Come the Morning (48 page)

“You'd best shut up, Lady Mellyora. Neither your uncle nor your husband is here, lady. Your husband is quite possibly dead already, and if not, he will never reclaim what is his.”

She stared at the helmeted, nameless man who was her enemy and felt chilled. She pulled the surcoat more tightly to her.

“My husband is not dead.”

“Oh? And why not? He killed one of my men, but two remained to kill him.”

She shook her head, not wanting to tell him that she was certain his men had fallen.

“He has his father's claymore. He will not be defeated,” she said.

“Well, other men carry their fathers' swords, my lady, and that does not keep them alive,” he said sourly. “But no matter. We will reach Blue Isle before your husband—or his men, or the king's men, if he is dead. And you will order the gates opened to admit us. We'll have met with the rest of my men and Lord Renfrew's forces, and once we've entered Blue Isle … well, it will be a Viking fortress again, my dear. You should be quite glad.”

The man's plan was easy to understand—enter Blue Isle, and the walls were so formidable that the fortress was almost impossible to take. But for him to believe that, even if Waryk were to be killed, he could reach the fortress without the king's men coming for him was insane. And how and why he had plotted so relentlessly seemed equally insane. When one idea failed, he seemed ready to go to another, no matter how foolhardy or reckless.

“We'll never reach Blue Isle.”

“We will, but even that will not matter, as long as I have you. I want the isle, of course. But there are things I want more.”

“What?” she asked warily.

He leaned toward her from his destrier. “Revenge, my lady.”

“Against me, my father, Waryk—”

“Ah! There you have it.”

“Why?”

“He killed my father, and worse. He killed Lord Renfrew, who would have made my family's fortune, and given us position for all the years to come.”

“Your father fought Waryk?”

“You didn't know your husband was a murderer, eh, lady?”

“I don't believe that he is. I've seen him avoid bloodshed whenever he could. He's reasoned when many a man would have drawn a sword. He's not a murderer.”

The man suddenly drew his sword and pointed it at her throat. “I tell you he's a murderer.”

She shrugged, trying to ignore the blade. “Kill me, if you think that it will hurt him. He didn't choose to marry me.”

“But I understand that you're carrying his child.”

She started, wondering how anyone could have known such an intimate detail. Angus? She felt sick suddenly, wondering if Angus, whom Waryk had trusted with his life and hers, could be a traitor to him. Everyone, it seemed, had Viking blood.

She tried to lie, though she had become more certain every day. “I don't believe so.”

He dismounted from his horse, coming toward her. “Mellyora MacAdin, wild as the crags and hills and the windswept sea! Such a fighter! Well, my lady, you're wrong about many things. No matter what comes, I will hurt your husband. He will bleed inside and out. I have you. And if you live, and he lives, he will wonder forever whose child you carried now. When it's born, it will die. But he'll have to wonder. He'll always have to wonder. If he lives. If he dies, it won't much matter. I'll have Blue Isle. And like great Laird Waryk, I'll keep you just the same. My wife.”

“I'll never marry you! I have a husband—”

“Dead. Perhaps.”

“If he were dead, I'd never marry you.”

“Brave words.” He came closer to her. She backed away.

“My lady, you will marry where you must. You didn't want Waryk; you grew accustomed to him. You will grow accustomed to me.”

“No—”

“Aye. For I will beat you to within an inch of your life, lady, until you submit to me.”

“You are more the fool. I grew much more than accustomed to Waryk because he
never
hurt me in any way, because I saw him use reason with others, I saw him use mercy as well as strength. He's shown decency and—” she broke off, gasping, because he'd caught the surcoat with the tip of his sword and cast it aside. The blade was now placed against her throat.

“Get down right now, my lady. You're changing partners.”

She stared at him for a moment, desperate.
She wanted to live, she wanted her child to live, was anything worth the hope of life?

She closed her eyes. She couldn't. She grabbed the blade, bringing it closer to her throat, and she stared at the man's eyes through the slits of her uncle's helmet. “If you touch me, I'll kill myself. You're right; I'm carrying his child. But you won't use me against him, and if you're planning on murdering my babe when it's born, I would rather the child perish now. Because if I kill myself, you see, you'll never enter the gates of Blue Isle.”

It was an incredible bluff; she didn't know if she really had the strength to thrust a sword through her own throat, or if she could kill herself, knowing that she carried Waryk's child. Life was hope.

Yet …

She was never tested on the matter.

To her amazement, he stepped back, letting the sword drop. “You will bring me into Blue Isle, Mellyora, daughter of Adin, a Viking.”

She lifted her chin. “My father was a Viking. But he was a good man. He knew the difference between battle and slaughter, justice and murder.”

He grabbed her by the hair, jerking her around, thrusting her toward his horse. She stopped, turning around to stare at him. “I need Waryk's surcoat. It's cold. And you will be noticed before we ever manage to meet up with your men if you drag around a naked woman.”

Apparently recognizing the wisdom of her words, the man turned around and went back for the surcoat.

Mellyora looked at his horse. She bit her lower lip. She had tried this once before …

And it hadn't worked.

But then, Waryk's horse was well trained; Waryk had an affection for Mercury, and Mercury knew his master. Whereas this man …

He had reached the surcoat, he was bending over to retrieve it. He was a good thirty feet away. She was freezing, stark naked. She leapt upon the man's horse and slammed her heels against the animal's flanks.

She heard him calling out behind her, swearing that he would catch her, and that he would make her pay.

She felt the cruel bite of the wind, the hammering of the horse's hooves beneath her. She prayed that the destrier would not turn back …

The animal apparently liked the man no better than she.

They raced into the moonlight and shadows.

Home and help were close. She was desperate to reach that safe harbor herself, and even more desperate to find a messenger to ride to Waryk with the truth.

Waryk retrieved his clothing and dressed while he walked and hopped from the copse, desperate, furious, and very afraid. He burst first upon Angus.

He shouted his friend's name, bending down. Angus lay in a pool of blood in the dirt. Yet when Waryk called his name and touched his cheek, he rose, groaning. “My God, man, you're alive!” Waryk breathed.

“Aye,” Angus said, rubbing his head.

“The blood—” Waryk began.

“Nay, that came from the other man; it was a strike on the head that felled me!” Angus said, shaking his head disgustedly then. “I shouldn't have failed you, but when I saw that it was Daro—”

“Daro!” Waryk swore.

“Aye, I know Daro's armor, his helmet, his surcoat. I guarded you, but I knew that Mellyora had written her uncle, and was not surprised that he had come to meet you on your journey northward. But …” His voice trailed away. “They tried to kill you, too,” he said huskily. “My God. The Lady Mellyora …”

“She's gone; he has her.”

“He seized her?”

Waryk's eyes narrowed. “I can only hope. Can you stand, Angus? Are you injured? I've got to get to the men, and ride to Daro's camp. We're not far from the mainland off Blue Isle. I shall send Eleanora there, and you may accompany her—”

“Not this time, Laird Waryk. I am fine enough. When you go to battle, I go as well.”

Waryk nodded rather than argue. “Thomas will take her along with Tyler and Geoffrey, I think. And Peter will have his own escort, I'm certain. Let's get moving.”

Eleanora had just gone to her camp bed for the night; Peter had remained awake by the fire, and he was ready and anxious to move when he heard that Mellyora had been seized by her own uncle in a power play by the Viking. Waryk explained that they would send Eleanora with his men, and that she should go now, despite the night. The moon would be enough of a guide, and his men knew the exact trails to take.

“Waryk, I am so sorry,” Eleanora told him as he said goodbye to her.

“Aye,” he said rather curtly.

She shook her head, watching him. “Waryk, it was no trap. She has not planned against you, or betrayed you to her uncle, of that I'm certain.”

“Oh?”

She touched his cheek gently. “You should have seen her face when she watched you. She loves you very much. More than I do, even.”

He found that he could smile suddenly. He took Eleanora's hand, and kissed it, holding it tightly for a moment. “Thank you for that,” he told her. “Jon of Wick guards the gates at the fortress; ask first for Ewan MacKinny when you reach the village at the shore. He'll see to your safety.”

Eleanora nodded. She and her guard started into the night. Waryk turned grimly to his own horse.

It was time to fight Daro.

Mellyora didn't stop. She didn't have time to stop. She knew that she was killing the great destrier, but she had to force the horse onward through the night at breakneck speed.

Come the morning, she was frozen to the animal, exhausted, and very afraid. But just as dawn broke, she cleared the top of a cliff and could see the village below, and across from it, out across the foam-tipped sea, Blue Isle and her fortress. With a glad cry, she went tearing down the cliff, shouting for help.

It was Ewan, using a stick to help him walk, who threw open the new gates to the village enclosure so that she could race through. Other villagers burst from their cottages; Phagin, his robes flapping in the breeze, hurried out as well. Igraina was there, and when she fell, like an icicle, from the horse, babbling about what had happened, it was Igraina who wrapped her in her own cloak, and helped her to stand when she would have fallen.

“We must get something warm into her immediately,” Phagin said.

“Wine, warmed on the fire, quick, Grandmother,” Igraina said, leading Mellyora into the cottage. Ewan sat before Mellyora. She was wrapped in Igraina's cloak, and a wool blanket. She was warmed by the fire. A cup was placed in her hands. She drank deeply from it. The wine was good. It went throughout her body. Warmed her. Her lips ceased to tremble. She stared at them all, shaking. “I don't know the man's name … it isn't Daro, Ewan, we've got to get someone to Waryk fast, because it isn't Daro, but he stole Daro's clothing. His helmet, his—”

“How could this person steal Daro's belongings?” Igraina asked.

“I don't know!” Mellyora said. “He has to be someone that Daro—trusts.” She drank more wine, then stared at Igraina. “That's it, it's someone Daro has reason to trust. He wants to kill Waryk … he tried to kill him. This man is meeting someone. Someone named Renfrew—”

“Renfrew?” Phagin said sharply.

“Aye.”

Phagin started for the door to the cottage.

“Phagin!” Mellyora called, but he hadn't intended to walk out with an explanation. At the door he turned back to them. “Lord Renfrew attacked MacInnish land a little more than a decade ago. He slaughtered farmers, tradesmen, and peasants. He had an army of Viking mercenaries who were promised great riches when he prevailed. Renfrew and most of the Vikings were killed, many of them by a lad the king took on as his ward—your husband, Mellyora. Renfrew and his men had slaughtered his whole family that day. Waryk avenged his kin—this Viking is out to avenge his. His methods are as bloodthirsty and treacherous as those used by his father and Renfrew. I will reach Waryk and Daro. No one will stop a priest, and the countryside could be very dangerous now. Mellyora, get to the fortress immediately. You are your father's daughter. Renfrew and this Viking—his name is Hallsteader, by the way, Ulric Hallsteader, known as Broadsword—will be coming to attack Blue Isle.”

“Hallsteader!” Mellyora cried, leaping up. “Hallsteader. Anne's father was a Hallsteader, he must have—”

“Aye, he must have used Anne. It's no matter now. She is surely as innocent as a babe in this, Mellyora. I'm going. Get to the fortress.”

Waryk rode, with the full size and scope of his army plus Peter's armed men, to the walls of the Viking camp. Yet, even as he reached the camp—and he was certain that word had gone out that he was coming and that Daro would be prepared—he felt doubt working into his reason. Daro would have had no need to come to a camp in the forest. Daro could have visited them at their home. He could have murdered him in his own bed, and been inside the fortress walls—great Adin's brother, already known by many.

Yet as this plagued him, he saw that Daro—bareheaded—was riding out toward the gates, Ragnar and others of his immediate council at his side. As Waryk had suspected, Daro had heard that he was coming.

Viking archers lined the walls.

His men were armed and armored; he had archers, knights, and foot soldiers ready to fight beneath him. Messengers had been sent to the king; greater forces were coming.

As Daro rode out and Waryk saw his eyes, he knew that Daro would fight to the death.

“Tell your men to halt, Waryk. We will meet one on one in this!” Daro roared to him.

Waryk lifted a hand. Daro was riding outside the wooden palisade the Vikings had erected around their camp as protection.