Chapter 2 #4
She smiled at him suddenly, sweetly. Even his determined, angry, and aging heart felt a warming trend—if not a melting. She was lovely, volatile, one minute so furious, and the next, gazing at him in a manner which could be almost tender and caring. She was his godchild.
“Sire, I am thus challenged. Of course, we both know that I can’t possibly manage to escape your fortress here at Stirling, but if I did … would I then be free to choose my own future?”
“You will not escape.”
“Of course not, but if I did …?”
“You will not escape. My mind is set.”
“If you are so certain, then surely we have a bargain?”
“My lady—”
“If I escape, then I am free,” she said, as if that settled that matter. Her smile remained radiant, and she stepped forward suddenly—just as she had as a child. She touched his shoulders, came to her toes, and kissed his cheek.
“I make you no such promise!” he said sternly.
“But if I escape, I am free,” she said. “I learned well from you and my father. Possession gives a man great power to hold a property. Freedom gives a woman great power to negotiate. I’m also, sire, adept with a sword, a knife, and especially, my mind.
I’m stronger than you see, sire, and I pray that you understand,” she said with determined dignity. Then she turned at last to leave.
Shoulders squared. Head very high. She didn’t run from the room, but walked, as graceful as a goddess floating upon clouds. She walked with confidence. Slowly.
She was giving him a chance to summon her back. To talk more, argue, come to some different conclusion regarding her future.
Despite her sudden smile, and even the old affection of her kiss, she remained a stubborn, determined, and seething young goddess.
“I should wed you to a pruned old wife-beater, lass!” he swore after her, following her suddenly with long, angry strides. Oh, yes, he granted her a will of pure steel; she would argue with God himself on Judgment Day, so it seemed.
Just outside the great hall, he found that Sir Harry Wakefield—an old friend, a knight who had served him long before he had become king—waited as he had expected, as escort for the Lady Mellyora.
“Sir Harry!” the king said.
“Sire?”
“The lady and I have engaged in something of a game of combat—of wills, so it seems. You will see that she is returned safely to her chambers, and that she does not depart her chambers again until she is summoned before me once again.”
“Indeed, sire.”
Mellyora merely smiled. Yet even as she smiled, she cast the king a sharp, challenging assessment, then slipped her arm within Sir Harry’s.
“As if I could best the king at any combat!” she said, and laughed as if the possibility of such a thing was entirely absurd.
“It will be good, Sir Harry, to know that you’re guarding me. ”
They departed down the hall. David watched them, telling himself that he had a trained knight decked in partial mail watching one lone woman.
He decided to double the guard on her door, and to let it be known that the Lady Mellyora was not—under any circumstance—to leave the stronghold at Stirling without his express permission.
If she so much as tried …
Well, she’d be brought back.
In chains, he thought grimly.
Easy, my fine sir, easy …
After their first passion had been spent, Eleanora had seen his wound. A scratch, he’d told her. A wound, still, she’d told him. Vulnerable to infection.
Easy, mine is a gentle touch …
With such sweet words, Eleanora worked her balm into the slash he’d received against his upper arm.
And when she was done, she’d crawled atop him, naked, sleek, glistening in the light of the fire, entirely comfortable with him, with herself.
They’d been together so many times through the last years, she knew how and where to stroke, she made love like a tigress, she had a throaty laugh, a way about her …
battle might be fierce, the world a wearying place.
They’d had so little time before he’d been summoned back to the king.
He’d been puzzled, angry, and disturbed about the fighting, not a good companion.
Yet he often came to her angry or weary, and she never minded, in a matter of days, hours, minutes, whatever time he had, she would offer her own brand of distraction. She asked nothing in return …
“Waryk?”
Interrupted from the depths of his thoughts, Waryk glanced at Angus, riding next to him. “We’ve almost reached the king.”
“Aye.”
Waryk turned slightly, looking back at the armed men who rode behind him.
They had fared well in the fighting; they were mounted men, trained in the use of a multitude of weapons.
The past action remained puzzling, and one that Waryk found more disturbing since he grew more certain it had been instigated from elsewhere.
Granted, the northern English nobles were exceptionally dangerous at this time, with Henry’s daughter and nephew struggling for his throne, but, as Sir Gabriel had said, a Norman lord would usually strike with greater strength and purpose, and make a claim on property, riches, and titles.
He wasn’t sure what the enemy had been rebelling against, or what the rebels had hoped to achieve.
Despite their camp of the previous night, his men were more tired from marching than fighting.
Angus was right, he had let his mind wander, and they were nearly at the gates of Stirling.
Torches blazed along the walls, and the fortress seemed alive in the night.
Above him, the sky appeared far more fascinating than the lights of the city.
The night was clear, and stars dotted the heavens like jewels cast against an endless black sea.
He reined in, slowing his horse. “Angus, my friend, I think I’ll leave you here.”
Angus frowned, arching a brow. “Waryk, you are the leader of this company. Stirling lies ahead. The king summoned you. He will be anxious to see you, he’ll want to hear what you have to say.
You were eager to reach the king, remember?
We’ve ridden hard to come here quickly, you’ve sent messengers ahead telling him that you will see him tonight—”
“Aye, that’s true. But the night is long, and we’ve ridden faster than I thought we could. There’s time. And I’m not sure as yet what I have to say to the king,” Waryk told Angus. “Tell our liege that I will ride in shortly and report to him immediately upon my arrival.”
Angus still wasn’t pleased. “Waryk, there’s a Viking camp downriver—”
“Aye.”
“You plan to ride alone—”
“I do. The Vikings downriver have come here to negotiate with the king, they are not a group of maddened berserkers out to kill off the Scottish, man by man. I’m not going downriver. I plan to stay here, along the embankment.”
“For what?” Angus demanded, puzzled.
“Time alone, Angus, a precious thing.”
“You can be alone in your chambers at Stirling—”
“It’s not the same as having the stars over your head. You needn’t worry about me. We are back to civilization. The gates lie just ahead. No one more dangerous than a fisherman roams here. I’ll take good care. Bring the men in. Report to the king. Tell him I’ll be with him very soon.”
“Waryk, you’re no longer wearing any armor, not a plate, not a coat of mail—”
“I have my knife,” Waryk said quietly. He looked back to Geoffrey of Perth, the lad serving as his gall-oglach, or armor-bearer.
The boy was careful with all his belongings, polishing and tending his claymore, shields, mail, and plates constantly.
Waryk had shed his fighting attire last night, and now, he realized, in his simple tartan and wool cloak, he looked more like some of the wildmen he had fought.
“Waryk—”
“Angus!” he groaned. “You are a good man, a good protector. Now be a good friend, and give me some peace.”
Waryk lifted a hand to the trail of mounted men following behind him. He turned his horse and rode downriver, into the night.
Angus, watching him go, shook his head. No one man was an army.
And Angus had enough Viking in his own blood to be worried about the situation. Civilization! Angus snorted to himself. God alone knew what danger a man could come about in the dark of the night, even with a field of stars above.