Chapter 11 #2
But at that moment, Ragnar came into the hall, heavily burdened by the bulk of the bleeding man he carried. Waryk and Daro quickly made way, and Ragnar laid the man down before the fire. He had been run through with a sword, and was bleeding profusely and was barely conscious.
“It’s Oso, who was guarding the gates,” Ragnar told Daro quickly. “He was attacked earlier.”
“By whom?” Daro demanded.
Ragnar shook his head. “He couldn’t say. The men were helmeted, and he was taken so quickly, he didn’t recognize any emblems on the helms, cloaks, or shields, or surcoats.”
Oso inhaled in great, gasping breaths. He clutched Daro’s arm. “Men … many men. Rode … south. Heard … the crags at the loch. From there … want to reach the … border.”
The man’s eyes closed. He lay back, ready to die with his message told. Waryk could see the fierce loyalty the man had given Daro.
“Inga! Staunch his wounds, call for help. Ragnar, guard the camp.” Daro was quickly on his feet. “Laird Waryk, we ride,” he said.
Waryk was already striding out, whistling for Mercury. Damn her. He didn’t like the fear he felt. Had she gone willingly with a pack of fools pretending to be her uncle’s men?
Had she known that they were false?
And had it mattered?
“Waryk, we’ll find her,” Daro said.
“Aye,” Waryk said, mounting his horse, his eyes on Daro. “We ride together.”
“I’ve ordered men to follow—”
“Aye, but we’ve little time. My men will follow as well, but we’ll ride now, immediately, you, Angus, and I.”
“Aye, we’ll waste no time.”
Was she in trouble, or simply creating more mayhem? Waryk didn’t know. But if he got his hands on Mellyora this time, he was going to see to it that she didn’t escape again if it meant chaining her hand and foot and casting her into the deepest dungeon.
The moon was high in the sky when they finally slowed their wild rush across the hilly countryside.
Mellyora saw that they had come to very rocky countryside where great crags and boulders rose above a small, shimmering loch.
The cliffs and caverns here, she thought, offered a natural protection against attack and a maze of hiding places.
“See to the horses,” Mellyora’s rescuer ordered, dismounting from the horse and reaching up to her. “My lady?”
“Don’t touch me.”
“Get down.” He reached for her despite her protest, bringing her to the ground. Her instinct was to run. There were perhaps twelve men surrounding her. Now was not the time.
She surveyed her surroundings in the night. Caverns opened to the rocky shore of the loch. Men, and even horses, could disappear within the wild terrain of rock and crevice.
“Come,” her unknown captor told her, reaching out a hand to her, “there’s a place I know you’ll be safe from the king’s lackey.”
“Where will I be safe from you?” she asked.
He smiled. “You don’t know the Norman, do you?”
“I don’t want a war. Who are you?”
“Your uncle’s men, my lady.”
“You’re lying.”
“Come with me.”
He reached out, grasped her arm, and thrust her forward. She felt her sword against her thigh, covered by the enveloping cloak she’d been forced to wear. She didn’t draw it now; it wasn’t the time.
He prodded her along the bank of the shore to a rough path that led upward along a rugged crag.
In the darkness, it was an eerie place, but she was accustomed to such wild outcroppings; the landscape could be very similar along the ocean where she lived.
She knew this kind of crag. The rock could be jagged and then smooth; the formation might be riddled with little caves, some barely large enough for a fox, some wide and never-ending.
A cool wind was whipping around her, and the clouds covered the moon.
The sense of her own peril filled her, along with dismay that she had been so easily duped into helping with her own abduction.
“My uncle had nothing to do with this.”
“Again, I tell you, you didn’t want to marry the Norman lackey.”
“You are trying to force a war,” she said.
“There is always a war,” he told her. “Take care, the going is getting rougher. Here, give me your hand. We can move more swiftly—we wouldn’t want you to fall.”
She pulled back, trying to stare at him, but his head was covered by his helm, and she realized that she would not know him if she were to see him again.
“No, I’m going no farther. Who are you? What are you trying to do? If my uncle is hurt or held responsible for anything in this, I swear, you’ll die—”
“Ah, so speaks great Adin’s daughter! But Adin is dead, my lady, and you are a girl, at my mercy.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t make mistakes. I am my father’s daughter!”
She was instantly aware that she should have thought more carefully. He pulled his sword, setting the point of it against her throat.
“I think, my lady, you will do as I say.”
What a fool she’d been, believing in a man she’d never seen, and so furtive an escape from her uncle’s camp. Who was he indeed, and did he dare kill her? Was she a pawn he needed for his own game?
“You’re going to kill me?” she inquired, fighting her fear and speaking contemptuously.
“If you force me, my lady.”
“Well, I don’t wish to die, so I’ll move on,” she said impatiently, pushing the sword aside.
She gathered the skirt of her gown and swept quickly on, her heart pounding ferociously.
The ground was precarious here, but he might not be prepared for the fact that she was as surefooted as a goat and could manage the terrain—given half a chance.
She quickly kept going, up, searching the cliff. There were numerous trails surrounding it, some going higher, some lower. The rock formation stretched like a trail of giant boulders cast down from the sky. They lay in the shadowed streaks of moonlight like strange white, jagged teardrops.
“Are you even a Viking?” she asked sharply.
“Ah, well, yes and no, lady. Viking, Norman, Scotsman, what difference? I am my own man, first and foremost.”
“You are a coward, stealing a woman, leaving Daro to take the blame.”
“What difference does it make? He is betraying you, that is true enough.”
“How?”
“Laird Waryk had arrived for you, my lady. That is the truth. Your uncle intended to hand you over in exchange for Anne MacInnish.”
“He wouldn’t make such a trade. If Waryk had come—”
“At your uncle’s invitation.”
“Then there was a reason.”
“It doesn’t matter. The lion may roar forever.
You are one prize he will not be seizing.
God knows, lady, he may be dead already.
He comes for you in good faith, and you are gone.
A Viking trick. Accusations fly, swords are drawn!
Perhaps I’ve done you a greater service than you will do me.
Ah! I can see it in my mind’s eye, a wondrous picture.
The great Waryk arriving with his part of the bargain, Anne, as promised.
But alas, the Lady Mellyora is gone—vanished once again.
A treachery, played out by Daro! Two such great warriors!
Daro the Viking, Waryk, the Scottish king’s great champion.
A sword will be pulled in anger, they will each accuse one another of deceit and treachery and …
one will lie dead. The Scotsman must surely die, even if he slays your uncle first. Because if he kills Daro, Daro’s men will kill him. ”
She had moved carefully ahead a few feet at a time, feeling more and more sick at heart and desperately worried.
She didn’t dare dwell on what might have happened.
She had to somehow escape this situation.
She was grateful for having spent so much time growing up under her father’s influence.
The only time she was completely unarmed was when she was naked.
She had taken her sword, and she carried a knife, as well.
The Viking hadn’t thought to make any attempt to disarm her.
“Why have we come here—if they will all be dead and accusing one another?” she asked.
“Ah, lady, we are away from the camp, but close enough so that we will know the outcome. Eventually, we’ll head to the border.
Perhaps, in time, I’ll even take you home.
And then again, perhaps Waryk will survive.
If so, I will still have you. His prize.
The lady of the land. To be bestowed on him for all the services he has rendered—all the deaths he has brought about.
So why else would I take you into the cliffs alone?
Dear Lady, that I may plunder all your riches—and take what would be Laird Lion’s. ”
She was ahead of him now by several feet, and saw a trail leading downward that crossed onto a second crop of rock. She hurried on up a few steps, allowing him to come nearer, and when she knew he was on a bluff with an edge, she suddenly turned, shoving him fiercely.
He swore, stunned, and staggered back, his sword clanking and falling against him. She knew she hadn’t done him any real damage, but she had given herself precious moments with which to run.
She did so.
Scampering over rocks, cliffs, outcroppings of grass, weed, dirt, and tenacious saplings, she kept moving.
Downward first, upward as she saw that the rock just a few feet from her was riddled with dark caverns.
She climbed higher, then cried out, pulled back as he seized hold of her cloak.
She was captured, pulled inexorably downward.
She clung to the rock above her at first; then, realizing that she was losing her hold, she allowed herself to fall.
Her weight sent him flying backwards, but he quickly recovered, trying to straddle her.
She reached for the knife sheathed at her calf, a small, ornamental weapon her father had given her, but—she prayed—sharp enough to throw him off once again.
She had never felt so desperate, so sickened, and so afraid.
When he leaned into her, she took careful aim at his side, knowing that she hadn’t the strength to pierce the man’s leather breast armor with her small blade.