“I have chosen a man for you—”
“You have chosen a man to whom to give my property. I am but an appendage to it.” Her eyes flashed to his. He had known her since she was a child, and she was taking grave advantage of that relationship now. A fact which tempted him to treat her as he might a very young child of his own—and take her right over his knee.
She was too old for such treatment—and so was his knee. But he grew tired of this argument. He would win, because he was king—he commanded great armies, and since he did, he could surely get one small woman to the altar. Yet it was irritating that he could not feel that he was truly winning the battle with his words and logic alone.
“You may retire, Mellyora,” he told her curtly.
“But, sire—”
“You may retire!”
“Retire, indeed,” she said. “As you wish. I give you all homage, King David, as is rightful. But now, though the hour is late, I will take my leave and return home—”
“Nay, lady, you will not.”
Her elegant, honey-shaded brow arched. “Am I a prisoner then, sire?”
“You are my guest.”
“Your guest.”
“Indeed, my lady.”
“And if I wished to leave—until the wedding, of course?”
“Pray, my lady, do not wish to do so. You would find it most difficult.”
“Ah. Because my sword arm is not so strong.”
“Good evening, my lady,” he said firmly. But she refused to go down without a further fight.
“I feel, sire, that you do not truly appreciate the strength that may lie within one’s mind, and that neither gender nor muscle power has a thing to do with that strength.”
“I have heard you, Mellyora.”
“You have the power, my lord king. But if wits were to allow me to leave, then I would be free. Wouldn’t that be true, my lord?”
He leaned toward her then, wagging a stern finger beneath her nose. “My lady, you should take care. You’ll find yourself not only confined to Stirling, but to your chambers,” he warned.
“Perhaps.”
“Oh?”
Again, her lashes lowered. “Sire—”
“By God, Mellyora, leave me be!” David thundered, and at that, at last, she braced herself with clenched teeth, pausing. It was on the tip of his tongue to inform her that he hadn’t summoned her to Stirling just to hear about his decision regarding her future, but to meet her prospective bridegroom as well. A messenger had recently assured him that his fighting men were nearly home, that they had tarried only to follow after the escort given to Mellyora.
The Lion had led the men engaged in the fighting.
But then, as yet, King David hadn’t informed Laird Lion of his coming nuptials, either. It hadn’t been until Adin had so suddenly died that the king had firmly decided that Mellyora was the right reward for the lad who had grown to become his most respected warrior knight. Other rich properties had become available over the years, but they’d been encumbered with aging heiresses who could not give the man the family he had lost. Young women were always available, but those as richly landed as this Viking’s daughter were few and far between. The question of Waryk’s future had remained a concern until now since David had never imagined Adin’s death at such a time as this—the Norseman had seemed like a god himself, a Wodin to live forever. He’d been young when he’d taken his Gaelic bride, still little more than a boy himself when he’d produced his daughter. David had not thought that the lass and the riches of the property would have been his for the granting so soon.
The king’s head pounded. Laird Lion would ride in triumphant; a warrior loyal to the king, a sword arm strong in valor and ability, and his king would present him with a bride who was not only unwilling, but brashly determined to make quite certain everyone should know it.
“Mellyora,” he said angrily, “you will honor me, cease this fight, and leave me be.”
“Well, sire, then, as you wish, I shall obediently leave you be,” she said quietly, but her blue eyes still carried dangerous light, and despite the soft way she spoke, her voice was edged with anger.
“Shall you?” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“I’m disturbing you, so I will take my powerless wits and leave you. Your prisoner—no, your guest—since I couldn’t possibly escape your great strength or that of this fortress.”
“Lady, you test my patience.”
“Do I? Your pardon, it is not my wish to cause you trouble, merely to allow you to see that the mind is an incredibly powerful tool. Especially when it seems I am challenged to prove its force and potential.”
“M’lady,” the king said, inclining his head politely, “do let your mind work as it will. One of my men awaits just beyond the door to escort you back to your chambers.”
“You know, sire,” she said, “before God, not even a king can force a maid to marry.”
The very quiet of her tone made the words an irritating rebuke. She was maintaining her temper, he was losing his. He wouldn’t have it. He was the king, and she was a pawn—his pawn, to be moved where and when he deemed it important.
“Before God, my dear, you may be surprised. Two can play a game of power and wit. Don’t underestimate what I can and can’t do. And as to force, perhaps I will leave that matter to your future husband!”
She smiled at him suddenly, sweetly. Even his determined, angry, and aging heart felt a warming trend—if not a melting. She was lovely, volatile, one minute so furious, and the next, gazing at him in a manner which could be almost tender and caring. She was his godchild.
“Sire, I am thus challenged. Of course, we both know that I can’t possibly manage to escape your fortress here at Stirling, but if I did … would I then be free to choose my own future?”
“You will not escape.”
“Of course not, but if I did …?”
“You will not escape. My mind is set.”
“If you are so certain, then surely we have a bargain?”
“My lady—”
“If I escape, then I am free,” she said, as if that settled that matter. Her smile remained radiant, and she stepped forward suddenly—just as she had as a child. She touched his shoulders, came to her toes, and kissed his cheek.
“I make you no such promise!” he said sternly.
“But if I escape, I am free,” she said. “I learned well from you and my father. Possession gives a man great power to hold a property. Freedom gives a woman great power to negotiate. I’m also, sire, adept with a sword, a knife, and especially, my mind. I’m stronger than you see, sire, and I pray that you understand,” she said with determined dignity. Then she turned at last to leave.
Shoulders squared. Head very high. She didn’t run from the room, but walked, as graceful as a goddess floating upon clouds. She walked with confidence. Slowly.
She was giving him a chance to summon her back. To talk more, argue, come to some different conclusion regarding her future.
Despite her sudden smile, and even the old affection of her kiss, she remained a stubborn, determined, and seething young goddess.
“I should wed you to a pruned old wife-beater, lass!” he swore after her, following her suddenly with long, angry strides. Oh, yes, he granted her a will of pure steel; she would argue with God himself on Judgment Day, so it seemed.
Just outside the great hall, he found that Sir Harry Wakefield—an old friend, a knight who had served him long before he had become king—waited as he had expected, as escort for the Lady Mellyora.
“Sir Harry!” the king said.
“Sire?”
“The lady and I have engaged in something of a game of combat—of wills, so it seems. You will see that she is returned safely to her chambers, and that she does not depart her chambers again until she is summoned before me once again.”
“Indeed, sire.”
Mellyora merely smiled. Yet even as she smiled, she cast the king a sharp, challengi
ng assessment, then slipped her arm within Sir Harry’s. “As if I could best the king at any combat!” she said, and laughed as if the possibility of such a thing was entirely absurd. “It will be good, Sir Harry, to know that you’re guarding me.”
They departed down the hall. David watched them, telling himself that he had a trained knight decked in partial mail watching one lone woman.
He decided to double the guard on her door, and to let it be known that the Lady Mellyora was not—under any circumstance—to leave the stronghold at Stirling without his express permission.
If she so much as tried …
Well, she’d be brought back.
In chains, he thought grimly.
Easy, my fine sir, easy …
After their first passion had been spent, Eleanora had seen his wound. A scratch, he’d told her. A wound, still, she’d told him. Vulnerable to infection.
Easy, mine is a gentle touch …
With such sweet words, Eleanora worked her balm into the slash he’d received against his upper arm. And when she was done, she’d crawled atop him, naked, sleek, glistening in the light of the fire, entirely comfortable with him, with herself. They’d been together so many times through the last years, she knew how and where to stroke, she made love like a tigress, she had a throaty laugh, a way about her … battle might be fierce, the world a wearying place. They’d had so little time before he’d been summoned back to the king. He’d been puzzled, angry, and disturbed about the fighting, not a good companion. Yet he often came to her angry or weary, and she never minded, in a matter of days, hours, minutes, whatever time he had, she would offer her own brand of distraction. She asked nothing in return …
“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.
CHAPTER 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, knowi
ng 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.
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