Chapter 1

Spring, A.D.885

The Coast of France

“Melisande! Melisande! His ships are here!”

Melisande had been a flurry of motion. The words brought her to a dead standstill in the center of the tower, a sudden cascade of both fear and anticipation sweeping through her.

She had not believed that he would come!

But with Marie de Tresse crying out the warning from the wooden parapet beyond her open tower door, Melisande could no longer doubt his promise that he would have his due.

She stared at Marie’s anxious face for a moment, dropped the tunic of delicately crafted mail she’d held, then tore through the doorway from the high tower chamber and ran out along the stone wall to stare out to the sea from the parapet.

Indeed, he was coming.

Dear God, it had been a day like this when he had first come. It seemed so long ago now!Was he always to catch her in adversity such as this? Would she always be left to wonder if he had come to her aid—or to destroy her completely?

There was no question today, she told herself. He had come for what he considered his.

She felt suddenly hot and cold at once. She pressed the back of her hand to her face. Her face felt like fire, her hand like ice.

God, he was coming, he was coming. Wave after wave of tremors shot through her, sweeping her up. It seemed so long since she had seen him. As if it weren’t enough that a thousand Danes under that loathed Geoffrey were at her door! Now, he was coming, too. After so long. Maybe there was a lot he had forgotten.

And maybe there was a lot he had remembered.

And God, how ridiculous!She wasn’t half as afraid of meeting the Danes as she was of meeting him!

Not afraid…

Yes! Afraid, after all that she had done.

And surely, with what his coming must mean!

Dear Lord, he was almost here. She could see his ship, see the man!

It was an extraordinary ship with its huge dragon prow. He rode his ship just as he had those many years ago when she had first seen him.

One booted foot was high upon the helm. His great arms were crossed over his heavily muscled chest.

A crimson mantle, broached at his shoulder with an ancient Celtic emblem, flew wild behind him with the whip of the sea wind. His hair, as golden and rich as the sun, also flew back.

She couldn’t see his eyes yet, but she didn’t need to see them. She could remember them all too well.

God, yes, she could remember their color!Remember that astounding, piercing blue. Sky blue, sea blue, deeper than cobalt, brighter than sapphires. They were eyes that looked at her, and through her, stripping her bare to the soul.

“So, he will not come, eh?”

She heard the taunting question spoken from a rich masculine voice at her rear and spun around quickly. Ragwald was there on the walkway with her, as ancient as the moon, as nagging as a fisherwife. He wagged a finger at her. “Milady, you cannot turn your back on a bargain with such a man!”

“I made no bargain! You did.”

“I bargained for our lives!” Ragwald reminded her with great dignity. “And thank the good Lord! It does appear that you might have need of the man again. Then again, perhaps the young jarl is angry and not in the mood to be very helpful, eh?”

“You—” Melisande began, ready to tell him that he was the adviser, she was the countess, and therefore, hers was the final word. But she broke off, biting her lower lip. There was a more immediate danger. When she stared down from her vantage point on the fortress wall, she could see her men already engaged in battle.

Odd, how things came around! They’d made these very enemies they fought now that long ago day when he’d first come, and now they were embroiled in battle again, even while his ships sailed through the seas, their great dragon prows slicing the water.

Strange that the day was gray, that lightning ripped, that thunder drummed. Strange that he had a penchant for coming in such a tempest, as if he were one of the gods himself, casting down his fire bolts as if he cast out his fury.

“Which shall it be?” Ragwald mused. “Has he come to slice and dice us—or has he come to the rescue once again? A Norse Viking—to fight these Danish Vikings!”

How could it be that they lived in such a lawless land? Melisande wondered for a pained moment. She used to love to hear her father talk about the great King Charlemagne, and about his love for the arts and astrology—and peace!

But Charlemagne, like her father, was dead. He had ruled nearly a hundred years ago, and many things had changed since then. Charles the Fat was king in Paris—except that he wasn’t in Paris, he was off somewhere in Italy, and the Danes had been ravaging the coast, heading for Rouen, forever, or so it seemed.

Melisande’s enemies had joined with the Danes once again to attempt to take what was rightfully hers.

She’d gone against them before. Ever since that day years earlier when her father had fallen dead, she had learned to still her cries when she watched men die by the sword. She had learned not to shiver before the war cries, and hardest of all, she had learned not to run! She had been all that was left to lead her people, and she had learned how to lead.

Not that he had ever intended that she should, but then again, that first meeting had been a long time ago. So much had happened since then.

So much for which he must surely long to wind his hands around her neck. His very powerful hands. She could almost feel them.

That thought again made her hot and cold, and incredibly weak. She had vowed to him that she wanted no part of him, yet even the thought of him made her tremble.

Ah, and there was the rub! For she dared not show the man weakness, dared never let him know her mind, her heart! Never let him know that thoughts of him filled her days, her life, always.

Most definitely not now! She couldn’t be weak. She didn’t even dare think about herself at the moment.

Or fear him or his touch. Think about it, loathe it, anticipate it, loathe it, ache for it. Hate him, love him, despise him, long for him…

Her men were in trouble, she realized suddenly. Deep trouble. From the parapet she could see the changing position of the warriors below, see the promise of defeat when they could not.

“Sweet Jesu above us!” Melisande cried. “Pray God someone has come for our side! I must hurry out there, Ragwald. Our forces are being split, there, see!”

Ragwald caught her arm. “Let it be! Don’t go! Let the Viking come in! One of them will have it—the Danes or the Norwegians. Let them battle it out, you remain here safely this time!”

Melisande pulled from him, angry at first, and then with sorrow.

Ragwald loved her. In these dark days love was hard to come by.

“I remind you, my dear adviser, you first sent me out in armor. I am the countess! I will hold this place. You are right about one thing—let them battle one another. But I must lead our men from the trap that is beginning to divide them now!”

“Wait!” Ragwald called. “See—his ships are beaching!”

“I cannot wait! See, Ragwald!” She dragged him to the edge of the parapet, pointing out the shore far below. Her father had built an exceptional fortress. A motte and bailey work, a castle. Such structures had become very prominent here in the last century since the Vikings had started their constant raids. Theirs was a truly fine example of all that such a fortress might be. They were located upon a mount with a safe harbor and beach directly in front of high stone walls. Most castles or mottes and baileys were wooden—her father had seen the great benefit of stone. It did not catch fire. Within the high walls there was the promise of safety. There was a great courtyard with room for men and animals, space for smiths to work, stables for the great war-horses, craftsmen’s shops, kitchens. To the left and to the right of the walls high precipices with forests mounted great cliffs that rose above the sea. The view from the parapets seemed never ending, and it was possible to gain infinite information here. Indeed, the fortress’s cunning placement had kept it standing when the troops left to defend it were minimal.

Now Melisande took full advantage of her bird’s-eye view. “See, Ragwald, there’s Philippe, and there’s Gaston, their forces being split, and they are so fierce in their combat that they cannot see! I must go.”

“Melisande, no!” Ragwald repeated. He gripped her arms when she tried to run past him. She stared into his eyes, and for once Ragwald could see a glimmering of fear there.

In Melisande? Melisande feared nothing.

Except the Viking, Ragwald thought in silence. She always had. He had both infuriated and fascinated her. Perhaps she had good sense to fear him now, as well as pray that he had come to defend them. After all, she had quite directly defied him in everything.

And now she meant to take her sword and ride out and do battle on Warrior!

“Don’t do this!” he warned her, holding fiercely to her once again.

“I have to!” she cried back, her voice husky, tinged with a certain desperation now, her eyes wide and wild with the tempest of her emotions.

“No—” he began again, but she had wrenched herself from his arms. “Melisande!” She ran from him down the parapet and into the tower.

“Melisande!”

Her name rose on the air and seemed to echo at him in a long taunt.

It didn’t matter. She was gone. Tensely he paced the tower parapet, the highest point of the fortress. He could see the courtyard below, the wall, the outer parapets; the field beyond the gates, and even to the sea.

Ten minutes later he saw her. His old heart leapt to his throat.

She was mounted upon Warrior, before the gates. She was clad in the gilded mail he had first seen so many years ago.

Clad as she had been when she had gone to war before.

Ragwald could see that the Viking ships had beached. From his distance he could see their leader donning his conical war helmet. The horses were being loaded off the ships. His majestic Thor, a huge horse, muscled like his master, but as agile as his master in every movement, came, too.

The Viking needed no explanations. His men were ready, striding straight from their ships into hand-to-hand combat on the shore, or leaping atop their Viking mounts, horses that had withstood their daring sea voyages time and time again.

Instantly they were within the fray.

Ragwald’s hands tightened around the edge of the parapet. Melisande was in the melee, too. Away from the new arrivals she was circling groups of fighting men, her sword extended and waving high in the air as she ordered her forces to regroup. The Danes—with their treacherous Frankish allies—were after her men in much greater number, perhaps a thousand of them to a mere two hundred of hers.

There were more coming, Ragwald had heard. Thousands more. They meant to lay siege to Paris, it had been rumored.

But they could care little about Paris here today. Melisande had gathered her troops. He could hear a cry going out. She was bringing the men back behind the walls of the fortress. Some sign had been given to the guards. Great caldrons of boiling oil were being brought up to throw down upon the invaders should they follow.

The gates opened. With Melisande in the lead, the defenders came rushing through.

“Strike!” Philippe shouted to the men above them on the outer wall of the fortress.

Ragwald closed his eyes. He heard the sound of agonized screams. The first of the invaders had been driven back by the boiling oil that had cascaded down upon them.

And there, dead still, hearing the screams as he did, was Melisande. So very pale and straight as she sat atop Warrior, she had just ridden into his sight within the courtyard, the men streaming in around and behind her.

She hated it, he thought. She hated the battles, she hated warfare. She had seen everything the day her father had died, and she dearly cherished peace since then.

But what if she lost?

Well, that consequence would be clear enough if the Danes were victorious. They would rob and pillage, murder and rape, and be done with it.

And the land and the fortress would be left to Geoffrey, just as soon as his raiding allies thought that they had taken their fill of the spoils.

And Melisande’s fate would be dire.

And if the Viking won?

She might consider her fate every bit as dire! But the people would live, the fortress would stand. Dear God, no matter what her fate, it would be much better for her people if the Viking were to win the day. There would be no pillaging, no robbing, no raping—no murder. Melisande would know that and accept her own fate, no matter what the consequences for her.

“The girl!” Came a cry from beyond the walls. “Give over Countess Melisande! Then will there be peace!”

Ragwald, from the tower parapet, could see everything so clearly! It was Geoffrey himself calling out. He had been in pursuit of Melisande, yet now the guards from the wall parapets held him off with their threat of death from the pots of burning oil. He sat on his own horse, fury contorting his features. Paused there just beyond the wall as Melisande’s men struggled valiantly to stream in behind her. Soon, enough of Geoffrey’s men would be with him so that more would be forced to brave the walls.

Some would perish.

Some would surely make it through.

There was not twenty feet now between Melisande and her enemy, but the great stone wall of the fortress separated them.

Yet the situation remained grim. The gates were not yet closed and bolted. The threat of the oil would not hold Geoffrey or his Danes long, not when a prize was nearly within their grasp.

“It’s Geoffrey!” Philippe, reining in his horse near to Melisande’s, cried out to his countess. “The bloody bastard, making the same demands as his father before him!”

Melisande could not see the troops beyond the walls as Ragwald did, but she could hear the cries clearly enough, and equally well she could hear the prancing of the war-horses, impatient as they waited. More and more of Geoffrey’s men gathered closer and closer to the walls. Soon they would rush the gates in such a multitude that nothing would hold them back.

“The walls will fall!” came another shouted threat. “Every man here will perish and die!” Geoffrey promised. “Melisande, you are outnumbered!”

“I was outnumbered!” she cried back. “No more!”

“The Viking comes! But can he save you in time? I’ve men of yours out here, Melisande. We pluck them up even as they try to escape us. You’ll seek to burn us—but you’ll burn them as well. Even now I have a knife at a man’s throat!”

Melisande stared up to Ragwald, high atop the tower parapet. Ragwald looked down at Geoffrey. Next to him one of his men did hold a prisoner, a razor-sharp blade thrust against his throat.

Ragwald looked to Melisande and saw in her eyes that she demanded the truth.

He nodded.

Melisande looked quickly to Philippe. Anguish touched her eyes. “I must go out there. There’s nothing left to do—”

“Men perish in battle, lady! For the fate of just one warrior—”

“Philippe! In seconds they will surge forward. We will kill our own people to press their’s back. More and more will die. If I ride Warrior out and give myself over—”

“No!” Philippe shouted.

She started to urge her horse forward, toward the gate. She despised Geoffrey. More than anyone in the world, she hated him deeply and fiercely. Even as her horse moved ahead she denied with all her heart that she could go to so despised an enemy.

His father had slain her own. To take the fortress.

Her teeth chattered suddenly.

No, she couldn’t go to Geoffrey. No matter what. Because the Viking was out there. And if he were ever to know that she had given herself over willingly, no matter what the circumstances might be…

She needed to buy time!

She reined in and stared up from Ragwald on the inner heights across the courtyard to her guards, stretched out on the outer wall parapets. Most of her guards were grimly ready with their caldrons of oil, but several of the best archers still held their weapons. She met one man’s gaze. “Can you hit the enemy who threatens one of our own?” she asked softly.

“Lady, aye!” he swore.

She nodded. “Do it then. When he is free, command our men to rush. See that they enter—even with what enemy they drag in with them. Then close the gates. Fast!”

Her archer turned. Swiftly he raised his bow and took aim.

She heard a scream. “Men, move now!” One of her captains shouted from the parapet, and there was an inward streaming at the gate, men fiercely battle men there.

“Close it!” she ordered.

“Melisande!” Ragwald cried down suddenly. “Hold fast! They are with us now!”

Then she heard a cry—a deep, rich cry of rage and surprise. It came from Geoffrey himself, she thought, and for a moment she savored the pleasure.

The Viking had reached her enemy…

She heard the awful sound of clanging, clashing steel. She heard the worse sound of steel sinking into men.

“Nay, Melisande!” Ragwald called out suddenly.

From his vantage point upon the inner tower parapet, Ragwald saw what she did not. Yes, the Viking had come. Geoffrey himself had gone into retreat, swiftly riding from the scene of the fray, yet leaving his men—and a multitude of Danes—to battle there.

Too many of them, for the Viking had split his forces, having brought half of them in the reckless dash forward that now saved Melisande’s forces, while the others had remained behind to battle the rear. His first wave of men were nowhere equal in number to the Danes there. He had meant to swell the ranks of the fortress guard, then find harbor to renew the battle from within the walls.

But Melisande had ordered the gates closed…

Right upon him, and his men.

“Sweet Jesu!” Ragwald prayed, looking to heaven, swiftly, then back to the battle that was unfolding before him now.

Perhaps there was a chance…

For he could see the warrior who had come to their defense now.

They called him the Lord of the Wolves, as Ragwald had heard they called his father before him. Now Ragwald knew why. Confronted with insurmountable odds, the man showed both incredible skill and incredible courage. Sword whipping from side to side, he rode straight into the worse of the fray, downing his enemies before most saw what hit them. There were berserker cries from the Danes, and some charged him, near frothing at the mouth, as berserkers were known to do. But one and all alike, they fell beneath the sheer force of his charge. There were more and more men upon him. He called out something that Ragwald didn’t understand, but then Ragwald saw what the order had been. While he battled, his men brought forth a ram. The Danes were kept busy while others of the Viking’s men went to work upon the gates—so recently slammed upon them—with their ram.

Ragwald realized suddenly that he had been staring at the battle open-mouthed. “Melisande!” he cried. But she couldn’t hear him above the din of battle. She was shouting out her own orders. He pushed away from the parapet and came running through Melisande’s tower, racing down the length of the stairway, then bursting out into the great hall. Out in the yard within the palisade, men, women, and children, cows, ducks, and pigs, all scurried to safety against the far walls, mothers grabbing their infants, farmers clinging to their precious livestock. A donkey brayed, chickens screeched and squawked flying everywhere. Ragwald, clad in his old comfortable gray cape, looking like a giant, ragtag bird himself, hurried toward Melisande and the troops who were now dismounting from their horses, preparing to man the walls.

“He’s there! He’s the one ramming the gate! Doing battle with the Danes. You—you locked him out!” he cried.

He watched the swift light of realization that came to her eyes, then the sinking horror within them.

She hadn’t meant to lock him out.

He would never believe it.

“The gate!” she cried, but it was too late. The heavy wooden ram broke through the weakened area of stone.

The Vikings knew their business. Aye, Lord Conar knew his business.

She saw Philippe, still mounted, riding hard to meet the new horde that burst in upon them.

“Call Philippe back!” Ragwald commanded quickly.

“He won’t come!”

“Tell him you need him—he will come. Don’t let a fighting man meet your Irish Viking first. The Viking will know I’ve not come to do battle. Call Philippe, quickly!”

“Philippe!” Melisande shouted his name. He turned, hurrying back to her. She quickly saw the wisdom of Ragwald’s words, for the old man himself went hurrying over to the broken wall, his arms flapping wildly.

It looked as if one of the Vikings meant to slice him through as he crawled atop the rubble. Melisande choked back a scream as she saw Ragwald halt.

Hehad come through the rubble himself. Mounted upon his great ebony stallion, wearing that helmet that hid all thought and made his eyes all the more piercing.

“They’ve beaten them! Geoffrey flees even now!” Philippe cried out suddenly. He started to laugh, the sound deeply relieved. “There—we’ve some of his men trapped within the fortress. I need to bring you quickly away, Countess. And finish this thing. Though, Lord God! Now we are under new attack since—”

“No, Philippe, no!” Melisande said softly, touching his arm. “Ragwald has reached the Wolf.”

“Then we are spared the evil of the Danes!”

Melisande was silent, convinced at that moment that there was no evil greater than the Viking who rode with such confidence and arrogance into her fortress. The man with the searing blue eyes and rock hard shoulders. The one who had come to lay claim to everything, who did as he chose, brooking no opposition.

A moment’s guilt tugged at her heart. She owed him! Yes, she had owed him, for a battle fought long ago. Yet he had been paid, and paid well. It was only the foolish bargain Ragwald had made with him so long ago that brought her to this moment now.

A bargain that might well have saved the day, she reminded herself.

None of that mattered. The guilt could not outweigh the fear that seemed to have risen to a storm within her. She couldn’t still the trembling within her. She had never been able to do that when he was near. Never been able to fight the tremendous heat, nor the cold, his nearness evoked. The feeling of shivers racing up and down her spine.

What difference did it make? she wondered. One bastard or another! But she didn’t really believe that. Geoffrey was as cruel and ruthless and cunning as his father had been.

As for him…

Him!

He merely wanted to slit her throat!

Oh, she could never abide his arrogance. Then there was the matter of the very elegant blond woman who traveled with him wherever he went. There was also the humiliating matter of all that he had commanded of Melisande…

The simple fact that he demanded, took what he would, gave orders.

Among other things, she reminded herself, was the way he must feel now. Now, when she had so defied him. Now, when he so nearly had his hands upon her again.

Warmth assailed her. She closed her eyes, promising herself that she would not think about him, that she would not consider what was to come.

Impossible. He was here. Memory was flooding the length of her as if her blood had become molten steel.

She inhaled deeply, mentally straightening, seeking strength. She was the countess. She had become so upon her father’s death. The land was hers. The fortress was hers.

And, so help her God, she would keep them!

“Jesu, lady! How many has he with him?” Philippe demanded at her side.

Mounted, the men were as striking as they had been in their dragon-prowed ships. They were men trained by Satan himself, so it seemed. Huge fellows, trained with axes and maces, knotted with muscle, reckless, fearless, dangerous.

They had saved her once. She knew how they fought!

And at the head of them… him!

“I must take you to the tower,” Philippe murmured, watching the action. It was evident that Geoffrey’s men must surrender or die, but there was still fighting in the yard. It did seem the safest course for her to be out of harm’s way now that she was no longer needed to rally her men.

“I can take care of myself, Philippe,” she assured him. “Hurry, see to our men.”

Philippe did not look comfortable with her decision, but Melisande did not give him time to argue. She hurried to the steps leading to her tower and began running up them as swiftly as she could with the weight of her mail upon her. She desperately needed some time. How did she greet him? Did she actually have to greet him? Wasn’t there any possibility at all that she could just run away?

Did she really want to? Maybe their time had finally come.

Some of the steps were broken. A battle-ax had fallen against the stone with such strength that it had cracked and broken. Melisande leapt across the gap and hurried onward to her tower room.

She paused, then ripped the mail quickly from her body.

It was a cowardly thing to do. But she thought that perhaps he hadn’t seen her on the battlefield and then wouldn’t think that she had intentionally closed the gates against him.

Fool! she charged herself. Coward! She was countess here!He was just a younger son of a king, seeking his fortune, and trying to make it from her rightful inheritance!She needed show him no fear, and certainly no humility!

She had dropped her sword with her mail. Now she clutched it again and looked uneasily about the room. Her eyes fell upon her bed with its cool, clean linen sheets and bear fur rug. A shaking seized her and she swallowed hard.

She didn’t want to be caught here! She hurried back out to the parapets and looked to the yard below.

Her heart seemed to stop completely. The shivers took hold of her again, hot and cold, fire and ice. She stood dead still and met his gaze.