For Love Of Rory. Barbara Leigh

do not lie, I assure you,” the man said. He offered the boy a drinking horn filled with water, but the lad batted it away. Rory recognized him as the boy who had fought with such great spirit when taken.

      “All Celts are stupid, lying dogs.” The boy spat out the words. “I am already free and you will pay for what you have done.”

      “Do not judge us by what you have heard of the past.” The man picked up the drinking horn and motioned to a nearby mercenary. “This one must be taken aboard soon lest he inspires the others to rebellion.” And with that, Rory left the children and joined his brother.

      “There were no men in the villages we raided,” Rory observed. “And I have learned from some of the more cooperative children that their fathers have gone on crusade with their king.”

      “As we suspected,” Guthrie said. “No Celt would leave his family to fend for itself while he traipsed off after a cause that the gods themselves do not understand. A man belongs with his wife and offspring, not following the banners to a desert land where he is abhorred.”

      Rory agreed. “I doubt not that if left to his own devices the boy who spoke out so bravely would grow to be like his sire, leaving his family while he fights for glory, knowing nothing but the rudiments of war.”

      “Poor sad, ignorant people,” Guthrie said self-righteously. “It is well that we have decided to take those young ones to a better life.”

      “Take special note of the lad who spoke to me.” Rory motioned toward the child. “The boy has courage. I want him. He will be my son.”

      Guthrie put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “It shall be as you wish. In all the years since the plague struck down your wife and babe I have hoped you would find someone or something to care for. Perhaps our search for children will prove to be a blessing rather than a curse.”

      * * *

      Serine crouched behind a thick bush and swore under her breath. It was her son this enemy wanted for his own. It was her husband that he scorned and her home at which he scoffed. How she would love to see him burn right along with his ship. She’d show him whose way of life was inferior.

      As the men walked away Old Ethyl joined her. Seeing that Old Ethyl had stripped down to her small clothes, Serine took off her dress and stuffed it beneath the bush.

      “Wait!” Old Ethyl whispered as Serine started toward one of the little boats. The older woman darted forward, snatched up a horned helmet that had been left near the water’s edge and jammed it onto Serine’s head before they eased one of the small boats into the lapping water.

      The helmet wobbled precariously as Serine huddled into a cloak she found on the bottom of the boat. Bolstered by Old Ethyl’s whispered soliloquy—a mixture of prayer and encouragement—Serine adjusted her borrowed helmet and began rowing.

      With undaunted determination she maneuvered the boat to the rear of the ship, careful to keep well away from the path of the dragon that graced the front of the craft. Although she was a Christian, and a devout one, a part of her still feared the dragons of the sea and the men who sent them thundering through the waves. Old Ethyl made no bones about the depth of her superstition, and as the woman’s fears became more obvious Serine gave heartfelt thanks for her support.

      Only when the tiny craft huddled beneath the hull of the larger one did Old Ethyl rise from her hiding place. Working together they managed to secure a water-soaked leather thong around the rudder and quickly smeared fat onto the side of the ship.

      There was a flash of light in the rocks above the cove, quickly extinguished, but enough to let Serine know the women were ready to launch their fire arrows.

      “It is time.” Serine swallowed the words, fear boiling up from the depths of her soul.

      Sensing her fear, Old Ethyl grasped Serine’s arm. “I will be beside you,” she said. She felt some of the tension ease in Serine’s muscles. “Just as you will be beside me.” And with that last reminder Old Ethyl let go her hold, but the bond between them had been sealed. Succeed or fail, they would do so together.

      Sending up a prayer, Serine struck flint to steel and caught the spark on an oil-soaked wick. When the little flame flared, she put it to the fat and watched it catch and burn.

      Silently they slipped into the water and moved as quickly as possible to be well away when the bag, the cloak and the boat burst into flames that licked greedily at the larger vessel.

      Serine swam as quickly as she could, but it was not fast enough. Time and again Old Ethyl outpaced her and was forced to return to the younger woman’s side. The flaming boat cast a glow over the water. It would be only a matter of time before she was seen and captured.

      “It is your clothing that holds you back,” Ethyl said. “Remove it, or we are lost.”

      It was an order, not a request. Seeing the wisdom of Ethyl’s words, Serine held her breath, dived beneath the water and shed the remainder of her clothing. Freed from the binding restriction, she surfaced at Ethyl’s side and they continued toward the shore.

      Shouts of anger from the ship told them that their plan had succeeded. The men on the shore jumped into the little boats and sent them catapulting across the water, leaving the children virtually unguarded. Confusion resounded from shore to ship, and Serine managed to lift her head from the water long enough to see an empty space where the children had been held.

      As the guards called for help from their comrades the women shot their fire arrows from the cliffs.

      A short distance from shore Old Ethyl drew Serine to a halt. “Here I leave you and go to join the others,” she said. Then, unable to hold back her emotion, she continued. “You are a fine, brave woman.”

      “As are you,” Serine replied breathlessly as the women went their separate ways.

      Serine smiled despite her exhaustion as she pulled herself toward the bush where she had left her gown.

      She found her legs unable to hold her weight, and crawled from the water. Her hand groped beneath the bush as she felt blindly for her clothing. It was impossible to see, and she almost cried out when, rather than the rough material of her gown, her hand fell on the sinewy warmth of human flesh.

      A hand clutched her arm and drew her from her hiding place. She found herself face-to-face with a man. In the shadowy light she could make out the bearded face and the strong, virile body.

      Was he truly a man, or had one of the Celt gods come to earth to mock her success in burning the ship and freeing the children? For truly he looked like a wild heathen god as he glared down at her, vengeance written in each line of his countenance. And her heart beat madly as her cheeks flamed in anger and embarrassment, for the expression in this man-god’s face was clear. And, heaven forgive her, for the briefest moment she wondered what it would be like to be loved by a pagan deity.

      In the shadowy light Rory could see the naked body of a woman—slim and sleek, with thrusting breasts, a flat belly and long, shapely legs. Was this the Freya, of whom the wise man Drojan often spoke? A goddess come from the sea to taunt him for his failure to safeguard the children they had taken? Did she come to rebuke him for failing in his pledge that this would be a bloodless raid?

      No, this woman was flesh and blood, with defiant eyes and a determined set to her chin. Yet the supple body formed to his so sweetly he could not help but wonder if her lips would do the same.

      In truth, there was nothing to lose. His raid had failed and many of the children had escaped. The ship was crippled, and his men would be forced upon the mercy of the sea with only the dubious protection of the little boats.

      What matter if he tasted the lips of this water nymph? Who was she to argue if he took the pleasures that her body so graciously offered?

      It was possible that she had been a part of the plot that had so successfully sent his comrades into confusion. For that alone she deserved a Celt’s wrath and a Celt’s revenge.

      Would