The Rose and The Warrior
Read The Rose and The Warrior Online
Authors: Karyn Monk
The Rose And The Warrior
F
OR MY BEAUTIFUL LITTLE
G
ENEVIEVE
, W
HO CAME INTO MY LIFE AS
I
WAS WRITING
THIS BOOK
,
FILLING IT FOREVER WITH MAGIC
.
A
LL MY LOVE
,
M
UMMY
C
HAPTER
1
The Highlands of Scotland
summer 1216
Every step of his mount was agony.
It is nothing,
Roarke told himself harshly, shifting his weight to ease the torturous pressure on his spine. But the relentless throbbing in his muscles continued, an incessant reminder that his body no longer enjoyed the hard resilience he had once known.
It was a bitter realization.
“ 'Tis getting late,” observed Eric, urging his horse alongside Roarke. The enormous, fair-haired warrior studied the fading light. “We should make camp.”
Roarke shook his head.
Eric stared at Roarke, his blue gaze penetrating. Roarke returned his friend's scrutiny with rigid indifference.
“As you wish,” said Eric after a moment, shrugging. “I was only thinking of the horses.”
“We will go farther.” He resisted the urge to shift his weight yet again, for fear it might betray his fatigue. “We may still find him today.”
“Strange that there's been no sign of him yet,” remarked Donald, idly stretching his arms over his head. He yawned. “Perhaps the elusive Falcon and his charming band will be more apt to introduce themselves once we've settled for the night.”
“That's what they did to the last men Laird MacTier sent to capture them,” growled Myles. The heavyset warrior spat contemptuously on the ground. “Attacked them as they lay snoring after knocking out the men assigned to keep watch.”
“Stripped them bloody naked and stole their horses,” Eric added. “The fools had to walk back to the holding wearing nothing but a few strategically placed branches. Laird MacTier was furious.”
Donald arched one brow in bemusement. “Now, that doesn't seem very sporting. Stealing weapons and valuables is one thing, but why would the Falcon steal their plaids?”
“To humiliate his enemies.” Roarke was unable to contain his disgust. Better to slay one's opponent, quickly and with honor, rather than strip him like a bairn and send him limping naked back to his clan. “The Falcon and his men prefer the weapon of shame to the clean cut of death. If they make MacTier look like a fool, then other clans will view us all as fools. That is why we must crush this band of outlaws.”
“Yet MacTier wants the Falcon taken alive,” mused Donald.
“He wants to kill the troublesome bastard himself,” Roarke explained. The Falcon had been a festering thorn in his laird's backside for months now, and his patience was at an end. “MacTier also needs him alive so he can learn where the Falcon has hidden the fortune he has stolen from us.”
“We needn't drag him all the way back to our holding just for that.” Eric's massive hand clamped the hilt of the heavy dirk strapped to his waist. “A few strips of flesh peeled away, and he'll tell us exactly what we want to know.”
“Our orders are to bring him back alive, Eric,” Roarke reminded him.
The warrior reluctantly released his weapon. “I prefer battle to this tedious business of hunting,” he complained darkly. “In battle I don't have to choose between whom I kill and whom I maim.”
“By God, that's an inspiring reflection!” said Donald, chuckling. “No doubt when we return home you will enchant many a fair maiden with your gallant philosophy.”
Eric snorted. “I leave the enchanting of maidens to you. You have the pretty face for such idiocy.”
“ 'Tis not my face that wins their hearts,” Donald maintained, although with his elegantly carved features, there was no denying his appeal to women. “ 'Tis simply that I know how to put a gentle maiden at easeâunlike you, who with that fearsome Viking scowl manage to send them screaming home to their mamas before you even bid them good day.”
Eric's expression darkened. “Women are feeble, silly creatures.”
“Eric's right,” agreed Myles, scratching his shaved head. “Fawning over women is a sport for fools.” He belched.
Donald sighed. “ 'Tis clear you both have been removed from the company of lasses too long,” he mused. “Tonight I will begin your lessons on how to win a maid's attentions, and soon you'll have them flocking to you like starving birds to ripe berries.”
“I have no desire for women to flock to me,” Eric replied. “Women sap a man's strength and waste his time, which is better spent training for battle.”
“Ah, but there's nothing sweeter than the softness of a lass pressing tightly against your hardness,” rhapsodized Donald dreamily, “or the velvety caress of her moist, parted lips grazing upon yourâ”
“There is a clearing ahead,” interrupted Roarke. “Go and see if it is a satisfactory place for us to make camp.”
“Gladly,” Eric growled. “Anything to escape Donald's infernal chatter.” He dug his heels into his mount and cantered toward the clearing.
“The day will come when you beg me for advice on winning a lass's heart,” Donald shouted cheerfully, riding fast behind him.
“Go with them, Myles,” ordered Roarke, “and try to keep Eric from killing Donald before I get there.”
“It won't be easy,” Myles muttered, heading toward the clearing.
Roarke watched as his warriors disappeared into the shadowy veil of trees. Certain he was alone, he slowly bent his head from side to side, groaning with relief at the ripple of cracking sounds that rewarded his effort. Then he raised his arms and flexed them, easing the painful knots of tension in the damaged muscles. He grunted and stretched forward on his horse, trying to loosen the stiffness in his aching back. The movements did little to alleviate his discomfort, but even a marginal improvement was better than none at all. Now he would be able to feign a modicum of ease as he dismounted before his men, rather than succumbing to the treachery of his weary, battered body.
“Look here,” called Donald, seeing Roarke approach. “It appears someone has been here before us.” He yanked a shimmering dirk from the earth at the base of a tree. “Someone with a penchant for lavish weaponry,” he added, turning the heavily jeweled hilt over.
Myles's eyes grew wide. “Bloody hell, that must be worth a fortune.”
“It is not the weapon of a warrior,” scoffed Eric. “Only a fool would trust his life to such a clumsy piece.”
Uneasiness flashed through Roarke. Dusk had withered to a smoky caul, making it difficult to see through the shadows of the thickly entwined pine and rowan trees. A whisper of sound caressed the stillness, barely more than the flutter of a wing, but a sound that somehow struck him as out of place in the sweetly scented arbor of these woods. He narrowed his gaze and fought to distinguish between the shifting shapes surrounding them, straining to hear beyond his warriors' irritatingly loud ruminations on the dirk.
There was nothing except the occasional twitter of a bird, and the soft rustle of a small animal as it skittered across the loamy ground.
You are being foolish,
Roarke told himself impatiently.
It is nothing.
In that instant a giant net dropped from the trees, trapping his startled men like rabbits.
“Got them!”
shouted a voice gleefully from above. “Three fat flies in one sticky web!”
“Good work, Magnus!” called another, “but there's still one left!”
Roarke jammed his heels into his mount and flew forward, barely evading the second net.
“You missed, Lewis!” shouted a tall fellow who dropped from the trees with feline agility. He regarded Roarke with cool wariness, considering his next move.
“Sorry!” apologized a chastened voice over Roarke's head.
“Not yer fault, lad,” the first voice assured him. “He's as slippery as a fish on a fire, that one is!”
“Never mind that, somebody get him!” commanded the tall one, who had now been joined on the ground by a stocky man with wildly curling hair. Ignoring Roarke, they grabbed the ends of the net and began racing in a circle around his bellowing warriors, who were swearing and knocking each other over as they vainly attempted to free themselves.
Suddenly another warrior burst from the trees upon a magnificent steel-colored charger, his sword a flash of silver against the swiftly waning light. The new attacker wore a dark, battered helmet and a coat of finely wrought chain mail over coarse woolen leggings. His eyes were two black slits, but the grim determination with which the warrior gripped his weapon left no doubt as to his intent.
Roarke charged forward and met the first thrust of his opponent's blade, edging him back, but only for a second. The warrior instantly raised his sword and thundered toward him once more, thrusting before Roarke could better his own position. Roarke whipped up his own blade in a powerful arc, ably deflecting the warrior's blow in a golden burst of sparks. The clang of steel mixed with the ignoble swearing and howling coming from his now hopelessly entangled soldiers.
His attacker was no match for Roarke's size and strength, but what the fellow lacked in power he more than compensated for with deftness and speed. Roarke thrust again and again, each strike edging his opponent back a little farther, until finally they were beyond the clearing and he sensed the advantage was his. Utilizing every shred of his strength Roarke swung his sword high into the air, preparing to hack off his opponent's head.
Pain suddenly lanced his buttock, reducing his triumphant roar to a startled bellow. Another arrow sliced the air beside his ear and flew toward his adversary, who lurched to one side, then flapped his arms helplessly as he toppled off his horse. A third shaft whistled past, causing Roarke's mount to rear, which had the distressing effect of driving the iron point buried in his bum even deeper. Cursing savagely, he released his reins and sword to grab at the blasted arrow, then flailed at empty air before crashing unceremoniously beside his helmeted attacker.
“Move so much as a whisker, ye great hulkin' beast, and I'll plant this arrow straight in yer shriveled, greedy heart!” declared a voice from above.
Roarke glanced at his sword, which lay impossibly beyond his reach. Summoning the mangled remains of his dignity, he gritted his teeth and eased himself onto his good buttock.
“Not so bold now that ye've a shaft up yer arse, are ye?” His captor cackled. “Let that be a lesson to ye, for darin' to tangle with the mighty Falcon!”
Roarke stared at the ancient old man with the quivering bow and arrow aimed none too steadily at his chest. “You're the Falcon?” he demanded, unable to conceal his astonishment.
The snowy-haired thief's eyes narrowed. “If ye're thinkin' to make sport with me, ye should know I've killed dozens of men for less.” He stretched the string of his bow to a menacing tautness. “Were ye wantin' another arrow in ye?”
“I meant no insult,” Roarke assured him, eyeing the trembling arrow precariously gripped in his captor's gnarled hand. “It's just that you have a band of men working with you.” He glanced at the three who now had his bellowing warriors trussed in their net. “I assumed you were their leader.”
The old man regarded him warily, evaluating his explanation. Suddenly his wrinkled mouth split into a yellow smile. “No harm done, laddie,” he said, striking a jaunty pose. “ 'Tis easy enough to see how ye might be confused, facin' such a formidable warrior as myself. That's the Falcon lyin' there beside ye,” he continued, waving his weapon at the fallen warrior. “An ye'd best hope he's not sorely injured, or I'll be buryin' another shaft in ye!”
Roarke glanced at his opponent, who hadn't stirred since hitting the ground. Clearly the fellow's fall had dazed him. Infuriated that he had been trapped by the very prey he stalked, Roarke reached over and roughly knocked off the Falcon's helmet.
“My God,” he drawled hoarsely.
The dazed warrior's eyes opened and stared at him in confusion. Their color was a brilliant swirl of emerald and gold, like a Highlands forest in the shifting sunlight. The infamous Falcon studied Roarke a moment, the fine crescents of her brows arched, as if trying to remember how she had come to be lying upon the ground beside him. She showed no sign of fear but merely childlike curiosity, as if his proximity to her was entirely acceptable, if only she could recall the explanation. Roarke studied the delicate perfection of her in awe, wondering when he had ever seen such silky skin, a nose so elegantly sculpted, or lips as full and invitingly curved. Her hair spilled across the ground in a glossy dark cape, its tangled strands rippling over the crushed grass like fine dark ale. He wanted to say something, but his ability to speak had deserted him, and so he simply stared, lost in the guileless depths of her gaze.
“Ye took a wee tumble, Melantha,” said the old man. “A good thing ye were wearin' yer helmet, or ye'd have cracked yer head like an egg,” he added, chuckling. “Are ye all right?”
Melantha's gaze remained fastened upon the stranger staring down at her. “I fell?”
