Page 4 of Come the Morning

“Young Gra—ham!” the king called. He was well versed in all three languages that might have been spoken among his peoples, the old “Scottish” or Gaelic, the “Teutonic” or English, and the Norman French brought over by William the Conqueror and the fruitfully reproductive knights who had accompanied him. Now, he spoke the Scottish tongue, placing a heavy Gaelic accent and burr upon the syllables. The lad did not at first respond. “Graham!” the king repeated.

The boy looked at him at last, as if realizing it was his name now being called. David—tall, lean, handsome in his saddle—looked down upon the lad, who had promise of an even greater height and physical power. He assessed the lad carefully. David was no fool. He’d had years to study the art of kingship; he’d seen the power of the Norman kings. He’d seen their weaknesses, and he knew their strengths, and strength, he had determined, lay with people.

Though he learned much among the Norman-English, he was the king of Scotland, and he was loyal to the Scots. This was his kingdom. He weighed all men, friends and enemies, carefully. He was a good judge of character, quick to find both the frailties and virtues within a man. Now, he weighed the lad.

“You are the Graham,” David said gently.

The boy’s shoulders jerked in a spasm. He moved at last, turning to look at the place upon the battlefield where his kin lay dead.

“I am,” he said. He fixed his piercing blue eyes upon the king. He had just slain a giant. His lower lip trembled, his eyes glistened with tears. His family lay dead. “I am, sire. I, alone.”

“Your father was a fine man. A great man. I cherished him, as a warrior, and a friend.”

“Aye, sire.”

David looked around at the men who had survived both battle and treachery. In silence now, they watched the scene unfolding. David dismounted from his horse. He drew his own sword. Nothing so gained the loyalty and love of people as pageantry, and recognition of heroic deeds well-done.

“Kneel, boy!” he commanded.

At first, the boy did not seem to understand. Perhaps he thought David meant to slay him.

“Kneel!” the king commanded.

The lad Waryk fell to one knee. The king set his sword upon his shoulders. “I, David, by the Grace of God king of this united Scotland, do knight thee here and now for incredible valor upon the field of battle.” His sword still set upon the lad’s shoulders, he looked around at the fighting men of the field and his own escort of armed men and nobility. “Waryk, son of William, you are now Sir Waryk Graham, in honor of your father’s kin, and your mother’s. All here have witnessed your courage, and these events. They will know that from this day forward, Waryk, son of the great William de Graham, that though I can give you no such title now with lands to support it, you shall be known as Laird Lion, you will be my champion, and I will look out for your interests in the years to come for this night’s work. When the time is right, lad, there will be much to be gained, perhapsthrough advantageous marriage. Sir Waryk de Graham, Laird Lion! Your father’s honor lives on in you.”

The lad stared up at the king. Bloodied, bruised, covered in earth and sweat and mud, he grasped the king’s hand. His eyes were bright with tears he would not shed. The king had given him the greatest gift he could offer in honoring his father, and the mother he could scarcely remember. “Sire,” the lad said, his voice tremulous, “I will serve you until death.”

“That, Laird Lion, I will expect from you,” David said wryly. “Rise, my boy.”

So commanded, the lad came to his feet once again.

“You are the Graham, my boy.”

“I, alone, sire,” he said, his tone now weary, the weight of the night’s work heavy upon him.

“Tonight, aye,” the king said kindly. “But you will create your own kin, my boy. Trust me,” he murmured.

And his thoughts were already on the future. For he was a king. And his newly made knight of the realm had just become another pawn.

The game of his life had just begun. There were any number of moves possible for this lad.

PARTI

The Viking’s Daughter

CHAPTER1

His method of warfare had changed somewhat in ten years. Not completely. Waryk, Laird Lion, still preferred his sword to any other weapon; it had been his father’s blade, William’s claymore, and he wielded it still.

Today he sat atop a great warhorse and stared down the hill, watching the assault on the king’s small fortress of Localsh. Fifty mounted men-at-arms were in his command to quash the rebellion, reputed to be far greater than what he discovered here. The garrison at the fortress, however, was no more than twenty men, plus the artisans, masons, clergy, and freemen who lived within and about the walls of the fortress. Stonework, so recently begun, was being torn down. The defenders had prepared for a siege rather than striking out at the attackers; the garrison in the castle was small, enough men to defend, not enough to attack. But now, the defenders were beginning to lack food, water, arrows for ammunition, oil to pour upon those attempting to scale the walls. The rebels could be seen preparing their weapons of assault; catapults to storm the castle with rocks and flaming debris, rams to break down the gates, ladders with which to send men over the walls.

Watching the rebels from a distance, Waryk frowned. This was not what he had expected. With neighboring England now in something of chaos with Henry I dead and his daughter, Mathilda, fighting his nephew, Stephen, for the crown, many of the Norman barons were stretching their wings and reaching out for whatever power they could seize. While even the Scottish king’s personal troops were known for their wild appearance—Waryk commanded a comparatively small cavalry—and foot soldiers whose raw courage most frequently created their victories, these fighting men were sad, lacking even leather armor, breastplates or protection. Some carried the poorest shields. They appeared to be no more than disgruntled serfs, with little strategy, or knowledge of warfare. Their dress was poor, more Norman than Scottish, not unusual here in the Lowlands. Granted, the death of King Henry I of England had thrown a great deal of confusion into England and the borderlands and Anglo-Scottish relations, but this still seemed strange. A knight prepared for war with the full treasury of a king—even a Scottish king, as some would say—he himself was well mounted and armored, a coat of light, finely meshed mail over his wool undergarment and under his surcoat of deep rich blue. A single metal plate protected his chest, and his helmet was metal as well, though many of his men preferred the protection of leather to that of steel. His eyes as deep and disturbing a blue as the color on his surcoat, stared out from a helmet with a sturdy nose plate. His own blazon, that of a flying falcon, was embroidered on his surcoat and on the rich trappings worn by his horse.

He was close to where he had fought so many years ago, he thought. He had come far from there, only to return. Once, he had been a boy, ragged and undisciplined, no shield, no armor, fighting for …

His life.

Whywere the men below fighting? He thought of the way they had struggled then, so poorly armed, and yet, they fought for their homes.