Come the Morning (39 page)

“Another lesson,” he said firmly, eyes furiously on hers. “There is seldom just one opponent on a battlefield. Just when you might feel that you've triumphed, there will be another man ready to skewer you through!”

“Well, then, that is life, isn't it? It seems that there is, indeed, always another man ready to skewer you through! All the more reason to be ever on the defensive, and never underestimate your opponent.

“Aye, lady, don't underestimate,” he warned softly.

“And don't take me for a fool!” she returned.

She swung at him hard in anger, and realized that he had planned on her doing exactly that. He came back at her with a staggering series of blows, so that she was forced down as Brett had been, raising her shield to deflect his blade. But when he would have brought his claymore down with such force that her blade would be torn away, she suddenly rose, swinging with her shield, and left him slamming his claymore with full force into the ground. She quickly flew back at him, ready to strike, but he drew his blade from the ground just before she brought her sword against him, and she struck his steel with a shattering force. Stumbling to recover, she retreated to regroup, ignoring the fierce pain in her shoulder from fighting to hold the blade.

He came after her. Grimly. She moved behind Dabney; he followed. She backed away, watching for his least movement. She stepped backwards upon a rock, and missed her footing. She wasn't hurt, but she cried out as she fell.

“Milady—”

He lowered his sword, reaching for her.

She swung her sword to his throat. He held still, eyes flashing, staring down at her. “Treacherous witch,” he said softly.

“Use any edge,” she retorted.

“Any edge.” He caught hold of her sword, heedless that he cut his hand, and wrenched the blade from her. The weapon flew across the field.

“There, lady. Advantage taken.”

“You were already a dead man, had I chosen.”

“Is that a threat?”

“I no longer hold a blade.”

“Life is full of weapons, isn't it?” he queried.

“And dangers,” she agreed.

He bowed to her, reached down, caught her hand, and drew her to her feet. The men had heard none of their exchange. There were cheers for them both. She wanted to shout out that it was all a lie, that there was nothing gallant or charming between them, that she was indeed hurt, and that her cry had been a cry of pain.

“Ewan, Angus! Carry on, will you, please? The way she has wielded her blade makes me think my wife has something to say to me. In private.”

“Aye, Waryk!” Angus said, and he was instructing the men again even as Waryk drew her along to Mercury. She knew him enough to know that her resistance was futile, but she remained stiff and cold as he lifted her atop the horse and mounted behind her. She remained cold and straight as they rode back through the gates to the courtyard, and kept her teeth clenched as they entered their tower and strode the steps to the second floor.

He all but threw her through the bedroom door, and when she found her balance, she spun back on him, defiantly staring at him. He stared at her in return, striding to stand before the fire. He didn't take his eyes off her, but stretched his hands before the blaze to warm them.

“Mellyora, I don't know what it is you've got to say, but I promise you this—if you ever decide to perform such a foolish stunt again, I'll have you locked in these rooms, and you will not so much as step into the great hall for a meal without my precise permission.”

“What?” she demanded incredulously.

“You just risked your life—”

“No man would have killed me!”

“Your limbs, your flesh!”

“Don't be absurd; you train daily, there is—”

“There is always risk, even in training.”

“But if you—”

“I risk only myself.”

“And I risk myself—”

“And maybe a child.”

She gritted her teeth, regrouping her argument. Here she was the furious one, and he was going to chastise her! And, she thought, dismayed by the anguish it caused her, they were back to where they had always been. She had never been his choice. She came with Blue Isle, she was important to it, and he wanted children. Legitimate children. She was, as his wife, crucial to that aim as well.

“You're leaving,” she accused him.

“Aye.”

“For
Tyne,”
she said.

“Aye. The king—”

“The king did not order you to go to Tyne! The king is preparing to invade England, and when he is ready to fight—”

“Peter of Tyne is a friend, and has long been my friend. His property will be the first to come under David's dominion, and I intend to give him every chance to bow to David before the king sends troops to strip the property from him.”

“So, how gallant you all are! Sir Percy came to tell you that your dear friend Peter is in trouble, and so you will train your troops and bring them quickly to Tyne, where Peter will be politely warned, and all will be well!”

“Aye.”

“And what of dear friend Peter's sister?”

He wasn't surprised by the question. “What about her?” he asked bluntly.

“You tell me.”

He arched a brow, a slow smile forming on his lips. It was all the answer she needed. She turned, starting to exit the room with fierce speed and determination. But he could move with equal speed, and before she could reach the door, he had blocked it. She didn't try to barge past him; she didn't want to touch him. She stood dead still.

“There were many times when I had thought that there was nothing you would like better than to have me leave. You'd have your precious isle back—without me upon it.”

“Fine. Leave.”

“I must go.”

“Fine. Do so.”

“It's a matter of honor.”

“Of honor! Oh, you bastard, let me by—”

She tried then to drag him from the door; a futile effort. “Mellyora—”

“What? You have to leave, leave. You're going to your mistress's home, fine, but get your hands off me!”

He suddenly released her, but didn't step away from the door. He folded his arms over his chest, watching her, a deep frown furrowed into his brow. “So that's what you want?” he said softly.

“Aye, now let me by—”

“I am riding to a friend, to avoid what bloodshed I can, because God knows, there is no way to tell the king he shouldn't invade England. There will be real battles soon enough. Hard-fought battles, and God, but I am sorry to say, he will push so far that we will have little chance for victory. But here, I can see a friend, and change things, but you're determined that I am on my way to see my mistress, nothing more.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, I believe you will be delighted to see your old friend Peter, you will laugh, you will drink, you will thump one another on the back, and you will be great warriors, and greater allies of the king! Then you will see your mistress.”

She didn't have to exit the room. He stared at her another moment in pure fury, then slammed from the room himself.

Igraina had stayed long enough. She lived in one of the cottages on the mainland with Gwyneth, their grandmother, and Lars, their grandfather. The two had raised Ewan and Igraina since their mother's death at Igraina's birth, and though Igraina was an exceptionally lovely young woman who'd received numerous marriage proposals, she had determined on caring for her grandparents before accepting any man's offer. She had, of course, been charmed by Sir Percy, just as Sir Percy had intended, but she knew as well that as a chieftain's sister, she had a certain social stature, but not enough to be a wife to such a man, even if his elderly bride were to pass away. Since she did find him very charming, however, she thought she might be better off at home. She often traveled from the isle to the mainland by herself, but that afternoon, the tide was low, and Ewan was anxious to see his family, and so she rode with him to the cottages.

“Do you ride with Waryk?” Igraina asked him. “Or are you left home, to guard the castle—and Laird Lion's bride?”

“I stay home,” he said carefully.

He felt his sister's disapproval.

He sighed. “Igraina, I do not lust after the laird's lady—”

“You're a liar. She's my friend as well. You've loved her forever. She's beautiful, willful, passionate—”

“And you're right, I love her. But you needn't fear for me. I knew when Adin died that the king would never let her go to me. I'm glad the king chose the man that he did, for God knows, matters might have been much worse!”

Igraina turned to look at him. “Aye, that I can see. He is a fair laird, a fierce defender. He saved me, and I remain grateful. We may have Viking in our blood, but my blood, at least, is settled here, and I'd not be a Viking's slave. He will hold this land for the king, of that I'm sure. But brother, he is leaving, and I promise you this, Mellyora is upset.”

Ewan looked down at his sister's tawny head. “Ah, I see. And you think that she will be furious that he's gone to his mistress, and so she will think to use me against him?”

“She loved you—”

“Aye, sister, she did.”

“You think that she loves you no more?”

“I think that she will always love me, a bit differently, perhaps. And because she loves me, she will never use me.”

“I hope that you are right.”

“Indeed, because I would be so easily seduced to adultery?”

“It's not that you would be easily led! You loved one another—”

“Aye, but again, things have changed. She would not use me, and—”

“You would not use her?”

“I wish it were that simple. The truth is, she would not want me anymore.”

“What?” Igraina said incredulously.

“She loves him, you see.”

“No, I don't see.”

He sighed with mock distress. “Women are so blind!”

The fortress at Blue Isle sat atop high rock, cast against the cliffs, hills, crags and water with startling majesty. Even when night came, her towers seemed to reach to heaven. Candle- and firelight gleamed. Blue Isle glittered like a priceless gem set in a sea of gold. Watching the isle, Ulric Broadsword contemplated his actions. On the border, his Norman ally was creating havoc, but Ulric had been given much in the way of arms and men, and surely, he was expected to provide more in return than he had thus managed. Actually, he'd performed magnificently, but since his attacks had thus far proven less than effective, no one would know. That in itself was frustrating. But there was a great deal offered, not the least being the satisfaction of revenge. Becoming part of Daro's camp had been a stroke of brilliance, but Adin's daughter had escaped from them. He thought crossly that he really would enjoy taking a horsewhip to the girl—or slicing her throat. Adin had trained his daughter to be a warrior, and he'd done well enough at the task. But though he now found himself more anxious than ever to get his hands on Mellyora MacAdin, it was the complete downfall of his enemy that he craved. Blue Isle. Adin had taken it. Adin had held it. Just like other Scottish isles, this land could be taken and held by the Norse. That would indeed be retribution. Yet so far, plans which should have succeeded had failed. He had seized the Viking's daughter from a Viking camp, only to lose her and a number of good men. He had staged an attack which should have laid waste the mainland, but Waryk had arrived with his armed and mounted troops at least a day before he should have come. So now …

Now, word came, the great Laird Waryk was riding again—to bring an Englishman into the Scottish fold before the king seized lands which had fluctuated back and forth between the two countries for more than a hundred years—and would surely continue to do so. David of Scotland would have his way. While Mathilda and Stephen fought, the powerful barons in northern England did what they would, creating their own little kingdoms, their own form of law. Ulric knew this well himself, and was grateful for the situation.

Waryk rode with well-armed, well-trained troops. Many of them. He'd learned his first battle tactics from descendants of wild, barbaric Celtic tribes; he knew to use the forests, the trees, the cliffs, the hills, to attack and retreat, to repulse an ambush. Attacking his troops as he moved across the countryside would be suicide. Any major action now against the mainland would be seen; the masons and carpenters had erected a tower from which guards would see any assault from the sea, and any large movement from the forests carpeting the hill to the east …

His impotence suddenly enraged him. He could remember the past. His father had often told him of a time when Vikings set out in their great longboats, and the people screamed in terror as they came. The fury of the Norsemen! Monks prayed, women wept, men died. The Christian God was cast down, His nuns were raped, His churches violated. The Vikings took what they wanted, and they left, and they fought so well and so fiercely that they conquered half of the land they invaded, they ruled, they were the power. They were such great warriors that indeed, they brought their prowess to their enemies, they interbred, and even when they did not, they were so powerful and indomitable that their enemies hired them at great prices to do their fighting for them and with them, and many a great alliance was born.

Han came to him where he stood on the hill. Han had become sour. While escaping after they'd taken Mellyora MacAdin from Daro's camp, Han had broken bones in his foot, and he still limped. He'd been injured during the assault on the mainland off Blue Isle, and he was weary of their encampment here, northward of the isle.

“Word has come from the south,” Han said, sounding bitter. “You are not causing a great enough disturbance, and the Scottish king is beginning to move. There will be an attack on Tyne, but whether it can be rallied quickly enough …”