Page 6 of Come the Morning

Waryk hadn’t realized he’d been nicked in the fighting. He bled, but hadn’t felt the injury. “Aye, I bleed, I wear many scars. But I don’t fall, and if I were to fall, others more powerful would come behind me. Give me your boy. I can grant him the king’s protection.”

The man shook his head painfully. “You would never reach him in time, before …” he said. He gritted his teeth tightly against the pain assailing him.

“I swear to you, I will do whatever is necessary—” Waryk began.

But the man shuddered and died. No man, no laird, no king, had power over death.

“What is it that a man fears more than death itself?” Sir Gabriel demanded.

“The death of all he loves,” Waryk said quietly. He rose, and looked at his men. “No other survivors?” he asked.

“They fled, or died, Waryk,” Thomas told him.

“Have the men set to work strengthening the defenses,” Waryk said. “We’ll leave an additional fifteen men and supply the fortress before we leave, Sir Gabriel. Added strength until we know what this disturbance is all about.”

“Maybe we’ll never know,” Sir Gabriel said.

“I think that we will. Aye, I think that we will,” Waryk told him. “Eventually. All men fight because they want something. I believe these battles are like the tips of the icebergs off the northern waters—we’ve not begun to see what lies beneath.”

Two days later, with much work accomplished to shore up the walls and defenses of Localsh, Waryk and his men, minus those he would leave behind, departed.

Before turning back toward Stirling, he and his men rode the border, a powerful presence in the name of the king of Scots. As well as seeing to the welfare, strength, and loyalty of Scottish lords, they stopped at a small English castle, where they were entertained by Lord Peter of Tyne, an English baron who had managed to keep his border region peaceful despite the many disturbances in the region. His castle was strong; he had at least sixty of his own men trained for battle and joust. In the midst of the trouble between Stephen and Mathilda, he maintained a strong neutrality, and, due to his proximity to Scottish land, kept a close allegiance with King David of Scotland.

Peter was Waryk’s own age, the son of a noble who had grown up at the court of Henry I with David of Scotland. Listening to Waryk’s account of what had occurred, he seemed at a loss as well. “There is a tremendous schism in England,” he said. “One day, a man is killed for supporting Stephen; the next, five menare tortured for their loyalty to old Henry’s daughter. Strange things are happening.”

“Aye, but Scotland has enough of her own troubles without being embroiled with those of the English!”

“Hard to say, when so many Normans, and Anglo-Normans, call themselves Scotsmen. And when we all keep our eyes on David, knowing he will seize what he can to the south!”

“Aye, but if these men were involved in this fight between royal English cousins descended from the Conqueror, why go against the king of Scotland?”

“Someone is stirring up trouble, but who, I do not know. I will, of course, keep my eyes and ears open.”

“Ah. You will be on the lookout for a Scottish king?” Waryk asked skeptically, grinning. Peter was a cunning fellow, often blunt, never reckless.

“Aye, well, the Scottish king sits on his throne, at the moment. While the English … my loyalty lies where it is most expedient.”

Waryk laughed, they drank together, the night wore on. As the fire in the hearth slowly died, he saw a woman in the shadows of the hallway, waiting. Eleanora. Peter had long been a friend, and if they were ever to become enemies, it would be in the open. Here, he had relaxed, weary from the perplexing battle, and he had lain half-sprawled in his chair. Now, his muscles tightened. He gave her a slow smile, finished the ale in his cup. “Peter, I’ll say good night, and accept your hospitality.”

“Indeed, you must be exhausted,” Peter said.

“Aye, that I am.”

“My sister has waited long enough?” Peter queried, a brow arched in good humor.

“Apparently.”

“Aye, brother!” Eleanora cried. “Enough of this talk of battle and men who crawl from the forests like mindless monsters to die.”

Waryk walked over to Eleanora. The widow of a wealthy English laird, she was now an independent woman, but she loved him, and had been his mistress now many years, though the times he saw her were far too infrequent. She took his hand, and with a subtle smile, led him through dim corridors. Soon, they were within her rich apartments in her brother’s house. The light was very low, scented candles burned. Her clothes were quickly strewn. She was a voluptuous woman, the fullness of her breasts was emphasized by the flickering light and shadow of the candles. In the privacy of her room, she was passionate, experienced. He caught her to him, hungry for the taste of her, a kiss, the feel of her breasts in his hands. She responded with a sweet urgency, glad of his touch, wanting more, wanting it quickly. Upon her knees, she unbuckled his scabbard. She took him in her hand. Battle was soon forgotten.

He had meant to stay longer at the welcoming bastion of Tyne, but while he was there, a messenger arrived from David, urging him onward to Stirling with moderate haste. Something had happened; Waryk knew the king, and he knew he was being summoned for a reason. He bid brother and sister goodbye and started swiftly toward Stirling, where the king, who frequently moved about the country, was in residence.

They rode late one night when they came across an armed guard bearing the king’s colors. They were challenged in the name of King David, and Waryk quickly called out his own identity, then found that he faced an old friend, Sir Harry Wakefield, an older man, but one of the king’s closest advisors. Dismounting, he greeted Sir Harry, curious to know what he was about. “Is there some new action? Has fighting broken out anew?” he asked him.

“Nay, Laird Lion! Why, ’tis nothing but escort service I am about. The death of an old laird sends his child to the king,and so I am entrusted with her safety. We have heard about the fighting. Across the country, my friend, you are known for your great victories.”

Waryk inclined his head, though he was tempted to deny the praise. What had he done but slaughter madmen who had seemed to have no purpose?