The narrow boat rose and sank on each wave crest; the hull bent and straightened to the changing pressures of the waves, canting slowly as each wave advanced and slid underneath. The billowing sail drove the vessel forward smoothly, the water curling back along the hull. The oars were no longer needed; they had been placed down the center: Phemie took the helm, working a steering paddle lashed to a frame.

Lady Catherine trailed her hand in the water over the gunwale. She was exhilarated by the creak of the mast and the whip of the wind in her face. The moon gleamed through a rent in the shaggy clouds.

"You're almost home, Vincent. Are you glad?"

He answered her honestly, without self-pity. "No. But I remind myself that these days that have been are mine to keep. When I come to die, I will still be remembering." He did not say out loud what he was thinking: 'And the last word I say will be your name.'

She fell silent then, looking up at the moon and mulling over his words. As his lordship's younger brother, Vincent surely had an honored place in the life of the castle. Perhaps he was the tanist, the vice-chief; or the carrier of the ceremonial sword; or the bannerman who stood behind his lordship's chair. And yet, despite her determination to think well of Lord Alistair, she had a suspicion that Vincent was not given his due. She made a promise to herself that if she gained any influence over Lord Alistair, Vincent would be given his proper place at his brother's right hand.

The clouds pressed lower and lower until the boat was swallowed up in murk. Phemie peered forward into the gloom but could see nothing. Then through the foggy darkness a line appeared, stretching right across the bow.

"Land! Land dead ahead!" The wind was blowing them straight ashore. "Helm up," Phemie commanded, and gave the steering paddle over to Vincent while she scrambled forward to readjust the sail to alter course. "Hold her steady, steady as she goes; my lady, use yer oar to keep her off the rocks."

A startled-looking otter plummeted off a rock as the ship threaded between obstacles, fighting infinitely changing combinations of wind and swell and tide and backwash.

"Hard to port, an' my lady, give her all ye've got."

Lady Catherine heaved frantically at her oar and the boat slid between the jagged rocks. A long dark smear of land loomed above them.

"I'm in great hopes we're here," said Phemie, and readied herself to jump into the shallows with a rope to moor the boat. A bank of cloud shifted and Phemie staggered backwards, striking the mast with her shoulders. It was not land they had reached, but a serpent-prowed Viking longship.

The murk sifted down again, there was nothing to do but pray they had not been seen. As quietly as she could, Phemie furled the sail. Lady Catherine took two strokes on her oar: the tiller came over, and the boat struck the sand. The three of them slipped over the side, as quietly as the otter had slipped off the rock.

Phemie had enjoyed enormously giving orders to the other two, but on land, she deferred to Vincent who alone knew the island. He kept in front, looking about cautiously. The steep slope of a sandy ridge appeared ahead; he gestured: Follow me.

At the top of the ridge, Lady Catherine caught up with Vincent. She felt him tremble beside her, and knew that his fear was not for himself.

Suddenly a cry ripped the air, a yell so savage that it drove through Lady Catherine like a spear. Up the hill thundered six or seven marauders, swords and battleaxes raised.

"We've been seen," Vincent gasped. "Run -- run! And don't look back!"

As swiftly as a swallow she began to run down the bluff, kicking sand with every reaching step. Horrible sounds of snarling and shrieking rose behind her; she set her teeth and obeyed Vincent's command, though she panted to turn and add her small strength to his.

The bluff leveled into a rocky meadow; heavy footsteps pounded behind her; a spear flashed over her head. She heard nothing, knew nothing, saw nothing -- the terror of death was on her, giving her wings. Her chest burned, but she kept her breathing slow and steady, refusing to succumb to the ragged gasps of fear. Nothing existed but her own racing feet as she ran blindly, stumbling over rocks but never slowing her headlong flight.

Ahead rose the broken walls of a ruined village; the skeleton of a barn, a wall with a gaping window. Her cloak flew behind her like a flag; a rough grasp caught it and whirled her to the ground. A heavy body smothered hers; against her face she felt the panting of a sweaty chest. He had a knife; she saw the gleam, and fumbled for her own copper dagger. His knife ripped her bodice, a dirty hand groped her breast. With the strength of fear she drove her dagger deep in his side, felt it scrape bone, and stabbed again. Blood from the man's mouth poured over her; she wriggled free of his convulsing weight and staggered to her feet. Then she was running again, though she wept as she ran, with sobs that tore her chest.

Through the stubble of a wheatfield she raced, running blindly, her eyes blurred by tears. Two powerful arms lifted her off the ground; she struggled desperately, sobbing and shrieking.

"It's Vincent -- Vincent -- " he gasped. "Hold on to me."

All the life and power there were in him gathered for one last effort. He launched himself forward without a halt; his stride stretched farther, everything in him pointed toward a certain boulder that thrust up from the wheatfield like a fist. In the delirium of battle madness, with Lady Catherine in his arms, he knew he would win it or die.

He reached the stone at last, put his shoulder to it, and exerted all the power of his body in a violent shove. Down to a ledge and then to the bottom of the pit he jumped, and stood Lady Catherine on her feet. She clung to him, her hands locked behind his neck; his arms reached around her, crushing her close in a frenzied embrace.

"Go -- go!" He released her and clawed his way up the side of the pit; the faint circle of starlight was blotted by the boulder as he shoved it back into place.

Trembling. Lady Catherine reached out her hands and felt cold damp earth. Go -- how could she go -- she was buried alive. Then her reaching hands found space. She took a step and examined the walls. There was a shaft of some sort.

Fearless as she was, it took all her courage to move through the darkness. Step by step, stumbling over rockfalls, she left the pit behind. Dangling tree roots snagged her hair, once she heard a squeak and the scuttle of small feet.

She paused and looked upward as if she could see through the rocks and earth to the clear night above. Something was happening -- a battle. She could feel it. In her own soul she felt a red roar of fury, a tremendous release, as Vincent let loose the forces of destruction within himself. Her own spirit sensed that battle madness and gloried in it. She threw back her head and her own hands curled into weapons.

After a moment the sensation faded, but the strength of the feeling lingered. Their souls had touched, and nothing that Vincent could experience was alien to her. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she moved on through the darkness.

A faint light shone far ahead, then vanished. When it reappeared, the light was clearer. It was a lantern, carried by a gray-bearded man wearing the black habit of a monk. He cried out when he saw her, as if she were a ghost.

"Who are you?"

Her voice was a thread. "Lady Catherine of Ambermere." She tried to hold together the torn scraps of her bodice. She knew her face was dirtcaked and half-wild with the aftermath of fury.

His mouth dropped open and he supported himself against the wall as if he might faint.

"Merciful Heavens. He did it." Then he lifted the lantern higher, demanding, "Where is Vincent?"

"He went back above -- the Norsemen were chasing us. Oh Phemie. Phemie."

"Oh God have mercy," he said, and turned away as if to leave her. Over his shoulder he snapped, "Very well, come on, then."

The tunnel widened into an arch of roughly squared stories and a door of black timbers, bulging with rusted iron knobs. He pushed the ancient door with his shoulder; on gigantic hinges it opened inch by creaking inch.

Wide-eyed, she looked into darkness. A cold wind circled like a dying moan. Her hard-won confidence evaporated. She managed to say, "Where are we?"

"In the dungeons beneath Raven's Rock," he said sharply. "I am Jacobus."

She had no choice but to follow the cone of wavering light. Her footsteps echoed in the vaulted crypt. The stone floor was green with mildew, the heavy pillars grooved by dripping water that oozed continually. In the gloom she spied iron-bound doors. Locked away from light and liberty, a prisoner might beat his fists against one of those doors until he died of despair, in vain. No sounds came from within the cells; there was only the sighing of the wind and the echo of their footsteps.

Timidly she asked, "Are there prisoners here?"

"None -- apart from Vincent," Jacobus answered. The dungeon was a maze of heavy pillars and arches: she wondered nervously at the weight of earth and stone they supported. Following the moving light, she lost all track of time and place, and she was hopelessly lost by the time Jacobus halted and hung the lantern on a wall hook outside a black arched door. "Here."

She put one hand to her heart in trepidation, then stepped over the threshold. Stunned, she gazed around in wonder. Out of a prison cell, Vincent had created a home. The chamber blazed with light from wall torches and a fireplace. She warmed her hands as she looked around in awe. Against one wall stood a bed whose headboard was hung with tassels of sea-bird feathers. A coverlet of purple and white stripes was flung over a straw mattress and pillows. A sheepskin rug warmed the stone floor. Vellum manuscripts, a leather ink bottle, and a handful of goose quills littered a massive table. Seashells were arranged on a painted chest.

The sidewalls were draped with woolen curtains; Jacobus pushed one aside and she caught a glimpse of a larder. When he returned, he carried two mugs of ale. Seeing her amazement, he relented enough to say, "We broke through several of the walls, to give him more rooms."

Reverently she touched a sheet of parchment on the heavy table. Delicate coiled and braided designs wreathed the page. Some shone with flecks of gold leaf, others were decorated with colored inks.

"How long… "she began.

"Thirty years," Jacobus answered, and sadness creased his face. "His mother and father, the late Lord Uilleam and Lady Una, tossed him out of a tower window at birth. I found him in a snowbank and brought him below. The clans folk were told the child was stillborn."

"Oh, how can he bear it?" she whispered.

He shrugged wearily. "Who can answer that? We can all bear a great deal when we must."

"You raised him all alone, then," she marveled. "Do you also live below?"

Jacobus shook his head. "Not any longer." Now that Vincent was grown, the old monk had moved his cot above to the sacristy, though he still kept prayer books and a chessboard in an adjoining chamber.

He said, "Raised him, taught him... though sometimes I wonder if Vincent didn't raise me. I was a supercilious young cleric then. I had an answer for any question. I did not realize then what real suffering was." He too, touched the parchment, remembering. "To see Vincent with his loving heart and fine mind, his strength and power of will, imprisoned here below, forever, and accepting his fate with such courage, such grace. He has taught me more than I ever taught him." His tired eyes blurred with tears. It was a blessed relief speak to someone who seemed to understand and sympathize.

She sat down heavily on a tall stool. Now she understood why Vincent had never ridden a horse or sailed a boat, and why he gloried so in the sunlight and open air. "He never goes above?"

Jacobus rubbed his eyes with his hands. "The walls of Raven's Rock are a honeycomb of secret passages. He is able to find his way to almost any part of the castle, though he seldom has a reason to. At night he roams the island."

He tried to laugh, but it was a weary sound. "Not even the castle servants know of his existence. I carry food down to stock his pantry -- the kitchen wenches believe I'm a wizard who carouses with demons." With sudden deep anxiety he turned on her. "You must speak of Vincent to no one -- his life depends on your silence."

Before she could reassure him, the bulk of a man loomed in the entrance. It was Vincent, and he was carrying Phemie over his shoulder.

Relief for both her friends swept through Lady Catherine. Her silent prayer of thanksgiving was spoken aloud by Jacobus.

"Oh Vincent you're back, my God I thank thee." The old monk crossed himself fervently, patted Vincent's arm to make sure he was real, then limped hurriedly into the pantry to fetch more ale.

Vincent sat Phemie in a high-backed chair; she slumped sideways, muttering to herself in shock. He leaned heavily against the wall, as if he had come to the end of his strength. It had been a terrible battle; the secret of the tunnel had to be shielded at all costs from the Norsemen. He did not dare move the boulder while a single hostile witness still lived.

Lady Catherine stepped quietly to his side. Though he didn't seem to be wounded, his hands and white sleeves were clotted with blood. His voice, always low, was almost inaudible. "Please -- I can't bear to see your eyes looking at me. The blood on my hands -- it shames me."

"I felt it," she said softly. "Vincent, I was with you. My soul felt the same red rage, the blood lust, the death-dealing madness." She folded his hands within her own, accepting the stains on her own fingers. "And now I feel your sorrow, your remorse. You're not alone any longer."

A deep sigh broke from Vincent; it was almost a sob as he looked down at her small hands enfolding his. "You understand." Despite the disbelief in his voice, it was not a question.

A moan from Phemie, and Lady Catherine whirled to help, lifting her own mug of ale to her companion's pale lips.

Phemie blinked and opened her eyes. Half-aware, she patted herself all over, saying, "God bless me, I'm still among the livin'. Well, wonders will never cease. It was a mighty fight, lassie, just mighty. Vincent was just rampin' wi' rage. He was neither to hold nor bind."

"I know," said Lady Catherine, and flashed a shy smile back at Vincent, who still leaned against the wall, looking down at his hands.

Jacobus emerged from the pantry and stopped short, appalled. "Two women! Mercy take us!"

Vincent smiled slightly and gathered together the rags of his emotions. "Jacobus, you are favored beyond most men. Please give our visitors your best hospitality. I am going to tell Lord Alistair that his bride-to-be has come."

Catherine's heart gave a lurch. "Now? Tonight?" she breathed.

"I must," he answered. "It is right that I do so. " He bowed himself out through a second curtain, and they heard the sound of splashing water.

Phemie sipped her ale and grumbled at Jacobus. "How ye draw life's breath in a den like this beats me."

Lady Catherine's heart was beating so quickly that she felt almost faint. Now. She was going to meet him now, the man whose soul had already mated with hers. What if she had taken too much for granted all these years, and the mating was still only one-sided? Somehow she had to make him care. "Phemie, did you lose your pack on the way?"

"I didna," she snapped. "I keeped it close for ye."

Lady Catherine turned to Jacobus. "If I might wash? I cannot meet Lord Alistair in this state." She smoothed the tatters of her gown.

Suddenly anxious, Phemie leaned forward. "Ye willna forget what sort o' behavior befits a fine lady?"

She teased her maidservant with a bit of Scots. "I'm no feared o' Lord Alistair nor twenty like him. I know all the outs an' ins o' gentry's courtin'." It was true: many court ladies had visited Ambermere over the years, hoping for an alliance with her father or with Sir Wallis. As a child and as a young woman Lady Catherine had watched them and learned all their flirtatious graces, practicing on Phemie until they both dissolved in helpless laughter.

It was time at last to put into practice all the airs and elusive banter of a lady of the court: Lord Alistair was going to be thunderstruck. 

Vincent pulled a bucket from a well-hole in the stone floor and poured it over himself as he stood naked on the edge of the well. Drops of water like topazes glittered on his hair and the fur on his arms, which he rubbed vigorously until all traces of blood were washed away. With a lump of lye soap he scrubbed the wedge of burnished gold on his torso that became an amber arrow pointing to a darker ruff below. He lifted another bucket high above his head and poured a sluice over his back. Ordinarily the shock of the icy water was a pleasure to him, but on this night there were too many burdens on his mind. With a rough linen towel he rubbed his hair dry until it crackled like a lightning storm.

He pulled up breeches of dark blue wool, and dropped over his head a thigh-length black tunic slit at the sides. He hooked the iron-studded belt, wound linen bands around his feet and the loose cuffs of the breeches, and pulled on his boots. The purple plaid was dusty but there was no help for that; he had but the one. After fastening the silver otter brooch he left the washing-room without looking back into his chamber.

A winding staircase of huge stone blocks coiled up from the dungeon floor. Apart from the secret tunnel, it was the only way out. Vincent kept one hand on the wall as he stepped up from stone to stone, circling in ever ascending spirals around and around, following the turns of the stairwell. Single-minded determination kept him going. It was all he had left.

The staircase came to an end on a landing of axe-hewn planks. A tremendous door strapped with brass stood halfway open. Vincent disregarded the door; stepping off the landing he slid sideways into a gap between the mighty double walls of the castle itself. With the space, the wall was nine feet thick.

In some places the gap was narrow and he had to slide sideways; in others, the stones were smaller and he could move without constriction. A chink in the wall revealed the kitchen; two hulking wenches snored before a vast fireplace within which a whole sheep charred on a spit.

Arrowslits in the outer wall gave him glimpses of starlight. He turned a corner in the great quadrangular wall and halted at last before a secret panel. All at once, leaning his arms against the wall, he wondered if he could carry on. He went through a terrible moment of blackness and burning while he fought his own desires to a standstill. Deliberately then he crouched, pushed open the small hidden panel, and stood within his brother's bedchamber.

Sealskins on the floor made his step soundless as he crossed to the bed, which was set into the wall like a closet. Richly embroidered curtains were pulled back on either side. Beside the bed Vincent spied also two silver goblets, a woman's shift, and a scattering of garments.

A dark head lay close to a flaxen on the pillow. The woman's braids were twined with balls of gold. Vincent put out one hand and grasped Lord Alistair's naked shoulder.With a snort, he awakened, fumbling for a dagger under the pillow. Then he recognized the intruder. "Vin -- Vincent. Jacobus told me he feared you were lost at sea."

Vincent made a gesture -- get up -- and Lord Alistair obeyed. The woman did not stir as he pulled on a pair of gray woolen breeches. He was tall, almost as tall as Vincent, and his powerful chest was dusted with dark curls. A mane of black hair shadowed his chiseled face. Like his brother, his jaw was strong and his eyes were blue.

Lord Alistair hissed, "What is it, Vincent? Don't be afraid to speak, Sitric won't awaken. One cup of wine puts her to sleep. She's accustomed to that horrible Norse honey brew."

Vincent led him to the far end of the bedchamber, where rows of pegs held sumptuous garments: linen robes hemmed with gold roundels, fur-lined velvet mantles, and tunics of silk in glorious hues: crimson, plum, and midnight blue. Fringed plaids were tossed over a chair.

Vincent watched him steadily. "Lady Catherine is here."

"Lady Catherine who?" Lord Alistair yawned hugely. Then his eyes widened. "Surely not..."

"Jacobus must have told you where I was going. I have brought her to you, and now you must redeem your pledge."

The shock cleared Lord Alistair's befuddled wits. "We were children. Our fathers arranged the match. Surely after all this time she does not expect me to wed her?"

Red fires began to burn behind Vincent's eyes; his voice grew even softer. "She has thought of no one but you since childhood. To discard her is not an alternative that is open to you."

Lord Alistair combed his dark hair with his fingers while he tried to think. He paced back and forth, shaking his head. "What are you saying, Vincent. Even if this unknown woman makes demands on me, what is to become of Sitric? I cannot discard her. She became a traitor to her own Norse kinfolk to dwell with me."

Vincent glanced back toward the bed; he had no easy answer. "I regret her shame, but your duty to your betrothed comes before all else."

Lord Alistair was used to fawning and adulation: no one spoke to him honestly except Vincent. "I do not appreciate being awakened in the middle of the night and presented with an unknown bride." He found a half-filled cup of wine on a nearby table; Vincent knocked it from his hand.

"Lady Catherine is both fair and dear: you will not be sodden with wine when you meet her."

Seething, Lord Alistair said, "If you a re so concerned about the dear, fair lady, why don't you marry her yourself?"

One backhanded blow slammed Lord Alistair against the wall: Vincent pinned him there by the shoulders. He panted through set teeth. "By God, I've suffered enough for your sake. This is beyond the limit. Do you imagine me selfish enough to drag down into darkness a woman created for sunlight and happiness? Listen to me, brother. You will greet her with courtesy, you will give her every joy her heart desires, you will stand before the priest and pledge to her your faithful love." In a voice that vibrated with meaning, Vincent said, "Remember this... I have the means to compel you."

The blood drained from Lord Alistair's face, leaving him white as parchment. He sagged in Vincent's grip. "You would not. Surely..."

Vincent grated, "Sober yourself -- Lady Catherine will meet you in the great hall. Be assured, I mean what I say." He jerked down a velvet tunic from a wall peg, threw it into Lord Alistair's arms, and vanished through the secret panel.

Down the slanting corridor between the walls he stumbled. There was none to see him; had there been they would have seen an agony in his face that no physical misery, no torture of the battlefield, could bring there. He was well-used to pain, well used to self-restraint, but for the first time in his life the bitterness of the struggle almost vanquished him. Blinded by pain, he took a wrong turning and had to retrace his steps, feeling his way with one hand while the other covered his eyes. As he passed the great hall he heard a voice and halted to look through a crack in the stone wall, half hidden by a torn tapestry. His brother was there, looking harassed and furious. His velvet tunic gleamed with silver embroidered thistles; a chieftain's cap with three eagle feathers perched at a rakish angle on his black curls. All at once his expression changed, and Vincent saw why.

Into the great hall floated Lady Catherine, a vision in foam green silk that reflected her mermaid-green eyes. Her pale face was as fair as the cup of a lily; pearls twined the braids that shone beneath her white veil. There was amazing self-confidence and pride in the poise of her head, and cool amusement in her tone. "Of all people, it's really you, Lord Alistair?"

He swept off his cap with a magnificent bow. "What's left of me." Gallantly he lifted her hand to his lips. "Where on earth have you sprung from, my lady? Or have you fallen straight out of the skies?"

With a light laugh she floated out of reach. "Well, I haven't sprung and I haven't fallen. I have simply arrived."

"My dear Lady Catherine, I believe I am pleased to see you."

"Thank you," she replied, "But the compliment would be greater if you were sure of it."

"I think I am sure of it, now you are here."

She appraised him with one look, as though he were something that she had just dropped, and which she hardly knew whether she wanted to stoop to pick up or not.

Behind the wall, Vincent turned away, leaning his forehead on his arm for a breathless moment. Unformed thoughts drifted through his mind, half-dulled, half sharpened by deadly pain. 'How weak I am,' he thought bitterly. 'I cannot undo what have done. I would not, if I could. As happiness is not to be mine in this life, hear me, God -- give my share to them.'

He stumbled back through the passageway and down the great blocks of stone that formed the dungeon stair. When he reached his chamber, Jacobus was there, setting up a chessboard. Phemie was gone.

Jacobus remarked "I found a chamber for the two women in the west tower. The servingmaid is making it ready for her ladyship, at this very moment."

Vincent collapsed at the table, knocking over a bottle of ink and a pen holder.
He had chained himself back for so long and all at once his restraints broke. Terrible weeping shook him, gasps that tore his chest. It was over. Everything was over.

"My boy -- my lad -- " Alarmed, Jacobus put a kind hand on his bowed and shaking shoulder.

Sobs broke out in a torrent from him, bearing with them all his self-control. His weeping was wild, passionate, incoherent. He felt he might go mad with the struggle that tore him apart. He knew the truth now, but she never would. Honor bound silence on him for her sake and the sake of his brother.

"You're tearing yourself apart. Show me a way to help you," begged Jacobus, still gripping his shoulder.

The convulsive sobs went on and on until they almost ceased to seem human sounds. "There isn't any help."

His words shocked Jacob with their despair. An intense truth vibrated through them, a truth that pierced the old man and reached his heart.

Vincent's face lifted from the table; white, and rigid with anguish. "I know it now. It's been true since I was a child, and read her first scrawled letter. Even then her image shone in my heart."

"Vincent -- "Jacobus tried to interrupt, but he was beyond listening.

"She looks at me, and does not turn away. She speaks with me honestly, earnestly, words of companionship and kindness that save my soul from perishing. She touched me -- took these hands between her own. When this body is dust, the dust will still remember."

He made a blind, unconscious movement of passionate agony; his arm swept the table clean: chess pieces flew in every direction, gold leaf drifted around a broken saucer.

No hope -- no help."

The confession was wrung out of him with as much pain as if he'd been stretched on a rack.

"I love her."