Come the Morning (23 page)

“You may go back to Laird Lion,” Daro told the messenger. “And tell him that I am grateful for the fact that he spoke on my behalf, that Anne will be my wife, and I will not forget his kindness. He may come here with his safety a sworn promise. I, too, keep my word; we are of different backgrounds, but my word is as sacred to me. I will look forward to greeting the great Laird Lion as an old ally in battle, as a friend, and as my blood by marriage.”

The messenger nodded, pleased. “I will carry your words, Laird Daro.”

Ragnar entered as the messenger left. “Threats? Demands?” Ragnar asked. “Do we prepare for battle?”

Daro shook his head. “Make sure that all men know that the king's champion, Laird Waryk, is coming here. He is bringing my future bride, and he is not to be molested in any way. Any man who accosts him will face my wrath and my sword.”

“What of your niece?” Ragnar asked.

Daro shrugged and answered truthfully. “The king will confiscate the property and give it to Laird Lion without her if she doesn't accept the arrangement. David isn't planning on a great marriage between two noble houses—he is making a political maneuver, and he will not be stopped.”

“Shall I have Inga awaken Mellyora?”

Daro shook his head. “Let her sleep, let her have what peace she can find now.” He hesitated. “Sleep has been such a difficult state to achieve since this all began. We'll let her rest until he arrives. It will not take me long to explain the situation; she will not be happy, but at least, she may be relieved, because we have all waited now so long, expecting a battle which might kill hundreds, and make us outlaws forever, should we survive.”

Word went out among the Viking camp that Waryk, Laird Lion, the king's man was coming. He was Daro's guest, a man many of them had fought with before, the king's champion arriving on a matter of personal and political expediency. He was to be greeted with respect and offered full hospitality.

Most of the men in the camp, aware since Daro's return with his niece that the promise of war had been in the air, were relieved. It was one thing to fight a border skirmish, another to put down open insurrection. But the world had already changed, and was still evolving. Daro had come here to speak with the king to grant them greater tracts of land. Though they were known for going a-Viking, at home, they were hunters and farmers, as fond of the warmth of a home fire against winter's cold as any man, as anxious for the simple abundance of hearth, wife, and family.

Most men, hearing the news, were relieved.

A man known to the Vikings as Ulric Broadsword was intrigued.

Born in Scotland of Nordic descent, he had joined with Daro's Vikings just days earlier with a small contingent of men. He could fight with the best of them, laugh easily, drink, and tell tales with bold, wine-sodden charm. He offered the group strength and hard work, and also, if necessary, the hospitality of his own home, southward toward the ever-disputed border with Norman England.

He had come to be close to the king and the events at Stirling. He had watched Daro arrive with Mellyora; he had seen how Daro's loyal men had set the camp on guard. And now, Waryk, Laird Lion, the king's great champion—risen from a snapping pup—was on his way. The implications were obvious. Waryk was to be given the property that had been ruled by great Adin through the heiress, Mellyora, the headstrong beauty made famous through the poems of many a roving
seneschal
or storyteller. Well, indeed, he'd seen the noble lass now, and the stories regarding her were not exaggerated—as stories often were to please the rich and noble.

The lass was a fair prize.

Aye, a fair prize, indeed. Delectable. And since they weren't going to war against Waryk and the king …

Seizing her would provide Ulric with infinite entertainment. Not that that even mattered. He'd have taken her if she'd been as ugly as a warted old hag. And he'd have had his way with her—even if he'd had to have blindfolded himself—simply because of who she was, and who she was intended to be.

But she wasn't ugly. She was as lovely as a goddess with her flashing blue eyes and sun gold hair. They said that she was proud, but pride could be broken. He had grown up with rage, and he had learned, and he knew how to break people—men and women.

Watching as the servants scurried about, cooking, selecting shaggy cattle to slaughter for a feast, he thought that his time to move was now. He motioned to one of his men, Han, and told him, “It's time to ride. Gather our men and meet me, with an extra horse, horses, at the southwestern entrance to the camp.”

Han arched a brow. “What are we about, Ulric?” he asked.

Ulric waved a hand in the air. “Vengeance. Where is Adin's daughter?”

“In Daro's hall.”

“With him?”

“I've heard that she sleeps in a little room to the side. She's not to be wakened until Waryk arrives.”

“Is she guarded?”

“Daro's men walk the front, but this is a camp, not a fortress. She is not a prisoner here, she would not flee or fight her own uncle. She rests, in the side room, with only a servant woman to watch her. The hall is hastily constructed wood frame and skins, no more. I've seen the servant woman coming and going from a doorway of deer hide at the far left corner of the structure.”

“Good.”

“But what are we about? If there isn't to be a war with the king—”

“Then we will make one,” Ulric told him. “We ride as I said. We go a-Viking tonight in a different way.”

Mellyora thought that she should awaken; she felt a strange sense compelling her to do so, but she was so lethargic, she couldn't quite remember why. Sleep had been good, so very sweet. No dreams had plagued her, and she thought that maybe Inga had added some special herbs to the wine to help her sleep. The warmth of the furs had been delicious.

“Mellyora!”

The whisper of her name had such a sound of urgency to it that she was instantly aware of danger.

The room was still dark; though she thought that daybreak had to be coming. Beyond the small room, torches burned, and around her, in the camp, they burned as well, but the light filtering in was pale, and at first, all she saw was the form of a man at her side.

“Daro?” she whispered, fighting the lethargy that still held her.

“Nay, but I am your uncle's man, here to help you.”

“What has happened?”

“The king has sent a negotiator. I am to spirit you away, until Daro can make his own arguments. We must disappear silently, do you understand?”

“Is it a pretense? My uncle is to be as surprised as anyone that I have disappeared?” she queried.

“Aye, lady, that is it, you must help me, we must leave in absolute quiet.”

“Aye!” She rose, a little unsteady on her feet. He set an arm around her. She looked up. He was wearing a Viking helm, but no armor other than a leather breastplate. She thought that he was wise, for any mail or plate armor might hamper his movement and create a trail of noise to follow.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To safety, my lady. And we must hurry.”

She could hear voices beyond the entrance to her uncle's long room; people were arriving at the hall, she realized.

“Aye, give me just a moment to dress.”

He turned away. She swept a gown from the foot of the bed to slip over her linen shift, and reached quickly for her shoes.

“Wait. Wear this cloak. Pull the hood low, but walk tall. Come quickly.”

She slipped on the cloak, and as she did so, she saw that her uncle's gift, the small Celtic sword, lay by her bed. As he walked away, she belted on the slim leather scabbard and slid the sword in place. The cloak blanketed her then, as she joined him.

He pushed upon a hide and she saw that it was not secured, but created a doorway. She slipped out ahead of him, wondering what Daro might have decided to say. Her uncle must have planned well, determining on agreeing to anything that was said, swearing that he would return his niece as he had been asked …

The camp stretched out before her. Fires burned in the night; men moved around them. Able builders, the landscape was dotted with their temporary homes, and wooden walls had been erected around the camp to keep out unwelcome visitors.

“Keep your head low.”

“Surely, I need not be afraid. These are my uncle's men,” Mellyora told him confidently.

“You never know who can be trusted, my lady. Fighting men come and go, and loyalties change. We are best to disappear with no one the wiser at all. These are dangerous times we live in.”

Mellyora kept her head down, her face covered, and they were not accosted as they moved through the camp. They came to a breach in the wall where a group of men on horseback waited with extra mounts for her and her rescuer.

“Where is the guard? There should be a man on guard here,” Mellyora said.

“My lady, the guard will return. It is expedient that I get you out of here quickly if Daro is to be able to talk.”

“Where is Ragnar?”

“Ragnar is your uncle's champion in all things, and he is at Daro's side now, my lady. Please, you must trust in your uncle. He is fighting for you, don't fight against him.”

“Wait, I will not have Daro going to battle over this. I don't want anyone fighting—” she began.

“My lady, I didn't mean that your uncle would be drawing his sword. He is fighting with his wits, but in order to do so, he needs to know that you are safe. Don't make this harder for him. You must hurry.”

She looked around her; most of the men wore helmets with some fashion of faceplate, either metal or leather. A few wore surcoats over chain mail, some wore leather breastplates, as if they were prepared for war. There should have been a guard at the gate. She didn't know if she recognized these particular men or not because their accouterments were so concealing.

She stepped back. “I must speak with my uncle.”

“There's no time.”

The man who had come for her lifted her and sat her atop one of the horses. She was surrounded by them, she realized. There were more than a dozen men, they carried weapons, they were ready for battle.

“No—” she began.

The man who had come for her leapt up behind her. Anticipating his action, Mellyora spurred the horse. The Viking leapt up, the horse reared, neighing and snorting as he pawed the air.

But the Viking's leap was powerful and sure, and his arms were tight around her. She was certain for several terrible seconds that he would bring her crashing down to the ground with him, and there, together, they would be trampled and broken beneath the huge animal's hooves.

The Viking held his seat, and shouted to his men, “Ride!”

“No!” she screamed.

But the sound of her cry was seized by the wind, and carried away.

And they raced into the night, and away from her uncle's camp.

C
HAPTER
11

Waryk didn't expect any tricks from Daro. He rode to the camp with only a few of his most trusted men—Angus, Thomas of Perth, Rem of Wick, and Gerrit MacLyle—and, of course, Anne MacInnish. He had weighed the situation carefully. He might have returned Anne to Daro, and still been set upon by the Vikings, but he was certain that Daro wouldn't turn on him. Daro, he believed, was a man of his word. Daro meant to marry Anne, he wanted his children with her to be legitimate issue, and Waryk had offered him that chance. Pride and responsibility might have kept him from trading his niece for the woman he loved, but Daro was not a fool—he would not allow his brother's lands to be taken, as he now knew they would be, if Mellyora did not become Waryk's wife.

Waryk acknowledged the ingenuity of his Viking host as he rode through the camp to Daro's quarters within. History had proven the Vikings to be invaders, but where they settled, they were excellent builders as well. Most of the peoples who had emigrated across Europe and into the British Isles had brought with them their culture, their art, and their beliefs. The Vikings had traveled so many places that they had learned the best from many peoples. No one built ships like the Vikings, and they had transferred their building talents here, to this camp. Their temporary dwellings were finer than many a cottage he had seen upon a great estate.

Daro stood in front of his hall, framed in the light of a great fire which burned within it. He was a tall man, close to Waryk's own height, streaks of red flame in his blond beard and hair.

He waited while Waryk dismounted from his horse, then gripped his arm firmly in greeting.

“Welcome, Waryk, Laird Lion.”

“Aye, Daro, I'm glad to come as I have,” he said, nodding gravely. He could see that although Daro held his peace, he was searching through Waryk's mounted men for Anne.

“Anne …?” Waryk said, turning back. At his invitation, she stepped forward. She tried to be circumspect at first, but when Daro let out a hoarse little cry, Anne rushed forward. Daro enveloped her in his arms, his eyes closing as he held her tenderly for a moment. Then he looked at Waryk. “I am in your debt.”

Waryk nodded, acknowledging Daro's words. “I admit to being glad to seeing you together.”

Daro smiled, looking down at Anne. “Your kin have agreed to our wedding?”

Anne smiled radiantly, flashing a quick glance at Waryk. “Aye, and we are indeed in debt to Laird Waryk. The king made the suggestion to my uncle that we would make a fine pair, and that he would bring your strength more tightly into his fold if we were to wed.”

He kissed her forehead. “Anne, I can't tell you of my happiness. Ragnar will take you to your quarters while I speak with Waryk and Mellyora.” He gazed at Waryk. “We are to be married soon?”

“Aye, the week following my marriage to Mellyora. Naturally, you are to renew your commitment to the Christian faith.”

“Aye, that I'll do. If a Christian god brought me Anne, then I can bow before him. Ragnar?”