Chapter 9
Daro met Anne as planned. So much was at stake. He meant to share a few words only, but …
In the darkness of the night, his lips touched hers. In the richness of the shadows, he felt her love. He thought of battle, of bloodshed, of the times he had fought, of the king’s anger, his wrath …
And still, he could not let her go.
It was later, several minutes later than he had intended, when they spoke, breathless once again.
“Have you heard anything new?” Daro demanded. “I’ve been told that she remains in Waryk’s chambers, tended by Angus alone.”
“Aye. They say that the king is furious with her.”
“Are you afraid?” he asked her.
“Nay …” she lied.
He smiled. “Are you ready?”
“Aye, but I don’t know my way in this part of the castle, or what it is I’m doing exactly …”
“Trust me. Come then, take my hand, courage!” He drew her with him to the tapestries, looking out on the hallway. No one in sight. They started down the corridor. Anne didn’t know where they were headed; Daro did.
“Daro, this might be foolish!” she whispered breathlessly.
“It would take an army to change the king’s mind where Mellyora is concerned.
Your brother’s holdings were far too rich to be risked in any way.
Oh, God, if they are afraid of my wicked ways if I were to marry a Viking, what would they think of Mellyora seeking the aid of her Viking kin?
They will hunt you down. Once the king knows, he will want to kill you—”
He paused, pulling her into his arms, kissing her lips. “You are my life, well worth dying for.”
“But I don’t want you to die. I want you to live. I would rather become a novice and know that you lived, even with another woman—”
“We will work this out,” he said, walking again. Then he suddenly pulled her against him, and they lay against the wall as he looked around the corner.
“Angus,” he said softly. “Aye, it’s Angus.”
“You know him well?”
He inclined his head to her and offered her a wry grin. “The son of a nun from Iona.”
“A nun—”
“And a berserker. His mother was raped by a berserker. He grew up in the wilds of the Highlands, where his mother lived out her days in happiness, it is said, with her barbaric laird,” he told her.
“Angus has followed Waryk since his family was slaughtered. A brave and loyal man, but a decent man.” He paused, studying the situation.
“Aye, a decent man!” he said. Then he smiled at Anne. “Give me a few moments, then—scream.”
“Scream?” she said, looking at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“Scream,” he repeated. “As if all the demons of hell were after you. When he comes to your aid, tell him you were startled by something in the shadows. Keep him talking for a few minutes, charm him, stall him, and I’ll free Mellyora, and meet you at the southern archway, closest to the stables.
We’ll gather helmets and cloaks and ride out like drunken soldiers. ”
Anne moistened her lips. She opened her mouth to speak, but trembled instead.
“It can work, Anne.”
“I know.”
“One man—and woman—can often win where an army cannot.”
She nodded again.
“Can you do it?”
“Aye. It—it can work.”
He squeezed her hand, and slipped back down the corridor to approach Waryk’s chambers from another direction.
“It can work, but what then?” Anne said softly aloud. But he was gone, and she had her part to play. She was terrified, wondering if she could manage to scream in all her fear. She tried once … and all she got was a breathy sound that would not carry two feet. She tried again …
And her piercing cry echoed off the hallways.
She closed her eyes, listening as footsteps came pounding down the corridor.
She opened her eyes, her mouth dry, her lips forming words she couldn’t speak.
Angus had come. Bald, scarred, as hardened a warrior as she could imagine. She didn’t think she’d ever been so scared in her whole life. He would see right through her. They would discover that Daro had set out to free Mellyora, and they would all be accused of treason …
Racked, disemboweled, hanged, beheaded …
“Are you all right? What has happened? You are white as parchment, speak to me, lass, what has happened?”
The man looked like a maddened berserker, but he spoke with a gentle enough voice, and his eyes were full of concern.
“I’m—I’m so sorry!” she stuttered, and it was the truth. She was very sorry and very afraid. “I—I thought I saw something in the hallway. It was nothing more than my own shadow, an illusion created by the torch burning there.”
The man looked around. “Aye, lass, there’s no one about here.” He frowned. “Who are you, and what are you doing up and about so late?”
“Ah, sir, I’ve been with an ailing friend, and now I’m making my way to my own bed. I tell you again, I feel a complete fool to have disturbed you.” The lies were coming more and more nimbly to her lips. But did he believe a word she was saying?
“I’d see you safe to your room, lass, but I’m afraid I must remain here. You’ll be safe enough. There’s really no danger here in the king’s hall at Stirling.”
“No. No, of course not,” Anne agreed. She smiled. “I scared myself, sir. A flight of fancy. My friend is Irish, and you know how superstitious the Irish can be, what tales they tell about pookas and ghosts and banshees wailing in the night.”
“Go on, lass. There are no pookas haunting these halls.”
She smiled at him radiantly and fled down the corridor.
Mellyora had been beside herself, trapped with a growing sense of fear and dismay, when she heard the sound of the heavy bolt rising from the door.
Afraid that Waryk might be returning, she backed away from the door.
But when it swung silently open and she saw Daro standing in the hallway, she uttered a little cry of joy.
He quickly brought a finger to his lips.
“Come now, niece, if you want no bloodshed—and not that I’d mind shedding a bit of blood in my present state of mind! —we must leave quickly and quietly.”
Mellyora didn’t need to be warned twice.
She sped out the door and waited while he closed it and slid the bolt back into place.
She started to ask him a question; he brought his finger to his lip once again and took her arm, indicating that they must move down the corridor.
She nodded, and fled silently along at his side.
Long after the banqueting with the king’s family, knights, court, acrobats, and musicians in attendance, Waryk spoke with the king again in his chambers.
He’d slept, but remained tired. He’d kept his distance from Mellyora, yet he’d begun to dream about Blue Isle, being laird of Blue Isle.
Tonight the king looked more fierce, like a Highland chieftain, for he wore a rough fur coat thrown around his shoulders against the cold and he paced his room with a purpose, drawing imaginary pictures on the floor with his fire poker.
“This property can only be maintained by my most staunch ally, Waryk,” David said, “for you see, here lies the island, and just across the water on the mainland lies the old Roman road connecting much of the Lowlands with the Highlands. The little bay is sheltered—the island creates a breakwater—offering excellent defensive positions against raiders and dockage for commerce ships. The castle on the island is impregnable; for the Romans, the legends say, it was their last bastion, the place they ran when they skirmished with Highlands tribes, but could fight no more. Troops under William the Conqueror seized it for a time, which was beneficial, since William’s architects and masons rebuilt the walls and strengthened the structure.
Mellyora MacAdin’s maternal grandfather was the man who won the fortress back under my father’s rule, and I do not intend to lose it again.
If this fortress falls into the wrong hands, my enemies could spill into the country behind me—you’ll note the proximity to my stronghold here.
” He paused, looking at Waryk. “I’m sorry.
You’ve fought for me a long time. I had not intended to put an enemy into your marital bed. ”
Waryk looked at the king, started to speak, then hesitated.
It seemed very strange. He could remember the night when he had first stood with a sword in his hand, while all around him, his kin and friends had lain dead.
He’d expected nothing much from life except for the opportunity to avenge the deaths of so many.
He had followed the king and become such a renowned warrior knight because he’d had a passion then to kill his enemies to purge the pain the night had brought.
He’d known that one day the king would reward him, but he’d never imagined this.
Sweeping lands, a fortress to defy the devil himself, cattle, sheep, artisans, masons, an entire feudal community.
He was sorry about his bride as well, but for this great a prize …
Well, she could just rot in a tower, if that was what she so chose.
“We will come to an understanding,” Waryk said.
“The wedding will come in two weeks’ time now, for the night of the full moon. I want as many of my nobles and warriors—and even my enemies—present so that there is never any question about the legitimacy of the marriage.”
“Two weeks’ time,” Waryk mused dryly. The night of the next full moon. When the lady in question had sworn to meet another man as payment in her quest to be free from him. “It seems a long time with the lady not my wife, and yet in my keeping. What do I do with her until then?”
The king was angry and his tone was as harsh as his words.
“Chain her, drug her, tie her down!” he swore impatiently.
“As I told you before, do with her what you will. Before the wedding, though, see to it that she is properly dressed and groomed, by her woman and ladies of the court. We will follow every tradition.”
Waryk arched an amused brow. “Chain, drug her, cast her in a dungeon. Ah, sire! Would that be appropriate behavior for a bridal groom?”