Chapter 7

When she came beyond the gates, Melisande discovered that, mercifully, others had come to her father first. He no longer lay on the field. When she turned, looking for him, she felt Ragwald’s bony but surprisingly strong hands upon her.

“They’ve taken him to the chapel,” Ragwald told her. “I’ll bring you to him there.”

She wrenched free from his touch, staring at him as if he were the greatest traitor in all the world. “I know where the chapel is. You stay away from me.”

Ragwald sighed deeply, trying to come near her again. She backed away from him.

“Melisande, stop it! You’ve got to listen—”

“We had won! We had won, and you sat there bargaining with that Viking. We don’t need him, I hate him, I will not marry him, Ragwald. My father is dead, I am countess here, and you cannot make me!”

“By your father’s soul, girl, have some sense!”

“I have sense! Gerald is dead, the Viking killed him—”

“And you are a very weak and very young girl! You cannot hold this land, you can’t provide the strength needed to support these men who were so willing to fight and die for you today. This Viking, as you insist on calling him, was your father’s choice.”

“My father’s choice!” she exclaimed, astounded.

“He can call upon help from across the seas, he can fight the Danes because he knows how to fight as they do. Melisande, you are not of an age to take power. Your welfare is left in my hands.”

“Then stop this!” she demanded.

Ragwald looked at her sadly. “I was against it when I first heard of it, Melisande, but I think now that it is the only way you will be allowed to live long enough to care for this great fortress.”

“Well, I won’t do it!” she insisted, coming closer to him. “I won’t do it! I’ll not be here when you and he come around to finishing with your bargains!” She was alarmed by the sense of panic growing within her every time she thought of what her fate might be at the Viking’s hands. He didn’t want her—other than to crush her. He wanted her fortress. It was humiliating. “I will run—” she began, but she paused, hearing a soft footfall behind her. She turned around and quickly became aware that she and Ragwald were surrounded by the Viking’s men, a very strange lot of them, for some were so fair they were near white-haired, some were freckle-faced with fire-red hair, and some were very dark. Some were very Norse in their dress, while others wore the Celtic jewels and mantles so particular to Eire. She counted quickly. Ten of them surrounded her and bowed gravely as she stared at them.

One stepped forward. He was nearly as tall as his leader, broad-shouldered, and with a full head of deep auburn hair. “Your father, Countess, is tended to now. If you’ll come with us, you might pray for his soul. Astrologer,” he continued, “my lord Conar seeks your council now.”

Hot tears stung Melisande’s eyes. She wasn’t going to let them fall. She lifted her chin. “You all will accompany me to a Christian chapel to pray?” she inquired with an edge of sarcasm to her voice.

But the man who had addressed her was careful to take no offense. “Milady, our island has long been a place where the greatest of Christian beliefs flourish. You must come there sometime. You will be amazed.”

“Your island,” she said with a sniff. “And tell me, do they make those dragon-prowed ships of yours in those same places where your Christian beliefs flourish?”

“Melisande!” Ragwald hissed.

“Do they?”

“Indeed, lady, they do. We have taken from King Olaf’s world all that is good and combined it with all that is fine from our homeland, and there we have found an incredible strength and beauty between the two.”

He smiled and would not be disturbed. Melisande suddenly found her arm grasped by Ragwald again, and he was leading her through the crowd of men back toward the walls. His fingers were tense around her arm. “I have taught you all these years. I have frowned upon your father’s giving you lofty ideas, for it is a brutal and wearisome world beyond, and you must be made to see that! You have a fine mind, you are wise well beyond your years. You were willing to ride to your death this afternoon, but now you do not see how necessary this is for you and all who reside here. Do you care nothing for the people? Will you see them attacked again and again, laid low, beaten, massacred, because you are afraid of one man when you were not afraid of hundreds?”

“I’m not afraid of him,” she whispered back furiously.

“Then—”

“I simply loathe the man.”

“That is no reason not to wed him!” Ragwald exclaimed angrily.

“I’m too young to marry—”

“Girls have been wed from their cradles. Think on this, you may wed him now and most probably not see him again for years! But you will be safe and strong, don’t you see?” His voice dropped still lower. “Have you no respect for your father’s memory? Have you no dignity on his behalf? Of all times, Melisande, you cannot act like a child now!”

“But I am a child. You keep telling me how young I am! As he says, I am a little girl!”

“You cannot act like a spoiled one! You will mock your father, even in death!”

If he wished to hurt her—but in so doing reach her—he had done so. Her heart and head still reeled with the simple fact that her father was dead. It was unbearable.

She walked through the gates with Ragwald. They came to the center of the courtyard, and she spun around, staring at him. “Do what you wish then, astrologer! Cause this thing to happen. But don’t offer your advice to me again!”

She whirled around and left him, aware of all the men behind her, but oblivious to them. The chapel was in the far north tower and she hurried there. The milling mass of her people, some white-faced, some with tears staining their cheeks from their own losses and hers, quickly made way for her.

She burst through the doorway. She stood there a moment, accustoming her eyes to the dim and smoky candlelight within. The chapel was a simple place with rough wooden benches leading to the altar, an aisle in the center. A runner of crimson cloth had been cast down the aisle.

Her father had been laid out on a like cloth on a wooden litter before the altar. Someone had tended to him carefully, the blood had been washed from his face and features, a cloth had been set around his throat where it had been so deeply severed. His eyes were closed, his fingers were folded around the hilt of his sword, so calm in death. He was a handsome man, a young man, Melisande realized.

And when she looked at him now, she felt the tears she had fought so long burn like arrows in her eyes. She cried out, heedless that anyone might be near her, and she tore down the aisle to kneel at his side, to touch him, to let her tears flow.

He looked so very much the same as when he had lived! But he was so stiff to her touch and growing cold so quickly. “No, no, no, no, no!” she cried over and over again. The tears fell from her face to land on his hands, and she felt against his coldness and his stiffness, his death, when she tried to wipe the wetness away. He could not be dead, she had to hear his voice again, his laughter again. She had not realized how very fragile life was, any life. The loneliness assailed her even as she sobbed, touching him still, hugging him, as if she could warm him back to life with her own body. She threw herself upon him, sobbing, praying that she might wrench him up and somehow breathe life into him once again.

She suddenly felt a strong, warm touch upon her, one that was very much alive. She tried to fight, but the power behind it was too much for her. Seeing her father, feeling his body grow cold, had been more than she could bear. She hadn’t the strength to stand.

Blindly she struck out at the arms that held her. She was not released, but pulled firmly away. She started to fall and was lifted up. She found herself staring into the endlessly blue eyes of the Viking who had avenged her father’s death but now stood to take his place.

“Leave me be!” she begged him.

“You cannot be with him, you cannot die with him. No living soul can do that for another,” he told her.

A new well of tears sprang forward.

“Hush,” he told her, and gently held her head against the breadth of his chest. “Shh, the pain is great, but it will lessen.”

“Never!” she whispered. He was carrying her somewhere, she didn’t know where. She was dimly aware that they left the chapel behind them, that people broke apart to make way now for the Viking who held her.

Darkness was falling. It had been just hours since her father had died.

And already he was so cold.

So stiff.

Gone…

She started to shudder and sob again. His fingers came to her face, smoothing dampened hair from her cheeks. A few minutes later he set her down in one of the mammoth carved chairs before the fire in the great hall.

The hall was very quiet, yet there were men there. She could see them all as he set her down. Ragwald was there, very tall and lean, watching her with a strange, sorrowful light in his eyes. The great redheaded friend of the Viking was there, along with Philippe, Gaston, and a few others.

The redheaded man came forward with a chalice. The Viking, down upon one knee before Melisande, took it quickly from him, pressing it into her fingers. “It’s warmed wine. Drink it. It will help.”

“Nothing will help.”

“Aye, time will help.”

She drank the wine. The room remained very quiet. She felt the great heat and power of the man before her, watching her as she drank the wine. She had had it oft enough before. Even very young children sometimes had sips of wine with their meals, it was all that was set upon the table to drink at times.

This wine was potent. A rich wine her father had just brought back from his visit to Burgundy. That thought nearly brought the tears back to her eyes. She didn’t sip the wine, but drank from it deeply. It warmed her insides and nearly made her gag. In the aftermath of the warmth, though, she felt the first numbing of the pain.

She drained the wine from the chalice and stared into the cool, demanding blue eyes of the stranger who suddenly seemed to be dictating her life.

He watched her in turn, judging her, she knew. For the moment she kept her silence, though she bristled. Her lashes lowered at last, and she thrust her chalice back at him. He rose from his knees before her and strode back to the center of the men, then turned and faced her from a distance.

“We have found your father’s documents,” he said. He waited for her reaction, but she allowed him none. “He had already had a marriage contract written with his agreements clearly set forth. Would you like to read it?”

Her breath caught. She couldn’t believe it. Her father had meant to marry her to this man! He had always promised that she would have some say, that she would choose.

She felt so numb that she couldn’t quite form an answer. In a way she was betrayed. Her father, like everyone else, had doubted her ability and her power.

There was no way out of this, she realized, and anger seemed to flow through her body as hotly as the wine. She would not let them ridicule her in the future. And she wasn’t going to run again and be dragged down by this Viking.

She stood, startled to discover that she was a little wavery on her feet, but she carefully hid that fact. She was glad that, even at her age, she was taller than some of the smaller men present.

Not taller than him, though. She was certain that not many men were.

I will not be afraid of him!she vowed to herself. “I don’t need to see the papers,” she said coolly. “In my father’s honor, I will follow my father’s wishes.” She stared at Ragwald.

Long strides brought him back before her, blue eyes strong upon her. “Can you manage the chapel?”

“The chapel?”

“Aye, Melisande. It is best to do this properly. In the chapel, before God and all the people.”

“Even while my father’s body lies there?”

“Especially because your father’s body lies there. Do you need more time?”

“I think not,” Ragwald murmured uneasily. The Viking looked his way, and Ragwald shrugged unhappily, gazing over to Melisande. “I don’t think Melisande needs time to think now, nor to be alone—”

“Because she might run away?” the Viking asked.

Ragwald didn’t reply. The Viking smiled, shaking his head. “No one runs from me, Ragwald. I run faster, you see. She must have it her way in this. I ask you again, Melisande. Do you need time?”

Those eyes! No one ran from him! Because if she ran, he would catch her. And life would be far worse. He hadn’t wanted any part of this, but he had made his decision now. And that was it, the law, as great as God’s own, so it seemed.

One day I will run from you! she thought. Far, far away!

But her breath caught then, as she realized what he was trying to tell her. Her father lay dead in the chapel, and they must go there now and marry, with his cold body alongside them.

Count Manon would, after all, be present for his daughter’s wedding.

She curled her fingers into her hands, her nails biting her flesh. The people. She had to do this because of all the people. The farmers, the smiths, the craftsmen, the milkmaids. They were weak now, so vulnerable. And this would make them strong.

“I’m ready now.” She stared at Ragwald. “I am not running anywhere.” She stared from one man to the next in the room, and a distant smile curled her lips. “It wouldn’t matter anyway, would it? You would do this all by proxy, and nothing I said would matter.”

“The church demands your agreement,” the red-haired Viking assured her.

She lifted her hands, shaking her head. “So it’s said, but I’ve yet to see a woman’s choice in any matter mean a thing. Indeed, I remember a cousin’s wedding, in which she did not agree, yet wound up in her would-be husband’s arms, with his forceful grip upon her head causing her to nod at the appropriate time. Messires, I ask you, wouldn’t the same fate befall me?”

“Alas, milady, surely no—” the redhead began.

“Indeed, it is quite possible!” Conar MacAuliffe strode before her again, his blue eyes searing into hers. “Shall it come to that?”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked him. “You were so opposed to a child!”

“Children grow,” he said with a shrug. “And I have assessed this land. It’s worth the wait.”

“You could die in battle while you’re waiting,” she told him quickly. “And therefore die with no heir or issue.”

“You’re a very clever child,” he told her. “And perhaps my wait will not be so long.” He grew impatient then, turning from her and striding across to the great table, where documents had been strewn about.

“I hereby swear to honor Count Manon’s demands as regards his daughter and his property, and set my hand and seal to it now, thus vowing my life to this new course.”

He plucked a quill from the table and signed a document. A candle was quickly brought, and wax dripped upon it. The Viking pressed the ring from his little finger into the wax upon it, and thus the contract was signed.

He turned back to her. “Shall we go?”

“Isn’t my signature needed upon it?” she inquired.

He shook his golden head slowly, eyes upon her. “This is just the contract. Your father signed it.”

Melisande seethed. He couldn’t have meant this, she thought. Not Count Manon. He couldn’t have meant to so cruelly cast her into this world where her thoughts and wishes meant nothing.

She clenched her teeth. It was a world in which a woman’s desires meant little or nothing. A woman was her father’s ward until her marriage.

And then her husband was full guardian.

Perhaps there would be no real marriage tonight. But this Viking would not be her guardian.

She almost sank back to the chair. Then she vowed she would not. He would learn that she had been raised to be independent, to think, to rule her own destiny. And if he did not, well then, both their lives would be hell.

“We shall go,” she said, and turning, started from the great hall. She bit into her lower Up, determined that no more tears would fall from her eyes before them, before him. Despite her best efforts, they blurred her vision as he hurried down the stairs to the entrance of the tower, then burst back out into the courtyard.

It had grown dark at last. The sounds of moaning and confusion had faded. The dead had been collected, the injured attended to. Torches lit the courtyard in an eerie glow, because there seemed to be no light from the moon that night.

She felt his hand upon her elbow suddenly. “Melisande,” he told her softly, “it is far more proper if you walk with your intended lord.”

“You are not my intended, you are my father’s.”

“I will not parry words with you tonight.”

“Then perhaps you had best not speak with me.”

His fingers curled around hers tightly. He didn’t really hurt her. He wielded just enough force to let her know that he could cause her head to nod if he so desired.

“I am weary, too,” he told her.

“Your father does not lie on a slab in yonder chapel,” she reminded him.

“I am sorry for that, deeply sorry. And so, milady, I have forgiven much. Tonight.”

“Ah. Tomorrow you will forgive no more?”

“Tomorrow you had best take care. The more I speak with you, the more I find you to be overly wise for your years, too determined, brash, and reckless.”

She spun on him quickly. “It is how I was raised. How my father intended my life should be.”

They had come before the chapel at last. Behind her, Ragwald was reading from the marriage contract, announcing the union of two noble houses, informing all the people that because of circumstances, the wedding would take place immediately.

“I intend, milady, that you should live long enough to provide heirs for this fine estate,” the Viking said flatly. “And as that might well take some time, you can no longer be so determined, brash, and reckless!”

“Where’s the bloody priest?” Ragwald muttered.

“I am here!”

Melisande was dimly aware that their priest, Father Matthew, had arrived at last. She hadn’t seen him all day. Father Matthew was not the bravest of men. He had surely been hiding in the storage rooms beneath the chapel throughout the day.

If the Viking had come to him before, Melisande was certain, Father Matthew had certainly promised that he would wed the two of them—and put the fortress in his hands—no matter what Melisande should or shouldn’t say.

Father Matthew, snow white hair wild upon his head, let his small dark eyes fall briefly upon her, then he quickly looked away. In his way the priest was a gentle and caring man. She was certain that he was sorry, but that he intended to act anyway.

The night air was cool. It made the chain mail armor she still wore icy to the touch. Melisande closed her eyes and felt the air brush her cheeks. Father Matthew stood upon the first step to the chapel and announced her name and title and family to the people who had begun to gather after Ragwald’s announcement. Then he announced the Viking’s. Impressive. He was the son of the king of Dubhlain, grandson of the high king of all Eire, and son of a very great Norwegian jarl.

Viking! Melisande thought.

Yes, it took one to fight them!

“Melisande!”

It was Ragwald hissing at her. She realized that she hadn’t been listening, hadn’t heeded the proceedings.

“Do you enter this union of your own free will?” Father Matthew repeated.

No!

The priest cleared his throat, but the Viking spoke for him impatiently.

“Do you enter into this union of your own free will?” he demanded, his words strong, his voice very sure.

Any second now he would pluck her up, nod her head for her, she was certain.

It was her father’s will. She had said that she would do it. For all the people who depended on the lord and lady of the fortress.

“Yes!” she snapped. “I do this of my own free will.”

Those Nordic eyes were upon her again. Icy blue. Yet tinged with just the smallest light of respect.

“A ring,” Ragwald whispered, to the Viking this time. “It’s very important here that you give her the ring at the doorway to the chapel. Then we may enter in.”

The Viking drew the ring from his finger, the ring with which he had set his seal to the wedding contract. He set it on her third finger, then tried her thumb. She wrapped her fingers around it so that it wouldn’t fall to the ground.

Were that to happen, the entire crowd would moan as one, and everyone would be convinced that the Danes would wipe them all out by morning, that their children would burn to cinders, and that a plague of locusts would descend immediately.

The ring didn’t fall. Father Matthew announced that they would enter the church for the wedding mass.

“Do you really go to mass?” she inquired of the man at her side, her tone cynical.

“When it is opportune, most certainly,” he assured her. Melisande opened her mouth to speak again but fell silent.

Her father lay before them. She nearly tripped, nearly fell. Strong arms were there to prevent her from doing so.

“I cannot do this!” she whispered.

“You must. Lean on me.”

It was the last she really remembered of the ceremony. Father Matthew spoke of her father, of his goodness, of how he had been slain. He spoke of the strength needed to hold steady against their enemies, and thus this unseemly haste in a marriage. He spoke of the fact that Conar MacAuliffe had slain Gerald, who had slain Manon, and thus it was fitting that the avenger should sit in the lord’s house. And when all this had been said, he at last moved on to the wedding.

In the end she had to be nudged to speak again. By then it didn’t matter what she said at all. She would have sworn to marry twenty dwarfs from the forest. Upon her knees before the altar at his side, she heard Father Matthew pronounce them duly wed, before God and men.

She couldn’t quite seem to stand on her own, but Conar helped her to her feet. His lips touched each of her cheeks.

There was no cheering, no revelry. He led her from the chapel and back to the south tower.

And there Marie de Tresse was waiting. She slipped an arm around Melisande and brought her up the stairs to the bedchambers.

They passed by the room where her father had slept. They stopped. Melisande went stiff, staring into the room. She wanted to go there, to touch his things.

“No!” Marie whispered gently. “Not now.” Melisande felt numb at that moment, so cold and so weary. Marie pushed her beyond that door and down the small hallway to her own room. Once there, Marie helped her to slip off the suit of mail, and then Melisande collapsed upon her bed. Once again she thought of her father. Tears began to fall down her cheeks.

Marie came to her, brushing the tears away. But Ragwald came, too, and Melisande turned on her side, away from them both.

“Melisande!” Marie said softly. Ragwald caught Marie’s arm and led her away. “Let the girl be,” he said softly. “She needs the tears.”

The door closed. And Melisande was alone. A bride—and an orphan.

In all of her life, she had never felt so surrounded.

And never, never so alone.