Page 29 of Hungry Like a Wolf (Vikings Rock #3)

Meanwhile, at Castle Athol

Q ueen Elspeth the Pious of the Westlands, Lothlend perched upon her throne.

Her son, Seamus, was on her husband’s throne, and at her side.

He sat with his small, pointed chin tipped and his fingers curled over the ornate wooden arms. His booted feet dangled.

He was still so young, only eleven, and wouldn’t be able to truly rule until his feet touched the floor of the royal Athol throne.

If she were called away, she’d have to appoint a regent. And right now, that looked like a distinct possibility. There had been no word from her husband, or her daughter, and that gave her a dark, gnawing sensation in the very depths of her soul.

Something was wrong.

The battle in the east hadn’t gone their way.

She just knew it. Somehow.

“Enough. Go!” She waved her hand, the harpist who had been entertaining them suddenly annoying, grating in her ears, rattling around her brain.

“Your Grace. Your Grace.” A servant ran into the room, his steps heavy on the stone floor. “There is a messenger, just arrived.” He pointed at the lead-paned window that led to the courtyard. The sun shone through it, marking the floor in small, golden squares.

She stood, her long, scarlet gown falling around her ankles. She clutched her rosary. “He has come from the east?”

“Aye, Your Grace, I’d wager so.”

“Mother?” Her son slipped his hand into hers. “What is happening?”

“Perhaps we will finally get news.” Her knees weakened, and a hollow pit opened up in her stomach. Were the words she was dreading about to be delivered?

Lord have mercy on us.

Please let it not be so.

A maid came to her side holding a goblet of sweet rosehip wine.

She took it, drank deep, then handed it back.

“Your Grace.” A puce-faced soldier rushed into the room and came to a stop at the end of the long, emerald-green rug. His boots were caked in mud and a cut slashed over his left cheek. His bloodstained sword hung from a belt at his side. “I have news.”

“So spit it out.” She frowned at him.

“It is news of the battle at Tillicoulty.” He was breathing heavily, his hands balled into fists. “There was much loss…a terrible defeat.”

“And?” She squeezed her son’s hand. “What of the king? What of my daughter, Princess Carmel?”

“The king is dead.” The soldier crossed himself. “Dear God have mercy upon his soul.”

“Oh, dear Lord.” She sat heavily and Seamus crawled up onto her lap, even though he was really too big to sit there, and pressed close. She drew him in to a hug. “You are sure?”

“Aye, I saw his head upon a… I mean, I saw him killed with my own eyes.” He closed his eyes, tightly, as though wishing he hadn’t witnessed the macabre event.

“And…” Elspeth swallowed, it was as though thorns were grating on her throat. “Carmel, my beautiful princess daughter. What of her?”

“Captive, Your Grace. She was taken by the heathens who have overrun Tillicoulty and claimed it for themselves. They have taken her.”

“‘Taken’? ‘Captive’?” Elspeth stood once more, Seamus landing at her side and pushing into her gowns so that his face was half-covered. “And you did not recover her?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“Why, in the name of the good Lord, didn’t you?” She should have him hanged for this, swinging from the scaffold by nightfall.

“I beg your forgiveness. But there are too many of them, and they fight as though the devil himself is at their side. Monsters, that’s what they are. The women too. All monsters with crazed eyes and skills that could only have been honed in hell.”

She shuddered at the thought of such monstrous men, such violence, such evil that had landed on their peaceful shores.

“Where is Carmel?” Seamus asked, tugging on her skirt. “I want to see her.”

“She is in a dangerous place,” Elspeth said before drawing in a deep breath. She calmed herself. She had to think straight. If she didn’t, who would? “A wicked and dangerous place far from here, Seamus.”

“It has been a four-day ride at full pace, Your Grace,” the soldier said. “With rough terrain and many rivers to navigate.”

“I appreciate your swift delivery of this news, awful as it is.” She nodded at a servant. “Give him three gold coins.”

“Thank you.” The soldier bobbed his head, clearly relieved that he wasn’t going to be punished for being the bearer of bad news.

“Mother,” Seamus said. “What is to be done?”

She looked down at his sweet, childish face, yet to show the features he’d have as a man. His big, green eyes stared up at her as though she, and she alone, could fix every problem in the world. All he had to do was ask.

It was the same way her precious Carmel had looked at her once upon a time.

She pulled in a deep breath and something in her heart squeezed a new force of determination into her. It was hot and vibrant and undefeatable. There was only one thing she could do and that was go get her daughter back herself.

An army? Trade? Diplomacy? She wasn’t sure, but what she did know was that she had only herself to rely on.

Because right now, her sweet, virginal daughter was being held by heathens who had no qualms about rape and pillage and murder and had no respect for Jesus Christ or the Lord God.

She, Queen Elspeth the Pius, was the only person in the world who could fix this god-awful situation, and she would damn well do that.

Starting now.