Rebel Warrior (Medieval Warriors #3) Read online

  REBEL WARRIOR

  Regan Walker

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  REBEL WARRIOR

  Copyright © 2016 Regan Walker

  All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.

  Ebook ISBN: 978-0996849548

  Kindle Edition

  Praise for Regan Walker’s work:

  “Ms. Walker has the rare ability to make you forget you are reading a book. The characters become real, the modern world fades away, and all that is left is the intrigue, drama, and romance.”

  —Straight from the Library

  “Here,” he said reaching toward her, “take my hand and allow me to help you out.”

  There was fire in her eyes but she took his hand while holding on to her shoes, soaked with water.

  He pulled her from the stream, sodden and shivering. It was the first time they had touched and even dripping wet, the feel of her skin caused a surge of desire to course through him. The wet gown clung to her body, revealing her nipples hardened to small buds and her curves in vivid detail. Wet, she was even more alluring than before. He wanted to pull her close, to feel her softness, but instead, he merely steadied her with his hands. “Did you not see the moss that grows on the log? ’Tis quite apparent.”

  Her brow furrowed. “You might have warned me.”

  “You fell before I could.”

  Wiping water from her face, she looked up at him. Her eyes were the green of the forest around them. Light filtering through the trees added a soft glow to her pale, damp skin. His gaze dropped to her lips, the color of wild roses. He ached to kiss them.

  Bending his head, he moved his lips closer to hers.

  Water suddenly dripped from her hair onto her nose, causing her to sniff and step back.

  Still holding her shoes in one hand, she shivered. “I… I must look a mess.”

  “Indeed not, but you are pale.” Recognizing her predicament, he said, “I wear no cloak to offer you, but I can give you the heat of my body.” Taking the shoes she carried and dropping them to the ground, he pulled her into his arms and held her against his chest, ignoring the water soaking into his tunic. Her breasts pressed into his chest, warming him as his body responded to the nearness of the woman he could not dismiss from his thoughts.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Quotes & Story Snippet

  Author’s Note

  Map

  Characters of Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Postscript

  Author’s Bio and Books by Regan Walker

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Steinar of Talisand, the brother of the heroine in The Red Wolf’s Prize, belonged to that generation of young Englishmen who were not yet twenty at the time of the Norman Conquest. They were old enough to understand what was happening and to feel keenly the loss of family and lands, yet powerless to do anything about it. Young Anglo-Saxon nobles forever exiled from their country. Where should they go but to Scotland?

  In the eleventh century, Scotland was a wild country where warlords vied for the throne, and the cultures of the Gaels (the Irish who became the Scots), Norse and eventually Saxons and Normans melded together. In 1057, Malcolm Canmore, the son of a king, murdered his way to the throne to become King of Scots, but he did not reign over all of Scotland. The Norse and the Irish Gaels still controlled parts of the north and west.

  A decade later, William the Conqueror’s harsh actions in England sent Saxons in Wessex and Anglo-Scandinavians in Yorkshire fleeing to Scotland. King Malcolm welcomed them and, in so doing, received a boon. For when he cast his eyes upon the beautiful Saxon Princess Margaret, whose family sought refuge at his court, he was smitten. By 1072, when my story begins, they were married and she had already given him the first of six sons and two daughters.

  Queen Margaret was a woman of faith who saw her marriage as a calling from God to help shape Scotland’s future and to move the Scottish church closer to Rome. For her efforts she was ultimately made Scotland’s only royal saint. While not all Scots welcomed the changes she brought, none could criticize the character of their new queen, for she was kind and charitable to all. That her rough, warrior husband deferred to her, at least in matters of their family, can be seen in the names given their sons: Edward, Edmund, Ethelred, Edgar, Alexander and David, the first four from the English royal dynasty. Perhaps, in agreeing to such names, Malcolm saw the potential for his sons to one day claim the throne of England, for as long as Margaret’s younger brother, Edgar Ætheling, the Saxon heir to the throne, remained unmarried and childless, his rights would be transmitted through Margaret to her children. Certainly William the Conqueror did not fail to note this.

  At the time of my story, the borders between Scotland and England were not well defined. Malcolm often raided into Northumbria. That he had claims to the region cannot be doubted, but I believe he was also making a point to the Conqueror. It was a bit like poking a stick at a wild boar, for William would ultimately seek to rein in the powerful King of Scots and his support for the rebels in England.

  In all this, what did Steinar, a rebel warrior and the exiled son of a dead English thegn, have to offer a woman? What chance was there for him to find love in a foreign land when he had lost everything? Ah, but this is the Scotland of long ago where a bold warrior king won the heart of a pious Saxon princess.

  There is every chance in the world.

  CHARACTERS OF NOTE

  (BOTH REAL AND FICTIONAL)

  Steinar of Talisand

  Catrìona of the Vale of Leven

  Angus, Catrìona’s guard

  Niall, Catrìona’s younger brother

  Domnall mac Murchada, Irish nobleman, Catrìona’s intended

  Matad of Dunkeld, Mormaer of Atholl, Catrìona’s uncle

  Fia of Atholl, Catrìona’s cousin and daughter of Matad

  Rhodri ap Bleddyn of Gwynedd, Welsh bard, master of the bow and friend of Steinar

  Malcolm Canmore, King of Scots

  Margaret of Wessex, Queen of Scots

  Edgar Ætheling, brother to Margaret and Saxon heir to the throne of England

  Machar, King Malcolm’s falconer

  Maerleswein, English thegn of noble Danish blood and former Sheriff of Lincolnshire

  Giric, orphan boy

  Audra of Fife, daughter of Duff, Mormaer of Fife, and one of Queen Margaret’s ladies

  Isobel of Ross, one of Queen Margaret’s ladies

  Elspeth of Loch Tay, one of Queen
Margaret’s ladies

  Davina of Lothian, one of Queen Margaret’s ladies

  Isla of Blackwell, one of Queen Margaret’s ladies

  Cristina of Wessex, Queen Margaret’s younger sister

  Colbán of Moray, captain of the king’s guard

  Nechtan, the king’s steward in Dunfermline

  Gormal, the king’s steward at Ballingry and Nechtan’s brother

  Bishop Fothad, Bishop of St. Andrews, a Culdee

  Caerell, Culdee monk in St. Andrews

  Paul and Erlend Thorfinnsson, Jarls of Orkney and Malcolm’s stepsons

  Ivar Kalison, a Northman from Norway

  Duncan, Malcolm’s young son by his first wife, Ingebiorg

  Deidre, handmaiden to Catrìona

  Cillyn ap Cynfyn, Rhodri’s uncle

  Wretched and sorrowful, bereft of my homeland,

  Far from my home, far from my noble kinsmen,

  I long ago hid my lord in the darkness of the earth,

  And, laden with cares and weary, crossed the waves,

  Sought a giver of treasure, far or near

  Where I might find one in the mead hall who knew my people,

  Who would foster a friendless warrior, and treat me to joys.

  He who has tried it knows how cruel a companion is sorrow

  For one who has few beloved friends;

  The path of exile holds him, not wrought gold,

  A freezing heart, not the bounty of the earth.

  He remembers warriors, the hall, the giving of treasure,

  How, as a youth, his lord honored him at feasts,

  All joy has perished!

  From the Anglo-Saxon poem The Wanderer

  PROLOGUE

  The Vale of Leven, Strathclyde, Scotland 1071

  Catrìona stepped to the edge of the crag perched high above the vale. Wind whipped her auburn hair and umber cloak behind her as she raised her gauntlet and let the falcon fly free.

  Spreading his long wings, Kessog soared into the air over the blue waters of Loch Lomond.

  Her heart soared with him.

  This land of tall peaks and deep lochs was her home. Gray clouds might hover over the tops of the mountains, but bright yellow wildflowers graced the steep slopes and the foothills were clothed in the green velvet of spring.

  In the distance, the falcon shrieked as he arrowed toward the loch’s crystalline waters, then flew in tight circles over a flock of teals, seeking his prey. The clouds parted and a golden shaft of sunlight reflected off the ducks’ wings and shimmered in the waters of the loch.

  Thoughts of her future filled her mind and her excitement rose in anticipation of the arrival of her intended, Domnall mac Murchada. This very day he would come by ship from his family’s lands in Leinster to meet with her father and seal their betrothal. Domnall’s home in Ireland was a place she had heard much about, but had never seen.

  In her mind Domnall appeared a most handsome man, except for his nose, which was thin with a high ridge. His wavy light brown hair was always neatly combed and his darker beard invariably neatly trimmed. His eyes were pale blue. But it was not his appearance that had made her father choose Domnall. It was his noble Irish lineage and the trade between Leinster and the Vale of Leven.

  During Domnall’s visits, she had been keenly aware of his pale blue gaze following her. In his eyes, she had glimpsed desire, flattered he wanted her and not just the trade with her father. Her cheeks flushed to think that one day she would bear his children.

  In the distance, Kessog streaked toward a duck, but missed his strike.

  Catrìona watched the falcon for a while until a sharp gust of wind made her shiver. She had a sudden urge to return to her father’s hillfort.

  Whistling Kessog back to her uplifted hand, she fed him a bit of meat from the small leather pouch secured at her waist.

  Not far away, Angus, her faithful guard, waited patiently next to the horses. His craggy face broke into a smile. “ ’Tis best we go back, milady. Yer mother will be wantin’ to see ye about the final packin’ fer yer journey.”

  “Mother did not want me to fly Kessog today,” she said with a smile, “but I had to, just one more time.” She set the falcon on his perch affixed to the pommel of her saddle. Fastening the velvet hood over his head, she stroked his breast feathers and secured his jesses.

  Angus helped her to mount and as she turned her pony toward home, her heart warmed as she thought of her trip east to visit her cousin in Atholl. This time she would have Domnall’s escort for the journey.

  The garrons she and Angus rode over the mountain pass were sure-footed ponies and easily found their way over the rock-strewn path.

  As they approached the last ridge where they would begin their descent to the River Clyde, instead of the quiet she expected, men’s shouts, cries of terror and women’s screams rent the air.

  Urging her pony forward, she reached the crest and slid her feet to the ground. Wide-eyed, she stared into chaos fifty feet below where two longships with dragonheads carved into their stems were belching forth silver-helmed warriors wielding axes, swords and spears.

  Northmen.

  The longhaired raiders shouted what sounded like battle cries as they ran across the sand toward her father’s hillfort, ruthlessly cutting down her father’s men as if butchering cattle.

  Men moaned as they fell, pierced through with spears and swords, grunting their last as blood spurted from their bellies.

  Unarmed servants shrieked as axes sank into their backs.

  Panicked women ran in all directions, shouting for their children.

  Catrìona’s heart raced and her mouth gaped as she watched the unfolding terror. She gripped the seax at her waist. “A Dhia m’anam!” God preserve us! “I must go to them!”

  Angus pulled her back from the crest. “Keep away from the edge lest they see ye. The bushes provide scant cover.” Grabbing up the reins of the horses, he led them away from the ridge.

  “But—” She looked toward the crest, unable to see but desperate to know if her father’s men prevailed. “I want to help…”

  “Ye can do nothing fer them, milady,” Angus said in a low voice as he returned to her. “Stay down. We can only await the end of it.”

  Fear of the brutal Northmen warred with the desire to help those she loved. Rising panic nearly overtook her as she remembered what she had heard of Norse raids. But what help could she offer? In the face of so many bloodthirsty warriors, she would only become another victim. Angus, sworn to protect her, might die trying to prevent her death.

  With the sounds of the mayhem ringing loud in her ears, Catrìona dropped to the ground and crawled on her belly to the edge of the rise, pulling her hood over her flame-colored hair to blend with the shrubs.

  Angus came to join her, lying on his stomach in the grass. “Are ye certain ye want to see this?”

  She peered down at the scene below, not wanting to witness the bloody fighting, yet unable to turn away. “Somewhere down there is my family.” Tears streamed down her face as the women’s screams pierced her like knives through her heart. “I cannot look away.”

  Huge Northmen grabbed screaming women and dragged them over the sand and pebble-strewn beach to one of the longships.

  Men fought and continued to fall. Some of the fallen were Norse but most were her father’s men. Bowing her head, she prayed God would give the men of the vale the strength to defeat this horde from Hell.

  Raising her head, she winced as a Norse raider swung his axe, severing a man’s head. It flew through the air to land on the ground while the man’s body dropped where he had stood. Sickened by the sight, her gorge rose in her throat, choking her. She closed her eyes tightly against the sight of it. The man was father to one of her friends. Only that morning he had wished her and Angus good hunting.

  Forcing her gaze back to the unfolding horror, she searched for her father, her mother and younger brother, but did not see them. Niall had gone hunting that morning,
his bow and arrows slung over his shoulder. She prayed he had not yet returned.

  Suddenly, a tall giant, covered in the blood of those he had slain, shouted orders as he cut a path through her father’s men guarding the palisade gate. His greater height and long black hair contrasted sharply with the other Northmen.

  He must be their leader.

  Her father, strong and robust, his fiery hair so like her own, suddenly appeared at the gate with sword raised.

  Catrìona cringed in fear for him and her mother who she knew must be in the hillfort behind him. Cormac, Mormaer of the Vale of Leven, would give his life for his family.

  Lord, protect them.

  Closing her eyes, she sobbed. She could not watch. Not this.

  Angus laid his arm across her shoulder. “I would go to his aid, milady, but yer father swore me to stay by yer side and I will nae leave ye. Either Cormac will prevail or God will take him.”

  The shouts and screams died away and she opened her eyes, her gaze darting to where her father had stood. He lay on the ground in front of the gate, blood dripping from a gash in his tunic. Nay! He could not die, not her powerful father.

  Mother… where was her mother?

  Tears filled her eyes and coursed down her cheeks. She wiped them away and surveyed the scene below.

  The fighting was nearly over.

  The ground in front of the hillfort was littered with bodies from the palisade fence to the river’s edge.

  The Norse raiders, splattered with the blood of those they had slain, retrieved their dead and wounded and carried them to the longships. At the top of one mast flew a banner, a black raven on a field of yellow. Stirred by the wind, the raven appeared to fly. The eerie sight made her shudder.

  Having struck and killed, the invaders now descended like a flock of vultures to pick clean the corpses, gathering prized swords and treasures accumulated over a lifetime, hauling them to the longships.

  The sound of women sobbing drew her attention to one of the ships where a small group of women huddled together at the base of the mast. A harsh command from one of the Northmen cut short their wailing. A crimson gown worn by one of the women caught her eye. It was one of Catrìona’s own gowns she had given her handmaiden, Deidre, that morning to wear to the festivities planned for that evening.