Come the Morning

by Heather Graham

  “Nay, man, not as yet.”

  “Then you do na know.”

  “You’re dying, man. If you’ve a son and you give me the answers that I need, I will see to your boy, raise him to fight like his father, under my protection. I ask you again, for whom do you fight?”

  The fellow coughed, spitting up a trail of blood. “Ye wouldna reach my boy, great laird. You bleed yourself. All men bleed.”

  Waryk hadn’t realized he’d been nicked in the fighting. He bled, but hadn’t felt the injury. “Aye, I bleed, I wear many scars. But I don’t fall, and if I were to fall, others more powerful would come behind me. Give me your boy. I can grant him the king’s protection.”

  The man shook his head painfully. “You would never reach him in time, before …” he said. He gritted his teeth tightly against the pain assailing him.

  “I swear to you, I will do whatever is necessary—” Waryk began.

  But the man shuddered and died. No man, no laird, no king, had power over death.

  “What is it that a man fears more than death itself?” Sir Gabriel demanded.

  “The death of all he loves,” Waryk said quietly. He rose, and looked at his men. “No other survivors?” he asked.

  “They fled, or died, Waryk,” Thomas told him.

  “Have the men set to work strengthening the defenses,” Waryk said. “We’ll leave an additional fifteen men and supply the fortress before we leave, Sir Gabriel. Added strength until we know what this disturbance is all about.”

  “Maybe we’ll never know,” Sir Gabriel said.

  “I think that we will. Aye, I think that we will,” Waryk told him. “Eventually. All men fight because they want something. I believe these battles are like the tips of the icebergs off the northern waters—we’ve not begun to see what lies beneath.”

  Two days later, with much work accomplished to shore up the walls and defenses of Localsh, Waryk and his men, minus those he would leave behind, departed.

  Before turning back toward Stirling, he and his men rode the border, a powerful presence in the name of the king of Scots. As well as seeing to the welfare, strength, and loyalty of Scottish lords, they stopped at a small English castle, where they were entertained by Lord Peter of Tyne, an English baron who had managed to keep his border region peaceful despite the many disturbances in the region. His castle was strong; he had at least sixty of his own men trained for battle and joust. In the midst of the trouble between Stephen and Mathilda, he maintained a strong neutrality, and, due to his proximity to Scottish land, kept a close allegiance with King David of Scotland.

  Peter was Waryk’s own age, the son of a noble who had grown up at the court of Henry I with David of Scotland. Listening to Waryk’s account of what had occurred, he seemed at a loss as well. “There is a tremendous schism in England,” he said. “One day, a man is killed for supporting Stephen; the next, five men are tortured for their loyalty to old Henry’s daughter. Strange things are happening.”

  “Aye, but Scotland has enough of her own troubles without being embroiled with those of the English!”

  “Hard to say, when so many Normans, and Anglo-Normans, call themselves Scotsmen. And when we all keep our eyes on David, knowing he will seize what he can to the south!”

  “Aye, but if these men were involved in this fight between royal English cousins descended from the Conqueror, why go against the king of Scotland?”

  “Someone is stirring up trouble, but who, I do not know. I will, of course, keep my eyes and ears open.”

  “Ah. You will be on the lookout for a Scottish king?” Waryk asked skeptically, grinning. Peter was a cunning fellow, often blunt, never reckless.

  “Aye, well, the Scottish king sits on his throne, at the moment. While the English … my loyalty lies where it is most expedient.”

  Waryk laughed, they drank together, the night wore on. As the fire in the hearth slowly died, he saw a woman in the shadows of the hallway, waiting. Eleanora. Peter had long been a friend, and if they were ever to become enemies, it would be in the open. Here, he had relaxed, weary from the perplexing battle, and he had lain half-sprawled in his chair. Now, his muscles tightened. He gave her a slow smile, finished the ale in his cup. “Peter, I’ll say good night, and accept your hospitality.”

  “Indeed, you must be exhausted,” Peter said.

  “Aye, that I am.”

  “My sister has waited long enough?” Peter queried, a brow arched in good humor.

  “Apparently.”

  “Aye, brother!” Eleanora cried. “Enough of this talk of battle and men who crawl from the forests like mindless monsters to die.”

  Waryk walked over to Eleanora. The widow of a wealthy English laird, she was now an independent woman, but she loved him, and had been his mistress now many years, though the times he saw her were far too infrequent. She took his hand, and with a subtle smile, led him through dim corridors. Soon, they were within her rich apartments in her brother’s house. The light was very low, scented candles burned. Her clothes were quickly strewn. She was a voluptuous woman, the fullness of her breasts was emphasized by the flickering light and shadow of the candles. In the privacy of her room, she was passionate, experienced. He caught her to him, hungry for the taste of her, a kiss, the feel of her breasts in his hands. She responded with a sweet urgency, glad of his touch, wanting more, wanting it quickly. Upon her knees, she unbuckled his scabbard. She took him in her hand. Battle was soon forgotten.

  He had meant to stay longer at the welcoming bastion of Tyne, but while he was there, a messenger arrived from David, urging him onward to Stirling with moderate haste. Something had happened; Waryk knew the king, and he knew he was being summoned for a reason. He bid brother and sister goodbye and started swiftly toward Stirling, where the king, who frequently moved about the country, was in residence.

  They rode late one night when they came across an armed guard bearing the king’s colors. They were challenged in the name of King David, and Waryk quickly called out his own identity, then found that he faced an old friend, Sir Harry Wakefield, an older man, but one of the king’s closest advisors. Dismounting, he greeted Sir Harry, curious to know what he was about. “Is there some new action? Has fighting broken out anew?” he asked him.

  “Nay, Laird Lion! Why, ’tis nothing but escort service I am about. The death of an old laird sends his child to the king, and so I am entrusted with her safety. We have heard about the fighting. Across the country, my friend, you are known for your great victories.”

  Waryk inclined his head, though he was tempted to deny the praise. What had he done but slaughter madmen who had seemed to have no purpose?

  “There’s another copse, just yonder,” Sir Harry told him. “You and your men may rest, Laird Lion, for no one will pass this road without my challenge!”

  “My thanks, Sir Harry. Angus, what say we do as he suggests and make camp here. Have Thomas tell the men.”

  The cry went out down the ranks. Angus knew that Waryk trusted in no one man alone, and that if Waryk had told him to take his rest, then Waryk meant to stand the first hours of guard duty himself. Sir Harry, pleased to be of service, saluted Waryk. “Truly, we heard you made quick business of those raiders at Localsh,” he said.

  “Aye, Sir Harry, but I fear they’ll rise again.”

  “The king has new enemies?”

  “A king always has enemies, old and new.” Waryk dismounted, giving his horse to one of the pages who rode with him as the lad came to tether the destrier for the night. A rustle in the trees alerted Waryk and he spun, his sword unsheathed, as a second mounted man rode onto the trail. “Sir Harry—” the man called, a thunderous note in his voice to mask his concern.

  “It’s all right, Matthew,” Sir Harry said. “’Tis Laird Waryk, the king’s champion, returning from battle.”

  “Aye, sir, Laird Waryk,” the man said, sounding somewhat relieved. “We’ve strength against an enemy tonight!”

  “Have you had trouble?
” Waryk asked.

  “Nay,” said Matthew. “But there are always troubles then, are there not? Especially in this, an old laird dies, he leaves a daughter …”

  “Aye, well, we will be here tonight, and tomorrow, we’ll wait for you to break camp, and follow behind. If anyone is following, we will know. If that serves you well, Sir Harry?” Waryk didn’t want to imply that Sir Harry might really need his assistance in the simple task of escorting an orphaned heiress to the king.

  “Laird Lion, it sits well enough with me!” Sir Harry said. “The lady’s own men are with us; when we see Stirling, they will double back, and when they have passed you by, you will know we are safely on our way down to the fortress.”

  “Aye, then.”

  “Matthew, ride the trail south, and I will move to the north,” Sir Harry said, and Matthew turned on his warhorse to do as commanded. Sir Harry lifted a hand in salute to Waryk. “I will leave you to your rest, m’laird.”

  Matthew turned his mount to cover a distance of the northern road. As the light from Sir Harry’s torch faded, Waryk saw the glow of the campfires where the lady and her escort rested. They were some distance away through a thicket of foliage and trees, yet Waryk found himself drawn curiously to a sudden flow of movement in the night. He strode to the side of the trail, and, setting a hand upon a large oak, looked through to the group of men, shadowy figures all, drawn around the fire.

  The campfire burned brightly in the center of a large clearing, flames licking upward in the night, blue and gold, mauve and crimson. From his distance, Waryk could see that a girl spun before it. He was too far away to make out her features, but close enough to feel there was a pretty sense of magic in the scene. Perhaps it was the late hour of the night, the slight blanketing of fog rising around her like an ethereal mist. Her dress was long, silver-white, touched strangely by the fire glow to embrace a rainbow of netherworld shades. Her hair was the color of the blaze, yellow-gold, highlighted with just a touch of fire. Like a sprite, she glided around the fire, dancing with the seductive allure of an ancient Celtic princess, capturing the breathless attention of everyone present. And then she spoke. Her voice was magic, crystal clear, and he realized she was telling the tale of St. Columba.

  “What sin he committed, no man is sure, but he crossed the Irish Sea, and came to our sacred Iona, his strength created by God’s own hand. And there he built a great monastery, and the people began to come to him. There had been men before, come with tales of Christ and the Church, but none was Columba. He was an artist, preserving our Celtic beauty, a scholar, and his monks toiled hard and long, creating pages of beautiful script. But most of all, he was a warrior knight, and he proved to the people the power of his will, and his God, for he came upon Loch Ness, and there he was defied by a great dragon. A sorry, wretched creature, it had plagued the people, stolen the children, consumed, as homage, many a fair maiden. Columba would have no more. He challenged the dragon to come for him. The creature rose from the deepest, blackest depths of the loch and, shedding the crystal water it shook from its great head, breathed fire upon Columba, yet he raised his great shield, and the fire returned to singe the dragon, and thus, the dragon was blinded. And Columba drew his great broadsword, and slew the dragon, and the people, who had grown hungry, feasted upon their enemy.” She raised her arms, stretched to the heavens on her toes, then bent low, her hair sweeping around her in golden rain as she bowed deeply, laughing even as she did so. As she rose again, lifting her hands, Waryk thought she was indeed enchanting, and she had great pride, a spirit of independence—and a definite wild streak. He was glad Sir Harry was her escort, and that he had been left to battle madmen.

  Her tale was completed, and applause rang through the forest. Then the sound of a lute could be heard, and the gentle tone of a harp came as well, and there was laughter, light voices, dancing in the trees.

  Then suddenly, the music hit a discordant note, and the sweet sounds of it faded into the night. “The king’s Normans are here,” he heard someone say. The words were spoken quietly, but somehow they carried through the night. Then a strange whispering began, and then there was silence.

  He remained against the oak, teeth gritted. Aye, David had brought many Normans with him. He fought with Normans, and he fought against Normans. Still, somehow, the words were disturbing. He’d received many advantages in the king’s court; he fought with good armor, steel protecting him over the wool of his tartan. Many of the men escorting the young heiress had been clad in the typical leine croich, long pleated wool garments loose enough to allow a man to fight, yet supposedly offering some protection in the folds of material. But his own mail and plate were worn over his tartan, a pattern created for his father by the finest of the wool workers of his mother’s family, the Strathearns. As much as any man, more than most men, he was a Scot. Often, he knew, priests, clerics, and poets wrote of their being barbarians. Many in the Christian world claimed that though Rome had not conquered the Scots, they should have; much had been gained across Europe from the Romans—roads, aqueducts, laws, literature, more. Waryk thought that it was true; no one could match the Celts for the beauty of their jewelry and the works done by Irish and Scottish monks in the last centuries were some of the finest ever. But they needed to learn from their enemies, he thought. If they were going to fight the Normans, they needed to be as well armed as border friends and foes.

  The armor he wore beneath his surcoat might be Norman, but he was a Scot. His father had paid for their place in this homeland with his blood. He had shed his own upon it often enough.

  He moved away from the oak. He was tired, and he was going to get some sleep. God alone knew what the king was planning next.

  And his sleep was haunted by a dancer. She moved through his dreams with steps as light as quicksilver, her cloak of golden blond hair—just touched by a crimson flame—swirled with her, ever hiding her features.

  He reached for her, wanting to see her face.

  But she swirled, and in a field of mist, she was gone.

  CHAPTER 2

  They emerged from the trail through the thick-forested crest, and there she lay. Stirling.

  Seated upon her gray mare, Mellyora looked down upon the town where the king was in residence at his fortress. It was an ancient place. Even the Romans, in their quest to seize Britain, had come this far, but long before that, the old tribes had made it home. As dusk came now, as twilight touched the valleys, crags, and waterways, it was a beautiful picture. The fortress walls rose proudly, the colors of fall highlighted the sweeping dips and mounds of the landscape around them. The reflection of the setting sun upon the water gave it the appearance of sparkling with dozens of gemstones, brilliant stars that glittered and beckoned. One far field was dotted with sheep, now being herded in by a pair of lads and their dogs. Before the walls, near the water, the fishwives cried out their husbands’ catches; the clang of an armorer at work could be heard on the wind.

  Mellyora loved Stirling—the hills, the forests, the greens and mauves, the beauty of the crags. She loved all of her homeland; this was far different from Blue Isle, where the waves could beat against the rocky shore and the cliffs with a wild, white vengeance. Here, all was calm, peaceful, and serene.

  Yet, from her vantage point she could even see downriver, far downriver, to a field of tents and makeshift housing: a Viking camp. She bit lightly into her lower lip, feeling a strange level of excitement. Her uncle was near. If there was trouble, her uncle was near …

  “My lady, we must ride.”

  She nodded. It was Sir Harry who had spoken. The king’s man, not her own. Sir Harry had come for her. She hadn’t thought to come to the king, not yet. She had still been in mourning. It had been inconceivable that Adin should die, and she had not been able to think, to feel, to do anything other than miss him. But when the king’s men arrived to escort her to David, she’d realized her situation. The king had sent an escort; she hadn’t insisted on bringing her own. A few men from
her home had ridden this far with her, along with one of her women, Jillian, but though Jillian would ride on with her, her own retinue of men-at-arms would leave her now. They would return to guard Blue Isle, while she went on to the king. She was the lady of the isle. She wanted the king to know that she trusted him, as he should trust her. Not only was she protected by the escort he had sent, but the king’s conquering cavalry was riding this way as well.

  There was little to do but trust the king.

  She would vow her allegiance to David as her father’s heir, and then she would speak to him, honestly, pleadingly, as she would have spoken to Adin. It was the best strategy.

  “My lady, we’ll leave you now.”

  She turned to Ewan, grave, serious, concerned for her, gray eyes upon her as he waited for her to insist that he remain. He had been somber since he had heard that the king’s men-at-arms had ridden behind them last night.

  But no matter his look or his concern, she did not ask him to stay. She had to do this alone.

  “I’ll be home soon, and I shall miss you all,” she said. She smiled at Ewan, then spoke to the others from Blue Isle, “Darrin, Peter, Gareth, thank you for the escort; protect Blue Isle as you protect me. I leave my home in your keeping, and thank you for your company this far. I know, of course, that I am well guarded by the king’s soldiers.”

  “Perhaps we should continue with you,” Ewan said, his eyes still upon hers.

  “Ah, now lad, the fortress lies ahead of us, and I’d die for your lady, as would any king’s man,” Sir Harry Wakefield, the king’s chosen messenger, told Ewan, not unkindly. Sir Harry considered himself a far stronger escort; he was a king’s man, knighted, trained at arms, a warrior who had survived many battles. Ewan was a clansman, a warrior from a wild countryside still considered barbaric by many of the more southern inhabitants, people highly influenced by the Norman population in England that seeped ever more into Scotland.

  “I will be fine,” she said. She loved Ewan. From her childhood, he’d been her best friend. With his dark blond hair and gray eyes, he was handsome, serious, and dependable. He was worried about her, they were all worried about her, her people, her advisors, everyone. She had been summoned before the king. All lairds and ladies must pay homage to the king, she had assured them all. The king was her godfather. He loved her, she had always been able to charm him. She believed in her power to maintain her position. And Sir Harry was an old friend as well. He was the leader of the five armed men sent by King David to protect her on her ride through the countryside to Stirling. The gates of the city were within view, she knew she was perfectly safe.