Come the Morning (7 page)

“Waryk?”

Interrupted from the depths of his thoughts, Waryk glanced at Angus, riding next to him. “We've almost reached the king.”

“Aye.”

Waryk turned slightly, looking back at the armed men who rode behind him. They had fared well in the fighting; they were mounted men, trained in the use of a multitude of weapons. The past action remained puzzling, and one that Waryk found more disturbing since he grew more certain it had been instigated from elsewhere. Granted, the northern English nobles were exceptionally dangerous at this time, with Henry's daughter and nephew struggling for his throne, but, as Sir Gabriel had said, a Norman lord would usually strike with greater strength and purpose, and make a claim on property, riches, and titles. He wasn't sure what the enemy had been rebelling against, or what the rebels had hoped to achieve. Despite their camp of the previous night, his men were more tired from marching than fighting.

Angus was right, he had let his mind wander, and they were nearly at the gates of Stirling. Torches blazed along the walls, and the fortress seemed alive in the night. Above him, the sky appeared far more fascinating than the lights of the city. The night was clear, and stars dotted the heavens like jewels cast against an endless black sea.

He reined in, slowing his horse. “Angus, my friend, I think I'll leave you here.”

Angus frowned, arching a brow. “Waryk, you are the leader of this company. Stirling lies ahead. The king summoned you. He will be anxious to see you, he'll want to hear what you have to say. You were eager to reach the king, remember? We've ridden hard to come here quickly, you've sent messengers ahead telling him that you will see him tonight—”

“Aye, that's true. But the night is long, and we've ridden faster than I thought we could. There's time. And I'm not sure as yet what I have to say to the king,” Waryk told Angus. “Tell our liege that I will ride in shortly and report to him immediately upon my arrival.”

Angus still wasn't pleased. “Waryk, there's a Viking camp downriver—”

“Aye.”

“You plan to ride alone—”

“I do. The Vikings downriver have come here to negotiate with the king, they are not a group of maddened berserkers out to kill off the Scottish, man by man. I'm not going downriver. I plan to stay here, along the embankment.”

“For what?” Angus demanded, puzzled.

“Time alone, Angus, a precious thing.”

“You can be alone in your chambers at Stirling—”

“It's not the same as having the stars over your head. You needn't worry about me. We are back to civilization. The gates lie just ahead. No one more dangerous than a fisherman roams here. I'll take good care. Bring the men in. Report to the king. Tell him I'll be with him very soon.”

“Waryk, you're no longer wearing any armor, not a plate, not a coat of mail—”

“I have my knife,” Waryk said quietly. He looked back to Geoffrey of Perth, the lad serving as his gall-oglach, or armor-bearer. The boy was careful with all his belongings, polishing and tending his claymore, shields, mail, and plates constantly. Waryk had shed his fighting attire last night, and now, he realized, in his simple tartan and wool cloak, he looked more like some of the wildmen he had fought.

“Waryk—”

“Angus!” he groaned. “You are a good man, a good protector. Now be a good friend, and give me some peace.”

Waryk lifted a hand to the trail of mounted men following behind him. He turned his horse and rode downriver, into the night.

Angus, watching him go, shook his head. No one man was an army.

And Angus had enough Viking in his own blood to be worried about the situation. Civilization! Angus snorted to himself. God alone knew what danger a man could come about in the dark of the night, even with a field of stars above.

C
HAPTER
3

“All men are tyrants!” Mellyora declared, closing the door to her chambers at Stirling. She had just given Sir Harry her sweetest and most flirtatious smile and sincere thanks for his safeguarding of her.

Jillian MacGregor did no more than arch her brow at the words. She was far more Mellyora's friend than her maid since she had all but raised her. She now continued to work on her tapestry, her demeanor calm, her fingers not missing a beat in their steady rhythm.

“I thought you were quite fond of the king, dear,” Jillian said. “And you were so confident in seeing him.”

For a moment, Mellyora wished fervently that she could be more like Jillian. Nothing seemed to disturb her. Jillian had been her mother's best friend and maid as well, so she had lived through some turbulent times and apparently weathered them well. Such peace with the world must be pleasant. Despite her perhaps forty years or so of life, Jillian's heart-shaped face remained serene, unlined, and lovely. Her hair had gone to a gentle silver, which complemented her soft ivory coloring and light slate eyes.

Yet when Jillian turned those light gray eyes to hers at last, Mellyora saw the glitter of amusement within them. Jillian had known the outcome of Mellyora's meeting with the king. She—along with all of Mellyora's advisors—had warned her it would be so. Even Ewan had said so. When she arrived in Stirling, the king would not let her remain lady in her own right of the isle, and he would have plans for an immediate wedding.

“My feelings for the man do not change the fact that he is a tyrant. And you apparently know exactly what happened when I went in to see him.”

“Aye, the servants in the castle are all talking about it. Everyone thinks the union will be perfect. And you must remember, David believes he has a right to make such arrangements. He is a king.”

“That may be, but must the word be synonymous with tyrant?”

“Mellyora, if you think about this rationally, I know that you'll agree David is a king with a kingdom he governs wisely. He has earned the love and loyalty of his people. He seeks to avoid any more bloodshed than he must endure to keep his kingdom together. Remember, there were tremendous battles when he took the throne in 1124. He fought again just a few years ago when insurrection among the clans began again. He must have the strongholds and castles of Scotland peopled with men he trusts. Especially with the current problems among the English royalty.”

Mellyora listened to Jillian's words, knowing there was truth to them, but resentful nonetheless. “Indeed, the English problems. Trust me, the king will use the English problems to his advantage. He says he must stand strong against the border lords when we know he will push the borders. The king trusts only certain men, does not trust
women
at all,” she said.

“Mellyora—”

Mellyora moved swiftly across the room, sinking to the floor in front of Jillian's chair. “Why can't he understand that I will be loyal?”

Jillian shifted her work on her lap, then sighed, stared at Mellyora, and answered flatly and truthfully. “Because you are a Viking's daughter.”

“My father was loyal.”

“Your father, my lady,” Jillian said more gently, “is dead. And being king is not easy, and ruling such a rugged land of wild, proud chieftains and nobles from ancient tribes as well as those from more recent invasions and immigrations is a dangerous task, at best.”

“Aye, my father is dead, and we are a wild land. But my father did not fret to leave his beloved homeland to me.”

“He acquired his beloved homeland through your mother.”

Mellyora sat back, irritated. “Are you going to argue with me as well? The land came through my mother, all the more reason it should be mine. Argue that!”

“Me? Argue with you? To what point? You heed nothing that I say, though I do continue to do my best to instruct you in what is fact—and must be seen, construed, and accepted as simple fact. The land came to your mother by tradition, you'll remember it was your father who held it in a powerful grasp!”

Mellyora rose, pacing the chamber as restlessly as a great cat. If she escaped, she was free. Whether David liked it or not. Because if she escaped, she could appeal to her father's kin for help until she could reach some compromise with the king. He hadn't even given her a chance to tell him that she wanted to marry Ewan. Even David should have been pleased with her choice of a husband.

Ewan was a Scotsman, born and bred, even if his mother's family did have a bit of Viking blood as well. It didn't matter. Ewan MacKinny was chieftain of his father's family, and the MacKinnys had held their lands from Mellyora's mother's family back unto the ancient times. The MacKinnys had provided countless fighting men for the kings of Scotland for hundreds of years. Many had been knighted, many had shed their blood for what was now unified Scotland. They were a proud and noble people, and the king should welcome a MacKinny as laird of her lands.

The king simply didn't know it. Because he'd never given Mellyora a chance to explain. He'd accepted her homage, and told her that he was arranging for her marriage to one of his finest warriors, his own man, Laird Lion.

“Because he's a tyrant,” she said aloud, still furious, and looked at Jillian. “He believes that he can order me to do anything if it's his will and that I don't matter in a decision regarding
me
at all. I'll not allow it.”

“Mellyora!” Jillian murmured, distressed at last. “You've lived on Blue Isle too long, refusing to realize that it is a small part of a greater world. Come now, be reasonable. David is the king. You do not allow or disallow with the king!”

Mellyora shook her head, her eyes wistful. “It wasn't always like this, you know. The
Normans
are the ones who began so many of these wretched rules by which we live. My mother died so long ago, I admit, I don't remember her well, but I do remember her telling me about the old days. When Scotland was very wild, and there were many kings, different people, old gods, old ways … and women owned land just as men. She told me about wiccan beliefs—”

“You're talking about pagan beliefs!” Jillian warned her, making the sign of the cross over her breast.

Mellyora smiled. “In the wiccan religion—the pagan ways—the earth was the mother, and women were respected and loved. And if we were living before the wretched Norman influence changed everything, I might well hold the land in my own right—”

“Might and might not. Don't you understand, your rebellion is just what he fears? You don't see it, but the Viking threat is very real. It is within living memory that the Vikings seized Scottish holdings. Your father proved himself a Scotsman, he became one of David's best friends. I'm certain that the king loves you—”

“But he doesn't respect my rights in any way, Jillian, and I've never given him cause to doubt me. I came here longing to give him nothing but my love and loyalty, and where did that get me?”

“I'm telling you again, whether you blame the Normans, the decade, or Divine Power, you have no more rights than a child. And the Vikings are too close, and David feels they rule enough of land that should belong to Scotland, and he doesn't intend to lose any more to them.”

“It's all so infuriating! I'm the rightful heiress, through my mother, and my father. I hate the Normans, and I hate the influence they've brought!”

“The Norman influence came before you were born. I loved your mother, but she shouldn't have told you stories about a woman's right being any different. Like it or not, the king holds the right to give you—and your land—to whom he chooses in marriage.”

“Well, then, I must somehow change things myself. If I can avoid the king, I will find a way to be free.”

“Avoid him? Avoid?”

“All right … escape him.”

“What?” Jillian rose, watching as Mellyora moved quickly about the room.

“If I escape him,” Mellyora called over her shoulder, for she had found a window crevice within which to crawl, “I am free.”

“The king said this?”

“I have just left the king,” Mellyora hedged. “It is what will be.”

“You're so certain?”

Mellyora withdrew from her window nook to come back into the room again. “If I escape him, I can see to it that he and I actually negotiate, and bargain, and then, he must keep his part of a bargain. My uncle Daro, jarl of Skul Island, is here in Stirling. Called to a meeting with the king. I'll appeal to his men, and he'll see to it that I cleanly escape until our good King David is forced to see reason.”

“Mellyora, kings are seldom forced to see reason—”

Mellyora shook her head firmly. “I disagree. Kings are often forced to see reason—most often, it is upon a battlefield when they discover that their many men cannot beat another king's men! Look at our country, how so many very different sections are now ruled by one king of Scotland. This is partially through the will of the people who interbred and shared the space, and it is also partly because one king became more powerful than the others. He should listen to me—I could be a threat to him. God knows, enough of the outer isles are ruled by Vikings.”

“Mellyora, I know that you are well aware of the history of our country. Most of these people you speak about have been here for hundreds of years, but the Vikings often remain separate, and as you say, they rule many of the islands. King David is wary of your Viking relations as it is, Mellyora. Yes, you are a danger. Become too great a danger, and he will crush you before he lets you threaten him,” Jillian warned carefully. “Please, you simply must take a good long look at your situation and realize that the king has no choice but to step in and decide your fate.”

Mellyora paused, watching Jillian. She was sorry to see her so distressed, yet at a loss as to why she couldn't make her understand her position.

She bit into her lower lip, dismayed by the sudden, almost overwhelming desire to burst into tears that seized her. She could not believe that her father had died. She had loved him dearly, the world was so empty without him. She'd never known anyone quite like him. Adin had possessed the strength of ten men; he had been born a Viking. Yet his greatest power had always been his intelligence, his greatest strength, his gentleness. He had talked to her endlessly about her mother, keeping her alive through the years for Mellyora. He had attracted warriors, priests, artists, and poets to their home, he had made their great hall one of the most hospitable residences in all of the country. He had taught her to ride, to defend herself with a sword, even how to wield a heavy crossbow. Through his eyes, she had seen their world, as it had been. He had taught her that all men and women were worthy of interest and respect, no matter what their beliefs or the land or circumstances of their birth. From him, she had learned that friends were priceless, and that power and riches were gifts and responsibilities, and that she must always take care of those who called her lady, rather than seek for them to take care of her. He had loved her, taught her strength, kindness, independence, just as her mother, who had been uniquely wonderful as well, had taught her to have spirit, to believe in herself. She had given her a taste of a different magic, telling her the ancient Gaelic tales, and showing her the beauty of Celtic crafts. She'd been blessed with a lilting laugh, and flashing eyes, and a smile that was as warm and brilliant as the sun. She'd been proud and assured, a perfect wife for her warrior husband, and she'd taught Mellyora always to speak her mind, and to fight for her rights.