Read Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 05] for Free Online Page B

was referred to as a castle, was little more than a rambling, timber hill-fort perched atop a flattened earthen bank. Two concentric rings of walls and ditches surrounded the fortress, pierced by a single gateway. Beyond the “castle” walls was the village of a hundred wooden huts—wattle and daub with conical thatched roofs. Most of them were unoccupied and in a state of decay, but they bespoke a more prosperous time.
    Afternoon was gone and eventide not yet uponthem… a time referred to as the gloaming, when a mystical aura lay over the land, highlighting the rugged, stone-dotted land with its luxuriant blanket of lavender-colored heather. Visitors to the Scottish Highlands were wont to comment on what they perceived as its harshness but they were blind. There was so much beauty in this stark land it nigh brought tears to Maire’s eyes.
    That was neither here nor there. She must concentrate on the Viking, and how to handle this new dilemma.
    Even from her lofty perch in the cage, she had to admit that these Viking men, expertly guiding then-fine horses on the twisted path, were an impressive group. Though several appeared wounded from some recent fight—perhaps with the MacNabs—they all sat tall and proud, never once glancing with fear to the side, where the remnants of her Campbell followers were coming out of hiding, prepared to defend her honor and that of the clan.
    But why should the Vikings be fearful? They were men in their prime … fierce warriors. Whereas all she had left of her clan were the old and the young, thanks to one war after another these past twenty years. Scotsmen were as bad as Vikings. They loved a good fight, and it mattered not if the enemy were Saxon, Viking, Frank, or fellow Scotsman.
    If more women were permitted to be chieftains of the clans, this would not happen, in Maire’s opinion. Some clans did allow such, but her particular branch called for the leadership to pass through the males of the family. So all Maire could do was try to hold the clan together till her son could inherit.
    What must these Vikings—some of whom she knew were highborn—think of her crumbling wood-and-stone keep? Or her poor guardsmen? Well, Maire refused to bow her head in shame. If her home was not as grand as it once had been, that was not her fault. As to her followers… ah, she was proud of them, one and all.
    Old John was missing one arm, thanks to a surprise Saxon attack ten years past. Her father, Malcolm, had already been dead by then, but her brothers Donald and Angus had left John in charge whilst they went off fighting in Northumbria. Angus never came home that time and was buried in the cold earth of Northern England. Donald had caused her all kinds of problems since their father’s death … most importantly, betrothing her to the youngest of the neighboring MacNab clan, Kenneth MacNab. Donald Campbell had died last year, and her husband, Kenneth, just a few months ago. Maire could not regret either of their deaths, though she had thought she loved Kenneth at one time. Neither of her brothers had left any heirs.
    Old John was leading the entourage, single file, up the pathway to her keep. His one good arm held a claymore at the ready as he glared at the passing countryside, on the alert for MacNab stragglers.
    A short distance behind him rode Young John, who also surveyed the craggy landscape. Young John was only thirty years old, but he was blind in one eye. And he had a problem with dizziness. Often he keeled over without any warning.
    A dozen or so others followed behind them. Another dozen of her “guardsmen” and crofters sprang up at various posts along the way. They had sentryduty along the pathway, as if they could stop the Vikings if they wanted to.
    Her eyes skimmed over the Norsemen as they came closer, their horses clip-clopping over the wooden drawbridge as they passed through the gateway. She’d met some of them before, when she’d first encountered Rurik on a visit to her