Conquer the Night

Conquer the Night

Graham Clan, Book Two

Heather Graham writing as Shannon Drake

PROLOGUE: THE ABYSS

March 18, 1287

Storm clouds filled the day, puffing, bellowing, haunting the sky. As the hour changed, so did the clouds, altering with time from a deep and angry blue to gray, and then the gray began to turn to a strange, misty crimson, the color of blood. Indeed, some of the king's courtiers, departing Edinburgh in the evening, commented that Alexander must not travel that night—all day, the sky had been like an artist's palette splashed with blood, and that deadly color had dripped along over the light of day until all was swept into the darkness of a still, strangely crimson night.

And still, the night was not wholly dark.

The storm that had threatened had come, and what might have been the ebony of evening was highlighted by the white of a raging snow, swirling, sweeping, blanketing land and air, blinding men and beasts alike. Breaking from the king's council that night at Edinburgh, the king's men duly noted the weather. His council was composed of intelligent men, bright fellows aware of the world around them, sophisticated. Alexander ruled over a kingdom that had been basically formed for centuries, and the people, drawn from so many backgrounds, considered themselves Scotsmen now, even those with English leanings—men with property in England, rich barons, owing fealty to two kings. It was often because of their Norman influence that they felt themselves so informed, learned and well-read.

And yet, there were enough vestiges of the past among them—remnants of the old Picts, Scotias, Britons, Gaels, Celts, and more—that they felt very superstitious that night.

Bishop Wishart, well regarded by the king and a man who loved and honored him in return, urged him to remain in Edinburgh. “You should stay here. A storm comes, a red storm, dark and fierce, sire, and dangerous.”

The king clapped the bishop upon his shoulder. “Ah, but, my friend! I have a new bride, and what man would not defy the wind to reach such a young beauty as my Yolande?”

Wishart gazed at him shrewdly. Standing tall and solidly built at forty-four, Alexander III of Scotland was a handsome and robust man in the prime of his life. His first wife, the sister of Edward I, king of England, had died, as had their young sons and their daughter, the late queen of Norway. His heiress was his grandchild, Margaret, born to his daughter and Erik of Norway. He'd had his barons sign a compact that they would honor her as queen of Scotland, should he die. A regency of six would guide the lady, should she become queen while still a child. Six—with none of them a contender for the throne himself, though he might well have a favored man among the king's many second cousins.

But now the king had remarried. His new bride, Yolande, was young and beautiful, and as the king was indeed feeling himself a young enough man still—a man of healthy appetites—it was rumored that he might produce a son. He was enamored of the young woman now awaiting him in their marital bed, and though his barons had sworn to honor his granddaughter's right as heiress to the throne, it was still a king's duty to sire sons—sons strong enough to fight for the kingdom and wily enough to hold it against greater strength. And God knew, that would surely be a pleasant enough task; indeed, too pleasant, for the king seemed now to have no interest in listening to common sense.

“Your bride will wait another day, sire,” Wishart said.

“Ah, my good friend!” Alexander replied. “A storm comes, aye, as fierce as a Scotsman himself, like as not! This is my country, Wishart. I love it for the bogs and marshes, hills and craigs, the beauty of colors in spring and summer—and the very fierceness of a winter storm, as wild and blustery, craggy and windswept as we be ourselves!” He looked at the learned bishop and spoke again, more forcefully. “There must always be a Scotland, Wishart. There must always be a Scotland.”

“Sire—” Wishart began again, but the king ignored him.

“My friends!” the king called loudly to his companions, knights of the realm, brave and hearty fellows all, “we ride hard for the crossing at Queensferry! We will ride to Kinghorn at Fife, and I will sleep beside my new lady wife!”

“Aye, sire!” his escort called in return.

One of the men, the very young and newly knighted Sir Arryn Graham, did not reply. Mounted upon his destrier—a gift from the king—Arryn studied the sky.

The king's page hurried up with his own horse. The king mounted and looked over at young Graham, a lad still not near his majority, yet already tall, honed in the pursuit of a knight's battle expertise, and at the moment, as grave as Wishart as he gazed upward.

“You don't think I should ride, my lad?” the king inquired, smiling. It was rare to see such careful deliberation in one so young.

“Nay, sire,” Arryn said gravely.

“And why is that? Speak up, boy!”

“The sky, sire, throughout the day, gave warning. And now …”

“Aye, the sky. So go on.”

“My mother hails from the Highlands, sire, and there the chieftains and the shepherds alike know the sky, as they know the country, and they know when the sky makes the land treacherous, my lord, and so it is now.”

“Good counsel. Aye, Highland wisdom is always good counsel, but as I just told my very good friend, Bishop Wishart, there must always be a Scotland.”

“Sire?”

“We are this strange blend of cold and wind, flowers, thistles, moors, colors, barren rock, soaring cliffs. We are Picts and Scots and Britons and even Normans and Vikings feeling new roots. We've blended, boy, to something different, and so there must always be a Scotland. We are a lion, a lion triumphant. I make no sense, eh, lad? Still, I must travel on tonight.” The king smiled, a jovial smile, waving a salute to Wishart. He lifted his arm high and started off at a lope, his escort riding hard behind him.

The bishop, already feeling a deep chill in his bones, watched them go. He was still deeply disturbed. He was a man of the cloth, no Highlander to feel the old superstitions claw at his heart. He was cold, as if the late winter wind had swept beneath his skin. Aye, and why not? The wind was shrieking like an old woman; the snow was flying with a vengeance. And still, though the white flakes fell and the night had come, the sky seemed to be the color of blood.

The bishop turned and reentered the castle.

The king, at the head of his men, had no misgivings. Duty and pleasure had never so sweetly combined as in Yolande, daughter of the Conte of Dreux. After the grief of losing his first wife and their children, he had reason to rejoice in Yolande. Aye, the barons were good men, but Scotland was a place for the hard and hearty; they were sworn to honor Margaret, but he needed to leave them a male heir, a leader to ride hard when needed, to swing a sword, to fight with the best of them. He needed a son. Though Scotland had not been at war now in some time, and he was proud to say that men considered his a golden reign, he knew how fickle life—and men—could be. As an eleven-year-old boy, newly married to ten-year-old Margaret of England, he'd been kidnapped by old Henry of England, then kidnapped again by Scottish guardians. He was on good terms with Edward; he'd been honored in London, as he had given honor to the English king. Nothing was certain in this world.

Aye, he needed a son. For Scotland's future. That was why he rode so hard tonight, he thought. For Scotland's future.

“The snow flies harder, sire.”

He turned. The others had fallen back, but Sir Arryn was still at his side. “Are you afraid to go on, young sir?” the king demanded.

“Nay, sire. I'm not afraid for myself. I fear for Scotland.”

The king smiled. “How old are you, lad?”

“Sixteen, sire.”

“Indeed, you are wise for your youth. Remember this, then: Scotland is never one man. She is the heart and pulse and soul of those who claim her through their blood, and by their blood. Kings are created by the whim of noble breeding. Scotland is this earth we tread, both wicked and beautiful, just as she is the people you know, young sir—wicked and beautiful as well.”

He spurred his horse, spewing up dirt and snow, aware that he had blinded the young man behind him, and that his escort fell even farther behind. But most of the five who had ridden with him tonight were the sons of his nobles, lads still wet behind the ears, boys who probably thought him old. Nay, he was in excellent shape, and God knew, he was an expert horseman, and beyond the prowess of his physical abilities there was something poetic and stirring in his determination to reach his bride. By God, he would defy heaven and earth to get to her.

He gained the crossing. The others rode up behind him, winded, anxious. The ferry keeper had retired to his hut, not expecting to bring men across the Firth of Forth at such a time, but the king banged on the door. “Eh, man! Come to duty, my fellow!”

The ferry keeper was a coarse and hale soul himself, thick in the shoulders, strong in the arms. He cracked the door, saw the king, then threw it wide. Alexander's men gathered in close around him, huddling for what shelter they could find from the keening wind and the fiercely blowing snow.

“Sire!” the man said, bowing to a knee. “Sire, a crossing cannot be made—”

“My man, a crossing shall be made!”

“
Cha bu choir dhut!
” the ferry man said, eyes wide, insisting that the king should not cross.

“A crossing shall be made!” Alexander repeated.

When the king spoke so, there was no denying him. The ferry master reached for his heavy mantle and, bowing to the king, started ahead to the ferry. The storm was so ferocious by then that the king's courtiers had to help the man untie the ropes.

The ferry master, a massive bulk of a man both grizzled and fierce, struggled against the wind, grateful for the help he received. He looked up at one of the young men assisting him and muttered beneath his breath, “God help us all that we must honor kings who would be fools!”

“Will we make the crossing?”

“By the grace of God alone! Ah, sorry, lad! Forgive an old man his fondness for living. You can swim, boy?”

“That I can.”

“You'll be fine.”

“I wasn't afraid for myself.”

The ferry master cast him a quick glance. “Aye, young sir! Stay with that madman who has forgotten sanity to be a lover before being a king!”

What they spoke could be construed as treason, so they fell silent as others came closer and they struggled with the ropes. The waves tossed; the wind rose to a new frenzy. Men shouted instructions and warnings above the roar of wind and snow and waves lashing against earth and wood.

Horses and men at last boarded the ferry. Again, with their weight upon the ropes that guided the vessel, the courtiers were put upon to assist, and even then they battled the wind to reach the shore. Men looked to one another with cold, bleak faces. With the way the snow blew, they were soaked to the bone. With the sharpness of the cold, their noses were frozen, their cheeks were brittle, their faces hurt.

At length, though, they made the crossing, and the king's men, greatly relieved, cheered him.

He was pleased to have proven his point: that he would ride when he chose. He was Alexander, powerful, virile, a king to lead men. A man of strength and stamina, he would reach his bride, and give that strength and stamina to the future.

“Aye, sire, here we be,” the ferry master told him, and Alexander rewarded the man with a coin cast in his own likeness. The ferry master caught the coin, nodding his thanks, bowing deeply. He heaved from his exertion; there was sweat upon his lip despite the cold.

“Aye, my man, and here we be, as I said!” the king reminded him, but his humor was good; he defied the cold, throwing his mantle over his shoulder. “
Creasaibh oirbh!
” he ordered, commanding his men to hurry.

They mounted their horses, waved to the ferry master.