Viking Fire (16 page)

A ship painted with blue and white swirls. On the bow a red dragon head with gold eyes stared at her.

Her horse skidded to a stop and then sidestepped at the sight of the dragon’s head moving straight towards them.

So far, her handmaid’s hunches proved right, if her ranting could be called hunches. She hoped the pattern continued.

Doubt snatched her breath away. What if these were raiders? They would sail away with her, leaving Bram to die. Or worse, she thought, he may believe she abandoned him.

In turn, each man looked at her and then nudged the man next to him. Contagious silence shifted around the men until all stood watching her.

The dragon ship was set against a grassy knoll.

Sweat rolled down her back. The friar robes itched her skin, but she dared not move. The rope belt across her middle became too constricting. She forced her breaths.

“Are you men,” she cringed, hearing her voice squeak, she straightened her shoulders, “friends or enemies of Bram?”

They stared at her and then each other. One of the giants loomed closer. His red hair was like burning embers caught the sunlight.

Her horse skittered and he snatched the reins. “Who is you?” He spoke in broken Gaelic and Norse. “Friend or foe of Bram?”

“Wi—er, friend,” she corrected. How easily the word wife wanted to tumble from her lips. Curse Elva thrice for this nonsense.

He grinned, which Kaireen could not tell if it was from happiness or cunning. Then he hauled her to him and she shrieked.

Before she drew another breath to scream, he gave her a hug and she thought her bones were bruised.

After he released her, others took his place. Each hugged her until the last one hugged her tighter than the first.

She shook her head and then pushed against him. Like trying to knock down an oak tree. “Listen. Bram needs your help.”

They looked at her puzzled.

“Fight. Bram needs you to fight with him.” She waved her arms, pretending to wield a sword.

The man tossed her back on her horse. She grunted as her backside ached from the landing. She repositioned herself on her horse so as not to fall. Hearing leaves crunch in the distance, she glanced ahead.

From the fog, Elva appeared on a spotted black horse. She circled round Kaireen, her lips forming a taught line. “As many as I thought.” She nodded her head.

Her linen head covering was gone and her grey hair flowed down her back. She appeared to Kaireen both ancient and young.

“I did as you requested. Now what?” She clenched the reins in her fists, refusing to scratch at the monk’s robe. “It would take them a day or more to run to aid on foot. And the closest river flows away from my father’s lands.”

Elva smiled peering into the distance, to the circle of trees on the hill above them. “Ahh, here they come now. They must have stopped for drink longer than I wanted.”

Kaireen stared at her handmaid. The woman had gone mad.

Surely she did not expect the fairy folk to fly them to the keep? If this was her handmaid’s plan all was lost.

Any moment the banshee’s keen warning of her family’s death would pierce the silence. Instead, a thundering sounded from the hilltop.

Through the mist and crescendo, horses stampeded. Kaireen gaped. Together as though they had one mind, horses raced. All wore saddles and reins. They stopped as one, a foot from Elva.

Elva sat on her spotted mare, her eyes twinkled. She waved the men to the horses. “One for each of you.”

Her handmaid sounded like a horse was handpicked for each of the men; as though horses ready for battle appeared all the time.

The men scampered onto the mounts.

Elva nudged her mare and the others followed her lead, but Kaireen did not see or hear any commands from her handmaid to make the beast follow. Did the beasts read minds, then?

“Wait not there with your mouth open for flies,” she said. “The sands of time spill away.”

Elva raced ahead. Her livery and spotted black horse cut away the fog opening a path for the others to follow.

Rhiannon smirked at the scene. From her mistress’ window, she watched the battle. Both the laird and lady waited at the far end of the keep, in the west guard tower. The last place an enemy would look for them.

But Rhiannon knew. She helped Feoras drag them by their hair then rip the fine damask clothing from them.

Previous skirmishes with the O’Neill clan had created this west tower as a better concealment for them.

She may allow her master and mistress to live, as her pets. Until she received her fill of their remorse for causing her servitude here, they would answer for their snobbery to their new lady.

The Liannon clan’s scattered bodies littered the courtyard.

Never again would she tend the dyes. Never again suffer the whimsical commands of the Laird and Lady Liannon.

She would be lady of the Liannon and the O’Neill lands.

At seeing the Lochlann’s horse collapse beneath him, she clapped her hands in joy. Leaning forward on the stone windowsill, she watched.

She hated not seeing her husband die…the void of death in his eyes. If it had not been for her son, the man might have outlived them all.

She fingered the purple velvet dress she now wore. Snatched during the laundering, as she knew her mistress would not have the chance to ask for it again.

She told the laundry women her mistress wanted the gown straightway. But she lied to Lady Liannon, telling her she caned the launder maids for ripping the fabric.

Rhiannon tailored the violet gown to her measurements. She would grace her subjects as the lady. Her hair was stretched tight in a bun. She smoothed her grey hair to ensure no strand shifted its way loose.

Soon she would meet her loyal clansmen, loyal men to her son and her. Then, they would take the west tower.

And to ensure the Liannon clan’s cooperation, and avoid any future uprisings, Kaireen, the foolish girl, would be wed to her son.

As soon as she birthed a son, she would die in childbirth.

Rhiannon would rather another wife for her son, Rebecca or Constance. Both would be manageable. Neither would vie for her son’s attention with her.

But Kaireen was too strong minded, unbecoming of a lady. Rhiannon would pay for herbs to get her ripe with child on their marriage night with a son.

After nine moons, she would be rid of her. An O’Neill midwife would deliver the babe into the hands of his new mother. And she would ensure Kaireen would never hold her son. Never force her taint upon the child.

Simple enough for her to die after the birthing. No one would be suspicious. Herbs would cause her to bleed out her life, unable to wake from fever. The midwife would be her witness to Kaireen’s failing health.

Rhiannon would have a future laird to raise. Would mold him as she had Feoras. And he would reign after his father when the time was right. He would rule all of this land and conquer others.

He would be better than her son, whom she had not been able to raise through adulthood. Because of her meddling husband, she was forced to abandon her son, her clan.

Movement from the corner of her eye outside caught her attention. She chided herself for not watching the battle. This was her and Feoras’ victory. They would sing ballads of his triumph by the fire.

She wanted this scene etched in her mind forever. Turning back to the window a gasp escaped her. She straightened, rubbing her eyes against the mirage.

Men fought, oblivious to all, except killing their foe. High in her mistress’ chambers, she saw everything.

Feoras laughed as men piled onto Bram. Did her son not see the eerie fog creeping around them? From all sides of the courtyard, as though stalking them?

The courtyard was not engulfed in the mist yet. Edges of the mist rose and fell; slithering like a snake underneath a sleeper’s bed. Rhiannon watched, frozen, as the fog thickened, and spread further until it concealed everything.

Kaireen slapped away a piece of her auburn hair. Willing her mare to keep in view of Elva, she snapped the reins.

A glance around her, she found that the Lochlanns matched her pace.

Yesterday, she would have never thought to race alongside their kind. Now they were her only hope to save her family—and Bram.

In the distance, the fog enclosed as a wall after the last man hurried forward.

Elva.

If they survived this battle, and Bram lived, she would have a long discussion with her handmaid. No slipping round the matter like the woman normally did.

She prayed their horses swifter. Their horses’ huffs and pounding hooves resonated through the trees.

Miles stretched on and on ’til Kaireen thought they must have reached the other side of Ireland by now.

The Lochlanns galloped with her. All watched for signs of the enemy. Beside her the flame haired giant rode. She worried the gelding he rode strained with effort carrying the massive man.

At her stare, he gave her a quick smile. She smiled back then focused on the trail ahead.

She thought of Bram. He must stay alive. She tried to ignore the vision clouding her mind of his body stiff among autumn’s leaves. The red leaves blended with his dried blood, gold and yellow poorly mimicking his hair. Her heart, the broken brown leaves.

She bit her lip, then prayed he was still alive. How could she have believed she might marry another? What if Bram did not want her any longer…she could not bear to love without him.

His kisses, his smiles, and the way the blue in his eyes swirled as though in merriment when he goaded her.

Grief gripped her heart. It squeezed until she thought she no longer breathed. Tears threatened, but she forced them back. She hunched, and the pain lessened.

Damn her for a fool. She loved Bram and nothing would change her love, not even her stubbornness. Love had found a path around her willful heart. She ached to find Bram alive, at least to tell him of her love.

And she did not care if words of love ever crossed his lips, since he had never told her of his love, so long as he lived. Hadn’t he shown her in other words and his deeds of his love? She wondered why he never said the words; I love you, to her. Perhaps he dreaded her temper and thought she wouldn’t believe him.

The giant pointed to broken bodies lining the path.

Liannon and O’Neill carcasses lay around them. O’Neill’s? Why would they attack?

Before she was born, the two clans had lived in peace. Decades ago they fought, but the new laird had worked to end the feuding.

Together, they had defeated the Lochlanns who threatened Bram at the invasion on her lands.

Why did they fight now? Her horse skirted around one who moaned in agony. A Liannon, Marc. He was three winters older than she.

They could do nothing for him. His wound spilled his insides and it was only a matter of minutes before he died. The giant beside her ended his suffering with his sword. Kaireen turned her head away to keep her stomach and out of respect for the man.

Another mile. Bodies marked the way. Soon they would be in the mist of the battle.

But before Elva, the fog was as thick as a stone wall. Kaireen saw nothing but her group.

She strained to listen. The faint sound of men’s shouts and swords crashed in echo through the fog.

Where was Bram? She wanted to leap from her horse and call his name. Search the keep for him.

They reached the gates. Planks of gouged wood hung from the stone walls. Pieces of the gate creaked under their horses’ steps.

Kaireen was shocked. How did the O’Neill clan make their way this far in?

By now, they may have possession of the keep. The arrow slits in the walls were fewer here. Her father had thought it useless to have so many holes for arrows and had ordered the ones here in the courtyard sealed with rolled glass.

No doubt Bram would fight their enemy until they killed him. He would never allow them to pass unless…she choked back the bile rising in her throat.

Part of her wanted to find his body and wail her sorrow to the heavens. The other refused to think on such things.

Why had the fates given her love, only to take him away? A sob escaped her throat.

Elva spun her horse around. With her finger, she asked for silence.

Her handmaid smiled at her nod and then gestured them to the left, through the courtyard.

Following Elva’s zigzag paths through the fog, they maneuvered closer to the keep.

Then Elva pointed to the group of Lochlanns, directing them in silence around an oak tree. They were in the courtyard now. The oak tree shaded stone benches.

Clashes of shouts and metal resonated round them, yet Kaireen saw nothing but Elva and the other Lochlanns.

“You shoot?” the Lochlann beside her asked, waving his bow before her.

“Aye.” She nodded.

He gestured to another and gibbered in their foreign language. The man was thinner than the rest. He frowned at whatever his companion said, but then grasped his bow. After thrusting the bow into the giant’s outstretched hand, his quiver of arrows followed.

With a smile the red giant handed her the long bow and quiver.

She thanked him and then strapped the leather pouch around her side. She knew she must appear a sight. Dirty from cleaning the monastery, twigs and fragments of leaves poking through her hair, and dressed in a friar’s brown robes, the waist cinched with a rope belt.

The Lochlann unsheathed his sword.

Kaireen knew they were in the center of the battle. Yet, due to the fog, no one knew of their presence.

Perhaps they had a chance after all. The enemy would not expect reinforcements. And certainly not as though they fell from the sky among them. She tested the strength of the bow, a little too taunt for her liking, but she would make do. She must.

She whispered a prayer for Bram. Let him be safe. Let her arrows fly true.

If he died, then she would die in battle with him. She was ready now to face whatever demons possessed the O’Neills to fight.

And she was ready to face her love. Face Bram with love in her heart and her words.