Come the Morning (51 page)

But he staggered, and fell. Eleanora gasped, rushing to his side. “Ewan, poor Ewan, I will stay with you, the others must ride now.”

Waryk turned, and saw that Daro, Peter, Angus, and Ragnar and others had arrived behind him. He saw that Geoffrey, pained, stood in the courtyard as well.

“Water, lad,” he said wearily. “We need water for ourselves, and the horses, and then we ride again. Northward.”

Mellyora didn't know where they were when they at last stopped.

It was night, darkness surrounded them, but they had come to high ground with a natural stone boundary to the south, and Lord Renfrew commanded that it was the best place to make camp for the night.

“We should push on,” Ulric argued.

Renfrew disputed him. “Men falling from their saddles cannot fight. We don't even know yet if Daro and Waryk have destroyed one another. If they have not …” He shrugged. “We can make a defensive stand here if we have to. Our troops are equal to Waryk's, and we could win a major battle here.”

Ulric remained disgruntled, but he dismounted, and shouted out orders to camp.

A large command tent was quickly assembled for Lord Renfrew. Rugs were thrown over the bare ground, furniture was provided, a fire was built in the center so that the smoke could escape through the vents cut into the thick fabric of the tent.

Mellyora was beyond exhaustion when she was brought before Renfrew.

“So you are the Viking's daughter, Waryk's great prize.”

She lifted her chin, and told him, “The property is the prize, Lord Renfrew. You failed to seize the property.”

He arched a brow, comfortably taking a seat in a folding camp chair. He didn't invite her to sit. “Ah, yes, men desire property. But then again, most men desire women as well. And you, as a wife with property … I imagine Laird Lion has the sense to appreciate his incredible good luck. As Adin's daughter, you created quite a stir. Men vied for you, offered your father fortunes for your hand. And now, among other things, you have driven Ulric quite to distraction.”

“He is easily driven to distraction then.”

Renfrew grinned. He studied her so long that she began to feel a greater sense of fear. “He said that you threatened to kill yourself if he touched you.”

“It wasn't an idle threat.”

Renfrew laughed. “Ah, but harder to do than you might imagine while the instinct to survive still rages within you. And I believe, my lady, that you are a fighter, a survivor. But then, Mellyora MacAdin, if I decide to explore for myself just what manner of prize you might be, I will not give a damn if you threaten to kill yourself or not. Of course, you won't. What woman takes her own life when she carries the child of the man she loves, eh?”

He stood suddenly, walking over to her, and around her. He touched her face, allowed his hand to fall to her breast. Her heart thundered, she longed to lash out at him, and she fought to control her temper. She carried a knife in a sheath at her calf. The knife she always carried. But she was surrounded.

“Ah, wouldn't you love to kill me, Viking's daughter!” he said. “You should take care. I am keeping Ulric from you.”

Was that true? It didn't really matter. If she killed Renfrew, someone would kill her. And he was right in that she didn't want to die. Not while she lived with hope.

“You will not find me fascinating this evening, Lord Renfrew.”

“Oh, and why not?”

“I am exhausted. And sick. If you touch me—”

“You'll kill yourself. I've told you what I think of that threat.”

She shook her head. “No, my lord Renfrew. I shall vomit all over you.”

As she had expected, he backed away. He waved a hand toward her. “You may sleep in the pallet in the rear. Don't try to escape. My men have been ordered to hack off your toes if they catch you so much as slipping outside. I will maim you, lady. I swear it.”

She didn't doubt it, but it wouldn't have mattered. Whatever the morning brought, she would have to bear. She was too weary, and too relieved, to try to escape tonight.

The pallet in the back offered her a little privacy. She had been left water with which to wash, ale to drink, and bread and cheese to eat. She couldn't manage the cheese; she wolfed down the bread. She scrubbed her hands and face, and lay down to sleep, staring into the darkness, wondering how it was possible to be so numb and in such pain at the same time. She was just so tired. She prayed that Waryk was alive. That he and Daro had made peace.

What if they hadn't? What if they had slain one another? How would she survive? How would she make herself care …?

Tomorrow, she would find a way to fight again. Tomorrow.

He would come for her. He was alive, and he would come.

Waryk would come.

She closed her eyes. Despite herself, she dissolved into tears. They were even more exhausting, and at last, she slept.

They found the trail that night and followed it—it was not difficult to track such a large party of mounted men and baggage. By the following morning, they were not far behind, but Waryk saw, with Daro and Angus, that the enemy had found a spit of land on which to make a stand which offered them a natural defense. They would be at a severe disadvantage if they charged in without preparing their battle tactics. “We need to make a large shield, so that our men can approach and have refuge against the archers who will have the advantage of height,” Angus said.

“Aye,” Daro agreed wearily, and Waryk, clenching his jaw in frustration, knew that they needed to take time and prepare. But he was desperately worried about Mellyora. She was a fighter, and Ulric was so brutal.

But though they had as yet to be seen by the Viking camp, there had been women among the Vikings who had returned to the valley, and from them, Waryk was able to learn that Mellyora seemed to be well. She was being kept with Lord Renfrew, and though she had no freedom to move about the camp, she had been seen, and she was well.

He lay awake, tortured at night, wondering if Renfrew had raped his wife. If he did, he prayed that she didn't fight him, that he didn't hurt her. He wanted her back. It was all that mattered.

In the morning, he supervised the building of their war machines, shouting, harrying, hurrying the men along.

By that afternoon, the Vikings knew that they had come.

A rain of arrows came falling down upon them just before sunset. Thankfully, the great, moving shields had been hastily finished, and they were protected from the falling death. Immediately after the arrows, a messenger arrived, seeking Waryk to surrender the castle at Blue Isle, and all the men would be allowed to leave the field.

“Tell Renfrew and Ulric they will be allowed to live if they return my wife now!” he retorted furiously to the messenger, approaching the man with menace.

Daro caught hold of him, drawing him back. “You can't let them know how worried you are!” he warned him in a whisper.

“If she comes back to me now,” Waryk said calmly, “they will live. If she is harmed, they will die more slowly than even they, masters of brutality, can imagine.”

“Ulric intends you to die, Laird Waryk. Then he will return with your wife to Blue Isle, and she will accept him as laird in your stead.”

“I cannot oblige Ulric, and, therefore, he must die,” Waryk said.

The messenger left them.

She lay on her pallet, aware that morning had come again. She still felt tired. She had been here two days now, she believed. Renfrew came to taunt her at times. Thankfully, he was too busy planning his battle to threaten her often.

Yet she lay awake, afraid to feel excitement, happiness, relief.

Because Waryk lived. And Daro.

They had not told her, of course. But she had ears, and she had heard.

Her laird had come for her. With his Scottish troops, with Peter of Tyne's English troops, and with her uncle's Vikings.

They had not slain one another. They had banded together.

And at first, just knowing that had given her hope and pleasure. But then …

Hours had gone by, and then days, and she had realized that Renfrew was smart, that he had put himself in a powerful place. Battle would not be easily won.

She had tried to step outside the night before; men had been there so quickly and so close that she had felt real terror, imagining that they would begin to hack off her toes with their razor-honed axes. She had lied quickly, pretending she had been seeking them, and asking if there was deep water somewhere near so that she might immerse herself in a real bath. Guards had been sent with her to a small stream; she had bathed in her undershift, but it had still felt good after the time on the road. This morning, however, she lay in desolation again, wondering how long this state of affairs could go on.

The linen screen suddenly moved. She sat up on her pallet, seeing that Renfrew had come, and that he stood over her.

He knelt. She half rose on her elbows, warily shifting away. “Are you feeling better?” he asked politely.

She shook her head.

He smiled. He was a slim man with an ascetic face, yet his eyes and his smile were bitter, cunning, and cruel.

“I don't think you're sick at all. I think you're a liar.”

“I'm not lying.”

“Well, I shall find out. I have grown bored, my lady, waiting. We'll see just how sick you are. I am repulsed by such things, so be warned, I will hurt you if you ruin my clothing or create a miserable smell.”

He reached out, grabbing the material of her bodice, and dragging her to him. She struck him furiously, catching him in the face. He instantly returned the blow. Her ears rang, a blinding pain spread out before her eyes. He moved quickly while she lay stunned from the blow, straddling her. Her knife remained at her calf, if only …

“Ah, there you are, Lord Renfrew!” Ulric stated suddenly, and he was there as well, seething as he stared down at them both. “Leave the woman be until we know what leverage we need,” Ulric said, mocking the command Renfrew had apparently given him.

Renfrew shrugged. “I've decided we don't need such leverage. You may have your turn.”

“Aye, that I will,” Ulric promised bitterly. “The woman, Renfrew, is mine. But not now. Waryk and his troops are marching up the hill. They are ready to attack.”

Renfrew instantly rose, dragging her to her feet.

“We need to prepare for battle. What are you doing with her?”

“She is part of the battle, you fool, don't you see?” Renfrew demanded. “Our very best defense.”

At the rise in the slope leading to the hill, Waryk assembled his archers. They let free a single volley.

There was screaming among Ulric and Renfrew's troops; then suddenly, a warning rang out.

“Be warned, Waryk! Arrows will pierce what you have come to retrieve!” Renfrew's mocking voice called out to them.

The forces at the crest of the hill moved, and Waryk caught his breath.

Renfrew had used his wife well. She was tied to a pole set deeply into the ground at the top of the hill. His men had blocked her during the first volley. If another rain of arrows fell, she would surely be struck.

“Fall back!” Waryk commanded.

And his archers, their shields lifted high, obeyed.

The sun rose, but the wind was cold. Her arms hurt, for they had been dragged over her head, and her feet barely touched the ground. She'd had no water, no food. As the hours went by, she began to wish that she'd been struck by one of the first arrows, she was in such pain.

But Renfrew had warned that she was there, and the Scots had retreated.

Renfrew and Ulric waited …

The Scots would regroup, come back.

But they didn't. The troops grew restless, and Renfrew rode by frequently, shouting that they must be prepared. His warriors would straighten in their position again, but warriors were meant to fight, not wait. As time passed again, their vigilance waned. She was vaguely aware of men gaming, of runes being cast on the earth, of drinking and conversation as time passed.

Dusk fell.

The Viking and Norman troops began to break discipline, moving about the camp. They were amused, certain that Waryk's forces were beaten back by the prospect of killing her.

She began to lose faith herself, in agony, cold, weary …

She looked out across the field. She thought that she was seeing things, for suddenly out of the shadows, shapes began to come at them.

Closer and closer. They blanketed the landscape.

She thought at first that the defenders didn't see them. Then Ulric, seated on his mount near the pole, suddenly murmured, “What in the name of all the gods … Archers!”

A volley of arrows followed. A baaing sound filled the night. Shadows jumped, and shadows fell.

“Archers!” Ulric shouted again.

But Renfrew strode to his side. “Stop! We are firing at sheep,” he said contemptuously. “Nothing but sheep.”

Mellyora tried to stare through the shadows.

“Ah, my beauty!” Renfrew walked to her and touched her cheek, saying softly, “Sorry, my lady, you are not saved. They are nothing but sheep. Poor lady. Are you weary, in pain? Perhaps even my bed will look good to you this night!”

“Sheep!” Ulric swore from his mount. “More of them, hundreds of them!”

Indeed, there were. Frightened, maddened, and by the hundreds, they came. They'd been shot down, but now, there were more. Sheep were running, leaping, and baaing everywhere.

And more came over the hilltop, terrified, jumping on the men, causing chaos. The warriors swore; they dropped their weapons to fend off the sheep. Some were laughing, making fun of Scottish shepherds, men who couldn't even keep track of their animals. They began to chase after the creatures, trying to catch them with their hands. Some men shouted that there were enough dead ones, others shouted that they were a diversion from the endless waiting.

Diversion, Mellyora thought.