Come the Morning (34 page)

“And their overlord,” Ewan added quietly. “Especially when he is a warrior prepared to risk his own life's blood for his people.”

He looked up at the young man. His eyes were impassive. Waryk wondered if he wanted to kill the fellow here and now for knowing his wife, or if this loyalty meant that he had accepted the king's word and would be an asset Waryk could not afford to lose.

The man was a good warrior.
He could be trained to fight for the king
, Waryk thought. He didn't think that he'd be leaving the fellow behind on the isle when it came time to depart himself.

“See that there is a guard set on shore as well as at the castle tonight,” he said, and strode toward the cottage where Thomas had said he would find Mellyora.

The place was in disarray, but already, something boiled upon the hearth, a slender, middle-aged woman worked there, and Mellyora indeed sat by the bed of a man with a huge gash on his arm. An ancient man with a long white beard held the gaping wound tightly together while she sewed it closed with tiny, expert stitches. “Aye, there will be a scar, but I will make it pretty, as fine as my needlework, Joshua,” she said, teasing him, soothing him, as she worked.

“I killed the man who came with a staff—” Joshua began, then broke off, wincing.

“You were brave, indeed. Margot, bring the poultice, and your strongest ale; he needs to sleep.”

“Aye, son, rest is the strongest healer now,” the white-haired man said.

The woman who had worked at the hearth bobbed to Waryk and hurried to the bed with the poultice she had heated over the fire. Mellyora stood and turned to him. She quickly colored, and he realized that Angus and the MacKinny had come to stand behind him, and that she was seeing young Ewan for the first time since her marriage.

“All is well here?” Waryk inquired.

“Aye,” Mellyora murmured, lifting a hand and indicating Joshua's carefully tended wound, and the way that his wife served him now.

Waryk stared at the man with the white beard.

“Laird Lion, arrived most opportunely!” the man said, and bowed, watching him with open curiosity. “I'm Father Phagin, Laird Lion, but since it's rumored my father was a Viking runemaster and my mother a Celtic witch, my flock just call me Phagin. I advise, I heal, I communicate my very best with Heaven.”

Waryk thought that Phagin might turn elsewhere when he didn't feel that Heaven was answering, but he instinctively felt that whatever his ways and means, Father Phagin was a spiritual man, and probably did commune more closely with God than many a more orthodox man. “There are two dead, Father?” he asked.

“Aye, young Avery, the smith, and old Joseph, a mason.”

“Let the women prepare them tonight; we'll hold services tomorrow.”

“Aye, Laird Waryk. And sir, welcome to Blue Isle.” He smiled somewhat grimly. “We are not so incompetent, sir, as it might have appeared when you first arrived. You must be weary from your journey. If you wish to settle into your new home, I can promise you that we will take care of the houses here, our people, and all that needs be tended to from this heinous attack.”

Waryk watched him, and nodded. Mellyora still stood across the room, silent for once, and appearing stricken.

He reached out a hand to her. “Come, my dear. Indeed, show me my new home, I've a need to reach
our
chambers.”

She was ashen, and he wondered if she would fight him, as she so often did—especially since he had emphasized the fact that they would share quarters and that he had done so in front of MacKinny. If she did, it might be well—he'd make the point immediately that he was laird of this castle.

But apparently, she didn't want any points made.

“Father Phagin, we'll speak later. Margot, pray, take good care of Josh.”

“Aye, lady, he's my life,” Margot said passionately, and she sat at her husband's side, taking his hand. They were neither young, nor especially pretty people, but there together, the tenderness they shared, despite whatever hardships in life faced them, seemed to cast a beautiful glow upon them both. Their lives were simple; poor perhaps, but in Margot's eyes, he could see that she believed she had everything, for her husband had survived.

Waryk found himself pausing. “Don't worry in the days to come, Joshua. You bravely withstood an enemy. Whatever you need that we can give, you will have.”

“Thank you, me mighty Laird Lion,” Joshua said humbly. “Thank you fer that boon, and thank you fer arriving in time to kill the heathens!”

“Aye, well, that thanks belongs to God, for we could not have planned it so, Joshua,” Waryk said. “Mellyora?”

At last, she found motion and strode from the bedside. She hesitated just briefly, teeth clenched, before she accepted his hand and let him lead her from the cottage. “The tide is rising—” she told Waryk as he led her toward Mercury.

“Mercury can manage.”

“The water is cold,” she murmured.

Perhaps the water was cold; he had not thought so charging into battle, but then he had to admit to himself, he had been wild with rage. This,
this
place was his. His property had been attacked. And he would fight any man to the death.

“Aye, lady, then—”

“There are boats on the shore. My people will see me across,” she said smoothly, intending to walk right past him.

“Really? Tell me, were those
your
people who just attacked?”

She stopped dead, turning furiously to him.
“What?”

“Vikings. We were set upon by Vikings.”

“Outlaws. Many Vikings are now as much a part of Scotland as you or I,” she insisted.

“Umm. Curious, my lady, that you have so much Viking kin. Your father was Viking, and with the least invitation, surely, there are Vikings who think that this isle should be theirs.”

“How dare you! If you're referring to my uncle—”

“I dare, because Vikings attacked.”

She turned from him, starting away. He caught her arm, pulling her back. “And I'm referring to no one. I just pray you realize that such Vikings are your enemies, and not your saviors!”

“Let me go. I'm tired. It's been a long ride, and a long way home.”

She jerked free and started walking again. He mounted Mercury, then decided that they would reach the isle together—he didn't give a damn if the water was cold, or scalding. He urged Mercury forward. She turned, hearing his approach, but before she could protest, he reached down for her, drawing her before him on the great warhorse. Mercury obediently plunged into the surf, and though the water rose, the horse didn't falter. They touched ground again, and together, rode onto the shore of Blue Isle. He urged the horse into a lope, and they entered through massive gates into a portcullis, through a second set of gates, and into the great courtyard of the fortress.

For several long moments, Waryk held his seat, staring around him. The huge stone walls housed marketing tables and merchants with their wares. Animals brought in during the attack still roamed about in large number. There were five tower sections connected by five lengths of thick wall; parapets lined the uppermost region, by way of the towers. The expanse of the courtyard was huge, and suddenly, all the people who had come into the walls for protection from the attack began flocking around them. They called greetings to Mellyora, welcoming her home, and they welcomed him as their new laird with a warmth and passion that he realized could not have been his had they not arrived to such tumult.

People crowded Mercury; the horse accepted the adulation well, as if it were all for him. Finally, a man broke through the crowd. Mellyora spoke softly, using the Gaelic term for the master of the household.

“This is Donald,
ard Ghillean an-tighe.”

“Aye,” he murmured.

“Lady Mellyora, Laird Lion, welcome, come, there's wine by the fire, your chambers are prepared.”

“Aye, Donald, I'm most anxious,” Waryk said, and he eased Mellyora to the ground before leaping from Mercury. He saw a groom come for the horse, and Donald's presence had created a trail through the crowd. As they followed Donald, Mellyora greeted people, and people watched him, their eyes bright with curiosity. He nodded here and there, accepting the homage given him.

They entered the northernmost tower and immediately came up a flight of stairs; as with many fortresses, Waryk saw quickly, the lower floors were kept for livestock, arms, and other supplies. Donald told him that the men were quartered in the western walls, guests were given the eastern sector, and the northern tower and halls had always belonged to the laird. As they moved, Waryk rested a hand against the small of Mellyora's back. She walked very quickly. He kept pace.

The tower itself was the great hall of the fortress; Donald escorted them to the left to reach the master's chambers. They were vast, taking up the entire length of the seaward section of the hall. A huge bedchamber was separated from an anteroom by a draped arch, and while the bedchamber boasted the bed, a great hearth, a table by an arrow-slit window, a number of trunks, a washstand and an elaborately carved dressing table, the antechamber was equally comfortable, with large, leather-bound chairs, furs upon the floor before the hearth, a large table laden with books and plans, and walls hung with all manner of weaponry.

He had best be careful, he thought. His wife could choose many a blade to use against him at a moment's notice here.

While Donald pointed out the view from the arrow slits and the door that led to a balcony with stairs to the parapets, Mellyora stood still and silent in the center of the room.

“M'laird, what is your pleasure?” Donald asked.

“My belongings from the wagons will take time to load on boats, I imagine,” Waryk said. “Is there a bath?”

“Of course, Laird Lion,” Donald said indignantly. “They say that we are ruffians, barbarians, perhaps, but we've a fondness for water, here, sir, as it were. You'll find that the Scots—”

“I am a Scot, Donald.”

Donald froze, embarrassed. “Your pardon, sir. Word had it that the king would choose a Norman laird, and—”

“I'm a Scot. My lady will have a bath now. She's cold. From the seawater, you know,” he said, staring at Mellyora. She looked as if she was ready to take a weapon from the wall to use against him. “I'll see Phagin, Angus, and young MacKinny in the great hall.”

“Aye, m'laird.”

Donald left. Mellyora remained silent. Waryk stood before the hearth watching her, and knowing that she wished him dead.

“Well, is the prize worth the effort?” she asked.

“I don't know,” he told her.

“You don't know? You've seen the land, and the castle.”

“Aye, 'tis fine land. The castle is exceptional, and I can understand why David refused to let it go to anyone he didn't trust.”

“Like a Viking's daughter.”

“Again, I say, it was Vikings who attacked.”

“Vikings are not all one people, they are not one happy set of countrymen!” she reminded him angrily.

“Pity, no one of the enemy survived to tell us from where they had come.”

“I'm not the one who slaughtered them,” she reminded him.

He shrugged.

To her surprise, she took a step toward him. “Daro did not do this. Daro would not do this!” she said angrily.

“I did not accuse Daro.”

“You accused me.”

His brow shot up. “You think that I should trust you?” he demanded.

She hesitated, and he could see her effort to control her temper. “When I thought I could escape you, no. But I do find this prize worth the effort. It is my home. These are my people. I love them. I depend on them, and they depend on me. To me, it is everything. I find this prize well worth every effort, even if you don't.”

“I didn't say I didn't find it worth the effort.”

“You said—”

“I've yet to really explore the whole of the prize,” he told her pointedly, and he bowed to her and started to exit the room.

“Waryk,” she said, rushing forward to stop him.

She touched his arm, coming before him, then quickly withdrew her hand. He paused, staring down at her. She waved a hand around, indicating the room. “I've never slept here. These were my father's rooms. They are quite well decorated with his weaponry. Since you don't trust me, perhaps you'd be happier if I kept my own chambers, they are just opposite from here, facing the courtyard rather than the sea—”

“Your father is dead, Mellyora,” he said. “And you may honor his memory, but this is the king's fortress and not a shrine.”

“I didn't intend to make it a shrine—”

“You're the lady of the castle. You'll sleep here.”

“And where will you sleep, Laird Lion?”

“Milady, I will sleep here.”

“Will you? But do you dare? Have you decided that you can trust my past?”

She was taunting him, he thought. Her eyes were bright, challenging, touched with a humorous fire. Pity he was so damned determined. He was tempted to sweep her up and see how quickly her good humor faded if he chose to act like her
sainted
father then and there.

But he smiled at her, shrugging as if the nights were of no difference to him. “Fine, my lady, I will sleep wherever I choose.”

He pushed her aside and exited the room, slamming the door.

In the great hall, he found Phagin, Angus, and Ewan seated at a huge carved table. A fire burned in the hearth, and wine had been served. He helped himself to a chalice of the wine and took a seat at the head of the table. He looked from Phagin to Ewan. “No one knows from where this attack came?” he demanded.

“Nay, Laird Waryk. They came from out of the clouds. I told you, we've not seen a Viking attack in years and years. What Viking would come against Adin?”