Come the Morning

by Heather Graham

  He leapt back on Mercury and stared down at her. She watched him with frustration still in her eyes. “My lady, allow me to die for you!” he said, and whirled his horse about. He saw that Jillian, on her gentle gray mare, had almost reached Mellyora, and so he dared spur Mercury onward. Clumps of mud and grass flew as he covered the distance to the shore, where he discovered his men engaged in pitched battle with a small, fierce army of attackers.

  Boats—Viking longboats, so it seemed—had come ashore on the isle as well, and quickly assessing the situation, Waryk realized that the inhabitants of Blue Isle and the shore had been surprised by a whirlwind attack that had come strategically from the sea—the boats had crept dead close to the shore until the attackers could come in force and first overwhelm the inhabitants of the cottages, then turn to the business of the castle with its people demoralized by the slaughter of their land mates. Men hastily prepared counterattacks at the parapets of the great stone castle. The gates had been closed against the attackers, and he saw that no troops had left the walls to fight because opening the gates to allow warriors out would make the castle vulnerable to the attackers.

  Many of the attackers were in mail. They carried shields and wielded axes, maces, swords, and more. The farmers on the shore were fighting back with nothing more than shafts and pikes, knives, and an occasional small sword. Men lay scattered about; women screamed. A baby sat in the midst of the melee, crying and muddied. An attacker bore down upon the infant, his mace raised to swing at the child’s head.

  Waryk raced Mercury toward the scene, gripped with his thighs, swept up the babe, and turned just in time to avoid the mace. Angus, quick to fight in perfect unison with him, saw the action, and rode in where he had been, his blow against the man so ferocious that the would-be child murderer was nearly decapitated.

  His men, trained warriors, had turned the tide of the attack at the cottages. The invaders were shouting to one another, turning toward their boats. Waryk saw the young woman who had been seized and torn from the smoking cottage; he passed the crying babe down to one of the women who had come from a burning home, and tore after the offender. He rode the fellow down; he and his captive fell into the dirt. His claymore drawn, and swinging the double-handed weapon with all his strength, he felled the Viking before he could be axed down himself. The young woman was screaming and shrieking; the dead Viking fell at her feet. Waryk drew her to her feet, and directed her back toward the village on the shore. “Go!” he commanded, and she turned and fled as told. He leapt back upon Mercury, turned his attention toward the men trying to escape now in their longboats. They had already shot away from the shore. They were experts in their boats, and pursuit would be futile.

  He stared across at the castle, looked at the water, and judged the tide.

  “Cross the water!” he cried, as he saw Angus riding to join him. “Divert the attackers so that the castle’s warriors can open the gates to join in the fighting!”

  “Aye!” Angus cried, and turned to do as told.

  Waryk urged Mercury into the sea. The water rose up two feet, three feet, four feet … and then no more. White foam spewed around him as he forced his great warhorse toward the isle. The others followed in his wake. He burst upon the shore, and immediately took advantage of his mounted position, charging the Viking foot soldiers and bearing down on them with a fury. Men fell down before them. He heard cries from the walls, and then the sounds of the mechanism as the gates opened. Others would be joining him.

  Suddenly, men-at-arms from within the castle burst from it. Ten mounted men were followed by a score or more of foot soldiers. Waryk paused, seeing that the men were led by a helmeted horseman in a distinct tartan. The MacKinny, he thought briefly, but could give the matter little thought. The man was an able soldier, so it seemed, warning the warriors behind him that they must circle the enemy before they could escape.

  The attackers began to take flight. Still enraged by the destruction and wanton carnage he had seen among the village on the mainland shore, Waryk rode in hard pursuit. He caught up with one boat before it could shoot out into the water. Three men were aboard. He weighed his odds, furious but intending to live, then dropped down from Mercury, stepped out into the surf and rushed the few feet to the boat, and leapt into it like a berserker himself, claymore swinging hard with all his strength behind it. He sliced through the middle of one unarmored man, dodged a battle-ax, and rose to rip into a second man, catching him beneath his metal breastplate. He met the last in a grim, hand-to-hand battle, steel clanging against steel again and again. The fellow was burly, huge, well muscled, and missing all of his front teeth. He kept grinning as they fought. Finally, Waryk caught him in the throat; he caught hold of his neck with both hands and stared at Waryk in surprise as he died.

  He felt the air as someone lunged at him from behind. He turned, ready to fight his attacker, but before he could raise his sword, the man fell.

  He looked to the shore and saw the man who had led the others from the castle walls. He was still mounted; his horse stood in perhaps two feet of water. He held a crossbow, which he had used against the fallen man. He was a somber, serious-looking young man with tawny hair and hazel eyes. Still a wee bit green, perhaps, but steadfast.

  Waryk stepped from the Viking boat to the water and walked through white foam turned red with blood toward the mounted man. The fellow dismounted as Waryk approached him. He bowed, inclining his head. “Laird Waryk.” He looked up, a slight glint of wry humor in his eyes. “Watching you, sir, I did not know if you needed the help or not, but it seemed that such a man being dead sooner than later would not be a bad thing.”

  Waryk grinned in turn, surprised and not entirely pleased to sum up the man and determine that he certainly had his merits. “You’re the MacKinny?” he said, though he did not need to ask the question.

  “Aye. And we do beg your pardon, Laird Lion, for such a homecoming, but the raiders came from nowhere. Such an attack has not occurred here since …”

  “Since Adin took the isle himself, I imagine,” Waryk said.

  Ewan MacKinny shrugged. “Strange. We’ve guards on the walls, always, as you can imagine. Such a fortress as Blue Isle is only strong when her gates are closed. In times of trouble, naturally, we bring our people and livestock within the walls of the fortress. This assault began, as you surely saw, with incredible stealth. They came from the bend, around the cliffs, and straight to the village. We were sickened within the fortress to watch, but I couldn’t order men out—”

  “You would have jeopardized the entire isle, aye, man, I could see that.”

  Ewan nodded, relieved, apparently, that Waryk didn’t think he should have risked all to dive into the fray.

  “Your coming as you did saved many people. We’re grateful. We didn’t expect you until tomorrow—as your last messenger had estimated your arrival.” He inhaled and exhaled on a strange sound. “My own sister was among those you saved,” Ewan said.

  “Aye?”

  Ewan smiled. “The great bearded giant stealing the woman from the cottage. She was Igraina, my sister.”

  “Shall we see to the damage?” Waryk suggested.

  “None here, sir. We were able to bring in those on the isle; it was only across the water where the villagers were at the mercy of the attackers.”

  Waryk nodded and whistled for Mercury. His horse came obediently, and he mounted the animal. Angus was almost instantly at his side, nodding in acknowledgment to Ewan and waiting for Waryk’s instructions. “Cross the water; we will see what ails we can fix.”

  Across the rising water, they met with Thomas, who quickly gave a report. “We did arrive most opportunely. Two dead, four injured, five houses sacked, three burned.”

  “The injured are—”

  “Being tended, sir. Lady Mellyora has seen to them with her priest, a man called Phagin, who is well versed in healing herbs.”

  Waryk dismounted from his horse. “Where is my wife?”

  Th
omas pointed toward one of the cottages. Waryk nodded, then instructed, “Much is in stone here, the burned-out homes can be rebuilt. Have the masons and workers come and do what repair can be done before the night.”

  “Aye, sir, these are all MacKinnys, MacAllistairs, and MacMahans here, Laird Lion. They’ll work together for one another.”

  “And their overlord,” Ewan added quietly. “Especially when he is a warrior prepared to risk his own life’s blood for his people.”

  He looked up at the young man. His eyes were impassive. Waryk wondered if he wanted to kill the fellow here and now for knowing his wife, or if this loyalty meant that he had accepted the king’s word and would be an asset Waryk could not afford to lose.

  The man was a good warrior. He could be trained to fight for the king, Waryk thought. He didn’t think that he’d be leaving the fellow behind on the isle when it came time to depart himself.

  “See that there is a guard set on shore as well as at the castle tonight,” he said, and strode toward the cottage where Thomas had said he would find Mellyora.

  The place was in disarray, but already, something boiled upon the hearth, a slender, middle-aged woman worked there, and Mellyora indeed sat by the bed of a man with a huge gash on his arm. An ancient man with a long white beard held the gaping wound tightly together while she sewed it closed with tiny, expert stitches. “Aye, there will be a scar, but I will make it pretty, as fine as my needlework, Joshua,” she said, teasing him, soothing him, as she worked.

  “I killed the man who came with a staff—” Joshua began, then broke off, wincing.

  “You were brave, indeed. Margot, bring the poultice, and your strongest ale; he needs to sleep.”

  “Aye, son, rest is the strongest healer now,” the white-haired man said.

  The woman who had worked at the hearth bobbed to Waryk and hurried to the bed with the poultice she had heated over the fire. Mellyora stood and turned to him. She quickly colored, and he realized that Angus and the MacKinny had come to stand behind him, and that she was seeing young Ewan for the first time since her marriage.

  “All is well here?” Waryk inquired.

  “Aye,” Mellyora murmured, lifting a hand and indicating Joshua’s carefully tended wound, and the way that his wife served him now.

  Waryk stared at the man with the white beard.

  “Laird Lion, arrived most opportunely!” the man said, and bowed, watching him with open curiosity. “I’m Father Phagin, Laird Lion, but since it’s rumored my father was a Viking runemaster and my mother a Celtic witch, my flock just call me Phagin. I advise, I heal, I communicate my very best with Heaven.”

  Waryk thought that Phagin might turn elsewhere when he didn’t feel that Heaven was answering, but he instinctively felt that whatever his ways and means, Father Phagin was a spiritual man, and probably did commune more closely with God than many a more orthodox man. “There are two dead, Father?” he asked.

  “Aye, young Avery, the smith, and old Joseph, a mason.”

  “Let the women prepare them tonight; we’ll hold services tomorrow.”

  “Aye, Laird Waryk. And sir, welcome to Blue Isle.” He smiled somewhat grimly. “We are not so incompetent, sir, as it might have appeared when you first arrived. You must be weary from your journey. If you wish to settle into your new home, I can promise you that we will take care of the houses here, our people, and all that needs be tended to from this heinous attack.”

  Waryk watched him, and nodded. Mellyora still stood across the room, silent for once, and appearing stricken.

  He reached out a hand to her. “Come, my dear. Indeed, show me my new home, I’ve a need to reach our chambers.”

  She was ashen, and he wondered if she would fight him, as she so often did—especially since he had emphasized the fact that they would share quarters and that he had done so in front of MacKinny. If she did, it might be well—he’d make the point immediately that he was laird of this castle.

  But apparently, she didn’t want any points made.

  “Father Phagin, we’ll speak later. Margot, pray, take good care of Josh.”

  “Aye, lady, he’s my life,” Margot said passionately, and she sat at her husband’s side, taking his hand. They were neither young, nor especially pretty people, but there together, the tenderness they shared, despite whatever hardships in life faced them, seemed to cast a beautiful glow upon them both. Their lives were simple; poor perhaps, but in Margot’s eyes, he could see that she believed she had everything, for her husband had survived.

  Waryk found himself pausing. “Don’t worry in the days to come, Joshua. You bravely withstood an enemy. Whatever you need that we can give, you will have.”

  “Thank you, me mighty Laird Lion,” Joshua said humbly. “Thank you fer that boon, and thank you fer arriving in time to kill the heathens!”

  “Aye, well, that thanks belongs to God, for we could not have planned it so, Joshua,” Waryk said. “Mellyora?”

  At last, she found motion and strode from the bedside. She hesitated just briefly, teeth clenched, before she accepted his hand and let him lead her from the cottage. “The tide is rising—” she told Waryk as he led her toward Mercury.

  “Mercury can manage.”

  “The water is cold,” she murmured.

  Perhaps the water was cold; he had not thought so charging into battle, but then he had to admit to himself, he had been wild with rage. This, this place was his. His property had been attacked. And he would fight any man to the death.

  “Aye, lady, then—”

  “There are boats on the shore. My people will see me across,” she said smoothly, intending to walk right past him.

  “Really? Tell me, were those your people who just attacked?”

  She stopped dead, turning furiously to him. “What?”

  “Vikings. We were set upon by Vikings.”

  “Outlaws. Many Vikings are now as much a part of Scotland as you or I,” she insisted.

  “Umm. Curious, my lady, that you have so much Viking kin. Your father was Viking, and with the least invitation, surely, there are Vikings who think that this isle should be theirs.”

  “How dare you! If you’re referring to my uncle—”

  “I dare, because Vikings attacked.”

  She turned from him, starting away. He caught her arm, pulling her back. “And I’m referring to no one. I just pray you realize that such Vikings are your enemies, and not your saviors!”

  “Let me go. I’m tired. It’s been a long ride, and a long way home.”

  She jerked free and started walking again. He mounted Mercury, then decided that they would reach the isle together—he didn’t give a damn if the water was cold, or scalding. He urged Mercury forward. She turned, hearing his approach, but before she could protest, he reached down for her, drawing her before him on the great warhorse. Mercury obediently plunged into the surf, and though the water rose, the horse didn’t falter. They touched ground again, and together, rode onto the shore of Blue Isle. He urged the horse into a lope, and they entered through massive gates into a portcullis, through a second set of gates, and into the great courtyard of the fortress.

  For several long moments, Waryk held his seat, staring around him. The huge stone walls housed marketing tables and merchants with their wares. Animals brought in during the attack still roamed about in large number. There were five tower sections connected by five lengths of thick wall; parapets lined the uppermost region, by way of the towers. The expanse of the courtyard was huge, and suddenly, all the people who had come into the walls for protection from the attack began flocking around them. They called greetings to Mellyora, welcoming her home, and they welcomed him as their new laird with a warmth and passion that he realized could not have been his had they not arrived to such tumult.

  People crowded Mercury; the horse accepted the adulation well, as if it were all for him. Finally, a man broke through the crowd. Mellyora spoke softly, using the Gaelic term for the master of the househ
old.

  “This is Donald, ard Ghillean an-tighe.”

  “Aye,” he murmured.

  “Lady Mellyora, Laird Lion, welcome, come, there’s wine by the fire, your chambers are prepared.”

  “Aye, Donald, I’m most anxious,” Waryk said, and he eased Mellyora to the ground before leaping from Mercury. He saw a groom come for the horse, and Donald’s presence had created a trail through the crowd. As they followed Donald, Mellyora greeted people, and people watched him, their eyes bright with curiosity. He nodded here and there, accepting the homage given him.

  They entered the northernmost tower and immediately came up a flight of stairs; as with many fortresses, Waryk saw quickly, the lower floors were kept for livestock, arms, and other supplies. Donald told him that the men were quartered in the western walls, guests were given the eastern sector, and the northern tower and halls had always belonged to the laird. As they moved, Waryk rested a hand against the small of Mellyora’s back. She walked very quickly. He kept pace.

  The tower itself was the great hall of the fortress; Donald escorted them to the left to reach the master’s chambers. They were vast, taking up the entire length of the seaward section of the hall. A huge bedchamber was separated from an anteroom by a draped arch, and while the bedchamber boasted the bed, a great hearth, a table by an arrow-slit window, a number of trunks, a washstand and an elaborately carved dressing table, the antechamber was equally comfortable, with large, leather-bound chairs, furs upon the floor before the hearth, a large table laden with books and plans, and walls hung with all manner of weaponry.

  He had best be careful, he thought. His wife could choose many a blade to use against him at a moment’s notice here.

  While Donald pointed out the view from the arrow slits and the door that led to a balcony with stairs to the parapets, Mellyora stood still and silent in the center of the room.

  “M’laird, what is your pleasure?” Donald asked.

  “My belongings from the wagons will take time to load on boats, I imagine,” Waryk said. “Is there a bath?”

  “Of course, Laird Lion,” Donald said indignantly. “They say that we are ruffians, barbarians, perhaps, but we’ve a fondness for water, here, sir, as it were. You’ll find that the Scots—”