Come the Morning Read online

  The king simply didn’t know it. Because he’d never given Mellyora a chance to explain. He’d accepted her homage, and told her that he was arranging for her marriage to one of his finest warriors, his own man, Laird Lion.

  “Because he’s a tyrant,” she said aloud, still furious, and looked at Jillian. “He believes that he can order me to do anything if it’s his will and that I don’t matter in a decision regarding me at all. I’ll not allow it.”

  “Mellyora!” Jillian murmured, distressed at last. “You’ve lived on Blue Isle too long, refusing to realize that it is a small part of a greater world. Come now, be reasonable. David is the king. You do not allow or disallow with the king!”

  Mellyora shook her head, her eyes wistful. “It wasn’t always like this, you know. The Normans are the ones who began so many of these wretched rules by which we live. My mother died so long ago, I admit, I don’t remember her well, but I do remember her telling me about the old days. When Scotland was very wild, and there were many kings, different people, old gods, old ways … and women owned land just as men. She told me about wiccan beliefs—”

  “You’re talking about pagan beliefs!” Jillian warned her, making the sign of the cross over her breast.

  Mellyora smiled. “In the wiccan religion—the pagan ways—the earth was the mother, and women were respected and loved. And if we were living before the wretched Norman influence changed everything, I might well hold the land in my own right—”

  “Might and might not. Don’t you understand, your rebellion is just what he fears? You don’t see it, but the Viking threat is very real. It is within living memory that the Vikings seized Scottish holdings. Your father proved himself a Scotsman, he became one of David’s best friends. I’m certain that the king loves you—”

  “But he doesn’t respect my rights in any way, Jillian, and I’ve never given him cause to doubt me. I came here longing to give him nothing but my love and loyalty, and where did that get me?”

  “I’m telling you again, whether you blame the Normans, the decade, or Divine Power, you have no more rights than a child. And the Vikings are too close, and David feels they rule enough of land that should belong to Scotland, and he doesn’t intend to lose any more to them.”

  “It’s all so infuriating! I’m the rightful heiress, through my mother, and my father. I hate the Normans, and I hate the influence they’ve brought!”

  “The Norman influence came before you were born. I loved your mother, but she shouldn’t have told you stories about a woman’s right being any different. Like it or not, the king holds the right to give you—and your land—to whom he chooses in marriage.”

  “Well, then, I must somehow change things myself. If I can avoid the king, I will find a way to be free.”

  “Avoid him? Avoid?”

  “All right … escape him.”

  “What?” Jillian rose, watching as Mellyora moved quickly about the room.

  “If I escape him,” Mellyora called over her shoulder, for she had found a window crevice within which to crawl, “I am free.”

  “The king said this?”

  “I have just left the king,” Mellyora hedged. “It is what will be.”

  “You’re so certain?”

  Mellyora withdrew from her window nook to come back into the room again. “If I escape him, I can see to it that he and I actually negotiate, and bargain, and then, he must keep his part of a bargain. My uncle Daro, jarl of Skul Island, is here in Stirling. Called to a meeting with the king. I’ll appeal to his men, and he’ll see to it that I cleanly escape until our good King David is forced to see reason.”

  “Mellyora, kings are seldom forced to see reason—”

  Mellyora shook her head firmly. “I disagree. Kings are often forced to see reason—most often, it is upon a battlefield when they discover that their many men cannot beat another king’s men! Look at our country, how so many very different sections are now ruled by one king of Scotland. This is partially through the will of the people who interbred and shared the space, and it is also partly because one king became more powerful than the others. He should listen to me—I could be a threat to him. God knows, enough of the outer isles are ruled by Vikings.”

  “Mellyora, I know that you are well aware of the history of our country. Most of these people you speak about have been here for hundreds of years, but the Vikings often remain separate, and as you say, they rule many of the islands. King David is wary of your Viking relations as it is, Mellyora. Yes, you are a danger. Become too great a danger, and he will crush you before he lets you threaten him,” Jillian warned carefully. “Please, you simply must take a good long look at your situation and realize that the king has no choice but to step in and decide your fate.”

  Mellyora paused, watching Jillian. She was sorry to see her so distressed, yet at a loss as to why she couldn’t make her understand her position.

  She bit into her lower lip, dismayed by the sudden, almost overwhelming desire to burst into tears that seized her. She could not believe that her father had died. She had loved him dearly, the world was so empty without him. She’d never known anyone quite like him. Adin had possessed the strength of ten men; he had been born a Viking. Yet his greatest power had always been his intelligence, his greatest strength, his gentleness. He had talked to her endlessly about her mother, keeping her alive through the years for Mellyora. He had attracted warriors, priests, artists, and poets to their home, he had made their great hall one of the most hospitable residences in all of the country. He had taught her to ride, to defend herself with a sword, even how to wield a heavy crossbow. Through his eyes, she had seen their world, as it had been. He had taught her that all men and women were worthy of interest and respect, no matter what their beliefs or the land or circumstances of their birth. From him, she had learned that friends were priceless, and that power and riches were gifts and responsibilities, and that she must always take care of those who called her lady, rather than seek for them to take care of her. He had loved her, taught her strength, kindness, independence, just as her mother, who had been uniquely wonderful as well, had taught her to have spirit, to believe in herself. She had given her a taste of a different magic, telling her the ancient Gaelic tales, and showing her the beauty of Celtic crafts. She’d been blessed with a lilting laugh, and flashing eyes, and a smile that was as warm and brilliant as the sun. She’d been proud and assured, a perfect wife for her warrior husband, and she’d taught Mellyora always to speak her mind, and to fight for her rights.

  But now, they were both gone. And even as she learned to live with the pain of her father’s death, she was discovering that her position was far more perilous than she had ever imagined. She wasn’t just alone, bereft of those she had loved most in the world. She was in danger of losing her independence and becoming nothing more than someone’s acquisition. She had been a cherished daughter, treated with kindness and respect. After Adin’s death, Ewan had been there, keeping everyone from intruding on her grief. But now she was alone, and about to be cast to a wretched stranger who would simply seize everything that was rightfully hers. And what was she to do? Forget the man who had been her friend, her support, and her comfort forever? Her heart was not so fickle, her love not so lightly given.

  “Mellyora, you’re frightening me, I beg of you, you must take some time with this matter. Be calm.”

  Mellyora walked to Jillian, taking Jillian’s small hands into her own. “I can’t possibly be calm. I tried to be calm, I tried to talk to David, to be logical, intelligent, and reasonable. He refused to listen to me. I’ve heard of this Laird Lion before. I’m to be wed to a Norman.”

  Jillian shook her head. “That’s not what I’ve heard!”

  “An old, slimy, hoary, battle-scarred Norman who served the king while he was in England. Jillian! You saw the king’s men when we camped—they were all Normans!”

  “I saw the king’s men at a distance, and decent armor does not make a man a Norman. Mellyora,
I don’t believe that this man the king intends for you is a Norman. I have ears as well. I’ve listened in the servants’ quarters, and I tell you, that servants’ gossip is by far the best. They call this knight Laird Lion. He is no Norman, but a lad found single-handedly taking on a raiding party of Normans when the king came upon him. He is a warrior covered in glory, so I have heard.”

  “A lion, indeed!” Mellyora muttered. “Certainly, compare the man to a lion. Like all Normans, he most probably likes to hear himself roar. There is simply no justice in this world, yet maybe the name is apt. Even with the animals, it’s the lioness who hunts for food, while the lion sits about and sleeps in the sun. There you have it—exactly. This male beast would lie in the sun upon my land and reap the rewards of my family.”

  “You’ve not even met him.”

  “I’ve no desire to meet him. I’m very afraid that once I’ve met him, I’ll find my fate is sealed,” Mellyora said, gazing past Jillian’s shoulder to the window again. Then she met Jillian’s eyes firmly. “You’re also forgetting the fact that I have vowed my hand, my life, my love, elsewhere.”

  Jillian stared back at her. “And that, my dear, was foolish. You hadn’t the right to vow anything anywhere to anyone.”

  “I had my father’s blessings on my choice!” Mellyora insisted somewhat desperately. Adin hadn’t actually granted her permission to marry Ewan MacKinny, but he had been aware of their friendship, and that it had been very close. She’d known Ewan ever since she could remember. They were just three years apart in age and since she had been very young, he had been trusted as her guardian about her father’s lands. His father had been what they called “The” MacKinny, a chieftain in his own right, the head of the largest family who held their lands from Adin. When Ewan’s father’s had died, Ewan had taken on the cloak of being The MacKinny. Ewan was a quiet, gentle man, as he had been a quiet, gentle boy, listening to her rages, angering her only when he pointed out that she might not be quite fair in her assessment of one situation or another. She couldn’t forget the way he had looked at her when they’d parted.

  As if they’d been saying good-bye.

  They had swum together in the lochs, ridden fields, cliffs, and hills, studied Latin, French, English, Gaelic, and even Norse together, played at science and mathematics, and read endlessly, translations of the Greek tragedies, Italian romances, so much more. They could laugh together, argue together, roll in the grass together, sit in long silences. Ewan held no surprises for her; he listened when she spoke. Life with him would be all that she wanted.

  She could not accept the thought that she would not only have to bear the agony of losing her father, but endure seeing a strange Norman lackey of the king take his place. She really wasn’t a fool; she understood the way the world worked, just as she understood King David. But while she had breath to fight, she could not allow the king’s lackey to take her father’s place—or her own. She couldn’t simply lie back and allow her life to be taken without fighting the best battle she could wage.

  Mellyora looked to the window in her room at the fortress. It was very small; this was a defensive fortress, built strongly from stone.

  Yet the river ran by it; if she could just get to the river, she could reach her cousin Daro’s men.

  “I cannot argue this any longer!” she announced with sudden determination.

  Forgetting Jillian, Mellyora hurried from her own larger chamber into the smaller one behind it where Jillian slept. The window here was cut a bit larger—and let out onto a wooden platform of battlements.

  She could easily step outside the window. And there was scaffolding set up where they continued to work on the battlements. In the darkness, she could swing down the wooden scaffolding without being seen, and, if she enwrapped herself in one of Jillian’s plain brown woolen capes, she could simply walk out the gates.

  What then?

  At the river’s edge, she’d have no choice but to steal a boat. Not steal. She smiled suddenly. King David had been the first Scottish monarch to mint his own coinage. She’d leave the boat’s owner a handsome coin bearing the king’s own image.

  “Mellyora?” Jillian called to her.

  Mellyora hesitated. “Go back to your tapestry, Jillian. I am sorry to have upset you. I need some time alone,” she said.

  She softly closed the doors between the two rooms.

  Quietly, she dug into Jillian’s travel trunk and found the cloak she required. She slipped it around herself, drawing the hood low. It was a deep brown color, and would blend well with the night.

  Mellyora crawled onto the window seat and squeezed her length through the narrow window. She leapt softly down to the wooden battlement beyond the window and hurried along it.

  She paused, seeing the distance between the place where she paused and the scaffolding just beyond. She inhaled, wondering if she was willing to risk her own life for her freedom.

  Freedom was a gift worth many risks. She’d heard it said, many times, by many men.

  It would be a long fall if she made a leap—and didn’t catch the crossbeam of the scaffolding.

  Ruling was wisdom, her father had taught her. Decide if it can be done. And if it can be done …

  Then do it with courage.

  She stepped back.

  Ran … and leapt.

  She caught the crossbeam, swung down upon it, caught a lower beam, and then another, and another.

  She jumped the last few feet to the ground.

  The common courtyard at Stirling was not crowded, neither was it empty. By night, fishermen returned from their journeys along the river; wives rushed home from the last of their bartering; wool, dye, and food merchants closed up their stations for the night. Mellyora blended with them. Nearing the gates, she hurried to walk close behind a peddler leaving the city walls. To someone watching, it would appear she was a woman walking with a brisk pace to keep up with her husband.

  Outside the walls, the peddler started down the southward trail, to the village. She parted ways with him, nearly running now as she hurried toward the river.

  At the docks there was a great deal of activity, despite the hour. She veered away from the docks, heading downriver. Daro’s men would be encamped in the fields southward, so she would want to move downriver.

  She hurried along the damp embankment until she saw an unattended boat. A small rowboat, pulled up tight on the embankment. She looked carefully around, but no one was about, so she hurried over to the small boat. Both oars were in place. She remembered that she wasn’t going to become a thief—not when she didn’t have to become one. She slipped her hand into the pocket sewn into her shift and curled her fingers around a small silver coin. She would toss it onto the shore where the boat had been once she had gotten it moving.

  She started to push the boat from the mud when, suddenly, something seemed to rise from the embankment.

  She froze.

  Not something. Someone. A man. Darkly cloaked as she was herself. He seemed to rise forever, huge and towering in the darkness.

  A gasp caught in her throat as a man’s voice deeply shouted out, “Thief!”

  Could she get the boat out and away before he reached her? Never.

  He came closer; he was already almost upon her. His strides were long, fluid, and swift, and he gained on her position so quickly she hadn’t a prayer of getting away on the river.

  She watched him coming, trying to remain calm, to think, to calculate—quickly!—and yet the sure menace of his graceful speed sent panic searing through her. She could manage a sword in her own defense, but she had fled without a sword.

  So much for thinking.

  She had a small knife at her calf, but he was probably well armed …

  She couldn’t get away swiftly enough in the boat. She could only hope to escape on foot. She turned to run.

  Yet even as she did so, she was caught. She gasped as she was enwrapped in large, steel-like arms. Her feet were swept off the ground as she tried t
o escape, and she was brought crashing downward to the soft river embankment.

  She landed hard, inhaling desperately for air.

  She tried to rise, and could not. He was there, ready to pounce on top of her. She slipped her hand down to her calf, reaching for her knife. Her fingers grasped it and she wriggled desperately, turning to her back. She managed to bring her arm up, and aim for a place between the man’s ribs.

  Before her blow could fall, her wrist was captured. Long, ruthless fingers sent a searing pain into her wrist. Against her will, she dropped the knife.

  She couldn’t breathe, for the towering stranger with the steel muscles had straddled her form.

  “Now!” he thundered, his voice husky and deep. “Now, thief! Where do you think you’d be going with that boat? Answer, and answer quickly, or I’ll slit your throat!”

  CHAPTER 4

  She had to fight the waves of fear cascading over her, despite the fact that the wretch was atop her in the pale, wavering moonlight. She could not think clearly if she allowed fear to rule her.

  She saw him now far more clearly than she wanted—his form, not his face, for annoyingly, his face was hidden by the shadow of his hood. He was heavily, tautly muscled beneath his encompassing cloak.

  The garment gave her pause, and sent her mind spinning once again. The cloak was wool fashioned in a complex Scottish style, with the strands so tightly knit together to render the garment nearly completely waterproof. Each strand was colored with vegetable dyes to create a pattern that would signify a certain part of the country or a people. Talented weavers were creating the tartans more and more often these days, remembering the exact shades and number of dyed strands by marking them upon a stick, so that the coloring could be repeated again and again. The style of clothing belonged to Scotland, and not to the Normans who had been invited to settle lands at the king’s request. If the garment was any indication of the man, he wasn’t a Norman usurper.