MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves by Heather Graham

the gates parted outward, and she appeared.
    Melisande.
    She was trembling, Ragwald could see. She had loved her father dearly. But no tears ran down her fine ivory cheeks. Nor had she chosen to ride out on her small mare, Mara; rather, she had mounted on her fallen father"s great stallion, Warrior. Seeing her now, Ragwald realized quite suddenly that she had indeed grown up. She was tall for her years, extremely dignified now.
    And she was clad in the armor they had all admired so greatly last night. The incredibly beautiful chain mail armor, decorated lavishly with gold and silver.
    Her hair, rich, thick, and bounding well beneath her knees, flowed about her.
    She was a figure to lead, a figure for men to fight for, for men to die for.
    “You have heard?” Ragwald said softly. “Your father is dead. You are the countess.”
    Her lower lip trembled, and he could see the wealth of tears about to spill from her beautiful violet eyes. She nodded. She would not spill those tears. Not now.
    “There is a great deal of horror before us,” he continued gently. “But you are our only chance. Can you ride before men?”
    She was afraid, yes, certainly. But the emotion showed in her eyes just briefly. She lifted her chin. “I am the countess. I …” She hesitated a moment, for they both heard—suddenly, clearly—the hard sound of an ax connecting with flesh and bone, and the agonized cry of a man. She paled, her pain for the man evident, but then she continued quickly, “I am the countess, and I will lead our men.”
    Ragwald suddenly wanted to cry. Shivers ripped along his spine as he realized again the very great beauty of this child, the girl he had taught and now must serve. If they were to lose the day, if she were to be taken, what would befall her? She was somewhere in that strange age between childhood and womanhood, so innocent, so tender, so achingly lovely.
    He had given this great thought. So, apparently, had she. There was no choice but for her to ride.
    For a moment the petty little wars that they seemed to wage so constantly with one another meant nothing at all. His heart ached, and he reached out to her. “Come, Countess,” he said, bowing low to her. “Come, and we will rally our troops!”
    They rode forward, he and Melisande. Men were slipping from the crest of the battle, heading for the deep forests.
    “You must call them, speak to them—” Ragwald began. But it seemed he didn"t need to teach her any longer.
    Melisande cried out to them. “My friends! We must fight on! We cannot give over this land to the men who betrayed my father! We cannot let them steal our livelihoods, rule us, slay us!”
    Those who had been disappearing paused. Swords crashed and thundered, and one of the enemy fell before the huge captain, Philippe. On foot he hurried to fall before Melisande. “Countess! What can we gain? We fight this bastard—
    and look to the sea! More dragons come, more and more!” Melisande saw the ships at last. Ragwald had thought it best not to mention them to her, but now he watched her violet eyes widen as they took in the multitude upon the sea.
    “Maybe they have not come to wage war!” he said suddenly. Someone had to meet them. Beg for help, promise some reward. “They are a strange lot, and if they are Norse rather than Swedish or Danish, they might well fight with us rather than against us.”
    Anguish seized him. He needed to meet the Vikings. He had been Count Manon"s aide for years, he had brought messages, he had negotiated peace again and again. He had to go.
    And Melisande had to stay here, golden and shimmering, inspiring their troops to victory. To fight until help could come. Yes, yes! The Vikings had to fight with them, had to.
    “Strange Vikings!” Philippe cried suddenly. “Look! Look beyond the dragon on that helm!”
    It was the first time that Melisande was ever to see Conar MacAuliffe, and oddly enough, it was then she began her hostility toward him. For whether