Page 90 of Come the Morning

“Outlaws. Many Vikings are now as much a part of Scotland as you or I,” she insisted.

“Umm. Curious, my lady, that you have so much Viking kin. Your father was Viking, and with the least invitation, surely, there are Vikings who think that this isle should be theirs.”

“How dare you! If you’re referring to my uncle—”

“I dare, because Vikings attacked.”

She turned from him, starting away. He caught her arm, pulling her back. “And I’m referring to no one. I just pray you realize that such Vikings are your enemies, and not your saviors!”

“Let me go. I’m tired. It’s been a long ride, and a long way home.”

She jerked free and started walking again. He mounted Mercury, then decided that they would reach the isle together—he didn’t give a damn if the water was cold, or scalding. He urged Mercury forward. She turned, hearing his approach, but before she could protest, he reached down for her, drawing her before him on the great warhorse. Mercury obediently plunged into the surf, and though the water rose, the horse didn’t falter. They touched ground again, and together, rode onto the shore of Blue Isle. He urged the horse into a lope, and they entered through massive gates into a portcullis, through a second set of gates, and into the great courtyard of the fortress.

For several long moments, Waryk held his seat, staring around him. The huge stone walls housed marketing tables and merchants with their wares. Animals brought in during the attack still roamed about in large number. There were five tower sections connected by five lengths of thick wall; parapets lined the uppermost region, by way of the towers. The expanse of the courtyard was huge, and suddenly, all the people who had come into the walls for protection from the attack began flocking around them. They called greetings to Mellyora, welcoming her home, and they welcomed him as their new laird with a warmthand passion that he realized could not have been his had they not arrived to such tumult.

People crowded Mercury; the horse accepted the adulation well, as if it were all for him. Finally, a man broke through the crowd. Mellyora spoke softly, using the Gaelic term for the master of the household.

“This is Donald,ard Ghillean an-tighe.”

“Aye,” he murmured.

“Lady Mellyora, Laird Lion, welcome, come, there’s wine by the fire, your chambers are prepared.”

“Aye, Donald, I’m most anxious,” Waryk said, and he eased Mellyora to the ground before leaping from Mercury. He saw a groom come for the horse, and Donald’s presence had created a trail through the crowd. As they followed Donald, Mellyora greeted people, and people watched him, their eyes bright with curiosity. He nodded here and there, accepting the homage given him.

They entered the northernmost tower and immediately came up a flight of stairs; as with many fortresses, Waryk saw quickly, the lower floors were kept for livestock, arms, and other supplies. Donald told him that the men were quartered in the western walls, guests were given the eastern sector, and the northern tower and halls had always belonged to the laird. As they moved, Waryk rested a hand against the small of Mellyora’s back. She walked very quickly. He kept pace.

The tower itself was the great hall of the fortress; Donald escorted them to the left to reach the master’s chambers. They were vast, taking up the entire length of the seaward section of the hall. A huge bedchamber was separated from an anteroom by a draped arch, and while the bedchamber boasted the bed, a great hearth, a table by an arrow-slit window, a number of trunks, a washstand and an elaborately carved dressing table, the antechamber was equally comfortable, with large, leather-bound chairs, furs upon the floor before the hearth, a large table laden with books and plans, and walls hung with all manner of weaponry.

He had best be careful, he thought. His wife could choose many a blade to use against him at a moment’s notice here.

While Donald pointed out the view from the arrow slits and the door that led to a balcony with stairs to the parapets, Mellyora stood still and silent in the center of the room.

“M’laird, what is your pleasure?” Donald asked.

“My belongings from the wagons will take time to load on boats, I imagine,” Waryk said. “Is there a bath?”

“Of course, Laird Lion,” Donald said indignantly. “They say that we are ruffians, barbarians, perhaps, but we’ve a fondness for water, here, sir, as it were. You’ll find that the Scots—”

“I am a Scot, Donald.”

Donald froze, embarrassed. “Your pardon, sir. Word had it that the king would choose a Norman laird, and—”

“I’m a Scot. My lady will have a bath now. She’s cold. From the seawater, you know,” he said, staring at Mellyora. She looked as if she was ready to take a weapon from the wall to use against him. “I’ll see Phagin, Angus, and young MacKinny in the great hall.”

“Aye, m’laird.”

Donald left. Mellyora remained silent. Waryk stood before the hearth watching her, and knowing that she wished him dead.

“Well, is the prize worth the effort?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he told her.

“You don’t know? You’ve seen the land, and the castle.”

“Aye, ’tis fine land. The castle is exceptional, and I can understand why David refused to let it go to anyone he didn’t trust.”

“Like a Viking’s daughter.”