For Love Of Rory
* * *
Serine crouched behind a thick bush and swore under her breath. It was her son this enemy wanted for his own. It was her husband that he scorned and her home at which he scoffed. How she would love to see him burn right along with his ship. She’d show him whose way of life was inferior.
As the men walked away Old Ethyl joined her. Seeing that Old Ethyl had stripped down to her small clothes, Serine took off her dress and stuffed it beneath the bush.
“Wait!” Old Ethyl whispered as Serine started toward one of the little boats. The older woman darted forward, snatched up a horned helmet that had been left near the water’s edge and jammed it onto Serine’s head before they eased one of the small boats into the lapping water.
The helmet wobbled precariously as Serine huddled into a cloak she found on the bottom of the boat. Bolstered by Old Ethyl’s whispered soliloquy—a mixture of prayer and encouragement—Serine adjusted her borrowed helmet and began rowing.
With undaunted determination she maneuvered the boat to the rear of the ship, careful to keep well away from the path of the dragon that graced the front of the craft. Although she was a Christian, and a devout one, a part of her still feared the dragons of the sea and the men who sent them thundering through the waves. Old Ethyl made no bones about the depth of her superstition, and as the woman’s fears became more obvious Serine gave heartfelt thanks for her support.
Only when the tiny craft huddled beneath the hull of the larger one did Old Ethyl rise from her hiding place. Working together they managed to secure a water-soaked leather thong around the rudder and quickly smeared fat onto the side of the ship.
There was a flash of light in the rocks above the cove, quickly extinguished, but enough to let Serine know the women were ready to launch their fire arrows.
“It is time.” Serine swallowed the words, fear boiling up from the depths of her soul.
Sensing her fear, Old Ethyl grasped Serine’s arm. “I will be beside you,” she said. She felt some of the tension ease in Serine’s muscles. “Just as you will be beside me.” And with that last reminder Old Ethyl let go her hold, but the bond between them had been sealed. Succeed or fail, they would do so together.
Sending up a prayer, Serine struck flint to steel and caught the spark on an oil-soaked wick. When the little flame flared, she put it to the fat and watched it catch and burn.
Silently they slipped into the water and moved as quickly as possible to be well away when the bag, the cloak and the boat burst into flames that licked greedily at the larger vessel.
Serine swam as quickly as she could, but it was not fast enough. Time and again Old Ethyl outpaced her and was forced to return to the younger woman’s side. The flaming boat cast a glow over the water. It would be only a matter of time before she was seen and captured.
“It is your clothing that holds you back,” Ethyl said. “Remove it, or we are lost.”
It was an order, not a request. Seeing the wisdom of Ethyl’s words, Serine held her breath, dived beneath the water and shed the remainder of her clothing. Freed from the binding restriction, she surfaced at Ethyl’s side and they continued toward the shore.
Shouts of anger from the ship told them that their plan had succeeded. The men on the shore jumped into the little boats and sent them catapulting across the water, leaving the children virtually unguarded. Confusion resounded from shore to ship, and Serine managed to lift her head from the water long enough to see an empty space where the children had been held.
As the guards called for help from their comrades the women shot their fire arrows from the cliffs.
A short distance from shore Old Ethyl drew Serine to a halt. “Here I leave you and go to join the others,” she said. Then, unable to hold back her emotion, she continued. “You are a fine, brave woman.”
“As are you,” Serine replied breathlessly as the women went their separate ways.
Serine smiled despite her exhaustion as she pulled herself toward the bush where she had left her gown.
She found her legs unable to hold her weight, and crawled from the water. Her hand groped beneath the bush as she felt blindly for her clothing. It was impossible to see, and she almost cried out when, rather than the rough material of her gown, her hand fell on the sinewy warmth of human flesh.
A hand clutched her arm and drew her from her hiding place. She found herself face-to-face with a man. In the shadowy light she could make out the bearded face and the strong, virile body.
Was he truly a man, or had one of the Celt gods come to earth to mock her success in burning the ship and freeing the children? For truly he looked like a wild heathen god as he glared down at her, vengeance written in each line of his countenance. And her heart beat madly as her cheeks flamed in anger and embarrassment, for the expression in this man-god’s face was clear. And, heaven forgive her, for the briefest moment she wondered what it would be like to be loved by a pagan deity.
In the shadowy light Rory could see the naked body of a woman—slim and sleek, with thrusting breasts, a flat belly and long, shapely legs. Was this the Freya, of whom the wise man Drojan often spoke? A goddess come from the sea to taunt him for his failure to safeguard the children they had taken? Did she come to rebuke him for failing in his pledge that this would be a bloodless raid?
No, this woman was flesh and blood, with defiant eyes and a determined set to her chin. Yet the supple body formed to his so sweetly he could not help but wonder if her lips would do the same.
In truth, there was nothing to lose. His raid had failed and many of the children had escaped. The ship was crippled, and his men would be forced upon the mercy of the sea with only the dubious protection of the little boats.
What matter if he tasted the lips of this water nymph? Who was she to argue if he took the pleasures that her body so graciously offered?
It was possible that she had been a part of the plot that had so successfully sent his comrades into confusion. For that alone she deserved a Celt’s wrath and a Celt’s revenge.
Would those firmly set lips beg for mercy? Or would they part to welcome his kiss? What sort of woman would place her life at risk against not only the Celts but the gods of water and fire? There was but one answer...a woman with the soul of a Celt, and it was such a woman he held in his arms.
He gripped her tightly and pressed her sleek, firm body against his. Perhaps, should she please him, he would take her back with him to warm his bed. And warm it she would. If not with her love, then with her hatred. With such a woman, either emotion would prove entertaining during the long winter nights.
He bent toward her. She did not flinch or beg, and once more he felt grudging admiration. As their lips touched, sparks shot before his eyes and exploded into nothingness. Rory pitched forward, Old Ethyl’s arrow buried deep in his back.
Chapter Two
“Serine! Are you hurt?” Margot asked as she rushed to Serine’s side.
“Only frightened,” Serine admitted, struggling to roll the Celt off her body.
Serine scrambled to her feet and looked down at the man. Blood trickled from his mouth and disappeared into his beard.
“My arrow is stuck in his lungs,” Old Ethyl cackled as she hurried over to survey her handiwork. “A death blow, I vow! No need to worry about that one again.”
“The children?” Serine asked, trying to forget the heat that had raced through her body as the man held her in his arms.
“The children are safe,” Margot assured her. “I saw them reach the hills and came back to find you.” She looked at the younger woman’s state of undress and added, “And well I did.”
Old Ethyl regarded Dame Margot with disdain. “We had everything under control,” she said bluntly.
Serine grabbed her woolen dress from beneath the bush and threw it over her body, ignoring the scratch of the coarse material against her skin. The rough woolen garment did nothing to warm her. Her whole being felt as cold as death. As cold as the man lying at the water’s edge.
“Come now, we must go,” Margot urged.
“But what of...him?” Serine motioned toward the inert body.
“Leave him,” Old Ethyl said, pulling her away. “Perhaps the Celts will return for him. I might stay and see if I could skewer a few more.”
“There’s no reason for you to put yourself in more danger,” Serine assured the woman. “‘Tis best we leave.” She willed herself not to look back.
“It was a good job we did of making them think they’d been attacked. Look there!” she cackled as the Celts struggled to set the sails on the little boats. “The whole lot of them on the run. They must make it back to their godforsaken land as best they can in their little skiffs while their ship sinks. And good riddance!” Old Ethyl added as the women made their way through the deserted camp and hurried after the children.
Only when they reached the rocks that would block the sea from view did Serine pause. Cursing herself for her weakness, she allowed herself one last look at the man, lying like a pagan god in the moonlight. It would not have surprised her to see the figure of a Valkyrie come to take him to Valhalla, or heaven, or perhaps hell. It occurred to her that it was the Viking warriors who were said to be taken to Valhalla when they were struck down in battle. God only knew where Celts went after death. Regardless of his beliefs, or lack of them, this man had held no weapon, and Serine could not help but wonder about the fate that awaited a warrior shot in the back while he dallied with a woman.
Not that she cared! Not that she cared in any way! Only, it was too bad the Celt would not receive his just reward.
But then, perhaps he already had.
* * *
Day was breaking when Serine reached the place where the children had been hidden. The sun crested the horizon and the women called out their welcome, hailing Serine and her companions as heroes.
Exhausted from the rigors of their escape and the trauma of abduction, the children slept in the hall of an ancient monastery hidden deep in the forest.
“And there’s no question in my mind,” the alewife boasted, “the men could have done no more, nor done it better.” She beamed at her lady and cast a loving glance at her sleeping son.
Serine studied each little face as she made her way through the area while Old Ethyl accepted the accolades of the village women.
“I vow I’d never seen anything like the way the Celts took to the water when they realized their precious ship was in danger,” one of the women observed. “Forgot all about the childer, they did. It was almost too easy to steal them back, so smug were those Celts. Never thought for a minute that the smoke was anything more than night fog until it was too late.”
“Only one Celt sensed they’d been tricked,” Hildegard chimed in. “And he started rowing toward land as though pursued by demons, but by the time he reached the shore we were well away.” She paused and glanced over her shoulder. “Think you the Celts will follow?”
“The Celts are well gone,” Old Ethyl volunteered with finality. “They’ll not return to our shores after the drubbing we gave them.”
The women laughed and crowed in euphoric relief, rightfully proud of a job well done. After the initial burst of enthusiasm they became silent. Even the women around Margot began whispering.
As well they should, Serine told herself. After all, there was no reason to wake the youngsters, who had already gone through so much. She nodded in satisfaction as she saw two of Ursa’s little girls curled up together. But her eyes were never still as she continued to search for the features of her own Hendrick.
Hendrick, the beloved child of a loveless, politically inspired marriage. Some sixteen years Serine’s senior, her husband, Elreath, had no living children when he was offered Serine, as well as her family estate of Sheffield, as a boon from the king in appreciation for the old knight’s faithful support in the Crusades.
Visualizing himself as the inveterate soldier, Elreath expressed his appreciation to his liege, married Serine and performed his conjugal duty with the same enthusiasm he would have shown if forced to curry his horse. He made no bones about the fact that he was beyond an age where he felt a young wife was anything other than a burden, but he was gratified by her appreciation of the treasures he had brought back with him from the Crusades, and pleased beyond measure when Serine told him she was with child.
Elreath had been on his way to the Holy Land when Hendrick was born, and did not see the child until some three years later when he returned.
The child thrived, but the father had aged and shriveled in the desert sun. For a time there was some question that he would be strong enough to join the next Crusade. There was no question as to whether Hendrick would be the only child conceived of the union, as Elreath felt he must conserve his strength and left Serine alone. At the end of Hendrick’s fifth year Elreath had recovered enough to pledge himself to one last Crusade. In a gracious gesture he stripped his estate of able-bodied men and set out once more to free the Holy Land from the infidel, leaving his estates and his son in the able hands of his wife.
Serine had been well versed in running the estate. With the help of the steward she had managed the lands, the flocks and the crops, but she was not prepared for the Celt invasion, and it angered her that they had been left alone and so ill prepared. It was only luck that she had found a way to recover the children. And perhaps her prayers to the Christian God were more powerful than those of the Celts to the deities they worshiped.
Once Hendrick was again in her arms she would take the time to thank her maker. Hendrick, with his tousled hair and laughing eyes. Hendrick, to whom she had given life, and who now made her life worth living. Hendrick, her son.
Lost in reverie, Serine found herself at the end of the hall and was about to start back through the maze of sleeping children when Dame Margot approached.
“I must speak to you,” Margot said without preamble.
“As soon as I find Hendrick I will be at your disposal,” Serine agreed absently.
Margot took Serine’s arm and guided her through the door into what must have been a small chapel. “Hendrick isn’t with the other children.”
Serine refused to meet Margot’s steady but sympathetic gaze. “Surely they haven’t taken him back to Sheffield already. Regardless of Old Ethyl’s boast, there still may be some danger.” She tried to look back into the hall over Margot’s shoulder. He must be there, somewhere. Any minute he would awaken and come running to her and the night’s work would not have been in vain.
“Serine, come and sit with me.” Margot led her to a wooden bench. “Ursa tells me that some of the children were taken aboard the larger vessel before we were able to steal them back.”
Serine nodded. “Yes, that could be true. I remember how the little boats went back and forth. Some of the children could have been taken.”
But not Hendrick, her heart cried out. Not Hendrick! She knew he had been on the shore shortly before she started rowing for the ship. She had heard his voice. Heard him challenge the Celts like the lordling he was.
She could feel Margot gripping her hands. She did not want to hear the woman’s next words, but they must be heard. Serine took a deep breath. “Go on,” she ordered.
“Hendrick is not here.”
“Perhaps he went back to look for me,” Serine suggested.
Margot shook her head. “The Celts have him.”
It was a statement of fact, and as such, beyond refutation. Serine turned her face toward the crumbling wall to hide the tears that sprang to her eyes.
“From all that the women have been able to glean from the children, Hendrick was taken to the ship shortly before the fire.” Margot continued without releasing her grip on the younger woman’s hands. “You have done a very courageous thing, Serine, and the people of your village will be forever grateful, but Hendrick is gone.”
Serine gave Margot’s fingers a little squeeze and pulled away. “Then I shall go after him,” she said. “How many others are missing?”
“Over a dozen children,” Margot admitted, “along with Gerta and her babe.”
“I will go after all of them,” Serine vowed. “I’ll go after them and bring them back.”
“I understand how desperately you want to find Hendrick and the rest of the children and bring them home, but you don’t know where the Celts have taken them. It could take you months, or even years to find them.” Margot tried desperately to dissuade Serine from undertaking an impossible task. “Old Ethyl believes they came from Ireland, but there are Celts in Brittany, Wales, Scotland and even France. Most have become quite civilized, but these men must be renegades. You could search the rest of your life and never find their village.”
“Perhaps some of the children overheard the Celts say something that would tell us where they came from,” Serine suggested. “You can question them when they awaken. I’ll take Old Ethyl and go back to the area where the Celts landed and see if they left anything that would tell me from whence they came.”
“Serine! You know as well as I that they left nothing behind,” Margot pleaded, knowing in her heart that this brave young woman was headed for heartbreak and disappointment.
“Not so, Dame Margot.” Serine drew herself to her full height, her eyes hard with determination. “There is one thing they left behind that could give us a great deal of information, and that is the wounded Celt.”
“But the man was sore wounded,” Margot gasped. “Like as not he is already dead.”
“If he is still on English soil and there is breath in his body, I will keep him alive until he can tell me where they’ve taken Hendrick,” Serine vowed, and without waiting to hear more of Margot’s objections she hurried off to find Old Ethyl, knowing all too well that the chances of success were slim.
But even a slim chance was better than no chance at all.
* * *
“M’lady! Slow down a bit,” Old Ethyl panted. “I can’t keep up.”
Serine glanced back over her shoulder, gauging the lengthening distance between herself and the other woman. “Don’t fret yourself, Ethyl,” she said. “Just keep me in sight and there’ll be no problem.”
“There be a problem already,” Old Ethyl called after her. “No lady in her right mind would go looking for a needle in the hay. You’ll find yourself sorry, you will. Mark my words, there’s naught but grief left on those shores.”
But Serine did not slow her steps, and the old woman somehow managed to keep but a few paces behind her, for all her grumbling.
The coast looked deserted as Serine viewed it from her vantage point among the rocks on the high cliffs.
“You see?” Old Ethyl came up behind her. “I told you there would be nothing here. The Celts have taken their fallen comrade and gone their way.” She tugged at Serine’s arm, her one eye scanning the coastline cautiously.
Serine caught her breath. “The ship is still here,” she said as she ducked behind the rocks, pulling the old woman with her.
“It will not sail again. The Celts have left it to rot. Now come along. This is not a good place to linger.”
Serine shook her off. “I’m going down there to look around. Perhaps they left something that will tell me the name of the village from which they came.” As Serine spoke she spied a scrap of cloth along the shore. Her heart turned painfully in her chest and pounded against her ribs like a falcon fighting to fly free.
She jerked away from Old Ethyl’s restraining hands and ran down to the beach. Only when she reached flat ground did she slow her steps and approach with some semblance of caution.
The Celt was not where they had left him. She had noted the bush carefully, for it had been her point of refuge the night before, and there was no body lying beside it. If the Celts had not come back and taken him, he might yet be alive and have moved away from the sea. Again her heart lurched at the thought of life pulsing from his body, and she found herself almost as greatly troubled by the thought of the man dying along the water’s edge as she was by the loss of her son.
She bolted through a cluster of rocks and almost stepped on an outthrust arm.
It took all her control to keep from screaming as Old Ethyl slammed into her back.
The older woman peered around her lady, glaring malevolently at the man on the ground. “Guess I didn’t place the arrow as well as I thought,” she remarked as she nocked another shaft.
“No.” Serine pushed the bow aside. “There will be no killing.”
“What do you mean, no killing?” Old Ethyl challenged. “The man is a Celt! He’d just as soon rape and kill you as look at you. You can’t mean to let him live!”
“I mean to make him live,” Serine told her. “To make him live, and make him tell me where his people have taken my son.” A tiny smile touched her lips. “And then I mean to make him take me there to demand the return of Hendrick in exchange for the Celt’s life.”
Old Ethyl shook her head, but she lowered her bow. “I don’t know that Celts work that way,” she said thoughtfully. “But I guess it’s worth the chance. Especially since it seems to be the only chance we’ve got.”
“I only hope he lives long enough to tell me where they’ve taken Hendrick.” Serine dropped at the man’s side, appalled at his color, or lack thereof. “That is, if he’s alive even now.”
“Oh, he’s alive enough, I’ll warrant.” Old Ethyl quickly assessed the situation. “In fact, I’d wager he heard every word you said, didn’t you, laddie?” She nudged his leg with her foot.
“How can you be so certain?” Serine looked up at the old woman and did not see the Celt’s eyelids flicker. “A moment ago we both thought him dead.”
“That was before you knelt down beside him,” Old Ethyl said cryptically. “I don’t think he’s in any condition to harm you, but if you’re determined to save him I better go and get a cart to carry him back to Sheffield.”
“Thank you, Ethyl,” Serine answered, but this time her whole attention was focused on the man beside her. The man who pinioned her with eyes filled with pain. The man whose hair fell in ebony ringlets across his forehead. The man who managed with all that was left of his strength to drag a breath into his punctured lungs and say, “I would have thought I had surely died and been taken to my reward, had it not been for the old hag beside you.”
“Do not fear, Celt,” Serine said as she placed a cool hand on his fevered forehead, “I do not intend to let you go anywhere until you tell me where I can find my son.”
She fought down the jolt she knew when her flesh touched his, and tried to act as though nothing unusual had happened, nothing that could not be explained as concern for his condition, nothing that might indicate that each moment she was near him filled her with emotion she had never before known and never so much as imagined.
His voice was little more than a whisper as he fought down a quickening of his blood that was slightly less than devastating. “No man could desire eternity with you at his side on this earth.” His voice faded, and he stared at her, unblinking.
“Why do you look at me so?” she demanded, unnerved by his scrutiny.
“Because I fear if I close my eyes you will disappear and the one-eyed harpy of my nightmares will return.” His eyes closed against the pain, nonetheless.
“I will not disappear,” Serine assured him. “At least, not until you tell me how I can find my son.” But even as she spoke his head lolled back and she knew he could no longer hear her.
She turned him onto his side to ease the pressure on his wound. What was he trying to do to her? Offering compliments when he was barely conscious. It was almost obscene! A Celt offering flattery with his last breath. How dare he? If only she didn’t need him so desperately. If he wasn’t her only chance to discover the whereabouts of her son. If her heart didn’t beat so erratically when she so much as thought about their unconscionable first meeting. If these things weren’t so, she would leave him here without blinking an eye. But they were true. They were all true, and she couldn’t leave him behind again.