Come the Morning (42 page)

C
HAPTER
20

Mellyora awakened to the pounding on her door.

At her side, Waryk rose. The fire burned low. He moved quickly, drawing a fur from the bed with which to cover her and sweeping a robe around his own shoulders. He opened the door. Angus and Phagin stood there, grim and anxious.

“The MacKinny is downed by a Viking sword, and lies in his family's cottage, sorely wounded,” Angus said.

Hearing those words, Mellyora leapt to her feet, gasping. “Ewan … is killed?”

“Nay, lady, he hangs to life by a tenacious thread,” Phagin said.

“A Viking sword?” Waryk said. “Another attack?”

“A survivor from the woods,” Phagin explained quickly. “He appears to have been alone, driven from his hideout by hunger.”

“The water is high. A boat awaits,” Phagin said.

“I'll be quick,” Waryk said, and closed the door. He moved with swift competence, redonning his tartan, scabbard, boots, and mantle. Mellyora watched him for a moment, numb with worry. She tossed aside the fur, fumbling as she tried to dress as quickly. She felt his eyes on her.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I'm coming with you,” she said, keeping her eyes lowered on the laces she tied at her bodice.

“Perhaps you shouldn't,” he said, and his voice sounded harsh.

She looked up at him. “I could make the difference, Waryk. I have to come. Please.”

He shrugged, but she still felt a peculiar heat in his eyes. “Hurry then. I don't mean to sound cold, but if he is to die, I must speak with him first.”

Her fingers felt too large, like ice. They refused to respond to the commands of her mind. Waryk came to her, tying the gown, reaching for her cloak and sweeping it around her shoulders. He caught her hand, leading her out of the room.

Angus and Phagin awaited them in the corridor. They hurried down the stairs together. Geoffrey, Waryk's
an Gille-mor
or armor-bearer, awaited them with horses ready to ride to the boats at the shore. Her father's boats, they were Viking-built, swift and maneuverable.

It seemed to take forever to cross the water, yet they came at last to the mainland. Waryk stepped from the boat, boots sloshing into the seawater; he reached for her, lifting her to the dry sand. The cottages were all alive with firelight and many precious candles burned. The people lined the outside of the house, waiting for their laird to arrive at the bedside of one of their loved chieftains. Mellyora hurried along behind Waryk, frightened and numb. Ewan. She had thought herself so loyal. How quickly she had fallen out of love. How loyal and fine he had remained. And now, in defense of her homeland, he was dying.

She followed Waryk into Ewan MacKinny's grandmother's cottage, and there saw him stretched out on a high pallet, his features white as death. He had been stripped of arms, armor, and clothing. His bare chest gleamed in the firelight, punctured by various fresh stab wounds, while a linen cover was swept to his waist. Igraina was by her brother's side, dabbing at his wounds. Waryk paused in the doorway. Mellyora swept past him, coming to Igraina, Phagin close behind her. “Igraina …”

His sister, face tear-stained, moved aside. “Mellyora, I've tried to staunch the blood, some are flesh wounds, no more. Here, I think, is the worst, against his side …”

Mellyora quickly examined her fallen friend, finding that most of the wounds were not so deep; easily sewn, and packed with salt water and the healing weed that littered the shore, some would not even scar. She moved the sheeting, exposing the length of his body in search of a mortal wound. She caught her breath when she saw the great gash just above his groin. Blood still seeped from it. She pressed her fingers hard against the wound, and the blood slowed. She carefully felt the area, trying to ascertain what organs might have been damaged below the flesh and muscle. She prayed that he'd torn muscle, nothing more. Pressure, quick sewing, and a poultice was needed. But she was so afraid. She couldn't look at Ewan's face without feeling a terrible guilt. And she was aware as well that her husband watched as she tended the naked body of the man she had intended to marry. A moment's great sorrow filled her. Stretched out so, unconscious, brutally torn, he was still a fine sight. Lean, hard-muscled, young, handsome. A brave man, a good man, in his prime. She couldn't make a mistake. She dealt with Ewan's life.

“Pressure, here,” she said quickly, and, stepping back, she anxiously asked Phagin, “I think that it is flesh and muscle torn, no more. I want to stop the blood, sew, and poultice the tear with the sea salt and weed, and prevent swelling from within.”

He stepped by her, studying the wound as she had done, his long fingers incredibly gentle and delicate upon Ewan's flesh. He nodded after a moment. “Aye, Mellyora.” He turned suddenly. “Laird Waryk, you've the strength in your palm, I believe, sir, if you would …”

Waryk stepped forward, placing his hand on the wound as Phagin told him, “This is difficult, to bring such pressure here where the blood vessels cannot be tied …”

“I'll bring the needle sutures,” Igraina said. “Grandmother has gone for the seaweed and salt water to make the poultice.”

The flow of blood decreased to a trickle. Ewan remained white. Mellyora stood waiting, feeling as if a million years passed. The trickle of blood ceased. Phagin carefully placed his fingers where Waryk's had been.

Mellyora knew that Igraina stood at her side, ready to bathe the wound again and offer her the needle and thread. Her fingers still felt so cold. She'd worked with Phagin all her life, she could sew with deft, tiny stitches, and she knew that she had a healing touch. But she could barely move now, she was so afraid to touch Ewan, so afraid that he was going to die. He'd lost so much blood. How could any man live, when he had lost so much blood?

“Mellyora.”

It was Waryk who said her name sharply. She met his eyes, then stepped forward. Igraina cleansed the area again; Phagin gripped flesh and muscle. She stepped forward. The light was flickering. She couldn't see. The night was cold. Sweat beaded her brow. The light was suddenly better. Waryk held a candle at an angle that gave her far better vision. She bit into her lower lip, and began to work.

Ewan never moved. She looked at his face again and again, certain he had died while she worked. He lay so still. But his chest rose and fell, rose and fell. He breathed; he lived.

She expertly tied off her last stitch. Ewan's ancient, tiny grandmother moved in. She muttered prayers beneath her breath, soft incantations in Gaelic, as she plastered the freshly sewn wound with a poultice of the healing seaweed. Mellyora turned. A basin of water had been left. She soaked and wrung a cloth to put upon Ewan's forehead, then she cooled his neck, shoulders, chest. Night was becoming morning, and as they had all expected, a fever was setting in. He had to be kept cool, and it would take a constant vigil to see to it that the fever didn't claim him.

The sun rose. They had made it through the first night. Stretching and straightening as Ewan's grandmother brought her fresh cool water, she realized that Waryk was gone. She didn't know when he had left the cottage, only that he was gone.

Phagin remained with her. His eyes were on her, and he seemed to read her mind. “He left some time ago, Mellyora.”

She nodded. “I see.”

He was still watching her. Igraina, who had gone outside, came over to her brother. She touched his forehead, changed the cloth there.

“When will we know?” she asked Phagin softly.

“Each day he survives, he will grow a little stronger. If he can shake the fever for a full week, well then, I believe he will live. Unless he has bled too much inside, and then …”

Igraina let out a soft sob. She lowered her head, then suddenly looked across at Mellyora as if she were fighting to remember that Mellyora was lady of the isle. But she suddenly spoke with tremendous bitterness. “Mellyora MacAdin, you are lady here, but by God, I swear, if you are a part of this …”

Stunned, Mellyora stood. “A part of what?”

“It is Daro.”

“Daro!”

Igraina angrily wiped tears from her eyes, staring at Mellyora. “The Viking claimed that Daro had sent him when they fought.”

“That's a lie—”

“It's what my brother said. My brother doesn't lie.”

Mellyora shook her head. “I didn't accuse Ewan of lying. But the Viking lied, or whoever or whatever he was. Daro wouldn't do this—”

“Why not? This was his brother's little jarldom. Adin left a daughter, perhaps he feels that the land is rightfully his. God knows, enough Vikings have ruled Scottish islands!”

“Daro would not do this—”

“Wouldn't he?” Igraina accused very softly. “Perhaps with your blessing. Someone knows what is going on here. That Ewan came with me to the mainland. That any major attack would be seen, but that a man or two could slip quietly through the trees to assault a cottage.”

“So someone saw!” Mellyora cried indignantly.

“You swore that you'd keep this place alone, that you'd be independent, that the king would see your strength. You said there would be no Norman laird here. The only way this fortress could fall is from within.”

Mellyora tightened her fingers into fists. “I've known you all my life, Igraina! I wouldn't do this, I didn't do this! Would I risk Ewan?
I love him!”
she reminded Igraina.

Then there was silence. A dead silence. And she turned around to see that Waryk had come back; he stood in the doorway.

He stared at her with more than suspicion.

She knew that he had taken Igraina outside sometime while she had worked on Ewan, and that Igraina had described the attack to him, shown him the body of the dead Viking, and made every accusation she had just made to Mellyora. And now she stood there, stricken by what had happened to an old friend, yet accused of causing the travesty—while having just stated before her husband her love for another man.

“The men are searching the hills, crags, cliffs, caves, and forests for the second man, any other survivors of our recent attack, Igraina. The carpenters and masons have begun work on a wall around the dwellings here so that there can be no such surprises again. We've every able pair of hands at work, and we'll bring a permanent guard here so that the mainland no longer lies vulnerable.”

“Did any man recognize the body?” Igraina asked.

Waryk shook his head, looking at his wife. “Mellyora …”

He stretched out a hand. She felt a fierce trembling in the pit of her stomach. “Waryk, I—” she began, but it seemed she had no voice. “He remains in danger,” she said lamely.

“Mellyora,” he repeated firmly.

She couldn't leave Ewan, but Waryk wouldn't understand why. He had been her friend forever, he was the MacKinny. He had always been willing to die for her.

“I don't question your healing talents,” Waryk said sharply, “nor the tremendous value of this man's life. But you will come with me now.”

She swallowed hard, staring at Igraina. If she didn't walk across the room, Waryk could come and take her, and she was very afraid of his temper and suspicions should he have to do so. She lifted her chin, angrily staring at Igraina for a moment, then turning to her husband. “My uncle didn't cause any attack here, Waryk. You may say what you wish about my father being a conqueror who raped my mother, but she conquered him in the end, he became Scottish. This is a Scottish isle, day by day, we have followed the ways of the old Scotia, and all that my father ever forced upon this isle was better boats—and himself. Daro respected my father; he has fought with you, he fought with you for King David.”

“Mellyora,” he repeated. “Come with me now.”

“I have not betrayed you or anyone to any Viking forces.”

“Mellyora, come with me now.” His tone was very sharp. She felt ill. He was suspicious of her. Igraina had simply accused her without doubting the word of their enemy.

Behind her, Phagin urged, “Go, Mellyora.”

“I will tend my brother with Phagin,” Igraina said, coming to her and setting a hand on her shoulder. Perhaps, hearing Waryk's tone, Igraina was sorry, and perhaps she at least believed that Mellyora was innocent in what was happening, if Daro was not.

“He will need constant care, someone by his side every minute, hour after hour.”

“Aye, Mellyora, I will take this hour!” Igraina said. “Phagin will be with me.”

Mellyora lowered her head. She was alarmed when she realized that Waryk had lost patience with her, and was coming across the room. She found life, hurrying toward him. His fingers bit into her arm. “You may return to tend this man you love, my wife, but at this moment, you will come with me!” he said with quiet menace.

She bit into her lip, very aware that he was furious with her. They exited the cottage together. Angus waited just outside.

“The lad?” Angus inquired softly.

“Lives. And may survive.”

“There is, just arrived, a messenger from David. There is more trouble breaking out at the border.”

“At Tyne?”

“East of Peter's lands. They will surely try to draw him into whatever action is taking place.”

“Ready our forces. We'll ride with the morning.”

He urged Mellyora toward the dragon-prowed boat, her father's boat, a Viking boat, that waited to take them across the high tide. She was reminded painfully of the night they had first met as he seated her, stepped into the water and pushed the boat from the shore, then took his position center to row.

They shot across the moonlit water. She felt him staring at her, and she still felt numb. She wished that she could explain that she loved Ewan like a brother now, that things had changed. But she was accused again, for being what she was, and she knew her uncle, and knew that he was not guilty, just as she knew her own innocence. He had no right to accuse her.