The Rose and The Warrior (13 page)

C
HAPTER
5

Melantha snapped upright and grabbed the sword at her side.

A hint of flat, gray light was filtering through the windows, telling her the curtain of night had barely lifted. She swiftly appraised the surrounding shadows, hunting for the least flicker of movement, preparing to spring from her bed with her sword raised.

The air was still.

She strained to listen beyond the blood pounding in her ears, but all she heard was the gentle breathing of the forms lying curled upon the floor beside her. Still gripping her weapon, she peered over the edge of her bed and counted.

One. Two.

Panic streaked through her.

A sleepy sigh drifted through the air. Slowly expelling the breath frozen in her chest, she turned and saw a thatch of hair peeping out from a small mound of blankets huddled next to her. She gingerly grasped the edge of the covers and peeled them down, then laid her hand with aching tenderness on the freckled velvet of Patrick's cheek. He nuzzled closer, clutching at the warm plaid that was draped over both of them. Melantha studied the shadows of her chamber once again. Nothing seemed amiss. Gradually permitting herself to believe that all was well for the moment, she eased herself against her pillow, one hand caressing Patrick's tangled hair, the other still clutching the hilt of her sword.

She could not remember what it was like to sleep without fear.

Of course she realized that she had not always been like this. There had been a time when she had floated into slumber with trusting ease, knowing that when she awoke everything in her world would be just as it had been the day before. But she could not recall the innocent sensation of feeling completely safe, of knowing that everyone she loved was near, and that the days stretching out before her would be filled with nothing but wonderful adventures.

Everything had changed when her mother died.

She had never thought of herself as sheltered—if anything she had always fancied herself more daring and experienced than most girls her age, a fact that had made her feel special and even slightly superior. Her father had hoped for a son to be his firstborn, but when Melantha arrived instead, he philosophically decided to make the best of it. He had cradled her on his horse when she was but a few days old, then seated her astride as soon as she could hold herself upright. Her mother would shake her head with gentle exasperation when she described it, saying that it was all she could do to make sure he kept a firm grip on Melantha's waist, so certain was he that his little lass would ride before she could walk.

Melantha didn't know which she could do first, as her father proudly swore she rode first, and her mother assured her she most certainly did not. What her parents did agree upon was the fact that from the moment she could support herself on her wobbly little legs she had traipsed eagerly after her beloved da. He had loved to have his daughter with him, and his daily affairs were of far greater interest to her than the endlessly tedious domestic chores that occupied all of her mother's time. During the nine years it took for Daniel to finally arrive, Melantha's father seemed to decide that if she was to be his only child, then he was going to make sure she learned how to do anything a lad could, and he would make no allowances for the fact that she was a lass. Melantha's mother could scarcely disapprove of her learning to ride well, and she even agreed that fishing was a valuable skill. But the day her da presented his five-year-old daughter with a tiny bow and quiver filled with smooth, slender arrows, her mother seemed less certain. Melantha's father had just laughed and said any daughter of his should know how to hunt and feed herself, and that seemed so reasonable her mother said nothing more.

Melantha had loved the strong, supple feel of that little bow in her hands, loved the sensation of pinning her gaze upon her target, drawing back the string until it nearly shivered with tautness, then ultimately releasing her arrow to soar through the air. At first the arrows did little actual soaring; instead they darted crazily in every direction except the one she had intended. Undaunted, she would pay rapt attention to her da's instructions, and then devote the entire day to practicing. Many hours later her mother would finally come searching for her, telling her it was fine and well to learn to shoot, but she still had to come home and eat occasionally.

Once Melantha had mastered sufficient control over the direction her arrows took, her father began to take her hunting. This meant gloriously long days spent tracking all manner of birds and beasts in the fragrant, thick woods on the MacKillon lands. It was more than two years before Melantha actually managed to shoot anything, but in that time she learned much about moving in liquid silence across the ground, listening to the hundreds of voices chirping and whispering around her, and making herself merge with the ever-changing colors and contours of the forest.

When her father presented her with a tiny wooden sword, her mother really was bewildered. Melantha was all of six, and she was absolutely delighted with her new toy. Her da taught her the most basic skills of swordplay, and since none of the girls her age were permitted to play with swords, she quickly began to challenge the boys, including Colin and Finlay. At first they were near equally matched, but as the boys grew bigger and stronger, Melantha was forced to work harder to maintain her worthiness as an opponent. One day when she was about twelve Colin bested her in every one of their matches, and Melantha went home and angrily tossed her sword into the hearth. That evening she bitterly informed her father that she was never going to play with swords again, because it was unfair that Colin could win simply because he had grown taller and stronger than she. Her father responded with no sympathy whatsoever. Instead he made her another wooden sword, and began to train her in the elements of speed and surprise, which he assured her she could develop as well as any man.

“You can kill a man just as dead with a light sword as a heavy one,” he would say, “and the same principle applies to the swordsman. 'Tis skill, sweet Mellie, not size, that is going to win the day.”

Of course, he had never believed that Melantha would ever actually need to kill anyone.

She closed her eyes, her fingers tightening protectively on Patrick's thin little shoulder.

Darkness blew into Melantha's life on a swift, cold wind. At least that was how she remembered it, for her mother had never been ill before, and then suddenly it was winter and her mother could barely draw a steady breath, so painful was the cough that plagued her. At first Melantha took little notice. Her mother seemed tired, but still managed to perform the dozens of daily tasks needed to maintain their home and care for her three younger brothers. Of course Melantha was required to help with these chores, but she did so hastily, anxious to flee the drudgery of domestic work and join her father with whatever task he had engaged upon. Her mother did not complain, for she had long understood that Melantha was not a typical lass. As for Melantha's father, he could not be blamed for not recognizing the severity of his wife's condition. Somehow her mother always managed to look stronger in his presence, and if she coughed, she assured him it was nothing.

But one day Melantha and her father returned home to find her mother lying amid a litter of shattered crockery, and they realized something was seriously amiss.

Her illness quickened then, racing through her body like fire devouring an arid twig. Melantha desperately tried to assume all the household tasks her mother normally performed, only to find herself ill equipped and overwhelmed. When her mother died, Melantha experienced a shock and an emptiness she had not imagined possible. All her life she had loved her mother from a distance, never taking the time to be close to her the way she was with her da. Yet once her mother's gentle, reassuring presence was gone, Melantha found herself nearly paralyzed with grief. But there wasn't time to indulge in such weakness, because suddenly she had Daniel, Matthew, Patrick, and her da to care for, and their suffering and needs far outweighed her own.

Gone forever were the days spent innocently practicing swordplay or dreamily wandering the forest. There were five mouths to feed, and clothes to wash, and food to be prepared for today and tomorrow and next month. Never in her life had she imagined how much hard work it was to keep five people clean and fed and clothed, to say nothing of making sure her brothers didn't jump out of a tree and smash their skulls open, or wander down to the loch and drown themselves, or toss pebbles at the cows and end up trampled to death. Life became utterly exhausting and endlessly worrisome, and each night when she collapsed onto her bed she would weep silently into her pillow, tears of weariness and worry and loss. She thought that God had been unspeakably cruel to steal her mother from all of them, leaving a bleeding gash in their lives that would surely never heal.

How could she have known the worst was yet to come?

“Melantha,” called Gillian, rapping softly against the door, “are you awake?”

“Aye,” said Melantha, keeping her voice low so as not to wake the boys. “Come in.”

The heavy wooden door opened slightly and Gillian crept inside. The light from the windows had advanced to a pearly haze, etching her friend's delicate form in ghostly luminosity against the dark stone wall.

“Is everything all right?” asked Melantha.

“Everything is fine,” Gillian whispered. “But Laird MacKillon has ordered everyone to gather in the courtyard for an important announcement.”

Frowning, Melantha glanced at the window. “It's barely dawn.”

“It is peculiar,” Gillian agreed. “Obviously whatever he wants to tell us is of great importance.”

Melantha tossed back her covers and scrambled out of the bed, taking care not to stumble over the sleeping forms of Daniel and Matthew. If Laird MacKillon was summoning his people at this time of the morning, it could only mean that something terrible had happened. She heard no sounds of battle, so she didn't think they were under attack.

“What else did he say?” she demanded, hastily pulling on her leggings. A dreadful thought occurred to her. “Did the MacTiers escape?”

Gillian shook her head. “I passed through the great hall on my way up here, and they were seated at a table.”

“Eating, no doubt,” said Melantha contemptuously. She had never seen men consume as much food as those four. Granted, they were huge warriors and there was little in the way of meat to fill their bellies, but even so it made her furious to think of how much they were ingesting. Every morsel in their mouths meant someone else in the clan had to be satisfied with less. She would have to be sure to add the food they ate to the price of their ransom.

“Actually, they were discussing some drawings with Laird MacKillon.”

Melantha squeezed her foot into a boot. “What drawings?”

“I'm not sure, but they seemed to have something to do with the defense of the castle. The dark one, Roarke, was saying something about the curtain wall, and the short, brawny one named Myles was shaking his head and arguing that it was impossible. Then the comely one got angry and said that they should just forget all this and go home.”

“You mean Donald,” supplied Melantha, pulling her leather jerkin over her head. It irritated her enormously that they talked about going home as if it were up to them. When would they understand that they were prisoners there, not guests?

“No,” said Gillian, shaking her head. “I meant the Viking.”

Melantha looked at her in surprise. “Eric?”

She nodded.

“You think he's comely?” Melantha demanded, her disbelief apparent.

The light was muted, but it was enough for her to see a faint cast of embarrassment rise to Gillian's cheeks. “I don't think he's…unsightly,” she ventured shyly.

“Sweet saints, Gillian, the man hurled your posset all over your gown,” Melantha reminded her impatiently. “He glowers at everyone who goes near him and has the manners of an oaf. How could you possibly find him attractive?”