Chapter 10 #4
Mellyora thought that she should awaken; she felt a strange sense compelling her to do so, but she was so lethargic, she couldn’t quite remember why.
Sleep had been good, so very sweet. No dreams had plagued her, and she thought that maybe Inga had added some special herbs to the wine to help her sleep.
The warmth of the furs had been delicious.
“Mellyora!”
The whisper of her name had such a sound of urgency to it that she was instantly aware of danger.
The room was still dark; though she thought that daybreak had to be coming. Beyond the small room, torches burned, and around her, in the camp, they burned as well, but the light filtering in was pale, and at first, all she saw was the form of a man at her side.
“Daro?” she whispered, fighting the lethargy that still held her.
“Nay, but I am your uncle’s man, here to help you.”
“What has happened?”
“The king has sent a negotiator. I am to spirit you away, until Daro can make his own arguments. We must disappear silently, do you understand?”
“Is it a pretense? My uncle is to be as surprised as anyone that I have disappeared?” she queried.
“Aye, lady, that is it, you must help me, we must leave in absolute quiet.”
“Aye!” She rose, a little unsteady on her feet. He set an arm around her. She looked up. He was wearing a Viking helm, but no armor other than a leather breastplate. She thought that he was wise, for any mail or plate armor might hamper his movement and create a trail of noise to follow.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To safety, my lady. And we must hurry.”
She could hear voices beyond the entrance to her uncle’s long room; people were arriving at the hall, she realized.
“Aye, give me just a moment to dress.”
He turned away. She swept a gown from the foot of the bed to slip over her linen shift, and reached quickly for her shoes.
“Wait. Wear this cloak. Pull the hood low, but walk tall. Come quickly.”
She slipped on the cloak, and as she did so, she saw that her uncle’s gift, the small Celtic sword, lay by her bed. As he walked away, she belted on the slim leather scabbard and slid the sword in place. The cloak blanketed her then, as she joined him.
He pushed upon a hide and she saw that it was not secured, but created a doorway.
She slipped out ahead of him, wondering what Daro might have decided to say.
Her uncle must have planned well, determining on agreeing to anything that was said, swearing that he would return his niece as he had been asked …
The camp stretched out before her. Fires burned in the night; men moved around them. Able builders, the landscape was dotted with their temporary homes, and wooden walls had been erected around the camp to keep out unwelcome visitors.
“Keep your head low.”
“Surely, I need not be afraid. These are my uncle’s men,” Mellyora told him confidently.
“You never know who can be trusted, my lady. Fighting men come and go, and loyalties change. We are best to disappear with no one the wiser at all. These are dangerous times we live in.”
Mellyora kept her head down, her face covered, and they were not accosted as they moved through the camp. They came to a breach in the wall where a group of men on horseback waited with extra mounts for her and her rescuer.
“Where is the guard? There should be a man on guard here,” Mellyora said.
“My lady, the guard will return. It is expedient that I get you out of here quickly if Daro is to be able to talk.”
“Where is Ragnar?”
“Ragnar is your uncle’s champion in all things, and he is at Daro’s side now, my lady. Please, you must trust in your uncle. He is fighting for you, don’t fight against him.”
“Wait, I will not have Daro going to battle over this. I don’t want anyone fighting—” she began.
“My lady, I didn’t mean that your uncle would be drawing his sword. He is fighting with his wits, but in order to do so, he needs to know that you are safe. Don’t make this harder for him. You must hurry.”
She looked around her; most of the men wore helmets with some fashion of faceplate, either metal or leather.
A few wore surcoats over chain mail, some wore leather breastplates, as if they were prepared for war.
There should have been a guard at the gate.
She didn’t know if she recognized these particular men or not because their accouterments were so concealing.
She stepped back. “I must speak with my uncle.”
“There’s no time.”
The man who had come for her lifted her and sat her atop one of the horses. She was surrounded by them, she realized. There were more than a dozen men, they carried weapons, they were ready for battle.
“No—” she began.
The man who had come for her leapt up behind her. Anticipating his action, Mellyora spurred the horse. The Viking leapt up, the horse reared, neighing and snorting as he pawed the air.
But the Viking’s leap was powerful and sure, and his arms were tight around her. She was certain for several terrible seconds that he would bring her crashing down to the ground with him, and there, together, they would be trampled and broken beneath the huge animal’s hooves.
The Viking held his seat, and shouted to his men, “Ride!”
“No!” she screamed.
But the sound of her cry was seized by the wind, and carried away.
And they raced into the night, and away from her uncle’s camp.