Chapter 24 #2
Hours had gone by, and then days, and she had realized that Renfrew was smart, that he had put himself in a powerful place. Battle would not be easily won.
She had tried to step outside the night before; men had been there so quickly and so close that she had felt real terror, imagining that they would begin to hack off her toes with their razor-honed axes.
She had lied quickly, pretending she had been seeking them, and asking if there was deep water somewhere near so that she might immerse herself in a real bath.
Guards had been sent with her to a small stream; she had bathed in her undershift, but it had still felt good after the time on the road.
This morning, however, she lay in desolation again, wondering how long this state of affairs could go on.
The linen screen suddenly moved. She sat up on her pallet, seeing that Renfrew had come, and that he stood over her.
He knelt. She half rose on her elbows, warily shifting away. “Are you feeling better?” he asked politely.
She shook her head.
He smiled. He was a slim man with an ascetic face, yet his eyes and his smile were bitter, cunning, and cruel.
“I don’t think you’re sick at all. I think you’re a liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Well, I shall find out. I have grown bored, my lady, waiting. We’ll see just how sick you are. I am repulsed by such things, so be warned, I will hurt you if you ruin my clothing or create a miserable smell.”
He reached out, grabbing the material of her bodice, and dragging her to him.
She struck him furiously, catching him in the face.
He instantly returned the blow. Her ears rang, a blinding pain spread out before her eyes.
He moved quickly while she lay stunned from the blow, straddling her.
Her knife remained at her calf, if only …
“Ah, there you are, Lord Renfrew!” Ulric stated suddenly, and he was there as well, seething as he stared down at them both. “Leave the woman be until we know what leverage we need,” Ulric said, mocking the command Renfrew had apparently given him.
Renfrew shrugged. “I’ve decided we don’t need such leverage. You may have your turn.”
“Aye, that I will,” Ulric promised bitterly. “The woman, Renfrew, is mine. But not now. Waryk and his troops are marching up the hill. They are ready to attack.”
Renfrew instantly rose, dragging her to her feet.
“We need to prepare for battle. What are you doing with her?”
“She is part of the battle, you fool, don’t you see?” Renfrew demanded. “Our very best defense.”
At the rise in the slope leading to the hill, Waryk assembled his archers. They let free a single volley.
There was screaming among Ulric and Renfrew’s troops; then suddenly, a warning rang out.
“Be warned, Waryk! Arrows will pierce what you have come to retrieve!” Renfrew’s mocking voice called out to them.
The forces at the crest of the hill moved, and Waryk caught his breath.
Renfrew had used his wife well. She was tied to a pole set deeply into the ground at the top of the hill. His men had blocked her during the first volley. If another rain of arrows fell, she would surely be struck.
“Fall back!” Waryk commanded.
And his archers, their shields lifted high, obeyed.
The sun rose, but the wind was cold. Her arms hurt, for they had been dragged over her head, and her feet barely touched the ground. She’d had no water, no food. As the hours went by, she began to wish that she’d been struck by one of the first arrows, she was in such pain.
But Renfrew had warned that she was there, and the Scots had retreated.
Renfrew and Ulric waited …
The Scots would regroup, come back.
But they didn’t. The troops grew restless, and Renfrew rode by frequently, shouting that they must be prepared.
His warriors would straighten in their position again, but warriors were meant to fight, not wait.
As time passed again, their vigilance waned.
She was vaguely aware of men gaming, of runes being cast on the earth, of drinking and conversation as time passed.
Dusk fell.
The Viking and Norman troops began to break discipline, moving about the camp. They were amused, certain that Waryk’s forces were beaten back by the prospect of killing her.
She began to lose faith herself, in agony, cold, weary …
She looked out across the field. She thought that she was seeing things, for suddenly out of the shadows, shapes began to come at them.
Closer and closer. They blanketed the landscape.
She thought at first that the defenders didn’t see them. Then Ulric, seated on his mount near the pole, suddenly murmured, “What in the name of all the gods … Archers!”
A volley of arrows followed. A baaing sound filled the night. Shadows jumped, and shadows fell.
“Archers!” Ulric shouted again.
But Renfrew strode to his side. “Stop! We are firing at sheep,” he said contemptuously. “Nothing but sheep.”
Mellyora tried to stare through the shadows.
“Ah, my beauty!” Renfrew walked to her and touched her cheek, saying softly, “Sorry, my lady, you are not saved. They are nothing but sheep. Poor lady. Are you weary, in pain? Perhaps even my bed will look good to you this night!”
“Sheep!” Ulric swore from his mount. “More of them, hundreds of them!”
Indeed, there were. Frightened, maddened, and by the hundreds, they came. They’d been shot down, but now, there were more. Sheep were running, leaping, and baaing everywhere.
And more came over the hilltop, terrified, jumping on the men, causing chaos.
The warriors swore; they dropped their weapons to fend off the sheep.
Some were laughing, making fun of Scottish shepherds, men who couldn’t even keep track of their animals.
They began to chase after the creatures, trying to catch them with their hands.
Some men shouted that there were enough dead ones, others shouted that they were a diversion from the endless waiting.
Diversion, Mellyora thought.
And then, in the midst of the chaos, the horsemen came.
She heard a cry, a hoarse, terrible battle cry, and exhilarated, she lifted her head.
Waryk.
He was in the lead, riding Mercury over the natural stone barrier as if he were a winged horse. Behind him, Angus came, and Daro, and the others. Rider after rider, taking the enemy by surprise.
Renfrew swore. He turned to her, gripping the pole and staring at her with eyes of pure hatred and fury.
He moved away from her, toward one of the fires lit in the dark, and he started kicking the kindling around her log.
The heat rose instantly. She could feel the blaze.
It would catch her clothing and the pole, and then consume her, in a matter of minutes.
“Burn in hell, lady. Burn in hell,” he told her, drawing his sword.
Mercury was flying across what was now becoming a battlefield littered with dead men, horses, and sheep. Renfrew stood before her. Mercury bore down on him.
Waryk was in full armor, his head helmeted, his surcoat covering his mail. He wielded his sword deftly.
And he cut down Renfrew where he stood. A single, lethal slash of his weapon cut across Renfrew’s side, where his mail was weakest. Waryk’s sword rose again, slammed down on Renfrew’s helmet. The man fell, blood spouting from his lips, his sightless eyes.
“Waryk!” Mellyora shrieked.
Ignoring the flames that were beginning to rise, Waryk urged Mercury up on the dais.
With a slash of his sword, he broke the bonds tying her to the pole.
She started to fall. Mercury’s hoofbeats clattered nervously over the kindling.
Waryk quickly bent low from his horse’s back, slipped an arm around her, and swept her up.
Mercury leapt from the rising blaze. Clinging to Waryk with what strength she had, Mellyora was vaguely aware that her uncle fought to the one side, and Angus to the other.
They covered Waryk’s ride as he raced hard toward the stone dividing enemy camps.
Yet there, a rider challenged Waryk, and she ducked, screaming, as a sword slashed her way.
Waryk’s blade rose to meet it. With her head down, she saw the Viking taking aim with his pike.
She reached to her ankle for her knife and threw wildly.
She hit his arm. He screamed, his weapon fell.
Waryk turned Mercury, ready to fight the man, but Daro had gone after him, and they were engaged in bloody combat.
Spinning again, clinging to Waryk, Mellyora trembled, realizing that her husband’s forces had taken these murderers completely by surprise.
He spurred Mercury, leading the horse into another flying leap over the stone, and they raced downhill.
He rode with her far from the battlefield, to where his camp had been. He moved through the tents and doused fires to a quiet copse by the stream. There, he dismounted with her in her arms. By the stream, he knelt, tearing off his helmet. His eyes touched hers, he searched her face anxiously.
“Waryk …”
“Lady …”
“M’laird!” she whispered.
She reached up, her arms no longer in such agony, now that she could touch him.
But he was anxious, so anxious. “Did they hurt you, Mellyora, you couldn’t stand, you can barely move …”
“Too long standing tied,” she said. She tried to smile. “You took your time!” she whispered.
“My apologies! I did my best, approaching without cover of artillery, and we might not have reached you.”
“Oh, Waryk, you came for me!”
“Aye, lady. I will always come. Mellyora, you are the prize,” he said very softly. “I have very definitely earned you.”
She smiled, caught his hand, kissed it.
He cradled her against him, then swore, realized that he drew her against mail. “Ah, my love, this is a most difficult time and place to express quite all that I’m feeling.”
She could hear the sound of the battle, and she closed her eyes, praying that her uncle would live, that the men who had come to her rescue would survive.
Then she realized that she was hearing something closer.
Movement, closer to them. She opened her eyes, and a cry of warning tore from her lips. “Waryk …”