MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves by Heather Graham Page A
Authors: Heather Graham
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Ragwald managed to encourage the man to fight with them or not, she could not bear his look behind that dragon"s visage at the prow of his ship.
She had never seen a man quite like him.
The day had grown increasingly stormy. The sky was gray, the wind was vicious. Yet no matter what the violence or rage of the whitecapped sea, he stood without wavering. One foot, booted in skin and fur, rode the helm while he looked to the shore, his great arms crossed over his chest. Golden blond hair caught what slim light filtered through the gray of the day, and over a breast coat of chain mail, he wore a mantle most similar to that Melisande had seen upon the Irishmen who had come to her father"s house. It was caught at his shoulder by a great brooch in a Celtic design. He was strangely dressed—like a Viking, yet not like a Viking. His ship cut the water like hot steel, there was something very wild and raw about the way that he stood, and the way that his ship moved.
There was also something of absolute confidence and arrogance about him.
There was a dignity in the way he stood without flinching or faltering.
Suddenly Melisande was certain he was looking at her. Straight at her. He couldn"t possibly see her eyes, for she could not see his. But she was certain that he was staring at her, and that he saw her as a child, and nothing more.
“Strange Viking …” Ragwald said. Then he gasped, “Why, "tis him! Jesu, what a daft fool I have been here! It is him!”
Melisande stared at him. Indeed, he had become a very daft fool!
But Ragwald stared at her, aggravated. “Conar MacAuliffe, son of the Wolf—and grandson of the Ard-Ri of Eire. Kin through marriage to Alfred of Wessex!”
Melisande followed his words quickly. Alfred was the greatest king they had ever known across the channel. He had fought for his people, and held his ground, in countless battles. He had forced the Danes to treaties.
And this man was kinsman to him?
Philippe cried out suddenly, warning them all of a greater danger. He pointed to the crest southeast from them, Gerald"s land. “There rides Gerald himself!
The bastard! With more men. The coward! He tricks your father out, sees that he is slain, and then retreats again until the battle is nearly taken. Now he rides out himself! And our forces are so greatly weakened!”
“Melisande,” Ragwald warned firmly, “you must cry out again, gather the men around you. I will go for help!”
“From those heathens from the sea?” she cried.
“Girl, you can"t understand as yet. I"ll explain it all to you, but aye, there will be help from those heathens from the sea!”
“Ragwald!”
There was no time. “Cry out again, Countess!” he warned her. “We must fight hard now!”
She was suddenly alone, it seemed, though not alone at all, for hundreds of men, dead and alive, littered the battlefield. But indeed, she was alone. Her father was gone. Blessed father, he was gone. The incredible tall, kind man who had been her life, who had taught her dignity, who had stood behind her, and loved her more deeply than any man could love a son. Who had always given her an incredible worth. He was gone.
It could not be.
He could not be dead. He had been too tall to die, too strong, her protector.
He had seemed as invincible as the gods, and now she dared not look down to where he lay still.
The people were dependent on her.
She was the countess now. And no matter how she shivered inside to sit atop Warrior and look out over these men, she must do so.
Gerald had pretended to be her father’s friend. He had betrayed him. And he meant to take their fortress and have it for his own. And God alone knew what would happen to them all if they did not beat back Gerald’s forces!
She opened her mouth, determined to create some new rallying cry. For a moment, though, she was torn by what she saw around her. Her mouth went dry. The words would not come. Men lay about so haphazardly! Men like her father, strong
She had never seen a man quite like him.
The day had grown increasingly stormy. The sky was gray, the wind was vicious. Yet no matter what the violence or rage of the whitecapped sea, he stood without wavering. One foot, booted in skin and fur, rode the helm while he looked to the shore, his great arms crossed over his chest. Golden blond hair caught what slim light filtered through the gray of the day, and over a breast coat of chain mail, he wore a mantle most similar to that Melisande had seen upon the Irishmen who had come to her father"s house. It was caught at his shoulder by a great brooch in a Celtic design. He was strangely dressed—like a Viking, yet not like a Viking. His ship cut the water like hot steel, there was something very wild and raw about the way that he stood, and the way that his ship moved.
There was also something of absolute confidence and arrogance about him.
There was a dignity in the way he stood without flinching or faltering.
Suddenly Melisande was certain he was looking at her. Straight at her. He couldn"t possibly see her eyes, for she could not see his. But she was certain that he was staring at her, and that he saw her as a child, and nothing more.
“Strange Viking …” Ragwald said. Then he gasped, “Why, "tis him! Jesu, what a daft fool I have been here! It is him!”
Melisande stared at him. Indeed, he had become a very daft fool!
But Ragwald stared at her, aggravated. “Conar MacAuliffe, son of the Wolf—and grandson of the Ard-Ri of Eire. Kin through marriage to Alfred of Wessex!”
Melisande followed his words quickly. Alfred was the greatest king they had ever known across the channel. He had fought for his people, and held his ground, in countless battles. He had forced the Danes to treaties.
And this man was kinsman to him?
Philippe cried out suddenly, warning them all of a greater danger. He pointed to the crest southeast from them, Gerald"s land. “There rides Gerald himself!
The bastard! With more men. The coward! He tricks your father out, sees that he is slain, and then retreats again until the battle is nearly taken. Now he rides out himself! And our forces are so greatly weakened!”
“Melisande,” Ragwald warned firmly, “you must cry out again, gather the men around you. I will go for help!”
“From those heathens from the sea?” she cried.
“Girl, you can"t understand as yet. I"ll explain it all to you, but aye, there will be help from those heathens from the sea!”
“Ragwald!”
There was no time. “Cry out again, Countess!” he warned her. “We must fight hard now!”
She was suddenly alone, it seemed, though not alone at all, for hundreds of men, dead and alive, littered the battlefield. But indeed, she was alone. Her father was gone. Blessed father, he was gone. The incredible tall, kind man who had been her life, who had taught her dignity, who had stood behind her, and loved her more deeply than any man could love a son. Who had always given her an incredible worth. He was gone.
It could not be.
He could not be dead. He had been too tall to die, too strong, her protector.
He had seemed as invincible as the gods, and now she dared not look down to where he lay still.
The people were dependent on her.
She was the countess now. And no matter how she shivered inside to sit atop Warrior and look out over these men, she must do so.
Gerald had pretended to be her father’s friend. He had betrayed him. And he meant to take their fortress and have it for his own. And God alone knew what would happen to them all if they did not beat back Gerald’s forces!
She opened her mouth, determined to create some new rallying cry. For a moment, though, she was torn by what she saw around her. Her mouth went dry. The words would not come. Men lay about so haphazardly! Men like her father, strong
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