“We fight for Scotland, and not for a king, and we fight because we have no choice. What else is there? Edward has given everything he touches to English lords, and the English lords take everything Scottish, including our wives, daughters, and lives. What men can live with so little honor? What man can look to a man to whom he owes homage and not demand that his wife and daughters be given dignity? Ah, but that sounds noble, doesn’t it?”
“Aye, of course—” Ragnor began, frowning.
“Yet it’s not even honor that drives us on, I’m afraid,” Arryn said. “If we don’t fight, we fall prey to slaughter, again and again. We must fight; it is simple survival.”
“But do we fight all our lives?” Ragnor asked wearily. “Is there hope for us other than homes beneath the trees in the forests where we run when we can’t outfight the might of the English? For surely you realize you have been an outlaw, you have refused to sign the oath—but with this siege you will make a real enemy of the English king. You will find all your holdings seized.”
Ragnor was basically right. It had been soon after the sacking of Berwick that Edward had demanded that every landholder in Scotland sign an oath of allegiance. Many men had refused to do so—though more than two thousand had, among them most of the men who would be claimants to the throne when the time came for a new king to rise among the contenders. Many men who had not signed the oath had been slain by English officials planted in Scotland. Arryn remained certain his own father had been murdered by Englishmen, though he feared he would never have the proof of it.
Just as Angus Darrow had meant to murder him.
But some had avoided the oath and survived, and like him, were becoming more open daily in their rebellion.
“No,” he said to Ragnor. “The king can seize what he will. Taking land and holding it are two different things. One day Scotland will be ours. And besides, what can any man now take from me? Nothing is left of my land but charred ruins and burned fields. Even our people who have survived have sought shelter in the forest at the base of the mountains.”
“You still provide for them.”
“We steal for them.”
“We plunder English baggage trains and take back what is ours.”
“True. But eventually we will regain our country.”
“Is that a dream we live or a truth to be hoped for?” Ragnor queried.
“Are you becoming a pessimistic poet rather than a warrior?” Arryn demanded.
Ragnor grinned. “I? I come from a long line of reckless berserkers—men who would fight when they didn’t even know what they were fighting for. So I say, let’s pray we live to see this Scotland for the Scots.”
“Aye!”
“And we’ll drink to life, eh?” Ragnor said. “The ale here is exceptional.” He poured from a large keg of ale into two tankards, giving one to Arryn, then raising his own and drinking deeply.
“To life!” Arryn agreed, and drained his tankard. His head, he realized, was beginning to split. He had been awake all night. It was a new day. He wanted nothing more than a deep and dreamless sleep for a few hours of forgetfulness. He was crusted in blood, and he longed for a steaming bath as well. “Ragnor, summon a servant, whomever you have found most trustworthy. Who guards the tower above?”
“Young Niall of Perthshire. Thomas Grant watched until dawn, and now it is Niall who is there.”
“Good. Have him keep the watch until midday; then give it to Joshua Martin. Keep the men with the sharpest eyes on the wall as well. I don’t expect trouble by night, but …”
“I’ll stay awake myself until midday, then have Jay keep watch over all. You need have no fear, Arryn. We’ll watch your back well for you to get some sleep.” He hesitated. “You’re taking the tower?”
“Aye. Why?”
Ragnor stared into the flames. “Well, I do not deny you the business of revenge, but …” he hesitated again. “I find her very strange, the lady of Seacairn. Not what we expected.”
“Really?” Arryn inquired, annoyed that anyone’s opinion of Darrow’s betrothed should matter to him.
“Come, Arryn, we thought to find either a simpering, inbred idiot or a cold, calculating shrew determined on pushing Darrow into taking every last drop of blood possible to increase their worth to Edward. She is neither. She is intriguing, the men agree. Courageous, passionate—the most determined warrior in this castle, one might say.”
“So you all have been discussing the Lady Kyra?” he asked, and didn’t know why the idea irritated him so.
“Aye.”
“And you find her winsome?”
“Almost noble.”
“Well. There are those who consider Edward I a noble king. And he is, to us, nothing more than a noble butcher.”
“Aye, and that’s true. Arryn, we’ve admired her, but … we are cautious for you as well. There’s not a man who does not share your anger and pain, not a man who will ever forget Hawk’s Cairn. So, aye, you should take what is Darrow’s; he should die a thousand deaths and rot in hell for eternity. And the woman is justly yours. But aren’t you afraid you’ll awake with her knife in your throat?”
“I intend to take no chances; have no fear,” Arryn assured him. “There is no possibility that I will be taken off guard.”
Ragnor stared at him, nodding; then they both turned, hearing footsteps as a sprightly man with dark eyes and graying hair came into the room. He wore a simple bleached muslin tunic and warm woolen hose; Arryn had the feeling he had recently stripped away an overvestment that would have carried Kinsey Darrow’s arms. The man seemed vaguely familiar.
“My fine sirs, I have come to see if—” He broke off, staring at Arryn, then began again quietly, “Sir Arryn?”
“Aye? Do I know you?”
“That you do, sir, though you may not remember me. I was a young groom when you came here years ago, riding with your father. My name is Gaston; I’m the Briton who tended the horses back then. I came to the household after nearly being trampled.” He grinned with good humor. “You, good sir, dragged me from the courtyard when a dappled gray would have made mash of my face.”
Arryn grinned, remembering the occasion. “They shouldn’t have had you in the stables. You did not like horses.”
“Still hate the creatures, sir, mainly because they hate me.” His smile faded and he went silent. “Forgive me for speaking. Morning has come. I came to see if there was something else you required.”
“You are welcome to speak, Gaston. Tell me, have you become head of the household servants here?”
“At times.”
“At times?”
“When Lord Darrow is in residence, sir, he has his own company of retainers.”
Arryn glanced at Ragnor, tempted to grin. Dissension in the household might be good for their current cause.
“But they have gone with him?” Arryn said.
“Aye, sir, they accompany him everywhere. I am a Briton, you see, and to Lord Darrow, nowhere near so competent as his own man from Sussex. However, sir, I would have you know that not only am I exceedingly competent, I am also remarkably grateful that you have chosen to seize the castle, take its wealth—and refrain from slaughtering its inhabitants.”
“Well, Gaston, I’m not at all fond of slaughtering servants, and I am convinced that you will be remarkably competent. I want a very hot bath drawn in the east tower room, and I’d also have a large tankard of Seacairn’s fine ale brought there to be savored while I steam. Can you manage such comfort for me, and quickly?”
The Briton was frowning. “Aye, sir, that I can, but I’ve been told that the Lady Kyra is residing now in the tower.”
“That she is,” he said flatly.
For the first time it seemed that the Briton hid resentment. “Well, then, sir … you should remember that I came here under the old lord; his daughter is a Christian lass—”
“We’re all good Christians here, aren’t we, Gaston? If you wish to be of good service, do as I say.”
“Aye, sir,” Gaston said, bowing and backing away. “Immediately.”
He left the great hall, hurrying toward the kitchens. “The lady has her supporters!” Ragnor said softly.
“So she does. Pour me more ale.”
Ragnor filled his tankard. He lifted it. “To Scotland. To our slain brethren.”
“Aye, to those we’ve lost!” he said, and watching Arryn added, “And why not drink to vengeance?”
“Fine. To vengeance.” Arryn drained the tankard. Finally, finally, he could begin to feel the soothing effects of enough ale in his blood. He walked to the fire in the great hearth, leaned against the mantel, and watched the blaze. Red flames, gold, yellow, crimson, even blue. Leaping, falling, warming the hall. Man needed fire. Fire warmed, fire heated, fire cooked. It staved away the sure death of the bitter cold that could come to the land. And yet …
Fire burned. Fire killed….
He could still close his eyes and smell the smoke, the rancid smell of burning flesh.
“There must be vengeance!” he said softly.
“Aye. And Darrow’s woman should know that vengeance.”
Ragnor spoke with no conviction. She had bewitched them all.
Arryn spun around, his teeth gritting in fury. “I should simply give her to every soldier who breached these gates and leave her thus for Darrow to find.”
“But you would not.”
“Aye, and why not?” Arryn demanded bitterly. “Tell me, why not? Why do we stop where our enemies would not?”
“Well, knowing Darrow as we do, he would marry her still, and thus gain her wealth and many estates, both English and Scottish.”
“If he kills enough Scotsmen, the king will reward him with estates and riches anyway,” Arryn said bitterly. “He probably rose miraculously in the king’s eyes, simply by burning men—and women—to death.”
“You have taken this place, and his intended. You will drain him every time you’re able. In time you will catch up with him. And then …”
“Then, so help me, if I die in the effort, I will see that he meets Satan.”
“The time will come.”
“Well, then!” He strode back across the room and poured himself more ale. “I am to duty, and to bed.”
“Good night, Arryn, and take care! You must know that she’ll fight back. That …”
“That?”
“That she’ll want to kill you.”
“Aye, I am aware.” He paused, placing his hands over Ragnor’s red-bearded cheeks. “She has already tried. Though it seems that this castle is filled with fools who fall quickly to her feet, I will not fall prey to the lady, my friend. Trust me,” he said earnestly, looking into Ragnor’s eyes.
Ragnor watched him go. “Would that I had your duty!” he whispered softly, and yet he knew that demons plagued his friend, and that this was a strange vengeance indeed.
Arryn walked up the steps, tension knotting his limbs. He felt a new surge of anger, and couldn’t help wondering if he would be so bitterly determined if Lady Kyra had been the broad servant girl, Ingrid. As in the words of Julius Caesar: “I came, I saw, I conquered!” That simple. Have her brought to him, brought away. Over and done …
Why wasn’t he doing that? Why was she residing in the tower room already? He would have to take his longed-for steamy bath with her there; he wouldn’t dare shut his eyes—she’d be ready with a knife….
He paused, frowning, forgetting his dilemma for the moment as he heard a thumping sound from the area of the parapets. Rather than taking the twisting steps on up to the tower room, he walked out to the parapets once again.
The drop from the tower to the parapets was perhaps thirty feet. There was a guard above her, but as long as she had stared at the circular walkway below, she had seen no man make a single pass by. There was nothing to guard from here; the man atop the tower above her head could see riders coming from any direction.
The castle and the village had been duly subdued.
And already the dead had been cleared from the courtyard; the wounded had been taken away to be treated. Morning had come, another day, a new day. Things changed, and things stayed the same. The merchants were at their business again—grateful they had been spared the last battle to plague them.
Locked in the tower room, she had paced through the night, waiting, and at every little sound, jumping—certain that he was returning at last.
She had paused before the fire and, unbelievably, drifted to sleep, then awakened once again with an ungodly feeling of urgency. She had paced like a fool, making no attempt to escape.
But then, realizing the night was ending and day was coming …
It had been time for sheer desperation.
If she could make it down to the parapets below, she could make it to the courtyard from there, mingle with the bakers’ daughters and the fishwives—and disappear.
So thinking, she dragged her hastily created escape sash from the bed. It consisted of linen sheets wrenched from beneath the rich furs on the bed, her torn undertunic, the tassels from the tapestries, and the towels that were always set by the washstand. Her overgown had been left in little better shape by her tormentor than the tunic beneath it, but she’d found one of her father’s old mantles to tie around her shoulders, and thus she could escape with both decency and some anonymity.
She had carefully chosen the structure of the escape rope she had created, with the tassel cords at the top end to be tied around the legs of the heavy oak chair she had wedged by the window. When her knots were carefully completed—very carefully completed, for she didn’t intend to die in this endeavor—she took a deep breath.
She started out the window, then looked up. She could see the top of the guard’s head, but he could not see her. The overhang protected her from his vision.
Slowly, slowly, slowly … she started down the rope.
It was painstaking—so difficult! She feared that one of the knotted garments would slip at any minute. She had to move more quickly … and yet so carefully. The day was chill; sweat beaded on her forehead.
Another foot … another foot …
And she could jump.
She did so, landing softly, her knees buckling slightly, both feet on the ground. She paused then, eyes closed, hands against the cold stone of the tower. She was shaking, very afraid, aware that she might well have plunged to her death.
But she hadn’t.
She had made it.
And she was almost free.
And yet … what then?
Don’t think about it, she warned herself. Don’t dare think about it, not now; just figure out how to leap down to the ground below, to join with the workers in the courtyard….
She opened her eyes. They flew wide. A gasp escaped her.
He was there—the damnable, wretched, invading bastard so bent on her destruction. He was quite at his leisure, and had been watching while she struggled with a desperate and precarious attempt to elude him. He leaned against the wall quite casually, one arm across his chest, sipping ale, staring at her with his deep blue, ruthless gaze.
She started to turn. His fingers snagged her hair, drawing her back. She met his deep blue eyes, his shaven cheeks beginning to show stubble. He was weary, drawn, and sarcastic, his deep voice pleasant—and biting.
“How very rude. You intended to leave without saying goodbye.”
“Aye, I’m afraid so. I didn’t know your whereabouts. So, now, sir, how very rude of you to detain me when I am so anxious to be away,” she replied, reaching for his fingers in an attempt to persuade him to let go of her hair.
“So you missed me, and wondered about my whereabouts. I’m so sorry. Seizing and securing a castle are time-consuming. But I was just coming to join you.”
“How unfortunate. I was just leaving.”
“But I think not!” he said, and his light tone changed in such a manner that she knew he meant his words.
“You are hurting me,” she told
him, tugging anew at her hair.
“Good,” he said, and his stare was so cold, his rejoinder so flat and honest, she felt a swift siege of chills. “That is my intent.”
“Perhaps your intent should be delayed for the sake of logic, as this is most awkward. Be so good as to let me go, and I will precede you back up the stairs,” she suggested.
“I will not let you go, and you will still precede me back up the stairs.”
He had the most piercing eyes she had ever known, and a strange way of speaking in a manner that left no doubt as to his intent. When he spoke, there was no room for argument or negotiation. His statements were cold, chilling—and irrefutable. He absolutely despised her, she was certain; yet she would go with him and be …
Used and abused! His words!
He was as cold as ice, but his limbs and eyes burned with a strange passion. He had given mercy to the men, to the servants, but he was still covered in blood from the battle.
She bit her lower lip, staring at him. He gripped her as if he would far more willingly throw her from the parapets than drag her up to a bedroom. There had to be some way to argue him out of this; he had but one intent, and that was revenge against Darrow.
“You think to threaten me, and so strike out at Kinsey? My dear sir, you don’t understand us. We are both ambitious to a fault, and therefore will still wed. I am aware of his fondness for damsels in distress; he is resigned to my hunger for variety. I—”
“Were you aware that he has murdered those ‘damsels’ when he is finished with his own amusements?” he queried sharply.
Come the Morning Page 46