swiftly, catching the sword wielder in the side. The man screamed, staggering backward. Conar inched for him, trying to retrieve his weapon. He drew it back, but the last man slammed his weight against his shoulders just then, and the weapon flew.
Melisande cried out in horror, watching as the man swung again and again, as Conar leapt and ducked, watching him, fighting for his life.
The sword!
She left the tree trunk and dived for the silver weapon shimmering beneath the moonlight.
The man had left Conar, he was fast approaching her. She leapt to her feet, waving it before her.
“Melisand
e! Give it to me!”
The mace swung toward her blade. The strength of it was shattering. Conar was circling around. She tossed the weapon to him swiftly. The Dane lunged.
Conar stepped before her, shoving her back again. The mace swung. Conar ducked. He swung his sword. The blow was good. He caught this opponent in the throat as well. Blood spilled out as the man sank to his knees.
But Conar sank down, too. He fell back, flat upon the ground. His eyes closed.
Melisande leapt beside him, tapping his cheek beneath the steel of his visor.
“Conar!” she cried with alarm, her heart seeming to shatter. How had he been hurt? When the blow? She hadn"t seen it. Did he bleed, did he lay dying?
“Conar!” she cried out again, touching his throat, seeking the beat of his life.
His eyes flew open, shattering brilliant blue upon her. “Winded, tired. It took you long enough to go for that sword!”
“Oh!” she cried out. “You"re all right—”
He sat up.
“Aye, for the moment.”
“How dare you scare me so!”
“Lady, I but fell for a moment! Those fellows were heavy, not to mention that I just carried you down the length of that full corridor!”
“My feet are grievously torn!”
“Aye.”
“You offered to share me with the three!”
“How else escape them, Melisande? Have you ever known me to share something so thoroughly mine as a wife?”
Of course not. She had just been so riddled with fear.
“Nay, you do not share such things!” she agreed softly.
“Alas, the sword could have been gotten a shade sooner!”
“You told me to get behind the tree.”
“You"ve decided to obey me now?” he queried.
“Nay, I just—oh!” she cried out, flushing, but he smiled, then his smiled faded, and he pressed a finger to her lips. “I have brought us too far to the east now. We must make our way back through the woods. Quickly. Before our trail of dead men is discovered, and Geoffrey realizes that you are gone.” He came to his feet and reached for her hand.
MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves Page 33
