He lay awake, tortured at night, wondering if Renfrew had raped his wife. If he did, he prayed that she didn’t fight him, that he didn’t hurt her. He wanted her back. It was all that mattered.
In the morning, he supervised the building of their war machines, shouting, harrying, hurrying the men along.
By that afternoon, the Vikings knew that they had come.
A rain of arrows came falling down upon them just before sunset. Thankfully, the great, moving shields had been hastily finished, and they were protected from the falling death. Immediately after the arrows, a messenger arrived, seeking Waryk to surrender the castle at Blue Isle, and all the men would be allowed to leave the field.
“Tell Renfrew and Ulric they will be allowed to live if they return my wife now!” he retorted furiously to the messenger, approaching the man with menace.
Daro caught hold of him, drawing him back. “You can’t let them know how worried you are!” he warned him in a whisper.
“If she comes back to me now,” Waryk said calmly, “they will live. If she is harmed, they will die more slowly than even they, masters of brutality, can imagine.”
“Ulric intends you to die, Laird Waryk. Then he will return with your wife to Blue Isle, and she will accept him as laird in your stead.”
“I cannot oblige Ulric, and, therefore, he must die,” Waryk said.
The messenger left them.
She lay on her pallet, aware that morning had come again. She still felt tired. She had been here two days now, she believed. Renfrew came to taunt her at times. Thankfully, he was too busy planning his battle to threaten her often.
Yet she lay awake, afraid to feel excitement, happiness, relief.
Because Waryk lived. And Daro.
They had not told her, of course. But she had ears, and she had heard.
Her laird had come for her. With his Scottish troops, with Peter of Tyne’s English troops, and with her uncle’s Vikings.
They had not slain one another. They had banded together.
And at first, just knowing that had given her hope and pleasure. But then …
Hours had gone by, and then days, and she had realized that Renfrew was smart, that he had put himself in a powerful place. Battle would not be easily won.
She had tried to step outside the night before; men had been there so quickly and so close that she had felt real terror, imagining that they would begin to hack off her toes with their razor-honed axes. She had lied quickly, pretending she had been seeking them, and asking if there was deep water somewhere near so that she might immerse herself in a real bath. Guards had been sent with her to a small stream; she had bathed in her undershift, but it had still felt good after the time on the road. This morning, however, she lay in desolation again, wondering how long this state of affairs could go on.
The linen screen suddenly moved. She sat up on her pallet, seeing that Renfrew had come, and that he stood over her.
He knelt. She half rose on her elbows, warily shifting away. “Are you feeling better?” he asked politely.
She shook her head.
He smiled. He was a slim man with an ascetic face, yet his eyes and his smile were bitter, cunning, and cruel.
“I don’t think you’re sick at all. I think you’re a liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Well, I shall find out. I have grown bored, my lady, waiting. We’ll see just how sick you are. I am repulsed by such things, so be warned, I will hurt you if you ruin my clothing or create a miserable smell.”
He reached out, grabbing the material of her bodice, and dragging her to him. She struck him furiously, catching him in the face. He instantly returned the blow. Her ears rang, a blinding pain spread out before her eyes. He moved quickly while she lay stunned from the blow, straddling her. Her knife remained at her calf, if only …
“Ah, there you are, Lord Renfrew!” Ulric stated suddenly, and he was there as well, seething as he stared down at them both. “Leave the woman be until we know what leverage we need,” Ulric said, mocking the command Renfrew had apparently given him.
Renfrew shrugged. “I’ve decided we don’t need such leverage. You may have your turn.”
“Aye, that I will,” Ulric promised bitterly. “The woman, Renfrew, is mine. But not now. Waryk and his troops are marching up the hill. They are ready to attack.”
Renfrew instantly rose, dragging her to her feet.
“We need to prepare for battle. What are you doing with her?”
“She is part of the battle, you fool, don’t you see?” Renfrew demanded. “Our very best defense.”
At the rise in the slope leading to the hill, Waryk assembled his archers. They let free a single volley.
There was screaming among Ulric and Renfrew’s troops; then suddenly, a warning rang out.
“Be warned, Waryk! Arrows will pierce what you have come to retrieve!” Renfrew’s mocking voice called out to them.
The forces at the crest of the hill moved, and Waryk caught his breath.
Renfrew had used his wife well. She was tied to a pole set deeply into the ground at the top of the hill. His men had blocked her during the first volley. If another rain of arrows fell, she would surely be struck.
“Fall back!” Waryk commanded.
And his archers, their shields lifted high, obeyed.
The sun rose, but the wind was cold. Her arms hurt, for they had been dragged over her head, and her feet barely touched the ground. She’d had no water, no food. As the hours went by, she began to wish that she’d been struck by one of the first arrows, she was in such pain.
But Renfrew had warned that she was there, and the Scots had retreated.
Renfrew and Ulric waited …
The Scots would regroup, come back.
But they didn’t. The troops grew restless, and Renfrew rode by frequently, shouting that they must be prepared. His warriors would straighten in their position again, but warriors were meant to fight, not wait. As time passed again, their vigilance waned. She was vaguely aware of men gaming, of runes being cast on the earth, of drinking and conversation as time passed.
Dusk fell.
The Viking and Norman troops began to break discipline, moving about the camp. They were amused, certain that Waryk’s forces were beaten back by the prospect of killing her.
She began to lose faith herself, in agony, cold, weary …
She looked out across the field. She thought that she was seeing things, for suddenly out of the shadows, shapes began to come at them.
Closer and closer. They blanketed the landscape.
She thought at first that the defenders didn’t see them. Then Ulric, seated on his mount near the pole, suddenly murmured, “What in the name of all the gods … Archers!”
A volley of arrows followed. A baaing sound filled the night. Shadows jumped, and shadows fell.
“Archers!” Ulric shouted again.
But Renfrew strode to his side. “Stop! We are firing at sheep,” he said contemptuously. “Nothing but sheep.”
Mellyora tried to stare through the shadows.
“Ah, my beauty!” Renfrew walked to her and touched her cheek, saying softly, “Sorry, my lady, you are not saved. They are nothing but sheep. Poor lady. Are you weary, in pain? Perhaps even my bed will look good to you this night!”
“Sheep!” Ulric swore from his mount. “More of them, hundreds of them!”
Indeed, there were. Frightened, maddened, and by the hundreds, they came. They’d been shot down, but now, there were more. Sheep were running, leaping, and baaing everywhere.
And more came over the hilltop, terrified, jumping on the men, causing chaos. The warriors swore; they dropped their weapons to fend off the sheep. Some were laughing, making fun of Scottish shepherds, men who couldn’t even keep track of their animals. They began to chase after the creatures, trying to catch them with their hands. Some men shouted that there were enough dead ones, others shouted that they were a diversion from the endle
ss waiting.
Diversion, Mellyora thought.
And then, in the midst of the chaos, the horsemen came.
She heard a cry, a hoarse, terrible battle cry, and exhilarated, she lifted her head.
Waryk.
He was in the lead, riding Mercury over the natural stone barrier as if he were a winged horse. Behind him, Angus came, and Daro, and the others. Rider after rider, taking the enemy by surprise.
Renfrew swore. He turned to her, gripping the pole and staring at her with eyes of pure hatred and fury. He moved away from her, toward one of the fires lit in the dark, and he started kicking the kindling around her log. The heat rose instantly. She could feel the blaze. It would catch her clothing and the pole, and then consume her, in a matter of minutes.
“Burn in hell, lady. Burn in hell,” he told her, drawing his sword.
Mercury was flying across what was now becoming a battlefield littered with dead men, horses, and sheep. Renfrew stood before her. Mercury bore down on him.
Waryk was in full armor, his head helmeted, his surcoat covering his mail. He wielded his sword deftly.
And he cut down Renfrew where he stood. A single, lethal slash of his weapon cut across Renfrew’s side, where his mail was weakest. Waryk’s sword rose again, slammed down on Renfrew’s helmet. The man fell, blood spouting from his lips, his sightless eyes.
“Waryk!” Mellyora shrieked.
Ignoring the flames that were beginning to rise, Waryk urged Mercury up on the dais. With a slash of his sword, he broke the bonds tying her to the pole. She started to fall. Mercury’s hoofbeats clattered nervously over the kindling. Waryk quickly bent low from his horse’s back, slipped an arm around her, and swept her up.
Mercury leapt from the rising blaze. Clinging to Waryk with what strength she had, Mellyora was vaguely aware that her uncle fought to the one side, and Angus to the other. They covered Waryk’s ride as he raced hard toward the stone dividing enemy camps. Yet there, a rider challenged Waryk, and she ducked, screaming, as a sword slashed her way. Waryk’s blade rose to meet it. With her head down, she saw the Viking taking aim with his pike. She reached to her ankle for her knife and threw wildly.
She hit his arm. He screamed, his weapon fell. Waryk turned Mercury, ready to fight the man, but Daro had gone after him, and they were engaged in bloody combat. Spinning again, clinging to Waryk, Mellyora trembled, realizing that her husband’s forces had taken these murderers completely by surprise.
He spurred Mercury, leading the horse into another flying leap over the stone, and they raced downhill.
He rode with her far from the battlefield, to where his camp had been. He moved through the tents and doused fires to a quiet copse by the stream. There, he dismounted with her in her arms. By the stream, he knelt, tearing off his helmet. His eyes touched hers, he searched her face anxiously.
“Waryk …”
“Lady …”
“M’laird!” she whispered.
She reached up, her arms no longer in such agony, now that she could touch him.
But he was anxious, so anxious. “Did they hurt you, Mellyora, you couldn’t stand, you can barely move …”
“Too long standing tied,” she said. She tried to smile. “You took your time!” she whispered.
“My apologies! I did my best, approaching without cover of artillery, and we might not have reached you.”
“Oh, Waryk, you came for me!”
“Aye, lady. I will always come. Mellyora, you are the prize,” he said very softly. “I have very definitely earned you.”
She smiled, caught his hand, kissed it.
He cradled her against him, then swore, realized that he drew her against mail. “Ah, my love, this is a most difficult time and place to express quite all that I’m feeling.”
She could hear the sound of the battle, and she closed her eyes, praying that her uncle would live, that the men who had come to her rescue would survive. Then she realized that she was hearing something closer. Movement, closer to them. She opened her eyes, and a cry of warning tore from her lips. “Waryk …”
He was up instantly, reaching for his sword. She had warned him in time.
He had killed Renfrew to rescue her from the fire. They had seen enough of the fighting to know who would prevail. But Ulric had not been killed, and he had followed them.
The two men circled one another. Ulric was the first to raise his weapon. Hammering blow after hammering blow fell upon Waryk. Mellyora tried to rise, afraid that Waryk couldn’t bear the strain, that Ulric was besting him.
“You killed my father, you deserve to die!” Ulric screamed.
“I avenged my father, murdered by yours!”
“You should have been dead, a nit among lice.”
“Ah, but I didn’t die.”
“No,” Ulric said, “you didn’t die. So know this. I had your wife; she was delicious. When you die now, she will welcome me as laird of her castle,” Ulric taunted. “I didn’t rape her, Waryk. She came to me, made love to me, asked me to kill you.”
Mellyora gasped, stunned at such a lie, yet knowing that Ulric meant for Waryk to lose his temper, to doubt her …
To falter.
He did not.
“Do you think that I believe that?” Waryk queried in return, deftly avoiding a blow.
“I had your wife, fool. I, and Renfrew. And you’ll never know whose brat she carries, eh, man? Your line dies with you. It should have died with your father, nit.”
Waryk suddenly sent his blade flying against Ulric again and again with a deafening clamor. “My wife is alive, and with me, bastard, and that is what matters.”
“Nay, fool, it is your father’s line you fought to keep, but my son will have your isle!” Ulric told him, striding forward, his sword in both hands as he prepared for another series of blows.
But this time, Waryk made no effort to ward off the blows. He spun around, swinging upward with his father’s claymore, catching Ulric below the mail, and piercing his abdomen. Stunned, Ulric dropped his sword, grabbed his stomach, and fell to his knees.
Waryk stood above him. “Nay, sir, whatever child has the isle will be mine.” He turned back to Mellyora. She tried to rise to throw her arms around him. She must have come to her feet too quickly. The world began to spin.
“Waryk …”
She fell against him; night faded to black. She vaguely heard his words as he caught her in his arms.
“My love, my love …”
Phagin, who reached them at last, assured him that Mellyora would be well, and Phagin stayed with her while he directed his men, collecting their wounded, seeing to the burial of the dead.
The battle was an undisputed victory.
Many of Renfrew’s Normans were slain, many begged mercy, and were sent to Stirling; their fate, Waryk had decided, the king must determine. Renfrew had made his private battle part of a war between kings, and so David must make final decisions.
Ulric’s Vikings were slain, or fled to the North. They were so disbanded that Waryk couldn’t see them making much trouble again.
Their victory celebration was wild. Vikings, Scotsmen, Normans, English.
They feasted on lamb roast.
Mellyora awoke, and came from the tent where she had rested, in the middle of the celebration. Her hair spilling down her back, she was dressed in a plain blue gown, and she seemed very young, innocent and pure as she walked to him. The men stopped in their drinking and cavorting, and a huge cry went out to her.
Waryk rose, she came into his arms, and together, they watched Phagin play sennachie, telling the story of the great battle of Blue Isle, the beautiful lady who had stopped the slaughter, and the brave warrior laird who had ridden to take his lady from the flames.
She fell asleep again in his arms. He held her tenderly, carried her to her tent, and lay at her side through the night.
He and Daro hadn’t said much to one another. It wasn’t necessary. They had formed a friendship based on
trust both had learned the hard way. They had drunk too much with one another right after the battle, but even that had been good.
Life itself was good.
His wife had survived, and she lay in his arms. And that was all, he realized, that he had needed. She was, indeed, the prize he had fought for.
In the morning, Mellyora was stronger. And still, for the journey home, Waryk insisted she ride before him on Mercury. She didn’t mind. She felt warm, secure, and cherished.
As they started out, others were near them. Phagin had created his magnificent poem, of course, but today, he told her about the battle in more graphic and dramatic terms. Daro told her his version of the battle. Peter tried to describe the meeting between Daro and Waryk. Angus, of course, had to tell a tale as well, and it was good to listen to them all, they were her world, and they had come together.
She was content to listen, smiling. Then Geoffrey, returned to his duties of carrying her husband’s armor, rode by their side, and he, too, became a storyteller, telling Waryk about her courage in defying Ulric when he meant to murder Eleanora. And how she had nearly, and most cleverly, saved herself along with the castle, if it hadn’t been for the treachery within. Waryk was grave then, looking down at her, and she closed her eyes, then opened them to his. “I wish I could swear that I will never leave you again,” he said softly. “But I am the king’s champion …”
“And we now know the truth about all the dangers within,” she said, smiling. “I will be safe in the future,” she promised.
It was only much later in the day that they managed to ride on ahead alone, and have a certain amount of privacy, and a chance to talk.
And Mellyora at last managed to twist in her husband’s arms, and tell him, “You have to know this. And that I’m not lying, nor saying these words to ease your soul in any way. Ulric meant to torment you whether he lived or died. He never did touch me, Waryk. He didn’t have the opportunity.”
His arms tightened around her. “My lady, I would have wanted him dead for any hurt to you.”
“But he wanted vengeance against you in any way. He wanted you to think that I might carry his child rather than yours. But—”
Come the Morning Page 40