Raven's Rock 1, by Ann R. Brown

CHAPTER ONE
Under Raven’s Rock

In the darker shadow between a boulder and a sand dune Vincent concealed himself. listening to howls of hatred that rang through the night. He understood enough of the Norse tongue to realize the sea-raiders were screaming for his death.

‘Slay him!'
‘Let his blood soak the earth!'
The cruel taunts shuddered through him like arrows, for despite his unfailing courage, Vincent knew he could not prevail against ten armed berserkers. He had crept aboard the Vikings' longship to learn their battle strategy, and now it seemed the knowledge would die with him.
Daggers and lances glittered in the moonlight as ten more Norsemen jumped over the side of their dragon-prowed longship. splashed through the foam, and fanned out across the rocky shore of the island. thrusting their weapons into every shadow where a man might hide.
‘Vengeance is my hunger!' roared the blond-bearded chieftain, and urged his men forward with a whirl of his iron sword.
The odds against him. already overwhelming, were doubled now. Under his breath Vincent murmured, "Your warning was true, Jacobus - I've been foolhardy, and it may cost me everything. " Very quietly he pressed himself deeper into the crevice . He averted his head, hiding his half-human face within a length of purple plaid, watching the outlines of hulking men as they tramped past his hiding place.
The Viking chief paused to stroke his braided beard. He was a huge man, clad in furs dyed green and blue. Vincent could see the horn handle of the sword in his fist and smell the rot of four severed heads that hung from his belt.
Vincent's clawed hands curled into weapons. He would not go down without a fight, but already he seemed to feel the thrust of that iron blade in his body. He heard his own heart slamming against his ribs and wondered if it could be heard over the roar of the waves.
The iron sword jabbed viciously into the crevice, its edge ripping his sleeve. Vincent didn't move; didn't breathe. For almost the first time in his life, he knew what fear meant. A second thrust stabbed his hand with white-hot pain, and he choked back an unspoken cry. In his mind a strange thought glimmered and was gone: I will die, and never see her face.
Muttering to himself, the chief tramped away; Vincent caught a glimpse of spurs on the man's bare feet. At length, releasing a slow breath, he cautiously peered out from his hiding place.
Twenty armed men against one - there was only one faint hope left. If he could reach a certain granite boulder, he might escape the death that glittered on every sword point. Though he couldn't see it, he knew where to find it - in a wheatfield beyond a devastated village.
There were no trees that might shelter him, and every moment that passed made his capture more likely. Sentinels atop the ridge pounded their leather shields with their swords in defiance. The rough drumming echoed in Vincent's body like the beats of his own racing heart. Keeping low, he crept out from behind the rock, wrapping himself in his plaid. The moon, bright as a silver coin, cast a moving
shadow behind him as he bent double and slid from one dune to the next. In the distance he could see now the castle of Creagan-an-thithich, Raven's Rock, thrusting its four square towers against the sky. It was the stronghold of his own Scottish clansfolk. but it was too far ... too far.
The warriors had moved on. Quietly he climbed the ridge, forcing his boots into the sand, twisting his powerful hands into patches of rough seagrass.
He fumbled upwards, pulled himself to the top, and rested his elbows on the edge. A cautious look around told him that the searchers were turning away from him, north, toward the village and the castle beyond. As he reached for a handhold, a swordsman rose up before him, blocking his view. Like a flash of dark lightning an iron blade pressed his throat.
His heart froze; it was all over. In his despair, he tilted his head back to see the face of his killer. And the swordsman saw Vincent's face, framed by a sweep of plaid. A spill of bronze hair half-revealed slanting brows. The cheekbones and strong jaw were those of a man, but the leonine nose and curved teeth were not human.
Uttering a gasp, the swordsman staggered backwards. With one fluid motion Vincent leaped to the top of the bluff and knocked the blade aside. One cry from the man would bring a score of raiders, but Vincent didn't give him a chance to call out. A ferocious swipe of a clawed hand sent the swordsman reeling, a fountain of blood exploding from his bare chest. A backhanded blow hurled the man down the slope; over and over he rolled in a cloud of sand.
Vincent drew a shaking breath. He had been given one last chance for life, and to grasp it he had to risk everything. He raced down the bluff, praying as he ran that the Norsemen, who were ahead of him, would not turn back. Beyond the shore a few twisted trees, bent by the island's gales, raised crooked branches to the sky. He darted behind a stunted pine and shaded his eyes to see what remained of the village. A few thatched roofs still leaked smoke.
Anger burned him as he left the shelter of the trees and ran through fields of blackened stubble that lately had been green oats and barley . Ravens rose from dead animals, oxen and horses. At the threshold of a roofless stone cottage, a woman lay sprawled. A fisherman hung from a tree, strangled in his own nets.
These were his own folk, people of Clann Eoghain na h-Oitrich, though none of them had ever seen him, and the devastation fired Vincent with the heat of rage. The Norsemen weren't very far ahead of him; he could hear their shouts and rough laughter. Despite his longing for vengeance, he had to will himself to calmness -- he could not win against so many. Also, the night was passing, and he had to reach the castle before daybreak. It hurt him to admit that even his own kin would slay him on sight.

Hope leaped up in Vincent: in the midst of a burned wheatfield, a granite boulder thrust upwards like a fist. Crouching, he heaved it aside, revealing a pit that gashed the scorched earth. He lowered himself five feet down, on to a shale ledge that protruded from the earthen wall. Balancing on the ledge, he exerted all his tremendous strength to shift the heavy stone back over the entrance; then leaped down another ten feet to the bottom of the well.

Safe. He was safe. Just for one brief moment Vincent slumped back against the wall and pressed one hand to his chest. He had been reckless, and almost paid the price.
When he recovered his self-command, he reached out a searching hand and found not earth but emptiness. A secret passage led away from the pit.
The tunnel was utterly without light, and smelled like a grave. Swiftly he moved through blackness, one hand grazing the earthen wall. Tree roots dangled down like gnarled fingers, catching his hair. The tread of his oxhide boots echoed faintly in the gloom.
Deep and ever deeper, dark and ever darker, the narrow shaft angled downwards. He passed under a low roof where water dripped on him, and the rock underfoot was the bed of a shallow stream. By touch alone he found his way, letting his outstretched hand guide him, feeling his way through fissures in the island's bedrock and down a crack that ran diagonally between two buried cliffs.
Far ahead he glimpsed a wavering light, small as a keyhole, and knew that Jacobus was coming to meet him, carrying a lantern. It had to be Jacobus -- no other living being knew of the tunnel's existence.
Vincent stooped under an underground hill of stone and met him at an angle of the passage. The old man wore the shabby black robe of a monk, though his monastery on the holy isle of Iona had been burned to the ground by Norse marauders thirty years before. His kindly face was haggard with care.
"Vincent, " Jacobus quavered, reaching out a knobby hand. "Will the castle be attacked tonight?"
Vincent's voice was low and hoarse, rust on iron. "I crept on board the Viking longship to overhear their battle plans, but learned only that they are determined to slaughter everyone on the island. "
"Oh, the dangers you face beyond these castle walls," Jacobus moaned, and wiped his tired face with a trembling hand. "Every time you leave the safety of Raven's Rock, I hold my breath with fear you won't return. " He flashed the lantern up and down; Vincent's thigh-length tunic and leather breeches were caked with seawater and sand, but this time there were no stains of blood, and he let out a groan of relief.
Vincent knew the old fellow's concerns and concealed his wounded hand in a fold of heather-colored plaid that swept over one shoulder. It fastened with a silver otter brooch, the badge of his clan, which he wore in spite of Jacobus' often-expressed disapproval.
Even had Jacobus been related to the islanders, he would have refused to wear either the purplish color or the otter design, for he cherished a grudge against Clann Eoghain. Entirely alone he had raised their outcast lad, taught him, cared for him. Worried about him, too, and grieved for his solitary fate.
Vincent put his unwounded hand on the shoulder of his elderly tutor. "I see perfectly well in the dark, and I move silently. It would not be right to send a man-at- arms to spy on our enemies, when for me the danger is less. " He hesitated, then added, " And if I were seen, it would only add to the legend of the creature of the dungeon." His lips tightened in sudden pain; the legend was true, and he was the monster of the curse.
The shaft was too narrow to walk side by side. Jacobus went in front, holding the lantern high. The hem of his robe dragged in the mud. As he limped along, he scratched his gray hair in perplexity .
There was something he had to tell Vincent, and he could not find the words. " A message has come
. . .”
Vincent’s mind was still occupied with plans of attack and defence. Fraoch Eilean – The Heathery Isle – had been settled by his clanfolks in centuries past. During the past two seasons, though, Norsemen had attacked the island again and again; burning, pillaging, and driving the fisherfolk back. Now only the ancient castle of Raven’s Rock remained as a last stronghold of defence.
He mused as he followed Jacobus around two sharp turns hacked through the earth. Crumbling timbers sifted dirt down like rain. " A new well must be dug within the walls, in case they besiege us."
"Your plans are thought out well ... and Lord Alistair takes the credit," said Jacobus, in sudden bitterness.
Vincent shrugged and smiled faintly. He had put aside resentment long ago. "It must be so. There is no other way. The three of us have always known that -- you, and I, and Alistair. "
Anger and sympathetic pain creased Jacobus' face. Yes, it had to be so. Even after so many years, though, the unfairness still rankled in the old man's soul. The earthen tunnel widened into an arch of raw wet stones. The two men halted before an ancient oaken door, green with mildew and studded with iron knobs. They had reached the vast maze of dungeons beneath Raven's Rock.
Jacobus put his shoulder to the heavy door and pushed it open inch by creaking inch. The lantern in his fist revealed heavy pillars, low vaulted arches, and dungeon doors blackened with age, as unyielding as the rough stone slabs of the floor. A cold wind circled, like a moan of despair .
He shuddered, for the air was dank, and his old bones were stiff. Despite the chill, he could still feel the heat of resentment. His mind went back thirty years to a babe thrown out of a tower window into the snow to die, a child he had rescued and carried to the dungeons below. Even after so many years, Vincent's existence still remained an utter secret. Occasional sightings by servants and villagers had
spawned a rumor of horror that kept anyone from descending the winding stone steps to investigate for himself the tales of a monster in the depths of the earth. Reluctantly, for the sake of Vincent's safety, Jacobus did not contradict the rumors, leading superstitious fisherfolk to believe that the old monk was a wizard who consorted with demons in the darkness.
Jacobus hesitated before speaking again; he knew that despite Vincent's fearsome appearance and enormous strength, he had a vulnerable heart, made even more gentle and dream-haunted by poems and tales of gallantry and love.
Stroking his short gray beard, he said. "I must tell you, Vincent. A message has come to Lord Alistair, from across the water."
Vincent's blue eyes widened; a sudden light illuminated his face. "From ... her?"
"Yes," Jacobus admitted, reluctantly. Vincent's sudden radiance disturbed him -- it could only mean more pain for the lad, who had known so much pain already.
From within his shabby robe Jacobus drew a leather pouch. "Lady Catherine writes that she is in deadly peril, and pleads that her knight and champion might ride to her rescue.”
"Her champion ..." said Vincent softly. "Alistair." Reverently he unrolled the sheet of parchment. There had been three or four letters written over the past few years, all in the same graceful hand. Through those letters he had come to know the spirit of Lady Catherine, her courage and her sorrows. By the wavering light of the lantern he read the letter.

My well-beloved lord. As children, you and I were pledged to each other by my father and yours. In the long sorrow of my father’s illness, and my useless and desperate struggles against the schemes of Sir Wallis, that pledge has been my only consolation, that one day you would come to Ambermere and claim my hand whichwas given to you so long ago; and take me home with you to Raven's Rock. Now the crisis has come ... my dear father is dead, and Sir Wallis seeks to wed me by force, though we have yet to meet. I put my faith in you. 1 beg you, my only friend, my knight and champion, save me from this fate. I am alone at Ambermere Manor, surrounded by enemies; you are my only hope.

The signature was scrawled in haste and the parchment was crumpled. Vincent felt his chest constrict with the knowledge of her danger. His words tumbled out.
"Alistair must gather the clan at once and capture the longship of the Norsemen. There are fighting men within this castle, at least a score, and horses, and weapons enough to battle to the shore. Once across the water, he can sweep south to Ambennere and carry Lady Catherine back in triumph. Is that his strategy?"
Jacobus coughed into his hand. Drily he said, "That is not his strategy."
Vincent exploded. “What does he mean to do? Tell me!"
Raising his hands palm upwards, Jacobus shrugged.
“Nothing,” said Vincent through set teeth, his eyes darkening to the color of smoke. " A maiden has entrusted Alistair with her life and happiness, and her suffering does not move him? What I would not give, to have such faith put in me... “
He caught a look of pity from Jacobus and choked down his wild words. His fist clenched around the parchment, almost crumpling it. With a fierce effort at self-control, he rolled the letter up again. The leather pouch wasn't empty ~ a small oval portrait, painted on ivory , slipped into his palm. At last, after so many years, he saw the face of the maiden whose letters he had read over and over, though they had been written to another. Along with poems and tales told by Jacobus those brief messages had woven themselves into his dreams.
Very gently he cradled the miniature in his great furred hand. “Lady Catherine,” he whispered, and traced the silver frame with a careful finger. It was a lovely face, but it was not the beauty alone that drew him. It was the light and truth that shone in her clear eyes. There was sadness, too, in the set of her lips, holding back pain. The expression, half wistful, half defiant, told him that she was on the edge of despair, but that she would never surrender .
A sudden jolt speared through Vincent as he gazed at the painted features, as if her fear reached out to him. As if across the distance he could hear the cry of her deepest heart. Almost he could hear the words she spoke: Love, come to me, you are my last hope of life.
Sudden resolution made Vincent's face grim. He spoke quietly, with firm purpose.
"Lady Catherine is in danger; I feel it. For the honor of the family, we must not fail her. If Alistair chooses to forget his pledge, I will remember it for him. I will travel to Ambermere myself. "
Jacobus fell backwards against the wall in horror. He stammered, “Have you gone mad? You cannot travel so far, not by daylight! Each time you leave this castle at night you scarcely make it back alive.”
“I will travel in disguise.”
In deepening desperation, Jacobus tried again. "The raiders control the hills all the way to the sea. Even if you gain the shore, do you expect to swim all that distance to the mainland?"
Vincent looked once more at the portrait that rested in his palm. " Any man with a heart in his body would ride to her rescue. No enemy could be too powerful, no sea too wide."
Emotion was choking the old monk. He forced words out one by one. " Are you telling me that you intend to travel on foot through the wilds of Scotland, wade across the Solway Firth to Britain, and rescue Lady Catherine from Ambermere Manor? You cannot possibly survive such a journey!"
Vincent raised a hand to silence him. "It is my duty, you cannot dissuade me."
In wild despair, Jacobus clutched his sleeve. "Even if you should reach Ambermere, would she trust you enough to travel in your company?"
The pain of a lifetime's isolation darkened Vincent's eyes. He tucked the oval portrait inside his tunic. "If Lady Catherine is in peril perhaps she is desperate enough to trust even me. I have pledged myself to bring her back to safety ."
" And to Alistair?" questioned Jacobus, gripping his sleeve.
Vincent looked up, as if his gaze could pierce the gloom of the dungeons to the rich chamber where the lord of Raven's Rock lay sleeping under coverlets of fur.
“To safety ." Drawing a deep breath he added, “ And to Alistair ... my brother. "