Chapter 10 #3
They would also be forced to realize that they all held their land of the king, and that power might be fleeting, and that all that was gained might be lost. The Normans might not have conquered Scotland, but their feudal ways had come here, and if Mellyora had been a male heir, as the eldest son of the laird she would have had far greater strength under the feudal law that had permeated much of their society, just as it had the English.
But she was a woman, with few more rights than those of a child.
She could not hold the land in her own name alone.
If she refused Waryk, the king would not choose a different husband for her, or allow one. He would simply seize the property.
Staring at the messenger, Daro exhaled softly.
“Does Laird Lion wish me to explain this choice to my niece?”
“That, Laird Daro, is your choice. Laird Lion will tell her himself, if you don’t wish to do so. He intends to come here and retrieve her—with the king, he hopes, remaining unaware of the truth of her flight—and will do so. He awaits your invitation, and prays that it will come speedily.”
Indeed, Waryk was awaiting his invitation. Daro’s admiration for the man grew. He would avoid bloodshed—if he could. If he could not, he would come in full force, with all the power of a mighty king behind him.
“Laird Waryk wishes peace,” the messenger continued, “and has no desire to start his marriage with the blood of his wife’s kin upon his hands. He wishes to offer you a gift.”
Daro arched a brow. “A gift?”
“Aye, the gift of a woman. Knowing your desire—and that of the young woman—he has been to the king, and to the MacInnish. He and Michael, chieftain of the family, have long been friends and allies. He has argued a case in your behalf, and so Michael has spoken with his cousin, Padraic, and with the king, and wishes you to know that you begin negotiations for a marriage contract with Anne MacInnish.”
Daro was truly startled. Waryk was not threatening, blustering, or riding down on him with his sword unsheathed. He was besting him in a most unusual way—through a cunning form of decency.
“How do I know he is telling me the truth?” Daro asked carefully.
It could be a trick.
“Because he will bring Anne MacInnish with him when he comes,” the messenger said. “And because he keeps his word; it is sacred to him.”
Waryk had taken Anne, and he would bring her back, and the situation had remained quiet all these days while Waryk had spoken with the MacInnish and the king.
Now, they could all go about their lives with the king none the wiser.
Waryk wasn’t demanding that Daro trade Mellyora for Anne, he was simply advising him that Mellyora would be disinherited, rendered penniless and bereft of her property, if she refused the marriage.
That would remain her choice. Daro didn’t think that the threat of being stripped of wealth would greatly disturb Mellyora—he was not a penniless man, and she would remain welcome to his protection.
But she loved her homeland, her island, even the cold, wild water that lashed the coastline between the isle and the mainland.
She loved being the lady there, listening to disputes, settling petty problems, tending to the sick and wounded, and most of all, keeping art and tradition alive.
Story-tellers came often, though Mellyora could weave a spell when she chose to tell a story herself.
It was said that though the Celts had once ruled and roamed Europe, it was in western England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland that the survivors came after the great barbarian warriors fell to the superior strength of Roman weaponry.
She knew the stories about the ancient warriors of her mother’s people, Celts and Scotia, just as she knew the old Norse legends.
She was Viking, but she was her mother’s child as well.
She could sing with a voice that was crystal-clear and enchanting, and poets and artists came to the isle just to see her. She was proud, Daro thought.
She would not give up her position as lady of the isle. No matter what it cost to keep her place. If she had run and defied the king thus far, it was because she hadn’t realized that the king could and would take the isle from her.
“You may go back to Laird Lion,” Daro told the messenger.
“And tell him that I am grateful for the fact that he spoke on my behalf, that Anne will be my wife, and I will not forget his kindness. He may come here with his safety a sworn promise. I, too, keep my word; we are of different backgrounds, but my word is as sacred to me. I will look forward to greeting the great Laird Lion as an old ally in battle, as a friend, and as my blood by marriage.”
The messenger nodded, pleased. “I will carry your words, Laird Daro.”
Ragnar entered as the messenger left. “Threats? Demands?” Ragnar asked. “Do we prepare for battle?”
Daro shook his head. “Make sure that all men know that the king’s champion, Laird Waryk, is coming here. He is bringing my future bride, and he is not to be molested in any way. Any man who accosts him will face my wrath and my sword.”
“What of your niece?” Ragnar asked.
Daro shrugged and answered truthfully. “The king will confiscate the property and give it to Laird Lion without her if she doesn’t accept the arrangement. David isn’t planning on a great marriage between two noble houses—he is making a political maneuver, and he will not be stopped.”
“Shall I have Inga awaken Mellyora?”
Daro shook his head. “Let her sleep, let her have what peace she can find now.” He hesitated.
“Sleep has been such a difficult state to achieve since this all began. We’ll let her rest until he arrives.
It will not take me long to explain the situation; she will not be happy, but at least, she may be relieved, because we have all waited now so long, expecting a battle which might kill hundreds, and make us outlaws forever, should we survive. ”
Word went out among the Viking camp that Waryk, Laird Lion, the king’s man was coming. He was Daro’s guest, a man many of them had fought with before, the king’s champion arriving on a matter of personal and political expediency. He was to be greeted with respect and offered full hospitality.
Most of the men in the camp, aware since Daro’s return with his niece that the promise of war had been in the air, were relieved.
It was one thing to fight a border skirmish, another to put down open insurrection.
But the world had already changed, and was still evolving.
Daro had come here to speak with the king to grant them greater tracts of land.
Though they were known for going a-Viking, at home, they were hunters and farmers, as fond of the warmth of a home fire against winter’s cold as any man, as anxious for the simple abundance of hearth, wife, and family.
Most men, hearing the news, were relieved.
A man known to the Vikings as Ulric Broadsword was intrigued.
Born in Scotland of Nordic descent, he had joined with Daro’s Vikings just days earlier with a small contingent of men.
He could fight with the best of them, laugh easily, drink, and tell tales with bold, wine-sodden charm.
He offered the group strength and hard work, and also, if necessary, the hospitality of his own home, southward toward the ever-disputed border with Norman England.
He had come to be close to the king and the events at Stirling.
He had watched Daro arrive with Mellyora; he had seen how Daro’s loyal men had set the camp on guard.
And now, Waryk, Laird Lion, the king’s great champion—risen from a snapping pup—was on his way.
The implications were obvious. Waryk was to be given the property that had been ruled by great Adin through the heiress, Mellyora, the headstrong beauty made famous through the poems of many a roving seneschal or storyteller.
Well, indeed, he’d seen the noble lass now, and the stories regarding her were not exaggerated—as stories often were to please the rich and noble.
The lass was a fair prize.
Aye, a fair prize, indeed. Delectable. And since they weren’t going to war against Waryk and the king …
Seizing her would provide Ulric with infinite entertainment. Not that that even mattered. He’d have taken her if she’d been as ugly as a warted old hag. And he’d have had his way with her—even if he’d had to have blindfolded himself—simply because of who she was, and who she was intended to be.
But she wasn’t ugly. She was as lovely as a goddess with her flashing blue eyes and sun gold hair. They said that she was proud, but pride could be broken. He had grown up with rage, and he had learned, and he knew how to break people—men and women.
Watching as the servants scurried about, cooking, selecting shaggy cattle to slaughter for a feast, he thought that his time to move was now.
He motioned to one of his men, Han, and told him, “It’s time to ride.
Gather our men and meet me, with an extra horse, horses, at the southwestern entrance to the camp. ”
Han arched a brow. “What are we about, Ulric?” he asked.
Ulric waved a hand in the air. “Vengeance. Where is Adin’s daughter?”
“In Daro’s hall.”
“With him?”
“I’ve heard that she sleeps in a little room to the side. She’s not to be wakened until Waryk arrives.”
“Is she guarded?”
“Daro’s men walk the front, but this is a camp, not a fortress.
She is not a prisoner here, she would not flee or fight her own uncle.
She rests, in the side room, with only a servant woman to watch her.
The hall is hastily constructed wood frame and skins, no more.
I’ve seen the servant woman coming and going from a doorway of deer hide at the far left corner of the structure. ”
“Good.”
“But what are we about? If there isn’t to be a war with the king—”
“Then we will make one,” Ulric told him. “We ride as I said. We go a-Viking tonight in a different way.”