Dawn Of A Viking Sunrise, page 6
part #2 of Mists Of Time Series
Carefully replacing his items into their pouch he secured it about his belly, straightened his wet tunic, secured his weapons and started walking, his step confident, his long term goals, at least, assured.
Chapter Eleven
Rosie fumed and cursed in every language she knew. For days now she and Fiona searched the castle apart -- from top, to bottom, the bottom being a dungeon/cesspool she vowed never to venture into again. No pouch containing a time traveling pendant had been found anywhere.
That rato! Who could be at this minute trading slaves, or whooping it up in her world while she was growing old in a time where the only friend she had was Fiona. The rest of the household staff, a considerable number, thought she was completely mad. Crazy mad, and just plain angry mad. And why wouldn't she be so angry she could spit?
Rosie glowered in Fiona's general direction, causing poor Fiona to cringe.
"Okay," Rosie said with forced cheerfulness. "So, now that I have taken the deluxe tour, what else is there to do around here?"
Left to her own devices, she would have found a way to get to Denmark and Kat, but Mutt and Jeff stayed closer to her than her own shadow. She had tried every trick in the book to loose the giant guard dogs during her search of the castle and grounds with no success, she had been certain that they would not follow her into the muck of the dungeon, yet they had trailed after her like adoring puppies. One, or both, men stood guard over her every waking minute.
She might have had a chance to make a break for it when everyone was asleep, but it never failed that she knocked out the second that her head hit her pillow.
Now, as she and Fiona each stood with their hands on their hips and studied the large sitting room for any likely hidey-hole which they might have missed, Rosie caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. This was not the first time in the last week that she had had this happen. And it was not the first time she had been certain that someone watched her.
Although Fiona was being careful to keep her face expressionless, Rosie knew she had seen the movement, too.
"Okay, spill it," Rosie demanded. "Who's been spying on us?"
An older version of Fiona hurried into the room. Unlike her daughter, however, this woman was unable to school her face into casual indifference. Instead, flushing several shades of red, her eyes darted from Rosie to a large tapestry that was at least as wide as half a football field that hung against the wall.
And it was moving.
Rosie shook her head at Fiona and her mother in a silent warning for them not to speak before calling out. "Ollie Ollie oxen free. I know you're behind the tapestry. Come on out and show yourself."
There was more movement, and some rather loud whispering. Fiona's mother stood at her side now wringing her hands in her apron, her green eyes unblinking as she stared at the tapestry in question.
After some more excited whispering a small, neatly combed dark head appeared and a boy of about eight or nine regarded her warily with clear blue eyes before he stepped away from the wall to stand next to Fiona's mother. Next came another boy, who looked about the same age as the first. This boy had a crop of uncombed hair that was an explosion of wheat colored curls. The last little boy to reveal himself had Rosie's legs turning to rubber, she had to grasp the edge of a nearby table to keep herself upright.
Dark lashed, brown eyes stared curiously at her, a small hand brushed at the deep brown lock of hair that Rosie knew always fell at just that angle over his right eyebrow.
She did not need to be told that this child was the former McCarty's son. Her McCarty's ancestor.
Oh, my goodness.
"Fiona," she said as the boy took his place next to Fiona's mother. "I think that you and your mother have some explaining to do."
Fiona's green eyes filled with tears. "Aye, my lady," she sniffed. "I suppose that we do."
*****
Rosie sipped hot ale from the steaming mug which Margery, Fiona's mother, had served. The three sat at a crude work table in the middle of the kitchen while meat sizzled and popped over an roaring flame in one fireplace and large cast iron pots hung over other fire pits on the opposite wall and boiled.
The room was built away from the castle, a large rectangle, and clean. The animals slated to be dinner were tethered out of doors rather than in, and the aromas coming from the meals now in progress were enticing. Several other kitchen staff scurried around, and even though they pretended to be engaged fully in their work, Rosie knew that they strained to hear every word said.
As for the three boys, Gordon's wary blue eyes were watchful, Lachlann was twisting a dirty finger in his unruly curls, and Niall McCarty, the former laird McCarty's son and heir now sat stiff and straight, his face set in grim lines as if he awaited the verdict in a capitol offense case.
"I know a lot about how things work in This Time," Rosie began.
"This Time?" Margery questioned.
Fiona, looking rather smug, explained to her mother. "My lady often refers to now as 'This Time'. It's just how she speaks." Having said that, she nodded her head in a matter of fact way that had Rosie biting back a laugh.
When she saw that Fiona's mother did not look completely convinced, Rosie realized that Margery must have known that she and her daughter had just spent the last week searching for something that was not here.
"Anyway," Rosie continued, tapping her mug with a fingernail with just a spot of pink polish at its tip. "I am guessing that the new McCarty does not know about Niall here?"
"Nay, my lady. The lad is the rightful heir," she said quietly. "If the new laird were to learn of him, he would have to..."
"He would slay me." Niall interrupted her flatly. "If he did not, I could grow up and seek vengeance for what he did to my father."
Niall spoke in such a matter of fact manner that Rosie's throat burned. No eight year old should know, and certainly not accept, that his was a life just waiting to be ended if his existence were found out.
The two boys sitting next to him each nodded their heads in agreement, their expressions equally solemn.
"Why do you two hide?" she asked. "Are you also the last laird's sons?"
"Nay, we are being fostered here," Gordon explained. "Our fathers are neighboring lairds and Niall's father was to train us to be warriors when we were old enough. But the castle came under siege and he died."
"But why do you hide?" Rosie demanded, still confused.
"Because our fathers are rich and powerful," Lachlann told her. "If the new McCarty knew who we belonged to, he could hold us for ransom, and then our fathers would declare a blood war after we were returned."
"I see," Rosie said slowly. And she did. Now that a nine-year old boy had spelled it out to her, the clan history she had learned in her ancient history classes came back to her in a rush of information. Her specialty had been Norwegian history, but she knew the basics about the Scottish system.
"And it would upset you for your fathers to have a blood war with the new McCarty?" she asked softly.
"Aye," the boys said in unison. "We like Niall and we don't want him to have to go through another siege like the last one." Lachlann added.
Rosie marveled that this child was able to listen to his heart with out having pride rule his thinking.
These boys were wise beyond their years due to the harsh times that they lived in, yet at this time in their lives, at least, they still held the soft glow of innocence about them. Rosie wished that they could hold on it through adulthood, but unlikely they would survive long if they did.
"You said that you were waiting until you were old enough to begin your training with Niall's father," Rosie said. "What were you doing here while you waited?"
Margery answered that question. "The Lady Arline taught them, as customary," she nodded as if to add weight to her words.
"Did she teach you after the castle was taken by the new laird?" Rosie asked.
"Aye," the boys answered.
Rosie turned to Margery. "How was she able to continue teaching them, with her having a new husband?"
"Oh, the new McCarty sent her from his chambers after he bedded her," Margery explained in a voice so low the children could not hear. "He never bothered with her after that, choosing to spend almost all his time training the men. He never knew what she did with her time."
That was what Fiona had said, almost word for word and once again Rosie's heart hurt for Lady Arline. The poor woman had had her home invaded, her husband killed, been forced to marry the very man who had killed him and destroyed her life. Then, to be callously discarded after only one night. She must have been humiliated. Or relieved.
"I hardly knew my wife, but I would not have wished that for her."
Davyn, with his laughing green eyes and wickedly kissable lips was a monster, regardless of what Kat apparently thought about him.
Rosie had more questions about Arline and Davyn, but she did not wish to discuss the matter in front of the boys.
"Well," Rosie said turning her attrition to the three. "I take it that you have not had your lessons since Lady Arline died?"
"Nay," they agreed. Their obvious closeness to one another was touching, and Rosie smiled at each of them in turn.
"I see no reason for your lessons to suffer," she said briskly. "It looks as if I am going to be here for awhile, and I will take over the responsibility. I expect you all to be clean and ready to learn tomorrow morning. The laird is away now, so we have some time to figure out how to let him know that Gordon and Lachlann are here and not have that knowledge lead to ransom or war," she added, turning back to the two women. "As for you, Niall, I will come up with a way for you to be accepted by The McCarty. And if all goes well, the three of you will receive your training when you're of an age, just like planned."
The boys looked rather dubious, but she was sure that she saw a glimmer of hope within their bright eyes. Rosie only hoped that she could truly do what she had just promised.
Chapter Twelve
After sending the boys off to play and Fiona back to her chores, Rosie turned to Margery. "Why is it that Gordon and Lachlann's fathers have not come to retrieve their boys?" she asked the older woman. "I would think that after news of the siege, they would have rushed right over to get them."
"My lady, nay," Margery looked as if she were being forced to teach a slow-witted child a well known fact of life. "Their fathers would not come for the same reason that the boys kept their identity a secret. If the new laird learns that they are his enemies' heirs, it could be their death sentence, or as they said, it could cost their clans a large ransom. Likely, their fathers will wait until some time goes by, and then send spies within our gates to see what became of their heirs."
Rosie did not know quite what to make of that. History was not so black and white when you actually lived it. Everyone was considered an enemy before they were considered a friend, and no one trusted anyone. What an awful way to live. And here she was, she thought wryly, right smack in the big middle of it.
It wasn't bad enough that she couldn't find the pendants, or that she couldn't get herself from here to Kopi SmykkerArhus to check on Kat, now she had to figure out a way to convince a slave-trading, husband-murdering, widow-marrying, laird whom she couldn't seem to stop thinking about into accepting the two young heirs as his foster children, as well as see to it that little Niall got the training he was entitled to from a man who would feel honor bound to slay him if he knew who he really was.
And what would happen, Rosie wondered, dread making a slow circle in the pit of her stomach, when little Niall did grow up and become a skilled warrior who had had his family torn apart and his rightful place as laird stolen from him? Would he indeed take his vengeance on Davyn?
What a mess this trip through time had turned into.
And there was a question she would have to ask, even though she dreaded the answer she most likely would hear. "Margery," she said, standing to assist the older woman as she began to chop turnips, then put them into the boiling pots. "On the lady Arline's wedding night to Davyn..."
Margery cast a quick, nervous glance in her direction before turning back to her chore.
Rosie cleared her throat, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. "It must have been devastating for her to..." she hesitated, trying to find the right words. "To be bedded by him, what with her husband having just been killed by his hand."
Margery's cheeks turned a bright, embarrassed red.
"What I mean to ask," she tried again. "I wonder, was she willing, or did he force her?"
Oh God, please let him not have forced her Rosie prayed silently even though she did not understand why it was so important to her that he not be a rapist as well as a slave-trader, husband-killer and widow-wedder, but it was. Vitally important.
Margery put down her knife and turned to face her, wiping her hands on her apron as she did so.
"My lady was grateful that he bedded her right away."
Rosie could not keep from gasping. "Grateful?" she asked.
"Aye, grateful," Margery told her. "Some who conquer will wait several months before taking a lass they have claimed as their own to bed. It is the only way that they know for sure that she is not holding another man's seed in her womb."
Rosie's head was spinning so that she had to sit down.
"She was going to have a baby," Rosie whispered.
"Aye, she was already a couple of months along, and she knew that if the new laird did not bed her right away, that as soon as her child was born, if it were a boy, her new husband would slay the child so he would not grow up and be a threat to the new laird. It was her only chance of saving the child."
Tears welled in Margery's eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Rosie's own cheeks were wet with tears.
"The next morn," Margery continued. "Lady Arline was so heart-sick that another man had taken her that she wept for hours. We could hear her through the door, you see. That's when the laird sent her away from him, and he made no effort to see or speak to her again until he learned that she was with child and that the child was ready to be born. We told him that stress could cause her to give birth in seven months because we were so afraid that he would know that the infant was not truly his."
"And then what happened?" Rosie demanded, feeling as if her heart were being squeezed.
Margery met Rosie's eye and Rosie saw something soften in her.
"The laird did something that even her first husband had never done. He stayed with her for the birth. And it was a long, difficult birth. He ordered fresh sheets when hers were soiled, and he kept wet clothes on her brow. Her pain was so great, and he held her hand the entire time. I was there, when the babe was finally born, the laird was the first to hold him and show him to his mother."
Again tears coursed down Rosie's cheeks, her feelings for Davyn now a confused mess.
"Lady Arline was exhausted, and then she started to convulse. The laird handed me the baby and tried to help my lady," Margery continued. "But there was nothing that could be done. The bleeding would not stop. And when she breathed her last breath, there were tears in my laird's eyes."
Rosie sat silent, stunned to hear that Davyn could have been so sensitive, so much the man that she would have him be.
"The laird tried to find a wet nurse, but none would come," Margery told her. "He tried to feed the infant goats milk. He would drip it from his fingertip into his little mouth. But the babe would not keep it down. We tried to care for the infant, but the laird would not allow it. He stayed in his chambers with the poor wee thing, throughout all the crying that accompanied its hunger, walking him back and forth. Some of the servants even said that they heard singing coming from within the chamber late into the night."
Rosie struggled to take it all in. Grief for the innocent baby and the man who was responsible for his true father's death burning in her throat.
"And then the baby stopped breathing. Just like that, he had starved to death. The laird buried him right next to his mother whom he had buried next to the husband whom he had slain."
Margery's eyes were full of sadness. "We all gave the laird our loyalty after that," she said. "But we were still afraid to tell him of Niall and the other lads. After all, he had only struggled to save the infant because he believed that he was his."
Yes, Rosie thought, he had thought the child was his, but would he have reacted the same way if he had known the truth?
*****
Sleep eluded her. For the hundredth time Rosie pounded her fist into what was supposed to be a pillow, and plopped her head on it. Her mind raced. How was she supposed to feel about Davyn? The man made his living by profiting from the misery of others. He chose innocent castles to attack and then forced the woman whom he had made a widow to be his bride. And he had not known that Arline had wanted him to sleep with her. And then to turn her away simply because she had cried afterward? Who wouldn't cry after what she had been through? Especially knowing that she was going to have to explain a baby being born a solid two months before it was due.
But, on the other hand, he had helped his wife give birth, and, apparently, he had never questioned the early arrival. And he had cared for the infant after his mother died. What kind of man did that? Certainly not the kind of man who sold human beings for a living! But he had. So what did that make him? Who was the real Davyn? Was he a heartless warrior or a tender hearted caregiver? Was it even possible for him, or anyone for that matter, to be both?
And what kind of person was she when she could not get the image of him out of her head? When she could not forget the feel of his lips as they clamed hers that first night? When she could not get out of her mind the heat of his hands on her thighs?
