Page 2 of The Refuge

Men fought and continued to die. Bodies were strewn about the ground. Some of the fallen were Northmen 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.

She winced as a Norse raider swung his axe, felling one of her father’s men. Her gorge rose in her throat and she averted her eyes. The man was father to Deidre, her handmaiden. 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.

A tall giant, covered in the blood of those he had slain, shouted orders in their tongue 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 who were mostly fair.

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.

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.”

“Surely, the Lord will protect him.”

But He did not. The fight between the dark Northman and her father was short. With one blow the Northman cut him down. She pressed her eyelids tightly closed. The shouts and screams died away. When she opened her eyes, her gaze darted to where her father lay on the ground in front of the gate, blood dripping from a gash in his tunic.

“Best ye not look,” said Angus, his eyes filled with torment.

“I will look,” she said, determination turning her voice hard. “I want to remember their leader, their ships and their banner.” The terrible events of this day would be seared in her memory forever.

Where was her mother?

She surveyed the scene below. 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.

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 young 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 Catrìona’s eye. It was one of her own gowns she had given to Deidre to wear to the festivities planned for that evening.

Oh, Deidre. She was not dead but would her fate be worse?

A terrified bellow sounded from a cow as one of the Northmen prodded the animal up a boarding plank and onto the ship. Another raider followed, leading her father’s prize stallion.

A Northman appeared carrying a blazing torch. Holding it high, he strode toward her father’s ship, climbed aboard and set the flaming brand to the furled sail. It burst into flame.

Catrìona watched, horrified, as the hemp and sailcloth burned, sending great billows of smoke into the air.

Once the oars and the hull caught fire, the Northman jumped to the sand and carried the torch to the palisade fence. Another raider joined him to splash what looked like pitch onto the timbered posts. The wood began to burn.

The two Northmen walked to the palisade gate, stepped over her father and headed toward the hillfort, their terrible task not yet done.

“Nay!” she whispered hoarsely.

A short while later, the Northmen climbed aboard their ships, rowed out to the middle of the river and raised their sails. The wind filled the square canvases, carrying the ships toward the Firth of Clyde and the open sea.

The determination Catrìona had felt only moments before drained from her, leaving in its place the shock of what she had witnessed. Her eyes burned from the tears she had shed.

She cast a defeated glance at Angus who seemed to have aged since they’d arrived at the crest, the creases in his face etched deeper than before, making him look older than his thirty summers. He had no wife or children to lose, but he had served her father for ten years and could count many friends among the fallen.

Angus slowly got to his feet as if reluctant to take the next step. Helping her to rise, he walked toward the horses.

Catrìona brushed dirt from her cloak. “To where do those heathen dogs sail?”

“I canna say fer sure, milady, but I would guess the Orkneys from the raven banner. They claim it assures them victory. They were young, mayhap an errant band out fer mayhem and plunder.”

She trudged to her horse, steeling herself for what lay ahead. “We must hope some of our people yet live.”