The Wolf and the Dove (60 page)

There was a deadliness about the two and a sense of purpose that would not be denied. When a halt was called, a double handful of grain was carefully fed to the huge horses and then they drank and briefly grazed, while the men chewed on leathery strips of meat and caught quick naps in the sun.

Well past midnight a restless peasant wondered at the steady drum of hooves thundering by his cottage. Wulfgar knew no exhaustion. He was well trained to the hardship required by the martial calling. He rode relaxed in the saddle yet his thoughts ranged far ahead. Perhaps Aislinn and the babe had both been slain by now. His mind recoiled at the idea, trying to imagine life without Aislinn’s happy laughter ringing in his ears and here his musings found only a black, gaping dread. It came to him as bright sunlight in the night that he loved Aislinn beyond all reason, beyond his own life. He accepted the fact and found he relished the taste of it.

He smiled to himself in the blackness and spoke to the Viking who rode at his side. Though his voice was soft, there was a note of death in it that made Sweyn try to see his face in the gloom.

“Ragnor is mine! Come what may, Ragnor is mine.”

Soon there was a trail to follow, the cold coals of a campfire, the flattened grass where a maid might have rested. The eagerness of the two men became intent and they rode steadily past other wayfarers who paused to stare after them.

Then in the, broken highlands, of the north shore near Scotland, they topped a hill and on a distant knoll caught a glimpse of six riders, one whose mount was led. The great warhorses seemed to catch the fever of their masters and, though tired, stretched their mighty sinews a bit more.

Three slowed slightly in the group ahead, dropping back while one knight and two women fled on. The distance narrowed and the three saw a favor in that only two pursued. At a shout from Vachel they halted, drew swords and braced themselves against those two.

As the hunters saw their game to earth, a long, undulating war cry from Wulfgar’s throat ended on a note that raised the hackles of a nearby fox and sent it scurrying to its den. The great sword flashed on high and hummed in the wind and the war ax swung in a tight circle above the Viking’s crown. At the wailing sound from the far off hill, Ragnor pulled his steed to a halt and cursed the fates for he knew Wulfgar’s cry and worse, he knew Wulfgar.

The two warriors raced, never pausing, at the three who confronted them. Both stood in their saddles and leaned far forward. Wulfgar clasped the Hun’s heaving flanks hard with his knees and a short lance length away he jerked the reins and the Hun raised up and crashed not into the other steed but crushed the hapless rider beneath his shield. His sword hued through the other’s shield and half the arm that held it before the man could strike. Another blow and it was finished.

With a surge the Hun thrust himself free of the tangle and whirled about, but there was no need. Vachel had fallen with his leg shattered and knelt in the dust glaring up at Sweyn.

“For Beaufonte!” Sweyn roared and the ax hurtled downward. Vachel sank slowly into the dust and paid full score for his loyalty to Ragnor.

Sweyn jerked his ax free from Vachel’s helm and shouted thanks to Wodin but too soon. His great destrier slowly slid to its knees with the hilt of Vachel’s sword protruding from its ribs. Sweyn stepped free and as the horse writhed in agony, the Norseman’s broad face mirrored the pain he saw. His ax rose and fell and the loyal charger collapsed in the dust.

Wulfgar dismounted and cleaned his sword on the cloak of one that had fallen. With his foot he turned Vachel face up with eyes wide and unseeing and with trickles of blood marking uneven paths from his brow to his jaw. Wulfgar’s gaze lifted to the now dwindling figures that rode beyond.

“I must go on,” he said. He met Sweyn’s eye. “See to these and return to Darkenwald. God willing I will meet you there with Aislinn and the babe.”

Sweyn nodded and gave a last bit of warning. “See to your back.”

They grasped each other’s hands for a moment, then Wulfgar swung back into the saddle and was off at a merciless pace that spared neither man nor beast.

Ragnor had wasted little time. As Wulfgar’s battle cry ended he led the women off again as fast as the winded steeds could race across the steepening hills. Aislinn rode behind him, strangely calm. Assured now that Wulfgar lived, she knew a warmth in her breast and a smile half parted her lips. Glancing over his shoulder at her, Ragnor found little ease in the serenity he saw in her face.

The afternoon drew out and still they raced on, the horses stumbling and wheezing, froth covering their sides but whipped ever onward. The three riders paced along a cliff above a wide, still loch that glistened silvery in the lengthening shadows. They came to a break in the sheer wall and began a slow, careful descent. Their breath frosted and swirled out before them. Aislinn’s hands, gripping the horse’s mane, grew numb with the cold yet she dared not loosen her hold for fear of tumbling down the rocky ravine. Before them stretched a thin bar of sand leading to a low island where there was the tumbled remains of some ancient Pictish stronghold. Ragnor led them down the break in the cliff along the sandy bar into the ruins. They halted in a large courtyard, bordered on three sides by a low stone wall and on the seaward side by the higher remaining wall of a temple. Within the ancient courtyard rose a block of stone with crude loops at its corners, possibly where the living sacrifices of pagan rites
were offered up.

Ragnor snatched Aislinn from the saddle and bore her to the stone, leaving Gwyneth to dismount herself and tie her mare secure with the other two horses. Ragnor bound Aislinn’s wrists together to a loop with the use of leather strips and as she shivered with the cold, removed his own mantle and drew it close about her. He lingered a moment beside her, gazing upon her fine features with an odd mixture of lust and respect, and he wondered how it might have been with this woman had their meeting been different. Perhaps the world would have been an easy apple for him to pluck with her at his side. His thoughts took him to that sorry night he first laid eyes upon her. How could he have known then that in his efforts to have her he would be led to ruin? Now Wulfgar, if he had managed to escape Vachel and the other two, was on his trail like a wolf scenting blood.

Wulfgar pushed the Hun to his limit and as the beast stood wheezing, knew that he had given his last. He dismounted and gave the horse the rest of the grain and rubbed him well with the empty bag. Turning the steed back towards Sweyn, he slapped him on the rump and sent him off in a flurry of hooves. Wulfgar started walking and as he went he chewed a mouthful of dried meat and grain, adding water until he could swallow, then washed it down with a healthy draught. He took off the belt and broadsword and slung it over his shoulder so the blade lay along his spine with the hilt easily reached just behind his neck. Now he broke into a trot, loping along, his head down following the faint trail of hoofprints on the hard ground. He was in the gloaming when he came to the brow of a cliff and saw an island and the glimmer of firelight on it. The tide was rising and the sand bar was slim. By the time he reached it, dusk had deepened and a good foot of water covered the strip of sand. Ragnor had planned well, he thought. Now a silent approach was impossible.

Withdrawing to a rock in the shadows Wulfgar waited the rising of the moon, chewing another mouthful of dry food as he watched the mists rise from the water in the frosty night. The black hills about the loch seemed to gather their shoulders and hunch their backs against the darkening night. He climbed the cliff a ways that he might look down into the square and from there he could see three figures in the firelight; Gwyneth moving about near the fire, Ragnor standing where he could watch the shallow strand and Aislinn huddled in the folds of a mantle by a great block of stone. And the babe—where was he?

Slowly the night lightened and a great orange half moon rose to perch on a moor. Wulfgar knew the hour had arrived and he smiled. Tipping back his head he gave vent to his battle cry, a low pealing moan that rose on the night winds and echoed from the cliffs, ending in a wail of rage.

In the tumbled ruins below, Ragnor started and flung up his head. The howling cry that resounded across the loch held him motionless as if he could hear naught but the ring of death in it. Beside the stone Aislinn lifted her gaze to peer into the blackness beyond the fire. She knew Wulfgar’s battle cry, yet the raising moan sent a shiver up her spine. It brought to mind a great black wolf who had stared at her across another fire with the wisdom not of his kind.

With a gasp Gwyneth whirled to Ragnor with a fearful look, her pallor appearing ghostly white in the glow of the meager light, but as the last echo of Wulfgar’s war cry ended Ragnor’s face twisted in a snarl. With long, angry strides he crossed to Aislinn, slipping a short knife from his belt. Aislinn’s breath caught in her throat then she glared at him in open defiance, expecting to feel that sharp blade plunging into her breast, but with a quick motion Ragnor cut through the thong binding one wrist, setting it free. She stared up at him, wondering what next would follow, but he gave a cruel smile, sheathing the blade, and pulled her to her feet. He crushed her against his mail clad chest and his dark eyes pierced hers to their very depth. She gave him no resistance but hung limp in his arms. His hand moved slowly, caressingly down her cheek as if he were held for a moment in a trance by her beauty. His lean brown fingers took her chin in their iron grip. With no regard for Gwyneth who gaped at
them in stunned surprise, he kissed Aislinn, bruising her soft lips as he forced them apart beneath his. Her hand came up against his side, straining to push him away, but he gave her no respite. His lips lingered above hers with his breath falling hot and heavy against them.

“He’ll not take you, dove, I swear,” he muttered huskily. “He’ll not have you.”

Gwyneth approached behind him and her tired face struggled to shape itself into an alluring smile. “Ragnor, love, what is it that makes you bestow your favors on her? Do you seek to raise my brother’s ire? Take care, dear one. He is angered enough without you fondling his bitch before his eyes.”

Ragnor threw his head back in mirth, his laughter echoing from the cliffs. Slowly the sound died, leaving only silence to hold the land. He stepped behind Aislinn and pulled her back against him as his eyes swept the darkness beyond the sand bar.

“Wulfgar, come and see your mate,” he called. He snatched the mantles from Aislinn’s shoulders, letting the garments fall in a heap at their feet. The fire cast its flickering light against her slim form clothed in velvet gunna and with a slow deliberateness that made Aislinn gasp his hands moved over her breasts, fondling them leisurely as if to torture the man who might be watching somewhere in the ebony shadows of the cliff.

“See, Wulfgar, bastard of Darkenwald,” Ragnor shouted to that blackness. “She is mine now as she was before. “Come and take her if you can.”

Again silence answered him and Aislinn could hear only the sound of Ragnor’s heavy breathing against her ear. With a choked and angry sob she struggled, but in vain, for he held her firm in his savage grip. Ragnor chuckled evilly and his hands moved again, this time to the narrow waist then more boldly down along her hips.

“Ragnor!” The protest came from Gwyneth who saw his intent, and her brows drew together in her agony. “Would you torture me also?”

“Be still,” he flung. “Leave me be!”

His caressing ventured further as his hand slid downward over Aislinn’s belly and she bolted against him in outrage.

“Must I take her before your eyes, bastard?” he yelled with a laugh.

There was no reply from Wulfgar, only the pressing quiet. For a moment Ragnor continued with his lustful strokes until he finally realized nothing would come of it. Wulfgar would not let rage goad him into a foolish act.

“I’ll finish with this later,” he sneered in Aislinn’s ear. “But first there is the matter of your husband’s death.”

He stepped from behind her, pulling her wrist to the other corner of the stone where another loop was carved and tied it there so she again faced the fire but now stood with arms spread.

With a half crooning sound Gwyneth sought to cling to Ragnor, but he snatched away with a growl.

“Begone, she dog,” he spat, venom crackling in his voice and his dark eyes sneering. “I have tasted the honey of Heaven itself. Do you think I fancy the favors of a skinny bitch over hers? Take your quivering flanks into the streets if you find them lacking.”

Gwyneth’s features sagged in despair and she gazed at him unable to believe his words.

“Ragnor, you must relent. Soon you will meet Wulfgar and ‘tis evil omen to take the kiss of an unwilling maid into battle. Let me give you a token to carry into the fray.”

She half spread her arms in her anxious plea, but Ragnor retorted in rage.

“Silence!” he commanded.

He strode to the fire and threw more wood on the blaze as he peered at the hills, but Gwyneth sobbed and ran to him, trying to throw her arms about him.

“Nay, my love,” she wept. “You have found me in passion willing. Do you yet strive upon that purloined piece? Take my love with you.”

Ragnor flung his arm up and pushed her from him in distaste, but she returned to him again. With a curse he lashed out with the branch he held in his hand, striking her head. Gwyneth stumbled back, half falling against the wall where her head struck with a sickening thud. A dark stain was smeared down the stone as she slid down it then fell to her hands and knees with her head hanging between her arms. A dark glistening stain spread through her flaxen hair as blood flowed and matted her pale tresses. She groaned softly and Ragnor threw the stick which careened off the wall and struck her in the back.

“Get thee gone, bony one,” he sneered. “I have no further use for you.”

Gwyneth dragged herself to the stone portal and into the darkness beyond. Ragnor watched her go, hurling a last sneer of contempt in her direction before he turned to scan the shoreline opposite the island for some sign of Wulfgar. As before there was nothing. No sound, no sight of him. Ragnor paced the grounds, now and then to stop and stare off into the distance as if he sensed Wulfgar’s nearness. With a curse he swung into his saddle and began to make a wide sweep outside the ruins, bending low over his steed so he could see any trail that might have been left. He reined his steed to a sudden halt on the upland end of the island when he came across a log pushed against the shore and a wet trail leading from it to a jumble of fallen blocks. He paused for a brief moment before he charged the horse to the far end of the spit and urged him into the shadows there.