Come the Morning (11 page)

“There has always been minor insurrection. And now, with Henry dead, men are easily swayed to fight for his daughter Mathilda against his nephew Stephen, or to fight for Stephen against Mathilda, and to cause trouble simply for whatever power might be seized in the midst of it.”

“Men must fight for some belief. Warriors would declare for Mathilda, or for Stephen. As far as Scotland goes, my lord, there are few Lowland Scots who do not recognize you as their king and overlord. I believe there is an enemy we have yet to unearth, someone more powerful than those poor fools we are forced to slay, and I am puzzled and angry that such an enemy doesn't show his face.”

“Vikings?” the king inquired dourly.

“Vikings are men who believe that their gods honor them for fighting with boldness and courage. I've yet to meet a Viking who chose to hide in battle.”

“In the end, Waryk, it's our strength that keeps us victorious, whatever enemy we fight. Don't dwell on questions when you haven't the resources for the answers.”

“But we can't ignore—”

“I ignore nothing, Waryk, you know that. I'll be all the more wary. And that is the heart of the matter, Waryk, leading to the arrangements we'll now discuss.”

“As you wish, but—”

“There's recently been a death that leaves a vast property open for the taking, Laird Lyon. I am pleased, at last, to have found the right holding for you. I knew, when I found you battling against all odds as a boy, that you would be a great champion for me. You have never disappointed me, Laird Lion. I will honor you, and you will serve me well to become overlord of that property.”

Curious, intrigued, and wary, Waryk realized that he had been gone several weeks and was out of touch with events that had been occurring in the king's realm. He didn't know what great holding had become available, but though the king had promised him rich rewards for a long time, he had never allowed himself to dwell on what the rewards might be, or why it took the king so long to find them. There had been times when he'd wondered if his “great rewards” had been words and nothing more, but not even that had mattered. Since the night his father and other kin had died, he'd followed the king.

Eleanora
… he thought.

A vast property, the king had said. Now, after the king had told him what property, he could bring up the subject of marriage to his English lady. He felt a strange trembling inside. Time had come. Here, tonight, was his reward. Land. Home. And soon, his family. What he had wanted, what he had craved. “Sire, I am naturally curious, and of course grateful, especially since I have found a woman I would call my wife—”

“Wife?” David interrupted, arching a brow.

“Aye, David, a good match, I think. I've given the matter a great deal of thought, and I think that I've found a proper lady, a wife whom you'll approve—”

“Nay, Waryk, I fear not,” the king said impatiently. “The lands come with an heiress.”

“What?” Waryk said, startled. Uneasy, and as yet, not sure why.

The king shook his head with impatience. “An heiress brings the land and the reward, Waryk. A great warrior has died. The laird is dead, but he left a daughter. With her marriage to you, she remains the lady there, and I keep the peace with those who will honor her house. The property I am talking about is coastal property along a fine inlet, an island and mainland, and they create a gateway to the Hebrides, and you know the old chieftains, and their sense of loyalty. Her mother was from one of the most ancient Scottish houses. The land, I promise you, is rich. Waryk, I believe you've learned that little in life comes without a price, but a price, I think, that will be painless. You've yet to see this heiress. And imagine this, a stone castle nearly as old as the land, where the foundation was built by the Romans out of a natural rock formation, where the first Normans built upon the old foundations, and created a solid fortress against marauders from land and sea. The surf may be tempestuous, but trade between the isles, England, Ireland, more, is constant. Goods arrive on a daily basis, crops grow in abundance, and sheep and cattle thrive. Many a man would kill for these riches, and many men have died to protect the land. Its position is advantageous, and it's imperative that the laird in power be a Scotsman, loyal to the crown of Scotsmen, and to no other. Vikings rule an area far too near.”

David had spoken lightly at first, then grown serious and Waryk answered in kind. “I'm grateful, of course. But—”

“Waryk, if ever you have served me, serve me now. There is nothing to protest. I told you, men would kill for what I am offering you, and I'm afraid that many will die if it is not seized and held with an iron fist. Great care must be taken that Lady Mellyora's lands be kept securely within my grasp, for though the great fortress lies upon an isle, the property stretches onto the mainland as I said, and there are trails there that lead directly to the Highlands. The lands are a connection with the chieftains, and with the sea, and they command vast, strategic stretches, should any of our Nordic neighbors see fit to raid again. You'll see it soon enough. The fields are rich, the artisans there are some of the most gifted in the country, the armorers are surely the finest in all the isles.”

“Again, I'm honored, but—”

The king came before him again, interrupting sharply, “You've not dishonored this woman you would have made your wife?”

“It's not a matter of honor or dishonor. The lady has been my mistress for some time. I'd not, I'll admit, thought of marriage until recently.”

“Mistress!” the king exclaimed, frowning. “Then what of her birth? What man—what father, brother, uncle—would allow this without challenging you—”

“David, she's a widow with the English king's permission to choose her second husband—”

“English!” David said, irritated.

“Sire, you married an Englishwoman. The woman I would wed is the Lady Eleanora.”

“Ahh …” David murmured softly, shrewd eyes on Waryk. Then he shrugged. “Indeed, she's a beautiful woman.”

Waryk lowered his head. On the one hand, he felt a strange excitement, a sense of beginning. The king had never bed to him. If he said that the property was vast and rich, then it was so. He'd known poverty, and he'd lived off the land. He'd lived at the king's court as well, and yet, though he'd slept in many a soft bed after many a rich meal, he'd not had a sense of a home. Not since his kin had all perished. He was hungry not for riches, but for a place to call home. Yet he had meant to marry Eleanora. He'd known whores as well as ladies, courtesans, and dairymaids. She had captured his mind, and his desires. It would be a good match. He didn't know if he was arguing with the king, or himself. “Sire, I've served you in many things—”

“Aye! So continue to serve me when I am trying to reward you with a great treasure. My dear lad, are you turning down a chance at tremendous wealth and power?” David demanded indignantly.

David had been born to be king. He had watched the English kings, he had watched his parents, and then his brothers, rule before him. He was capable of laughter, amusement, mercy—and fury, determination, and now, a quiet but very regal outrage.

“Nay, never. I am grateful. But—”

“I'm sorry about your liaison with Eleanora; I'm fond of that saucy English lass myself. But I know that you're no fool, and you've known that I've been waiting for many years now for the right situation to give you the titles and position you deserve as my champion. You are a warrior, lad, who has learned the ways of harlots and whores along the line of battle, and you're a knight who has too often lured the romantic notions of impressionable young women. I will see to it that Eleanora isn't too sorely disappointed with your marriage. By God, my man! You have known since you came to serve me upon your father's death that yours was a political destiny—that I would make it a great destiny, that you would not die a common man. You know your duty is to me—and to Scotland.”

Waryk stood still, feeling the cold of the river water that dripped from him. It was one thing to argue with the king. It was another to have his loyalty to Scotland questioned.

David was right;
he should have known this, expected this. Nothing came without a price
.

Yet still, the concept of being handed a woman because she came with a rich property was not a pleasant one. The feelings of warmth and laughter—and admittedly, lust—that had so intrigued him when he had been with Eleanora could be forgotten for Scotland. But despite his loyalty to the king, there was one thing he had desired above all else since the horrible day when his father and so many others had perished.

He wanted children. A family.

And if his rich property came with a gnarled, bent old witch of a woman, he would be denied the one thing that he had fought for all these years.

“I would simply like to hear a bit more about this land—and the heiress. David, you cannot doubt my loyalty to you or my country,” Waryk said. He wanted to ask more specific questions, but he was interrupted as the doors to the great hall burst open and a woman rushed in, frantically seeking the king's attention.

“Sire!”

The woman was slim with an abundance of flying silver hair. She rushed to the king. “Sire!” she repeated. Trembling, she bowed deeply before David, about to continue. Then she noted Waryk in the room. She was too distressed to note that Waryk was dripping river water on the floor, but she was evidently dismayed that she found the king in conference with one of his knights. She spoke awkwardly then, staring uneasily at Waryk, and stuttering out her explanation. “Sire, I—I … My apologies, I did not wish to interrupt, I—”

“You may speak, Jillian. What has happened?”

“But, sire—”

“Come now, speak up, Jillian!” David said impatiently.

Jillian tore her eyes from Waryk and looked at the king at last. “She's gone.”

“What?”

“Mellyora, sire. She's gone.”

“Gone?” the king exploded.

The silver-haired woman cringed and nodded again, glancing uneasily back at Waryk. She moistened her lips to speak, forcing herself to look back at the king again. “She's—gone.”

“She can't be.”

“But she is.”

“How? I had two men on guard at the door—”

“She left by the window, sire, I believe.”

“But there was a great drop to the courtyard below—”

“Scaffolding, sire. If she left through the window, she might have jumped from the parapets to the scaffolding. She is fleet, graceful, and quick. And …”

“And what?” the king said, his voice something like a growl.

“Desperate,” Jillian told him.

“My God!” The king roared with an explosion of anger. He slammed a fist down upon the long table in the center of the great hall with such a vengeance the wood groaned. “Damn her, but … my God!” he repeated. “The traitorous wench. I didn't believe that she would really defy me, blatantly disobey my will. I will find her. I will stop whatever treason she plots! She will regret her stubborn determination to defy me. She will pay the price for treason, and I will be entirely justified in whatever way I choose to mete punishment upon her—”

“Your pardon, sire, please, but you'll have apoplexy!” Waryk warned. But he was suddenly feeling a chill himself, an awareness. He should have known, though he still didn't want to admit …

“She will be found, and certainly, but if you'll excuse me, just who in God's name is this ‘she' who is gone?” he asked carefully.

The king had been distracted, but he stared at Waryk. His eyes were still blazing with a fire of fury and disbelief. But he paused in his tirade, his brow arching slowly as seconds passed. Then he spoke, more calmly than at first.

“The ‘she,' Laird Lion, is Mellyora. Mellyora MacAdin. She has managed her escape. Sweet Jesu, but I underestimated her! I never thought the wench would risk her own life to defy me!”

The king had yet to really answer him, but did he need the truth spelled out. Aye!

“Who, sire, is Mellyora MacAdin? What is her treachery? Is she your prisoner? Is she guilty of some misdeed?”

“She had been my guest. The child of an old and noble friend. Nay, she isn't guilty of a crime—I correct myself! She wasn't guilty of any crime. But now, she is very close to committing treason. Indeed, if I weren't such a merciful man, I would call her a traitor this minute!”

Still, the king hadn't spoken what Waryk already knew, and Waryk insisted he do so. “Why is she so anxious to escape? Is she an errant wife, a—”

“Oh, errant. You might think so, since she defies my command. To marry you. She's your heiress, Laird Lion.”

“Mine?”

“Aye!”

And he knew, of course, with certainty. What a fool he had been not to realize the situation instantly. The lady on the river was his intended wife. He might have reasoned it then; he might even have realized it when he spoke with Sir Harry, and realized that he had been summoned back just when the heiress had been coming to the king …

He was the man from whom she was running. He was the wretched, horrid, despicable “Norman” she had been told she was to wed. And rather than do so, she was running to her Viking kin.

He swallowed hard, fighting to keep a hold on his temper.

She had tried to use him not just to escape the king—but to escape her marriage—
to him
—as well. He remembered all the things she had said. By God, but she was arrogant.

She didn't know him; he didn't know her, he rationalized with himself. But logic didn't help the sudden searing of his temper. The hint of emotion and understanding he had felt for her plight dissipated like fog beneath a burning sun.
She
was the woman the king intended for him.