Come the Morning (8 page)

But now, they were both gone. And even as she learned to live with the pain of her father's death, she was discovering that her position was far more perilous than she had ever imagined. She wasn't just alone, bereft of those she had loved most in the world. She was in danger of losing her independence and becoming nothing more than someone's
acquisition
. She had been a cherished daughter, treated with kindness and respect. After Adin's death, Ewan had been there, keeping everyone from intruding on her grief. But now she was alone, and about to be cast to a wretched stranger who would simply seize everything that was rightfully hers. And what was she to do? Forget the man who had been her friend, her support, and her comfort forever? Her heart was not so fickle, her love not so lightly given.

“Mellyora, you're frightening me, I beg of you, you must take some time with this matter. Be calm.”

Mellyora walked to Jillian, taking Jillian's small hands into her own. “I can't possibly be calm. I tried to be calm, I tried to talk to David, to be logical, intelligent, and reasonable. He refused to listen to me. I've heard of this Laird Lion before. I'm to be wed to a
Norman.”

Jillian shook her head. “That's not what I've heard!”

“An old, slimy, hoary, battle-scarred Norman who served the king while he was in England. Jillian! You saw the king's men when we camped—they were all Normans!”

“I saw the king's men at a distance, and decent armor does not make a man a Norman. Mellyora, I don't believe that this man the king intends for you is a Norman. I have ears as well. I've listened in the servants' quarters, and I tell you, that servants' gossip is by far the best. They call this knight Laird Lion. He is no Norman, but a lad found single-handedly taking on a raiding party of Normans when the king came upon him. He is a warrior covered in glory, so I have heard.”

“A lion, indeed!” Mellyora muttered. “Certainly, compare the man to a lion. Like all Normans, he most probably likes to hear himself roar. There is simply no justice in this world, yet maybe the name is apt. Even with the animals, it's the lioness who hunts for food, while the lion sits about and sleeps in the sun. There you have it—exactly. This male beast would lie in the sun upon my land and reap the rewards of my family.”

“You've not even met him.”

“I've no desire to meet him. I'm very afraid that once I've met him, I'll find my fate is sealed,” Mellyora said, gazing past Jillian's shoulder to the window again. Then she met Jillian's eyes firmly. “You're also forgetting the fact that I have vowed my hand, my life, my love, elsewhere.”

Jillian stared back at her. “And that, my dear, was foolish. You hadn't the right to vow anything anywhere to anyone.”

“I had my father's blessings on my choice!” Mellyora insisted somewhat desperately. Adin hadn't actually granted her permission to marry Ewan MacKinny, but he had been aware of their friendship, and that it had been very close. She'd known Ewan ever since she could remember. They were just three years apart in age and since she had been very young, he had been trusted as her guardian about her father's lands. His father had been what they called “The” MacKinny, a chieftain in his own right, the head of the largest family who held their lands from Adin. When Ewan's father's had died, Ewan had taken on the cloak of being The MacKinny. Ewan was a quiet, gentle man, as he had been a quiet, gentle boy, listening to her rages, angering her only when he pointed out that she might not be quite fair in her assessment of one situation or another. She couldn't forget the way he had looked at her when they'd parted.

As if they'd been saying good-bye
.

They had swum together in the lochs, ridden fields, cliffs, and hills, studied Latin, French, English, Gaelic, and even Norse together, played at science and mathematics, and read endlessly, translations of the Greek tragedies, Italian romances, so much more. They could laugh together, argue together, roll in the grass together, sit in long silences. Ewan held no surprises for her; he listened when she spoke. Life with him would be all that she wanted.

She could not accept the thought that she would not only have to bear the agony of losing her father, but endure seeing a strange Norman lackey of the king take his place. She really wasn't a fool; she understood the way the world worked, just as she understood King David. But while she had breath to fight, she could not allow the king's lackey to take her father's place—or her own. She couldn't simply lie back and allow her life to be taken without fighting the best battle she could wage.

Mellyora looked to the window in her room at the fortress. It was very small; this was a defensive fortress, built strongly from stone.

Yet the river ran by it; if she could just get to the river, she could reach her cousin Daro's men.

“I cannot argue this any longer!” she announced with sudden determination.

Forgetting Jillian, Mellyora hurried from her own larger chamber into the smaller one behind it where Jillian slept. The window here was cut a bit larger—and let out onto a wooden platform of battlements.

She could easily step outside the window. And there was scaffolding set up where they continued to work on the battlements. In the darkness, she could swing down the wooden scaffolding without being seen, and, if she enwrapped herself in one of Jillian's plain brown woolen capes, she could simply walk out the gates.

What then?

At the river's edge, she'd have no choice but to steal a boat. Not steal. She smiled suddenly. King David had been the first Scottish monarch to mint his own coinage. She'd leave the boat's owner a handsome coin bearing the king's own image.

“Mellyora?” Jillian called to her.

Mellyora hesitated. “Go back to your tapestry, Jillian. I am sorry to have upset you. I need some time alone,” she said.

She softly closed the doors between the two rooms.

Quietly, she dug into Jillian's travel trunk and found the cloak she required. She slipped it around herself, drawing the hood low. It was a deep brown color, and would blend well with the night.

Mellyora crawled onto the window seat and squeezed her length through the narrow window. She leapt softly down to the wooden battlement beyond the window and hurried along it.

She paused, seeing the distance between the place where she paused and the scaffolding just beyond. She inhaled, wondering if she was willing to risk her own life for her freedom.

Freedom was a gift worth many risks. She'd heard it said, many times, by many men.

It would be a long fall if she made a leap—and didn't catch the crossbeam of the scaffolding.

Ruling was wisdom, her father had taught her. Decide if it can be done. And if it can be done …

Then do it with courage.

She stepped back.

Ran … and leapt.

She caught the crossbeam, swung down upon it, caught a lower beam, and then another, and another.

She jumped the last few feet to the ground.

The common courtyard at Stirling was not crowded, neither was it empty. By night, fishermen returned from their journeys along the river; wives rushed home from the last of their bartering; wool, dye, and food merchants closed up their stations for the night. Mellyora blended with them. Nearing the gates, she hurried to walk close behind a peddler leaving the city walls. To someone watching, it would appear she was a woman walking with a brisk pace to keep up with her husband.

Outside the walls, the peddler started down the southward trail, to the village. She parted ways with him, nearly running now as she hurried toward the river.

At the docks there was a great deal of activity, despite the hour. She veered away from the docks, heading downriver. Daro's men would be encamped in the fields southward, so she would want to move downriver.

She hurried along the damp embankment until she saw an unattended boat. A small rowboat, pulled up tight on the embankment. She looked carefully around, but no one was about, so she hurried over to the small boat. Both oars were in place. She remembered that she wasn't going to become a thief—not when she didn't have to become one. She slipped her hand into the pocket sewn into her shift and curled her fingers around a small silver coin. She would toss it onto the shore where the boat had been once she had gotten it moving.

She started to push the boat from the mud when, suddenly, something seemed to rise from the embankment.

She froze.

Not something. Someone. A man. Darkly cloaked as she was herself. He seemed to rise forever, huge and towering in the darkness.

A gasp caught in her throat as a man's voice deeply shouted out, “Thief!”

Could she get the boat out and away before he reached her? Never.

He came closer; he was already almost upon her. His strides were long, fluid, and swift, and he gained on her position so quickly she hadn't a prayer of getting away on the river.

She watched him coming, trying to remain calm, to think, to calculate—quickly!—and yet the sure menace of his graceful speed sent panic searing through her. She could manage a sword in her own defense, but she had fled without a sword.

So much for thinking.

She had a small knife at her calf, but he was probably well armed …

She couldn't get away swiftly enough in the boat. She could only hope to escape on foot. She turned to run.

Yet even as she did so, she was caught. She gasped as she was enwrapped in large, steel-like arms. Her feet were swept off the ground as she tried to escape, and she was brought crashing downward to the soft river embankment.

She landed hard, inhaling desperately for air.

She tried to rise, and could not. He was there, ready to pounce on top of her. She slipped her hand down to her calf, reaching for her knife. Her fingers grasped it and she wriggled desperately, turning to her back. She managed to bring her arm up, and aim for a place between the man's ribs.

Before her blow could fall, her wrist was captured. Long, ruthless fingers sent a searing pain into her wrist. Against her will, she dropped the knife.

She couldn't breathe, for the towering stranger with the steel muscles had straddled her form.

“Now!” he thundered, his voice husky and deep. “Now, thief! Where do you think you'd be going with that boat? Answer, and answer quickly, or I'll slit your throat!”

C
HAPTER
4

She had to fight the waves of fear cascading over her, despite the fact that the wretch was atop her in the pale, wavering moonlight. She could not think clearly if she allowed fear to rule her.

She saw him now far more clearly than she wanted—his form, not his face, for annoyingly, his face was hidden by the shadow of his hood. He was heavily, tautly muscled beneath his encompassing cloak.

The garment gave her pause, and sent her mind spinning once again. The cloak was wool fashioned in a complex Scottish style, with the strands so tightly knit together to render the garment nearly completely waterproof. Each strand was colored with vegetable dyes to create a pattern that would signify a certain part of the country or a people. Talented weavers were creating the
tartans
more and more often these days, remembering the exact shades and number of dyed strands by marking them upon a stick, so that the coloring could be repeated again and again. The style of clothing belonged to Scotland, and not to the Normans who had been invited to settle lands at the king's request. If the garment was any indication of the man, he wasn't a Norman usurper.

Did it matter what his nationality if he slit her throat and her life bled away, here in the mud? Slit her throat, with what? Was he armed? Aye, she thought, he would have a knife sheathed at his calf, just as she had carried. A sword? He wasn't wearing a scabbard now, or was he? Where had he come from? There was a small hut of stone and mud on the riverbank, and a horse grazed nearby. Was it his boat, or had he come by way of the huge warhorse with the battle accouterments, looming in the shadows?

Would he kill her? What was he doing here, alone, on the embankment? She started to shake; then she was furious with herself. Death was one thing. Dying without a fight was completely another.

“Get off me!” she commanded.

The ox! He ignored her. And she would, she assured herself, prevail.

The man was, she determined, the servant of some greater lord. A fine example of good Scottish breeding; his height was commanding; his body form and muscle structure were formidable. He would serve nicely as a knight—he could surely be trained to possess an incredibly powerful sword arm. Indeed, he was certainly strong enough—all but breaking her into bits now as he straddled atop her.

“Are you daft or deaf? Get off!” she repeated, with confident authority.

Still, he didn't move. She felt him staring down at her curiously, his face still masked by his hood.

“So a lass would steal a boat,” he said simply.

She could see his torso and legs. Beneath his cloak he wore simple woolen hose, a linen shirt and another overshirt or tunic of like design as his cloak. His clothing was not of poor quality, but it was muddied as if he had worked or traveled long and hard in it. Perhaps he could be made to travel just a bit longer, and a bit harder.

“I'm not
stealing
anything, good fellow,” she said, wincing inwardly as she heard a slight waver in her voice. “I warn you, get off me now!”

To her relief, he listened at last. He stood, catching her hand, dragging her to her feet before him. He remained very close, and though she was tall for a woman, he was much taller, and his nearness made her more uneasy. She was alone on a riverbank with a strange man who might well be dangerous, and who may not realize he challenged a ward of the king—and had already had the audacity to wrestle her to the mud.

She had no choice but to hold her ground firmly; one of the first lessons she had learned in life from her warrior father was that you must never let a potential enemy know that you're afraid.