MacAuliffe Vikings Trilogy 3 - Lord of the wolves by Heather Graham Page B
Authors: Heather Graham
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men, men who had so recently lived and breathed, smiled and laughed! Now they lay about, mangled, torn, swept up in pools of their own blood.
She could not do it! She could not ride forward!
She could not let her father lie unavenged!
She drew the small sword from the scabbard about her waist. She raised it very high on the air. “For God and Our Right, my friends! For my father, slain, for our lives! Mon Dieu! Onward!”
Chapter Six
She hadn"t known that she intended it herself—perhaps she never had—but Warrior, so accustomed to battle, suddenly leapt forward.
And there she was, a few days short of her thirteenth birthday, leading her forces directly into the fray. Panic seized her along with the whipping of the wind. She clung low, suddenly, to Warrior"s neck. She had no desire to wield the sword she had held so high against another man. She didn"t want to feel the cracking of bone, the splitting of flesh. She didn"t want to feel the hot wet slickness of blood splashing over her.
And more than that, she didn"t want to feel the cold steel of a sword herself, or the merciless weight of a battle-ax.
Too late! She could hear the terrible clash of steel all around her, she could hear men"s battle cries, and she could hear the pitiful wails that escaped even the most powerful man, for flesh was flesh, and all men had been created to bleed.
Warrior, the great horse, stood his ground, awaiting her command. She sat upon him, her fingers curled tautly around her handsome sword. Then she realized that one of Gerald"s people, a stocky man with reddish hair and wild eyes, was moving her way. She cried out. In defense she held her sword tight.
From the rear someone else attacked the man.
He fell forward.
Against her sword.
His eyes widened, staring into hers. They never closed. He died with his eyes wide open in amazement.
A scream rose in her throat. She dared not let it escape, dared not let her people see her absolute horror and terror. She swallowed it. Warrior pranced hard, forward, backward.
She heard Philippe at her side. “Retreat! Call a retreat. Countess. We are outnumbered! We must get you safe somewhere, let Gerald have the fortress—”
“No!” she cried, and realized that she was fighting tears once again. Gerald had betrayed them all and slain her father, who had given her everything!
Gerald wanted it all. Even the life and the blood.
Gaston of Orleans came riding up hard beside Philippe. “We must take the countess from here! She is all we have now. See how the men rally to her. We must keep her alive!”
Philippe argued with him quickly. “I am beginning to think that we must surrender. We have tried. We are outnumbered.”
“Sweet heaven above us!” Gaston, more wizened, older, maybe wiser than Philippe, moved his horse closer to Philippe"s, trying to keep his words from reaching Melisande.
He failed.
“Mother of God, don"t you see? Gerald wants any excuse to slay the child.
Then this will all be his! There can be no surrender. We must escape!”
“Slay her!” Philippe repeated, then shook his head. “He wants Melisande, he has always wanted the girl, just like the land. Maybe it makes no difference, maybe we must surrender, and then he would not dare slay her!”
“But if she fights him, and Melisande will—” Gaston flashed her a quick glance and broke off.
She bit into her lower lip to hide her fear. Even as he said the words, Melisande realized the peril of their predicament.
Her people had come through for her, rallying to her cry. But they were badly outnumbered. And now, even as Gaston spoke with Philippe, she saw new danger. The three of them were being cut off from the others.
She saw Gerald again. She thought bitterly that they were distant kin. Her father had been his second cousin. And he had done this anyway. After all those years when he had benefited from her father"s largesse.
She stared at him with the utmost hatred.
He was a large man like her father.
She could not do it! She could not ride forward!
She could not let her father lie unavenged!
She drew the small sword from the scabbard about her waist. She raised it very high on the air. “For God and Our Right, my friends! For my father, slain, for our lives! Mon Dieu! Onward!”
Chapter Six
She hadn"t known that she intended it herself—perhaps she never had—but Warrior, so accustomed to battle, suddenly leapt forward.
And there she was, a few days short of her thirteenth birthday, leading her forces directly into the fray. Panic seized her along with the whipping of the wind. She clung low, suddenly, to Warrior"s neck. She had no desire to wield the sword she had held so high against another man. She didn"t want to feel the cracking of bone, the splitting of flesh. She didn"t want to feel the hot wet slickness of blood splashing over her.
And more than that, she didn"t want to feel the cold steel of a sword herself, or the merciless weight of a battle-ax.
Too late! She could hear the terrible clash of steel all around her, she could hear men"s battle cries, and she could hear the pitiful wails that escaped even the most powerful man, for flesh was flesh, and all men had been created to bleed.
Warrior, the great horse, stood his ground, awaiting her command. She sat upon him, her fingers curled tautly around her handsome sword. Then she realized that one of Gerald"s people, a stocky man with reddish hair and wild eyes, was moving her way. She cried out. In defense she held her sword tight.
From the rear someone else attacked the man.
He fell forward.
Against her sword.
His eyes widened, staring into hers. They never closed. He died with his eyes wide open in amazement.
A scream rose in her throat. She dared not let it escape, dared not let her people see her absolute horror and terror. She swallowed it. Warrior pranced hard, forward, backward.
She heard Philippe at her side. “Retreat! Call a retreat. Countess. We are outnumbered! We must get you safe somewhere, let Gerald have the fortress—”
“No!” she cried, and realized that she was fighting tears once again. Gerald had betrayed them all and slain her father, who had given her everything!
Gerald wanted it all. Even the life and the blood.
Gaston of Orleans came riding up hard beside Philippe. “We must take the countess from here! She is all we have now. See how the men rally to her. We must keep her alive!”
Philippe argued with him quickly. “I am beginning to think that we must surrender. We have tried. We are outnumbered.”
“Sweet heaven above us!” Gaston, more wizened, older, maybe wiser than Philippe, moved his horse closer to Philippe"s, trying to keep his words from reaching Melisande.
He failed.
“Mother of God, don"t you see? Gerald wants any excuse to slay the child.
Then this will all be his! There can be no surrender. We must escape!”
“Slay her!” Philippe repeated, then shook his head. “He wants Melisande, he has always wanted the girl, just like the land. Maybe it makes no difference, maybe we must surrender, and then he would not dare slay her!”
“But if she fights him, and Melisande will—” Gaston flashed her a quick glance and broke off.
She bit into her lower lip to hide her fear. Even as he said the words, Melisande realized the peril of their predicament.
Her people had come through for her, rallying to her cry. But they were badly outnumbered. And now, even as Gaston spoke with Philippe, she saw new danger. The three of them were being cut off from the others.
She saw Gerald again. She thought bitterly that they were distant kin. Her father had been his second cousin. And he had done this anyway. After all those years when he had benefited from her father"s largesse.
She stared at him with the utmost hatred.
He was a large man like her father.
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