Come the Morning (45 page)

She couldn't be.

Yes, actually she could
.

At the thought, her stomach seemed to pitch and toss. Fear and excitement swept through her in a swift wave.

“Oh, no, I don't think so,” she said to Angus.

He arched a brow, and she knew his silent question.

Why not?

Why not. It was what Waryk wanted, or so he had said. But of course, she didn't really know, she wasn't certain …

Angus seemed certain. “We'll go to Waryk, lady. If you promise to rest.”

“Ah, now, Angus! Who is the lady of the castle here?”

“You are the lady here. But I am to guard you for the laird of the castle, and I mean to do so—even against yourself!”

“Angus … if so … he will be pleased?” she asked anxiously.

“Oh, my lady, I cannot begin to tell you just how pleased.”

She sank to the bench, wanting to see Waryk more than ever.

Waryk was aware, aligned with his men atop the hillock that led to the gates of Tyne Castle, that his troops cut a formidable picture. He'd ridden with his own contingent of cavalry, and the king had sent archers and foot soldiers, men to leave behind when either the negotiating or the fighting was done, because once the castle was taken in the name of the Scottish king, it must be kept. He had spent five days reaching the king to swell his ranks, and when they had arrived here, on the outskirts of Tyne, he had ordered the men to set up camp, stretching their numbers across the hillside so that Peter would have no doubts as to what strength the king meant to put into this enterprise. This morning, two weeks to the day from the time he had left home, he was ready to force his old friend's hand.

He knew where Peter would be, along the wall, watching his arrival, and whether his friend damned him or was grateful that the king had sent a friend to offer terms, he couldn't be certain. But Peter had told him often enough that he felt a strong loyalty for whoever was in power, and here, now, David was the power. For centuries this region had been tossed back and forth like a child's ball, and there were many in the area who considered themselves Scots, many who thought themselves English, and many who didn't really know or care to what king they bowed as long as they were left to till the fields for an overlord who didn't starve them, beat them, or drive them from their land. Feudalism had come in with the Normans, but service for protection had begun with the dawn of man.

At his side, Thomas said, “Now, Waryk?”

“Aye, Thomas.”

Thomas, acting as
am Bladier
, would bring his oral message, offering terms in the name of David, King of Scots. He rode out with only Tyler of Dumbarton,
am fear brataich
, who carried not only Waryk's banner, but that of the king. Waryk watched, uneasy for a moment, thinking how easy it would be for archers on the walls with their crossbows to pick off the two men. Peter, he thought, would not be so foolish. This was the way that things were done, and those seeking any terms did not kill a messenger.

The gates opened; two riders came from Tyne, and the messengers met upon the field. Horses whinnied, stamping their feet. Waryk heard the sound of a buzzing fly. Along his ranks, except for the occasional sound of a man shifting position, there was silence.

But then Thomas and Tyler broke with the messengers, and rode toward him. Thomas, who had accompanied him here many times before, was relieved.

“Sir Peter of Tyne sends his welcome to you, Waryk. He has always known that his land lies in dispute between two great countries, and he is equally aware that his refusal to surrender to the king's forces would bring about death and destruction, destroying Tyne for any man, or any king. He hopes, if David intends him to hold Tyne against the brutal factions vying for power in the battles between Mathilda and Stephen, that he intends to fight such rebellious factions with him. Some of the great northern barons have armies themselves now as powerful as those of many a king.”

“Go back to his messenger. Tell him, aye, David knows he will be vulnerable to English attack, and we have come with strength. And tell him we'll enter his gates with a party of one hundred men, while the rest of our party camps here, on the field, just outside the gates.”

Thomas did as he was bidden. He waited on the field while Peter's messenger and standard-bearer rode back through the gates. Then the gates opened, Peter's men returned, and with perfect courtesy and not a drop of blood shed, Tyne was taken in the name of David of Scotland.

Waryk gave orders for men to camp, and for men to accompany him. Peter wouldn't betray him—not out of loyalty, but out of good sense. There would be too many armed men inside his walls for him to decide to make a protest then. If there had been a fight at Tyne, it would have been a siege, and one quickly put to the test because the walls were wooden and easily burned and it was only Peter's easily vacillating nature which had kept Tyne standing thus far.

He rode through the gates with Thomas and Tyler flanking him, others of his immediate guard surrounding them, and ranks of cavalry, and the foot soldiers, behind them. Peter was mounted in the courtyard with Eleanora at his side. Brother and sister were handsomely dressed, prepared for pageantry rather than battle, and Peter's speech, on meeting Waryk, was a mastery of diplomacy, accepting the Scottish while reiterating his inability to do anything less—he was satisfied to surrender, but should the English monarch retake the land, he might not retain his lordship, but he could, at least, hope to keep his head upon his shoulders.

Waryk graciously accepted Peter's words, telling him that he was a wise and just lord, that his decision saved the lives and livelihood of his people, and that surely God in his infinite wisdom saw that they all stood on Scottish soil. As he spoke, he felt Eleanora watching him, saw her smile, and knew that nothing had changed with her, that it didn't surprise her that David had arranged for him to take a wife. She appeared amused with the proceedings, anxious for formality to be done with and the day to continue.

“Laird Waryk, as newly sworn Scottish subjects, we invite you and your men to sup with us, that we may drink a toast to David of Scotland.”

Waryk accepted the invitation on behalf of himself and his men.

He, Thomas, and another four of his retainers would actually dine in the great hall—the great hall at Tyne being rather small. Entering, Waryk remembered the last time he had come, and how he and Peter had talked. As the king's representative he was seated between Peter and Eleanora. As was often done, one chalice was set between him and the lady to be shared. Her fingers brushed his continually, and her eyes touched his with warmth and humor.

“So, sir, tell me about your wonderful new property. Blue Isle. Naturally, I have heard about the place. It is legendary, in story and song,” Eleanora told him.

“It's quite fantastic. Sheer rock rising from the sea in some places, yet there is beach, and a deep harbor to the one side. At times, you can walk to the isle from the mainland, getting a bit wet, perhaps.”

“And the fortress?” Peter asked from his other side.

“Built on rock foundation. The Romans claimed it for a time, I'm told, and they built the first walls on top of the rock. The walls are twenty feet thick in some places. Even the proud Celtic inhabitants admit that Norman building techniques added to the strength and beauty of the fortress in the day of the Conqueror.”

“It all sounds quite beautiful,” Eleanora said, her fingers brushing over his as they both held the chalice. “Is it?”

His eyes met hers and he knew that she wasn't asking about the fortress, but rather his wife.

“Very beautiful,” he told her.

“Enough to hold a man's interest for a lifetime.”

“Aye,” he said gravely.

She watched him without rancor, a slight smile playing at her lips. Musicians entered the hall, the sounds of merriment began.
An Cleasaiche
, the hall jester, arrived, and there was laughter all around at the little man's antics. Peter rose, lifting his chalice, saluting David of Scotland. The evening wore on.

Waryk excused himself early, having had Tyler make sure that he be given sleeping quarters in the castle. When he had retired for no more than thirty minutes, there was a tapping on his door, and he knew that Eleanora had come.

“So you are here alone,” she said, looking around.

“Aye,” he told her.

“Well, I suppose there is no way for me to be delicate, is there?” Eleanora said softly. “You're a married man, the king has arranged it. I expected this day to come, and yet … I always knew that it would make no difference to me. Adultery is a sin, so they say, but there are so many men and women guilty of it that the halls of hell must be quite crowded. I can't find it to be a sin. They also say that God has given us free will, but none of us seems to have free will to marry where he or she will. But your wife is young, isn't she?”

“Aye, that she is.”

“With long golden hair and eyes bluer than the sea.”

“Aye,” he said simply.

Eleanora crossed her arms over her chest, looking at him. “Beauty itself cannot bind a man.”

He went to her, caught her, brought her gently into his arms and smoothed back her hair. He knew the feel of her, the scent of her, he'd known her so long. It would be so easy to be with her; the time he'd been gone from Blue Isle already seemed so long …

Yet …

He had wondered himself how he would feel when he saw her again. They had been together, when possible, for years. She was as familiar to him as his own hand. She had not changed in any way, she remained a beautiful woman, one who had cared for him, one he had loved. He had wondered if human nature would rear itself here, and if he would see her, and want her. But he realized, holding her gently now, that he had wanted Mellyora with him. Aye, he wanted her with him now, for many reasons, yet one more important than any other.

No matter how rational he had forced himself to be where Ewan was concerned, he had been jealous. Afraid to leave her with a young man who had proven himself brave, daring, resourceful—and moral.

Then …

He had watched her tend her would-be lover's naked body, and before his injury, the MacKinny had been strong and fine, and he was somewhat amazed that the two never had culminated their love for one another. She had flatly stated her love for the man, and still …

But he hadn't invited Mellyora to be with him because of anger, fear, jealousy, or any other such emotion. He had wanted her with him … simply because he wanted her.

And he had been able to leave her simply because it had been the only right thing to do. Because, against all odds, he believed in her.

He didn't know how his emotions and desires had changed so swiftly and surely in the time they had been together. Eleanora remained beautiful. It wasn't that he had now been with another woman—there had been other women over the time they'd been together, too. He had simply done the most outrageously foolish thing: He had fallen in love with his wife. And he knew, quite suddenly, holding another woman, just how much he loved her. His passion was overwhelming; he would die for her, not because he was a knight, a warrior, her husband, or the king's champion, not for nobility, honor, or any other chivalrous concept. He would die for her, because she had become his life. So much was etched into his heart already. He would never forget her, coming across the water in her father's dragon-prowed boat, bringing him
his
father's claymore. He would never forget her face, her eyes, so many times, the way she had looked at him, defying him, loving him … if only just a little.

“Eleanora, you are a beautiful woman, you've meant so much to me, you've been peace and sanity to me over the years, but …”

She drew away from him, studying him. “You love your wife?” she whispered.

“I'm sorry.”

She smiled. “Don't be. It's a miraculous situation.”

“I care for you, Eleanora. You know that. I have never meant to hurt you—”

“I know that you care about me, Waryk. I know what I've meant to you. And of course, now, well, I am hurt, of course. Because I want you. Except that I don't want to be with a man who wants another woman. And still …”

“Still?”

“If you ever fall out of love with your wife, please, my fine laird, come back to me. I'll be here.”

“You may not be, you know. You may find yourself wed again.”

She shook her head. “I've been promised that it's my choice from here on out. And I don't see a marriage in my future.”

“The future can change. It remains elusive.”

“Aye, that it does.” She touched his cheeks, lightly kissed his lips. Then she slipped from his arms and left the room, and his heart felt very heavy.

The Celtic custom had been to shave the cheeks, but grow the mustache. Normans tended to be clean-shaven. The old Anglo-Saxons, to Ulric's mind, were simpletons, growing hair everywhere, but then, the Vikings, as well, tended to long hair and full beards, and he had been bearded when he had last been at Daro's camp. Therefore, he shaved, and had his hair close-clipped in a Norman fashion, then surveyed himself in a hand mirror and decided he had changed his appearance enough. Those who had been with him before, except for Han, were dead. An acceptable loss of life. As Han had said, Vikings fought for riches and honor. Death in battle was noble. They had made their choices, fighting with him. Perhaps the peasants and farmers he forced into service had not realized the honor of dying in battle, but as they sat in Valhalla, heroes from the field, they would understand.

He dressed handsomely to pay a visit upon his cousin's daughter, Anne Hallsteader, now wife to Daro Thorsson. The old family in Denmark were nobility; they had ruled areas of Northumberland in Britain, and had Renfrew only seized the MacInnish land and more a decade ago, Ulric's father would have ruled on the border now, and Ulric would be heir to vast estates. But because of the intervention of one incensed young boy, Ulric's father had been killed, Renfrew had been killed, and all had been lost. Their followers had been left to eat dirt. Renfrew's son, Etienne, had spent the last decade rebuilding what his father had lost. It had only been in the last few years, since the trouble between Mathilda and Stephen in England, that barons in the north of England had begun to flex their power again with real force. And though Etienne had been a slim, cowardly youth to Ulric's way of seeing things, he had grown to be a cunning man, gaining aid from his neighbors through false promises and innuendo. Through marriage, Etienne had gained the rich lands to the west of his homestead. His wife, poor thing, had died after giving birth to their only son. The birth had weakened her and she hadn't recovered. Some, said, of course, that she had been poisoned so that Etienne could take his second wife, who had brought him the manors of Fiffen and Hoar, and with them, their incomes. Tall, thin, handsome, clever, Etienne wasn't much of a warrior—he could barely wield a sword—but he could buy hundreds of swords, and through the deaths of many of the knights in his service, he gained ever more property, confiscating that which belonged to the men in his service who left no widows or children, and sometimes managing to take homes and land anyway, insisting that the knights had owed him for their expensive destriers or trappings. Etienne watched and waited. He kept Ulric constantly abreast of what went on at the border; Ulric was aware of every military movement by Stephen, David, or Mathilda. Etienne found the right time and place, and Ulric led sometimes unwilling armies in rebellions that caused David's forces to remain on the move. Any fighting man worth his salt knew that harassing an army could cause great damage. Draw soldiers south, then plot an attack in the north. Harry the coastline in the north, and wage a major attack in the south. Chip away at morale, kill the bravest and the best.