Chapter 19 #3
Igraina stood just outside her home, seeing that her grandfather’s shaggy cows had come into the enclosure for the night. And as she did so, a strange sense of fear, of unease, swept through her. She turned, and there was a man.
Tall, burly, yet with a middle just beginning to run to fat. He had the size and stature of a Viking, yet something about him seemed not quite right. He was clean-shaven, as a Norman might have been. His hair was clipped, yet …
He’d been sleeping in the woods. His neatly cut hair was laden with grass and twigs. His clothing was torn, and he looked hungry. And he was coming toward her, smiling …
“Lass, ’tis been a rotten time I’ve spent in the woods, but with the boats gone, and me cut off from my fellows, well it seemed there was nothing other to do.
But all is calm, now, eh? The guards sleep, for the master is in his house.
I’ll have food and plenty tonight, eh? A fire to feed me, a woman to warm me, and more …
” he said. He spoke to her in Norman French, and she thought that perhaps he didn’t realize she could understand his words.
A massive sword hung from a scabbard at his waist.
His grin deepened as he stared at her. He switched to the Gaelic tongue, accented as if he had learned the language farther to the southeast. “You. I will have you. I am hungry, you will sate me. We’ll be warm and full, and if you please me, I will spare the old Norseman and his aging bride. Come now, come to me.”
She stared at him, thinking that hunger and living in the wild had given him an edge of insanity. She backed away from him, and a scream tore from her lips.
Instantly, Ewan was outside. He saw the man, and ran to her, casting her behind him.
“What’s this?” the burly man demanded. “A farmboy turned warrior, a shepherd in his master’s clothes?
Come, come on, lad … you may feel my kiss as well, ah, boy, the kiss of my sword, the kiss of death.
Or, you may step aside, and I’ll take the woman, and maybe you’ll live with the old folks. ”
“Who are you? Why did you come?” Ewan demanded.
“Who am I? A man who lives by the sword, willing to die by the sword, to sit in Valhalla, heaven, or hell.”
“A Norman? A Norseman?”
“Norman, Norseman … a hungry warrior. Maddened by the smell of the meat within. The old woman cooks well. I’ve learned to eat the meat of a beast with the blood of a man on my hands, so move aside, farm lad, or I’ll slice you gullet to groin.”
“I am the—”
“The MacKinny, eh?”
“Who sent you?” Ewan demanded again.
The man started to laugh. “Ah! How fight an enemy when the enemy can never be clearly seen? Suspicion is a fierce weapon, tearing upon a man. You’ll not know, MacKinny. Come, fight me if you will.”
Ewan beckoned to the man. “Aye, you mercenary dung. We’ll meet, and see who it is who kisses death!”
Igraina shrieked as their swords clashed.
Again, and again, and again.
The men moved around the yard, one taking the offensive, and then the other. Ewan leapt upon a stand of rolled hay, his strange foe dropped and rolled just in time to miss the plunge of his blade.
The man was speaking. Quietly. Threatening Ewan, taunting him.
But Ewan would not be put off guard.
The burly man spun, ready to slice her brother in the middle; Ewan jumped back just in time, and the sword slashed through the air. Then the men rushed together, and they were locked in the moonlight and the shadows.
The Viking shouted, calling upon his gods, Igraina thought. Because he was losing. Ewan was going to kill him. Or …
Keep him alive. And they would know why the Vikings were attacking.
But the burly Viking wasn’t calling the gods. He was calling for help. He knew that someone was near. Someone who had been watching all this time …
“Ewan!” Igraina called, trying to warn her brother.
As the burly man fell, another man suddenly came from the shadows. He stepped forward, fresh, rested, ready. His sword came clashing down upon her brother’s; they locked in deadly combat.
The man drew back, turned, and ran, disappearing into the shadows.
“Ewan!” she cried, and raced for her brother.
He turned to her.
“Ewan?”
“Igraina …”
He smiled sheepishly. And then she saw that he clutched his middle. Blood streamed through his fingers.
He fell, clutching her. “Get help, don’t be with me, don’t be alone. A man remains out there. They are with … Daro,” he whispered.
“What?” she cried, looking around, confused, afraid. Oh, God, he was bleeding. So much blood.
His eyes found hers. He moistened his lips to speak. “He told me he was with Daro as we fought. He told me we will fall like Rome, from within.”
“Daro, but Ewan—!”
“Get back inside, get help, shout for the guard in the tower … they have to know, don’t be alone. He is gone, but could come back.”
“Ewan, be still, I’ll get help, I’ll be safe.”
“Someone has eyes within, and tells them what goes on in the fortress.”
“Ewan, hush, please!”
His eyes closed, and he lay limp against her.
“Ewan …”
A low, moaning sound came from her, and then she began to scream.
And scream …