Page 7 of Come the Morning

“There’s another copse, just yonder,” Sir Harry told him. “You and your men may rest, Laird Lion, for no one will pass this road without my challenge!”

“My thanks, Sir Harry. Angus, what say we do as he suggests and make camp here. Have Thomas tell the men.”

The cry went out down the ranks. Angus knew that Waryk trusted in no one man alone, and that if Waryk had told him to take his rest, then Waryk meant to stand the first hours of guard duty himself. Sir Harry, pleased to be of service, saluted Waryk. “Truly, we heard you made quick business of those raiders at Localsh,” he said.

“Aye, Sir Harry, but I fear they’ll rise again.”

“The king has new enemies?”

“A king always has enemies, old and new.” Waryk dismounted, giving his horse to one of the pages who rode with him as the lad came to tether the destrier for the night. A rustle in the trees alerted Waryk and he spun, his sword unsheathed, as a second mounted man rode onto the trail. “Sir Harry—” the man called, a thunderous note in his voice to mask his concern.

“It’s all right, Matthew,” Sir Harry said. “’Tis Laird Waryk, the king’s champion, returning from battle.”

“Aye, sir, Laird Waryk,” the man said, sounding somewhat relieved. “We’ve strength against an enemy tonight!”

“Have you had trouble?” Waryk asked.

“Nay,” said Matthew. “But there are always troubles then, are there not? Especially in this, an old laird dies, he leaves a daughter …”

“Aye, well, we will be here tonight, and tomorrow, we’ll wait for you to break camp, and follow behind. If anyone is following, we will know. If that serves you well, Sir Harry?” Waryk didn’t want to imply that Sir Harry might really need his assistance in the simple task of escorting an orphaned heiress to the king.

“Laird Lion, it sits well enough with me!” Sir Harry said. “The lady’s own men are with us; when we see Stirling, they will double back, and when they have passed you by, you will know we are safely on our way down to the fortress.”

“Aye, then.”

“Matthew, ride the trail south, and I will move to the north,” Sir Harry said, and Matthew turned on his warhorse to do as commanded. Sir Harry lifted a hand in salute to Waryk. “I will leave you to your rest, m’laird.”

Matthew turned his mount to cover a distance of the northern road. As the light from Sir Harry’s torch faded, Waryk saw the glow of the campfires where the lady and her escort rested. They were some distance away through a thicket of foliage and trees, yet Waryk found himself drawn curiously to a sudden flow of movement in the night. He strode to the side of the trail, and, setting a hand upon a large oak, looked through to the group of men, shadowy figures all, drawn around the fire.

The campfire burned brightly in the center of a large clearing, flames licking upward in the night, blue and gold, mauve and crimson. From his distance, Waryk could see that a girl spun before it. He was too far away to make out her features, but close enough to feel there was a pretty sense of magic in the scene. Perhaps it was the late hour of the night, the slight blanketing of fog rising around her like an ethereal mist. Her dress was long, silver-white, touched strangely by the fire glow to embrace a rainbow of netherworld shades. Her hair was the color of the blaze, yellow-gold, highlighted with just a touch of fire. Like a sprite, she glided around the fire, dancing with the seductiveallure of an ancient Celtic princess, capturing the breathless attention of everyone present. And then she spoke. Her voice was magic, crystal clear, and he realized she was telling the tale of St. Columba.

“What sin he committed, no man is sure, but he crossed the Irish Sea, and came to our sacred Iona, his strength created by God’s own hand. And there he built a great monastery, and the people began to come to him. There had been men before, come with tales of Christ and the Church, but none was Columba. He was an artist, preserving our Celtic beauty, a scholar, and his monks toiled hard and long, creating pages of beautiful script. But most of all, he was a warrior knight, and he proved to the people the power of his will, and his God, for he came upon Loch Ness, and there he was defied by a great dragon. A sorry, wretched creature, it had plagued the people, stolen the children, consumed, as homage, many a fair maiden. Columba would have no more. He challenged the dragon to come for him. The creature rose from the deepest, blackest depths of the loch and, shedding the crystal water it shook from its great head, breathed fire upon Columba, yet he raised his great shield, and the fire returned to singe the dragon, and thus, the dragon was blinded. And Columba drew his great broadsword, and slew the dragon, and the people, who had grown hungry, feasted upon their enemy.” She raised her arms, stretched to the heavens on her toes, then bent low, her hair sweeping around her in golden rain as she bowed deeply, laughing even as she did so. As she rose again, lifting her hands, Waryk thought she was indeed enchanting, and she had great pride, a spirit of independence—and a definite wild streak. He was glad Sir Harry was her escort, and that he had been left to battle madmen.

Her tale was completed, and applause rang through the forest. Then the sound of a lute could be heard, and the gentle tone of aharp came as well, and there was laughter, light voices, dancing in the trees.

Then suddenly, the music hit a discordant note, and the sweet sounds of it faded into the night. “The king’s Normans are here,” he heard someone say. The words were spoken quietly, but somehow they carried through the night. Then a strange whispering began, and then there was silence.

He remained against the oak, teeth gritted. Aye, David had brought many Normans with him. He fought with Normans, and he fought against Normans. Still, somehow, the words were disturbing. He’d received many advantages in the king’s court; he fought with good armor, steel protecting him over the wool of his tartan. Many of the men escorting the young heiress had been clad in the typical leine croich, long pleated wool garments loose enough to allow a man to fight, yet supposedly offering some protection in the folds of material. But his own mail and plate were worn over his tartan, a pattern created for his father by the finest of the wool workers of his mother’s family, the Strathearns. As much as any man, more than most men, he was a Scot. Often, he knew, priests, clerics, and poets wrote of their being barbarians. Many in the Christian world claimed that though Rome had not conquered the Scots, they should have; much had been gained across Europe from the Romans—roads, aqueducts, laws, literature, more. Waryk thought that it was true; no one could match the Celts for the beauty of their jewelry and the works done by Irish and Scottish monks in the last centuries were some of the finest ever. But they needed to learn from their enemies, he thought. If they were going to fight the Normans, they needed to be as well armed as border friends and foes.

The armor he wore beneath his surcoat might be Norman, but he was a Scot. His father had paid for their place in thishomeland with his blood. He had shed his own upon it often enough.

He moved away from the oak. He was tired, and he was going to get some sleep. God alone knew what the king was planning next.

And his sleep was haunted by a dancer. She moved through his dreams with steps as light as quicksilver, her cloak of golden blond hair—just touched by a crimson flame—swirled with her, ever hiding her features.

He reached for her, wanting to see her face.

But she swirled, and in a field of mist, she was gone.

CHAPTER2

They emerged from the trail through the thick-forested crest, and there she lay. Stirling.

Seated upon her gray mare, Mellyora looked down upon the town where the king was in residence at his fortress. It was an ancient place. Even the Romans, in their quest to seize Britain, had come this far, but long before that, the old tribes had made it home. As dusk came now, as twilight touched the valleys, crags, and waterways, it was a beautiful picture. The fortress walls rose proudly, the colors of fall highlighted the sweeping dips and mounds of the landscape around them. The reflection of the setting sun upon the water gave it the appearance of sparkling with dozens of gemstones, brilliant stars that glittered and beckoned. One far field was dotted with sheep, now being herded in by a pair of lads and their dogs. Before the walls, near the water, the fishwives cried out their husbands’ catches; the clang of an armorer at work could be heard on the wind.

Mellyora loved Stirling—the hills, the forests, the greens and mauves, the beauty of the crags. She loved all of her homeland; this was far different from Blue Isle, where the waves could beat against the rocky shore and the cliffs with a wild, white vengeance. Here, all was calm, peaceful, and serene.

Yet, from her vantage point she could even see downriver, far downriver, to a field of tents and makeshift housing: a Viking camp. She bit lightly into her lower lip, feeling a strange level of excitement.Her uncle was near. If there was trouble, her uncle was near …