Come the Morning (52 page)

And then, in the midst of the chaos, the horsemen came.

She heard a cry, a hoarse, terrible battle cry, and exhilarated, she lifted her head.

Waryk.

He was in the lead, riding Mercury over the natural stone barrier as if he were a winged horse. Behind him, Angus came, and Daro, and the others. Rider after rider, taking the enemy by surprise.

Renfrew swore. He turned to her, gripping the pole and staring at her with eyes of pure hatred and fury. He moved away from her, toward one of the fires lit in the dark, and he started kicking the kindling around her log. The heat rose instantly. She could feel the blaze. It would catch her clothing and the pole, and then consume her, in a matter of minutes.

“Burn in hell, lady. Burn in hell,” he told her, drawing his sword.

Mercury was flying across what was now becoming a battlefield littered with dead men, horses, and sheep. Renfrew stood before her. Mercury bore down on him.

Waryk was in full armor, his head helmeted, his surcoat covering his mail. He wielded his sword deftly.

And he cut down Renfrew where he stood. A single, lethal slash of his weapon cut across Renfrew's side, where his mail was weakest. Waryk's sword rose again, slammed down on Renfrew's helmet. The man fell, blood spouting from his lips, his sightless eyes.

“Waryk!” Mellyora shrieked.

Ignoring the flames that were beginning to rise, Waryk urged Mercury up on the dais. With a slash of his sword, he broke the bonds tying her to the pole. She started to fall. Mercury's hoofbeats clattered nervously over the kindling. Waryk quickly bent low from his horse's back, slipped an arm around her, and swept her up.

Mercury leapt from the rising blaze. Clinging to Waryk with what strength she had, Mellyora was vaguely aware that her uncle fought to the one side, and Angus to the other. They covered Waryk's ride as he raced hard toward the stone dividing enemy camps. Yet there, a rider challenged Waryk, and she ducked, screaming, as a sword slashed her way. Waryk's blade rose to meet it. With her head down, she saw the Viking taking aim with his pike. She reached to her ankle for her knife and threw wildly.

She hit his arm. He screamed, his weapon fell. Waryk turned Mercury, ready to fight the man, but Daro had gone after him, and they were engaged in bloody combat. Spinning again, clinging to Waryk, Mellyora trembled, realizing that her husband's forces had taken these murderers completely by surprise.

He spurred Mercury, leading the horse into another flying leap over the stone, and they raced downhill.

He rode with her far from the battlefield, to where his camp had been. He moved through the tents and doused fires to a quiet copse by the stream. There, he dismounted with her in her arms. By the stream, he knelt, tearing off his helmet. His eyes touched hers, he searched her face anxiously.

“Waryk …”

“Lady …”

“M'laird!” she whispered.

She reached up, her arms no longer in such agony, now that she could touch him.

But he was anxious, so anxious. “Did they hurt you, Mellyora, you couldn't stand, you can barely move …”

“Too long standing tied,” she said. She tried to smile. “You took your time!” she whispered.

“My apologies! I did my best, approaching without cover of artillery, and we might not have reached you.”

“Oh, Waryk, you came for me!”

“Aye, lady. I will always come. Mellyora, you are the prize,” he said very softly. “I have very definitely earned you.”

She smiled, caught his hand, kissed it.

He cradled her against him, then swore, realized that he drew her against mail. “Ah, my love, this is a most difficult time and place to express quite all that I'm feeling.”

She could hear the sound of the battle, and she closed her eyes, praying that her uncle would live, that the men who had come to her rescue would survive. Then she realized that she was hearing something closer. Movement, closer to them. She opened her eyes, and a cry of warning tore from her lips. “Waryk …”

He was up instantly, reaching for his sword. She had warned him in time.

He had killed Renfrew to rescue her from the fire. They had seen enough of the fighting to know who would prevail. But Ulric had not been killed, and he had followed them.

The two men circled one another. Ulric was the first to raise his weapon. Hammering blow after hammering blow fell upon Waryk. Mellyora tried to rise, afraid that Waryk couldn't bear the strain, that Ulric was besting him.

“You killed my father, you deserve to die!” Ulric screamed.

“I avenged my father, murdered by yours!”

“You should have been dead, a nit among lice.”

“Ah, but I didn't die.”

“No,” Ulric said, “you didn't die. So know this. I had your wife; she was delicious. When you die now, she will welcome me as laird of her castle,” Ulric taunted. “I didn't rape her, Waryk. She came to me, made love to me, asked me to kill you.”

Mellyora gasped, stunned at such a lie, yet knowing that Ulric meant for Waryk to lose his temper, to doubt her …

To falter.

He did not.

“Do you think that I believe that?” Waryk queried in return, deftly avoiding a blow.

“I had your wife, fool. I, and Renfrew. And you'll never know whose brat she carries, eh, man? Your line dies with you. It should have died with your father, nit.”

Waryk suddenly sent his blade flying against Ulric again and again with a deafening clamor. “My wife is alive, and with me, bastard, and that is what matters.”

“Nay, fool, it is your father's line you fought to keep, but my son will have your isle!” Ulric told him, striding forward, his sword in both hands as he prepared for another series of blows.

But this time, Waryk made no effort to ward off the blows. He spun around, swinging upward with his father's claymore, catching Ulric below the mail, and piercing his abdomen. Stunned, Ulric dropped his sword, grabbed his stomach, and fell to his knees.

Waryk stood above him. “Nay, sir, whatever child has the isle will be mine.” He turned back to Mellyora. She tried to rise to throw her arms around him. She must have come to her feet too quickly. The world began to spin.

“Waryk …”

She fell against him; night faded to black. She vaguely heard his words as he caught her in his arms.

“My love, my love …”

Phagin, who reached them at last, assured him that Mellyora would be well, and Phagin stayed with her while he directed his men, collecting their wounded, seeing to the burial of the dead.

The battle was an undisputed victory.

Many of Renfrew's Normans were slain, many begged mercy, and were sent to Stirling; their fate, Waryk had decided, the king must determine. Renfrew had made his private battle part of a war between kings, and so David must make final decisions.

Ulric's Vikings were slain, or fled to the North. They were so disbanded that Waryk couldn't see them making much trouble again.

Their victory celebration was wild. Vikings, Scotsmen, Normans, English.

They feasted on lamb roast.

Mellyora awoke, and came from the tent where she had rested, in the middle of the celebration. Her hair spilling down her back, she was dressed in a plain blue gown, and she seemed very young, innocent and pure as she walked to him. The men stopped in their drinking and cavorting, and a huge cry went out to her.

Waryk rose, she came into his arms, and together, they watched Phagin play sennachie, telling the story of the great battle of Blue Isle, the beautiful lady who had stopped the slaughter, and the brave warrior laird who had ridden to take his lady from the flames.

She fell asleep again in his arms. He held her tenderly, carried her to her tent, and lay at her side through the night.

He and Daro hadn't said much to one another. It wasn't necessary. They had formed a friendship based on trust both had learned the hard way. They had drunk too much with one another right after the battle, but even that had been good.

Life itself was good.

His wife had survived, and she lay in his arms. And that was all, he realized, that he had needed. She was, indeed, the prize he had fought for.

In the morning, Mellyora was stronger. And still, for the journey home, Waryk insisted she ride before him on Mercury. She didn't mind. She felt warm, secure, and cherished.

As they started out, others were near them. Phagin had created his magnificent poem, of course, but today, he told her about the battle in more graphic and dramatic terms. Daro told her his version of the battle. Peter tried to describe the meeting between Daro and Waryk. Angus, of course, had to tell a tale as well, and it was good to listen to them all, they were her world, and they had come together.

She was content to listen, smiling. Then Geoffrey, returned to his duties of carrying her husband's armor, rode by their side, and he, too, became a storyteller, telling Waryk about her courage in defying Ulric when he meant to murder Eleanora. And how she had nearly, and most cleverly, saved herself along with the castle, if it hadn't been for the treachery within. Waryk was grave then, looking down at her, and she closed her eyes, then opened them to his. “I wish I could swear that I will never leave you again,” he said softly. “But I am the king's champion …”

“And we now know the truth about all the dangers within,” she said, smiling. “I will be safe in the future,” she promised.

It was only much later in the day that they managed to ride on ahead alone, and have a certain amount of privacy, and a chance to talk.

And Mellyora at last managed to twist in her husband's arms, and tell him, “You have to know this. And that I'm not lying, nor saying these words to ease your soul in any way. Ulric meant to torment you whether he lived or died. He never did touch me, Waryk. He didn't have the opportunity.”

His arms tightened around her. “My lady, I would have wanted him dead for any hurt to you.”

“But he wanted vengeance against you in any way. He wanted you to think that I might carry his child rather than yours. But—”

“My lady, it wouldn't have mattered.”

The tremor and depth of his husky, masculine voice thrilled her. She curled her fingers over his where they rested on Mercury's reins.

“You wanted your own child. It was more important to you than anything in the world—” she protested.

He set his hand on her cheek, turning her head toward his. He looked down at her, blue eyes warmer than a summer day, dark hair handsomely rakish as it fell against his forehead. “Matters of importance change, Mellyora. Nothing mattered to me at all when he took you, except that I get you back alive.”

She felt herself trembling as he held her. “But you wanted your own family so very much.”

He shrugged. “I have discovered family to be the people who surround you, who love you, to whom you are responsible, and who give you their loyalty in return. You are my family, my love. Any child of yours will be a child of mine.”

She touched his face, still shaking. “But I am having your child, Waryk.”

“So Phagin told me.”

“I wanted to tell you before this all came about. I wanted to surprise you with the news. That's why I danced at your camp, why I wanted to be with you alone so much. I was so pleased because …”

“Aye?”

“I thought that you'd be so happy.”

“I am happy.”

“But you—”

“Mellyora, I am happy, thrilled that we are to have a child. I suppose that I am glad it is my child, in truth, it wouldn't have mattered. I have you, and I'll be far more careful in the future with you, I promise.”

She smiled, leaning against his broad chest.

“Waryk?”

“Aye?”

“I love you.”

He was silent for a moment.

“Well?”

“It has taken you long enough to say it!”

Her smiled deepened. “I never thought it possible. I love you so very much. I've learned about love, hurt, jealousy, fear, worry …”

“Never fear again, my love, for you needn't be jealous, or in pain. No matter where I am, my lady, my heart and soul are in your keeping. You are all I need.”

She had never known such sweet pleasure. Then, even as he spoke, they crested a hill, and out in a sparkling sea, she saw their fortress.

“Waryk, we're home.”

“Aye, lady.”

“Our baby will be born there. Dozens of babies, perhaps.”

“Dozens?”

“Well, several, at the very least. A very large family, my love.”

He leaned his cheek against her head. “As you wish, my lady. The king once told me that I must create my own kin. What he never told me was that …”

“Aye?”

“I would find all I needed in you,” he said softly.

She touched his cheek. “Who would have ever known …”

“Aye?”

“That I could come to so love and adore such an old, decrepit Norman knight!” she said, and smiled.

“Watch your tongue, wife,” he warned with a growl.

“Oh, aye, sire. But you are part Norman. And I've heard there's a wee bit of Viking blood, and Celtic, of course, some Anglo-Saxon, maybe—”

“Aye, my lady, and you are Pictish, Celtic, and Viking. And our babe will be all things—”

“Scottish!” she said softly.

“Aye, it is what we are made of, as we come to peace with one another.”

“And, m'laird, we are at peace, are we not?”

He arched a brow, a half smile tugging at his lips. “Well, I imagine we'll still have a few rather fierce arguments.”

“For all the years to come,” she agreed pleasantly. “What would life be without them?”

“Indeed, you are charming when you try to atone for your sins,” he said gravely.

“My sins!” she exclaimed, and then saw the laughter in his eyes.

“You're terribly disobedient, as a wife, you know.”

“Well, I am a Viking's daughter. And you're a fierce warrior, the king's champion. There are bound to be disagreements, but … oh, Waryk! Look at the isle from here, the stone of the fortress is silver in the sunlight … it's so beautiful.”