Chapter 24 #3
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.