Come the Morning

by Heather Graham

  “Hang you?” he queried. “Hang you? A simple hanging? Good God, my lady! We are barbarians, but surely you must expect that we have some imagination!”

  “I’m quite sure you have more than ample imagination. But you have taken the castle. Be advised that the men here had nothing to do with …” Despite herself, her voice trailed. She had meant to keep her eyes steady with his. She could not. “The men here were not involved with the events that occurred so recently on your holdings … sir.”

  She wanted to look at him, wanted so badly to raise her eyes to his. Feeling his stare, she wanted so very badly not to appear a coward.

  And at last she looked up at him. “If they beg for mercy, I pray that you will remember that in simple justice: they were not involved.”

  “And we know, of course, that you were,” he said, and she wondered if it was a statement, or a question. The words from him, quietly spoken in the Norman French of the court, were more disturbing than a harsh demand in the Gaelic he had thundered thus far. She wondered if it was because there was a more subtle but far more deadly threat in a tone so soft.

  She hesitated, feeling the fury that lay within him, feeling it tangible in the air, washing over her in great waves. And she knew that it was more, of course, that it was pain and loss and horror, and she was tempted to scream out her own terror and throw herself at his feet.

  “My name was used,” she said. “What matters, sir, is that you do not punish the innocent here, that you—”

  “No quarter,” he said softly.

  “What?”

  “No quarter, my lady,” he answered her, his eyes studying her face, his tone low and even. “No quarter. They are the two words given by your good King Edward at Berwick on Good Friday, March thirtieth, 1296. You have heard of the occasion, surely? He attacked the town and mercilessly slaughtered the citizenry—the estimate of deaths that night ranges from about seventeen to forty thousand. Edward was in a rage—his cousin had been killed by an arrow. His own churchmen begged him to stop the carnage—he would not do so until he had to witness a child being born as the mother was hacked to death.”

  Kyra knotted her fingers into fists at her sides, well aware that the event had occurred. “Terrible butchery has taken place,” she said quietly. “But these people were not part of it. Does revenge justify the murder of innocent men?”

  “Innocent men? Innocent men? Any man who serves such a master as Kinsey Darrow can hardly be considered an innocent.”

  “Those who have remained here were my father’s retainers. They never rode with Kinsey. They were left to guard the castle when he rode out. I swear to you that they were innocent of…”

  She faltered. The sudden rise of rage and pain to his eyes were such that her voice trailed to silence.

  “The death of my wife and child?” he finished harshly for her.

  She was shaking and she knew it. She couldn’t meet his gaze.

  She had been promised to Kinsey by the king, but as yet, no wedding ceremony had taken place. She had come of age at a time when Edward was ruthlessly destroying Wales and turning toward Scotland, despite his disputes with France. England and Scotland had always struggled for border lands, but never like this. She could not believe the atrocities that took place, the destruction of Hawk’s Cairn, Arryn Graham’s manor and holdings. Fighting men had been locked into a barn—which had been set ablaze. Then the house itself had been torched.

  Kinsey had sworn to her that he hadn’t known that Arryn Graham’s pregnant young bride was in the residence when his manor was set afire. And still …

  Had his lady succumbed to the smoke? Or had she died in the fury of the flames?

  “None of these men took part,” she said.

  “Perhaps not. And perhaps you’re a liar, praying that they’ll find courage and strength and rise again in rebellion when I believe they’ve been subdued.”

  Her eyes flew open and she stared at him, surprised by the sudden rise of renewed courage his scornful words had brought to her. “I am the one against whom you should seek your vengeance. Take what revenge you will against me. Turn these men to your own use, for they are far more Scottish than English, and will be grateful for your mercy and perhaps far more useful to you in the future alive than they could ever be now as dead men! Take your revenge against me.”

  “Oh, I will, lady, I will!” he assured her, spinning around, his strides long as he began to exit the chapel. As he started out, another man, a strapping young dark-haired warrior with his helmet held now in his hand, came bursting in.

  “Arryn, did you find—” He broke off seeing Kyra.

  “Yes, I found her,” Arryn said, turning back to indicate Kyra.

  The newcomer stared at her hard, then at Arryn.

  “Well,” he murmured.

  “Escort her to the eastern tower room,” Arryn said, his gaze—hard, blue, and passionless—assessing her once again.

  “Now?”

  “Aye, now.” He still gazed at her. He looked at the newcomer once again. “She has suggested that we hang her. I have informed her that, barbarians though we may be, we’ve imaginations far superior to so simple a solution.”

  “But Arryn—”

  “Jay, you will escort the lady to the eastern tower, where she will await my leisure.”

  Ingrid came running up to her from the few steps behind her where she had stood. “I will be with you, my lady—”

  “You!” Arryn snapped, pointing at Ingrid. “You will descend to the great hall now!”

  “No!” Kyra cried, grasping on to Ingrid. “You will not hurt her or abuse her in any way! She is truly no part of this—”

  “Madam, she will not remain with you!” Arryn grated. “Who are you? What is your name?” he demanded of the terrified girl.

  “In … In … In—”

  “God help us!” he roared impatiently. “Your name! All I’ve asked is your name.”

  “Ingrid, she is Ingrid!” Kyra told him.

  “Have her go below before I have her dragged out.”

  “Ingrid, go below to the great hall; see what work needs to be done. He will not hurt you. She stared at him, praying that she told the truth as she looked into the icy pits of his cold blue eyes. Would he hurt her—kill her? Neither women nor children could expect simple decency in this conquest Edward would make. How could she promise Ingrid her safety when she knew what had befallen this man’s wife?

  It didn’t matter. Maybe Ingrid wasn’t as aware as she of what horrible cruelties had taken place against their enemy. She stepped forward as Kyra urged her, slowly approaching Arryn, then nervously passing him by.

  Arryn watched her go.

  “Aren’t you afraid she will find a weapon and come back and crush you?” she heard herself say defiantly. Then she was terrified anew, afraid that her reckless words might endanger the girl’s life.

  “Afraid, madam, of timid Ingrid? Not a whit. While you, my lady …” Once again he assessed her. “I’d not trust you for a split second. Only a fool would turn his back on you. But we’ll deal with that difficulty later.”

  Without another word, he threw his mantle over his shoulder and started on his way out of the chapel again. A moment later he was gone, and she was left alone with his man to be taken to the tower room.

  “My lady?” the man said.

  “How does he know the tower room?” she whispered. “No one has been there since my father—”

  “My lady, in better days, he knew your father.”

  “He never knew my father!”

  “Lady, he did.”

  “I would have remembered—”

  “You were very young, and in London, serving at the queen’s court. You see, my lady, we would have remembered you as well, had we ever met, I am certain. Will you accompany me?”

  “My father was no friend to outlaws.”

  The tall warrior smiled at her. “We were not outlaws then, my lady. For Edward of England had not seized this count
ry that is not his.”

  “But your leader is—”

  “Not a savage, uncivilized barbarian out of the Highlands, my lady. Though he’s kin enough among a rugged breed! I swear to you, my lady, he did meet your father, and does know the castle, and was welcomed here once.”

  “Sir, whatever the past, you are rebels and outlaws now!”

  “Now will you please accompany me?”

  He seemed a decent man for an outlaw. She gazed at him, studying him. He was young, with handsome features of a gentler nature than those of his leader, who seemed a rough-hewn, ruthless savage, no matter what this man had to say in explanation.

  Aye, if he was savage, he had just cause!

  She was not to blame, yet it seemed she would pay the price. There was nothing to do but fight them….

  As long as she was able.

  “And if I do not do as you say? Follow your orders?” she inquired. “Will you skewer me here and now? Perhaps I should allow you to do so. I will die an easier death—and you’ll not have your barbarian minds taxed in determining a more imaginative end for me.”

  The dark-haired man smiled, giving her the first breath of hope she had felt since knowing they had come. “My name is Jay, lady. Will you accompany me, please?”

  “Why should I cooperate with you, sir, with men who will decimate my people and destroy me when they see fit? Why should I make things easy and accompany you?”

  “Because you have far too much mercy in your own soul to make me go to him with the words that I cannot do so much as accompany an unarmed young woman to a different room within a castle. Then he would come back for you himself….” Jay allowed the implied threat of his words to linger on the air; then he shrugged. “As it is, unless I must admit to my incompetency, he may be occupied for hours.”

  “Lead the way, sir. I will follow you.”

  “Nay, lady, you will go before me.”

  She arched a brow. “Do you think me dangerous, too?”

  “It’s best never to trust the enemy.”

  “The unarmed enemy?”

  “My lady, if you will …”

  He bowed, indicating the door. She exited the chapel and walked down the second-floor hallway, tempted to stop and stare down to the great hall below to see for herself what damage might have been done to the hall and to the folk who worked there. Yet she kept her spine stiff, her chin raised—and walked. From the corner of her eye she tried to see what was happening below; she could not.

  She turned around, facing Jay. “Will you tell me, sir, if my priest has survived? His name is Father Michael Corrigan.”

  “It’s not my place, my lady, to tell you anything.”

  “What of the captain of the inner guard? A brave man named Tyler Miller.”

  “Lady, what has become of your people is not for me to say.”

  “You cannot answer simple questions?”

  “Again, I say it is not my place.”

  “Are you a puppet then, sir, nothing more than a plaything for a greater man?”

  She was startled when he smiled. “My lady, you will not goad me into betraying Sir Arryn in any way.”

  He stood steadfast, not at all perturbed, and she was dismayed by the loyalty she saw in his features. She turned and walked again, suddenly half-blinded by tears. This would have been far easier if the man who had set out in vengeance against Darrow were more clearly a monster. Thus far, though they might mean to destroy her, they prepared to do so with courtesy. They were well-spoken and apparently well educated, for barbarians. Their Norman French was as good as their Gaelic.

  She stared at Jay for a moment, weighing her chances to at least know the fate of the two men who had stood by her most loyally—Tyler, who would have fought to the death without her command to seek mercy, and Father Corrigan, who had believed that he had left her hidden in the burial vault of her father, with Ingrid to take her place until he could placate the man who had come for vengeance. Father Corrigan had seemed to think that this man would not bother with Ingrid, that he would set her free, or perhaps force her to do manual labor for his men. She didn’t think that Father Corrigan began to understand the depths of Sir Arryn Graham’s anger.

  Somehow she must defend the people who had defended her. Or die trying.

  She would not go meekly to the tower room.

  She spun again, tearing for the stairs with mercurial speed. She heard Jay’s startled, sworn exclamation behind her, but ignored it, racing down the stone steps to the great landing below, turning to the left, then, to the vast expanse of the drafty great hall.

  Several men were there, warriors who had now cast off their helms but remained in their heathen armor—armor not near so grand as that afforded her own men here at Seacairn, but deadlier in its rugged, simplistic style. They were not clad in tunics that proclaimed one great lord or household, but rather in chain and leather protection with metal plates covered by the mantles and colors of their own families, simple plaids that conveyed their allegiance to family and name, rather than to a commander. Four were seated at the large, long planked table that stretched from the area of the hearth; a few were seated upon it. The hounds that supposedly guarded the castle had already given over to the new regime; they lay about in the rushes near the hearth and slept easily—or nuzzled the hand of a conqueror as he drank ale from her storerooms and ate heartily of the smoked meats and fresh bread that had been brought on large trenchers to the table. Already the servants served new masters.

  And dinner had come for famished warriors, so it appeared.

  She stood still, staring into the room, digesting the sight of the invaders sprawled so comfortably about. Arryn Graham was here. He did not sit with his men as yet, but stood by the hearth, arms leaning upon the mantel as he stared into the flames.

  He turned and stared at her. She felt the cold assessment of his deep blue gaze once again, and once again found it chilling.

  There had been talk in the great hall—men boasting and laughing, she thought. Now it was suddenly all silence, and like Arryn, they all stared at her.

  “Arryn—” Jay began awkwardly, coming to a halt behind her. She could almost feel the rush of warm embarrassment that encompassed him. He had, after all, failed at the simple task of escorting a lone woman from the chapel to the eastern tower room, the isolated master chamber that rose another flight of steps from the second-floor chapel and guest rooms, storerooms, library, and office.

  “Aye, Jay, I see—Lady Kyra has come to meet her new … guardians,” Sir Arryn said. He left the hearth, walking toward her. She felt the frantic beating of her heart as he approached. There was something in him, an energy and a hatred tightly leashed, that frightened her more than all the threats against her life, person, and sanity. It was as if he might, at any second, snap, and then the violence done her would be swift and terrible. Yet suddenly he reached out to her, taking her arm. She felt the strength and tension in his grip, like the lightning of his eyes. She longed to wrench free, to violently shake off his touch, yet she thought better of it—for the moment, at least.

  “How rude of me. I failed to ask you to join us for dinner.” So saying, he slipped her arm through his own, a hand upon hers as he led her down the hall to the head of the table. “Men, this is the Lady Kyra of Seacairn, daughter of the late Lord Hugh Boniface and Lady Mary MacGregor of Dumferline—now pledged to one English lackey known as Lord Kinsey Darrow. Lady Kyra, you have met young Jay MacDonald; the fine fellows to my left are Nathan Fitzhugh and Patrick MacCullough. There, to my right, Thane MacFadden and Ragnor Grant. Those strapping lads at the rear of the table are Roger Comyn and Hayden MacTiegue.” The men nodded to her as they were introduced. She and Arryn had reached the head of the table. He pulled out one of the heavy, finely carved chairs for her. A hand upon her shoulder, he pushed her down. “Do sit and join us—Lady Kyra.”

  She sat, having no other choice with his hands on her shoulders, aware of the faces staring her way. Arryn did not sit. H
is booted foot landed upon his chair. His hands left her shoulders, but he remained close, nearly touching her, as he reached for the tankard of ale in front of her. He drank from it, and pressed it toward her. “Drink, Lady Kyra. Drink with us. We were just about to toast our victory here.”

  She ignored the tankard.

  “Where is my priest?” she demanded curtly.

  “Your priest, my lady?”

  “My priest. What harm have you done him?”

  One of the men at the end of the table made a snickering sound. She bit her lower lip, trying to keep from bolting in a wild panic and amusing them further, for surely they would attempt to stop her, and the attempt would not be gentle.

  Arryn’s head lowered toward her own. “Surely you are not feeling the need for last rites so soon, my lady?”

  She managed to push back the chair and rise, yet found herself hemmed in by him. Still, she found the courage to speak again. “I demand to know what you have done with him!”

  “You demand?” he inquired, unruffled, only the dark blue eyes so fixedly upon her betraying any inner turmoil.

  “Aye, sir, I demand to know—”

  His hand landed on her shoulder. “Perhaps, with all in attendance here, I should fully explain your situation. You will make no demands. You—like the hounds by the fire—will receive whatever courtesies and kindnesses we choose to bestow.” He spun her around to see the faces of the warriors in the hall. “Look around you, lady. Every man here had kin at Hawk’s Cairn. You have heard of Hawk’s Cairn? Ancestral manor and estates of my line of the Graham family. Aye, you know what happened; you know it well. We have established that fact already, haven’t we? You say that none of your father’s people here had a part in that barbaric act of inhumanity. But you knew of it, by your own admission. You knew that your betrothed was out riding against the Scots. You didn’t carry a sword into that battle yourself—or did you? God knows, you handle the weight of a weapon with much greater talent than many a poor man sent to his death on a king’s business. It’s no real matter here and now. This stronghold will again be held by Scotsmen.”