Chapter 2
They emerged from the trail through the thick-forested crest, and there she lay. Stirling.
Seated upon her gray mare, Mellyora looked down upon the town where the king was in residence at his fortress.
It was an ancient place. Even the Romans, in their quest to seize Britain, had come this far, but long before that, the old tribes had made it home.
As dusk came now, as twilight touched the valleys, crags, and waterways, it was a beautiful picture.
The fortress walls rose proudly, the colors of fall highlighted the sweeping dips and mounds of the landscape around them.
The reflection of the setting sun upon the water gave it the appearance of sparkling with dozens of gemstones, brilliant stars that glittered and beckoned.
One far field was dotted with sheep, now being herded in by a pair of lads and their dogs.
Before the walls, near the water, the fishwives cried out their husbands’ catches; the clang of an armorer at work could be heard on the wind.
Mellyora loved Stirling—the hills, the forests, the greens and mauves, the beauty of the crags.
She loved all of her homeland; this was far different from Blue Isle, where the waves could beat against the rocky shore and the cliffs with a wild, white vengeance.
Here, all was calm, peaceful, and serene.
Yet, from her vantage point she could even see downriver, far downriver, to a field of tents and makeshift housing: a Viking camp. She bit lightly into her lower lip, feeling a strange level of excitement. Her uncle was near. If there was trouble, her uncle was near …
“My lady, we must ride.”
She nodded. It was Sir Harry who had spoken.
The king’s man, not her own. Sir Harry had come for her.
She hadn’t thought to come to the king, not yet.
She had still been in mourning. It had been inconceivable that Adin should die, and she had not been able to think, to feel, to do anything other than miss him.
But when the king’s men arrived to escort her to David, she’d realized her situation.
The king had sent an escort; she hadn’t insisted on bringing her own.
A few men from her home had ridden this far with her, along with one of her women, Jillian, but though Jillian would ride on with her, her own retinue of men-at-arms would leave her now.
They would return to guard Blue Isle, while she went on to the king.
She was the lady of the isle. She wanted the king to know that she trusted him, as he should trust her.
Not only was she protected by the escort he had sent, but the king’s conquering cavalry was riding this way as well.
There was little to do but trust the king.
She would vow her allegiance to David as her father’s heir, and then she would speak to him, honestly, pleadingly, as she would have spoken to Adin. It was the best strategy.
“My lady, we’ll leave you now.”
She turned to Ewan, grave, serious, concerned for her, gray eyes upon her as he waited for her to insist that he remain. He had been somber since he had heard that the king’s men-at-arms had ridden behind them last night.
But no matter his look or his concern, she did not ask him to stay. She had to do this alone.
“I’ll be home soon, and I shall miss you all,” she said.
She smiled at Ewan, then spoke to the others from Blue Isle, “Darrin, Peter, Gareth, thank you for the escort; protect Blue Isle as you protect me. I leave my home in your keeping, and thank you for your company this far. I know, of course, that I am well guarded by the king’s soldiers. ”
“Perhaps we should continue with you,” Ewan said, his eyes still upon hers.
“Ah, now lad, the fortress lies ahead of us, and I’d die for your lady, as would any king’s man,” Sir Harry Wakefield, the king’s chosen messenger, told Ewan, not unkindly.
Sir Harry considered himself a far stronger escort; he was a king’s man, knighted, trained at arms, a warrior who had survived many battles.
Ewan was a clansman, a warrior from a wild countryside still considered barbaric by many of the more southern inhabitants, people highly influenced by the Norman population in England that seeped ever more into Scotland.
“I will be fine,” she said. She loved Ewan.
From her childhood, he’d been her best friend.
With his dark blond hair and gray eyes, he was handsome, serious, and dependable.
He was worried about her, they were all worried about her, her people, her advisors, everyone.
She had been summoned before the king. All lairds and ladies must pay homage to the king, she had assured them all.
The king was her godfather. He loved her, she had always been able to charm him.
She believed in her power to maintain her position.
And Sir Harry was an old friend as well.
He was the leader of the five armed men sent by King David to protect her on her ride through the countryside to Stirling.
The gates of the city were within view, she knew she was perfectly safe.
“Sir Harry, if you’ll excuse us just a moment, I’d have a moment with Ewan, who will safeguard my home in my absence,” she said.
“Aye, my lady, of course.”
She moved her mount back into a copse in the forest, and Ewan followed there. Her mare nuzzled his gelding. She reached out and touched Ewan’s face. “Don’t fear for me.”
He shook his head. “I’m not afraid.”
“You look so sad.”
He smiled, an awkward, lopsided smile. He wasn’t going to argue with her.
“Ewan, I am strong. I can take care of myself.”
“Mellyora, David is the king. We’ve all told you that, we’ve all warned you—”
“And I will do the king homage.”
“He’ll think you haven’t the strength—”
“But I do.”
“Mellyora, take care in your arguments. Take care what defiance you make, don’t put yourself into danger. You don’t seem to understand that if you’re attacked … well, you can be in danger.”
“How so?”
He suddenly drew his sword, aiming it at her throat. But she saw the motion coming, and she carried her own sword in a slender leather scabbard at her hips. Her steel touched his even as he tried to prove his point.
“You were saying, Ewan?” she murmured softly.
He shook his head, eyes lowered as he rued the fact he hadn’t moved faster.
“I’ll be all right. Have faith in me.”
“Aye, that I do. I’ll pray for you, my lady.”
She smiled, sorry that he seemed so insulted that she had easily rebuffed the attack that was to prove her weak. She inched her horse toward his, discreetly looked about to assure herself they were alone, and leaned forward to plant a gentle kiss against his lips.
“My lady MacAdin!” she heard Sir Harry calling. “We must ride on; it is getting dark!”
She sat her mount primly again, but could not help smiling mischievously at Ewan once again. “I’ll be all right. I swear it. I love you. I vow my heart to you, always.”
He lowered his head, inching his horse forward once again. He took her hand, and kissed it tenderly. His gray eyes touched hers with devotion. “Whatever happens, my lady, I will love you. I swear it.” He looked at her as if he were saying goodbye. She could not bear it.
Heedless of Sir Harry’s anxious calls, she leaned over again and impulsively kissed Ewan one last time. “Soon. I’ll be home soon, my love.”
They rode from the cover of the trees and parted ways. As they slowly loped down the crest toward the fortress she remembered the words: “The king is anxious to see you today, my lady. He insisted, today. He has much to tell you.”
And I have much to tell him, Mellyora thought.
It didn’t occur to her that she might not have the opportunity to tell him exactly what she was thinking, what she wanted, and what she intended to do.
“Mellyora, I have carefully chosen this marriage for you,” the king said firmly. He could sense her resistance, it seemed to bound off her like the hot, angry rays of the sun on a summer’s day.
Time and the passage of years had changed King David little.
If anything, he was stronger, more assured, and more aware that being a king often meant maneuvering men.
Alliance could be far more advantageous than the strength of hundreds of fighting men.
Being a man who had lived through much and gained a certain wisdom regarding people, he never judged a man, a friend or an enemy, by his birth.
Certain Englishmen, overly imbued with their own sense of power, attacked his southern borders, but his wife was a Northumbrian heiress, and he had many supporters among her people.
Henry I of England had been partially responsible for raising David, he had taught him, he had given him many of his lands, and his wife.
But Henry had died two years ago, and the English monarchy was in chaos with Henry’s nephew, Stephen, fighting with Henry’s daughter, Mathilda, for the throne of England.
This made the English nobles more powerful as each faction vied for their help in the dispute.
Border lords were a danger, they always would be.
Naturally, they considered him a danger, and naturally, he was pressing against the line of the kingdom.
Then again, there were still the Vikings.