Barbara Leigh - For Love Of Rory

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my husband, Richard

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

They came from the sea. A small band of wild Celts. Rough men, clad in fur and armor, with leggings made of hide and tied with wide thongs of leather. Up the rocky cliffs they climbed, merging with the falling shadows in their relentless advance toward the little village nestled against the English countryside.

They carried iron weapons along with the thick rope slung over their shoulders. And their faces held the determination of desperate men who must succeed in their quest, or face annihilation.

So stealthy was their approach that they went unnoticed until they were ready to fall upon the old men and frightened women who might challenge them. They would strike with the coming of night. Strike and be gone, taking with them the only treasure the village had to offer.

They moved like the shadows of twilight. Creeping along the edge of darkness that covered the land, intent on taking from it the most tender, most valuable crop.

So still were they that even the village dogs did not sense their presence until time had run out and the animals could do nothing but whine and die.

The last songbird joined with the denizens of darkness in a duet of evensong. A mother settled herself beside the hearth and put her child to her breast, vaguely aware that the creatures of the night had suddenly fallen silent in the prelude to darkness.

Her musings were interrupted as the dog bristled. Before the animal could move, the door burst open. One man tore the child from her arms as another covered her mouth to stifle her screams. But the babe raised an angry protest at being separated from his meal.

“Bring the woman,” a voice said. “We need no mewling babe dying from hunger before we reach our destination.” The mother fought to free herself. With one deft movement a man slung her over his shoulder and carried her through the village while the leader and his men surged toward the doors of the keep. The Celts ferreted out the children and herded them, serf and lord alike, into the kitchens where the rest of the household were eating their evening meal.

Bowls of meat and gruel spilled across the rough-hewn boards and clattered onto the floor as adults added their shouts of outrage to those of their young.

The sounds reached into the solar where the Lady Serine worked on her accounts. With her lord husband on crusade there was much for her to do to keep the estate intact for her little son, Hendrick. The work taxed her in both mind and body but she paid her discomfort little heed, for her whole being was centered on the welfare of her child and the security of her husband’s estate.

Thinking the servants had become somewhat bawdy, Serine rose wearily from the table where she worked. Her footsteps picked up speed as she recognized the sounds of true distress in the voices below. Distress, and the deep rumbling of men’s voices. A rumbling that had not been heard at Sheffield since her husband had stripped the estate of men and followed the king to the Holy Land. Had the men returned without warning? Or had her household been overtaken by uninvited guests? One glance at the scene below gave her the answer.

So intent were the invaders that they did not see the young woman slip from the solar and hurry down the worn stairs. She moved like the wind, her whole being focused on the raven-haired man as he snatched up her son. The Celt’s hair had broken loose from its bonds and fell to his shoulders, framing his bearded face. His eyes blazed like coals of hell, so full of fierce determination they could strike terror into the heart of the most courageous beholder.

Swallowing her fear, Serine seized a lance from the rack at the foot of the stairs and moved toward the Celt.

“Rory! ‘Ware!” a deep voice shouted as Serine delivered a blow that glanced off the leader’s broad shoulders. But even the strength of her desperation did not faze the man. With his free hand he grasped her weapon and twisted it from her hands. Their eyes locked and held as challenge met defiance. Serine’s eyes shifted to her child, and the Celt’s resolve hardened as he delivered a swiping blow that sent her pitching backward until she fell, limp, against the stairs.

At the sight of his mother’s apparent demise, the boy redoubled his efforts to escape, fighting with prowess that belied his age and size. The man gave him a little shake.

“She is not dead,” he grunted as the boy’s foot connected with his stomach. “Most like, she hurts less than I. Now stop your caterwauling.”

But Hendrick did not stop, and the chieftain wrapped the lad in his cloak and carried him from the keep, a smile of grim satisfaction on his face.

This boy had spirit. He was a lad of whom a man could be proud. The sort of child they risked all to acquire, and to Rory and his comrades the boy was worth more than gold. He was their only hope of survival. A last chance for immortality.

Serine staggered to her feet, determination mixed with hatred in her dark eyes.

The women took up torches, clubs and knives and followed the Celts. The invaders seemed immune to their blows as they ran from the village with the children tucked beneath their arms like sacks of grain. In the confusion, several women were able to pluck their young from the invaders’ arms.

“To the woods! To the woods!” Serine shouted above the melee. “Take your children to the woods.”

Even the most courageous women could not hide their fear at the thought of entering the woods after nightfall, for the woods were filled with spirits that walked in darkness. They looked to one another for courage as the frightened children dug in their heels, torn between the terror of the unknown dangers of the forest and the men who threatened to steal them away.

In the end, the women made for the woods, but the moment of hesitation had cost them, and even the most fleet of foot were no match for the marauding men.

The women screamed for their children and shouted curses at the men who had taken them. Serine’s voice rang out above the rest. “Steal back your children before it’s too late,” she urged as she rushed through the throng of fierce men and desperate women.

“Find the screaming harpy and silence her,” the raven-haired leader ordered. But even as he spoke, the cooking fire in one of the huts spilled across the rushes, and the embers burst into flames that lit the darkness.

The shadows evaporated, and with them the men, who disappeared into the night. In the silence that ensued, the only sound was the cry of a bird calling mournfully, “Too late...too late...too late....”

* * *

The thatched huts were but wet embers and the Celts were gone with most of the village children as the exhausted villagers congregated outside the keep, where they dropped to the ground like fallen sparrows. Young women sobbed openly while old men wept silent tears. As Lady of Sheffield it was Serine’s duty to see to the health and welfare of her serfs. It was well within her ability to treat their wounds and illnesses, but there was nothing she could do to heal their aching hearts—hearts that could not be eased until that which had been lost was recovered.

“I will not allow those heathen savages to get away with this,” Serine told Dame Margot. “They’ll not steal my son without feeling my wrath.”