“Bear what?” he interrupted sharply, wondering what had happened since they had last stolen moments outside the great hall after one of the king’s recent banquets. They had talked about marriage then, and the best way to bring the matter before her uncle, her guardian, and her family. She had been convinced at the time that they would meet with little opposition. Her grandfather might have been a jarl, but her father was dead, and she had been raised by her mother’s brother and her stepfather. She wasn’t a landed heiress, but her mother had set aside the small hoard of Viking gold and Celtic relics left her by her father, an adequate dowry when the time came for her to wed.
Her arms around him, she looked into his eyes. “Daro, they’ve decided that I’m to be given to the church!”
“Wait. They—who? How did this come about? There was no talk of you entering a convent before. What has happened?” Daro demanded angrily. He had wanted to go straight to the king with his request for her hand, but she had felt the need to speak with her kin first, certain they would never allow her to marry a Viking if she didn’t make them understand that he wasn’t ever going to sea again, and that he was as settled as any man who had come to Scotland to make the country his home.
“I never had a chance to say anything to anyone. Uncle Padraic came to my room here and told me that he intended to make arrangements for me to enter the convent of Sisters of Mercy, and that my dowry, given to the Church, would help atone for the vicious raids gone into the acquiring of it. Padraic is hateful toward the Vikings, any Vikings, he doesn’t care if they’re Danish, Norse, or Swedish. He thinks my father’s blood has made me wild, and that the older I grow without the help of daily prayer and devotion, the greater danger into which I pitch my immortal soul. I’m also a danger to the good name of my mother’s family—Padraic’s family. I never had a chance to say a word to anyone. If I could have only spoken with Michael … but he is on the king’s business. He would understand, he says that a man’s belief and his loyalties make him trustworthy, not his place of birth. Padraic claimed that he has spoken to the king, and the king has apparently agreed with him that Viking blood is dangerous. David is afraid of Viking strength as well.”
“I won’t let them rule us. We’ll run away,” Daro said.
She inhaled sharply, she shook her head in misery. “Daro, we can’t; the king’s forces would come after you, you haven’t the strength on your own to defeat his power.”
“We can run far away. To the island, all the way to Norway, if need be.”
“Oh, Daro!” She touched his face, and shook her head again. “I love you. I won’t let you do that. This land means so much to you, I know that. You don’t want to go to battle against the king—”
“I shouldn’t need to do battle with anyone! My brother was Adin, respected, admired—and trusted.”
Anne gasped again. “Oh, my God, Daro, I forgot … oh, dear God, I’m so sorry—”
“What?”
“Mellyora is here, in trouble. She said that she was to be wed to a Norman laird—though I had heard it was Waryk, Laird Lion, the king meant for her to wed. Perhaps it is he, and she thinks that he is Norman because of all the things said about the way the king found him as a child. She is probably not aware that he was more Scotsman than Norman. Or perhaps I am wrong, and it is another man the king planned on her marrying, I’m not at all sure. But she tried to escape the fortress,” Anne said. “And she was discovered—in fact, she gave herself up to the king’s men before they could have a chance to find me behind the tapestry. She said that I had to tell you that she needed you.”
Daro lowered his head, closing his eyes for a moment. Damn them all. Damn the king, and damn Anne’s self-righteous family. The Highlanders were little short of barbarians—even the most “civil” of the Scots and English practiced the most savage punishments and executions. And they would damn him for being a Viking. Anne’s Scottish uncle intended to dictate her life, while he hadn’t even been told about the plans made for his niece’s future, while the king used her as he might any pawn. It was true that Mellyora probably did not know Laird Lion—she hadn’t accompanied Adin often when he came to court, preferring to entertain guests at Blue Isle. If the king meant to reward his great champion, then Mellyora and the isle would be choice compensations.
Daro bore no grudge against Waryk. He had ridden with the man, and fought beside him at times. But if Daro and his kind, the Vikings, were to be held as pariahs, he’d be damned if he’d have no say in the disposition of his own niece, Adin’s only child. Especially when so many of the loyal and trusted men in Scotland did have Viking blood themselves.
“Where did they take Mellyora?” he asked Anne.
She gazed into his eyes, obviously anxious. “She said that she didn’t want lives lost, that she wanted help, but that you must be careful. She doesn’t want your life, or your future, risked, Daro.”
“Do you know where she was taken?”
She shook her head. “No, I heard Sir Harry’s voice, and then the voice of another man. They were saying that she wasn’t to be taken to the king, but to the laird—”
“Waryk’s chambers. They took her there,” Daro said.
“She’ll be heavily guarded—” Anne said.
“There will be a bolt on her door, and one man left to see that an alarm is raised if she attempts to escape,” Daro said. “She could not possibly escape, not without help.”
“Daro,” Anne said softly, “if you help her, you’ll become the king’s enemy. We’ll have no hope—”
“As it stands, we have no hope. If I am holding my niece, and the king has plans for her, then there will have to be room for discussion.”
“You intend to use her, the same as the king,” Anne said unhappily.
“Not the same as the king. She’s my brother’s child. She’s asked my help because she knows I will defend her.”
“But if you defend her, we are lost,” Anne said.
He gritted his teeth hard. “I don’t know what Mellyora seeks to do. I won’t know until I’ve seen her. I have no other move at this time than to help her escape, and give her my protection, of course. But to do so, I must get her out of here along with”—he paused, staring down at Anne tenderly—“with you,” he finished softly.
Anne inhaled on a reckless breath. “All right!” she breathed. Then, quickly, “Nay, nay, it’s not all right! The king will seek to kill you.”
“We’ve no choice. Let’s move, carefully, Anne. We’ll see who guards her door.” Daro pulled the tapestries apart and looked out into the corridor. “Meet me here,” he told her swiftly, “tomorrow night. Keep your eyes and ears open throughout the day, I will do the same.” He kissed her, and started to leave. He returned, kissing her once again with passion and promise. “Tomorrow night,” he told her. “Trust in me.”
The king drank wine from a chalice, staring at the flames in the hearth of his great bedroom. In warm, sweeping robes, he still appeared very much the warrior king, strong despite the elegance of his apparel.
“Eric Bloodaxe,” he said broodingly, looking over at Waryk. “King of Northumbria less than two centuries ago. Cnut, who ruled much of England. Magnus, who seized much of Scotland.” He stared at Waryk. “Adin was a most unusual man. Who could have foretold his death? And who in God’s name would have thought that his daughter could escape with the skills of an acrobat?”
“She is returned,” Waryk said smoothly.
“The banns are cried; the wedding takes place in two weeks.”
“Do you wish to see her?”
“No. Where is she?”
“My chambers.”
“And she was not plotting treason?”
Waryk was surprised to realize that he didn’t want the king’s wrath against Mellyora rising to any greater extent. “She simply wanted her freedom, that is all.”
“Daro is here to negotiate Viking service, so he has said,” the king mused.
“I’ve fought with Daro in yo
ur service. He is a brave man, and a clever strategist. He is very much Adin’s brother,” Waryk said carefully.
“He’s a Viking. And I fear that he will be displeased if he discovers his niece’s intent to remain free. Surely, she was seeking his help. You mean to tell me that Mellyora was not hoping to plot insurrection along with her uncle?”
“I don’t think she would ever want to take up arms against you, no, sire.” Was that the truth? She was willing to go far to escape her fate.
The king made a snorting sound and swallowed more wine. “I’m tired, and weary of her. But I warn you, what I’ve heard is that there’s a young man from the coast land by the isle. And he has Viking in his blood.”
“David, I’ve been told that I have Viking in my blood.”
“I don’t hate men for being Vikings,” the king said. “I merely mistrust them. Well, my fair lass from the Blue Isle is back. You are apparently feeling more kindly toward her than I at this time.”
“What shall I do with her? I think that my quarters are more secure, a safer place for her—”
“Do with her what you will,” the king said. He shook his head. “I am disturbed by these attacks against the borders now, as you warned me I should be. I’m anxious to find out if Daro is as loyal as his brother. Attacks divide a kingdom. The border skirmishes keep me from watching the Nordic rulers to our north. Mellyora MacAdin had best take care …” He lifted his hands. “See to her; do what you will. If she causes much more trouble, she will simply be displaced.”
“Pardon?”
“She can remain my guest forever,” David said evenly. “In a dungeon, in a convent, wed to a Saracen with a dozen wives, I care not. I will not be defied, not even by my own godchild. If she commits treason, she will lose her head. I’m just, I’m merciful—but traitors die, and that is the law.”
“I don’t believe she means treason. The Vikings have been among us for centuries now, as enemies and friends. Your ancestors used the Vikings for their own aims, David. Malcolm II gave his daughter in marriage to Sigurd, the Norse earl of Orkney, and strengthened his influence in the north by so doing. Malcolm II extended many borders, if I may remind you, Scot land to the Tweed-Solway line, Lothian, the alliance of Strathclyde. It was through his daughter’s marriage, however, that his might, that of the Scottish king, was felt across the land.”
“I am aware of history and strategy, Laird Lion. And I am seeking strength through marriage. When alliances and peaceful means do not suffice, there is nothing left but bloodshed.”
Strangely chilled, Waryk left the king soon after. He had scarcely left the king’s chambers when he heard footsteps coming quickly behind him. He turned.
It was Jillian, Mellyora’s woman.
She was anxious, drawn. “Laird Waryk …” she began, then paused. “Is she well?”
“She is tough as steel, as you know.”
“Aye, but …”
He arched a brow.
“May I go to her?”
“Soon enough.”
“Please don’t judge her too harshly. She never thought her father could die, that there could be a different life … she doesn’t so much despise you, but she has been in love, you see—”
“Aye.” He studied Jillian for a long moment. “How far has this love gone?”
“Why, they’ve been friends since childhood, close, you see …”
“How close?”
Jillian looked at him, then grasped his meaning, and seemed horrified by all that she was giving away. “Oh, I don’t believe that …”
“Aye?” he said sternly.
“I don’t believe … I … don’t know,” she whispered.
“Thank you for your honesty.”
“Please …”
“Aye?”
“Please don’t hurt her.”
“I don’t intend to hurt her.”
“You’ll not …”
“If she loved this young man, then I am sorry. But I will have my own blood as my family, do you understand?”
Jillian looked at him and nodded. “I will be honest,” she whispered. “I swear, I will tell you the truth when her time comes next.”
He looked at her, and in so doing, was oddly touched. There must be something good in his rebellious bride to be if this woman could love her with such a deep devotion. “I’ll trust in your honesty, sincerity, and the love you bear her,” he said. “And you needn’t fear. I bear her no ill will, I would not hurt her, unless she betrayed me.”
“And then …”
“Then …” he repeated, looking at Jillian. The woman was worried and afraid. But then, someone needed to be. “Why then,” he said lightly, “perhaps, I would beat her black-and-blue and throw her into the sea. Excuse me, I will let you know when you may be with your lady again.”
He left Jillian and hurried along the corridor. He was tired, and he wished he hadn’t left Mellyora MacAdin in his chambers. He’d had no sleep the previous night, but he wasn’t going to sleep with her near now. He was far too fond of living. He’d speak with her and give Angus a respite now, then sleep in Angus’s room while Angus remained on guard. When he woke, he would determine what to do until the wedding. She would be safe enough with Angus watching her—there was no way out of the bolted room from within. The windows in the knights’ quarters were arrow slits, nothing more. Not even the slender Viking’s daughter could escape through them. The only way out was through the bolted door, and Angus would die and destroy half an army before that would happen.
He wondered how far the king’s decision had traveled. Did Eleanora know that he was to be wed to the Lady of Blue Isle?
He was sore and tired. He missed her touch. He wished that she could be with him then, stroking his brow, setting his flesh on fire …
Laird Lion did not return to his chambers.
Mellyora spent hours, pacing endlessly, jumping every few minutes, certain that he had returned. At one point, she tried to exit the room. The bolt was firmly in place. She swore, pacing again. The door opened, and the huge bald man smiled at her. “My lady, is there something you need?”
“Could I possibly return to my own chambers?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I’m filthy, hungry …”
“We’ll see to your needs.”
“But—”
The door closed. She paced before the fire again. Soon after, she heard a tapping; the door opened. Angus was back, stepping into the room ahead of a small group of kitchen lads who brought with them a tray of food, a handsome hip tub, soap, towels, and endless pails of water. They came and went quickly, leaving the tray on a trunk, and the tub before the fire, steaming with hot water.
“Have I forgotten anything?” Angus asked politely.
“No, you’re quite thorough, but I can’t possibly make myself so completely at home in my Laird Waryk’s chambers,” she said.
“Ah, well, my lady, you shouldn’t hesitate to make all that is Laird Lion’s your own.”
“I have no clean clothing.”
Angus hesitated just a moment, then stepped into the room and opened a trunk at the foot of the bed. He drew a long white gown with delicate needlework from the trunk, offering it to her.
“Will this suffice?”
She hesitated, then said softly, “It’s not mine.”
“It is yours now, my lady.”
She stared at him, amazed to realize that she was blushing because they both knew that Angus was offering her a garment that had been purchased for another woman.
“It’s been worn by no one else,” Angus said kindly. “I realize your discomfort, but you’re not free to leave these chambers. Waryk remains with the king, lady. The day is wearing on, you do have a smudge of mud on your nose.”
She lowered her eyes. “Well, then, thank you, Angus, for your kindness.”
“To serve you, my lady, is my pleasure,” he told her, and exited the room.
Once again, she heard the bolt slide int
o place. She moved uneasily about the room, looked into the flagon, and found it filled with a dark-brewed ale. She sipped it, found it rich and good, and looked at the tub longingly. He could return at any moment.
Then again, she’d already been down to bare skin in his presence.
Before she had known who he was.
Still, she was tired, anxious, and encrusted in mud. She would remain tired, anxious—even desperate—but she could do something about the mud. She began disrobing while she picked at the contents of the tray—smoked fish, bread, a sweet sheep’s cheese. She drained a long swallow of the ale, and by then, had stripped down to crawl into the tub. The water was so hot it hurt at first, but then felt delicious. She soaked her hair, scrubbed away mud and river silt, and lay back, still encompassed by the steam. She opened her eyes and looked around.
The tub was rich, with hammered-silver trim. The tapestries that hung on the walls, warming the room, were crafted with care; they depicted hunting scenes, and she thought that they had probably come from the Continent, Flanders, perhaps Bruges. His bed was huge, piled with furs, bear, deer, beaver, more. There were numerous trunks about, and pieces of his dress armor leaned against the walls, or lay upon the trunks. A coat of shining mail was stretched over a rack not far from the fire, and she imagined a page had recently polished the mail to its shining glow. Laird Lion. Strangely enough, his standard was a bird, a falcon, she thought, very similar to her father’s. She closed her eyes. Admittedly, he was not what she had expected. She’d heard of Laird Lion before the king had announced her disposal to him, all of Scotland knew of the king’s champion, though he was a ruler with many strong knights loyally indebted to him. Still, she had heard that Waryk, Laird Lion, had ridden in with the Normans who had accompanied the king to Scotland when he had come with pageantry and strength to take his throne. She had thought him old, at least as old as the king. His feats in battle and tournament were beyond distinguished; he was, in fact, annoyingly perfect, according to the king’s seneschal and the balladeers who entertained from great house to great house, through the Lowlands, Highlands, islands, and beyond. She had assumed that he would speak only the Norman French, that he would be …
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