The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  Releasing the girl, Rhiannon hastened from the chamber. Traversing the courtyard, she climbed the stairs of the west wall and, on gaining the top, gazed southward, out over the sea.

  The sight that met her eyes jolted, the familiar lines of the Norse ship calling back dark memories. And yet, on second glance, she realized the vessel was smaller than a Norse warship and the lines dissimilar to those in which she had ridden.

  Upon the mast, the ship carried a great square sail of deepest blue. Its emblem reflected the first rays of dawn, and she now saw it to be a great silver falcon.

  As the ship continued its approach, she spied a man and woman standing at the bow, his hair snow-pale, hers dark red, tossing in the wind like tongues of fire.

  A dark, exultant joy rose in Rhiannon’s breast. She would have her revenge this day after all.

  “At last, Ailinn,” she spoke to the figure at the prow of the ship. “We meet again. This time, there shall be no escape for you. For this time, the day is mine.”

  Rhiannon turned and descended the rough steps. Her mind raced, afire with swift plotting and fresh schemes. Those in the ship still need put into shore and make the long climb to the cliff’s top. When they did, she would be more than ready for them.

  Varya. Where was the man? her thoughts darted. Had he yet to return? She started in search of him. Then changed her mind and headed toward the souterrain.

  »«

  His hands bound before him, Garreth made his way across the crevassed beds of limestone, their bone-white surfaces tinged pink with the first blush of dawn.

  He paused momentarily, but the barbarian prodded him with a staff from behind and grunted for him to move on.

  Garreth continued to pick his way eastward, avoiding the turf-filled fissures that could easily trap a foot or twist an ankle. Rhiannon’s words had required no translation. She had ordered Varya to kill him. Now, Garreth wondered, where in this forsaken place did the heathen propose to fulfill the deed? Or, leastwise, attempt it.

  Garreth readied to give challenge. Though without benefit of a weapon and his hands tied, he must not fail. Should he die, so might Ailénor.

  Garreth scanned the surroundings as Varya shoved him onward. Not far ahead, the limestone plain gave way to a low-lying field, blanketed with scrubby vegetation. Off to the right, a stream sparkled against the bleak landscape, obviously issuing from the distant hills.

  Verging on the edge of the field, Varya brought him to a halt and drew his sword. Garreth tensed. To his surprise, Varya moved around him and, taking his long blackthorn staff, stabbed at the ground before gesturing Garreth forward.

  The earth sank beneath Garreth’s feet, spongy beneath the bracken. A peat bog, he realized as he took another step.

  Garreth watched the blackthorn staff, its knobbed end where the root once grew, bobbing at the air as Varya methodically jabbed at the ground. Slowly they progressed deeper into the bog land, the cool air of the Burren now turning moist.

  Garreth glanced again to the stream and saw how it disappeared into the earth short of reaching the field. ‘Twould likely feed the peat field from beneath, creating a treacherous mire. Ailénor’s words sprang vividly to mind — the bogs could suck even a strong man straight under.

  Realizing Varya’s plan to inter him in the bog moor, Garreth steeled himself and waited to seize the most favorable moment. If he misjudged, there would be no second chance. Even now, as Varya tested the bog, he held his sword ready for any sudden move on his part.

  Garreth studied the barbarian’s movements. He deemed he held but one advantage over the tribesman in this more than unequal situation. Before he could think further on it, the blackthorn staff sank deep into the bog, the suction proving so strong, Varya had to wrest it free with considerable effort.

  Garreth braced himself, every muscle battle-tense, as Varya turned toward him. The heathen’s black eyes smiled as he brought up his sword.

  »«

  Alarm rippled through Ailénor as Rhiannon appeared in the passage, her hair streaming about her shoulders, her eyes bright and fierce with excitement.

  “Bind her,” Rhiannon snapped out, sending the two bony servants who trailed in her shadow scrambling to Ailénor’s side.

  Dragging her to her feet, they forced Ailénor’s hands to her back and rapidly tied her wrists. Then unlocking the manacle that cuffed her ankle, they hauled her before Rhiannon.

  Ailénor twisted against the servants’ hold and glared at the scarred woman before her. “Where is Garreth? What have you done with him?”

  Rhiannon’s lips curled, malicious as a snake’s. “He accompanied Varya for a walk in the Burren. I expect Varya to return any moment.” She added the last with obvious relish, enjoying the grief she inflicted. “But now, Ailénor of Héricourt, ‘tis your turn to take a short walk.”

  Rhiannon’s gaze sliced to the servants. “Bring her!” Pivoting, she ascended the stairs, her cloak billowing behind her.

  The servants hastened Ailénor up the steps, shoving her roughly and causing her to stumble time and again. Emerging from the souterrain, they drove her across the courtyard no less gently, following Rhiannon to the far wall that loomed above the sea.

  Rhiannon stopped before the stairs and rounded on Ailénor. Unsheathing the jeweled knife at her waist, she seized Ailénor and pressed the blade to her side, sending the servants shambling back.

  “Come.” Her eyes glittered, filled with dark purpose. “A surprise awaits you. At the top.”

  Ailénor’s thoughts reeled as Rhiannon compelled her up one step, then another. Did the woman mean to toss her from the ancient wall to the rocks and sea below?

  Higher they climbed, Ailénor finding each step more difficult than the last as a deep foreboding invaded her soul. Rhiannon prodded her on with the knife’s deadly point, until many anxious minutes later, they gained the top and stepped onto its uneven surface.

  Ailénor’s blood froze as her gaze spilled over the edge and down the plummeting cliff. Her stomach rolled, and her head swam as an encroaching blackness filled her vision. Feeling herself sway, she caught herself but found her footage perilously unstable with her hands bound behind her.

  Ailénor shut her eyes against the nightmare, but found that only made her feel much worse.

  “See who rushes to your aid,” Rhiannon hissed at her ear and gave her a shake.

  Ailénor cracked open her eyes against her fear, her heart drumming in her breast. Snatching a glance below, she saw naught but hungry, churning waters. But as she cast a second glance southward along the shoreline, her eyes met with a sail of silver and blue. Her eyes widened as she recognized her uncle’s ship putting into shore where she and Garreth had disembarked the day before and where the other boat still remained.

  Hope swelled bright and sweet, then withered, choked with fresh fears. What wickedness did this madwoman plan?

  As though hearing her thoughts, Rhiannon dragged Ailénor farther along the wall, then held her fast before her, displaying her for her parents to see.

  Ailénor’s foot slipped on loose rubble, sending the pieces hurtling off the wall and leaving her foot overhanging the edge. She went rigid beneath Rhiannon’s grasp, but the woman took no notice.

  “Behold your daughter, Ailinn!” Rhiannon cried out to the ship, as though those below could hear her. “Come for her if you will. And trade your place with hers.”

  Rhiannon gave forth a cackling laugh, the sound of it chilling Ailénor to the marrow. Braving a glance to her parents, she found and met their gaze.

  Ailénor dreaded to think what they might attempt in order to save her. Dreaded to think what Rhiannon might do to reap her revenge. Dreaded to think what might have already befallen Garreth in the forbidding plains of the Burren.

  “Merciful God,” she whispered, her heart raw with anguish. “Deliver us. Deliver us all.”

  »«

  The heathen’s eyes remained fixed on Garreth as he leveled his sword at Garreth’s
chest and dropped aside the blackthorn staff. Slowly, purposefully, he stepped from the edge of the peat mire and began to encircle his prey.

  Garreth turned in unison, never allowing him his back, never taking his gaze from the barbarian’s face.

  Varya continued to maintain the distance between them as he circled, maneuvering Garreth ever closer to the deadly mire. Coming to a standstill, he planted his feet shoulder width apart and motioned for Garreth to kneel amidst the bracken.

  Garreth stood immobile, holding the heathen’s gaze. He presumed Varya intended to either decapitate him or run him through, a cold execution without challenge or sport — quick, clean, final. He could not allow it.

  Once he knelt, Garreth knew he would forfeit his maneuvering capability. Bound as he was, his sole advantage lay in his agility. Varya might be iron-muscled and strong as an ox, but his movements were stiff and systematic. Garreth’s hope lay in his own quickness. And mayhap in the unpredictable element of surprise.

  Again Varya motioned him to his knees. Garreth saw but two options — to feign he did not understand or to refuse outright to follow Varya’s biddings. He chose the latter and shook his head.

  Varya’s look darkened at first, but then changed altogether. A fire lit the depths of his eyes, spreading through the black pools. ‘Twas evident the barbarian found pleasure in the unexpected challenge. And welcomed it.

  Again Varya began to circle. Casting his sword from hand to hand, he drew Garreth’s gaze, then caught the sword hilt in his left palm and whirled the length of steel in a flashy display. Without pause, he reached with his free hand to the back of his belt and produced a slim-bladed dagger. Varya smiled, carving the space before him, his blood rising for the kill.

  Garreth ignored the heavy drubbing in his veins and shut out all distraction, sharpening his concentration on the barbarian.

  Varya continued to circle — slowly, deliberately, swinging and slicing the sword blade through the air with a flourish meant to mesmerize. Meanwhile, his other hand posed the dagger, ready for the sting. Alert to his cunning, Garreth knew he would need take Varya off balance, striking low beneath the threat of the blades for Varya’s most vulnerable point, his knees.

  Garreth shifted his stance to remain facing the barbarian, but as he stepped back a pace, he felt a strong pull at his boot, as though a hand had reached from the bog and trapped it, towing it down. Quickly Garreth retracted his foot and glanced over the ground covering. ‘Twas impossible to tell where the treacherous parts of the bog lay. Only a few rocks surfaced above the scrubby growth, indicating more solid ground.

  Varya’s movement recaptured Garreth’s attention. Having seen the mishap, the heathen’s eyes now shined all the brighter. He licked the dagger’s blade and set it between his teeth. Emitting a low, animallike growl, he issued a challenge and closed on Garreth, spinning his sword from hand to hand.

  Garreth braced himself. In the corner of his vision, he glimpsed the blackthorn staff lying amid the bracken. As Varya pressed in, he edged toward it. Once within reach, he gauged the moment, then dove for the staff, knowing Varya’s sword would swiftly follow.

  Falling atop the staff, Garreth clamped hold of it with both hands and instantly rolled. The sword slashed downward, whooshing past his head and shoulder, scarcely missing him.

  Again Garreth rolled. As he came onto his back, Varya snatched the blade from his teeth, flipped it over, and hurled it. Garreth’s eyes widened as the knife lodged in the staff, separated from his face by only a few inches of wood.

  Without losing the moment, Garreth curled upward and struck out for Varya’s knees. The staff vibrated in his hands as it made contact with the iron-forged barbarian, hitting him a fraction too low.

  Varya grunted but did not budge, Garreth’s attempt serving only to provoke him. As Varya turned toward him, Garreth brought up the staff to direct a second blow, but Varya swept down his sword and sheared off its end.

  Garreth swallowed his surprise and, before Varya could raise his blade, rammed the staff into his abdomen. The heathen hunched forward. Quickly Garreth brought up the staff’s reverse end, clouting him hard aside the head and with enough force to send him staggering backward.

  Rapidly Garreth rolled onto his stomach, anchoring the staff with his weight. Bringing up his wrists, he set the ropes against the knife’s blade, where it still protruded from the shaft. He sawed at the bindings, but before he could cut through, Varya came at him, both hands clenching his upraised sword. As the blade hewed downward, Garreth rolled apart of the staff and knife.

  Varya kicked the staff away and stalked him, blood trickling from his cheek. Hoisting his sword, he slashed for Garreth’s back. Garreth lurched aside, unharmed. But when he started to lift up, the blade sliced crosswise, grazing the top of his hair as it whished past in a breeze of cool air.

  Garreth shot a glance to where the blackthorn staff and knife now lay. He needed to make a try for them. But again Varya struck downward. And again Garreth wrenched back and watched the sword bite into the ground. Astonishingly it sank into the bog, rooting in a pocket of mire — all the deeper with Varya’s weight pressing upon it.

  Varya straightened, yanking and twisting hard upon the hilt, then staggering back as it came free. Taking advantage of Varya’s instability, Garreth drove upward, slamming into Varya’s rib cage and heaving him backward a short distance.

  The sword dropped from Varya’s hand as he pitched back and thudded gracelessly to the ground. Garreth lunged atop it. Catching the blade between his hands, he propped it up and pressed the wrist bindings against its keen edge. The ropes fell away, and he shifted back, his hands closing about the sword’s hilt.

  Without warning, Varya rushed him. The barbarian’s foot caught him below the ribs like a battering ram, stealing his breath and sending him sprawling, his grip loosening on the sword.

  Varya stepped past the weapon, a ferocious look upon his face. Reaching down, he grabbed Garreth just beneath the jaw and hauled him to his feet. Straight-arming him, Varya raised Garreth to his toes, then slowly compressed his fingers, squeezing off his supply of air.

  Garreth gripped Varya’s hand, trying to pry the fingers loose. When he made no progress, he locked his hands together and struck down on Varya’s arm, hammering at the joint of his inner elbow.

  Varya’s arm bent beneath the blows. Seizing the opening, Garreth came immediately across Varya’s face with his own elbow, quick and sharp, driving across the barbarian’s cheek and nose, the latter giving way with a snap and gush of blood.

  Varya staggered back, his grip slackening on Garreth’s throat. Garreth heaved for breath, but Varya brought up his other hand and joined it with the first, wrapping it around Garreth’s neck.

  As the heathen increased his pressure, Garreth grabbed for his wrists, then yanked them hard and to one side, managing to open Varya’s side to him. Swiftly Garreth brought up his knee and rammed it into Varya’s gut, causing him to lurch back several paces. The barbarian dragged Garreth with him, his grip on Garreth’s neck holding fast. Again Garreth kneed him, driving him back several more paces.

  Infuriated, Varya pressed Garreth upward, still gripping him by the throat, then, twisting his body, attempted to toss Garreth from his hip and throw him to the ground. But Garreth twisted, too, realizing Varya’s intent to trap him beneath him and finish his deed. Together they toppled into the bracken and rolled.

  Suddenly Garreth felt the bog give under his side, a nightmarish feeling of the earth turning soft as custard and opening to swallow them whole. Using all his strength, he carried through on the roll, ensuring when they stopped that Varya lay beneath him.

  Eye to eye with Garreth and hate in his glare, Varya maintained his crushing grip. Garreth countered, seizing Varya’s thick neck with both his hands and squeezing tight. Slowly they sank in the mire, strength pitted against strength all the while the bog discharging a hideous stench as their bodies displaced the peat.

  Garreth shifted h
is weight forward, pressing down on Varya and forcing his head to sink all the more quickly. Alarm touched the heathen’s eyes as he realized they were descending into the bog. Focusing back on Garreth, the hate returned to his eyes, coupled with a determination to take Garreth with him. Varya held Garreth with a death grip. At the same time Garreth bore down and watched the barbarian’s features disappear into the thick, brown mire.

  Pain centered in Garreth’s chest, his need for air crucial. Still he maintained his hold and pressure on Varya, resolving that even should he die, the heathen would not rise to bring harm to Ailénor.

  Spots mottled Garreth’s vision as he sank farther with Varya, the cool mire beginning to encase him. His chest burned, and his thoughts began to close off one by one. Still he pressed down on the heathen, holding before his eyes the vision of the woman he loved.

  Of a sudden, Varya’s grip loosened. Air rushed into Garreth’s lungs, and he gasped it greedily. As he did, the strength drained from Varya’s fingers. They trailed down the front of Garreth’s tunic, then fell away, his hand slowly disappearing into the bog.

  Garreth continued to heave for air, his grip still firm on Varya, assuring’ he would pose no more of a threat. But Garreth realized he, too, was fast sinking. Reason told him he could not be far from more solid ground. Yet as he considered the bracken that surrounded him, he wondered where it lay.

  Spotting the blackthorn staff several yards away, he believed it to be at least partially on safer ground. Carefully he spread out his weight, then slowly rolled toward it, away from where Varya lay entombed in peat. He remained motionless on his back, allowing the mire to flow around his arms and legs, waiting to see if he would sink. When he did not, he slowly — very slowly — rolled once more.

  Again he lay motionless. Finally, reaching out for the staff, he brushed it with his fingertips. On a second riskier try he caught hold of it.

  Using the blackthorn’s knobbed end, Garreth probed the ground, trying to find something to catch on to. The shallow roots of the plants gave way under his attempts, ripping from the bog. Garreth tested the ground further, thinking to perhaps dig into the spongy peat enough to pull himself forward. Just then the staff knocked against something hard. A rock.