CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Thunderbolt of Victory

The hold was dark and stank of fish. Lady Catherine's head rested on a coil of  rope and she was penned all around by wooden crates. She felt sick and dizzy and the  rocking of the anchored ship made her nauseous. Why was she on a ship? The last I thing she remembered was stretching out on her own bed. She tried to sit up but found her hands and feet were tied.

"What has happened to me?" Bumping against crates, bracing herself on the coil of rope, she managed at last to kneel and look around. This could not be the Viking longship; such vessels had no cargo space. A lurch of the ship shook a cloud of herbal powder from her smock, and the breath she drew sent her thoughts spinning.

when she awakened again she found herself sprawled across a splintery barrel that leaked salt. There were bruises on her ribs where a sharp edge had struck her. It was an undignified position; with a groan of pain she slid off and fell backwards into the space between two bales of wool.

She could hear sounds of battle in the distance; then footsteps on the deck above. A rectangle of light appeared: a hatch opened and a rope ladder snaked down. A heavy man descended awkwardly and stood in the shaft of light beneath the open hatch. His paunch stretched the seams of his brown silk tunic like a sausage in a casing. Gray hair  plastered both sides of his face like running grease.

Mildly Sir Wallis said, "My dear beauteous disobedient niece. It has cost me so much silver and so many tiresome anxious weary weeks away from my duties to track you down that I almost wish I had allowed you to escape." He worked his beringed fingers into his belt and rocked back on his heels.

Even tied and half unclothed, she still had the spirit to defy him. "But then Ambermere could never legally be yours," she reminded him. "Even this ship paid for with rents and tolls from Ambermere belongs to me."

"Legally, perhaps," he agreed amiably. "You always did have an interest in legal matters unfitting to your sex. There was a time I hoped to wed you and obtain Ambermere in a perfectly utterly completely legal manner. But you have disgraced yourself by this heedless flight. I fear there is no alternative for me but to drop you overboard." He tugged a square of perfumed linen from his cuff, inhaled the scent, and dabbed his eyes in sorrow.

She swallowed the horror of his threat and felt it grow cold in her stomach. "Perhaps you arrived too late, uncle. Perhaps I am already wed. In that case possession has passed to my lord husband."

He pursed his rosebud lips into a smile and tilted his head to one side, regarding her affectionately. "I have it on the best authority that you are still a maid."

Down the rope ladder climbed Sitric. She took her place beside Sir Wallis, propping her fists on her hips in an attitude of grim satisfaction.

"You came between this towering majestic force of nature and the man of her choice," explained Sir Wallis, simpering. "Sitric is a Viking chiefs daughter who disgraced her entire family of sea-raiders for the sake of your betrothed. Her kinsmen have been ransacking this island for the past half a year or so in revenge."

Lady Catherine nodded slowly as she absorbed that revelation. She understood so much now that had seemed puzzling before. Even in the midst of her fear she was able to send up a prayer of gratitude that she had not been led by vanity to wed Lord Alistair.

She mused, "Then if I am believed to be dead, Sitric may hope still that Lord Alistair will marry her."

He tittered and rocked on his toes. "My dearest niece, you are dead. Your coffin lies in the chapel. So sad! So young'. So beauteous!"

Lady Catherine did not understand all he said, but the picture chilled her. If even Vincent believed her dead, then no one was searching for her. She could disappear over the side without a trace. From deep in her soul she sent out a desperate cry for help. 'Love, come to me; I have no other hope of life.'

Aloud she asked, "Why did you ally yourself with the Norse? Did you pledge to fight alongside them until the castle was taken?"

Sir Wallis bent with an effort and tightened the ropes around her hands and feet. Bending made his face flush purple. "I did, but I have gained what I was seeking. Now I shall simply sail away with my men-at-arms and let the two hordes slaughter each other. Fortunately, the incarnation of Nordic wrath at my side understands nothing of what I say." He stood again, puffing, and gestured toward the rope ladder. Sitric ascended easily: he gripped the wooden rungs with both plump hands, hauling himself up with immense difficulty.

As he climbed, he said, panting, "I shall have to ask one of my men-at-arms to drop you overboard. I haven't the heart to do it myself. Very likely I shall cry my eyes red tonight."

The trap door dropped shut with a crash and she was alone once more in the reeking darkness. Soon she would hear the shrill note of a horn, calling the men-at-arms to return to the ship. Then the men would raise the anchor and turn the great square sail, and when the ship had moved out to sea... already she seemed to fed the plunge, the choking...

Frantically she twisted in her bonds, rubbing the rope against the brass strap of a crate. Her panting breath caught in her throat, for she heard sounds on the deck above: screams -- the clang of metal against metal -- a deep-chested roar of savagery and rage. The hatch door splintered with the weight of a powerful body, and Vincent plunged feet first into the hold, landing with a crash that shook the hull.

"Vincent!" The ropes that bound her wrists parted and she reached out longing arms.

He saw her then and his face was swept with glory. One leap, and his arms gripped her around, crushing her to his chest.

He was sobbing, she could feel the harsh shudders that racked him. "I'm dreaming. I've gone mad. Are you alive, am I holding you?"

He was half-naked, caked with blood and dust. She gripped him fiercely, with all the strength of her arms. "Mudheíreadh, mo-ghaoil, thaingh thu do m'inonnuidh, mudheíreadh, mudheíreadh. At Last, my love, thou has come to me. At last, at last!"

"Catherine." There were no words to describe what he felt at that moment. Her soft slenderness was pressed close to him, he could taste the flower scent of her skin. After agony that splintered his heart with every second of hopeless knowledge, lacerated him with mad despair and loss, he had found her again.

His defenses were all down; the words he had choked back for so long seemed to tear his chest like the sobs he could not control. "I thought you were dead. I came up to fight, to die fighting. There was no more living for me, not without you."

With a gentle touch she wiped tears from a face that was smeared with sweat and clotted blood. "As much as that?" she murmured. Was it true then, what she hardly dared to hope; that this man struggling between darkness and light, ferocity and tenderness, loved her with the strength of his whole life.

As if he sensed her thought, he battled against the nightmare of her loss. "I've had no life yet. It was all darkness, emptiness, waiting. All those years I had to wait before I could see this face at last." He took her face between his hands and his blood soaked hair made a tent over both of them as he kissed her so gently, and yet with such uncontrollable need. "You're all the light I've ever known. When I thought you were dead I was dropped into darkness, no light at all, alone forever." His voice faltered and broke.

She got to her feet, and drew him upwards. With womanly tenderness she held him close, giving him her own strength. "Nothing will part us again. Nothing under heaven, not man, not fate, not foe."

He risked it all with one desperate question. He put both clawed hands on his bared chest and said, "This is what I am. I cannot be otherwise. Catherine, can you love me?"

With a little sobbing cry of joy and gratefulness she clasped him closer still, and in her radiant face he read the answer for which he hungered so.

"If ..." He fought a brief pitched battle with his own emotions, and won. "If it is true that you, the most beautiful of all, can trust me with your heart's love, then may God deal with me as I deal with you."

The ship lurched; startled, both looked up to the hatch door.

"We must go," said Vincent, and grim purpose tightened his jaw.

"The daylight... "she remembered, with a sudden jolt of fear for him.

"No more concealment, I have hidden long enough." He climbed the swaying ladder and she followed until they both stood on the deck. One towering mast raised a vast square sail; the red bull seemed to kick and twist with the wind. Sir Wallis stood in the prow, holding on to the rigging to keep his balance while he argued with an elderly, one-eyed man-at-arms. As impassive as ever, Sitric stared out to Sea.

"Call all my men back to the ship, Fastolf, sound the horn," Sir Wallis demanded. "From here it looks as if the Vikings are getting the worst of it. If without my help the blood-drenched baby-eating barbarians cannot win against a rabble of islanders, then let them lose."

Like an avenging goddess, Sitric turned on Sir Wallis and knocked the horn from his hands; it rolled across the deck. With a smooth and practiced motion she drew her dagger from her apron strings and drove it into the ribs of the traitor.

Disbelief changed to horrified comprehension on the face of Sir Wallis as he folded slowly to the deck, clutching his side. Her own Nordic tongue was not the only one that Sitric understood. A coughing grunt of agony spurted blood from his mouth. His heels drummed the hull as if he were running in place. Gradually his ruddy face went slack as life poured out between his fingers. He uttered a gurgling sigh and kicked one last time, then sprawled like a grotesque and broken doll. The eyes were still wide open as cold and empty in death as they had been in life.

Shuddering, Lady Catherine turned her face away. To Vincent she explained, "Sitric's father is the chief here. They battle to avenge her lost honor."

Sitric turned, the dagger still in her hand. Then she saw Vincent. Her face, always so majestic in its calm, underwent a terrible change. Her mouth dropped open: utter fright turned her gray. She knelt in a pool of Sir Wallis's blood and gripped a pendant of Thor's hammer that hung around her neck.

Her huddled, craven posture expressed terror as clearly as if she had said aloud: Son of Odin, god of thunder, spare your servant, do not blunt your sword on my clay.

Though Vincent answered quietly, she flung up her arms to protect her head. "Your shame is at an end, Sitric. Lord Alistair should have made you his wife long ago; he will wed you before nightfall. Tell your father that the battle is finished, then go yourself back to Raven's Rock."

Sitric could not look at him: she cringed as if trying to crawl into herself. She rose, still doubled over, and backed down the gangplank with her hands over her eyes.

Lady Catherine spoke with authority to old Fastolf, who was twisting his gray moustache in puzzlement.

"Now you may sound the call, Fastolf. The usurper is dead and the men are under my command."

"Oh, my lady!" stammered the old fellow. "There's not a one of us who won't be glad to trade the red bull for your white rose." He leaned close to her and nodded his head toward Vincent. "What's he?"

There was no simple answer, she merely smiled and said, "He wears it, too."

Vincent and Lady Catherine descended the gangplank. Over her smock she wore a tattered blue mantle, swept around her by old Fastolf. They climbed a sandy ridge and saw that the surviving Norsemen were gathering in a circle around Sitric and her father, a golden-bearded giant wearing matted furs dyed blue and green. Severed heads of enemies dangled from his belt.

The horn of Fastolf sounded and the men-at-arms of Ambermere began to retreat toward the ship. Broken yells of triumph rose from the beleaguered Scots -- fishermen and cotters who against all odds had conquered the invaders.

When they reached the boulder in the wheatfield, Lady Catherine paused, but Vincent shook his head. "Don't be afraid, we are going in through the main gatehouse. I will walk with you in the sunlight -- then let fate do its worst."<

"They'll kill you."

"Even if I die, I can thank God now that I have lived."

She was deathly afraid, but not for herself. Her fingers twined with his. The sheer gray walls of Raven's Rock loomed above them: spearmen leaned over the ramparts and archers aimed from the square corner towers. A battering ram lay across a heap of dead men near the gatehouse, which protruded from the wall. The timber gate stood ajar to welcome survivors who limped and stumbled back toward the castle.

Vincent knew that weapons were poised above him as he walked toward the gate, and yet his face was serene. He would hide no longer. They passed through the open gate into a courtyard, and were halted by clansmen who ringed them around. Their leader was Somhairle, a sentry with the face of a hungry hawk. Lady Catherine flung herself into Vincent's arms to shield him from a score of knifepoints that stung his back and his chest.

"Take the devil's-buckie an' put him under lock an' key afore the ground takes fire about us." The two daggers of Somhairle prodded Vincent in the ribs. "See the nicks on these blades? They were scraped on enemies' bones."

Frantically she tried to shield him; he smiled down at her reassuringly. There was no fear in him.

The clansmen whispered among themselves as they drove Vincent up a twisting flight of steps; she clung close to his side.

The great hall was thronged with clansfolk: hairy-faced men; stalwart women; and barefooted children. When they caught sight of Vincent, surrounded by armed henchmen, they drew back and crossed themselves; women drew their children close. He was a terrifying figure, half naked, his furred chest caked with blood that had also splashed his face and hair.

Somhairle's horned goatskin cap gave him the look of a pagan warrior. "Back wi' ye, back for yer lives! He'll chomp us like herrings!"

Overcome by superstitious terror, Malai the kitchen wench quavered, "It's come! It's come! The evil spirit is chokin' me!" She dropped to her knees, clutching her plump neck and gagging with fear.

A toothless crone mumbled, "Our lives are forfeit. He'll snap us up like a wolf an' a lamb."

Vincent had always known his kinsfolk would react in such a way. He could not defend himself against superstition. It hurt him deeply, but something else hurt him more. On a trestle table pushed against the wall lay Lord Alistair, barechested and motionless. Blood seeped from a cruel gash in his stomach.

His shadowed eyes turned to Vincent; he tried to speak and failed.

Ignoring the swordpoints, Vincent took his cold hand. The past was the past, and the wounded man was his brother.

A young mother clasped her sobbing baby. "Oh' my heart! What is to become o' us all?"

"Slay him," demanded Teàrlach the bard, raising a withered arm to heaven. His hollow face whitened with fanaticism. "Rise to a man an' drive the fiend back to hell."

Lady Catherine kept close to his side. Neither life nor death would part them now.

"Slay him."' urged Teàrlach, and shook his arms as if calling down the judgement of heaven. Weapons shone in the hands of the sentries; from their belts the fishermen drew jagged knives.

The goat-woman Ealasaid rose painfully from a bench and hobbled toward Vincent to get a better sight of him. Her shrewd eyes missed nothing and her voice rang with authority. "I seen the creature the night after the feast. He carried back to me my wandered kid, an' hammered the pen together."

Overcome by surprise, Malai stopped gagging. She was rather in awe of her friend's superior wisdom. If Ealasaid made such a declaration, it had to be true.

The crone supported herself on the arm of her son Raonull and spoke again. "I mind now --- I was ravelled in my head at the time, but I mind now. He tilled my garden for me when I was ailin' wi' an attack o' the wheezles."

There was a long silence while the clansfolk mulled over the testimony of the two women. The legend was true, and some of them had seen him, the shadow that repaired their fences and watered their stock.

Wonder and love shone in Lady Catherine's face. She slipped her arm around Vincent's, and murmured, "There is no greater satisfaction than doing a good deed in secret and having it found out by accident."

The bard waved his arms in the air, foretelling disaster; before he could moan again, Ceannaideach stamped out of the crowd and knocked aside the weapons that menaced Vincent. "Listen to me, sir, they'll ha' to reckon wi' me afore they lay a hand on ye, an' God pity the first that dare attempt it."

His son Cleíreach had raised the otter flag to the topmost branches of the pine. "By my soul, the stranger, he's a warrior."

Two towheaded lads jumped out of the crowd, interrupting each other excitedly. "The raiders waylaid us, about a dozen o' them..."

"Two dozen," said Pòl.

"He sort o' worked through the lot, as far as I could see," exclaimed Peadair. "He's able an' willin' both to fight man, dog, or deevil!" He shook his fist at the sentries, saying, "I warn ye fair, if ye lay yer hand on him, out ye go by yon door an' down the steps!"

Lord Alistair heard it all through a haze of pain. He licked his dry lips and tried to speak: his voice was a thread. "My elder... brother. I robbed him... of his place."

A gasp rippled through the onlookers. Even his defenders went pale. To accept the creature as a supernatural helper might be possible: to pledge fealty to him as their ruler was something else. Anger blazed up in Lady Catherine, scorching her face white. Neither Vincent nor Lord Alistair had told the truth to her. Did Vincent imagine that she would make demands if she knew? She averted her face from both men and moved away a step.

Lord Alistair's lips were ashen. "Raven's Rock, Heathery Isle… yours, Vincent. Forgive."

Tears shone in Vincent's eyes. His great furred hand clasped more warmly the weak hand of his brother.

Uncertainty swept the crowd: whispered arguments rippled from family to family. The men of the castle murmured among themselves. Lord Alistair might die; they would need a chief, and Vincent had proven himself against two forces of invasion, rallying the islanders to battle them back to the sea.

Malai struggled up from her knees and huddled with Ealasaid and the other women. Kind deeds done in secret proved he meant them well. Such deeds proved him to be man rather than devil, despite his fearsome face.

The fisherfolk reminded each other that Lady Catherine had been stone dead and in her coffin: Vincent must have brought her back to life. Such a ruler was not to be despised.

It was Ceannaideach who moved first, kneeling and laying his bow at Vincent's feet. "May God hold ye long in life an' honor to rule over us, lord."

After a moment Raonull knelt too, on stiff and bony knees. His bald head still bore the gashes inflicted by four wooden shields. "Thunderbolt of victory, hero who goes forth fearlessly."

Pòl and Peadair wrestled each other to the floor, declaring, "We're yer men!"

One by one the clansfolk knelt: Malai, Ealasaid, Cléireach. Fishermen, cotters, children and mothers. Lady Catherine glanced up at Vincent's face and saw he was shaken to the soul. After thirty years of renunciation, his birthright had been given him, and he had not betrayed his brother. Already mouthing rhymes, the harper who accompanied Teàrlach dropped to his knees. Infuriated, muttering to himself angrily, Teàrlach gave in to necessity and knelt as well, for every chief needed a bard, and he would not see his place taken by an upstart musician.

Only two men still stood: Somhairle; and the piper, resplendent in a vest dangling with fox tails. The piper meant no disrespect, for with his elbow he began to press the bag. Wild and plaintive music swirled around the chamber. For the first time, Vincent heard the chiefs song, Fraoch Eilean, played for himself. At last the heartbreak and the glory of his life of sacrifice had found its reward.

The eyes of Lord Alistair -- now Sir Alistair -- turned to Lady Catherine. He whispered, "You're alive. Well well."

In pity she took his other hand, so limp and cold. A mighty shove in the back sent her reeling: Sitric took her place at Sir Alistair's side and leaned over him like a shield.

Vincent spoke quietly to his brother. "I have sworn to Sitric and her father the Viking chief that you would make her your wife."

The wounded man smiled faintly. "Other women have... loved me. But Sitric... knows me. And loves me still. Find Jacobus."

Vincent stepped back from the table a little and looked down into Lady Catherine's face. A white spark of anger flared in her and she swept a curtsey, spreading out the old blue cloak. "Lord Vincent."

He spoke in an undertone, almost roughly. "Don't break my heart. What use have I for rank or state, except to offer it to you? You cared for me when I was a prisoner, locked forever away from life and light. Now I stand in the sunlight with my inheritance all around me: this castle, this island, these kinfolk of mine. Choose for me, Catherine. Lord of Raven's Rock, and you; or legend of the dungeon cells, and you. Without daylight I can survive, but not without you."

For a moment she stood irresolute, looking down at her own clasped hands. So many pictures winged through her mind then: a condemned man lying bound in a circle of stones, waiting for dawn and the stake. The same man riding a thunderstorm, laughing at the gale: tearing the cuff off his sleeve to wipe her face, and sitting by her side all night; fighting to the limit of his life, and grieving afterwards at the carnage. A man who loved her beyond expression, and left her free to choose.

Lady Catherine placed a hand on his bare arm, and felt it tremble. She looked up, smiling through a mist of tears, and said, "Find Jacobus."

Vincent could not kiss her, not with his kinsfolk all getting to their feet and watching curiously. He could only raise her hands to his lips, and hold them there.

Into the great hall stumbled Jacobus, half-distracted with confusion. So many wild tales were circulating: that Lady Catherine was alive again, that Vincent had been proclaimed the true lord, that Sitric was to be a wife.

"Oh my lad," he cried as he stumbled through the crowd. "Is it true -- have you gained your birthright? Lady Catherine! What?"

Vincent still kept hold of her hands. "Jacobus will you marry us? The four of us?"

The old monk gripped his gray hair with both hands. "I understand none of this," he complained. "Vincent, you have a great deal of explaining to do. My lady, I'm delighted to see you alive, but I don't understand it at all. This is all happening too quickly for me. Life was quieter in the monastery."

Sir Alistair turned his eyes toward Lady Catherine and she leaned nearer to hear him.

"No... first-maid," he said, with a faint attempt at his old jaunty manner. "No first-foot. No hearth broom or ... meal chest. You refused to marry me without... all that."

"I was stalling you," she confessed.

"I... know. You're certain... he's the one? Vincent?" Despite his brief outburst of nobility, already half-regretted, his old vanity was still intact, and he found her choice impossible to comprehend.

She tried to bring a smile to his wan face by whispering, "I can be satisfied with nothing less -- I'm a woman -- my blood is red."

A jab of pain blanched his face. "Tell Vincent ... he won someone worth winning."

The traditions, though precious, were not important now. She did not need pageantry or a pearl-encrusted wedding gown to feel beautiful. Even in her pleated smock and old blue mantle, she knew in Vincent's eyes she was the most beautiful of all.

The service was very short: there were no attendants or musicians. There were only Lady Catherine and Vincent, answering each traditional question earnestly, with deepening joy as every phrase and prayer bound them more securely together.

Raising his hands, Jacobus improvised a little sermon. "In Proverbs 17:17 it states, 'a friend loves at all times.' Friendship is necessary for living, to the extent that no one, even though he had all other goods, would choose to live without friends. The truest friendship of all unites a man and a woman so that they become one instead of two, not for consideration of any worldly advantage but from the feelings of the human heart, and the reward is a life that is indivisible."

They had no rings, but there was another way. when Jacobus nodded, someone handed to Vincent a sweep of plaid, since his own lay in shreds on the battlefield.

He wrapped it around himself and Lady Catherine. "In this same way I will shelter you, protect you, and share with you all I have. With my body -- and my possessions -- I will keep you safe."

She responded "I honor you, trust you and give you my whole love, without reserve. I hold nothing back -- to you I give it all."

Wrapped close to him, she nestled even closer. His joy and thankfulness were so overpowering that she could sense them through the bond, like fountains exploding in both their souls.

Sitric watched Jacobus suspiciously as he spoke the prayers. She would not look in Vincent's direction at all, fearing his thunderbolts. As soon as she and Sir Alistair were pronounced husband and wife, she waved everyone away from the table, dug in her apron pockets to find a packet of healing herbs, and scattered them across Sir Alistair's stomach. She knew a great deal about herbs and simples, and despised the islanders' remedies.

"Sitric will cure me or kill me," said Sir Alistair weakly.

From within the shelter of Vincent's plaid, Lady Catherine said, "She will cure you. You don't know the power a loving woman has to drive death back."

"I do. I know," said Vincent, and pressed a kiss into her soft hair.

Jacobus closed his book and wiped away a sentimental tear with the back of his hand. He remembered the first time he had ever seen Lady Catherine, in the secret tunnel, and the words he had uttered in complete disbelief. "Merciful Heavens. He did it." Now those words had come true a second time. His lad's turn had come at last.

Seeing the two of them so close in each other's arms, Jacobus shook his head with a mighty sigh. "It's almost beyond belief." But, as his former abbot often said, 'The only quirk in life beyond belief is that a man could take his breeches off by pulling them over his head.' At least he wouldn't have to twist his conscience to see this as a blessing. Maybe God was not on sabbatical after all.

The clansfolk raised a mighty cheer for both the old lord and the new. They would have followed the bridal couple up to Lady Catherine's tower chamber, but Vincent shook his head, no. There would be time for rejoicing in the days to come. He did exchange one look with Jacobus, which said it all.

Pòl and Peadair were more persistent, following the two up the stairs.

Vincent turned and put a kindly hand on the shoulder of the taller lad. "I am your chief, to you I will give my first command."

"I'm yer man!" cried Peadair, saluting.

"Find Lady Catherine's serving maid Phemie, and escort her to the stable. Pòl, present to her the finest horse in the paddock, and..."

"Dubh-srannail? The Black Snorter?"

"Yes, the Black Snorter. Present it to her as a wedding gift from Lord Vincent and Lady Catherine, and tell her we will see her in the morning."

"Aye sir!." cried Pòl. "That I will!" The two lads charged down the staircase in a mad race.

Lady Catherine laughed softly. "You have made several people very happy this evening."

Jesting did not come easily to Vincent but his happiness was so intense that he raised his eyebrows and ventured a pleasantry.

"And the evening is not over yet."