Page 27 of Come the Morning

“There’s no need to seize arms—yet,” Waryk said dryly. “I’ve been to see the king—”

“Aye, then, you’ve heard,” Angus said, studying Waryk.

“Aye, I’ve heard,” Waryk said. Apparently, everyone else at Stirling had known his fate while he had idled his time under the stars and in the river.

“Ah, well,” Angus said. “Lady Eleanora will understand. I know of the inheritance. It’s a place beyond imagination, the wildest beauty known to man. You love the sea, Waryk, there’s no place finer. And the lass, well, you’ll be pleased, she’s young. I saw her once, as a babe, and she was the prettiest little creature ever. She was the heiress we camped near last night, Sir Harry’s charge. If I’d but known, I’d have insisted on seeing her. Aye, now, I know, women change, but it’s said she’s grown into one of the most beautiful women in our country and beyond. I’m sure you’ll be pleased when you’ve met—”

“Angus, we have met, so it seems—”

“Where, when?” Angus asked, puzzled; then he suddenly noted, “Waryk, you’re wet. Soaked.”

“Aye, that I am. We met quite by accident. I didn’t know the lady, nor does she yet know me.”

Angus lifted a brow slowly. “And she is why you’re soaking wet.”

“Aye.”

“Well, dry off, change man!”

“Not yet. I’m off to find my lady again, you see. And she has a penchant for water as well. I’m learning these things about her, you see.”

“Oh? Shall I come with you to find her?”

“No. I’ll find her myself.”

“And tell her just who you are, I imagine!”

“No. Not yet, Angus. But once I’ve brought her here … well, once I’ve done so, we’ll want to keep her. I’m not sure when I’ll return with her. When I do, inform the king. And alert Sir Harry, and Tristan, I think. I’ll count on you to keep close guard on these halls.”

“You think she’ll try to escape you?”

Waryk smiled grimly. “I know she’ll try to escape me. But she won’t. No matter what she thinks. I am curious to discover, though, just how far she is willing to go.”

CHAPTER6

By the time she came to the embankment in the night, Mellyora was freezing and exhausted. She had lost direction in the darkness, and it had seemed to take forever to reach the opposite embankment.

There, she had found a fisherman’s lean-to, a hut of stone and mud like the one on the opposite bank, and it had seemed compellingly welcoming, a break against the chill wind of the night. Even with the Viking camp so close, she had paused there just to rest for a few minutes. Shivering, weak, and weary, she had longed to start out quickly again. But the swim had exhausted her more than she had thought possible, and she realized she had slept very little in weeks now, hardly doing so since Adin had died. In the small hut she’d closed her eyes, she’d dozed, and when she opened her eyes again, there was light, and there were fishermen on the water, and she could see the little boat she had borrowed the night before. It was just a few feet from shore, as if it waited for her. It had drifted close to the embankment. Amazingly, in the light of day, she could see the oars. They had surfaced, and they floated close to the drifting boat. The day was nearly as chill as the night, and her clothing and cloak were in the boat. It wasn’t far at all. She could reachit with just a few minutes’ swim, and take it the rest of the way downriver to the Viking camp. If she were found walking along the embankment, she might be in for some grave difficulties. She decided she needed the boat.

Without a fool young oaf to lose the oars for her again! She wondered vaguely what had happened to her boatman of the night gone by. He hadn’t returned for her. Or had he? He wouldn’t have seen her in the hut. He would have to think that she had either found her uncle or perished in the darkness. His fault. With luck, he’d feel guilty for being such an idiot and for assaulting her in the first place.

The river was deep and wide and very cold. Mellyora’s teeth chattered, her bones ached, she could barely force herself into the water, and then to keep moving. But she knew the harder she swam, the greater force she would exert, the more warmth she would generate within herself. She really had no choice, not anymore. Perhaps it had been foolish to plow back into the water—it seemed more so every second—but she had done it, and therefore, she had to keep going. Everything she had done since her audience with the king might be conceived as foolish, she admitted to herself. If she didn’t freeze to death or drown now, she might have broken her neck earlier. But she didn’t have many weapons with which to fight, and it was one thing for kings to believe they had the right to command the future, but since that future was hers, she had to wage war with the king in whatever way she could. She wouldn’t allow any of it to be foolish. Achieving her goals would be vindication. She would keep herself from freezing, and she would reach the boat, secure the oars, and find her uncle. She was a good swimmer, a strong swimmer, and she would make it.

Finally, raising her head to draw a breath, she saw the boat. Relief filled her. In the not so far distance, she could even see theViking camp, men up and about now, women working at their cooking fires.

Before long, she’d reach her destination. Which she needed to do. The king would have men out any minute, searching for her. Maybe it would take until midday, when Jillian realized she didn’t sleep, and alerted the king that she was gone.

Yet just when she thought another hard kick would bring her to the boat, she felt a startling new force against her. She gasped, gulping in water as she was suddenly jerked back. She wasn’t alone in the water. Someone had seized her and was pulling her back, trying to drown her.

A hand was upon her waist. She twisted, kicking and clawing with fear and desperation, her nails digging into flesh. She was released; she started to sink. She kicked hard and shot to the surface, desperate for breath.

She had barely breathed in before hands closed around her again. Being held in the water instantly panicked her; she was certain an enemy was trying to drown her. This time, she tried to bite. Her teeth met flesh. The arm in her mouth slammed against her with such a power that she released her grip, stunned, and certain she was about to die. The arm around her was like a cordon of steel. But she wasn’t being drowned, she was being dragged out of the water. In deep dismay she realized that she had swum so hard only to be dragged back to the embankment once again.

She kicked and wriggled, trying to twist around so that she could assess her enemy. She could barely move, scarcely breathe. In seconds she found herself slung down upon the embankment. She was so cold, it was hard to fight. Her assailant was about to come over her; she caught the rich mud in her hands and cast it upward, into his face. She struck him, twisted, and started crawling to freedom.

But he was suddenly before her, bare feet staunchly embedded in the mud. She turned again, and he was upon her, arms wrapped around her waist as they rolled on the embankment. She flailed furiously with her fists, fighting the man, desperately wishing herself back at the fortress at Stirling. For the moment, she cursed herself for her foolishness in thinking she’d had a real chance at escaping the king and finding the freedom she had been willing to risk so much to find. Who was this madman who had risen from the river like a sea monster? What had she done, had there been any other means of reasoning with the king? Was she about to be raped and murdered? Her knife remained at her calf, and she reached for it, drawing it from the leather sheath. She didn’t want to die, she was terrified, but she couldn’t just lie there like a frightened lamb and allow herself to be slaughtered without a fight. She tried to raise her weapon high, to bring it down with a worthwhile effort …

“So you’re a traitor, thief—and would-be murderess!” she heard as long fingers curled around her wrist with such strength that she cried out at the pain, forced to release the weapon. She was slammed down upon her back, and her assailant was over her. Her knife was in the mud, and her wrists were pinned above her head while his face hovered grimly just above her own.