Come the Morning

by Heather Graham

  He rose after a moment, walking toward an arrow slit, looking out at the sea. Sunlight poured over his body, and she watched him, thinking that she loved the way he moved, the tall, muscled length of him, even the scars, pale white lines here and there on his shoulders and back. He was at ease with her, she thought, and she loved that, too, and she was afraid, and wondered if it was the same with his mistress, if such a way of being was simply easier for men. She closed her eyes, and heard him moving again. He poured water from a pitcher to a bowl, and washed. Then he moved about, dressing. She could hear him, and she knew each piece of clothing he donned. Shirt, hose, tartan, boots … no armor now, for Geoffrey would be carrying his armor as he moved out, Thomas would be am fear brataich, or standard-bearer, carrying his banner, and he would be unencumbered as he rode until he was ready to take on his mail, shield and lance, and other weaponry.

  Perhaps he would never wear it. He went to the household of a friend, to warn that friend that his land would be seized were its lord not to pay homage to the Scottish king. And perhaps, very soon, he would shed his clothing again as he had done here, to be with the woman he had loved, rather than the woman who must bear his legitimate heirs.

  Yet, when he was dressed, he came to her again. He hunched down, and swept her up, furs and all, and held her very close. He smoothed back her hair and kissed her lips. “Keep our home free and safe,” he said softly.

  “You believe in me, that I will do so?”

  “Against any enemy,” he said, a slight smile curving his lip.

  “But of course, I’ll have your men with me.”

  “Angus is staying.”

  “If he stays to watch me, to see that I guard my virtue against so sorely wounded a man, his presence is wasted, I fear.”

  He shrugged, apparently aware that she could not be unfaithful with a man who might well be dying. “Angus stays, because he is my right hand, and he would guard you with his life.”

  “Who will guard you, if Angus is with me?”

  He caught her hand, kissed her palm. “Do you doubt that I’ll return?”

  She shook her head. “Nay, Laird Lion, I would not doubt you.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Don’t doubt me, lady. Don’t doubt me, ever.”

  He straightened to leave, easing her back down to the furs. She watched him stride away, dismayed that she could feel so disconsolate, so alone. When he reached the door, she could not help but call him back.

  She rose to her knees, drawing furs with her. “Waryk?”

  “Aye?”

  “Don’t doubt me!” she whispered. “Please, don’t doubt me!”

  She was startled when he came back to her, drawing her up and to him once again. He kissed her forehead, then her lips, and whispered against them, “Aye, you’re the Viking’s daughter, Mellyora, but my wife.”

  Then he turned, and exited quickly, and she knew that far more time had passed than he intended, and the dawn was just a memory.

  She lay back down, closing her eyes tightly. Day had come. Waryk was gone, Ewan lay near death. She had to rise. But it was so hard to do so. She could hear the men below, the preparations for the army to ride out, to take the boats, the horses, all the implements of war.

  The noise ceased. It grew later and later.

  She had to rise; she had stayed to tend to a wounded friend. At last, she did so, wishing that she did not feel such fear for Ewan.

  Nor that her was heart was breaking with fear and jealousy.

  She washed her face, her hands, her throat. The cool water splashed over her. She was so tired. She turned, and saw his scabbard and sword on the bed.

  A strange panic seized her. She dressed quickly, and took the scabbard and mighty sword and hurried out to the courtyard. The men were gone. There were guards on the parapets, but even Angus had ridden out partway to say his good-byes.

  She mounted her mare bareback, rode hard to the shore. The horses, wagons, and men were regrouping on the mainland. She saw Waryk atop Mercury, directing the movements of his men.

  A small boat lay on the shore. She slipped from her mare and into the boat, and she called to Waryk. He saw her and frowned, and she knew he was disturbed that she had come out alone and was taking the boat alone. He left his task, riding to the shoreline. There he dismounted from Mercury and watched her curiously, and she realized that it appeared she might have decided to come with him rather than stay, yet she thought that he might have been disappointed in her had she made that choice.

  “Lady—” he began.

  “Your sword, Waryk. Your father’s claymore,” she cried across the water.

  He smiled suddenly, coming to her. He took his sword as he stood in the shallows, buckling it on, low on his hips. He dragged her boat on in, high on the sand, and lifted her from it.

  “Thank you, milady,” he told her.

  “Aye. I know that you fight with your father’s sword. That it may—that it may bring you back to me.”

  “And you want me to come back?”

  “Aye.” She hesitated, meeting his eyes. “Actually, you’re more than palatable. You’re quite handsome, striking, rather magnificent. But I …”

  “Aye, lady?”

  “I …” Her voice faded. She spoke in a whisper, giving all that she dared. “I’m finding that I need you and that … I …”

  Her courage faded. It seemed that she had said enough. His eyes touched her with a strange, dark passion and tenderness she had never expected, and his words were equally comforting. “My love, I will return. And perhaps then …”

  He kissed her, before the troops, and there went up a mighty yell, and she knew that they had the full approval of the men.

  But then Waryk mounted Mercury, and with a last bow to her, he turned and rode to the front of his troops.

  And as a breeze swept in from the Irish Sea, he was gone.

  And she was left behind.

  With a dying man …

  And her deepest fears.

  CHAPTER 21

  For five days straight, Ewan hung between life and death.

  Mellyora had known a fever would come, and she had known that the fever was what they must battle. She, Phagin, Igraina, and Ewan’s grandparents tended him constantly, and no one else. She and Igraina grew close again, as they had been as children, cooling the whole of his body with ice brought down from the top of the hills when he burned too hotly, blanketing him with furs when the chills set in, changing the poultices on his many wounds every few hours, trying to draw whatever poisons tormented him from his blood.

  For five days, he lay silent. They forced water and thin porridge between his lips. They sat in silence, they talked quietly, they prayed.

  Angus remained constantly at the door to the cottage. Jon of Wick remained ever vigilant at the great wall of the fortress, while men now stood guard at the wall still being constructed around the residences.

  Angus would never leave her, she knew.

  And she wondered sometimes if he had been left to watch her, or watch over her. Yet the great, scarred, bald old warrior could be gentle in a way that completely defied his appearance. When other hands were busy, he would assist her. Though Ewan remained unconscious, Angus talked to him as if he could hear, and in time, despite her fears, Mellyora found herself doing the same. “Treat him like a dead man, and he may well die,” Angus told her. “Speak to him as if he were needed among the living …”

  “And he will live?” she finished.

  “He will have a good chance,” Angus told her.

  Day after day, she sat with him. Held his hand. Tended to him. And she thought of him with tremendous affection, yet she remembered the days when they had been together now as if they had all happened very long ago. Theirs had been a strange time of innocence. She had loved him, just as she loved him now. It was a deep love, and aye, she did love him. But that love had shifted so! She thought often, in her long vigil, that she might well have made him a miserable man; she was far
too willful, too demanding, too determined. She had been lady here, great Adin’s daughter, and she had meant to have things her way. She would have pushed Ewan to the wall time and time again, while with Waryk …

  It was all so different. Her emotions regarding him—hate, anger, fury, passion, and even hunger—were stronger than anything that had ever ruled her before. She didn’t know quite what it was he had done, or when it had been, that had made him so predominant in her every waking minute, in her dreams, in her soul. She knew that it was not simply that he had married her, no matter how great that bond was meant to be under God and the law. The king’s command had not made her want him. Or love him.

  Aye, for she did, she realized. The last thing she had wanted. Aye, to have a husband she loved was a painful thing, how ironic, and she had never known before that love could hurt as badly as this, that it could come with so much fear and longing …

  She watched Ewan, and she was glad to do so, and she prayed daily that she could help keep him alive. She told God that He had taken her father too soon and too cruelly, He had taken her mother, He must have mercy and leave Ewan. But even as she prayed, her mind would wander, and she would worry. Had Waryk reached Tyne? What was he doing, was there battle, was there peace, where was he sleeping at night? She could have been with him, except that Vikings had attacked again, and everyone, her own people, friends included, thought that she had invited them …

  On the afternoon of the fifth day, Ewan took a turn for the worse. Igraina was in tears, wondering where they had failed. Phagin was frustrated, Mellyora was at a loss herself, so disconsolate that she could give thought to nothing else as the hours passed by. Ewan burned with a new fever. Riders brought back ice, and they packed him with it. Angus suggested he should be bled, Phagin was against it, saying that the poultices drew poisons from the blood, and with what Ewan had shed when he’d been injured, it was doubtful he had enough left that he could be bled. Hour after hour, they soaked him with wet linen sheets, and when the sheets drew the heat from his body, they soaked him again. One of the wounds had become infected; they lanced it and drained it, and covered him anew with the sheeting. At dusk, Phagin touched him. Ewan was very still, and Mellyora thought that he had died. “I think …” Phagin said. “I think he has cooled a little. We must keep up our work.”

  Ewan lived. For hours, they worked over him again. Finally, the fever seemed to break. Ewan still hadn’t opened an eye, spoken a word, and Phagin was very grave. They had covered him in sheeting, now they made him clean and dry and blanketed him with furs against the cold. Near midnight, Phagin and Igraina slept, and Mellyora, holding vigil, laid her head upon her arms where they rested on his bedside, and she dozed.

  Mellyora …

  She heard her name as if she was dreaming, felt a touch upon her hair, and for a moment, she thought she was at the fortress, in her chambers, lying before a fire, and Waryk was there. Then she started awake and she realized she was in a MacKinny cottage on the mainland, where she sat with Ewan. And his eyes were open, and he was looking at her, and he’d tried to say her name, but didn’t really have a voice as yet.

  She let out a cry of simple gladness, leaping up, seeing that his eyes remained open, then bending down and kissing his forehead. Her cry awakened Igraina and Phagin, and then Ewan’s grandparents, and they all kissed him and gave him water to sip, and then Phagin said that they’d smother him now that he was alive if they didn’t find some decorum, but even Angus came in and kissed Ewan, who couldn’t protest, on the cheek. He was weak as a kitten, and Phagin was right, they still had to take care.

  But once Ewan started recovering, he seemed to have a firm grip on life. He lay in his bed, raising his head a bit more each day, flexing his arm muscles, finally managing to stand and then to sit. It would be a long road back to good health, Phagin warned him. But it did seem that he was on his way.

  One afternoon when Mellyora sat with him, she felt that he was strong enough that she could question him, and so she did. “Igraina told us you said that Daro caused these attacks on us. She implied as well that I might have been involved. Ewan, I cannot believe that Daro could be involved, or worse, that you could believe that of me.”

  His eyes touched hers with a soft sorrow. “Mellyora, the man I fought and killed told me that they’d been sent by Daro, that this was a Viking stronghold, and he would have it again.”

  “But Ewan—”

  “I was cut to pieces, Mellyora, certain I was dying then and there. I wanted my sister to get help, and to be safe. I’m very sorry that I involved you, I know that you would never cause death or injury to anyone you loved, to anyone in your care.”

  She closed her eyes, grateful to hear his words.

  “Has Waryk gone to rout Daro?”

  Her eyes flew open, she shook her head. “No … I don’t believe so. He was ordered to Tyne, he was riding there.”

  “I must have caused tremendous trouble for you, Mellyora. I’m truly sorry. I hope that Waryk doesn’t think you would betray your own people.”

  “He did point out the logic of my seeking Viking aid,” she murmured dryly.

  “But he didn’t …”

  “Beat me? Throw me into a dungeon? No, not as yet. He has said that men might falsely accuse others.”

  Ewan smiled at her, closing his eyes wearily. “Thank God he didn’t beat you. I’m in no condition to defend your honor against such a man.”

  She laughed softly, and kissed his cheek. “Oh, Ewan, thank God that you are alive and doing well now. I could not bear it if I were to lose you—”

  “Ah, but I have lost you, haven’t I?”

  She caught her breath, looking at him, and he shook his head. “It’s all right, Mellyora, it’s as it should be. I just pray that Daro is innocent in this, that Waryk is riding for Tyne, and that we can all find some peace.”

  “I’m sure that Waryk is riding for Tyne …”

  Her words trailed as she suddenly realized that Waryk had gone to Tyne, aye, but he was riding with an army, and there would be little to stop him from going after Daro if he did believe her uncle guilty.

  “Oh, God …” she breathed.

  “Mellyora, what is it?”

  “Nothing, nothing, I’ll be just outside, your sister and Phagin are here, resting—”

  “I’m all right, Mellyora.”

  She stood, nodding to him, and hurried outside where she knew that Angus would be waiting. He was sitting on a wooden bench in front of the cottage, whittling a piece of wood. He started to rise.

  “Nay, Angus, sit. Please, tell me, where is Waryk now?”

  “At Tyne, lady, you know that,” he said unhappily.

  “Where is my uncle, have you heard?”

  Angus hesitated. “I’ve heard he remains camped outside Stirling.”

  “I need a man to bring a message to Daro for me. I’m writing to Daro, Angus, and telling him that I believe the person responsible for my leaving his camp before my marriage is trying to cause trouble and bloodshed between my husband and my kin. I want him to hear the accusations so that he can defend himself.”

  Angus looked at her. “Defend himself, or prepare an army,” he said quietly.

  She knelt down by him. “Angus, my uncle is not guilty. I am not guilty. I swear to you, I have no desire to oust my husband, or have any other man as laird here.”

  She felt his eyes on her, and knew the loyalty and love he bore Waryk, and she touched his scarred cheek. “I swear to you, Angus.”

  “Why?” he asked her quietly.

  “I love him,” she told him.

  He smiled after a moment. “Aye, write your letter to your uncle. We’ll send a messenger. Daro can bring this matter before the king, and the truth of it all will be learned.”

  “Thank you,” she said simply, then asked him, “Angus?”

  “Aye?”

  “How long will Waryk be gone?”

  Angus shrugged. “Some campaigns last for months, lady, you kn
ow that. But if all has gone well, he will be heading home soon.”

  “Ewan is well. Growing stronger every day.”

  “Aye,” Angus said gravely.

  “Take me to Waryk, Angus.”

  “Ah, lady, you should not be out of the fortress—”

  “Please. You will be with me.”

  Angus rose, and she stood with him, her eyes on his. “A messenger is due today or tomorrow,” he told her. “Let’s find out if Waryk remains at Tyne.”

  Mellyora threw her arms around the bald warrior. “Aye, Angus!” She kissed his cheek, and spun away. As she did so, she suddenly felt dizzy. The world threatened to turn black. She set a hand upon the wall to steady herself. Angus was immediately at her side. The black cleared away.

  “My lady?”

  “I’m fine, just tired, I imagine.”

  “Tired, eh?” he said, looking at her peculiarly. “Tired—or …?”

  “Well, I do imagine I’m just tired. I’m hardly fragile, Angus, and I never falter or feel in the least ill or queasy or …” Her voice trailed away. She’d given so much time and attention to Ewan, and she’d been so worried about Waryk being …

  With Eleanora.

  She hadn’t thought about herself at all. If she’d been thinking, or paying attention at all, she might have realized how many days and nights had come and gone since …

  She couldn’t be.

  Yes, actually she could.

  At the thought, her stomach seemed to pitch and toss. Fear and excitement swept through her in a swift wave.

  “Oh, no, I don’t think so,” she said to Angus.

  He arched a brow, and she knew his silent question.

  Why not?

  Why not. It was what Waryk wanted, or so he had said. But of course, she didn’t really know, she wasn’t certain …

  Angus seemed certain. “We’ll go to Waryk, lady. If you promise to rest.”

  “Ah, now, Angus! Who is the lady of the castle here?”

  “You are the lady here. But I am to guard you for the laird of the castle, and I mean to do so—even against yourself!”

  “Angus … if so … he will be pleased?” she asked anxiously.